Free Valley of the Shadow by Peter Tremayne Page A

Saxon he always found the bathing customs of the people of Éireann somewhat extreme. They washed twice daily, with the second wash being a full body bath. Every guests’ hostel had its bath house or houses, each with a large tub or vat for which there were several names but most usually dabach. After the bath, guests would anoint themselves with sweet scented herbal potions.
    Not content with a complete bath in the evening, which was called fothrucud, they would, immediately on rising in the morning, wash their face and hands. In both bathing and washing they used a tablet of a scented fatty substance called sléic or soap, which they applied with a linen cloth and worked into a lather. They would even have, at certain times, ritual steam baths in what they called Tigh ’n alluis or ‘sweating houses’ where, in a small stone cabin, great fires were kindled so that the place became heated like an oven and the bather would enter and stay until they were perspiring after which they came out and plunged straight into a cold stream. Eadulf disapproved of this practice vehemently. Surely this was a way to an early grave? His own people were not so enamoured of bathing.
    The upper classes of the Saxons bathed weekly, usually a swim being deemed sufficient for the cleansing process. Eadulf was not a dirty person in body, manners or habit but he still felt that the bathing rituals of Éireann were excessive.
    An hour later they were finishing their meal when the door of the
hostel opened and in came a heavy-jowled man. That he was a cleric was not in question. He wore the tonsure of St Peter but he was clad not in the simple robes that most religieux wore but in elegant silks and embroidered linens and with a bejewelled crucifix the like of which neither Fidelma nor Eadulf had seen since they were in Rome together. Fidelma eyed the man in disapproval. Here was someone whose riches seemed to betray the very teachings of Christ.
    The eyes of the man were dark and watchful. They had a curious quality of staring, unblinkingly, like the eyes of an animal watching its prey. The eyes were made small by the largeness of the surrounding features. He was a short man, stocky rather than fat, although the fleshy face made one think he was obese until one noticed the powerful muscular shoulders and thick arms.
    ‘I am Brother Solin,’ he announced officiously, ‘secretary to Ultan, archbishop of Armagh.’ He intoned his introduction in accents which corroborated that he was from the kingdom of the Uí Néill of Ulaidh. There was something about him which caused Fidelma to take an immediate dislike to him. Perhaps it was the way he stared at her with an almost speculative gaze which left no doubt that he was a man judging her as a woman and not as a person. ‘Orla has informed me of your arrival. You are Sister Fidelma and you must be the foreign cleric.’
    ‘You are a long way from Armagh, Solin.’ Fidelma rose, unwillingly, but courtesy prompted her to be civil in respect to the position of the northern religieux.
    ‘As you are from Cashel,’ the stocky man replied, unperturbed, coming forward and seating himself.
    ‘Cashel is the royal seat of this kingdom, Solin,’ responded Fidelma coldly.
    ‘Armagh is the royal seat of the Faith in all five kingdoms,’ the man replied with an airy dismissal.
    ‘That is a question to be debated,’ snapped back Fidelma. ‘The bishop of Imleach makes no such recognition of Armagh.’
    ‘Well, it is a debate of such delicacy that we should leave it for a future time.’ Solin dismissed the matter with an air of boredom.
    Fidelma stood her ground. She decided to be direct.
    ‘Why is the secretary of Ultan of Armagh in this small corner of my brother’s kingdom?’
    Solin poured a mug of mead from the jug on the table.
    ‘Does Cashel forbid wandering clerics?’
    ‘That is no answer,’ Fidelma responded. ‘I think you are hardly in the category of a peregrinator pro Christo .’
    An