The Subtle Serpent

Chapter Eight

In returning to Adnár’s fortress that afternoon, Fidelma decided not to give any advance warning to the chieftain by crossing directly over the strip of water separating the community of The Salmon of the Three Wells from the fortress of Dún Boí, but to traverse the path through the forest, and come upon the fortress from the landward side. The journey was further, but she had been so long on shipboard that she desired a leisurely walk through the forest in order to clear her mind. The forest presented just the sort of countryside she enjoyed walking in. Its great oaks spread along the shoreline and across the skirts of the high mountain behind.

She had informed Sister Brónach of her intentions and left the abbey mid-afternoon. It was still a pleasant day, the mild sun warming to the skin when it flickered through the mainly bare branches of the trees. High up, beyond the snow-dusted forest canopy, the sky was a soft blue with strands of white, fleecy clouds straggling along in the soft winds. The ground was hard with a winter frost toughening what would otherwise have been soft mud underfoot. The sun had not yet penetrated it and the crisp leaves, shed weeks ago, crackled under her tread.

From the abbey gates a track drove through the forest around the bay but at a distance so that the sea’s great inlet was mainly obscured from the gaze of any traveller taking this route. Only now and again, through the bare trees, could a glimpse of flashing blue, caused by the sun’s reflection, bediscerned. Not even the sounds of the sea could be heard, so good a barrier were the tall oak trees, interspersed with protesting clumps of hazel trying to survive among their mighty and ancient brothers. There were whole clumps of strawberry trees with their toothed evergreen leaves, their short trunks and twisting branches rising twenty feet and more in height.

Through the trees, now and then, Fidelma could pick up the rustle of undergrowth as a larger denizen of the forest made its cautious passage in search of food. The startled snap of twigs and branches as a deer leapt away at the sound of her approach, the swish of dried, rotting leaves as an inquisitive red squirrel tried to remember where it had left a food hoard. The sounds were numerous but identifiable to anyone attuned to the natural world.

As she walked along, Fidelmá came to an adjoining road that led in the direction of the distant mountains and she saw that there were signs that horses had recently passed this way. While the ground was hard, there were traces of horses’ droppings. She remembered having seen, that morning, the procession of horses, riders and running attendants, moving down from the mountain and realised that this was the point where they must have joined the road.

For some reason she found that she had abruptly started to think about Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham again and wondered why he had sprung into her thoughts. She wondered if Ross would find any clue to the origins of the abandoned ship. It was much to ask of him. There was a whole ocean and hundreds of miles of coastline in which to hide any clue to what had happened on that vessel.

Perhaps Eadulf had not been on board at all?

No, she shook her head, deciding against the theory. He would never have given that Missal to anyone — voluntarily, that was.

But what if it had been taken from him in death? Fidelma shivered slightly and set her mouth in a thin, determinedline. Then whoever had perpetrated such a deed would be brought to justice. She would make it so.

She suddenly halted.

Ahead of her a chorus of protesting bird cries made a din that drowned out most of the forest sounds. They made an odd ‘caaarg-caaarg’ scolding. She saw a couple of birds flitting upwards to the high bare branches of an oak, recognising the white rump and pinkish-buff plumage of jays. In a nearby clump of alders, where they had been pecking at the brown, woody cones, several little birds with conical bills and streaked plumage joined in chirping in agitation.

Something was alarming them.

Fidelma took a pace forward hesitantly.

It saved her life.

She felt the breath of the arrow pass inches by her head and heard the thump as it embedded itself into the tree behind her.

She dropped to her knees automatically, her eyes searching for better cover.

While she crouched undecided as to what to do, there was a sharp cry and two large warriors, with full beards, and polished armour, came bursting through the undergrowth and seized her arms in vice-like grips before she had time to regain her wits. One of them held a sword, which he raised as if to strike. Fidelma flinched, waiting for the blow.

‘Stop!’ cried a voice. ‘Something is amiss!’

