Suffer Little Children

Chapter Sixteen

Victor!

That was the name which kept troubling Fidelma; it had been tumbling around in her mind since Sceilig Mhichil. The images of the two black-haired boys from Rae na Scríne were also in her mind’s eye. But the sons of Illan had been described as copper-haired. Yet the name, the name Victor … Hic est meum. Victor. Didn’t the name mean ‘triumphant’ and ‘victorious’ and wasn’t the equivalent in Irish — Cosrach?

She suddenly gasped at the ease of the solution to the conundrum. The sons of Illan had been called Primus and Victor. Primus meant ‘first’ and wasn’t Cétach just a pet form of cét which also meant ‘first’? Cétach bore the name of a son of the legendary prince who founded the kingdom of Osraige. Primus — Cétach. Victor — Cosrach! Although the two boys had vanished, surely the other children from Rae na Scríne might be able to identify or describe the religieux who had brought them to Sister Eisten for safekeeping.

She halted her horse abruptly causing, a startled Cass to draw rein lest his steed collide with her. Sister Grella’s mount, almost impacting with his, shied and nearly stumbled.

Fidelma cursed softly under her breath, blaming herself for a fool that she had not seen that simple solution before.

‘What is it?’ Cass demanded, a hand snaking to his sword hilt, looking around as if expecting an attack from an unseen enemy.

‘An idea!’ she replied happily. She knew now whom Dacán had been searching for and why Cétach had been so afraid of Salbach. It must have been Cétach and Cosrach whom Intat had been sent to kill when he set fire to Rae na Scríne.

‘Only an idea? I thought there was danger,’ Cass complained in annoyance.

‘There is nothing more dangerous than an idea, Cass,’ laughed Fidelma, intoxicated with the simple logic of her conclusion. ‘A single idea, if it is right, saves us years of laborious experience, the harsh learning of trial and error.’

Cass glanced around nervously.

‘Ideas may not threaten our lives with swords and arrows.’

Fidelma chuckled dryly, still happy with her thoughts.

‘They may be more harmful than that. Come on.’

Without further explanation, she urged her horse to break into a canter along the trail leading down into Ros Ailithir.

Brother Conghus met them at the gate and, as they arrived, the abbot himself came hurrying up.

‘Sister Grella!’ he gasped, looking from Grella to Fidelma in astonishment. ‘You have captured the culprit, cousin?’

Fidelma, to Cass’s surprise, made no effort to dismount. She leant forward across the pommel of her saddle and spoke quietly to her cousin.

‘Grella is to be held securely on my authority. She has much to answer for before the assembly of the High King when it meets here. What she wants to tell you as an explanation for her disappearance is entirely up to her.’

Abbot Brocc looked anxiously.

‘Does this mean that you have reached a conclusion?’ He glanced across his shoulder at the abbey with an almost conspiratorial air. ‘The High King and his retinue have already arrived. Barrán, the Chief Brehon, has been asking about you and …’

Fidelma held up a hand to silence the worried abbot.

‘I can say no more at this time. We will return as soon as possible.’

‘Return? Where are you going?’ Brocc’s voice was almost a wail as Fidelma urged her horse away from the abbey gates.

‘Guard Sister Grella well, if for nothing less than her own safety,’ Fidelma called across her shoulder.

Cass, his face showing that he was equally as perplexed as the abbot, urged his horse after her.

‘If you cannot tell the abbot, sister,’ he complained, after he had caught up with her, ‘perhaps you can tell me? Where are we going now?’

‘I need to find the orphanage where the children from Rae na Scrine were taken,’ she replied. ‘I know it lies along this coast to the east.’

‘You mean the place run by Brother Molua?’

‘Do you know it?’ She was surprised.

‘I know of it,’ Cass asserted. ‘I spoke to Brother Martan about it. It should not be too difficult to find. It lies about ten miles to the east of here along the coast near a tidal estuary. But why do you want to go to this orphanage? What knowledge can we pick up there?’

‘Oh, Cass!’ muttered Fidelma, ‘if I knew that, I would not need to go!’

Cass shrugged helplessly but followed as Fidelma urged her horse along the highway.

