Atonement of Blood

CHAPTER TEN

Fidelma stared long and hard at the warrior.

‘I know you,’ she said, trying to dredge his name from her memory. Her eyes widened. ‘You are Socht.’

There was a brief moment before the taciturn warrior grinned.

‘I am flattered that you remember me, lady. Much time has passed since we were together at Ard Fhearta.’

Now Eadulf was beginning to recall the features of the Uí Fidgente warrior.

‘Remember you?’ went on Fidelma. ‘It looks as though you have recovered from that crack on the skull delivered by the pommel of Slébéne’s short sword.’

‘Indeed, lady, the sword of the chief of the Corco Duibhne caused me many a headache for days afterwards. But thanks to you, he and his allies received their due.’

‘So are we well met again, Socht, or is it ill met?’ Fidelma asked, nodding towards his armed companions.

‘All in good time, lady,’ replied the warrior. ‘I am ordered to take you to the fortress of Ath Dara, the Ford of the Oaks.’

Without another word he turned and, motioning them to follow, set off at a trot. The other warriors closed around them and forced them to follow at the same pace, and then that pace gradually increased to a canter. It was a short ride before they swung around a bend following the riverbank and came across several habitations and a narrow crossing which nestled among the tall oaks from which it obviously took its name.

The settlement spanned both sides of the River Mháigh, which twisted and turned like some giant serpent. The main settlement was on the far bank; doubtless because its higher elevation would provide the inhabitants with protection against flooding. Here the group noticed a large stockade — a fortress of timber with a square watchtower. A horn was being sounded from within: there were several short blasts.

Fidelma’s escort did not hesitate on the riverbank but plunged forward, obviously aware of the existence of a ford. As Fidelma followed, she noticed that the ford had been reinforced, probably over many years, by deposits of stones and pebbles, creating an underwater pathway a few metres wide. The height of the water therefore barely reached above the knee of the forelegs or the hock of the hind legs of their horses.

Socht wheeled his mounted warriors towards the wooden fortress, whose gates stood open, although with sentinels on the walls above watching their approach. He halted the band in a small courtyard and swung down, shouting orders to his men. Then he turned to Fidelma and her companions.

‘My men will take your horses to the stables, lady, so if you will follow me …?’

Fidelma was about to retort that they had been left with no other choice, but thought better of it.

Socht moved swiftly off towards the main building. A guard opened the door and he led them inside. They entered what seemed to be a chieftain’s feasting room, albeit an old-fashioned one and poorly furnished at that. A central hearth provided a fire whose smoke went upwards through a point in a conical thatched roof, which was supported by great timber supports and beams. A few shields adorned the walls as decorations, and at one side stood an ornately carved chair behind which hung a banner similar to the one Socht’s men carried — red silk which bore the image of a ravening wolf.

Rising from the chair was a tall, well-muscled young man with a shock of black hair. His eyes were grey and sparkling, and a white scar across his left cheek would have given him a sinister impression had it not been offset by his wide smile as he moved towards Fidelma with his hands outstretched in greeting.

Fidelma responded with an answering smile.

‘Conrí — King of Wolves!’ she declared. ‘Of course — with Socht here, I should have known that you would not be far away.’

‘Fidelma — Eadulf! It is good to see you both,’ declared the war chieftain of the Uí Fidgente with unfeigned warmth. ‘We have not met since we were at the Abbey of Ard Fhearta.’

‘Indeed,’ Fidelma smiled. ‘And chance continues on our travels for we were at Mungairit and encountered Brother Cú-Mara, the young steward of Ard Fhearta.’

Conrí was surprised. ‘The young steward of Ard Fhearta was at Mungairit?’

‘He was just visiting, but it was fortuitous that he was there.’

Conrí glanced at Gormán who was standing awkwardly in the background.

‘This is Gormán of the Nasc Niadh,’ introduced Fidelma, interpreting the question in his expression. ‘Conrí was elected war chieftain of the Uí Fidgente after Donennach became Prince,’ she explained.

‘Welcome, Gormán. Yet you do not wear the insignia of the Nasc Niadh, and Socht whispered in my ear that you had no weapon when he encountered you. Well, that is strange for a warrior of the Golden Collar — but you are welcome. Welcome all! Seat yourselves before my hearth and let me offer you hospitality.’

