Valley of the Shadow

Chapter Nine

They rode slowly back to the ráth. There were only a few people about. It being midday, most had retired for the midday meal. Eadulf was still moaning about his headache and Fidelma, finally taking pity on him, suggested that he go straight to the hostel while she stabled the horses. He received the suggestion without demur and he left her outside the stables and made his way across the stone-flagged courtyard. Fidelma led the two horses inside and took them to the far stalls which were the only empty ones. There was no sign of the two boys who usually looked after the stables but it did not take her long to unsaddle the horses and provide them with fodder and water.

She was bending in the stalls to retrieve the discarded saddle bags when she heard someone enter the stable. She was about to stand up when she heard Brother Solin’s voice speaking in a defensive tone. She hesitated for a moment and then some instinct made her sink back to her knees behind the cover of the stall’s panels.

There were two voices. It was easy to recognise the sibilant wheezy tones of Brother Solin but she could not recognise the second voice. It was young and masculine. What made her hesitate in identifying herself was the fact that this second voice also spoke in a northern accent. She edged carefully to the entrance of the stall and managed a quick glance around its shelter. Brother Solin and a young man were standing just inside the doors of the stable. She darted back behind the cover of the wooden stall.

‘There,’ came Brother Solin’s tones, ‘at least we can be unobserved.’

‘It matters not whether we are observed or not,’ replied the younger voice. There was anger in his tone.

‘On the contrary,’ Brother Solin replied suavely, ‘if anyone here knew that you were here to spy among these people they would not take kindly to it. They might decide to do something … shall we say, drastic?’

‘A harsh word is “spy” especially from such as you,’ sneered the young man. ‘And what of your own mission here?’

‘Do you question my right to be in this place?’

‘Right? What right? I certainly question your intentions.’

‘Listen, my young friend,’ Brother Solin seemed unperturbed, ‘and listen to me well. I advise you to stay out of the business of Armagh. You think that you are immune because of those whom you serve? Well, there are greater powers than your master and they will not tolerate interference.’

There was an angry intake of breath from the younger man.

‘Make no idle threats with me, pompous cleric, for your cloth will be no protection from the wrath of him I serve.’

There was a sudden silence.

Cautiously, Fidelma raised her head over the edge of the wooden stall again and this time saw the stocky figure of Brother Solin standing alone by the door, staring out of it. It seemed his adversary must have left. Brother Solin stood for a moment or two, as if deep in thought, and then he shrugged his shoulders and also left.

Fidelma came out of the stall and stood undecided for a while, trying to put an interpretation on what she had heard. Suppressing a sigh at the impossibility of the task, she turned back and picked up the saddle bags. She went to the door, hesitating to make sure no one observed her. She caught sight of Brother Solin entering the apothecary shop across the courtyard.

She hurried across the courtyard to the guests’ hostel.

Cruinn, the portly hostel-keeper, was preparing the midday meal. She looked up with a fleshy smile as Fidelma entered.

‘Your companion, the foreigner, has gone to bed,’ she announced with some amusement. ‘But there be many men in the ráth doing likewise this day. Will you sit down to a meal?’

Fidelma indicated that she would and that she would first have a word with Eadulf to see how he fared. She was about to go up when the portly woman cleared her throat as if embarrassed.

‘Might I have a word, lady, while we are alone?’

Intrigued, Fidelma turned back to her in curiosity.

‘Feel free to speak,’ she invited.

‘I have been told that you are a dálaigh, familiar with our laws. Is that so?’

Fidelma nodded affirmatively.

‘Do you know all about the laws on marriage?’

Fidelma was not expecting such a question and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

‘I know the text of the Cáin Lánamna, yes.’ She smiled encouragement at the nervous woman. ‘Are you thinking of marriage,Cruinn? Best you should consult with Murgal. He would know your pagan ceremonies.’

The hostel keeper shook her head, wiping her hands on a large saffron-coloured apron.

‘No; not him. I want some advice. I will pay, though I have not much.’

So anxious was her face that Fidelma took her by the arm and made her sit down on a bench at the table while she took a seat opposite.

‘You may ask my advice for nothing, Cruinn. If it is so important to you. How may I help?’

‘I want to know …’ The elderly woman hesitated and then proceeded carefully. ‘I want to know whether a woman of lowly position can marry a person of chiefly blood. Is there danger that the marriage might not be legal?’

Fidelma was quietly amused. She was about to ask what chief Cruinn planned to marry but felt that it was a silly mockery on her part.

‘It depends on the position of the chieftain. Is he of royal lineage?’