It proved, as Cass said, not more than ten miles across a broad headland. There were several stone and timber buildings which rose above the mud banks of a large tidal estuary into which a river pushed sedately from the mountains to the north. They had to cross the river at a narrow ford which led to the cluster of buildings which, Fidelma noticed as she grew nearer, were surrounded by a wooden fencing. A broad-shouldered man met them at the gates. He wore the clothes of a forest worker but Fidelma noticed the crucifix which hung around his muscular neck.

‘Bene vobis, my friends,’ he called out as they halted their horses before him. He had a loud baritone voice, full of joviality, and a smiling face to match it.

‘And health to you,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Are you Brother Molua?’

‘My given name is Lugaid being named after Lugaid Loígde, the progenitor of the Corco Lofgde. But as it is such a distinguished name, sister, why, I merely answer to its more gentle diminutive. Molua suits me better. How may I serve you?’

Fidelma slid from her horse and introduced herself and Cass.

‘It is not often that we have such distinguished visitors,’ the big man said. ‘An advocate of the court and a warrior of the king of Cashel’s elite. Come, let me first stable your horses and then, perhaps, you will allow my house to offer you hospitality after your journey?’

Fidelma did not protest as the man insisted on leading off their horses to a stable. She gazed about the small complex of buildings with interest. There were several children playing around what was a chapel, in fact no bigger than an oratory. An elderly religieuse was sitting under a tree further on with half a dozen children round her. She was playing a small wooden reed pipe, a cuisech, and she played it well, so Fidelma thought. The sister seemed to be teaching the children short airs, happy and joyful.

Brother Molua returned smiling.

‘This is a peaceful spot, brother,’ Fidelma observed approvingly.

‘I am content with it, sister,’ agreed Molua. ‘Come this way. Aíbnat!’

A round-faced, homely woman came to the door of one of the buildings. She seemed to share Molua’s bluff, smiling features.

‘Aíbnat, we have guests. This is my radiant wife, Aíbnat.’

Fidelma saw that Molua was possessed of a sense of humour for the meaning of the woman’s name was ‘radiant girl’.

‘I heard that you were both at Ros Ailithir,’ the woman greeted them. ‘Were you not there to investigate old Dacán’s death?’

Fidelma nodded affirmatively.

‘Enough time to talk when our guests have eaten, Aíbnat,’ chided Molua as he ushered them all into the building. They found themselves in a warm chamber in which an oven threw out heat. On it were great pots simmering with aromatic ingredients. Molua motioned them to be seated at a table and produced a pitcher and several pottery goblets.

‘Let me offer you some of my special cuirm to keep out the chill. I distil it myself,’ he added with pride.

Cass readily agreed while Fidelma gazed approvingly around at the kitchen.

‘How many do you have to feed here?’ she asked, interested in the large number of cooking pots.

It was Aíbnat who replied.

‘At the moment we have twenty children under the age of fourteen here, sister. And there are four of us to look after them. My husband, myself and two other sisters of the Faith.’

Molua poured the drinks and they sipped the rough but pleasant-tasting spirit with relish.

‘How long has this orphanage been here?’ asked Cass.

‘Since the first devastations of the Yellow Plague two years ago. Some communities were so badly hit that entire families were wiped out and there was no one to care for the children who remained,’ explained Aíbnat. ‘That was when my husband sought permission of the Abbot Brocc at Ros Ailithir to turn his small farmstead here into a place of refuge for the orphans.’

‘You seem to be succeeding very well,’ Fidelma approved.

‘Will you eat, after your journey?’ invited Molua.

‘We are hungry,’ acknowledged Cass, for they had not eaten since that morning.

‘But it lacks several hours before your evening meal,’ Fidelma pointed out, with a sharp, reproving look at the young warrior.

‘That’s of little consequence,’ smiled Aíbnat. ‘A plate of cold badger meat or … I know … I have a meat pudding, the meat of the sheep, cooked with rowan berries and wild garlic. That complemented by kale and onions and barley bread. Then a dish of sloes and honey to finish with. What would you say to that?’

Molua was smiling happily.

‘My wife has a reputation as the best cook of the Corco Loígde. ’

‘A well-deserved one if the choice of food is anything to go by,’ applauded Cass.

Aíbnat was blushing with pleasure.

‘We have hives here, so the honey is our own.’