Without waiting for an answer, Conrí clapped his hands and an attendant appeared and began to pour drinks as they made themselves comfortable. Socht took up a position at the side of his chieftain’s chair of office.

Fidelma did not feel like recounting how they were robbed, but Conrí was already moving on to other things as he sat relaxing with his drink.

‘When did we first meet?’ he mused.

‘Three years ago, as I recall, when we were dealing with those terrible murders at Rath Raithlen,’ Fidelma reminded him.

For a moment a shadow crossed Conrí’s face. ‘Indeed. When my brother, Dea, and his men were slaughtered. Had you not shown that the Cinél na Áeda were innocent of their deaths then another war might have erupted between our people.’ He sighed, then waved his hand around the hall. ‘Now you are welcome as a guest to my home. As I told you three years ago, we are a small impoverished people who now labour under the yoke of defeat. My fortress does not resemble the grand palace of Cashel but, such as it is, you are welcome to its hospitality.’

‘We are on our way to Dún Eochair Mháigh, but our journey was delayed by the storm. Now it grows dark, so we will accept your hospitality with gratitude.’

‘You have but to ask, and if it is in our power, then you shall have it. We hope we may provide entertainment even for a noble warrior of the Nasc Niadh,’ smiled Conrí, glancing towards Gormán.

‘There is little of nobility in my blood,’ grunted Gormán, who was not convinced that any noble of the Uí Fidgente was worthy of courtesy.

‘Then, my friend, the fact that you are of the Nasc Niadh must be proof of your nobility in other ways,’ Conrí said smoothly.

Gormán’s hand went automatically to his neck where the golden collar of the élite warriors of Cashel should have been adorning him. He frowned: was there some hidden meaning to the smile that the action drew from Conrí?

‘The Ford of Oaks is a beautiful spot, Conrí,’ Fidelma said hurriedly, sensing the tension from Gormán. ‘And your house is elegant. Do not denigrate it. Better to wake with the aroma of wood around you than cold and soulless stone. Don’t you agree, Eadulf?’

Eadulf had been lost in his own thoughts and now started at the prompt that Fidelma had given him.

‘Eh? Oh — oh, yes.’ He managed to find the memory of the last remarks. ‘I was brought up in a wood-built house in a similar situation to this. It too was a small settlement by the side of a river. My father was the gerefa — a bó-aire, you call it here and-’

‘So you see,’ Fidelma cut into Eadulf’s sudden burst of nostalgia, ‘it is not everyone who has to endure being raised in a stone palace. It is better to be among the perfumes of wood and the scents of the countryside.’

‘I would agree with you, lady,’ Conrí said pleasantly, ‘but I think Eadulf has something on his mind that is preoccupying him.’

Fidelma turned to Eadulf with a question on her features.

‘It was something Socht said when he met us on the road,’ Eadulf mused.

Conrí’s smile broadened. ‘Which was?’ he invited.

‘He said that he had been waiting patiently for us. I was not sure that I had heard him correctly. Sometimes, my use of your language lacks subtlety. But now I reflect on it … yes, that is what he said. If that was so, how did he know that we would be on that road?’

Fidelma realised that Eadulf was right and that she, of all people, had overlooked the meaning of that innuendo.

Conrí glanced up at Socht and it seemed they were exchanging a silent joke. Then he turned back to them.

‘Well, to be honest, we did not know where you would turn up. I had sent riders south to Dún Eochair Mháigh as the most likely place that you would head for. I had entirely forgotten that the Abbey of Mungairit might be another natural place for you to make your goal.’

Fidelma was looking bewildered. ‘But how did you even know that I was in the territory of the Uí Fidgente?’ she asked.

‘You must forgive me, lady — and forgive me, friend Eadulf. I was enjoying the superiority of confusing you. Indeed, Fidelma, I was hoping that you would solve the mystery so that you might add another story to your fame as one from whom it is impossible to hide a secret.’

Fidelma was growing irritable but tried to disguise it. ‘In this case, I have little enough information to present a solution to your conundrum, Conrí.’