The warrior hesitantly lowered the weapon.

In the gloom of the woodland track, a figure mounted on horseback loomed up before them. A short bow was held loosely in one hand and the reins of his steed in the other. It seemed clear that he had been the perpetrator of her near clash with death.

Fidelma did not have time to respond to express her astonishment or protest because they then began to drag hertowards the mounted figure. They halted before him. He bent forward in his saddle and examined her features carefully.

‘We are misled,’ he exclaimed with disgust in his voice.

Fidelma threw back her head to return his examination. The stranger was impressive. He had long red-gold hair on which a circlet of burnished copper was set with several precious stones glinting. His face was long and aquiline, with a broad forehead. The nose was more a beak, the bridge thin, the shape almost hooked. The hair grew scantily from his temples and gathered in thickness at the back of his head, flashing in red, coppery glints as it fell to his shoulders. The mouth was thin, red, rather cruel, so Fidelma felt. The eyes were wide and almost violet in hue and seemed to have little trace of a pupil, although Fidelma conceded that this must clearly be a trick of the light.

He was no more than thirty. A muscular warrior. His dress, even had he not been wearing the copper circlet of office on his head, spoke of rank. He was clad in silks and linen trimmed with fur. A sword hung from his belt whose handle she saw was also worked with semi-precious metals and stones. A quiver of arrows hung from his saddle bow and the bow, still in his hand, was of fine craftsmanship.

He continued to examine her with a frown.

‘Who is this?’ he demanded coldly to the men holding her.

One of the warriors chuckled dryly.

‘Your quarry, my lord.’

‘Must be another wench from that religious house nearby,’ chimed in the other. Then, with some strange emphasis which Fidelma could not understand, he added: ‘She must have disturbed the deer that we were after, my lord.’

Fidelma finally found breath.

‘There was no deer within a hundred yards of me!’ she cried in suppressed rage. ‘Tell your men to unhand me or, by the living God, you shall hear more about it.’

The mounted man raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Both men holding her arms merely increased the bruising pressure. One of them starting laughing lewdly.

‘She has spirit, this one, my lord.’ Then he turned, putting his evil-smelling face next to her: ‘Silence, wench! Do you know to whom you speak?’

‘No,’ Fidelma gritted her teeth, ‘for no one has had the manners to identify him. But let me tell you to whom you speak … I am Fidelma, dálaigh of the courts, and sister to Colgú, king of Cashel. Does that suffice for you to unhand me? You are already guilty of assault before the law!’

There was a silence and then the mounted man spoke sharply to the two warriors.

‘Let her go at once! Release her!’

They dropped their hold immediately, almost like well-trained dogs obeying their master. Fidelma felt the blood gushing into her lowers arms and hands again.

The sounds of a horse crashing through the winter forest caused them all to turn. A second rider, bow in hand, came trotting up. Fidelma saw the flushed young features of Olcán. He drew rein and stared down, his expression was one of bewilderment as he recognised Fidelma. Then he had slid off his horse and was moving forward, hands outstretched.

‘Sister Fidelma, are you hurt?’

‘Small thanks to these warriors, Olcán,’ she snapped, rubbing her bruised arms.

The first rider turned to his men with an angry gesture.

‘Precede me back to the fortress,’ he snapped, and, without a word, both men turned and moved off at a shambling trot. As they did so the tall man bowed stiffly in his saddle from the waist towards Fidelma.

‘I regret this incident.’

Olcán looked from Fidelma to the man, frowning. Then he realised his manners.

‘Fidelma, may I present my friend, Torcán. Torcán, this is Fidelma of Kildare.’

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she recognised the name.

‘Torcán, the son of Eoganán of the Ui Fidgenti?’

The tall man again bowed from the saddle, this time it was more of a sort of mock salute.

‘You know me?’

‘I know of you,’ Fidelma replied curtly. ‘And you are a long way from the lands of the Ui Fidgenti.’

