The Leper's Bell by Peter Tremayne

for a moment. Then she grimaced.
    ‘Well, Aona, we have seen our fair share of violence. It would be pleasing now if we could take ourselves off to some isolated valley high up in the mountains and begin to live in peace with ourselves and our surroundings.’
    Aona’s face was sad.
    There is no permanent sanctuary against the violence of mankind. It is a permanent condition, I fear, lady.’
    Fidelma stood up and gazed through the window at the lightening sky.
    ‘I think Adag is being proved correct. The sky is brighter. The storm is passing. We must soon be on our way to Imleach.’
    The old innkeeper rose in response.
    ‘I wish you well in your quest, lady. May you have all success in finding your child and bringing the murderer of Sárait to justice.’
    Capa and his men had also risen.
    ‘Are we continuing the journey to Imleach, lady?’ Capa asked. At Fidelma’s affirmative, he went on: ‘We will go and prepare the horses, then. No need to trouble the young lad, innkeeper.’ Adag had gone to the brewery at the side of the inn to carry out some jobs for Aona.
    The warriors had just left when the door opened again and a thickset, middle-aged man entered. His features showed good humour and he seemed to have a commanding presence.
    ‘Greetings, Adag. I see your guests are just leaving, warriors by the look of them…’
    His eyes suddenly fell on Fidelma and Eadulf and he halted in confusion. Aona turned to Fidelma with a smile.
    ‘On the very subject of which we have been speaking - this is Cathalán. He fought at Cnoc Áine. Cathalán, this…’
    The newcomer had crossed the room and bowed his head in respect.
    ‘Lady, I had the honour to serve your brother at Cnoc Áine. I recognise you and have heard of your trouble, for which I am sorry.’
    Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgement.
    ‘Cathalán, we were speaking a short time ago of Sárait’s husband and the manner of his death.’
    ‘Were you a witness to how he died?’ Eadulf asked.
    Cathalán shook his head at once.
    ‘Not a witness, no. I merely heard stories. In battle, Brother Eadulf, one hears a story from someone. When you question them, they say they heard it from someone else and that someone saw it happen. When you ask that person, then they, too, have heard it from someone who, they say, saw it happen. But the story that Callada was killed by one of our own warriors came from two separate sources. One was an Uí Fidgente and the other was one of our own men. I doubt it not. But we have not been able to discover anything further for we have found no one who could be claimed as a true witness.’
    ‘Was the matter reported to a Brehon?’ queried Fidelma.
    ‘It was. Brehon Dathal said he had examined the matter but found nothing over which action could be taken.’
    ‘I see. So you were one of the warriors who were merely repeating what others told you.’
    Cathalán hesitated for a moment.
    ‘There is something else?’ prompted Fidelma.
    ‘I was Callada’s cenn-feadhna? Eadulf took a moment to remember that the military structures of Éireann were well organised and a cenn-feadhna was the captain of a buden or company of one hundred warriors. ‘We lost sight of one another in the heat of the battle on Cnoc Áine. In fact, several of my company - fourteen men in all - perished that day because we were one of the first to be ordered forward into the centre of the Uí Fidgente.’ He paused. ‘I knew that there was something troubling Callada on the evening before the battle, as we sat round the fire. I asked him what ailed him and he was reluctant to say anything at first. But as he was troubled and I pressed the matter, he finally told me that he had good reason to believe that his wife Sárait was unfaithful to him.’
    ‘That she was having an affair with another man?’ Eadulf asked, making sure he understood.
    ‘That she might have been having an affair with another.’ The former warrior corrected the emphasis with a