‘No. He is an aire coisring, a chieftain of a small clan,’ the woman replied immediately.

‘I see. Well, usually, the more formal types of union should be of partners from the same social class. Even a bó-aire is expected to marry the daughter of a man of equal rank. But such marriages between the lower class and higher class are known.’

Cruinn looked up swiftly, almost eagerly.

‘And is the marriage valid?’

‘Oh, of course. But I warn you that the financial burden of a socially mixed marriage falls more heavily on the family of the partner of the lower class. I will tell you this: if it is the woman who is of the lower class, as you seem to indicate, then her family has to supply two thirds of the cattle of joint wealth. It is a great step to take and think well on it, Cruinn, before you agree to any such liaison.’

Cruinn shook her head and smiled thinly.

‘Oh no, it is not my marriage, for I have been most happily married and have a child. Though my man is dead, I am content. No, I ask on behalf of someone I know who would never bother to ask.’

Fidelma hid her smile. The woman would surely not ask such questions for a friend. Fidelma was sure that it was a personal matter but could not imagine Cruinn winning the heart of eventhe lowest lord of a clan. She realised that she was prejudiced, of course, but that realisation could not prevent the feeling of amused cynicism arising.

‘Tell your friend to think well on it, then, for there is an ancient triad which says it is a misfortune for the offspring of a commoner to aspire to marriage with the offspring of even the lowest grade of lord.’

Cruinn stood up and bobbed in gratitude.

‘I will remember and am grateful for your advice, lady. Now I will prepare your meal.’

Thinking it was a curious world, Fidelma hurried up the stairs to deposit her saddle bags in her room before turning into Eadulf’s chamber with his bags.

Eadulf lay stretched on his bed with his eyes shut.

‘How are you?’ she asked sympathetically, putting his bags on a nearby table.

Eadulf winced at the sound of her voice and did not open his eyes.

‘I think it is time to sing a cepóc for me but do not sing it too loudly.’

Fidelma grinned. A cepóc was a funeral dirge, a lament for the passing of someone into the Otherworld.

‘Have you tried the infusion that Marga gave you?’ she inquired, feeling solicitous.

‘I will, as soon as that portly virago vanishes from the kitchen.’

‘The woman Cruinn?’

‘The same,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘She tried to make me eat some squishy mess when I came in. Another herbal remedy. I swear she is trying to kill me. She told me that it would help me recover and that she ought to know good medicines for she was often gathering herbs for the apothecary.’

‘Well, you are no use to me until you recover your senses, Eadulf,’ Fidelma said. ‘I am going down to eat now. Get better as soon as you can.’

Downstairs she found that Brother Dianach had arrived and was already seated at his meal. Cruinn had already laid out the food and departed. Fidelma greeted the young monk and sat down. There was no sign of Brother Solin nor of the newcomer to the ráth.

‘Is Brother Solin ailing?’ she asked, suddenly remembering that she had last seen him entering the apothecary shop.

Brother Dianach looked up in surprise.

‘Ailing? No. What makes you think so?’

Fidelma decided to keep her own council.

‘So many people seem caught with the affliction of the bad wine of last night.’

Brother Dianach sniffed in disapproval.

‘I did warn Brother Eadulf this morning that like does not cure like.’

‘So you did,’ Fidelma replied absently picking at her food. ‘I thought I heard that there was another guest arriving here in the ráth?’

Again Brother Dianach was unresponsive.

‘I have not heard so.’

‘It was another traveller from Ulaidh.’

‘No. You are surely mistaken.’

There was a sound on the stair and Eadulf, pale and wan, came down and, without a word to them, began to prepare some infusion from a small bag of medicines that he usually carried. Fidelma noticed that he did not use the foxglove leaves that Marga had given him. However, she knew that Eadulf was well enough trained in the art of herbal mixtures to trust he knew what he was doing.

After a while he came to the table with a beaker of some aromatic brew and began to sip it with closed eyes.

‘Similia similibus curantur?’ Brother Dianach gibed derisively.

‘Contraria contrariis curantur,’ replied Eadulf with a shudder. ‘I will see you later.’ He rose looking pale and unsteady, still bearing his beaker of liquid and retired to his room.

The door opened and Brother Solin entered. He seemed flushed and agitated.

‘Is the hostel keeper here?’ he demanded. ‘I am hungry.’

Fidelma was about to say that he could help himself to food when Brother Dianach leapt to his feet.

‘I will bring you the food, Brother Solin.’

Fidelma stared at the thick-set secretary in disapproval.