‘Then I will show you.’ The warlord clapped his hands for his attendants again. Fidelma and her companions rose and followed him to a table at one side of the hall. The top was covered with a large linen sheet and it was clear there were objects underneath. The attendants hurried forward and, at a nod from Conrí, they grasped the cloth, removing it from the table and revealing the items that had been concealed from them.

Everything was there; everything that had been stolen from them when they had camped at the Hill of Ulla. Had it really been only the day before yesterday? There were the golden torcs that signified Gormán and Fidelma to be members of the Nasc Niadh. There was Fidelma’s wand of office, Eadulf’s ornate crucifix and the various pieces of jewellery. What Eadulf was particularly relieved about was the sight of the silver seal that Brother Conchobhar had given him. And there was Gormán’s prize sword. All that had been taken from them now lay before them on the table.

Gormán recovered from his astonishment first and swung round to Conrí. ‘Were they your men?’ he demanded, his eyes narrowed in fury. ‘Were those brigands your warriors sent to rob us?’

Socht had now taken a step forward, hand on his sword, ready to check Gormán’s threatening stance.

‘Have a care, warrior of Cashel,’ he said softly. ‘Were you not travelling in the company of the lady Fidelma, you might have to answer for unjust accusations.’

Conrí raised a hand. ‘Peace. Peace. I did not mean to provoke anger by playing my game of mysteries. No, Gormán, those brigands were not my warriors in disguise.’

‘Then you’d best explain,’ Fidelma suggested.

‘Perhaps it would be easier to show you.’ Conrí gestured for them to follow him and took them to a door which led to the back of the fortress. Socht trailed in the rear keeping a careful watch on Gormán. They passed through the kitchen area and went across a back yard to the perimeter of the fortress where it seemed Conrí’s warriors had their sleeping quarters.

‘Prepare yourself, lady,’ he instructed, ‘for we of the Uí Fidgente are not as merciful as you of Cashel. We believe that in extreme cases, extreme penalties may be applied. Mercy was the old law of the Brehons and now we have been advised otherwise.’

‘I do not understand, Conrí,’ Fidelma said, puzzled by the elaborate prelude the war chieftain was going through.

He did not reply but moved on through a copse to a clearing. A few men were gathered there, but it was not these upon whom Fidelma and her companions fixed their immediate attention. There was a tall oak to one side of the clearing and from one of the branches a body was hanging. The twisted head in the rope had a shock of sandy hair and a beard. Fidelma did not even have to look for the livid white scar made by a sword from forehead across the eye, nose and cheek to recognise who it was.

‘We came across him and his gang of cut-throats in the forest,’ Conrí said sombrely. ‘When we counted their spoils, we recognised your wand of office and the emblems of the Nasc Niadh. Before he died, we persuaded this fellow to tell us what had happened to those he took these things from. He described you so that we knew it was you, lady. He swore that he had let you go unharmed.’

‘You are not the first travellers that this man and his companions have robbed,’ added Socht. ‘We have been seeking him for some time. His crimes are many.’

‘So that is how we came to be searching for you,’ Conrí ended.

‘And so this man was hanged,’ Eadulf stated the obvious. ‘What of his men? He had four companions when he robbed us.’

It was Socht who answered. ‘They were given the opportunity to surrender or to die fighting. They chose to die. Their bodies were buried where they fell. This one,’ he jerked his thumb towards the dead man, ‘seeing his men fall, pleaded for mercy, and threw down his sword. So we brought him here. For such a man, justice was swift. Perhaps it was too swift.’

‘He should have been heard before a Brehon,’ Fidelma said sternly.

‘He was,’ Conrí replied, to her surprise.

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed. ‘The spirit of our law is compensation for the victims and rehabilitation for the wrongdoer. He could have been made a bondservant and worked for the rest of his life to compensate for his crimes. What Brehon would sanction death as a punishment except in very exceptional circumstances?’

As if in answer, Conrí turned to the group of men and waved one of them forward, a man in religious robes with his head almost covered by a cowl. Beneath the shadow of his cowl, he was revealed as a youthful man but one who had obviously not shaved for days. He carried himself with an air of self-importance as he approached.

