Atonement of Blood

CHAPTER SIX

The early morning frost had vanished rapidly soon after they had set out from Cashel. They had taken the westward road with the sun rising behind them, spreading a mild warmth in a cloudless blue sky that was surprising for the time of year. Aware of the length of the journey they were embarking on, and understanding horses and the conditions well, Fidelma had decided they should keep their pace to a slow trot unless faced with an emergency. So it was mid-morning when they were following the track through the marshy approaches to the River Ara, surrounded by the fen sedge and wilting bulrushes, to the spot called Ara’s Well. This was a settlement of a few isolated homesteads sprawled carelessly on both sides of the river.

Fidelma led the way across the shallow ford to where a large building stood near a smith’s forge and other outbuildings. An elderly man was seated outside the door in the lukewarm sun, polishing leather. Hearing the sounds of the horses’ hooves squelching along the muddy path from the river, he glanced up and then rose with a smile of greeting, tossing the piece of leather down on the bench behind him as he strode forward to meet them.

‘Is it truly yourself, lady?’ the old man beamed in disbelief.

‘It is I, Aona, and Eadulf is with me.’

She slid from her horse, as did Eadulf and Gormán, with Gormán moving to take their reins while they went forward to greet the man called Aona.

The tavern-keeper, for such was Aona’s profession, took Fidelma’s hand shyly, and then extended his greeting to Eadulf.

‘It is a while since you have passed this way, lady. But, praise be, time has been kind to us all.’ He glanced at their companion. ‘And is that not young Gormán who rides with you? How are things with my old companions of the Nasc Niadh?’

As a young man, Aona had commanded a full catha or battalion of the bodyguards of the Kings of Cashel, before his retirement to become a tavern-keeper at the Well of Ara.

‘May good health attend you, Aona,’ smiled Gormán. ‘But there is sadness on me that, because of my youth, I cannot bring news of any of your former companions as a new generation now serves the King.’

Aona grimaced. ‘Sometimes I forget my age. Those I served with during the days of King Failbhe Flann are all long retired from the service of Cashel or passed on to the Otherworld. But what am I thinking of? You must come inside and drink corma with me.’ He turned and shouted: ‘Adag! Adag!’

From the side of the building a youth came hurrying. He halted a moment at the sight of them and then his face broadened into an urchin grim. Adag had been about eleven years old, the last time they had seen him as a boy fishing on the riverbank. Now he was almost as tall as them.

‘Lady! Brother Eadulf! It is good to see you both again.’

They returned the boy’s enthusiastic welcome.

‘Well, Adag, you must soon be nearing the age of choice,’ remarked Eadulf, as the boy went to take their horses from the care of Gormán.

Aona chuckled. ‘My grandson lacks another year or two before he can make his own decisions, according to the law. But I have no fear that he will make the wrong ones. He is a good boy and a good helper. Now, come in and tell me all the news from Cashel.’

It was some time later as they sat before the smouldering fire, sipping Aona’s home-brewed corma, and talking over the news from Cashel, that the old man turned a worried face to Fidelma.

‘If this is something to do with the Uí Fidgente, then I do fear the future, lady. Why are you and your companions intent on entering their territory? Was there not enough conflict the other month when that crazy woman, Étain of An Dún, escaped from the Glen of Lunatics and persuaded some of the Uí Fidgente to follow her?’

‘Only a few of them were foolish enough to follow her,’ corrected Eadulf. ‘Prince Donennach actually sent warriors to help Cashel confront Étain and her ragtag of fighters.’

Aona made a dismissive gesture. ‘Isn’t there an old saying that there are four things not to be trusted: a bull’s horn, a horse’s hoof, a dog’s snarl — and the friendship of the Uí Fidgente?’

‘Do not concern yourself, Aona,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘We shall take special care. Anyway, this afternoon we hope to reach Cnoc Ulla before dark and there is nothing to fear along the valley between here and there.’

