Suffer Little Children

Chapter Three

It had not been a pleasant journey through the great glens and across the high mountain ranges of Muman. While the storm had abated on the second day, the incessant rains had left the ground soaked with cloying mud which sucked at their horses’ hooves and fetlocks like anxious, delaying hands and slowed their pace. The valley bottoms and grassy plains were turned into swampy, and often flooded, lands across which passage was almost impossible, and certainly not made with any speed. The skies continued sulky grey and threatening, with no sign of a bright autumnal sun breaking through and the moody clouds continued to hang low and dark like hill fog. Even the occasional whining wind, moaning in the tree tops, where the leaves had almost vanished, did not dispel their shroud.

Fidelma felt cold and miserable. It was not the weather for travelling. Indeed, if the matter were not so urgent, she would never have contemplated such a journey. She sat her horse stiffly, her body felt chilled to its very marrow despite the heavy woollen cloak and hood which normally helped her endure the icy fingers of inclement temperatures. In spite of her leather gloves, the hands that gripped her horse’s reins were numb.

She had not spoken to her companion for at least an hour or more, not since they had left the wayside tavern where they had eaten their midday meal. Her head was bent forward into the chill air. Her concentration was devoted to keeping herhorse on the narrow path as it ascended the steep hill before them.

In front of her, the young warrior, Cass, equally wrapped in a heavy woollen cloak and fur collar, sat his horse with a studied poise. Fidelma smiled grimly to herself, wondering just how much he was attempting to present a good figure to her critical gaze. It would not do for a member of the élite bodyguard of the king of Muman to show any weakness before the sister of the heir-apparent. She felt a reluctant sympathy with the young man and when, every now and then in an unguarded moment, she saw him shiver from the damp chill, she felt herself more compassionately disposed towards him.

The path twisted over the shoulder of the mountain and a blast of cold air from the south-west hit them in the face as they emerged from the sheltering outcrop of rocks. Fidelma became aware of the subtle tang of salt in the air, the unmistakable odour of the nearness of the ocean.

Cass reined in his mount and allowed Fidelma to edge her horse alongside his. Then he pointed across the tree-strewn hills and undulating plain which seemed to disappear in the direction of the southern horizon. Yet the clouds hung above the plain in such a fashion that she could not see where land ended and sky began.

‘We should be at the abbey of Ros Ailithir before nightfall,’ Cass announced. ‘Before you are the lands of the Corco Lofgde.’

Fidelma screwed her eyes against the cold wind and stared forward. She had not made the connection, when her brother had told her that the kings of Osraige came from Corco Lofgde. She had not realised that the abbey of Ros Ailithir was in their clan lands. Could this be merely a coincidence? She knew little about them except that they were one of the great clans which made up the kingdom of Muman and that they were a proud people.

‘What is this hill called?’ she asked, suppressing a shiver.

‘They call this mountain the “Long Rock”,’ replied Cass. ‘It is the highest point before we reach the sea. Have you visited the abbey before?’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘I have not been in this part of the kingdom before but I am told that the abbey stands at the head of a narrow inlet on the seashore.’

The warrior nodded in confirmation.

‘Ros Ailithir is due south from here.’ He indicated the direction with a wave of his hand. Then he winced as a sudden cold wind caught him full in the face. ‘But let us descend out of this wind, sister.’

He urged his horse forward and Fidelma allowed him a moment to get a length ahead before she followed.

In addition to the intemperate weather, which had made their journey so unpleasant, Fidelma found that Cass was no easy travelling companion. He had only a little fund of small talk and Fidelma kept rebuking herself for the way she kept comparing him to Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, her companion at Whitby and Rome. To her annoyance, she found that she felt a curious kind of isolation, the feeling that she had experienced when she had left Eadulf in Rome to return to her native land. She did not want to admit that she missed the company of the Saxon monk. And it was wrong of her to keep comparing Cass with Eadulf and yet …

She had managed to learn from the taciturn warrior that he had been in the service of Cathal of Cashel ever since he had reached the ‘age of choice’ and left his father’s house to take service at the court of the king. Fidelma found that he had a only a slight general knowledge. He had studied at one of Muman’s military academies before becoming a professional warrior or tren-fher. He had distinguished himself in two campaigns, becoming the commander of a catha, a battalion of three thousand men, in the king’s army in time of war. YetCass was not one to boast of his prowess in arms. At least that was a saving grace. Fidelma had made enquiries about him before they had set out from Cashel. She discovered that he had successfully fought seven single combats in Muman’s service to become a member of the Order of the Golden Collar and champion of the king.