‘This is Brother Adamrae who served me temporarily as my Brehon,’ said Conrí before introducing Fidelma.

‘I am told that you sanctioned the hanging of this man.’ Fidelma’s tone was curt and she did not spend time on niceties.

The young man’s eyes glinted in the shadow of his cowl. ‘I did,’ he replied and there was truculence in his tone.

‘Under what law?’

Brother Adamrae’s jaw came up aggressively. ‘Under the just laws of the Penitentials, the Canon of the Church. Does not Canon Four state that a thief found in possession of stolen goods may be put to death?’

For a moment or two Fidelma stared at the man in surprise.

‘You have allowed the taking of this man’s life under these Penitentials which are contrary to our laws. Tell me, young Brehon,’ there was a hint of sarcasm in her voice, ‘where did you study and qualify in law?’

‘I studied at the Abbey of the Blessed Machaoi on the island of Oen Druim,’ he replied after a slight hesitation.

‘In the country of the Dál nÁraide of Ulaidh? I have heard of it,’ Fidelma said. ‘But I do not hear the accents of the Kingdom of Ulaidh in your voice. Your voice has the accent of these parts.’

The young man shrugged. ‘That is because I was sent to be fostered by Uí Fiachrach Aidne before I return to my own clan.’

‘The Uí Fiachrach Aidne? Their territory touches on the northern border of this kingdom. I would have placed your accent further to the south. Anyway, it is a long way even for fosterage links.’

‘It was my family’s choice,’ asserted the man in a stubborn tone. It was hard for Fidelma to decide whether he was a youth or just youthful-looking.

‘And what is your degree?’

It seemed for a moment that Brother Adamrae was going to refuse to answer. Then he said: ‘I am of the level of freisneidhed.’

‘You have studied law for three years only?’ Fidelma’s eyes widened.

‘It is enough when there are laws yet to be written to bring our barbaric society into keeping with the laws of the Church,’ retorted the man.

‘Ah, so you make up the law as you proceed?’ Fidelma’s tone was sarcastic. She turned to Conrí, who now seemed uncertain. ‘I would advise you to have a care of who you appoint as your advisers as to law. After three years of study, this youth has a lot to learn about the laws of the Fénechus.’

‘What right have you to say so?’ protested Brother Adamrae in anger.

Gormán, who had so far been silent, moved threateningly forward. ‘You are speaking to Fidelma of Cashel, sister to King Colgú, dálaigh of the courts of the Five Kingdoms, qualified to the level of anruth. That is her right to say so.’

Brother Adamrae’s reaction was marked. Almost as if he had received a blow, he took a step backwards. His features tightened.

‘An Eóghanacht?’ he breathed in surprise.

‘You have a problem with that?’ snapped Gormán.

‘I had not realised the lady’s legal rank,’ muttered the man. The qualification of anruth was only one below the highest degree that the secular or ecclesiastical colleges could award.

‘What brings someone from Ulaidh to the land of the Uí Fidgente?’ asked Fidelma.

‘I came to turn people from the ways of heresy and to teach the law of the True Faith.’

‘Did you now?’ mused Fidelma. ‘Would it not be best to return to the Abbey of Oen Druim and learn something of the laws of your own people before coming and misleading others with your own?’

Brother Adamrae flushed. ‘I protest,’ he replied. ‘The laws of the Faith take precedence over barbarian laws. We should adhere to the words of the truth Faith coming from Rome and-’

‘I think even a student in their first year would know the introduction to the first of our law texts, Brother Adamrae,’ Fidelma said.

‘I don’t understand,’ he replied hesitantly.

‘I quote that introduction — “What did not clash with the word of God in written Law and in the New Testament, and with the consciences of the believers, was confirmed in the laws of the Brehons by Patrick and by the ecclesiastics and the princes of Éireann, and this is the Senchus Mór”. Do you not know that Patrick, and his blessed companions, the bishops Benignus and Cairnech, agreed to confirm those laws on behalf of the new Faith?’

Brother Adamrae looked confused.

‘I suggest you retire and think about it, Adamrae,’ Fidelma advised. ‘Perhaps your thoughts might take your footsteps back to where you may continue your studies. Even though you are scarce qualified to pronounce any judgement, you are qualified enough, I see, for your cheeks to become blotched — which, we are told, is the blemish of one who gives false judgement.’