‘It is afterwards that I fear, lady. If this is some plot of the Uí Fidgente, then they will not be content until it is successful or until they are destroyed.’

‘But we don’t know that it is,’ Fidelma said firmly. ‘And that is the purpose of our journey into their territory — to find out what, if anything, is going on.’

‘You are in a good position to hear news from merchants coming out of Uí Fidgente country,’ Eadulf said now. ‘If anything was stirring there, then surely the merchants would have some gossip to spread?’

Aona smiled in acknowledgement. ‘True — merchants always have gossip to spread, Brother Eadulf. The problem is judging whether the gossip is true or false. I swear some of that lot are better than the bards at their storytelling.’

‘But the resourceful listener, such as yourself, can surely detect a lie from the truth?’ Eadulf said.

The tavern-keeper grinned modestly. ‘That is true. Take Ordan for example …’

‘Ordan?’ Fidelma frowned. ‘Ordan of Rathordan?’

‘Himself, no less,’ nodded Aona. ‘He is a frequent traveller between here and the country of the Uí Fidgente and Luachra. When he came here the other afternoon-’

‘When was this?’ Fidelma interrupted.

‘It was three days ago. He arrived about midday.’

‘But that was the day of the assassination attempt,’ Eadulf said. ‘Midday? Don’t you mean midnight?’

‘I may be old but I still know the difference between midday and midnight,’ chided Aona.

‘Go on,’ Fidelma said with a warning look at Eadulf. ‘You were saying …?’

Aona cleared his throat, took a sip of his corma and then continued: ‘Well, he arrived at midday saying that he had come from Uí Fidgente country. He wanted a meal and he took his time about it. I had the impression …’ He seemed to ponder.

‘You had the impression?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘I might be wrong but I thought he was very preoccupied. You know what a vain man Ordan is, full of bombast and stories. That was why I mentioned him, because of his usual gossip and storytelling. Well, this day he was as quiet as a lamb. He was sitting over there.’ Aona pointed to a dark corner by the window.

Fidelma glanced across. ‘Not by your fire? These are cold days and often raining, when a fire’s warmth is welcome.’

‘Indeed, lady. Usually Ordan would make himself comfortable on a chair before the hearth and be talking non-stop. But that day he went and sat over there alone while I remained at the fire.’

‘So?’ Fidelma prompted again when he paused to take another swallow from his beaker.

‘He had eaten his meal and was having a drink when another traveller came in. He was difficult to place for he wore a long cloak and was hooded. I know he arrived on horseback, because Adag went to tend to it. The traveller asked for corma and went to sit just there, between the fire and near where Ordan was sitting.’

‘You saw nothing by which you could identify this man?’

Aona shook his head.

‘Was his cloak of good material; and what of his boots?’ asked Eadulf, meeting Fidelma’s nod of approval.

‘Ah, I see. His cloak was of heavy wool. It was a good weave, edged with beaver fur and doubtless expensive. He kept the hood covering his face. The cloak was tightly pinned with something … now, what was it? Ah, I have it. A polished bronze brooch. I can’t remember the pattern, but I know it kept the cloak so tight around him that I could not see what manner of clothes he was wearing beneath. The boots I noticed were of treated leather and appeared well-made.’

‘Are you suggesting that Ordan might have been waiting for this person?’ Fidelma asked.

Aona shrugged. ‘I can’t swear it was so, lady.’

‘Yet you felt it? Did they speak to one another?’

‘No more than a curt acknowledgement as the man entered. The sort of greeting strangers give when they confront one another in a confined space.’

‘But you’re not convinced?’ Fidelma said, picking up on the intonation of the tavern-keeper.

‘Funny thing — the newcomer asked me to make sure that Adag was looking after his horse correctly. I assured him he would be well cared for, but he insisted that I go to check. On my way back, I thought I heard quiet voices, but no — when I re-entered, the stranger and Ordan were still sitting in the same places. Some time later, the stranger rose, made his farewell, collected his horse and left.’

