The Devil's seal

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The morning was dry and the dark stormclouds had vanished, but with the clear blue skies had come a cold and chilly wind whipping across the plains from the north-east. Eadulf felt exhausted already; he had barely slept. But a promise to his son was a promise — and he felt the guilt of too many times when he had followed Fidelma on missions that had taken them to many distant places, so that they had barely seen the early months and years of their son’s growth to boyhood.

At least the cold breath of the wind seemed to be easing his throbbing headache. He rode awkwardly on his sturdy cob, just in front of Alchú who followed on his small pony. Even at his young age the boy seemed totally at ease on his mount; the master of the animal. Eadulf envied him. Beside the boy came the watchful Luan, one of the King’s warriors. Knowing Eadulf’s limitations as an equestrian, Fidelma always insisted that Alchú be accompanied by one of her brother’s bodyguards.

Eadulf had chosen the easy path from Colgu’s fortress palace, moving south via a track that led through the forest that spread before them. Tall yews, birch and elm predominated among the trees. Apart from the evergreens, the forest still had its gaunt and withered winter look, although here and there along the track were clumps of snowdrops, whose appearance usually foretold the end of winter. Now and then they mingled with the small white flowers of lus an sparáin, rising from their sprawling green leafy growth. What was it he had learned about those flowers while studying the art of apothecary? The juice of the flower dropped into the ear would ease earache and pain. He tried to remember what the plant was called in his own language — Shepherd’s something? He gave up almost immediately. There was evidence of the gorse preparing for the day when it would burst into bright yellow flowers, but that day was several weeks away yet.

From the thickets he could hear the ‘tit-tit-tit’ explosive cry of the tiny and inconspicuous wren, and glimpse it briefly before it fell silent while a songthrush with its white speckled belly suddenly darted from one patch of undergrowth to another. Then the sudden silence, the abrupt quietness of the birds, caused him to look around for a reason. Not far away was a solitary bird of ill-omen — the black raven — but that was a scavenger and certainly not enough to threaten the small active birds. Then he caught sight of a pair of kestrels hovering in the sky above the path. There was the female, with her rusty brown-coloured tail, and the long pointed wings of the male, with chestnut-coloured back and grey tail with black band. No wonder the smaller birds had fallen silent, for the kestrels were deadly hunters — birds of prey. The black raven was waiting for the kestrels to make their kill and then, when they had fed, it would pick up what was left.

Eadulf shuddered, reminding himself that it was a cruel world and, try as he might to disassociate himself from the idea, man was part of it. Man could be just as cruel and unforgiving as the hovering kestrels, watching for a tiny wren or songthrush to make a mistake and then-

He glanced behind him and saw the grinning face of little Alchú, staring innocently up at the birds above him. He wondered whether the boy would ever see them as he did: recognise this scene for the unforgiving cruelty that it demonstrated. Or did he see it as simply a ride among the whispering trees, lit by a pale sun?

Eadulf did not intend to ride a long way; perhaps as far as Rath na Drinne where Ferloga and his wife Lassar ran an inn. He and Fidelma had often halted there. It was close by an ancient enclosure, converted into a fortified farm. Its name meant ‘Fort of Contentions’. Ferloga had once told him that in ancient times it had been so called because it was there that great contests were held. Contests like immán or camán, with players driving a ball with sticks of ash, over the grassy field, trying to get the ball between two poles. Then there were athletic contests, foot racing, wrestling and disc throwing.

It was just beyond Rath na Drinne that the forest eventually ended on the edge of an extensive grassy plain — the Plain of Femen which reached all the way to the Field of Honey by the side of the River Siúr. It was why the Eóghanacht, centuries before, had chosen their capital overlooking the plain controlling the wealth and security of the kingdom. To the south-west on the horizon rose the Sliabh na gCoillte, the Forest Mountains, and among them the strange waters of the Lake of the Dragon’s Mouth. It was here that the old God of Love, Aonghus Óg, found the tall maiden, Cáer, whom he had sought because she had appeared to him in a dream. On declaring their love, the pair had transformed into swans, circling the lake symbolically three times before disappearing off to the Land of Enchantment. Eadulf smiled. He had heard these tales many times from the old storytellers in Cashel. They were the legends of Fidelma’s people — her ancestors.

