‘Then we will leave the matter for him to resolve,’ Colgú agreed glumly. ‘We have enough problems here with the death of Brother Cerdic. What of the obsequies?’ His question was directed at Abbot Ségdae. Then he peered round. ‘Shouldn’t your steward, Brother Madagan, be here to take charge of such details?’

  ‘He had some urgent business to attend to but he will be here to oversee the arrangements,’ the abbot confirmed. ‘Brother Cerdic will be buried outside the walls at midnight, as is the custom. Perhaps, as a fellow Saxon, Brother Egric might like to conduct the internment and blessing?’

  Eadulf’s brother stirred uncomfortably. ‘I have just arrived here and do not know your customs. It would be better if Eadulf took on this task.’

  ‘I have no objection to you performing them with your own rites,’ encouraged Abbot Ségdae.

  It was clear that Egric was not keen and so Eadulf agreed to accept the task.

  ‘We have come to no conclusion as to who might be responsible for Cerdic’s death?’ Colgú asked his sister.

  Fidelma could not help an automatic glance at Abbess Líoch, seated on the other side of the council chamber, before responding: ‘No, not yet. It seems there were no immediate witnesses and we have yet to find anyone who even saw any suspicious figure enter or leave the chapel. However, we will widen the search and the questioning. I am sure something will develop.’

  There was a moment’s silence before Colgú sighed in resignation. ‘So, then we must await the arrival of this mysterious Bishop Arwald. Only then will we know the purpose of this deputation.’

  Beccan, his steward, coughed and took a step forward. ‘There is the matter of tonight’s meal to be arranged, lord, now that we have some extra guests.’

  The King frowned. ‘What needs to be arranged?’

  ‘There is the list of guests to be considered,’ the steward answered sheepishly.

  ‘Guests? Oh yes. Abbot Ségdae, Brother Madagan, Brehon Aillín, Abbess Líoch and her bann-mhaor will join us and, of course, Eadulf’s brother, with my sister and Eadulf. That is all.’

  ‘So the meal will end before midnight?’

  Colgú looked crossly at his punctilious steward. Even Fidelma wished that Beccan would act on his own accord from time to time and not seek her brother’s approval for every matter.

  ‘After the meal we will gather in the courtyard just before midnight to escort the body down to the old burial ground below,’ the King snapped. ‘Surely these procedures can be sorted out with Brother Madagan?’

  Beccan flushed. ‘But we are speaking of events that impinge on the King’s household and therefore, before agreeing to any proposals, protocol dictates that I must seek permission of the King himself.’

  Colgú was firm. ‘I do not wish to hear any more. Make the arrangements with Brother Madagan and we will meet the funeral cortège in the courtyard just before midnight.’

  Beccan bowed his head for a moment before raising it to meet the King’s gaze. He began to open his mouth again – but Colgú interrupted.

  ‘Nor do I expect to be consulted on the dishes that are to be served up this evening. Dar Luga, my airnbertach, can sort out the choices. If my housekeeper does not know what my favourite dishes are by now, then perhaps some changes need to be made in my personal household.’

  Beccan flushed. Everyone knew that he was very pedantic about following protocol and doubtless, had Colgú not made the jibe, he would have gone on to voice the precise request that the King had anticipated.

  Despite the choice dishes, however, the meal that evening was not one of the most enjoyable, for there was a strange atmosphere at the table. Brehon Aillín was in a scowling, suspicious mood, speaking tersely; Abbess Líoch clearly did not wish to be there and was almost as quiet as Sister Dianaimh. Everyone invited had attended, with the exception of Brother Madagan whose urgent business had turned into an indisposition. ‘A chill that afflicts his chest. Our friend, Brother Conchobhar, has prescribed some wild garlic and other herbs that should help him,’ explained Abbot Ségdae. ‘But he insists he will attend the obsequies later.’

  The conversation would have become stilted had it not been for Eadulf persuading his brother to speak about his previous adventures. Egric had not really wanted to attend the meal, but as it progressed, he grew more relaxed. Indeed, he seemed to dominate the conversation – not that his stories were boring or repetitive. He spoke mainly of his time among the Cruthin, a strange people who dwelled in the north of the island of Britain. It seemed their progenitor was a chieftain called Cruthine, who had seven sons. The Cruthin were a fierce warrior race who painted themselves before going into battle. The Romans had called them ‘the painted people’ – the Pictii.