‘Do you recall what his horse looked like?’ Eadulf asked suddenly.

The old inn-keeper looked surprised for a moment but then said: ‘As a matter of fact, I do. It was grey in colour with white legs above the hocks. Even young Adag remarked on it, as it was the sort of hunter that a noble would ride.’

Eadulf smiled in satisfaction. ‘So the stranger left. What did Ordan do?’

‘That was what puzzled me. He stayed here, sipping at his ale until it began to grow dark and then he demanded another meal, it being so late. It was not until near midnight that he rose to pay his dues and said he would travel on to Cashel. I asked, was it wise to travel on during darkness? After all, I saw that his wagon was heavily laden with goods and it is not unknown for merchants to have been waylaid and robbed at the bridge over the River Suir on the road that leads to Cashel. There are some wild youths among the Múscraige Breogain who dwell in that area.’

‘And what was his answer?’ prompted Eadulf after the tavern-keeper hesitated.

‘He did not seem worried. He said that he was under the protection of the King’s warriors and that no one would dare molest him.’

‘It is true that Ordan often carries a banner on his wagon.’ Gormán spoke for the first time. ‘It is a symbol of the Nasc Niadh which he uses to frighten any would-be robbers.’ He added with a smile of pride: ‘Often, it works — for the warriors of the Golden Collar have a reputation.’

‘Indeed,’ nodded Aona. ‘That’s what I mean. The fat merchant often boasts of his personal friendship with the King of Cashel and how well-protected by the Nasc Niadh he is. Of course, it is all arrogance. Tall tales.’

Fidelma wore a thoughtful expression. ‘You say that he was heading with his wagon for the bridge across the River Suir?’

‘That was the peculiar thing,’ the innkeeper replied, scratching his head. ‘He said that he would go by a safer route, away from the bridge. He had decided to go south and cross by the Ford of the Ass.’

‘That is a longer route,’ Gormán pointed out. ‘And you say it was near midnight when he left?’

‘How far south of the bridge is it to the Ford of the Ass?’ asked Fidelma.

‘It is quite a distance from the main track, lady. It would add extra time on one’s journey and in a heavy wagon …’ The warrior shrugged.

‘But it would explain why Ordan was crossing the Ford of the Ass and picked up the girl, arriving in Cashel before dawn,’ observed Eadulf.

There was a silence and then Fidelma heaved a sigh. ‘You have told us a strange story, Aona. Can you give us nothing further about your unknown guest?’

The elderly tavern-keeper shook his head. ‘Alas, lady, if there was more to tell then I would tell it. I have searched my mind. As I said, he had a hood over his head, although I caught sight of a sharp chin and the fact that he was badly in need of a shave. I had the impression of gauntness. That is all I can say.’

Eadulf chuckled and laid a hand on the elderly inn-keeper’s arm.

‘Well, friend Aona, for a man who says he did not notice much, you seem to have noticed a great deal.’

For a moment or two Fidelma sat in silence and then she rose and stretched. ‘It is time to be off,’ she said decisively. ‘We need to reach Cnoc Ulla before the winter darkness is upon us and I don’t want to exhaust our horses by needless speed.’

After Aona had gone off to the stables, shouting for his grandson to get the mounts ready, Fidelma turned to her companions. ‘Well, we know that Ordan came here and that he met the assassin. We cannot be sure that they knew each other, but Aona suspects they exchanged words. But what were these words? Then the assassin left on his way to Cashel. Why did Ordan stay until midnight and then take the long way home? Did he stay because he knew what was going to take place at Cashel that evening? As Eadulf observed, at least Aibell’s story of being picked up by Ordan at the Ford of the Ass is confirmed.’

‘I think we should ride back to Cashel and have a word with that merchant,’ suggested Gormán.