Then the smile dropped from his face. Fidelma’s people? Not his. He was suddenly aware of what his brother, Egric, had said. Was he simply a stranger in a strange land; a land in which he didn’t belong? Why was he questioning himself after all these years? Had he deluded himself that he had been accepted into this new culture? Was it his brother’s comments that had disturbed him? Or was it old Brehon Aillín’s prejudice? Indeed, was it the newfound prejudice of Brother Madagan. . Had people simply been tolerating him, smiling to his face and viewing him with dislike behind his back? Eadulf swallowed hard. This was not right, this stream of dark thoughts.

Everything had been peaceful until Egric appeared and started to question his motives. What right had Egric to do so? He had made his own life. The brothers had taken separate paths. Why had he emerged now, at such a time and at this place? He had appeared abruptly at Cashel and now, even more abruptly, had vanished on a hunting trip with Dego. Gone without taking leave; without a word of warning. It was curious. Eadulf trusted Dego. The warrior had accompanied Fidelma and himself on numerous trips; they had shared many dangers. Dego was reliable. Surely Dego respected Eadulf? He would not dismiss him as a stranger of no importance. He would never have been persuaded to take Egric hunting without being assured that Eadulf was aware of the trip. Ah, now those bleak thoughts came over him like a flood. Was he deluding himself that this was his home or. . It was surely Egric who had conjured these cheerless, negative thoughts into his mind!

That was it; it was his brother reminding him of the ghosts of the past, his family and boyhood home. But Eadulf had never rejected them; he had never denied them. He had simply grown up and moved on. That was exactly what he had told his brother. Vestigia nulla retrorsum — no footsteps backwards. He experienced a curious thrill of hatred because his brother had disturbed his life. Then he rebuked himself sharply for this train of thought. What of Fidelma? What of their son Alchú? What of the times he had shared with them in their world? Was he now beginning to believe he was in the wrong place? Of course not! This was the world that he had wanted to share; it was his world, not an alien one.

His mind drifted back to that first encounter with Fidelma in the Abbey of Hilda at Streonshalh. He had gone there with no other purpose but to represent the new teachings from Rome; to argue against the old rites of the western churches, so fiercely represented by the religious representatives of the Five Kingdoms. He had been walking along a corridor in the abbey when she had come swiftly round a corner and collided with him, her mind clearly elsewhere. He had reached out and caught her, to save her stumbling backwards and falling. Some empathy had sparked from her green eyes as he gazed at her tumbled red hair, her pale skin and delicate sprinkling of freckles. She had spoken stiffly in Latin: ‘Forgive me.’ He politely replied that it had been his fault. They had stood there for a moment — a moment when pure chemistry had passed between them. Then they had continued on their separate ways.

It was a few days later, after her friend Abbess Étain had been murdered and the outcome of the debate between the two factions had been jeopardised by the suspicions of both parties, when King Oswy and Abbess Hilda had suggested that Fidelma and Eadulf jointly investigate the mystery, so that neither faction could claim bias. They had been thrown together, strangers to each other apart from that one accidental meeting. Now, six or seven years later, they were still working together and had produced a young son. Of course Eadulf was no alien to this land, he was no alien. .

‘Brother Eadulf!’ a voice bellowed in his ear and a firm hand was clapped on his shoulder.

Eadulf blinked rapidly and found he was leaning dangerously off his horse; the only thing preventing him from falling was the steadying hand of the warrior, Luan. Eadulf righted himself in the saddle and raised a hand to rub his forehead.

‘You were drifting, Brother Eadulf,’ rebuked Luan. ‘I saw you nodding off.’

‘Were you falling asleep, athair?’ Alchú, seated on his pony, was regarding him gravely.

Eadulf turned and smiled reassuringly at him. ‘I was just thinking, little hound. Just thinking.’

‘Are you well, friend Eadulf?’ asked Luan anxiously. ‘Perhaps we should return.’

‘I was awake most of the night,’ Eadulf confessed. Then, seeing the look of disappointment on his son’s face, he went on: ‘I’ll be fine. Ferloga’s inn is just a little way on. We’ll go on and rest there before turning back.’

He turned his concentration to his horse, annoyed with himself for letting his brother’s unexpected appearance have such an effect on him.