She nudged her horse down the steep path behind him, twisting and turning sometimes into the wind and sometimes in thankful shelter from it. By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, the blustery squall had begun to ease a little and Fidelma saw the bright line of light along the horizon of the western sky.

Cass smiled as he followed her glance.

‘The clouds will be gone by tomorrow,’ he predicted confidently. ‘The wind was bringing the storm from the south-west. Now it will bring fine weather.’

Fidelma did not reply. Something had caught her attention among the foothills to the south-east. At first she had thought that it was merely a reflection from the light of the sun breaking through the heavy clouds. But what could it be reflecting against? It took her a moment or two to realise what it was.

‘That’s a fire over there, Cass!’ she cried, indicating the direction. ‘And a big one, if I am not mistaken.’

Cass followed her outstretched hand with keen eyes.

‘A big fire, indeed, sister. There is a village that lies in that direction. A poor place with a single religious cell and a dozen houses. I stayed there six months ago when I was in this country. It is called Rae na Scríne, the holy shrine at the level spot. What could be causing such a fire there? Perhaps we should investigate?’

Fidelma delayed, compressing her lips a moment in thought. Her task was to get to Ros Ailithir as quickly as possible.

Cass frowned at her hesitation.

‘It is on our path to Ros Ailithir, sister, and the religious cellis occupied by a young religieuse named Sister Eisten. She may be in trouble.’ His tone was one of rebuke.

Fidelma flushed, for she knew her duty. Only her greater obligation to the kingdom of Muman had caused her to falter.

Instead of answering him, she dug her heels into the sides of her horse and urged it forward in annoyance at Cass’s gentle tone of reproval at her indecision.

It took them some time to reach a spot in the road which was the brow of a small, thickly wooded hillock, overlooking the hamlet of Rae na Scríne. From their position on the roadway, they could see that the buildings of the village appeared to be all on fire. Great consuming flames leapt skyward and debris and smoke spiralled upwards in a black column above the buildings. Fidelma dragged her horse to a halt with Cass nearly colliding into her. The reason for her sudden concern was that there were a dozen men running among the flames with swords and burning brand torches in their hands. It was clear that they were the incendiaries. Before she could react further, a wild shout told them that they had been spotted.

Fidelma turned to warn Cass and suggest they withdraw in case the men be hostile, but she saw a movement behind them by the trees that lined the road.

Two more men had emerged onto the road with bows strung and aimed. They said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Cass exchanged a glance with Fidelma and simply shrugged. They turned and waited patiently while two or three of the men, who had obviously been putting the village to the torch, came running up the hillock to halt before them.

‘Who are you?’ demanded their leader, a large, red-faced individual, soot and mud staining his face. He carried a sword in his hand but no longer held the brand torch in the other. He had a steel war bonnet on his head, a woollen cloak edged in fur and wore a gold chain of office. His pale eyes were ablaze as if with a battle fever.

‘Who are you?’ he shouted again. ‘What do you seek here?’

Fidelma gazed down at his threatening figure as if she were unperturbed. Her artificial disdain hid her fears.

‘I am Fidelma of Kildare; Fidelma of the Eóganachta of Cashel,’ she added. ‘And who are you to halt travellers on a highway?’

The big man’s eyes widened a fraction. He took a step forward and examined her closely without answering. Then he turned to examined Cass with equal attention.

‘And you? Who are you?’ He asked the question with a brusqueness that implied he had not been impressed to learn that Fidelma was related to the kings at Cashel.

The young warrior eased his cloak so that the man might look on his golden torc.

‘I am Cass, champion of the king of Cashel,’ he said, putting all the cold arrogance he could muster into his voice.