‘I had noticed that you have an abundance of beeswax candles,’ Fidelma observed. In many poorer homes the usual form of candlewax was often meat grease or melted tallow into which a peeled rush had been dipped.

‘Now while Aíbnat prepares the food,’ Molua said, sitting down and refilling their goblets from the pitcher of mead, ‘you may tell me why my poor house has been so honoured by your presence.’

‘A week ago Aíbnat brought some children here.’

‘Yes. Two little girls, no more than nine, and a boy about eight years old,’ agreed Molua.

Aíbnat turned from her culinary preparations, frowning.

‘Yes. They were the children rescued from Rae na Scríne. Didn’t you have something to do with that?’

Cass smiled grimly.

‘Indeed. We were the ones who rescued them.’

Molua was shaking his head.

‘We heard of that terrible crime. It is beyond understanding that people can be so cruel to their neighbours in time of distress. Such injustice has been condemned by everyone.’

Fidelma could not help airing her cynicism.

‘It was Plato who wrote that mankind always censures injustice but only because they fear to become victims of it and not because they shrink from committing it.’

Molua’s face was sad.

‘I cannot believe that, sister. I do not believe that man sets out purposely to commit injustice. He always does it because he is blinded by some distorted image of a perceived morality, or of a just cause.’

‘What morality or just cause, however distorted, could have been raised at Rae na Scríne?’ demanded Cass.

Molua shrugged.

‘I am but a simple farmer. When I cultivate a field, turning it with my plough, I destroy life. I destroy the natural grasses and growths in that field. I destroy the natural habitats of field voles, of badgers and other creatures. To them, that is injustice. To me, it is a just cause — the cause of feeding starving people.’

‘Animals!’ Cass muttered. ‘Who is concerned about justice for animals?’

Molua looked pained.

‘Are they not also God’s creatures?’

‘I see the point that you are making, Molua,’ Fidelma intervened. ‘In intellectual discourse, we would doubtless agree. There was a reason why the deed was done at Rae na Scríne but whether the reason was thought justifiable the action is not and cannot be.’

Molua inclined his head.

‘I accept that.’

‘Very well. There were two boys named Cétach and Cosrach, also from Rae na Scríne, who were supposed to be brought tothis orphanage. But they disappeared. One was about ten and the other was older — perhaps fifteen. They had black hair.’

Aíbnat and Molua exchanged a look and both shook their heads.

‘No children answering those descriptions have turned up here.’

‘No. I did not think they would. But perhaps I might be allowed to question the other children?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘They might know some details about these boys.’

Aíbnat frowned slightly.

‘I would not like the children to be upset. Remembering that terrible event may unsettle them.’

Fidelma tried to be reassuring.

‘I would not ask these questions if it were not important. I cannot guarantee that they will not get upset. Nevertheless, I must insist in this matter.’

Molua nodded slowly.

‘She has the right,’ he explained to his wife. ‘She is a dálaigh of the courts.’

Aíbnat looked unpersuaded.

‘Then let me be with them when you ask these questions, sister.’

‘Of course,’ Fidelma agreed readily. ‘Let us go now and speak with them, just the two of us. Then they will not be intimidated.’

‘All right,’ agreed Aíbnat, glancing at Molua. ‘You can finish preparing the food for our guests while we do so,’ she instructed.

Aíbnat led the way to the small chapel and called to the children playing there. At her call, two little girls and a sulky-looking boy detached themselves reluctantly from the throng of playing, shouting children. Fidelma could barely recognise them as the terrified children she had found among the ashes and ruins of Rae na Scríne. They came clustering round the skirts of Aíbnat and she led them towards a more isolated partof the compound where a felled tree provided a great seat by a small, gushing stream which ran through the settlement to join the bigger river beyond.

‘Sit down, children,’ instructed Aíbnat, as she and Fidelma seated themselves on the log.

The boy refused, continuing to stand and kick sullenly at the log. Fidelma noticed that the boy had a little wooden toy sword in his belt. The two little girls immediately sat cross-legged on the grass before them and stared up expectantly.

‘Do you recognise this lady?’ inquired Aíbnat.

‘Yes, she is the lady who took us away so the wicked men would not find us,’ replied one of the little girls solemnly.

