‘Of course not.’

  ‘I meant at the hands of those men you left tied up.’

  ‘There is no reason why he should come to any harm. He and his sons will free them, that’s for sure. So why should they revenge themselves on those who release them from their bonds? The only people they’ll seek to harm is us – if they can track us down – and we are long gone, taking their horses.’

  ‘The shepherd will probably tell them we are heading for the Mountains of the High Hills.’

  ‘I have told you not to worry,’ Eadulf said confidently. ‘They won’t catch up with us now.’

  The girl did not look convinced but remained silent.

  They were well into the foothills of the mountain range now.

  ‘Do you know exactly where Brother Finnsnechta might have his hermitage?’ Eadulf asked.

  Ríonach sat back and stared up at the rounded peaks. ‘I was told that he dwelled in a place called Faill na mBan. Just above the edge of the treeline.’

  Eadulf stared in surprise. ‘Faill na mBan? Doesn’t that mean “Cliff of Women”? A strange place for a religieux to have a hermitage. I don’t suppose you know the way to it?’

  ‘I know that one takes the path that leads up the hills to the place where two tall sandstone pillars are erected. They mark the start of the woods that cover the lower slopes of the mountains. They are also supposed to mark a pathway ascending through the trees to a spot below a cliff face where Brother Finnsnechta dwells.’

  ‘Does Brother Finnsnechta know what sort of man Rechtabra was?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘I don’t think he knew Rechtabra. My husband told me that Brother Finnsnechta would not help me if I tried to run away from him – but that was because Rechtabra held all those of the New Faith in contempt.’

  ‘So Brother Finnsnechta would not know anything about this Fellowship of the Raven?’

  ‘I am certain of it. He was a friend of my mother’s when she still lived, and he is a pious man.’

  They couple rode on along the track which skirted the foothills. When it suddenly split in two, at that point they caught sight of the two sandstone pillars and turned to follow the path there, moving rapidly upwards through a thick barrier of trees. The track grew ever narrower and the trees seemed to hem them in. There was only room now for a single rider and horse to move along the pathway at a time. Eadulf decided to go first, following the tortuous path as it ascended through the foliage, climbing higher and higher. He was beginning to wonder if the girl had been misinformed, because he felt that the path was leading him so far up the mountain that he was surely going to cross the round peaks and descend the other side.

  Then, all of a sudden, the trees thinned and finally came to an abrupt end before a flattened area of the hill. It was like a natural shelf on the side of the mountain. The first thing he noticed was that while on one side, it was open to the trees, the other side was blocked off by a curious cliff-like wall. Water gushed from it and poured down its greying sandstone face into a little pool below.

  It was around this pool that a semi-circular wall, waist-high, had been erected, and within this wall stood a stone-built hut and some wooden outbuildings. They all looked of fairly recent construction. Smoke rose from the hut and the smell of cooking permeated the air. Attracted by a clucking sound, Eadulf identified a chicken coop and then a large hutch which clearly contained hares.

  An elderly man emerged from the stone cabin and regarded Eadulf, who was still seated on his horse, with surprise. He then caught sight of the girl. The man who stood before the cabin was of indiscernible age. His head was completely bald, with a shiny pate as if it had been polished in beeswax. His skin was as pink and fresh as a baby’s, with bright spots of red on either cheek. He was fleshy, the skin almost wreathed in folds around his neck. His eyes were a strange blue – a sort of violet – and his lips were red, thick and pouting. The plump cheeks swung to and fro as the man turned his head. He was dressed in simple brown homespun and wore a silver crucifix on a chain around his neck. Altogether, if this was Brother Finnsnechta, Eadulf decided that he was not a handsome man.

  The hermit’s eyes were penetrating, however, as he watched Eadulf dismount, hitch the reins over a nearby rail, take the terrier from Ríonach’s hands and wait for her to dismount before he turned to greet the elderly man. By that time, however, the rotund religieux had recognised Ríonach. With an exclamation of pleasure, he hurried to meet her, with both hands outstretched. She put down the dog to greet him.

  ‘Little Ríonach! How many years is it since I last saw you? Tell me how things are with you!’