The young man’s hand automatically went up to his red cheeks.

‘Go, Brother Adamrae,’ ordered Fidelma, ‘and remember that even a judgement given in ignorance can still evoke penalties.’

The young man turned and strode angrily away.

Conrí shrugged and glanced at the hanging body. ‘Even so, Fidelma, death is often better than habitual crime.’

‘Not in our law,’ she replied stubbornly. ‘Our lawgivers believe if you kill the evil-doer, you are as bad as they are. These Penitentials being adopted by the religious are foreign ideas that are simply laws of vengeance. They resolve nothing. Those who adopt them are the enthusiasts for these new teachings from Rome. Well, they have not yet replaced our own legal system. You would have been wise to wait until you found a qualified Brehon before listening to that arrogant youth.’

‘Perhaps,’ the Uí Fidgente war chief said thoughtfully. ‘I fear though that you have made an enemy in Brother Adamrae. Young, arrogant men take the questioning of their abilities as a personal insult.’

Fidelma smiled thinly. ‘If I were worried about who I upset by the advocating of the law and my decisions pertaining to it, I would not have become a dálaigh. How did that young man come here — and how is it that you have no proper qualified Brehon?’

‘Prince Donennach left for Tara last week to see the new High King, Cenn Fáelad. In his retinue he took the Brehon who serves us locally. Therefore, for this time, we had no one to give the sanction of the law.’

‘So how did Brother Adamrae come here?’

‘About a week ago, he appeared in our settlement to join Brother Cronan at the little chapel. It seemed Brother Cronan was in poor health, for he fell ill with a fever soon after Brother Adamrae arrived. The young man therefore started to conduct the services. He preached in favour of these new ideas coming from Rome. He said that councils of the church leaders had been deciding that the religious should cease to wear the tonsure of John and adopt instead the universal tonsure of Peter; that they should follow the new rules as laid down from Rome, which was the heart and centre of the Faith. He spoke of many things that were new to us, Fidelma.’

‘And did he do so with the approval of Brother Cronan?’ queried Eadulf.

Conrí frowned. ‘Brother Cronan has been confined in his chamber at the chapel by his illness, which is said to be contagious. So it was opportune that Brother Adamrae arrived and preached for him.’

Fidelma sighed deeply. ‘It is true that there have been many great councils in recent years in which the advocates of the new rules adopted in Rome have been victorious in debates with the churches in the Five Kingdoms, those in the island of Britain and those in Gaul. I attended the one at Streonshalh, which persuaded the King of Northumbria to follow Rome, so that all our religious had to leave the kingdom. And more recently, there was the great council at Autun in Neustria that demanded that all the abbeys and monasteries should adopt the new rules. Alas, the young man is right in that respect.’

‘But religion is one thing; law is another,’ Eadulf pointed out.

‘True,’ said Conrí. ‘He spoke of the fact that he had studied law at the Abbey of Maolchai and I needed someone to judge our prisoner. I did not enquire just how much law he had studied. Perhaps I should. Now what am I to do? Chase him from this township?’

‘I would refer the matter to your own Brehon when he returns. If Adamrae simply preaches whatever interpretation of the Faith he wants to, then he may stay. But if he speaks against our law and tries to govern lives by rules that are foreign to us, then he cannot be allowed that liberty. Two centuries ago, when the Faith was officially accepted among the Five Kingdoms, when our laws were inscribed in the great law books, they were examined and approved of by the leading clerics of the country. They remain our laws.’

‘Very well, lady. We will keep a watch on the young man to see that he does not overstep his authority.’

Fidelma glanced up at the hanging body. ‘I would cut the man down now and accord him burial. He was a stupid fellow, but now he and his followers have no chance to reflect on their stupidity and make recompense to the people they have injured.’ Then she turned with a quick smile to Socht. ‘However, our thanks are due to you for retrieving our belongings. I trust none of your men were hurt in the conflict with the brigands?’

‘A few bruises and minor cuts, lady, that is all,’ replied Socht more cheerfully.

