Free The Leper's Bell by Peter Tremayne Page B

went round filling pottery mugs with corma , the fiery barley distilled alcohol that he personally brewed on the premises. Eadulf remembered the first time he had been at Aona’s inn and how he had nearly choked as the fiery liquid left him gasping for breath. He asked for a jug of water and met with Aona’s knowing grin.
    ‘I see you remember my corma well, Brother Eadulf.’
    Fidelma sat on a window seat, watching the rain splattering down and nibbling pensively on a dish of fruit that Aona had tempted her with.
    Presently, when they were all more relaxed and oblivious of the thunderstorm raging outside, Fidelma and Eadulf drew their chairs before the fire and settled down with Aona to talk more about old times. Adag, having fed and settled the horses, came in then, pausing to shake the rain off his heavy woollen cloak.
    ‘Do you still reckon on an hour until the storm passes, youngster?’ Capa called cynically.
    Adag grinned, unembarrassed. ‘Not much more than an hour, warrior. The mountain hid the full extent of the storm clouds from me. But already there is blue showing behind the clouds, so it will soon pass,’ he added confidently.
    Amid the soft conversation of the warriors and the crackle of the firethere appeared a lull in the exchange of the old comrades. Then Aona said sadly: ‘I was unhappy to hear that it was Sárait who had been murdered. A sad family.’
    ‘Sad?’ queried Eadulf sharply. ‘Did you know her family?’
    ‘Rather I knew the family of her husband,’ Aona amended. ‘I knew her husband’s father, Cathchern, very well indeed. He was one of my men and came from the Well of Ara. I watched his son Callada grow up and was not surprised when he followed his father into the bodyguard of the kings of Cashel. Callada and Sárait married here - yes, it was here in this very room that we had the feasting. That was three or four years ago.’
    ‘I did not know Callada well,’ admitted Fidelma.
    ‘He would have been about ten years older than you, lady.’
    ‘But why did you say the family was sad?’ Eadulf was puzzled.
    ‘Well, my old comrade Cathchern was killed in a battle against the Uí Néill when Callada had hardly reached the age of choice. Cathchern’s wife died of the Yellow Plague. Then Callada… he was killed at the battle of Cnoc Áine scarce two years ago.’
    That I knew,’ Fidelma said. ‘And because of that, Sárait was given work at my brother’s palace when I returned there for my confinement. She became my nurse and nurse to my baby.’
    ‘I presume that Cathchern and his son Callada both freely chose life as warriors?’ asked Eadulf. ‘If so, death must be recognised as a constant companion, and many people died in the Yellow Plague. Yet you say they were a sad family?’
    ‘There were ugly stories.’
    ‘Ugly stories?’
    Aona made an awkward gesture with his hands as if trying to dismiss what he had said. ‘Maybe it is not right to repeat them now.’
    Eadulf snorted in annoyance. The time to have hesitated was before you hinted at some intrigue. Continue your tale now.’
    Aona hesitated, shrugged and bent forward with lowered voice.
    ‘I heard from a couple of warriors who were at the battle of Cnoc Áine that Callada was slain not by the enemy - the Uí Fidgente - but by one of his own men.’
    Eadulf was not shocked. He had heard similar tales about deaths in battles.
    ‘You mean that he turned coward on the field? I have heard enoughstories of battles to know that often a man has been slain when he showed cowardice and endangered the lives of his comrades.’
    That I know. But Callada was no coward. He was a good warrior and descended from a line of great warriors. Yet these stories have persisted. However he died, he was slain at Cnoc Áine. Now Sárait has come by a violent death as well. It is a sad, sad family in which death comes in violent ways and no one is left to sing the praises of the deeds of the past generations.’
    Fidelma said nothing