The Ui Fidgenti occupied the lands to the north-west of the kingdom of Muman. She knew from her brother that they were one of the most restless of his peoples. Eoganán was an ambitious prince, ruthless in his desire to dominate the surrounding clans and expand his power base.

‘And you are surely a long way from Kildare, Sister Fidelma,’ riposted the other.

‘As an advocate of the courts, it is my lot to travel far and wide to maintain justice,’ replied Fidelma gravely. ‘And what is the reason for your journey to this corner of the kingdom?’

Olcán intervened hurriedly.

‘Torcán has been a guest of my father, Gulban of Beara and is currently enjoying, with me, the hospitality of Adnár.’

‘And why was it necessary to shoot at me?’

Olcán looked shocked.

‘Sister …’ he began but Torcán was smiling quizzically down at Fidelma.

‘Sister, it was not my intention to shoot at you,’ protested Torcán. ‘I was actually shooting at a deer, or so I thought. However, I concede that my men were lacking in manners, and in this regard I fear that injury to yourself lies, not in my badly aimed arrow, for which I do heartily wish to atone.’

Torcán was either short-sighted or an easy liar for Fidelma knew that there was no animal near her when the arrow was fired. Nor could any experienced hunter have mistaken her movements for that of a deer in the bare forest. Still, there was a time when confrontation did not achieve any result andtherefore she would pretend that she accepted the explanation. She let her breath exhale softly.

‘Very well, Torcán. I will accept your apology and not press a case in law for injury to myself in that you have placed me in fear of death. I do so accepting that it was an accident. However, the behaviour of your warriors was no accident. From them, a fine of two séts each will be paid for their mishandling and bruising of me and further conveying the fear of death. In this you will find that I act in accordance with the fines outlined in the Bretha Déin Chécht.’

Torcán was regarding her with mixed emotions, though it appeared that a reluctant admiration of her cool attitude was uppermost.

‘Do you accept the fine on behalf of your warriors?’ she demanded.

Torcán chuckled hollowly.

‘I will pay their fine, but I will ensure that they pay me.’

‘Good. The fine shall be a contribution to the funds of the abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells to help them in their work.’

‘You have my word that it will be paid. I shall instruct one of my men to come to the abbey with the fine tomorrow morning.’

‘Your word is accepted. And now I shall be obliged if you will allow me to continue my way.’

‘In which direction is your objective, sister?’ asked Olcán.

‘My journey takes me to Adnár’s fortress.’

‘Then let me share my saddle with you,’ offered Torcán.

Fidelma declined the offer to ride behind the son of the prince of the Ui Fidgenti.

‘I prefer to continue on foot.’

Torcán’s mouth tightened and then he shrugged.

‘Very well, sister. Perhaps we will see you at the fortress in a while.’

He turned his horse, slapped its flank with the side of the bow which he still held and sent it cantering along the forest path. Olcán stood hesitating a moment, looking as if he wished to speak further with Fidelma. Then he remounted his horse and raised a hand in farewell before turning and riding swiftly after his guest. Fidelma stood still, staring after them for a while, her face frowning in concentration. She tried to fathom out what this encounter meant; indeed, if it meant anything at all. Yet it must have some meaning. She simply could not believe that Torcán was serious in suggesting that he had mistaken her for a deer in the forest, especially a winter forest with fair visibility among the mainly bare trees and sparse undergrowth. And if it was no more than an accident, why had he allowed his men to manhandle her? It seemed logical to conclude that he was not expecting her — for as soon as she gave her name and station, he had ordered her release. Then who was it that he had been expecting along that road? A woman? A religieuse? Surely that much was certain for none could mistake her gender or her calling by the distinctive robes she wore. Why would a visitor to this area, the son of the prince of the Ui Fidgenti, want to kill a religieuse?

She suddenly felt cold.