They made their way back to the hall and were grateful for the corma that Conrí’s attendants provided. Albeit used to encountering unnatural deaths, Fidelma still felt a sense of outrage when people were killed wrongly in the name of the law. The death penalty was no deterrent, merely vengeance. The ancients were right to emphasise that punishment must be coupled with repayment to the victim. Death was too easy. No one benefited from it, not the dead or the living.

Gormán went to the table, collected the items and handed them back to each of their owners. It gave them all a sense of security that their emblems of office were now returned.

‘So, what are you doing in the land of the Uí Fidgente?’ asked Conrí when they were settled.

‘You have not heard the news from Cashel?’ asked Fidelma.

‘We heard news of an attack on your brother in which the Chief Brehon Áedo was killed. But we were told that King Colgú had survived. News travels fast these days.’

By the time Fidelma explained the details, Conrí had assumed a worried look.

‘Brother Lennán was a name well known among the Uí Fidgente,’ he said. ‘He was respected as a physician.’

‘He came from the outskirts of Dún Eochair Mháigh,’ Socht said. ‘I remember him as a boy, before we went our separate ways to study.’

Conrí nodded thoughtfully. ‘The story was that he had been killed in the battle and, being a physician, that created a scandal here. He was also a religieux at Cnoc Áine and was there to tend the injured. If someone was using his name, that must mean the person knew the story. Perhaps it was a vengeance killing?’

‘That was what we came to find out,’ Fidelma confirmed. ‘We had a word with his father, Ledbán, at Mungairit, but it did not help.’

‘Ledbán?’ Socht was frowning at the memory. ‘Yes — that was his father’s name. I remember him. He ran a stable for one of the lesser nobles and his wife died of the Yellow Plague. So Ledbán went to join his son at Mungairit? He must be very old now.’

‘He is dead,’ Eadulf said dryly. ‘He died the night we arrived at the abbey.’

‘Well, I suppose he must have been an old man,’ Socht mused. ‘But it was surely a sad coincidence that he died just when you turned up there.’

‘If coincidence it was,’ Fidelma said. ‘Anyway, he was strong enough to speak with us when we arrived. It was during that night that he died.’ She did not wish to say any more about the circumstances until she was on sure ground. ‘But tell me, Socht, you say that you knew him and his son, Lennán?’

‘When I was young, the family were well known along the river hereabouts.’

‘When did Ledbán’s wife die?’

‘That was some eight years ago. It was when the Yellow Plague devastated the country.’

Conrí shivered. ‘The Yellow Plague! We had several deaths from that pestilence here. Thankfully it was not as bad here as it was in many places, but no one was exempt once it struck. Not kings and bishops, warriors or cowherds.’

‘Ledbán …’ muttered Socht. ‘It comes back to me now. They were a sad family. He hated his daughter’s husband and that is why he decided to go and end his days in Mungairit with his son.’

‘A daughter?’ Fidelma was suddenly interested. ‘Ledbán had a daughter? What was her name and what happened?’

Socht thought for a moment. ‘I think she married a river fisherman who sometimes ran a ferry and-’

‘It was a man who kept a boat at Dún Eochair Mháigh,’ interrupted Conrí. ‘Something bad happened. Didn’t his wife run away and later he was found dead in the river?’

Socht was suddenly excited. ‘I think the man’s name was Escmug.’

‘What happened to him? You say he was found dead in the river?’ Fidelma tried to hide her interest at the news.

‘Maybe he drowned. But this was about the time of the Battle at Cnoc Áine. No one at that time was worried about the stray dead body. There were too many bodies and all had unnatural endings.’

‘This daughter of Ledbán, do you recall her name?’ asked Eadulf.

‘It was not Liamuin, was it?’ Fidelma was watching their reaction to the name, but it did not seem to mean anything to either of them.

‘Perhaps someone at Dún Eochair Mháigh would know it,’ offered Conrí.

Fidelma suddenly glanced at the windows and realised it was rapidly growing dark.

‘I want to see Brother Cronan before the hour grows too late,’ she told them. ‘There are a few questions to which I would like the answers.’

‘But the contagious disease …’ protested Conrí. ‘No one has seen him since he fell ill. That is how young Adamrae came to take over his role here.’