The red-faced man stood back and gestured to the others to lower their weapons.

‘Then be about your business. Ride away from this place, do not look back, and you will not be harmed.’

‘What is happening here?’ Fidelma demanded, nodding towards the burning habitations.

‘The curse of the Yellow Plague sits on this place,’ snapped the man. ‘We destroy it by flame, that is all. Now, ride off!’

‘But what of the people?’ protested Fidelma. ‘On whose orders do you do this thing? I am a dálaigh of the Brehon Court and sister to the heir-apparent of Cashel. Speak, man, or you may have to answer before the Brehons of Cashel.’

The red-faced man blinked at the sharp tone in the young woman’s voice. He swallowed for a moment, gazing up at her as if he could not believe his ears. Then he said angrily,

‘The kings of Cashel have no right to give orders in the land of the Corco Loígde. Only our chieftain, Salbach, has that right.’

‘And Salbach has to answer to the king at Cashel, fellow,’ Cass pointed out.

‘We are a long way from Cashel,’ replied the man stubbornly. ‘I have warned you that there is Yellow Plague here. Now begone lest I change my mind and order my men to shoot.’

He motioned with his hand to the bowmen. They raised their weapons again and extended the bowstrings. The arrow flights were firm against their cheeks.

Cass’s features were taut.

‘Let us do as he says, Fidelma,’ he muttered. If even a finger slipped, the arrow would find a sure target. ‘This man is one who does not reason except with force.’

Reluctantly Fidelma drew away and followed Cass as he urged his horse to retrace its steps back along the roadway. But as soon as they were beyond the bend in the hills, she reached forward and gripped his arm to stay him.

‘We must go back and see what is happening,’ she said firmly. ‘Fire and sword to deal with a plague village? What manner of chieftain would sanction such a thing? We must go back and see what has happened to the people.’

Cass looked at her dubiously.

‘It is dangerous, sister. If I had a couple of men or even were I on my own …’

Fidelma snorted in disgust.

‘Don’t let my sex nor holy order put fear in your heart, Cass. I am willing to share the danger. Or are you afraid of the plague?’

Cass blinked rapidly. His masculine warrior pride was stung.

‘I am willing to go back,’ he replied distantly. ‘I was but concerned for you and your mission. However, if you demand to return, return we shall. But it would be best not to go directly back. Those warriors might be waiting in case we do. I am more concerned about them than of the plague. We willride around the hills a little and then leave our horses to find a vantage point to observe what we can before we return to the village.’

Fidelma reluctantly agreed. The circuitous route did make sense.

It was half an hour before they found themselves hiding behind a clump of shrubs on the outskirts of the still-burning buildings. The wooden constructions were crackling in the great fire while some were crashing in on themselves in a shower of sparks and billowing smoke. It would not be long, Fidelma realised, before the village was simply a black, smouldering mess of charcoal. The red-faced man and his followers seemed to have disappeared. There were no sounds of humanity against the crack and occasional roar of the flames.

Fidelma rose slowly to her feet and eased a piece of her head-dress across her mouth to protect her lungs from the billowing smoke.

‘Where are the people?’ she demanded, not really expecting an answer from Cass, who was staring in incomprehension as he surveyed the flaming wreckage of what had been a dozen homesteads. She had her answer even before the question was out of her mouth. There were several bodies lying between the burning homesteads; men, women and children. Most of them had been struck down before their homes had been set ablaze. They were certainly not victims of plague.

‘Sister Eisten’s cabin was over that way,’ pointed Cass, grimly. ‘She ran a small hostel for travellers and an orphanage. I stayed when I journeyed through here six months ago.’

He led the way through the smoke and swirling debris to a corner of the village. There was a building by a rock over which water gushed from a natural well spring. The hostel had not been completely destroyed because it had been built mainly of stones, piled one upon another. But the wooden roof, the doors and what contents the building had once had,were now no more. Now it was a pile of hot, smouldering ashes.

‘Destroyed,’ muttered Cass, hands on hips. ‘People slain and no sign of plague. There is a mystery here.’

‘A feud?’ hazarded Fidelma. ‘Perhaps a reprisal for something this village had done?’

