‘Let us know as soon as you hear, my friend.’ She rose and turned for the door. ‘It has been a long day and I, for one, am tired.’

  Eadulf had wanted to discuss matters further. He felt irritated and nearly pointed out that he had been ready for bed some time ago. First thing in the morning, he’d be taking his son out riding. This didn’t happen often because Eadulf was not fond of riding as a pastime, unlike Fidelma. He rode only when he was forced to do so, as a means of transport. The idea that one rode a horse for pleasure was beyond his comprehension.

  ‘Very well,’ he said stiffly, as he followed Fidelma’s example. ‘We will talk more about this in the morning. But as you said earlier, there will be little time to reach any solution before Bishop Arwald and his party arrives. I do not think we have to fear Bishop Arwald, however. It is the fact that he is accompanied by the Venerable Verax, brother of the Bishop of Rome, which gives me concern.’

  They wished Brother Conchobhar good night and left him to his studies. It was as they were entering their chamber that Eadulf suddenly asked: ‘Do you believe what Brother Conchobhar was saying about Brother Madagan?’

  Fidelma stared at her husband in surprise. ‘I have never known him to lie. Is there a reason why we should disbelieve him now?’

  ‘I find it curious that he comes out with this suspicion about Brother Madagan killing Brother Cerdic at the very moment that he learns that his own nephew has been imprisoned as a suspect.’

  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.’