‘Where is Sister Eisten?’ chimed in the other. ‘When is she going to visit us?’

‘Soon.’ Fidelma smiled vaguely, after Aíbnat had shot her a warning glance, shaking her head slightly. The children had clearly not been told what had happened to Eisten. ‘Now there are some questions I want to ask. I want you all to think carefully about them before you answer. Will you do that?’

The two girls nodded seriously but the boy said nothing, scowling at the log and not meeting Fidelma’s smiling gaze.

‘Do you remember the other two boys who were with you when I found you?’

‘I remember the baby,’ said one of the little girls gravely. Fidelma recalled that her name was Cera. ‘It went asleep and no one could wake it.’

Fidelma bit her lip.

‘That’s right,’ she said encouragingly, ‘but it is the boys that I am interested in.’

‘They wouldn’t play with us. Mean, spiteful boys! I didn’t like them.’ The other little girl, Ciar, set her face sternly and sat with folded arms.

‘Were they mean, those boys?’ pressed Fidelma eagerly. ‘Who were they?’

‘Just boys,’ replied Ciar petulantly. ‘Boys are all the same.’

She gave a look of derision towards the little boy who ceased kicking at the log and sat down abruptly.

‘Girls!’ he sneered back.

‘Remind me what your name is,’ Fidelma encouraged with a smile. She had recalled the girls’ names but she could not remember what the boy had been called.

‘Shan’t say!’ snapped the boy.

Aíbnat clucked her tongue in disapproval.

‘His name is Tressach,’ she supplied.

Fidelma continued to smile at the boy.

‘Tressach? That name means “fierce and war-like”. Are you fierce and war-like?’

The boy scowled and said nothing.

Fidelma forced her smile to broaden.

‘Ah,’ she said, with a little sarcasm, ‘perhaps I misheard the name. Was it Tressach or Tassach? Tassach means idle, lazy, one who can’t be bothered to speak. Tassach sounds more like you, doesn’t it?’

The boy flushed indignantly.

‘My name is Tressach!’ he grunted. ‘I’m fierce and war-like. See, I already have my warrior’s sword.’

He drew the carved toy sword from his belt and held it up for her inspection.

‘That is a fearsome weapon, indeed,’ Fidelma replied, attempting to sound solemn though her eyes were dancing with merriment. ‘And if you are, indeed, a warrior then you will know that warriors have to obey a code of honour. Do you know that?’

The boy stared at her in uncertainty, replacing the sword in his belt.

‘What code?’ he demanded suspiciously.

‘You are a warrior, aren’t you?’ pressed Fidelma.

The boy nodded emphatically.

‘Then a warrior is sworn to tell the truth. He has to behelpful. Now if I ask you about the boys named Cétach and Cosrach, you must tell me what you know. It is the code of honour. You were obviously named Tressach because you are a warrior and bound by that code.’

The boy sat still seeming to ponder this and at last he smiled at Fidelma.

‘I will tell.’

She breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Did you know Cétach and Cosrach well?’

Tressach grimaced.

‘They wouldn’t play with any of us.’

‘Any of you?’ queried Fidelma, frowning.

‘Any of the children in the village,’ supplied Ciar. ‘Boys!’

Tressach turned on her angrily but Fidelma interrupted.

‘Didn’t they come from the village?’

Tressach shook his head.

‘They only came to our village a few weeks ago to live with Sister Eisten.’

‘Were they orphans?’ demanded Fidelma eagerly.

The boy looked blankly at her.

‘Did they have a mother or father?’ pressed Fidelma.

‘I think they had a father,’ the little girl named Cera chimed in.

‘Why so, darling?’ prompted Fidelma.

‘She means that old, old man who used to come to the village to see them,’ supplied the boy.

‘An old man?’

‘Yes. The old man who brought those mean boys to Sister Eisten’s house in the first place.’

Fidelma leant forward eagerly.

‘When was this, darling?’

‘Oh, weeks ago.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He had a cross, like the one you’re wearing, around his neck,’ Cera gave a look of triumph towards Tressach.

The boy grimaced in annoyance at her.

‘Who was he?’ Fidelma did not really expect the children to answer the question.

‘He was a great scholar from Ros Ailithir,’ announced Tressach with an air of complacence.