Cass shrugged eloquently.

‘When we get to Ros Ailithir we must send a message to the chieftain of this area telling him of this deed and demanding an explanation in the name of Cashel.’

Fidelma was inclined to agree. She glanced reluctantly at the eastern sky. It would not be long before dusk. They had to be on their way to the abbey or night would fall long before they reached it.

The shrill wail of a baby, at that time and in that place, was totally unexpected.

Fidelma glanced quickly around to try to locate the origin of the noise. Cass was already ahead of her, scrambling up an incline to the edge of a wood on the fringes of the village behind the burnt-out religious hostel.

Fidelma saw no alternative but to hurry behind him.

There was a movement in the shrubbery and Cass reached forward and caught something which writhed and yelled in his clutch.

‘God preserve us!’ whispered Fidelma.

It was a child of no more than eight years of age, dirty and dishevelled, yelling with fright.

There was another movement further on among the trees. A young woman emerged from behind some shrubs; her face was fleshy and white where it was not smeared with soot and dirt. Anxiety was engraved on her features. In her arms she cradled the wailing infant while around her skirts, clutching at their folds, were two little copper-haired girls who were obviously sisters. Behind her stood two dark-haired boys. They all appeared to be in a state of distress.

Fidelma saw that the woman was scarcely out of her teens though dressed in the robes of a religieuse. In spite of the baby’s near concealment of it, Fidelma noticed she wore a large and unusual crucifix. It was more in the Roman style than the Irish but it was also elaborate and encrusted with semi-precious stones. In spite of her apparent youthfulness, hers was a plump, round-faced figure which, normally, would have had an air of protective motherliness. Now she seemed to be trembling uncontrollably.

‘Sister Eisten!’ cried Cass in surprise. ‘Have no fear. It is I, Cass of Cashel. I stayed at your hostel six months ago when I was passing through this village. Do you not remember me?’

The young religieuse peered closely at him and shook her head. However, relief began to show in her features as she turned her dark eyes questioningly to Fidelma.

‘You are not with Intat? You are not of his band?’ she demanded, half fearfully.

‘Whoever Intat is, we are not of his band,’ Fidelma replied gravely. ‘I am Sister Fidelma of Kildare. My companion and I are journeying to the abbey of Ros Ailithir.’

The muscles in the young sister’s face, so tightly clenched before, began to relax. She tried to fight back tears of shock and relief.

‘Have … have they … gone?’ she finally jerked out. Her voice was vibrating in fear.

‘They appear to have gone, sister,’ Fidelma assured her as best she could, stepping forward and holding her hands out to take the baby. ‘Come, you look all in. Give me the child, that you may rest and tell us what happened. Who were they?’

Sister Eisten lurched backward as though she was afraid to be touched. If anything, she clutched the baby tighter to her chest.

‘No! Do not touch any of us.’

Fidelma paused in puzzlement.

‘What do you mean? We cannot help you until we know what is happening here.’

Sister Eisten stared at her with wide, expressive eyes.

‘It is the plague, sister,’ she whispered. ‘We had the plague in this village.’

The grip in which Cass absently held the young boy, who was still wriggling, seemed suddenly powerless. His body stiffened. The boy wrenched himself away.

‘Plague?’ whispered Cass, taking an involuntary step backwards. In spite of his previous attitude, faced by confirmation of the presence of the plague, Cass was clearly troubled.

‘So there is plague in the village after all?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘Several in the village have died of it during the last few weeks. It has passed me by, thanks be to God, but others have died.’

‘Is there any among you here who are sick?’ pressed Cass, peering anxiously at the children.

Sister Eisten shook her head.

‘Not that Intat and his men cared. We would have all died had we not hid …’

Fidelma was staring at her in growing horror.

‘You would have been struck down whether you suffered the plague or not? Explain! Who is this Intat?’

Sister Eisten stifled another sob. She had nearly reached breaking point. With some gentle prompting, she explained.

‘Three weeks ago the plague appeared in the village. First one person and then another caught it. It spared neither sex nor age. Now these children and myself are all that remains of the thirty souls who once dwelt in this place.’