‘Your nose is bleeding, Solin,’ she remarked dispassionately. She also noticed that the front of the man’s linen shirt was badly stained with wine and there were some dried flecks over his forehead. Someone had recently thrown wine in the cleric’s face, of that she was certain.

Solin grimaced and drew out a cloth to hold to his nose. He offered no explanation but regarded her with censure in his eyes.

‘I hope this afternoon will see better progress on the matter of bringing the Faith to this place.’

‘You caused this morning to be wasted,’ she replied coldly.

Brother Dianach hurried back with the plate of food for his master and resumed his seat with an unhappy expression.

Solin scowled at Fidelma.

‘Wasted? There is no waste when one preaches the Word. If you would not defend your Faith before these pagans, then it was up to me to do so.’

In spite of their earlier argument, Solin could not apparently understand that he had incurred Fidelma’s censure.

‘Did you not see that Murgal was trying to lead me into the trap of arguing theology to waste time and avoid the main purpose of my visit here?’ she demanded.

‘I simply saw that, sooner than stand up for your Faith, you removed yourself from the hall and left the pagans victorious!’ snapped Solin. ‘And I will pass that information on to Ultan of Armagh to whom you may have to answer.’

‘Then you are blind as well as a fool, Solin. You may pass my opinion on to Ultan as well.’

Having finished her meal, Fidelma rose and left the hostel. She was intrigued as to who the mysterious young man from Ulaidh was but needed to discover the fact without arousing attention.

At the gate she recognised one of the two warriors who stood talking there. The fair-haired Rudgal, the secret Christian. She walked across the courtyard and greeted him by name, nodding in affable fashion to the second man.

‘I hear that there is another visitor to this ráth from the north?’ she began.

Rudgal gave her an appreciative glance.

‘There is little that escapes you, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he replied. ‘Yes, while you and the Saxon were down in Ronan’s hamlet below, a merchant arrived.’

‘A merchant? What is his merchandise?’

Rudgal did not seem particularly interested.

‘He is a dealer in horses, I believe,’ he said dismissively.

Rudgal’s companion grimaced cynically, an expression which was not lost on Fidelma. She turned to him inquisitively.

‘You disagree?’

‘A horse dealer?’ the man replied skeptically. ‘That one has the mark of a professional warrior on him.’

Fidelma examined Rudgal’s companion with interest.

‘You seem to have observed him closely. Why do you say he has the mark of a warrior?’

Rudgal coughed harshly. It was an obvious signal and the other man shrugged, leaving with a muttered apology about being needed elsewhere.

Rudgal was on the point of leaving also when Fidelma stayed him.

‘What did your companion mean?’

‘Only that a man can be many things,’ he replied indifferently. ‘As you know, Sister, I am a wagon maker by trade and yet I am called to serve Gleann Geis as a warrior when needed. Just as Ronan is a farmer as well as a warrior.’

‘Has this horse trader moved on? Or is he staying in the ráth?’

‘We have no room at the guests’ hostel, so Laisre has suggested that the merchant stay at Ronan’s farmstead.’

‘Is he there now?’

‘He has returned to the ráth and is in conversation with Laisre in the council chamber.’

‘I see. And where is his merchandise? Is that at Ronan’s farmstead?’

Rudgal frowned.

‘Merchandise?’

Fidelma was patient.

‘If he is a trader in horses, he must have horses to trade. I am interested in horses. I would like to see what he has to offer. We can see Ronan’s pastures below us from here. I see no herd of horses grazing there among the cows.’

For a moment Rudgal looked baffled.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should speak with him.’

Fidelma gazed after the disappearing warrior for some moments as Rudgal swung down the hill away from the ráth.

She suddenly became aware of someone hurrying by and she turned, finding herself contemplating the angry face of Orla, wife of the tanist, as the woman headed towards a building near the gates.

‘You look distressed, Orla,’ she called, forcing the wife of the tanist to stop in her tracks. ‘Can I be of service?’

The handsome woman stared at her a moment; she swallowed hard but the anger did not go from her features.

‘May the goddess of death and battles curse all you Christians,’ she said with venom. ‘You claim piety, chastity and humility but you are nought but animals!’

Fidelma was astonished.

‘I do not know what you mean. Perhaps you should explain.’

Orla thrust out her chin.

‘I will kill that fat pig, Solin, if he comes near me again!’

‘I hope you did not waste good wine on him,’ smiled Fidelma, suddenly remembering Brother Solin’s appearance.

Orla stared at her.