Fidelma was astonished.

‘How do you know this?’ she asked.

“Cos Cosrach told me when I asked. Then his brother came up and told me to shut up and go away and if I told anyone about his aite he would hit me.’

‘His aite? He used that word?’

‘I’m not making it up!’ sniffed the boy petulantly.

Fidelma knew that the term of endearment, aite, was an intimate form of address for a father. But because, for centuries, young children in the five kingdoms of Éireann had been sent away for fosterage, to gain their education, the intimate words for ‘father’ and ‘mother’ were often transferred to the foster-parents, so that the foster-mother would be addressed as ‘muimme’ and the father as ‘aite’.

‘No, of course you are not making it up,’ Fidelma reassured him, many thoughts racing through her mind. ‘I believe you. And how would you describe this man?’

‘He was nice looking,’ supplied Ciar. ‘He would not have hit us. He was always smiling at everyone.’

‘He looked like an old wizard!’ declaimed Tressach, not to be outdone.

‘He was not! He was a jolly old man,’ chimed in Cera, evidently fed up with being left out of the conversation for more than her fair share of time. ‘He used to tell us about the herbs and flowers and what they were good for.’

‘And this jolly old man came to visit Cétach and Cosrach often?’

‘A few times. He visited Sister Eisten,’ Ciar corrected. ‘And it was me he told about herbs,’ she added. ‘He told me about, about …’

‘He told everybody,’ replied Tressach scornfully. ‘And those boys were living at Sister Eisten’s house, so visiting them was the same thing as visiting Sister Eisten! There!’

He stuck out his tongue at the little girl.

‘Boys!’ sneered Ciar. ‘Anyway, sometimes he brought another sister with him. But she was strange. She was not really like a sister!’

‘Girls are so stupid!’ grunted the young boy. ‘She was dressed like a sister.’

Sister Aíbnat caught Fidelma’s eye. She obviously felt that the questioning had continued long enough.

Fidelma held up a hand to prevent the argument developing.

‘All right now. Just one more thing … are you sure the man came from Ros Ailithir?’

Tressach nodded vehemently.

‘That’s what Cosrach told me when his brother threatened to punch me.’

‘And this sister who accompanied him? Can you describe her? What was she like?’

The boy shrugged disinterestedly.

‘Just like a sister.’

The children seemed to lose interest now and scampered away in the direction of the sister who was playing the reed pipe.

Fidelma, deep in thought, accompanied Aíbnat back to where Molua had laid the table for their meal. Aíbnat seemed totally bewildered by the conversation but did not question Fidelma further on the matter. Fidelma welcomed the silence as she turned the facts over in her mind. As they entered, Cass looked up and examined Fidelma’s perplexed expression.

‘Did you get the information you want?’ he asked brightly.

Fidelma laughed dryly.

‘I do not know what information I wanted,’ she responded. ‘But I have gathered another stone to build my cairn ofknowledge. Yet one which does not make sense at the moment. No sense at all.’

The meal which Aíbnat and Molua provided was comparable to the feasts that Fidelma had enjoyed in many a feasting hall of kings. She had to force herself to eat sparingly for she realised that it was a ten-mile ride back to Ros Ailithir and riding on a full stomach was not good for the body. Cass, on the other hand, gave himself unchecked to the meal and accepted more of the heady cuirm spirit.

Aíbnat quietly attended to their wants while her husband excused himself and disappeared to look after some mysterious errand.

When Molua brought out their horses, they found that the big farmer had watered, fed and groomed the animals.

Fidelma thanked both Aíbnat and Molua profusely for their hospitality and swung into the saddle.

Fidelma gave their erstwhile hosts a blessing and they began to turn their path back towards Ros Ailithir.

‘What did you learn, Fidelma?’ demanded Cass, once they were out of earshot, crossing the river’s ford and ascending across the wooded hills which crowned the large headland.

‘I found out, Cass, that Cétach and Cosrach were taken to Rae na Scríne just a few weeks ago to live with Sister Eisten. They are …’ she paused to correct herself, ‘They were the sons of Illan.’

‘But the brother at Sceilig Mhichil said that Illan’s sons had copper-coloured hair, like the little girls.’