  Oswy of Northumbria had ruled the Cruthin through puppet kings, but Egric explained that when he arrived among them, there was growing resentment between them and the Angles of Northumbria. The Dál Riadans, who had started to settle in the west three centuries earlier, were also growing in strength. It was a year before, when Oswy had died, that the Cruthin rose up.

  ‘It was a difficult time,’ Egric admitted to his rapt audience. ‘We had been sent to serve Oswy and now even Oswy’s client king, Drust, turned against us.’

  ‘Sent to serve Oswy?’ intervened Abbot Ségdae with a frown. ‘Surely you were sent among the Cruthin to serve Christ!’

  Egric turned and smiled apologetically. ‘You are right. A slip of the tongue. But Oswy was then the legitimate ruler and protector of the Church. The rebels were burning and destroying without distinction.’

  ‘So how did you escape this carnage?’ Colgú asked.

  ‘Many of us managed to get to the coast; to a port at the mouth of a river called Deathan. We took a ship back to Streonshalh in Northumbria.’

  ‘Surely, at such a time, the people you left behind were in need of the Faith?’ Abbot Ségdae remarked. ‘It is against the law that religious be attacked and killed. So this attack was an outrage.’

  ‘It is difficult to make that argument to a man wielding a sword and shield,’ Egric said sombrely. ‘The company that I was in barely escaped with their lives from the devastating attack of the Cruthín.’

  ‘Were they not Christian?’ asked Brehon Aillín curiously.

  ‘They are.’ They were surprised because it was Abbess Líoch who broke her silence. ‘Over two centuries ago a man called Ninnian established his mission to what was then the land of the Cruthin. Many other religious went to that country – even our own Colmcille who took the Faith to the Dál Riada on the seaboard of the Gael.’ She raised her head suddenly and looked at Egric. ‘It is hard to believe that such a people would rise up and attack the holy communities without provocation.’

  Egric said indifferently, ‘I can only relay what I saw.’

  ‘And thankfully, you came safely out of that land,’ Colgú said warmly. ‘And with the even greater support of Providence, you have come safely to Cashel and found your long-lost brother.’

  ‘Yet at the loss of your companion the Venerable Victricius,’ pointed out Brehon Aillín. ‘And, of course, your two boatmen. Presumably you did not know their names – the names of the boatmen, I mean?’

  Eadulf glared at the old Brehon, hearing the derisive note in his voice.

  ‘I regret that I cannot remember their names,’ he said.

  ‘And you have no idea of the purpose of your journey?’ Brehon Aillín had asked the question more than once.

  Colgú bent forward. ‘Brother Egric has already answered that question. He has stated that he was not taken into the Venerable Victricius’ confidence on that matter.’

  Brehon Aillín sniffed as he lowered his head, indicating suspicion on the one hand and acquiescence on the other.

  Brother Egric had turned to Abbess Líoch. ‘Mother Abbess, you seem to know something of the Cruthin. Were you ever in their territory? There were a lot of travellers from the Five Kingdoms when I was there, especially from the Kingdom of Ulaidh. The Cruthin spoke a strange mixture of your language and that of their southern neighbours, the Britons.’

  Abbess Líoch’s expression was uneasy. ‘Many of us, like my friend Fidelma there, had to travel north to Ulaidh and cross the narrow sea to the seaboard of the Gael where Colmcille set up his abbey on I-Shona. We would then travel through the territories of the Cruthin, as did our countrymen Aidan, Finan, Colmán and Tuda and their companions before us. We went to bring the word of the Faith to the Angles of Northumbria. A Faith rejected by Oswy after his Great Council at Streonshalh.’

  Fidelma heard a note of bitterness in Abbess Líoch’s voice and looked nervously at Eadulf.

  ‘I met Eadulf at that council,’ she reminded her quietly.