Fidelma thought for a moment and then shook her head. ‘The merchant will keep until our return. We have other matters to pursue.’

As Eadulf knew, the road running directly to the west would bring them to the famous Abbey of Ailbe at Imleach, but they soon left this road and turned northwards, along a stream which fed the Ara. While riding at Fidelma’s side, with Gormán a little way ahead, Eadulf re-opened the subject that had been worrying him.

‘Have you considered that Ordan may have taken the detour towards the Ford of the Ass because the girl was also involved in the conspiracy?’

Fidelma smiled at him. ‘At the moment, we are not even sure it is a conspiracy. And if Ordan and Aibell were fellow conspirators, they are poor ones to concoct a story that paints Ordan in such a bad light.’

Eadulf relapsed into silence and in this fashion they continued onwards for a while.

The day was turning colder as the sun started its descent towards the rim of the western hills. Dark clouds began to race across the sky. A bitter wind was gusting across the narrow valley through which they were travelling along the bank of the stream. Had they been on higher ground, unsheltered by the surrounding hills, the cold would have been sharp. They drew their cloaks more tightly around them.

‘Let’s hope the wind remains strong,’ muttered Fidelma.

Eadulf glanced at her in surprise. ‘Why would you wish that?’

‘Because if the wind blows those clouds away, it will not rain. Those are heavy stormclouds and I would not like to be drenched before we find shelter.’

Eadulf saw the logic in the observation and glanced up at the clouds that were racing along, almost at hilltop-level.

‘How far is it to this place where we intend to stay tonight?’

‘Not far now, if we can keep up this pace,’ replied Fidelma.

As she spoke, they both became aware that Gormán had halted and was peering in the direction of a small copse of trees that grew to one side of the track.

‘What is it?’ called Fidelma as they came up to him.

Gormán merely pointed. Among the trees, a black shadow seemed to be moving in the wind. As they stared at it, the horrible realisation dawned that it was a human body hanging from a branch of one of the trees. The young warrior had already unsheathed his sword and his gaze scoured the surrounding woods.

‘Wait here,’ he ordered, and nudged his horse across the short distance to the edge of the little wood, his keen eyes alert for any danger.

They waited while he entered the wood, halted and looked about. Then he turned and waved them forward.

The body was hanging by the neck: it was clear that he had not come to that position through his own means. Eadulf noticed that the skin of the arms and hands was mottled, the features deathly white.

‘He has not hung here very long,’ Eadulf ventured. ‘No more than a day or two, perhaps less.’

The body was that of a young man. The face was cleanshaven. His hair was corn-coloured, long but dishevelled, with dirt and dead leaves mingled in it. The clothes, too, were torn and caked with dirt and dried blood. He wore a linen shirt covered by a short, tight-fitting jacket that had been ripped open so that the fixings had been torn away. He wore triubhas, trousers that fitted snug from hip to ankle with straps that passed underneath the feet to keep them in place. The man’s feet were bleeding and there was no sign of any footwear. It was hard to discern the quality of the clothes. They had once been bright and possibly of good craftsmanship. There was no jewellery on the corpse.

As they stared up at the dead man, Gormán appeared a little impatient.

‘Is it wise to tarry here, lady? After all, this is the border of the Uí Fidgente territory.’

Fidelma grimaced. ‘I doubt whether the Uí Fidgente do anything without a purpose, so I do not think they would attack us for merely looking at this unfortunate. If they did not want travellers to observe this body then they, whoever they might be, would have cut it down, not left it hanging in this place.’

Gormán did not appear reassured. He kept his sword ready in his hand while his eyes darted here and there in case of unexpected dangers.

‘I wonder who or what this young man was?’

Fidelma suddenly bent from her horse and reached out to take the left hand of the corpse, peering at the palm and fingers. She then stared awhile at the fingers of the right hand before letting it go with a sigh.

‘And what does that tell you?’ Eadulf asked with an expression of repugnance on his features.