Earlier that morning, having seen Eadulf ride off with Alchú and Luan, Fidelma set out to find Gormán. She wanted to make sure that Deogaire had spent the night safely in restraint. Having been so assured, she asked Gormán to accompany her to the roof of the guest quarters, to re-examine it in daylight. Things missed in the darkness of night might reveal themselves more clearly in the daylight. She started with the place where the marble statue of Aoife had been and saw where the iron bar or lever had been placed to ease it forward, leaving score-marks on the parapet.

She turned and said, ‘Gormán, one of your men found an iron bar on the roof last night. It was used to topple the statue. I think he might have abandoned it by the door over there when we chased down the other exit.’

Gormán went across to the door and immediately returned with the piece of iron, which measured over a metre in length. Both ends had been hammered flat, thus producing an ideal tool for the purpose it had been put to the previous night.

‘This looks like a forsua-fert. It’s a smithy’s work to produce this,’ Gormán commented.

Fidelma held out her hands and took it. A ‘pole chisel’ was usually used in digging roots of a tree, or moving blocks of masonry or objects long sunken in the soil. The iron was certainly heavy and would have had to be raised to shoulder height or a little higher, to dig at the base of the statue. It would need a person of strength and determination to do so. ‘Could our smith identify it and perhaps lead us to its user?’ she wondered aloud.

‘It’s a common enough tool,’ Gormán replied. ‘Come to think of it, some of the workmen repairing the wall at the south-east corner were using similar tools to shift the rockfall. However, the smithy might be worth questioning.’

Deogaire was certainly capable of wielding the instrument. But who else had such strength? Then she suddenly asked herself why she had this curious reticence about condemning him. Everything seemed to fit. His antipathy; his threat — or warning, as he would have it; the coincidence that he had been ejected from his relative’s house, having provoked that action. . she was not overlooking the fact that Deogaire had provoked the argument in spite of Brother Conchobhar’s excuses.

‘Bring it with you,’ she smiled apologetically, handing the iron shaft back to him. ‘We need it as evidence.’ Then she turned and continued her examination of the wall, but nothing else seemed to present itself. She sighed and turned to the patient warrior. ‘Let’s go back down through the main building.’

They had come up through the guest quarters and now, as they turned to descend, she halted abruptly, nearly colliding with Gormán behind her. A figure was blocking the stairway. Brehon Aillín raised a pale, startled gaze to her.

She said nothing but merely stood regarding the old judge, whose chest was heaving.

‘I was just coming to get some fresh air,’ he gasped, as if he had run up the stairs.

‘I trust you are in good health, Brehon Aillín? You seem out of breath.’

Brehon Aillín drew himself up, his old arrogant self reappearing. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will tell you the truth. Whether your brother likes it or not, I am Chief Brehon. I came to see if there was anything I could find that might be overlooked by a young, inexperienced dálaigh.’

For a moment Fidelma held back her reaction to smile. She wondered if the old man knew that Colgú had told her of his attempt to take legal action against Eadulf, and even against Colgú, having learned that he had asked the Council of Brehons to meet and elect a new Chief Brehon. Brehon Aillín was certainly his own worst advocate. She did feel sympathy for his age and experience, but there came a time when people should retire with dignity.

‘You are welcome to examine the roof all you want,’ she replied. ‘We have already done so. I do not think there will be much that you will be able to find now.’

Brehon Aillín scowled, turned and continued to climb the stairs onto the roof. As he did so, Fidelma saw his eyes fall on the iron shaft that Gormán still held. She saw his eyes widen a fraction and his mouth open a little. It was only for a moment and then his features assumed their usual expression of disdain. Fidelma was sure the old man had recognised the iron tool. A series of thoughts registered. Could she have been entirely wrong? Did Aillín have strength enough that he could have levered the statue from its place to fall on her and Eadulf as they passed? Had he come to the roof because he remembered that he had dropped the iron bar as he fled and now sought to retrieve it? It seemed impossible. But what was the meaning of the expression when his eyes fell on the metal bar? Well, it was no use pursuing that line at the moment. It would have to wait until she could manipulate the right situation.

Gormán cleared his throat uneasily. ‘Lady?’ he prompted, wondering why she still stood in the stairway. She gave him a quick smile and continued down the stairs. The guest chambers seemed to be deserted. An attendant was cleaning the rooms and so they passed on by. At the bottom of the stairway they met a troubled-looking Dar Luga, the housekeeper.