Fidelma smiled. ‘Tell me, where does Brother Cronan live?’

‘He had a small cell which adjoins the chapel,’ replied Conrí. ‘It is part of the building — a little annexe and you enter from inside the chapel itself. But you must be wary, Fidelma. If it is a contagious disease, you may be at risk.’

‘You say that Brother Adamrae has been nursing him during the week? And Brother Adamrae moves freely among you? Then if there was some contagion it would be too late to prevent its spread among you now. If the good Brother Adamrae has survived these many days, I doubt whether it is a disease that we need fear too much.’

Conrí suddenly realised the logic of her statement. ‘I had not thought of that, lady,’ he said contritely.

‘No harm.’ Fidelma was cheerful. ‘Doubtless we shall talk more of it and of Brother Adamrae. Is the chapel far?’

‘Just a few moments’ walk across the square from the fortress gates. You can’t miss it — but you’d best take a lantern as it is growing dark,’ Conrí advised. ‘I was going to suggest that my attendants prepare the evening bath for you before the meal. We may be poor here but we can set a good table for honoured guests. And I will get chambers made ready for you; you must be our guests for the next few days.’

‘That is excellent and we are honoured by your offer. I shan’t be long so you may give your instructions as soon as you like.’

‘We’ll come with you,’ Eadulf said as he and Gormán rose.

‘It does not require all of us to visit a sick man,’ Fidelma replied firmly. ‘I won’t be long. You and Gormán may take your baths to save time.’

Although it was still early evening, it was already a dark and cloudy night, for winter had distorted the hours of daylight. However, the settlement at the Ford of the Oaks was still active and there were lights from the bullrings around the square. Fidelma had taken the lantern, although she did not really need it now that she crossed the square towards the wooden chapel which stood apart from the other buildings and was surrounded by its own green space. A flickering light was provided by a lantern hanging at the side of the door of the chapel, and using this, she was able to follow the path from the gate to the entrance of the building.

She pushed through the gate, and the noise of the hinge was suddenly answered by the alarmed call of a nightjar and the hoot of disapproval from an owl. She moved cautiously up the muddy path towards the door. There was no sound inside the chapel and she hoped that she was not going to disturb Brother Cronan; however, there were questions that she felt had to be answered now.

She paused outside the chapel door before pushing it open. It was dark inside and she was glad that she had brought the lantern with her. She moved forward a few paces and then called softly: ‘Brother Cronan?’

There was no answer, but spotting a side door, she felt that this must be the entrance to the living quarters.

At least Brother Adamrae was nowhere about. She did not want to encounter him before she spoke to Brother Cronan. Had he been in the chapel, he would have surely answered her call. Holding the lantern before her, she began to make her way towards the door.

It was no more than a slight intake of breath that alerted her: that and the instinctive feeling of someone behind her. She began to turn but not before a piece of wood had struck her arm, knocking the lantern from her hand and plunging the interior of the chapel into darkness. Had she not moved, the wood would have descended on the back of her head. As it was, her arm was stinging from the blow. She was aware of a grunt of frustration and the dark shadow of an upraised arm again, upon which she fell into a defensive crouch.

Ever since she was a young girl Fidelma had practised the art called troid-sciathaigid — battle through defence. When the missionaries of the Five Kingdoms had set out for strange lands to preach the new Faith and bring their learning and literacy to pagans, they could not carry weapons to protect themselves in case of attack from thieves and robbers. It was an ancient philosophy that went back to the time before time, when the ancient men and women of wisdom travelled among people of darkness. So to protect themselves they turned back to an ancient form of defence without weapons, a way of protection without returning aggression.

Now, as the figure advanced with weapon upraised, Fidelma slipped under the upraised arm and reached towards it, to use the momentum of the attacker to drag the figure forward and deflect the aim. At the last minute, the attacker seemed to guess her intention and sprang to one side. It was a clever move and for a second the thought passed through her mind that her opponent knew the art of combat as well as she did. She had leaped forward as the figure had moved sideways and it was her attacker who recovered first. As she tried to regain her balance, the figure turned, the weapon still upraised. In a split second she had a realisation of what was going to happen. The wood struck the side of her head. Then there was blackness.