Someone had probably already killed a religieuse; decapitated her and hung her body down the well at the abbey. Fidelma was sure that the headless corpse was that of a sister of the Faith. Her instinct and what evidence she had seen told her so. She shivered. Had she come close to following the nameless corpse into Christ’s Otherworld?

She raised her head abruptly from her contemplation as her ears caught the sound of a horse cantering on the path ahead. Was Torcán returning? She stood still and peered along the path. A rider was coming rapidly towards her. Her body tensed. The rider soon emerged through the shadowy shrubbery of the forest. It was Adnár.

The handsome, black-haired chieftain swung easily downfrom his horse, almost before the beast had stopped. He greeted Fidelma with a worried glance.

‘Olcán told me that he and Torcán had met you on the forest road and that you were on your way to my fortress. Olcán told me that there had been an accident. Is it so?’ Adnár was examining her anxiously.

‘A near accident,’ Fidelma corrected pedantically.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No. It is nothing. Nevertheless, I was on my way to see you. Your coming has saved me the trouble of completing the journey.’ She turned and pointed to a fallen tree trunk. ‘Let us sit for a while.’

Adnár hitched his horse’s reins to a twisted branch on the dead tree and joined Fidelma.

‘You have not been entirely honest with me, Adnár,’ Fidelma opened.

The chieftain’s head jerked slightly in surprise.

‘In what way?’ he demanded defensively.

‘You did not say that the Abbess Draigen was your sister by blood. Nor did Brother Febal explain that he was once married to Draigen.’

Fidelma was not prepared for the amused look which crossed the man’s pleasant features. It was as if he had been expecting some other accusation. His shoulders slumped a little in relaxation.

‘That!’ he said in a dismissive tone.

‘Is it not of importance to you?’

‘Little enough,’ admitted Adnár. ‘My relationship to Draigen is not something I wish to boast of. Luckily, she has my father’s red hair while I my mother’s black mane.’

‘Do you not think that mention of your relationship was of importance to me?’

‘Look, sister, it is my misfortune and perhaps Draigen’s misfortune, too, that we were born from the same womb. As for Febal, I will not answer for him.’

‘Then answer for yourself. Do you really hate your sister as much as you appear to?’

‘I am indifferent to her.’

‘Indifferent enough to claim that she has unnatural affairs with her acolytes.’

‘That much is true.’

Adnár spoke in earnest without anger. Fidelma had previously seen his irritable temper and was surprised how calm he now was, sitting there in the wood, hand clasped between his knees, gazing moodily at the ground.

‘Perhaps you should tell me the story?’

‘It is not relevant to your investigation.’

‘Yet you claim that Draigen’s sexual proclivities are relevant. How, then, am I to judge this if I am not possessed of the truth of these matters?’

Adnár made a slight movement of his shoulders as if to shrug but changed his mind.

‘Did she tell you that our father, whose name I take, was an óc-aire, a commoner who worked his own land but had not sufficient land or chattels to render him self-sufficient? He worked all his life on a small strip of inhospitable land on a rocky mountain slope. Our mother worked with him and at harvest time, it was she who gathered what small crop we had while my father went to hire himself to the local chieftain in order to make sufficient to keep our bodies and souls together.’

He paused for a moment and then went on: ‘Draigen was the youngest and I, I was two years her senior. We both had to help our parents on their small plot of land and there was no time or money to spare on educating us.’

There was a bitter tone to his voice but Fidelma made no comment.

‘As a boy, I did not want to follow in my father’s footsteps. I did not want to spend the rest of my life working unprofitable land simply in order to live. I had ambition. And so I would sneak along to the clan hostel every time Iheard that a warrior was passing through the territory. I would try to persuade the warrior to tell me about soldiering, about the warrior’s code and how one trained to be a warrior. I made my own weapons of wood and would go into the forests and practise fighting bushes with a wooden sword. I made a bow and arrows and became an expert shot in my own way. I knew that this was my only path to escape the poverty of my life.