‘It tells me that the young man wore a ring on the third finger of his left hand which, over the years, has left a mark. His palms and fingers are soft, so he did not do manual work — but the nails are torn and there is blood under them, so he must have either used his hands to fight his captors or tried to dig himself out of some prison.’

‘You think he was a noble?’

‘There are other people in society who do not do manual work,’ she replied.

‘Well, this is a frustrating trip,’ Eadulf complained. ‘We have moved from one mystery to another and there is no information to take us forward to a resolution of either of them.’

A small smile flickered on Fidelma’s lips. ‘If life’s mysteries were easy, Eadulf, then there would be little for me to do and I should doubtless pine away with boredom.’

They had reached the marshland country around Ulla with its small hill called Cnoc Ulla rising barely fifty metres above them but seemingly out of place on the flat plain. Below the hill was a collection of buildings, which was where Fidelma had proposed to spend the long winter night before moving on to Mungairit. It was twilight as they approached, that strange grey light that appears in the moments approaching sundown. And it was in this light that Gormán, once more riding a little way ahead, saw the condition of the buildings they were approaching. His hand again went to his sword-hilt.

‘The buildings are in ruins,’ he muttered as they came up alongside him. ‘We must be careful.’

Fidelma examined them for a moment. ‘Some time has passed since this was done. This probably occurred during the raids that Étain of An Dún and her followers made.’

Gormán relaxed a little. ‘I had forgotten they were active in this area. You are right. They wreaked much devastation here.’

Being mainly wooden constructions, the fires had consumed almost all the habitations. There was little left but the three travellers were thankful that there were no signs of human remains. From the look of things, either the attackers, survivors or those who had come later had cleared up the human debris. Étain of An Dún, in her attempt to create war in the kingdom, had exacted a high price for her madness. But now she was dead and the kingdom was supposedly at peace.

‘A pity,’ Fidelma said, regarding the ruins.

‘Where is the next settlement?’ asked Eadulf. ‘We can’t stay here.’

‘There is no other settlement close by that I know of,’ replied Gormán. ‘At least none that we can reach before darkness.’

‘Then there is nothing for it but to find the least damaged of the buildings and make ourselves as comfortable as possible for the night,’ decided Fidelma.

‘At least we have firewood enough,’ Eadulf observed with cynical humour.

At one end of what had been the settlement they found the remains of a substantial construction. It appeared to have been built mainly of stones, although the door and windows had been burned away.

‘A chapel, I think,’ Eadulf observed. ‘I wonder where everyone went?’

‘If any of them survived at all,’ Fidelma commented dourly as she dismounted. ‘Let’s look inside and see if we can make it habitable for the night.’

A corner of the drystone-built chapel seemed surprisingly undamaged. The roof of wooden planking had fallen, but against a beam which kept it secure from the ground so that one could still stand up with head clearance in the area. Apart from dust, the flagstones were relatively clean, enough to provide a comfortable sleeping area.

‘We can lay a fire here,’ Fidelma pointed to an area before this sheltered section, ‘and that should keep us warm.’

Eadulf set off to gather firewood, while Gormán saw to the horses in a small enclosed space behind the building. Perhaps it had once been the garden of the religious who had occupied the little chapel. The wooden fencing had only been damaged slightly and the warrior was able to rearrange the railings to make a secure paddock. The grasses had grown wild and were enough for the animals to graze upon.

Fidelma had asked Gormán to locate a spring or brook where they might find fresh water. No settlement was built without a supply of fresh water. Gormán, who had brought the goatskin water bags with him, set off to look amongst the burned ruins of the homesteads that had sprawled around the stone church. There was no immediate sign of a brook flowing through the centre of the settlement and so the young warrior realised it must run outside its blackened borders. Logic told him that if there was a spring it would rise on the hill behind. He began to move in that direction when a faint sound caught his ear. It came from the far side of the desolate remains of the buildings. Once more, he eased his sword in its scabbard and moved forward carefully and silently, making sure that he stayed close to the cover afforded by what remained of the buildings. As he grew nearer to the sounds, he recognised them as the high-pitched yelping and growling of puppies.