Fidelma let her eyes travel from the baby, scarce more than a few months old, to the children. The two copper-haired little girls were no more than nine years old. The young boy, who had fair hair, who had removed himself from the side of Cass to stand defensively behind Sister Eisten, was also about theirage. The two taller boys, scowling faces, black hair, and grey, suspicious eyes, were older. One could not be more than ten years old while the other was perhaps fourteen or fifteen. They seemed to be brothers. She returned her gaze to the plump, trembling young religieuse.

‘You have not fully explained, sister,’ Fidelma cajoled, knowing that the young woman might break down in a flood of tears. ‘You are saying that this man Intat came and killed people, burnt your village, while there were still many healthy people here?’

Sister Eisten sniffed loudly and apparently tried to gather her thoughts together.

‘We had no warriors to protect us. This was a farming settlement. At first I though the attackers were frightened that the plague would spread to neighbouring villages and were trying to drive us into the mountains so that we might not contaminate them. But they began to kill. They seemed to especially delight in slaughtering the young children.’

She gave a low moan at the memory.

‘Had all the menfolk of this village succumbed to the plague, then?’ demanded Cass. ‘Was there no one to defend you when this attack came?’

‘There were only a few men who tried to prevent the slaughter. What could a few farmers do against a dozen armed warriors? They died by the swords of Intat and his men …’

‘Intat?’ queried Fidelma. ‘Again, Intat. Who is this Intat whom you keep mentioning?’

‘He is a local chieftain.’

‘A local chieftain?’ She was scandalised. ‘He dared to put a village to fire and sword?’

‘I managed to get some of the children and take them to safety in the woods,’ repeated Sister Eisten, sobbing as she recalled the scenes of carnage. ‘We hid while Intat did his evil work. He fired the village and …’ She stopped, unable to continue.

Fidelma gave a sharp exhalation of breath.

‘What great crime has been committed here, Cass?’ she asked softly, staring down to the still burning houses.

‘Could someone not have gone to the bó-aire, the local magistrate, and demanded protection?’ demanded Cass, visibly shaken by Sister Eisten’s tale.

The plump sister grimaced bitterly.

‘Intat is the bó-aire of this place!’ she exclaimed with anger. ‘He sits on the council of Salbach, chieftain of the Corco Loígde.’ She seemed about to give way to exhaustion. Then she drew herself up, thrusting out her chin. ‘And now you have heard the worst; now that you know that we have been exposed to the plague, leave us to perish in the mountains and go your way.’

Fidelma shook her head sympathetically.

‘Our way is now your way,’ she said firmly. ‘You will come with us to Ros Ailithir, for I presume that these young children have no other family who will nurture them?’

‘None, sister.’ The young religieuse was staring at Fidelma in wonder. ‘I ran a small house for the orphans of the plague and they are my charges.’

‘Then Ros Ailithir it is,’

Cass was looking slightly worried.

‘It is still a long way to Ros Ailithir,’ he whispered. Then he added more softly: ‘And the abbot may not thank you for exposing the abbey to any contact with the plague.’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘We are all exposed to it. We cannot hide from it nor burn it into non-existence. We have to accept God’s will whether it passes us by or not. Now, it is getting late. Perhaps we should stay here tonight? At least we will be warm.’

The suggestion drew instant protest from Sister Eisten.

‘What if Intat and his men return?’ she wailed.

Cass agreed: ‘She is right, Fidelma. There is that likelihood. It is best not to stay here in case Intat remains close by. If herealises that there are survivors then he may wish to finish this terrible deed.’

Fidelma reluctantly gave in to their objections.

‘The sooner we start out then the sooner we shall arrive. We shall ride as far as we can towards Ros Ailithir.’

‘But Intat has driven off our animals,’ Eisten protested again. ‘Not that there were any horses but there were some asses …’

‘We have two horses and the children can sit two or three together on them,’ Fidelma assured her. ‘We adults will have to walk and we may take turns carrying the baby. Poor thing. What happened to the mother?’

‘She was one of those whom Intat slew.’

Fidelma’s eyes were steely cold.