  He took her hands in both of his and she almost bobbed a curtsey to him, lowering her head and shoulders, but she did not say anything.

  Brother Finnsnechta then cast a glance at Eadulf. ‘This is surely not your husband, my dear? Rechtabra wears rough labouring clothes and yet I see a Roman tonsure on this man’s head.’

  ‘He is not Rechtabra,’ replied the girl.

  Eadulf spoke up. ‘My name is Brother Eadulf.’

  ‘By your accent, you are a stranger to this land?’ the old man said, head to one side as if listening.

  ‘I’ll not deny it, Brother,’ replied Eadulf. ‘I am from Seaxmund’s Ham in the Land of the South Folk.’

  ‘Then you are a long way from home, my friend. But I have no understanding of it.’ Brother Finnsnechta was frowning, as if trying to dredge up a memory. ‘Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, you say?’ Then Fidelma of Cashel is your…?’

  ‘I am husband to Fidelma of Cashel,’ Eadulf confirmed.

  Brother Finnsnechta stood puzzled for a moment and then sighed resignedly. ‘I am sure there is a story to be told. Therefore, you must come away in, take a cup for your journey’s sake and tell me what brings you to this mountain with my old friend’s daughter, whom I last saw many moons ago before she married.’

  The stone hut was dark inside, in spite of two openings for the light and a fire to keep out the spring chills. Brother Finnsnechta invited them to find seats and then poured some drinks. Rían the terrier lay down at the girl’s feet, his eyes watchful on the old man.

  ‘Nenadmin,’ Brother Finnsnechta explained, handing them the wooden mugs. ‘I make it myself from the wild apples that grow hereabouts.’

  Eadulf took a sip and found the liquid cold and sweet; he complimented the old man on it.

  ‘I think I do have a certain talent for brewing,’ Brother Finnsnechta said modestly. ‘I like to make Fraechóga – I distil it from the bilberry fruit which my friends bring me now and then from the heathlands.’ He paused to sip his own drink and then looked from one to another. ‘And now, my friends, tell me what brings you to this inhospitable mountain spot.’

  It was Ríonach who said flatly: ‘I have murdered my husband.’

  There was a shocked silence.

  * * *

  ‘Oh, do sit down, Enda,’ Fidelma snapped. ‘Pacing up and down will not serve us to get out of this prison any quicker.’

  Fidelma, Aidan and Enda had been confined in the small cell all night. They had been fed and taken for evening and morning ablutions, but no one had come near them to tell them of their fate. Their guards merely answered their questions in monosyllables and offered no conversation. Now it was well after dawn and Enda, in particular, was frustrated and angry.

  ‘This might be Osraige, and we have heard stories of their plotting against Cashel – but this is no backwater,’ Enda fumed. ‘It is a township! It has an abbey up on the hill here, is on a trading river and the main highway runs through it. How can they dare to treat the sister of their King in this discourteous manner?’

  ‘They seem to doubt that I am Colgú’s sister,’ she said philosophically.

  ‘Idiots!’ muttered Enda. ‘Arrogant idiots.’

  ‘Idiots or not,’ Fidelma said, ‘there is certainly something much amiss here.’

  ‘And how are we going to find out what that is, locked away in here?’ demanded Enda, kicking at the ground with his right foot.

  ‘Certainly not by pacing up and down or by complaining,’ Aidan told him.

  Enda was about to answer back when Fidelma gave a loud exasperated sigh.

  ‘We are wasting our breath, complaining and speculating about things. I am afraid we must wait until our captors decide to enlighten us.’

  The three prisoners relapsed into silence for a while but it was not long before they heard movement and orders being shouted outside. The wooden bar was lifted and the key turned in the lock.

  The man who had commanded their captors from the previous day stood framed in the doorway.

  ‘Lady, I must trouble you to accompany me,’ he said, his tone polite but firm. He beckoned with his hand.

  At once Aidan sprang up. ‘She does not go anywhere without us,’ he said fiercely.

  The man shook his head. ‘Do you have a choice in the matter?’ he asked with a cynical smile. ‘Come, lady.’

  Fidelma had seen two bowmen behind the man with their arrows already strung.