The end of the ruined village was marked by the very gushing burn he had been seeking. It came tumbling down the hillside of Cnoc Ulla, snaking its way onwards across the plain. In and across this small burn frolicked four clumsy grey puppies, snarling, biting and play-fighting with each other. Gormán smiled and was about to relax when his eyes caught sight of a majestic, immobile figure. Seated on a round rock by the burn was a magnificent slate-grey animal, the mother wolf watching her progeny at play through slanted green eyes, edged with red. There was white fur around her muzzle, her sharp yellowing fangs snapping now and then as one of the puppies came tumbling too close.

Gormán froze as he watched her, for he knew how dangerous it was to be close to a mother wolf protecting her young offspring at play. He knew of the ferocity and might of those sharp fangs, the power of those muscles in that heavy-set animal. He hardly dared breathe in case the intake of his breath came to the sharp ears of the wolf. His blood turned to ice as he saw the ears of the beast prick forward and the muzzle rise as her nostrils sniffed the air. A moment later came a sound high above on the hillside. The she-wolf rose and it seemed her mane stiffened and she bared her fangs. Now, clearly, above them, carried on the breeze, came a curious wailing sound. Gormán recognised it as the hunting call of the wolves. The beast turned and let out a series of short, sharp barks, before trotting off up the hillside. The four puppies ceased their play immediately and, in obedience to her call, went scampering after her.

It was some time before Gormán felt the tension in his body release. When he was sure that the vixen and her brood were gone he made his way slowly to the burn, following it up the hill a little before dipping his hand into the water to taste it to ensure it was clean and fresh. Keeping one eye on the slopes of the hill for any threatening movement, he filled his water bags. The sky was almost dark when he returned to the chapel where Eadulf had already lit a fire which provided both light and heat for the cold night that would soon be upon them. They could already feel a chilly breeze crossing the plains and whispering around the isolated hill under which they sheltered.

‘Is all well, Gormán?’ Fidelma asked as he entered the ruins of the chapel. She had been preparing a cold meal. ‘You were a long time.’

‘I came upon a she-wolf and her offspring at the far end of the village,’ he told her. ‘I felt it wise not to announce my presence. The animal was watching over her cubs. Anyway, they have gone up the hill now but it would be wise if we made sure the fire was well lit through the night. There is a pack nearby.’

‘A wise precaution,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘Did you see anything that might give a clue about the destruction of the village?’

‘So far as I can tell, the whole settlement seemed totally abandoned after its destruction,’ Gormán replied. ‘That is,’ he added, ‘if there was anyone left to abandon it. Either there were some survivors or others came along and tidied away any human remains. It seems that Étain’s rebels from the Glen of Lunatics did a thorough job of destruction.’

‘Well, at least we do not have to worry about them,’ said Eadulf as he stacked more wood on the fire. He had brought in quite a store to last them through the night.

‘Perhaps,’ Gormán said shortly.

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed in interest at his comment. ‘You’d best explain.’

‘I was thinking. The attempt to kill your brother, the King, must surely be an act of vengeance for the defeat of Étain’s rebels and their allies in Osraige. It is unlikely to be connected with a defeat that happened four years ago. On the other hand, it is only a few weeks ago that our armies defeated Étain and stormed Cronán’s fortress at Liath Mór.’

Fidelma regarded the young warrior thoughtfully. ‘An interesting point. But it is only speculation and …’

‘… without information, speculation is a waste of time,’ piped up Eadulf.

Fidelma was about to express her annoyance but then shrugged. ‘I have always said so,’ she acknowledged.

‘But sometimes such thoughts are a logical process,’ protested Gormán.