‘As soon as I was at the age of choice, on my seventeenth birthday when no law could stop my going, I left home and sought out our chieftain Gulban of the Beara. He was engaged in wars against the Corco Duibhne over the boundaries of his territory. As a bowman, I distinguished myself, and was soon placed in command of a band of one hundred men. At the age of nineteen Gulban appointed me a cenn-feadhna, a captain. It was the proudest day of my life.

‘The wars made me rich in cattle and when they ended, I returned here to be appointed bó-aire, a cattle chieftain. Although the land was not mine, I had a sufficient cattle herd to be a person of influence and wealth. I am not ashamed of my escape from poverty.’

‘It is a laudable tale, Adnár. Any tale of a man or woman transcending difficulties is commendable. But it tells me nothing of the animosity between you and your sister nor why you should accuse her of unnatural relationships.’

Adnár grimaced expressively.

‘Draigen talks much of her loyalty to our parents. She claims that I deserted them. She was no more loyal to them than I was. She wanted to escape the poverty as much as I did. When she was approaching the age of choice, she would even try to conjure the old pagan spirits — the goddesses of ancient times — to help her.’

Fidelma regarded him closely. But Adnár seemed lost in his memories, not as if he were speaking for effect at all.

‘What did she do?’

‘There was an old woman who dwelt in the woods nearbywho claimed to adhere to the old ways. Her name was Suanech, as I recall. All the children were frightened of her. She claimed that she worshipped Boí, the wife of Lugh, god of all arts and crafts. Bo was known as the cow goddess, or the old woman of Beara. You see, this land was once her domain in the dark, pagan days. My fortress was named after her, Dun Boí.’

‘There are many old ones who still cling to the ancient times and the old gods,’ Fidelma pointed out. The Faith had only come to the five kingdoms during the last two centuries and Fidelma realised that there were still isolated pockets where the beliefs of the Ever Living Ones, the old gods and goddesses, still held sway.

‘And you may find many territories where even the mountains are named after gods and goddesses,’ Adnár agreed.

‘So your sister was influenced by this old pagan woman?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘When did she come back to the True Faith and join the religieuses?’

Adnár grinned crookedly.

‘Who said that she had returned to the True Faith?’

Fidelma looked at him in surprise.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I say nothing. I merely point the way. Since she was a young girl, especially when she went to see the old woman, she has always acted strangely.’

‘You have still not presented me with evidence of any of your claims or why there is this animosity between you.’

‘That old woman turned her head with her tales and with her …’

He stopped and shrugged.

‘While I was serving in Gulban’s army, my father and mother died. Draigen went to live with this old woman in the forests.’

‘This made you hate her?’

He shook his head.

‘No. I am not sure of the story but Draigen fell foul of the law and had to pay compensation. To do this she sold the pitiful plot of land and entered the abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells. The loss of the land was an annoyance to me. I will not deny that. I should have inherited some of it. I laid a claim against Draigen for my share of the land but a Brehon dismissed the claim.’

‘I see. This claim was the cause of the animosity?’

Adnár shrugged.

‘I resented what she had done. But I had accrued wealth. I did not really need it. It was principle. No, the hate started to come from Draigen. Perhaps she hated me for making the claim. She avoided me afterwards. When I became bó-aire of this district, she was forced to have dealings with me but always used a third party to intermediate. Her hatred of me was keen.’

‘Did Draigen give you a reason for her hatred?’

‘Oh yes. She claims to blame me for the death of our father and mother. But it does not ring true to me. Perhaps it really was simply resentment that I made a legal claim against her. Anyway, whatever the primary cause, the years have served merely to increase her hatred.’

‘She denies it and says that it is you who hates her. So, I ask you again, have you come to return her hate?’ Fidelma realised that she was faced with two opposing testimonies without room for compromise.

‘I felt hurt at first, then anger towards her. I do not think I have ever felt true hatred. Of course, there were stories from the abbey about Draigen. I heard stories of her liking for young novices. Then when I heard the story of the body of a young woman being found in the well, I feared the worst.’