‘Wine?’

‘I presume it was you who doused Brother Solin with wine?’

Orla shook her head.

‘Not I. I would not waste even bad wine on the pig.’ Without another word, Orla passed on leaving Fidelma with a thoughtful expression on her features. Fidelma turned back into the ráth and began making her way across the courtyard.

A voice hailed her.

It was Marga, the apothecary, who approached.

‘Do you take me for a fool?’

Fidelma kept her features composed. Two angry women in as many minutes?

‘Why would you think that I might do so?’ she countered with interest.

‘This morning you came to me and sought a cure for your foreign friend’s hangover. Were you testing me?’

‘Why would I be testing you?’

‘Who knows your motives? Your Saxon friend had enough knowledge to provide his own medication. I learnt that he has studied at Tuam Brecain and is learned enough without the necessity of consulting me.’

Fidelma remained quiet for a moment.

‘How did you learn that he studied at Tuam Brecain?’ she asked after a moment’s consideration.

Marga was exasperated.

‘You answer my questions with questions! Don’t think that you can keep secrets in such a small place as the ráth of Laisre.’

‘Forgive me,’ smiled Fidelma gently. ‘It is a habit. I have been a dálaigh for too long to change it. Ah, but I think I know. Brother Solin paid you a visit this morning.’

Obviously, young Brother Dianach had told Solin and Solin had passed on the information when he went into Marga’s apothecary that morning.

Marga shot her a look of dislike and spun on her heel and strode off.

Fidelma stood looking after her a moment or two before resuming her path towards the main building of the ráth where the council chamber was.

The saturnine figure of Murgal greeted her at the door.

‘So you have decided to come back?’

He evinced no pleasure in the fact.

‘That much is obvious, Murgal. Why do you seek to make your chieftain’s task difficult?’

Murgal smiled thinly.

‘You must already know that I disagree with what my chieftain is doing. Why, then, should I make his path easier?’

‘I was led to believe that a decision was already made. If so, you should abide by that decision.’

‘A decision made arbitrarily is not binding on all the people.’

‘Are you telling me that Laisre made the decision to send to Imleach and Cashel without discussing the matter with his council?’

Murgal hesitated, made to open his mouth and then thought better of it.

Fidelma waited a moment and when Murgal continued his silence she added: ‘We may not agree on a common faith but one thing we both believe, Murgal, and that is the rule of the law. Your chieftain’s word is inviolable once given. You are a Brehon, Murgal. You have sworn an oath; an oath that is sacred, and that oath is to uphold the law.’

Murgal shook his head disdainfully.

‘But my oath is not valid according to your Faith because it is not an oath to your God.’

‘You are not speaking to any foreign cleric, Murgal. Christian or not, I am of the same bloodline as Eber the Fair. You have sworn your oath even though the sea rise and engulf you or the sky fall upon you. You are sworn to hold fast to the law. You will do so.’

‘You are a strange woman, Fidelma of Cashel.’

‘I am a product of my people, just as you are.’

‘I am an enemy to your Faith.’

‘But you are not an enemy to our people. If Laisre’s word was given in accordance with the law, then you know you are sworn to uphold it.’

The doors of the council chamber opened and Laisre came out. He was followed by the young man Fidelma had seen at the door of the stable. She examined the newcomer carefully.

He was about thirty. Not tall but muscular in spite of the loose clothing he wore. His dress was not that of a warrior and certainly not the finery of a noble. But her quick eyes saw what the warrior at the gate of the ráth had observed. The young man carried himself in a particular way. He wore a sword slung on his hip and a dagger in his belt. They gave the impression that they were not for show. The deep brown eyes of the man were restive, examining and assessing things as quickly as did Fidelma. His brown hair was well cut, his moustache was trimmed. The clothes did not seem to suit his figure at all, as if he had put them on by mistake.

Laisre had evidently not been expecting to see Fidelma and Murgal together.

He halted, his eyes darting from one to the other in question and then seeing that they were not overtly in enmity he stepped forward again with a forced smile.

‘We have another stranger travelling through our land. Fidelma of Cashel, Murgal, may I present Ibor of Muirthemne?’

The young man took a step forward and jerked his head forward in a perfunctory bow.

‘Lady, your reputation precedes you. Your name is spoken of with affection even at Tara.’

‘You are gracious, Ibor,’ Fidelma replied. ‘And you are also many miles from your home in Muirthemne.’

‘It is the lot of a merchant to seldom stretch his limbs beside his own hearth, lady.’

‘I am told that you are a horse trader.’