‘I will not deny it. However, if one acts on speculation only, therein lies a danger. Do not disregard speculation but do not act solely upon it.’

‘Surely that is difficult? For example, if I have chosen a tender joint of meat for my supper and placed it on the table, then I am called away for a moment and on my return I find the meat on the floor and my hound standing over it, it is logical that the hound must be guilty of theft. However, I have not seen the hound take the meat from the table. So that is speculation.’

Eadulf chuckled. ‘That is a good example of a legal argument. But as I understand your law, a witness is called fiadu, one who “sees”. So what does not take place before the eyes of the witness is irrelevant.’

‘Well done, Eadulf.’ Fidelma smiled in approval. ‘You have obviously read our text, the Barrad Airechta, on the law of evidence. It does say that a person can only give evidence as to what they have seen and heard — and that would imply that speculation must be eliminated.’

Eadulf smiled smugly. Over the years that he had been with Fidelma he had tried to learn as much of the laws of her country as he could, spending time among the law texts in the tech screpta or libraries.

Fidelma turned thoughtfully to Gormán. ‘However, you have also made a good example, for the law texts admit that indirect evidence can be presented if there are grounds for suspicion. But because your hound is standing by the meat which is on the floor, that cannot be the only grounds for blaming the dog. Were the doors and windows closed in the room where the dog was found with the meat? Was the hound enclosed in the room when you left? Could some other animal have entered and could the hound have chased them off after they had taken the meat and left it on the floor? You see, your speculation must be extended to full capacity. When all other avenues are closed then a judge is allowed to decide if there is only one explanation and accept that as indirect evidence which otherwise would be inadmissible. And yet I would still be unhappy with that decision.’

The young warrior was frowning as he followed her reasoning. ‘Unhappy?’

‘There is still room for error unless there is proof. When speculation has convinced people to condemn another, the truth will remain the truth and it is the truth that must prevail.’ Fidelma gave a sudden yawn. ‘And now, we should eat and then get some rest. If we leave after first light, we will reach the Abbey of Mungairit just after midday.’

They sat before the fire and consumed bread, cheese, some cold meats and an apple, all washed down with cold spring water. As frugal as it was, the meal tasted good after their long journey. Eadulf banked the fire again.

‘Do we need to keep a watch?’ asked Gormán.

‘It is not necessary,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Just so long as we do not let the fire go out. Although I doubt whether the wolves will bother us.’

Her sentence was curiously punctuated by the distant howling of the animals on the hillside. It started with a solitary cry from what could only be the leader of the pack; this, after a moment or two, was joined by others. The whole chorus was eerie, rising gradually to a crescendo, until the wolf-pack fell silent.

Eadulf shivered a little. A nearby sound caused him to start nervously before he realised it was only the mournful call of an owl, perched on the ruined wall above him. He found Fidelma trying to hide her amusement, pulled a face at her, and turned to find a comfortable spot for a bed.

It seemed that he had barely stretched out on his cloak in the corner of the ruined chapel than his eyes opened to the cold grey light of morning. He blinked and sat up. The fire was no longer blazing but a plume of smoke was rising where Gormán had placed some dew-dampened wood on it in an attempt to rekindle it. The young warrior was kneeling by the side of the fire, poking at it. Beside him, Fidelma was stirring. Eadulf rose to his feet, stretched and smothered a yawn.

He was about to make a remark to Gormán when the whinny of a horse outside stayed him. The young warrior came quickly to his feet, head to one side in a listening attitude. Fidelma also jumped up, exchanging a glance with Gormán. To most people, one horse sounds much like another. But to someone who has spent their life with horses, there is an ability to detect differences as another might observe the contrast in the sound of people’s voices.

It was at that moment when a harsh voice called from outside of their makeshift compound.

‘Come on out, strangers! And if you have weapons, discard them. I have bowmen here, and their arrows are strung and ready. If we see a sign of any weapon, you will have seen your last dawn.’