  ‘You will have to wait here, Aidan,’ she told the warrior quietly. ‘Do nothing rash meanwhile.’

  Aidan compressed his lips angrily as Fidelma stepped out of the cell. The jailer immediately slammed the door shut, locked it and pushed the bar into place.

  ‘What now?’ Fidelma asked coolly.

  Her captor smiled. ‘Now, lady? Why, we go for a little walk up the hill to see the Abbot.’

  The answer surprised Fidelma but she kept her expression under control.

  ‘The Abbot of Cill Cainnech?’

  ‘There is no other abbey in this township,’ the man said light-heartedly. ‘Abbot Saran wants to know why you are making enquiries about the foreign wagon and its occupants.’

  ‘I have told you who I am, and that should be explanation enough.’

  Her captor grinned. ‘On that matter, it is not I who shall be judge, lady. I simply obey orders.’

  ‘And your orders come from Abbot Saran?’

  ‘You ask too many questions.’

  ‘That is the nature of a dálaigh,’ she replied.

  Fidelma was aware that another warrior had joined them as they walked from the laochtech. He marched behind them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The authoritative young commander walked at her side, guiding her. There was nothing else for it but to accompany him as he indicated the way through the township. They passed the inquisitive stares of folk; some standing at the doors of their houses, others passing by on whatever errands they pursued.

  ‘What do they call you?’ she suddenly asked.

  The man raised an eyebrow with a look of amusement. ‘Yet another question?’

  ‘Surely that is one that you are allowed to answer without being instructed to by your superior?’ she commented.

  ‘My name is Feradach.’ His expression showed he did not care to be the recipient of banter even if he liked giving it.

  ‘Battle-champion,’ she chuckled.

  ‘What?’ The man was startled.

  ‘That is the meaning of your name. It’s fairly uncommon. Did your parents have high hopes for you as a warrior, or did you take the name yourself?’

  Feradach almost glowered. ‘It was my parents’ choice – and my destiny,’ he muttered.

  ‘And if it is your destiny, who do you serve as battle-champion?’

  He actually halted and turned to stare at her, saying, ‘You are very clever, lady, but I have told you who I serve.’

  Fidelma answered him with a bright smile.

  ‘I was not trying to be clever, my friend. I merely wondered why someone who wishes to be a battle-champion is content to serve in this little township.’

  The young man’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. ‘I am of Osraige, lady, and I serve my Prince.’

  ‘Ah yes, Tuaim Snámh. But his capital lies north in the Sliabh Bladhma. Surely you should be in the bodyguard of your Prince and not protecting passing merchants?’

  Feradach turned and strode on, muttering, ‘I have said that you ask too many questions.’

  ‘Well, Feradach,’ she said, following him, ‘if you do not ask questions, you do not gain any knowledge. Have you never heard what the great churchmen of Rome say – scientia est potentia?’

  Feradach scowled. ‘I know only a little Latin.’

  ‘It means: knowledge is power.’

  He did not answer and she was forced to relapse into silence as they moved away from the main township and walked up towards the new buildings of the abbey. The abbey was even more impressive as they grew nearer. It was built of blocks of reddish-coloured sandstone. Over the entrances were arches picked out in local black marble. Perched on the central hill, the complex was more like a fortress than an abbey.

  There were plenty of men in religious robes milling about, each wearing the tonsure of the Blessed John which marked them as adhering to the forms and rituals of the Church of Colmcille rather than Rome. These religious scarcely bothered to look at the visitors as they went about their various tasks.

  Feradach conducted her through the main gateway and into a large courtyard. A snort and whinny drew Fidelma’s attention. She glanced to one side and saw a stable area and there, outside the stable doors, she saw her own horse, Aonbharr, impatiently nodding his large head and stomping at the ground as if he recognised her. A stable lad was expertly grooming him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Feradach said, observing her scrutiny. ‘Your horses are being well cared for. There is little room at the Laochtech to attend to such animals so we brought them here.’

  ‘And our saddlebags and belongings?’ Fidelma demanded.

  ‘They are here as well,’ smiled the warrior. ‘Come now, the Abbot awaits us.’