‘Why?’

For the first time he raised his head and gazed directly into her eyes.

‘Why?’ he repeated, as if he had not understood the question.

‘Why should this make you come to the conclusion that your sister, your own sister, had murdered this girl as the result of some illicit relationship? I do not see how there is a connection. At least, not from what you have told me so far.’

Adnár looked uncomfortable for a moment or two as he gave the matter thought.

‘It is true that I cannot give you a truly logical reason. I just feel that it fits in some terrible way.’

‘Did your anam-chara, Brother Febal, suggest this explanation to you?’

The question was sharp and direct.

Adnár blinked rapidly.

Fidelma could tell by the slight tinge of colour that rose to his cheeks that she had scored a hit with her question.

‘How long have you known Brother Febal?’

‘Since I returned and became bó-aire here.’

‘What do you know of his background?’

‘Once the abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells was a mixed community, a conhospitae as they are called. Brother Febal was one of the monks who dwelt there. Febal and Draigen married. Under the old abbess, Abbess Marga, Brother Febal was doorkeeper of the community. Then my sister was appointed rechtaire, or steward, which, as you know, is a position second only to the abbess. I understand the relationship between Draigen and Febal ended abruptly. Draigen, taking advantage of the frailty and age of the old abbess, began to purge the abbey of all its male members and designed to make it a house of female religieuses only. Brother Febal was the last to be driven from his post and came to join me as my religious advisor. Not long after, the old abbess died. It did not surprise me to find that my sister Draigen was appointed in her stead.’

‘You imply that Draigen is ruthless and ambitious?’

‘That you may judge for yourself.’

‘Well, what you are also saying is that Brother Febal hasgood cause to hate Draigen; good cause to stir up enmity between you and her and good cause to create rumours over the finding of this corpse.’

‘From an outsider’s position this may seem true,’ Adnár admitted. ‘I will not try to convince you to my views. The only reason I wanted to see and speak with you before Draigen, when you arrived yesterday, was to alert you to certain things. To ask you to follow those paths I have pointed to. Whether you choose to or not is your concern. You are an advocate of the courts and is not your war-cry, quaere verum?’

‘To seek the truth is our maxim not a war-cry,’ she corrected pedantically. ‘That I shall endeavour to do. But accusation is not truth. Suspicion is not a fact. I shall need to speak further with this Brother Febal.’

Adnár ran a hand through his black curly mane of hair.

‘You may return with me to the fortress, though I am not sure whether Febal will be there now. As I came away, I believe he was about to conduct Torcán and his men to a place of pilgrimage across the mountain.’

‘If he has done so, when will he return?’

‘Later this evening, undoubtedly.’

‘Then I will see him tomorrow. Tell him to come to the abbey.’

Adnár looked uncomfortable.

‘He would probably not wish to, Draigen would not make him welcome.’

‘My will over-rules Draigen in this matter,’ Fidelma replied coldly. ‘He will meet me at the guest’s hostel after the breaking of the fast. I shall expect him.’

‘I will convey that to him,’ sighed Adnár.

Adnár suddenly raised his head in a listening attitude. A moment later Fidelma heard the crunch of shoes on the frosty ground and turned. Coming along the woodland path was the figure of a religieuse, head bowed and cowled, a sacculus slung across her shoulder. She did not see Adnár andFidelma until she was ten yards away when Fidelma hailed her.

‘Good day, sister.’

The girl halted and glanced up startled. Fidelma recognised her immediately. It was the young Sister Lerben.

‘Good day,’ she mumbled.

Adnár rose smiling.

‘It seems a custom of the abbey religieuses to tread this path this day,’ he observed ironically. ‘Surely it is dangerous to be alone here, sister? It will be dark before long.’

Lerben’s eyes flashed in annoyance and then she dropped them.

