Radoald suddenly saw the point she was going to make but shrugged, allowing her to accept it as confirmation.
‘Would it not be better to choose him in the way we do,rather than let nature choose the course and then have to correct nature?’
‘But to give people choice … If they had choice to choose their ruler, why — they would think they had choice in all things.’
‘Why not? People live in each other’s shelter.’
Radoald took a moment to understand the old proverb. Then he laughed sharply.
‘I do not think we shall agree on this, Fidelma of Hibernia. But at least I begin to see why your people have a reputation in my land as stubborn and irreverent towards their superiors. But be careful what you say and to whom, as these are difficult times and I strive hard to keep the peace between this valley and its neighbours.’
Fidelma nodded. ‘I shall remember your advice, Radoald of Trebbia. But there is a saying among my people that you cannot have peace longer than your neighbours choose peace.’
‘I can see that you are truly a King’s daughter, Fidelma of Hibernia,’ replied Radoald with grudging admiration. ‘But, so far, the neighbouring nobles have not troubled the people of this valley since Grimoald became King.’
‘Presumably he was the successor to Perctarit of whom you spoke?’
‘He was, and since then there has been peace in this valley.’
‘So it is unusual for bandits to make attacks in it?’
He was silent for a few moments as he regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Do you imply there was something unusual about the attack?’
‘I am unable to imply anything for I am a stranger here. I am merely an observer. Magister Ado at first wanted me to believe we were attacked by bandits, quickly confirmed by Wulfoald, and then you ascribed the attack to bandits.However, you did point out that it was unusual for bandits to operate in this valley when the richer merchants do not pass this way. Those are facts. I would not imply anything from them.’
‘You have a sharp mind, lady.’ Then Radoald fell silent for the rest of their journey as if in brooding thought.
The fortress of Radoald dominated a bend of the river, strategically placed on the southern bank where it turned almost at a forty-five-degree angle. From the northern bank a tributary of a smaller stream joined it. Behind that rose a great peak among the mountains which bordered the length of the valley on both banks. It was obvious that no army could attack in strength over the mountains or along the valley in either direction without having to reduce the fortress before they could proceed. It had been built initially, so Fidelma was to learn later, by the Romans when their legions invaded the territories of the peoples of Cisalpine Gaul. At first glance, it seemed dark and ominous, a brooding complex of buildings, its lower walls were covered by creeping moss-like plants which she could not identify. There were two or three farm dwellings set outside the walls and the fortress dominated the area. As they approached, one of Radoald’s men placed a hunting horn to his lips and let forth a series of blasts. Fidelma saw several warriors patrolling the walls and realised that their approach had already been observed.
She could not help but ask quietly: ‘For a peaceful valley, your warriors seem well prepared?’
Radoald actually grinned. ‘Si vis pacem para bellum,’ he replied. If you want peace, prepare for war. ‘I have found much wisdom in the Epitoma Rei Militaris of Vegetius, an old Roman military philosopher.’
They entered an inner courtyard where servants camehurrying forward to take their horses and Sister Gisa’s mule to the stables, to remove the carcass of the deer and presumably transport it to the kitchens.
As Radoald dismounted he called to Sister Gisa, ‘Take Brother Faro to Suidur’s apothecary so that he may be looked after.’ It was obvious that she knew the fortress for she took her companion by the arm and assisted him across the stoneflagged courtyard.
Radoald himself conducted Magister Ado and Fidelma to what appeared to be the main building, and led them into a great hall. There were fires alight at both ends of the hall while tapestries hung the full length of the high walls. Several men and women rose respectfully as he entered. An elderly man, who proved to be Radoald’s steward, came forward and bowed. The young lord shot a series of instructions at him before turning to them with a smile.
‘I have asked for rooms to be made ready for all of you. Baths will be prepared and this evening you will feast and rest with us. And tomorrow you will journey on to Bobium in comfort.’ He turned to the rest of the company and said, ‘Magister Ado has come back to join us and this is Fidelma of Hibernia, a princess of her country, who travels to Bobium.’
The names of his family and his entourage passed over Fidelma’s head. Several of them spoke colloquial Latin but it seemed the main language was the more guttural tongue of the Longobards. As she was passed from one group to another with polite meaningless words, she was suddenly confronted by an ornate, carved wood chair on a dais. She presumed it was Radoald’s chair of office. But it was not that which struck her. Above the chair hung a shield. It had a black background with what appeared to be a flaming sword and a laurel wreath painted on it.
A hand jerked on her sleeve and a high-pitched voice asked, ‘Do you eat human flesh?’
Shocked, she turned to look down into the ancient face of a woman, bent over, with grey hair and leaning on a stick.
‘I do not,’ she replied, wondering if she was about to be offered some horrendous dish of the valley.
‘But you must,’ the old woman insisted sharply. ‘People from Hibernia are cannibals. I have read the Blessed Jerome and was he not of the Faith? In Adversus Jovinianum he writes that he witnessed, as a young man, the Irish cutting the buttocks off shepherds and their wives and eating them.’
‘I have never heard that Jerome was ever in Hibernia,’ Fidelma replied, trying not to let her temper rise. ‘So no credence can be given to such a ridiculous, malicious and false statement.’
‘But he wrote it.’
‘People write many things and they are not all true.’
‘But he wrote it,’ the old woman repeated as if it were a mantra.
Radoald appeared at her side and took Fidelma’s arm. He spoke to the old woman roughly in the local language and then guided Fidelma away. ‘Let me show you some of the treasures of my fortress,’ he smiled. Out of earshot of the old woman, he added, ‘She was my mother’s nurse. I keep her here as a retainer, for there is nowhere else for her to go.’
Fidelma was about to open her mouth when he shook his head and placed a finger against his lips. ‘She reads to occupy her time. Sadly, she believes that if something is written then it must be true. There is no reasoning with her on this matter.’
‘Then she must have difficulties when she comes across two accounts that are opposed.’ Fidelma smiled thinly.
‘An interesting proposition. Sadly, it seems that eventuality has not yet presented itself.’
‘I was looking at your chair when she spoke to me. Is it your chair of office?’
Radoald nodded assent.
‘I noticed the design on the shield above it. Is that your crest?’
‘It is one which serves many of the Longobard nobles, for it is the insignia of the Archangel Michael who has become our patron. It is said that he appeared to our armies at Sipontum three years ago when we drove back the armies of the Byzantines. It is Michael’s name which is now our war cry, for he is captain of battle and defender of Heaven.’
‘So any one of your people would bear that crest?’
‘Only the warriors of our King Grimoald,’ confirmed the young noble. ‘Indeed, my sword arm is at the disposal of Grimoald. Why do you ask?’
‘Tell me something of this Grimoald,’ invited Fidelma, ignoring the question. ‘When did he become your King?’