  He led the way through more iron-studded wooden doors and across another courtyard. To one side was a stone-built chapel. Opposite this was another small building with iron-studded doors and, to Fidelma’s surprise, two warriors stood outside, seemingly to guard it. But straight in front of them was another building and it was to this that her captor led her. This opened into the main abbey buildings. He took her down a short corridor, paused before a strong-looking oak door and knocked.

  It was opened at once by a tall religieux. He was gaunt and pale-looking. His eyes were dark and his features almost expressionless. He said no word to Feradach, whom he clearly recognised, but stood mutely to one side to allow them to enter.

  The room within was large and rectangular, with a fire blazing at one end. Tapestries hung on the walls, covering its limestone blocks. The highlights in the room were picked out in black marble which, like the limestone, had been quarried locally. There was no sign of a crucifix or any other icons of the New Faith. In the centre of the room stood a large round oak table with handsome ornamental legs that had been expertly carved. Several chairs surrounded it, one of which was larger than the others – a high-backed chair, also carved to a high standard with creatures and figures which, to Fidelma’s surprise, she recognised from ancient myth. There was a triple-horned boar; then a horse with a woman petting its newborn foal – was that Epona, the old Horse Goddess? She saw a carving of a cauldron with a figure that seemed to be putting a body into it while on the other side a man was climbing out of it. This was the symbol of rebirth. On top of the chair, overlooking everything, was the sinister carved figure of a crow or raven.

  She peered around the large, high-ceilinged chamber, searching for some sign that she was in an abbey rather than a chieftain’s feasting hall. There was nothing to show they were in a religious building rather than a secular one.

  The young religious who had opened the door to them had moved to the fire and was putting another log onto it. There was a rope to one side of the fireplace and, after he had stoked the blaze, he tugged on this. Fidelma heard a distant, bell-like jangle and glanced at her guide, Feradach, who stood impassively just inside the door.

  Time passed in silence and then one of the tapestries seemed to be moving of its own volition. Behind it was hidden a side door and through this a figure emerged.

  The newcomer was short, rotund and bald. He had a pleasant face, but his hazel eyes were very watery, as if their owner had either been crying or was unused to daylight. There was neither humour nor malice in his expression, but rather a comical air of innocence and bewilderment. He hardly looked at Fidelma but crossed to the grand oak seat and lowered himself carefully into it. He then nodded to Feradach.

  ‘Be seated,’ Feradach instructed.

  Fidelma looked at the seated figure in some amusement, but the rotund one’s eyes were lowered. Shrugging she took the nearest chair.

  The gaunt religieux, who had been standing near the fire, now came forward and cleared his throat.

  ‘I am Failge, the rechtaire, the steward of the abbey,’ he announced slowly, enunciating each word as if talking to someone who would find the language difficult. ‘This is Abbot Saran.’

  ‘And I am Fidelma of Cashel,’ she replied strongly, and without pause went on: ‘I demand an explanation of the extraordinary behaviour to which I and my companions have been subject!’

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel is said to be Sister Fidelma, a religieuse,’ replied the steward sternly. ‘You are not dressed as a religieuse.’

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel is said to be many things,’ she shot back. ‘Most of all she is a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts whose degree is anruth, and she can sit in the presence even of the High King if so invited.’

  Brother Failge regarded her without a change of expression. ‘You claim to be sister to King Colgú of Cashel…’ he began.

  ‘Not so,’ snapped Fidelma.

  The steward hesitated. ‘What?’ he gasped, looking in bewilderment towards Feradach. ‘But you told us—’

  ‘I do not claim it. I am his sister,’ Fidelma said loudly and belligerently.

  ‘Can you prove it?’ went on the confused steward.

  ‘If needs be. My Cousin Laisran is Abbot at Darú, which is only a short distance upriver.’

  ‘But he is not here,’ countered Brother Failge.

  Fidelma did not stifle her impatient sigh. ‘I notice my horse has been brought up to the abbey with those of my companions, who are warriors of the Nasc Niadh, the bodyguard of my brother. I trust you have searched the saddlebags that were still on the animals – or have you appropriated the contents?’