‘I am on my way to see,’ she hesitated and glanced at Fidelma, ‘to see Torcán of the Ui Fidgenti.’ Her hand went automatically to the sacculus.

Adnár continued to smile and shook his head.

‘Alas, as I was just explaining to Sister Fidelma, Torcán has just left my fortress and will not return until this evening. Can I give him some message?’

Sister Lerben hesitated again and then nodded swiftly. She removed a small oblong object wrapped in a piece of cloth from her sacculus.

‘Would you ensure that he is given this? He requested its loan from our library and I was asked to deliver it.’

‘I will pass this on with pleasure, sister.’

Fidelma reached forward and effortlessly intercepted the package before Adnár could take it. She unwrapped the cloth and gazed at the vellum book.

‘Why, this is a copy of the annals being kept at Clonmacnoise, the great abbey founded by the Blessed Ciarán.’

She raised her eyes to see an anxious look on Sister Lerben’s face. But Adnár was smiling.

‘I had not realised young Torcán was so interested in history,’ he said. ‘I will have to speak with him about this.’

He reached forth a hand but Fidelma was glancing through its vellum pages. She had spotted some stains on one page, ared muddy stain. She had time only to see that the page contained an entry about the High King Cormac Mac Art before Adnár had gently but firmly removed it from her hold and rewrapped it in the cloth.

‘This is not the place to study books,’ he observed jocularly. ‘It is far too cold. Do not worry, sister,’ he told Lerben. ‘I will make sure the book is safely delivered to Torcán.’

Fidelma rose to her feet and began to brush the leaves, twigs and dusty, rotting wood from her dress.

‘Do you know Torcán well? It is a long way from the land of the Ui Fidgenti.’

Adnár tucked the book under his arm.

‘I hardly know him at all. He was a guest of Gulban at his fortress and has come down here as a guest of Olcán, to hunt and see some of the ancient sites for which our territory is renowned.’

‘I did not think that the Ui Fidgenti were welcomed by the people of the Loígde.’

Adnár chuckled dryly.

‘There have been battles fought between us, there is no denying that. It is time, however, that old quarrels and prejudices were overcome.’

‘I agree,’ Fidelma said. ‘But I point out the obvious. Eoganán, the prince of the Ui Fidgenti, has conspired in many wars against the Loígde.’

‘Territorial wars,’ agreed Adnár. ‘Were everyone to keep to their own territory and not try to interfere in the concerns of other clans then there would be no need for warfare.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘But, thanks be to God that there was need for warriors when I was a young man otherwise I would not have risen to my present station.’

Fidelma gazed at him a moment, head to one side.

‘So you, who won your wealth in wars against the Ui Fidgenti, are now entertaining the son of the prince of that tribe?’

Adnár nodded.

‘It is the way of the world. Yesterday’s enemies are today’s bosom friends, although, as I pointed out, to be precise, the young man is Olcán’s guest and not mine.’

‘And yesterday’s brother and sister are today’s bitterest enemies,’ added Fidelma softly.

Adnár shrugged.

‘Would it were otherwise, sister. But it is not otherwise but thus.’

‘Very well, Adnár. I thank you for your frankness with me. I shall expect Brother Febal tomorrow.’

She turned to where Sister Lerben had been standing nervously, as if unable to make up her mind whether to depart or join in this conversation. Fidelma looked at the young girl with a warm smile. Lerben was surely no more than sixteen or seventeen years old.

‘Come, sister. Let us return to the abbey and we will talk on the way.’

She turned down the path and began to retrace her steps through the wood. After a moment, Lerben fell in step with her, leaving Adnár standing by his horse, absently stroking the horse’s muzzle as he watched them disappear among the trees. He took the book from under his arm and, unwrapping the cloth covering, stared moodily at it, seemed locked into his thoughts for a long time before rewrapping it, thrusting it in his saddle bag, untying the reins of his steed and clambering up. Then he nudged his horse’s belly with his heels and sent it trotting along the forest track in the direction of his fortress.