The young man nodded affirmation. He had a warm, open face, Fidelma thought, almost boyish.

‘You have been told correctly, lady.’

‘Then I would like to see your horses for I am much interested. Where is your herd grazing?’

‘I have no herd,’ the young man returned without embarrassment.

It was Murgal who spoke now, framing the question that Fidelma was about to ask.

‘A trader in horses without horses? That requires some explanation.’

Undeterred, the young man chuckled.

‘Oh, but I do have a horse. I have brought a horse to sell.’

‘Just one?’ Murgal asked somewhat surprised. ‘It is a long journey from Muirthemne just to sell a single horse.’

‘True,’ Ibor assented. ‘But it is such a horse and it is such a price that I am expecting to raise! I expected to sell it for thirty séds.’

‘Thirty séds?’ exclaimed Murgal. ‘A large sum for one animal.’

‘You said — expected?’ Fidelma said quickly.

‘I had heard that Eoganan, the chieftain of the Uí Fidgente, was looking for a thoroughbred horse and for an animal of great worth he would be prepared to pay a price that would make my journey worthwhile. I had found such an animal, a horse raised among the Britons which I brought to Éireann. I thought I would make the sum from Eoganán and it alone would recompense me for the long journey.’

Fidelma regarded him with suspicion.

‘But Eoganán was killed at the Hill of Áine six months ago.’

Ibor of Muirthemne raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

‘That I only found out when I arrived in the country of the Uí Fidgente. There I found the new chieftain, Donnenach, trying to restore the shattered fortunes of his defeated people …’

‘Defeated by Fidelma’s brother, Colgú of Cashel,’ interposed Murgal maliciously.

‘After the Uí Fidgente under Eoganan had plotted Cashel’s overthrow,’ Fidelma replied in annoyance. It was not the first time that Murgal had tried to present Cashel’s defeat of the Uí Fidgente as if it were Cashel’s responsibility.

‘Yes, but I knew none of this,’ Ibor of Muirthemne pointed out disarmingly.

‘News does not take that long to travel to Muirthemne, surely?’ queried Fidelma.

‘I was in the kingdom of Gwynedd, among the Britons, when all this happened,’ protested Ibor. ‘I was there arranging the buying of horses. I returned to Ulaidh about a month ago and the news was so old that no one bothered to relate it. I took the horse that I had especially chosen and set out for the country of the Uí Fidgente …’

‘Wasn’t it difficult to bring a thoroughbred horse out of Ulaidh when the law of the Allmuir Sét would have stipulated its sale only within the boundaries of Ulaidh?’ asked Fidelma ingenuously.

The young man hesitated and then shrugged.

‘I had special dispensation from the king of Ulaidh,’ he explained hurriedly. ‘I did not learn the news about the defeat of the Uí Fidgente until I reached their lands where I had been expecting to find Eoganan.’

‘Then what brought you here? The Uí Fidgente live beyond the northern mountains,’ Fidelma asked.

‘I told you,’ the young man was a little aggrieved, ‘there was devastation and destruction there. No one wanted to barter for a thoroughbred horse when their cattle herds had been taken for fines. I did not want to take the horse north again and so I came here. One of the Uí Fidgente told me that Laisre of Gleann Geis was a shrewd judge of horse flesh.’

Fidelma turned to Laisre with curiosity.

‘And have you made a judgment on the beast?’

‘I have not seen the horse as yet. Ibor has just arrived and the horse is stabled below at Ronan’s farmstead. I shall see it within the next day or so once our guest has rested from his journey.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Ibor. ‘I promised Ronan’s woman, Bairsech, that I would return to bathe and refresh myself from my journey and I am already late. So forgive me, I must go now.’

‘I will escort you as far as Ronan’s farmstead,’ Murgal announced. ‘I need to go in that direction. My … my foster-daughter lives within Ronan’s hamlet.’

‘That is good of you, Murgal.’ The words were not reinforced by his tone of voice. The young man did not seem pleased to have Murgal’s company. He turned courteously to Fidelma. ‘I am honoured to have met you, Fidelma of Cashel.’

‘I am always interested in meeting a trader in horses, especially one who travels great distances to come to this small corner of the kingdom of Cashel.’

Together, he and Murgal left the ráth.

‘A personable young man,’ remarked Laisre as he and Fidelma stood watching them leave.

Fidelma was cynical.

‘A foolish young man.’ When she saw Laisre look at her questioningly, she continued: ‘It is a fool who rides alone through the country of the Uí Fidgente with a valuable horse in these turbulent times.’