‘Good morning, lady,’ she greeted nervously. ‘Is everything all right? Is there anything I can do?’

Fidelma reached forward and patted the woman’s arm.

‘Do not worry yourself, Dar Luga. There was nothing you could have done about last night. I presume all the guests have risen?’

‘They have, lady.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘Brehon Aillín is still in the rooms above. .’

‘We saw him,’ Fidelma acknowledged.

‘The abbess and her steward have gone to the library. So has Brother Madagan. The abbot is in the council chamber with your brother.’

Fidelma turned and pointed to the iron lever that Gormán held. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’

The woman took a step forward to peer at it. Then she stood back with a shake of her head, saying, ‘It looks like a tool of some description.’

‘We think that it might be a builder’s tool of some sort,’ Fidelma agreed.

‘Perhaps you could ask the rathbuigé, the builder in charge of the repair work on the wall,’ Dar Luga suggested. ‘He might be able to tell you what it is.’

‘Just to clarify: have you ever seen such an instrument in this building before?’

‘Never.’

Fidelma allowed the housekeeper to continue on to the kitchens while she and Gormán went out of the main doors and into the courtyard.

‘If it is a tool from the site, the would-be assassin must have carried it into the guest quarters,’ mused Fidelma as she crossed the courtyard with the warrior. ‘He waited until he knew we were leaving the feasting hall, then went up to the roof, knowing that Eadulf and I would take the narrow passage to our own quarters, and worked swiftly to push the statue down on us.’ She frowned, halting suddenly in the middle of the courtyard. ‘That requires an awful lot of effort and luck.’

Gormán regarded her for a moment. ‘You don’t think it worked like that?’

‘It throws up too many questions.’

‘I don’t follow, lady.’

‘To carry the iron bar, which is difficult — even impossible — to conceal, the would-be assassin could not have done so on the spur of the moment. It was carefully planned beforehand. They would have had to take it to their room or the roof when there was no one who might encounter them. Do the guards come on duty just before the guests retire, or afterwards?’

‘Just afterwards, lady. As soon as it is known the guests have retired for the night.’

‘There would not have been time for any guest to leave the feasting hall, find the metal bar and take it up to their rooms. No, this bar was carried up there before the meal started.’

‘Unless they had not attended the meal, such as Deogaire.’

‘Or Brehon Aillín,’ countered Fidelma. ‘Even so, I don’t like it. Even if the iron bar was carried up earlier, the right statue still had to be selected — one overlooking the narrow passage. The would-be assassin had to know the precise time Eadulf and I left the feasting hall; had to know which of the two ways back to our chambers we might choose. And finally, they must have known exactly how long it would take to dislodge the statue and judge the time from the moment it was known we entered the passage to where we would be when the statue fell. In short, the would-be assassin, acting alone, must have been a miracle worker.’

Gormán gave an involuntary shiver. ‘You mean that there are evil spirits at work here?’ His voice dropped to an awed whisper.

‘Shame on you, Gormán!’ Fidelma stamped her foot. ‘No, I do not mean that at all! There is an answer to this and I will find it. Logic, in the very act of finding solutions, always throws up more questions.’

The young warrior was not really persuaded but he asked: ‘So, what next, lady?’

Fidelma glanced up at the sky to judge the time. Although she was pretending that the late night had not affected her, she felt drowsy and realised that she had to give into it.

‘I think I shall retire to my chambers for a while and wait until Eadulf returns with our son. That should be about midday. Then we shall question Deogaire. He will have had enough time to think about his position to realise he must give us honest answers.’

Gormán gestured to the iron bar in his hand. ‘What shall I do with this?’

‘Put it somewhere safe in the Laochtech for the time being. We’ll see what Deogaire has to say about it later.’

Fidelma had barely entered her chamber, sat down on the bed and closed her eyes when the next thing she was aware of was Eadulf coming into the room. Guiltily, she sat up, rubbing her eyes.

‘You’ve been a very short time,’ she said accusingly.

Eadulf regarded her with a tired smile. ‘We’ve been quite a long while. It’s well after midday and we went as far as Rath na Drinne, where we stopped a while at Ferloga’s inn. I swear, our young son has more energy than any of your brother’s warriors; certainly, he has more than I have. I am exhausted.’

‘It’s after midday?’ Fidelma was aghast, and felt twice as guilty for being asleep so long. ‘Where is Alchú?’