  ‘As we recall, the council ended on amicable terms, and those who wished to maintain the liturgies and rites of the Five Kingdoms did so,’ Eadulf stated. ‘Even Abbess Hilda in the abbey called Witebia did so. So did Cuthbert, Chad and many others. Those who felt they could not live alongside the Roman rites, such as Bishop Colmán, decided to return to this land with those who wanted to do so. There was no discrimination against those who wished to retain their own interpretation of the Faith.’

  ‘Not while Oswy was alive,’ Abbess Líoch replied curtly. ‘Since I returned from that land, I have heard that the main advocate of the Roman Church at that council has now contrived to make himself Chief Bishop of Northumbria, deposing Chad, who remained sympathetic to our rituals and Faith. I have heard that he and Theodore of Canterbury plan to eliminate all who remain true to the teachings of Colmcille in the kingdoms of the Saxons.’

  Colgú intervened with a diplomatic cough. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘we are here, sharing a meal together. We are not re-enacting some religious council. It is not time for a new subject?’

  There was an embarrassed pause, and then Fidelma began to tell the story of how the ancestors of the Eóghanacht had been led to set up their capital and main fortress on the Rock of Cashel. This was for the benefit of Egric. The change of conversation was unnatural but she persevered. There was a general feeling of relief when the chapel bell rang and they moved from the feasting hall to join the small funeral procession gathering in the courtyard.

  The body had been washed and wrapped in the traditional racholl or winding sheet. Four members of the religious carried it on a fuat or bier of broom. There were a dozen or so attendants, each carrying flaming brand torches, ready to accompany the body to its last resting place. The apothecary, old Brother Conchobhar, who had laid out the body, was chief among them. Brother Eadulf, having volunteered to conduct the obsequies, took his place at the head of the procession.

  Another figure joined them in the darkness, well wrapped and hooded from the chill night air. Abbot Ségdae peered forward in surprise.

  ‘Brother Madagan? Should you be abroad with your chill?’

  ‘The wild garlic is soothing,’ the steward replied, suppressing a cough. ‘And I should not be neglecting my duties.’

  ‘All is arranged and is well,’ the abbot assured him.

  Colgú glanced round with a shiver, pulling his cloak more tightly round his shoulders. He bent forward to Fidelma and said softly, ‘When this Bishop Arwald arrives, at least he cannot accuse us of treating his emissary with disrespect.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ she asked.

  ‘Better that we find the person who slew him,’ her brother replied. ‘To find the culprit would show a greater respect.’ He raised his voice: ‘Let us proceed.’

  Before the cortège could move forward, however, a commanding voice rang out, halting them by its very power.

  ‘Be warned, people of Cashel! The Son of Chaos will reclaim this place!’

  A figure stood on the steps of the chapel in the darkness. They could see that his arms were flung out as if to encompass them; his cloak had fallen behind him, making his silhouette grotesque. Those in the procession turned uncertainly towards the speaker.

  ‘The Antikos approaches from the east,’ the voice went on, firm, almost melodious. ‘Your adversary will arrive as the Morning Star, the Light Bringer. And death and destruction will follow.’

  Abbot Ségdae crossed himself, staring in horror at the figure. ‘Quod avertat Deus!’ he muttered.

  ‘It is only Deogaire,’ Fidelma sighed as Eadulf moved to her side as if to protect her.

  Colgú made an angry, inarticulate sound and turned to seek out the commander of his guard. ‘Gormán, take Deogaire to a place where he cannot insult the dead.’

  Gormán was about to obey the order when old Brother Conchobhar hurried forward. ‘Forgive him, lord,’ he wailed. ‘Let me take him back to my house and swear surety for his good behaviour. He did not mean to insult the dead.’

  Deogaire moved slightly so that a brand torch illuminated his features. He gazed on them all with an expression that was hard to define, something akin to exhilaration and anxiety. ‘I do not insult the dead but merely warn the living. Soon the Tempter, the Father of Lies, will approach this place and then – be warned! I feel it in the cold breath of the air from the east. It is written in the dark skies and the paleness of the moon. Take heed, Ségdae of Imleach, over those you claim to protect. That is all I have to say.’

  With that, Deogaire disappeared into the darkness. Gormán and Brother Conchobhar made to hurry after him, but Colgú held up a hand to restrain them.

  ‘Let him go. Words do not harm us. We shall continue with the funeral.’