‘Anyone can dye hair,’ observed Fidelma. ‘Moreover, they were several times visited by someone from Ros Ailithir. Cosrach boasted to the boy Tressach that the man was a scholar. That someone Cétach and Cosrach called aite!’

Cass looked amazed.

‘But if this person was their father then they were not the sons of Illan. Illan was killed a year ago.’

‘Aite can also mean foster-father,’ Fidelma pointed out.

‘Perhaps,’ Cass said reluctantly. ‘But what does it mean and how does it fit the puzzle of this murder?’

‘It would be no puzzle if I knew,’ Fidelma reproved. ‘The man was sometimes accompanied by one of the sisters. There is a path here which leads to Intat! And we know that Intat is Salbach’s man. There is a circle here if only we could find a way of entering it.’

She lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

They had gone over a mile, perhaps not more than two miles, when, topping a rise, Cass glanced over his shoulder and exclaimed in surprise.

‘What is it?’ cried Fidelma, swinging round in her saddle to follow his gaze.

Cass did not have to reply.

A tall, black column of smoke was rising into the pale-blue, cold autumnal sky behind them.

‘That’s coming from the direction of Molua’s place, surely?’ Fidelma said, her heart beginning to beat fast.

Cass stood in his stirrups and seized the overhanging branch of a tree, hauling himself up into the topmost branches with an agility which surprised Fidelma.

‘What do you see?’ she cried, peering up into the dangerously swaying branches.

‘It is Molua’s place. It must be on fire.’

Cass scrambled down the tree and jumped to the ground, a pile of early fallen leaves breaking his drop. He brushed himself down and grabbed the reins of his horse.

‘I don’t understand it. It’s a big fire.’

Fidelma bit her lip, almost causing blood to flow as a terrible idea grew in her mind.

‘We must go back!’ she shouted, turning her horse.

‘But we must be careful,’ warned Cass. ‘Let the incident at Rae na Scríne serve us as a warning.’

‘That is precisely what I fear!’ cried Fidelma, and she was already racing her horse back towards the column of smoke.Cass had to urge his horse to its utmost stride to keep place with her. Although he knew that Fidelma was of the Eóganacht and brother to Colgú, who was now his king, Cass was always surprised that a religieuse could ride so well as Fidelma did. It seemed that she had been born in the saddle; that she was at one with her horse. She nursed it with dexterity as it thundered along the trail they had only recently traversed.

It was not long before they came over the brow of the hill and saw the great muddy estuary spread before them.

‘Halt!’ yelled Cass, pulling rein. ‘Behind those trees, quickly!’

He was thankful that for once Fidelma did not question him but obeyed his orders immediately.

They drew up behind the cover of a copse of amber-yellow leafed aspens with a surrounding dense thicket.

‘What did you see?’ Fidelma commanded.

Cass simply pointed down the hill.

She narrowed her eyes and saw a band of armed horsemen breaking through the fragile fences which surrounded the small community of Molua and Aíbnat. A squat man sat on his horse before the burning buildings as if surveying the handiwork of his men. There were a dozen of them. They completed their grim business and then went riding away through the trees on the far side of the river. The squat rider, who was obviously their leader, turned with a final glance at the burning buildings and galloped after them.

Fidelma suddenly gave vent to a cry of impotent rage. She had heard Salbach say, as he rode away from the cabin in the forest, ‘I know where they might be … I’ll give you my instructions for Intat.’ She had heard and not understood. She should have realised. She could have prevented … At the back of her raging mind a voice told her it was the second major mistake she had made.

‘We must get down there!’ cried Fidelma in fury. ‘They may be hurt.’

‘Wait a moment,’ snapped Cass. ‘Wait for the assassins to leave.’

His face was grey, his jaw was tight set, the muscles clenched. He already knew what they were bound to find in the inferno that was the once the prosperous farm settlement.

However, Fidelma was already urging her horse from the cover and racing down the hill.

Cass gave a cry after her but, realising that she would not obey, even though there might be danger from the attackers, he drew his sword and urged his horse after her.

She galloped down the hill, splashing through the ford at speed and tore to a halt in front of the buildings.

She flung herself from the saddle and, raising an arm, to protect herself from the fierceness of the heat, she ran forward towards the burning buildings.

