Eadulf frowned. ‘I thought that you said Bile was an oak tree?’
‘Language changes. Now any tree regarded as sacred is called by that name. Bile has also long been seen as a divine personification, a god who the ancients belived ferried souls along the sacred rivers, or by sea, to the Otherworld.’
Eadulf felt uncomfortable. He had grown to manhood before he had converted to the New Faith, and was still trying to deny his pagan past. Fidelma seemed more comfortable in the ancient lore of her people even though the people of Éireann had accepted Christianity several centuries before. But now a memory stirred.
‘I passed through Londinium once,’ he said reflectively. ‘It is mainly deserted these days but once it was a thriving Roman city.’
‘I have heard of it,’ Fidelma responded gravely.
‘The Welisc, who called themselves Britons, once dwelt there and continued to do so even when Rome ruled the city.’
Fidelma nodded, frowning slightly as she wondered what Eadulf was getting at.
‘I know the Welisc shared many ancient gods and goddesses with the Irish.’
‘This is true. What is your point?’
‘Near where I was staying was an ancient gate called Bile’s Gate which opened onto the great river Tamesis which flows past the city. An old man told me that in ancient times, when people died, their heads were severed from their bodies and taken through the gate and ferried downriver. Not far away a confluence called Welisc Brook emptied into the Tamesis and here the heads were thrown into the river with various items like swords, shields and so on. A terrible pagan custom.’
Fidelma smiled and nodded. ‘Not so terrible. The ancients believed that the soul dwelt in the head and to honour the dead they often removed the heads — which freed the souls — and deposited them in their most sacred places. It is fascinating that there is such a reminder of the ancient custom in the heart of what is now the land of the Angles and Saxons.’
Eadulf shook his head sadly.
‘Semel insanivimus omnes,’ he said. ‘We have all been mad once. I do not know whether people should be reminded of such things. It is a hard enough job to convert them to the true Faith without referring to the old one. We learnt that last year, didn’t we?’
Eadulf was obviously thinking of how many of the Saxon kingdoms had recently converted back to the old gods of the forefathers. Sigehere, king of the East Saxons, on the very borders of Eadulf’s own country of the East Angles, had reopened the pagan temples after the plague of two years before.
‘You cannot build the future by ignoring the past or trying to destroy past knowledge. But we all make such mistakes. I view with sadness the account by the Bishop Benignus, who became the successor of the Blessed Patrick at Armagh, when he wrote that Patrick burnt one hundred and eighty books of the Druids in his attempts to convert the people to the New Faith. The destruction of knowledge, any knowledge, does not provide a sure foundation for the future.’
‘You surely cannot disapprove of the destruction of the pagan faith when you are sworn to proselytise for the New Faith?’ Eadulf was aghast.
‘What I am saying is that mankind’s folly should be destroyed by laughter, not by creating martyrs. That is the tradition of our satirists and why our laws have strong punishments for those who satirise people without justification. Castigat ridendo mores.’
Eadulf pondered.
‘They correct customs by laughing at them?’ he hazarded.
Fidelma smiled. ‘In other words, laughter will succeed where threats, punishments and pious lectures will not.’
Eadulf sighed. ‘It is an interesting philosophy. I am sure there is an argument against it.’
‘Tell me, when you have discovered it. In the meantime, let us continue with our task.’
They moved their horses on at a slow walking pace towards the tree-covered hill where they had previously met Liag.
‘We’d better raise a shout,’ muttered Eadulf, glancing around nervously. ‘He might try to avoid us.’
‘Avoid you? Why?’
The harsh tones of Liag’s voice, speaking just behind them, caused them both to jerk nervously in their saddles. Eadulf, a less experienced rider than Fidelma, had to struggle to keep his horse from shying at the movement.
Chapter Eleven
Liag, the apothecary, had emerged from the trees behind them. He appeared as he had on their previous meeting, with his saffron-dyed woollen robe, the snow-white hair held in place by the green and yellow bead headband and the silver chain around his neck. The elderly apothecary still carried his traditional apothecary’s lés, the satchel containing his cures and implements, and the echlais, his whip-like wand of office.
‘You seem startled to see me, Fidelma of Cashel.’ He smiled thinly. He did not even acknowledge Eadulf.
‘You came up behind us quietly,’ returned Fidelma, dismounting from her horse.
Liag raised his eyebrows in a bland expression. ‘Did you not hear my approach? When I was young, one was taught to attune one’s ears to the sounds of the forest. One was taught to hear the lizard avoiding the hungry eye of the kestrel, the badger slinking through the undergrowth and the stoat splashing homewards. Hark!’ The old man tilted his head to one side and cupped a hand to an ear in an exaggerated stance.
Eadulf glowered in annoyance. He had succeeded in dismounting from his nervous beast and was tying the reins to a bush.
‘You don’t mean to tell me that you can hear anything?’ he sneered.
Liag turned to Eadulf. ‘I hear a rat grab a lizard by its tail and the sound of the lizard’s cry as it sheds its tail to fool the predator while it scurries off to its nest, for this is the month it sneaks into hibernation.’
Eadulf regarded the bland expression on the face of the old recluse and was not sure whether he was being made fun of or not. ‘I can hear nothing.’
‘Exactly so, Brother Saxon. Exactly.’
Fidelma regarded the apothecary cynically. ‘If you can hear such things, Liag, then you should be able to answer some simple questions.’
The elderly man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
‘It is said that those who ask questions cannot avoid the answers,’ he replied softly. ‘But it is not every question that is deserving of an answer.’
‘A good response. If your ears are so attuned, then you surely heard the death cries of Beccnat, of Escrach and of Ballgel.’
The apothecary’s cheek coloured hotly at the sarcasm. ‘I do not claim omniscience. I do not hear all that passes in the forests. Had I been near to where they perished…’ He lifted a shoulder and let it fall eloquently.
Fidelma’s lips thinned. ‘Then I presume that you heard the death gasp of Lesren? I understand that you were close by when he died?’
Liag’s brows came together in a frown. ‘Who said I was near?’
‘So you do know that Lesren has been killed?’ Eadulf pointed out quickly.
‘I do not deny that,’ replied the apothecary.
‘You emerged from the forest when Bébháil and Tómma stood by the body of Lesren?’
‘But Lesren was dead, my Saxon friend. In fact, so far as I could tell, he had been dead for some time.’
‘What were you doing there?’ asked Eadulf.
Liag wore a droll expression. ‘In case you have not perceived it, Saxon, if I crossed the hill of Rath Raithlen and returned in this direction, my path would pass through the forests that surround Lesren’s tannery.’
‘And you were crossing the hill and just happened to be passing at that time?’ said Fidelma.
‘I happened to be passing the tannery at that time, dálaigh,’ he responded with irony in his voice. It was the first time he had chosen to address her by the title of her profession and it was clear that he was being sardonic.