  Abbot Ségdae said grimly to his steward, Brother Madagan, ‘Be warned about prophesying and digging up tombs. Such things could mark you as beyond redemption, like that poor fool.’

  Fidelma proceeded with the cortège through the gates and down the hill towards the cemetery, where a grave had already been dug. Since no one knew Brother Cerdic, there was no amrath, or elegy, to be recited. Instead, Eadulf stepped forward to give the nuall-guba, the recitation of the Lamentation of Sorrow. The abbot pronounced the blessing, and the mourners returned to the palace in silence, leaving the grave-diggers to fill in the earth.

  * * *

  Later that night, Fidelma spoke into the darkness. ‘A curious day, Eadulf. You never mentioned that you had a brother before.’

  Her words clearly implied the question: ‘why?’ Eadulf turned slightly. He had been unable to sleep, thinking about the events. The arrival of his brother had been almost as unnerving as the mystery surrounding the murder of Brother Cerdic. Then had come Deogaire and the curious spectacle of his warning.

  ‘I thought I had explained,’ he replied quietly. ‘As I said, I had presumed Egric was dead. The last time I was in Seaxmund’s Ham, I was told that he had gone off to be a warrior and, frankly, the rumour was that he had perished. I felt that there was little gain in conjuring ghosts.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ she replied. ‘You did tell me that your father was a magistrate among your people.’

  ‘A gerefa,’ affirmed Eadulf. ‘Indeed, he was. So was my grandfather. Our family tradition has it that he was so learned in law that he went to Canterbury as King Athelberht’s adviser when he drew up the first great law texts written in our language.’

  ‘Was there just yourself and your brother in the family? You make no mention of your mother. I thought you had no relatives.’

  ‘My mother died of poison when I was fifteen years old and my father was taken by the Yellow Plague when I was eighteen.’

  Fidelma’s voice was shocked in the gloom. ‘You told me about your father, but not your mother. How was she poisoned?’

  Eadulf found it difficult to tell the story. ‘One day she went to a neighbour’s house and they had just baked fresh bread. They all sat and ate it. When she returned home, my mother fell ill; soon she had convulsions and her skin began to turn gangrenous. The neighbours also fell ill with the same condition. Thankfully, our apothecary was a knowledgeable man and forbade the eating of the bread. But it was too late. Our neighbours died within a few days … as did my mother.’

  Fidelma clicked her tongue and reached out a hand in the darkness to find his in sympathy.

  ‘What was it?’ she pressed gently.

  ‘The apothecary searched the neighbour’s barn for the rye that had been threshed to make the bread. There was a fungus growing on it, which sometimes happens during cold or damp conditions. If unnoticed and it is ground to make the flour, and then baked in the bread, it produces a poison – and if the bread is consumed…’ Eadulf’s voice trailed off.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Fidelma whispered.

  ‘I told you, I see little to gain in conjuring ghosts.’

  ‘It must have affected you and, of course, your brother. How old was he at the time?’

  ‘He was five years old.’

  ‘And so, you were only eighteen when your father perished? It is sad to be without parents, Eadulf. I know. I vaguely recall my father but did not know my mother – she died giving me birth.’

  Eadulf sighed heavily. ‘As I have said, there is little gain in conjuring ghosts. He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, by that time, Fursa had arrived in our kingdom and was preaching the word of the New Faith. Although I had inherited my father’s role as gerefa, I was more attracted to the world Fursa opened for me. As you know, on his advice I went to study not only the Faith but, having long been interested in the apothecary’s art, I chose to continue those studies at Tuaim Brecain. The rest you know.’

  ‘Was that because of what happened to your mother?’ Fidelma asked. But her question was met with silence and she felt the answer was obvious. ‘What made you think your brother Egric had been killed? Just gossip?’ she continued after a few moments.

  ‘Oh, he was keen to be a warrior when he was younger. I knew we both attended the discourses given by Fursa but I had thought that the New Faith made little impression on him. When I left to follow the path Fursa had suggested for my studies, young Egric was talking about joining the army of our King Athelwold. Years later, when I went back to my home, I was told that he had gone away and no one knew what had happened to him. I presumed he had joined Athelwold and must have perished in some battle.’