‘I gave him back to the care of Muirgen.’ Eadulf looked longingly at the bed. ‘I am going to miss the midday meal and have a nap,’ he decided. ‘I’ll get something to eat later.’

Fidelma rose. ‘I was going to question Deogaire.’

Eadulf was stretching out on the bed. ‘Can’t it be done later?’

‘I promised Gormán that I would meet him at midday. I’ll tell you all I have discovered later.’

But Eadulf was already asleep and, with a shrug, Fidelma left him and went first to check all was well with Alchú, who was being washed by Muirgen the nurse. Having satisfied herself, she hurried on to the Heroes’ Hall to find Gormán. The warrior was just eating a hurried midday meal. Strangely, Fidelma did not feel hungry at all. While he was finishing, she asked if he had any word of Beccan’s return to the palace. Gormán assured her that he had not; nor had he been able to learn anything about the steward having a sick relative in the township. Finally, bringing the iron bar on her instructions, he led her to the room at the back of the warriors’ quarters where Deogaire had been placed. This had been deemed safer than putting him in the outside storeroom where Rudgal had been murdered.

There was eagerness on the prisoner’s face as Fidelma entered the tiny chamber in which he had been held since the previous night. He rose from the makeshift cot, asking, ‘Has Beccan returned yet? Has he confirmed what I have said?’

Fidelma regarded him in silence for a moment and then sat on the single stool in the room. Gormán followed her inside; taking a stance in the doorway, still holding the iron bar. Deogaire suddenly saw it in his hands and took a step backward.

‘You don’t mean to use that?’ There was a tremulous note in his voice.

Fidelma looked at him crossly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘What backwoods do you think we live in?’

Deogaire spread his arms expressively. ‘All I know is that I am being accused of something I did not do, and in a place where there have been two deaths already. What am I to believe? You imprison me and now you come in here with an iron bar. For what purpose?’

‘To ask you if you recognise it, of course,’ Fidelma replied grimly. ‘Now, take a look at it — carefully. Have you seen it before?’

‘One iron bar looks like another,’ Deogaire replied nervously.

‘Not exactly. I am told that this is a tool often used by builders.’

‘I am no builder, lady.’

‘So you have not seen it or a tool like it?’

‘I have seen tools like it used for shifting rocks embedded in the soil or to prepare the ground for planting; maybe even used for moving stones into place when buildings are constructed.’

‘Have you seen it specifically here in Cashel?’

Deogaire shook his head stubbornly. ‘I have no use for tools and weapons. I am a philosopher.’

Fidelma told Gormán to set down the tool outside before turning back to the prisoner. ‘Now, tell me again, how you came to be in the guest quarters.’

‘But I told you last night,’ protested Deogaire.

‘You said you were thrown out of Brother Conchobhar’s house and then went to ask Beccan, the King’s steward, for a room to sleep in — a room in the King’s own guest quarters; in fact, rooms reserved for special guests. Is that the truth?’

‘More or less,’ admitted the man.

Gormán grinned sceptically. ‘How much more?’

‘It is the truth!’ Deogaire said. ‘I was thrown out of Conchobhar’s apothecary, the silly old fool; he was lecturing me on this new morality from the east. I told you that was what we were arguing over. We always argue over it, but last evening, my uncle really lost his temper.’

Fidelma did not volunteer that Brother Conchobhar had confirmed the story.

‘Arguing about what, for example?’ she asked.

‘I told him that at least the old gods, the Children of Danú, made no pretence to omnipotence. They aspired to justice but had all the traits, failings and good points of mortals.’

‘I don’t see your point,’ Gormán intervened. ‘That is not something to lose one’s temper over.’

‘I said that this new God from the east is purported to be the one and only God. Omnipotent, all-seeing, all-knowing. He knows everything that has happened, is happening and is about to happen. It is claimed that He has all the power.’

‘That is according to the Faith,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘So, having the power to prevent war, He permits it. Being able to prevent disease, He promotes it. I asked how people can believe in the goodness of such a God Who permits these things when He could stop them? I said that there is no logic in this eastern faith unless this God is evil or possessed of a sadistic sense of humour. That was when Conchobhar fell into a rage. I had never seen him so angry! He warned me that any attempt to reason along those lines would lead me to eternal damnation: I could end up in this place of eternal punishment — Ifrenn — that has become part of your religion.’