‘He will answer before the law for this deed. As bó-aire he must realise the consequences of his actions. And answer he shall!’ There was no vain boast in her voice; merely a cold statement of fact.

Cass watched with undisguised respect as Fidelma quietly but firmly took charge, collecting the children and placing them on the horses, taking the baby to give the exhausted young Sister Eisten a chance, so far as she was able, to recover herself. Only the younger of the two black-haired boys seemed reluctant to move from the shelter of the woods, doubtless still terrified of what he had seen. It was his elder brother who finally persuaded him with a few quiet words. The elder boy was disinclined to take the opportunity to ride on the horse but strode alongside it, insisting that as he was approaching the ‘age of choice’ they should regard him as an adult. Fidelma did not argue with the solemn-faced lad. They set off along the track in the direction of the abbey of Ros Ailithir with Cass silently hoping they would not encounter Intat and his band of cut-throats along the way.

Cass could understand, however, the fears that drove villagers to turn on their fellows. He had heard many a story ofthe Yellow Plague devastating whole communities not only among the five kingdoms of Eireann but beyond its shores from where the virulence was said to have originated. Cass realised that any genuine fear of the spread of plague did not absolve Intat and his men from their responsibilities under the law. To burn out an entire community because of fear of contagion was understandable but wrong. What he also knew, and realised that Fidelma knew it also, was that, as bó-aire, Intat would appreciate that if word reached Cashel of this terrible deed then he would have to face the consequences. He had only let Fidelma and Cass continue their journey unmolested in the belief they would not find out what had happened. If Intat realised that they had doubled back and come across survivors of his horrendous slaughter then their lives might be forfeit. Best to put distance between this place and themselves.

He admired the way Colgú’s young sister did not seem to have any fear of the plague. He would not have associated so freely with these children had it not been for the fact that he did not wish to be shamed in front of Fidelma. So he repressed his fear and did as he was bid by her.

Fidelma chatted gaily in an attempt to keep up the spirits of the shocked and frightened children. She seized on what inconsequential topics she could, asking the young Sister Eisten where she had acquired the remarkable-looking crucifix she wore. After some prompting, Sister Eisten confessed that she had once been on a pilgrimage, which had lasted three years. Fidelma had to interrupt to say she had not thought Eisten old enough to have had such experience, but Eisten was older than her looks, being twenty-two years of age. She had journeyed with a group of religieuse to the Holy Land. She had found herself in the town of Bethlehem and made a pilgrimage to the very birthplace of the Saviour. It had been there she had purchased the ornate crucifix from local craftsmen. So Fidelma encouraged her to talk abouther adventures, merely to keep the children occupied and content.

Inwardly Fidelma was far from happy. She was disconsolate, not at the idea of contact with potential plague carriers but at the fact that the conditions of her journey were even worse than they had been when, earlier that day, she had been bemoaning the weather and the cold and damp. At least she had been dryshod on horseback then. Now she was stumbling through the mud and slush of the track, trying to keep a delicate balance with the young baby in her arms. The child was constantly whimpering and trying to twist and turn, which made matters worse. Fidelma did not wish to cause alarm but even in the half light she had observed a tell-tale yellow tint to the child’s skin and the fever on its little brow. Now and then, in order to keep the child from wriggling loose in her grip, Fidelma almost lost her footing in the mud which oozed around her ankles.

‘How much farther is it to Ros Ailithir?’ she allowed herself to ask after they had been walking two hours.

It was Sister Eisten who was specific.

‘Seven miles from here, but the road does not get easier.’

Fidelma momentarily clenched her teeth and did not reply.

The gloom of dusk was rapidly spreading from the east, merging with the gloomy low-lying clouds and, almost before she realised it, a thick night fog was obscuring the roadway. The weather had not cleared yet as Cass had predicted.

Fidelma regretfully called a halt.

‘We’ll never make it to the abbey like this,’ she told Cass. ‘We’ll have to find a place to stay until morning.’