The first bodies that she saw, sprawled by the entrance, were those of Aíbnat and Molua. An arrow had transfixed Aíbnat’s breast while Molua’s head was almost severed by a sweeping sword cut. They were quite obviously beyond help.

She saw the first child’s body nearby and a cry stifled in her throat. She was aware that Cass had ridden up and dismounted behind her. He still had his drawn sword in hand and he stared about him impassively but with horror mirrored in his eyes.

One of the two sisters who had been helping Sister Aíbnat to take care of the children was slumped against the chapel door. Fidelma realised in revulsion that she was held there by a spear which had been run through her body to transfix her to the wooden door. Half a dozen little bodies were clustered at her feet, some of the children’s hands still clinging to her skirts. Each one of the children had been stabbed or had their tiny skulls shattered by blows.

Fidelma held an overwhelming urge to be sick. She turned aside and could not quell the bile that rose to her throat.

‘I … I am sorry,’ she mumbled as she felt Cass’s comforting arm on her shoulders.

He said nothing. There was nothing one could say.

Fidelma had seen violent death many times in her life but she had seen nothing so heartrending, so poignant as these dead little bodies who, a few moments ago, she had seen happy and laughing, singing and playing together.

She attempted to quell her loathing, pull herself together and move on.

There was the body of the other sister of the Faith who had been playing the pipes, lying still under the same tree where Fidelma had seen her, the pipes now broken in two and lying near her outstretched and lifeless hand, obviously crushed by the foot of some maniacal assassin. There were more bodies of children near her.

The buildings were burning fiercely now.

‘Cass.’ Fidelma had to force the words, through the tears and heartache she felt. ‘Cass, we must count the bodies. I want to know if the children from Rae na Scríne are among them … whether everyone is accounted for.’

Cass signalled his acknowledgment.

‘The little boy certainly is,’ he said quietly. ‘He lies just over there. I’ll look for the girls.’

Fidelma went forward to where Cass had indicated and found the twisted body of Tressach. His head had been cleaved with one blow. Yet he lay as if asleep, a hand carelessly flung out before him with the other still held tightly to his wooden sword.

‘Poor little warrior,’ muttered Fidelma, kneeling down and letting her slim hand stroke the fair hair of the child.

Cass appeared after a while. His face was even more grim than ever.

Fidelma raised her eyes to his.

His expression was enough.

‘Where are they?’

The warrior jerked his thumb behind him.

Fidelma rose and went round the corner of the chapel. The two little copper-haired girls, Cera and Ciar, were clasped in one another’s arms, as if trying to protect each other from the cruel fate which crushed both their skulls without any compassion.

White-faced, Fidelma stood and stared at the once idyllic farmstead which Aíbnat and Molua had given over to the purposes of an orphanage.

Tears gathered in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

‘Twenty children, three women religieuses, including Sister Aíbnat, and Brother Molua,’ reported Cass. ‘All dead. This is senseless!’

‘Evil,’ agreed Fidelma vehemently. ‘But we will find some twisted sense behind it.’

‘We should get back to Ros Ailithir, Fidelma.’ Cass was clearly worried. ‘We dare not tarry in case that barbaric horde returns.’

Fidelma knew that he was right but she could not resist carrying the body of little Tressach over to the side of the chapel so that he could be with the two little girls from Rae na Scríne. There she said a prayer over them and then she turned and said a prayer for all who had met their deaths at Molua’s farm.

At the gate she paused and gazed down at Molua’s body.

‘Was there a just cause in the minds of the people who perpetrated this infamy?’ she whispered. ‘Poor Molua. We will never discuss philosophy now. Were you just animals to be driven out from the land under some terrible plough-share working for some mysterious greater good?’

‘Fidelma!’ Cass’s voice was fearful but his fear was for her safety alone. ‘We should leave now!’

She clambered back on her horse while he mounted his and they cantered away from that place of death.

‘I cannot believe that there are such barbarous people inthis land,’ Cass said as they paused on the top of the hill and gazed back to the burning settlement.

‘Barbarous!’ Fidelma’s voice was a whiplash. ‘I tell you, Cass, that this is evil. There is a terrible evil at work here and I swear by those tiny, mangled remains down there that I shall not rest until I have rooted it out.’

Cass shivered at the vehemence in her voice.