‘Did you know Brother Madagan was witness to your argument?’

‘I know he came to collect something from Conchobhar, but he left immediately.’

‘So having quit Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary, you went to see Beccan?’

‘Not exactly. I was wondering what to do when I met Beccan crossing the courtyard. He saw how upset I was and asked me what was wrong. I told him that I had just been thrown out by Conchobhar and would probably have to set out for Sliabh Luachra. He replied that it was late and not the best time to start out on the road. I said there was no alternative as I had no bed for the night. He told me that he could help me — but on certain conditions. If I could return to the apothecary and get some remedies for a sick relative of his — he told me what he wanted — he would find me somewhere to sleep. He asked if I could do this without Conchobhar knowing. I said yes.’

Fidelma hid her surprise. ‘Did Beccan know the names of the medications he wanted? What sort were they?’

‘They were remedies for fever and colds. There was nothing that was harmful, if that is what you are thinking.’

‘And when you had “acquired” them, what then?’

‘He said that if I came around to the kitchen door at the time when the King and his guests were sitting down to the evening meal, he would take me to a room in the guest quarters that was not being used that night. All I had to do was stay in the room until after the guests broke their fast the following morning. That was the time when the King’s bodyguards would disperse. He explained that they usually stood sentinel in stairwells and at the doors of the palace. When it was daylight, I could then sneak out and be on my way.’

‘And all this was in exchange for some medication which you provided?’

‘It was.’

‘And after you had left the palace, where were you going?’

‘I intended to return to my home in Sliabh Luchra.’

‘A further question: where were the kitchen servants at this time?’ asked Fidelma. ‘I mean, the time when Beccan let you in?’

‘There was no one in the kitchens when Beccan took me through them.’

‘Isn’t that curious?’ Fidelma mused.

‘I don’t like any of this story,’ Gormán interrupted. ‘Beccan should know more than anyone else that the King’s security is paramount, especially after the attempted assassination of Colgú a few months ago. For that reason, the guest quarters are closely guarded.’

Deogaire bridled, his head rising belligerently. ‘It is not in my philosophy to wish harm to anyone.’

‘That we must prove,’ Fidelma said.

‘You doubt me?’

‘I would doubt even myself until a solution is found,’ Fidelma replied calmly. ‘Beccan will have to explain several things, including his behaviour, which is not consistent with the standard expected of a steward in my brother’s household.’

Deogaire glared at her. ‘I am no liar, lady. I have told you the truth.’

‘Then the lie will pass away and the truth will remain,’ she said confidently, rising from her seat.

Deogaire gritted his teeth for a moment. ‘Isn’t it said that lies often go further than the truth?’

‘Lies only run a short course,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Truth is great and will prevail.’

‘I wish I had your faith in the truth, lady,’ he replied bitterly. ‘Two deaths in this place already, and you and your man have escaped death by a miracle. No one knows who is responsible. Where has the truth been hiding these last days?’

Gormán said stalwartly, ‘Truth will emerge, count on it.’

‘We will wait until Beccan returns,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘That means that you must remain here in the Laochtech until he does.’

Deogaire seemed about to make an angry retort, but then he sighed philosophically. ‘At least it provides me with a dry bed and food.’

They left Deogaire and, in spite of his being locked in the room, Fidelma insisted that a guard should continue to remain close by.

Gormán cast a questioning glance at her. ‘You still doubt that he is the guilty one, lady, and fear that someone might attempt to harm him?’

‘Rudgal was certainly guilty of the attack on Brother Egric and the Venerable Victricius. He was under the protection of your warriors, Gormán, and yet he was killed because we were not watchful enough. What if Deogaire is telling the truth — although his story sounds unlikely — and someone else is responsible? He might be in harm’s way. Better we ensure against that possibility.’

Gormán was about to reply when the sound of a warning horn caused them to hurry outside towards the gates.

One of the warriors called down to them from the watchtower: ‘A small party is approaching from the east, lady. Four warriors and three clerics. One of the warriors carries the tree banner of the Clan Baiscne.’

Gormán turned to Fidelma in dismay. ‘The Baiscne, lady — the bodyguard of the King of Laighin! This must be the party of Saxon religious that the King is expecting. And Beccan is not here to perform the ritual welcome and arrange matters.’