As if to emphasise the dangers of night travel, a wolf pack began to yelp and bay in unison across the hills. One of the little girls began to cry, a plaintive, painful whimpering which twisted Fidelma’s heart. She had learnt that the copper-haired sisters were named Cera and Ciar. The fair-haired young lad was called Tressach while the other boys, as she had guessed,were brothers — Cétach and Cosrach. This much information had she been able to extract from them during their short journey through the cold woods.

‘The first thing is to light some torches,’ Cass announced. ‘Then we will have to find a shelter.’

He handed the reins of his horse to the elder boy, Cétach, and went to the side of the road where the woods bordered it. Fidelma listened to the snapping of twigs and a soft cursing as Cass searched for tinder dry enough to make and light a brand torch.

‘Do you know if there are any dry places near here in which we can shelter?’ Fidelma asked Sister Eisten.

The young religieuse shook her head.

‘There is only the forest.’

Cass had succeeded in lighting a bundle of twigs, but they would not burn long.

‘Best if we kindled a fire,’ he muttered as he rejoined Fidelma. ‘If there is nothing else, at least the trees might afford some shelter. Perhaps we can find enough bushes to create some protection. But it will be a cold night for the children.’

Fidelma sighed and nodded assent. There was little else to do. Already it was impossible to see more than a few yards. Perhaps she should have insisted that they remain in the village for the night. At least it would have been warm among the smouldering ruins. Still, there was little point in self-reproach now.

‘Let’s move into the wood, then, and see if we can find a dry spot. Then we’ll get what sleep we can.’

‘The children haven’t eaten since this morning,’ Sister Eisten ventured.

Fidelma groaned inwardly.

‘Well, there is nothing to be done until it is light, sister. Let us concentrate on getting warm and as dry as we can. Food must be a later consideration.’

It was Cass’s sharp eyes that managed to spot a small clearing among the tall trees where a large bush extended itself almost in the manner of a tent over a fairly dry area of twigs and leaves.

‘Almost made for the task,’ he said brightly. Fidelma could imagine him smiling in the darkness. ‘I’ll tether the horses out here and light a fire. I have a croccán, my kettle, with me and so we may have a hot drink. You and Sister Eisten can get the children under the bush.’ He paused and added with a shrug: ‘It’s the best we can do.’

Fidelma replied: ‘Yes.’ There was little else to say.

Within half an hour, Cass had a reasonable fire alight and had set his croccán, filled with water, to boil upon it. It was Fidelma who insisted that they add herbs to the mixture, which she said would help protect them from the night chills. She wondered if Cass or Eisten would realise that an infusion of the leaves and flowers of the herb drémire buí was used as a protective against the scourge of the Yellow Plague. No one commented as the drink was handed around, although the children complained against the bitterness of the mixture. Soon, however, most of them were asleep — more from exhaustion than any other cause.

The cry of wolves continued to break across the strange nocturnal sounds of the wood.

Cass squatted before the fire, feeding its hungry flames with salvaged pieces of wood which hissed and spat with their unsuitability but, at least, generated enough heat to burn and send out some sort of warmth.

‘We’ll move on at first light,’ Fidelma told him. ‘If we move at a reasonable pace then we should be at the abbey by mid-morning.’

‘We need to keep a watch tonight,’ Cass observed. ‘If not to make sure that Intat and his men are close by, then merely to ensure the fire is fed. I’ll take the first watch.’

‘Then I’ll take the second,’ Fidelma insisted, drawing hercloak closer around her shoulders in a vain effort to create more warmth from the garment.

It was a long, cold night but apart from the baying of distant wolves and the cry of other nocturnal creatures, nothing happened to disturb their uneasy peace.

When they all awoke in the grey, listless light of the morning, with the ice chill of the new day, it was Sister Eisten who discovered that the baby had died in the night. No one mentioned the yellow hue to the waxy texture of the babe’s skin.

Cass dug a shallow grave with his sword and, against the bewildered sobbing of the younger children, Sister Fidelma and Sister Eisten uttered up a quiet prayer as they buried the tiny corpse. Sister Eisten had not been able to recall its name.

By then, the clouds had rolled away and the anaemic autumnal sun was hanging low in the pallid blue sky — bright but without warmth. Cass had been right about the change in the weather.