‘Perhaps it is not so dangerous in the country of the Uí Fidgente as you may think,’ Laisre commented. ‘Brother Solin and his young acolyte were there a few days ago.’

Fidelma did not hide her reaction of surprise.

‘Brother Solin actually came here by way of the lands of the Uí Fidgente? Surely that was a curious choice of route?’

‘It is a logical route from the northern kingdoms,’ returned Laisre.

‘I suppose it is,’ Fidelma conceded reluctantly. ‘But not one that I would venture.’

‘My council and I will be gathering later this afternoon to iron out our differences and we may plan to resume our negotiation tomorrow before noon. I apologise once again for this morning. Murgal is an honest man but he is not yet convinced that tolerating the new Faith will bring us anything but a disappearance of our people. He fears the changes it will bring.’

‘It is an understandable attitude,’ accepted Fidelma. ‘However, Heraclitus once said that nothing is permanent in this life but change.’

Laisre smiled wanly.

‘A good saying but it will take much to change Murgal’s mind.’ He paused and then added: ‘We will have another feasting tonight.’

Fidelma winced slightly.

‘Perhaps you will excuse Brother Eadulf and myself?’

The chieftain frowned slightly. To refuse to attend a feast was approaching an insult. Fidelma knew the laws of hospitality. She went on hastily: ‘I am under a geis, a prohibition that on each day after the full moon, I must spend the evening with simple fare and in meditation of my Faith.’

Laisre’s eyes widened a little.

‘A geis, you say?’

Fidelma nodded seriously. A geis was an ancient prohibition, a taboo or a bond which, when placed on someone, compelled them to obey the injunction. The concept of the geis still survived in the Brehon Laws. The legendary warrior-hero of Ulaidh, Cúchulainn, had been given a geis never to eat the flesh of a dog. Trapped by his enemies, he eventually had to eat dog flesh and this infringement brought about his inevitable death. The ignoring or transgression of the prohibition exposed the one on whom the geis had been placed to rejection by society and would place them outside the social order.

Fidelma told the lie after the briefest struggle with her religious conscience. Did not the Brehon Morann say: ‘Never to lie is to have no lock to the door of your house. Mendacity is permissible as a means of protection from a greater evil.’ She knew that Laisre could understand and would not question such a prohibition.

‘Very well, Fidelma. I will press you no further.’

‘There is one thing, however …’ Fidelma stayed him.

‘You have but to ask.’

‘Is there a library at the ráth?’

‘Of course.’ Laisre seemed momentarily indignant. ‘It is not only Christians who keep libraries.’

‘I did not mean to imply otherwise,’ Fidelma pacified. ‘Where do I find this library?’

‘I will show you. It is, in fact, under Murgal’s control as my Druid and Brehon.’

‘Will he mind if I examine it?’

‘I am his chieftain,’ Laisre replied curtly in explanation.

He led the way across the courtyard to the same building where the apothecary’s shop was placed. There was a main entrance, a little further beyond the shop, and through this door was a flight of wooden steps leading to other storeys. Laisre climbed the stairs to the third and final storey and proceeded along a passage which led into a square tower room. The squat tower dominated the ráth.

‘That is Murgal’s apartment.’ Laisre indicated an adjacent room. ‘And here is the library.’

Fidelma entered a single, small chamber with the walls lined with wooden pegs from which hung book satchels, each satchel filled with a particular leather-bound volume.

‘Were you looking for something particular?’ Laisre asked as Fidelma moved down the lines of pegs and satchels, searching each book’s title in turn.

‘I am looking for the law books.’

Laisre pointed to several works in one corner. He stood hesitating as she began to peer through them. Fidelma took no further notice of him and he finally cleared his throat.

‘Then if you have no further need of me …?’ he queried.

Fidelma looked up, as if she had forgotten his existence, and smiled apologetically.

‘I am sorry. I will not be long in looking up the reference I require. But you need not wait for me. I can find my own way back.’

Laisre hesitated, then nodded in acknowledgment.

‘Then, unless our paths cross later, I will see you in the council tomorrow before noon.’

Fidelma turned back to the book satchels as he left. She was looking for a copy of a specific law text and wondered if the Brehon had it in his collection of the score or so of legal texts.

She finally found what she was looking for. It was a tract called the Allmuir Sét or sale of foreign goods. She spent half an hour reading the text before replacing it in its satchel and rehanging it on its peg.

She left the room with a contemplative expression on her face and retraced her steps down the stairs to the courtyard, making her way confidently to the hostel.