Fidelma, noticing his look of repulsion, said: ‘Be philosophical, my brother in Christ. Are not ravens and crows part of the great Creation and do not those scavengers have a part ordained by the Creator?’
Eadulf was unconvinced.
‘They are the creations of Satan. None other.’
‘How so?’ demanded Fidelma lightly. ‘Do you question the teachings of your own Faith?’
Eadulf frowned, not understanding.
‘Genesis,’ quoted Fidelma. ‘“God then created the great sea-monsters and all living creatures that move and swim in the waters, according to their kind, and every kind of bird; and God saw that it was good. He blessed them and said, ‘Be fruitful and increase, fill the waters of the seas; and let the birds increase on land.’”’ Fidelma paused and pulled a face. ‘“
Eadulf shook his head, unwilling to accept her quotation.
‘Who am I to question the Creation? But God gave us free will and in that he allowed me to express my repugnance for such creatures.’
Fidelma could not help a mocking grimace. If she were truthful, she would have to admit that she enjoyed her exchanges on the Faith with Eadulf.
They had left the vast black mass of croaking scavengers, which now carpeted the ground, well behind them, increasing the pace of their horses.
‘What do you propose to do when we meet with this Laisre?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘I mean about these corpses? Do you intend to demand his explanation of them?’
‘You sound as though you presume him guilty.’
‘It seems a logical assumption.’
‘Assumptions are not facts.’
‘Then what do you intend to do?’
‘Do?’ She frowned for a moment. ‘Why, follow my brother’s advice. Beware what I say, when and to whom!’
Chapter Four
They had barely ridden a mile across the valley when they heard the sound of approaching horses. Immediately before them was an entrance to what appeared to be a ravine, opening between two granite heights and through which the track they were taking disappeared. It was from this direction that the sound of the horses could clearly be heard.
Eadulf, nervous and still sickened by the sight he had witnessed, began to look around immediately for some cover. There was none.
Fidelma halted her horse and sat at ease, merely awaiting the appearance of the riders, and curtly ordered him to do likewise.
A moment or so later, a column of about a score of warriors burst out of the gorge on to the plain just in front of them. Their leader, a slender figure, saw them at once and, without faltering, led the column at a breathless pace to within a yard or so of them. Then, as if at some given signal not obvious even to the discerning eye, the band of horses halted in a cloud of dust with a sound of snorting breath and an occasional whinny of protest.
Fidelma’s eyes narrowed as she examined the leader of the band of horsemen. The rider was a slightly built woman of about thirty years. Dark hair, almost the colour of jet, tumbled in a mass of curls from her shoulders. A thin band of twisted silver around her forehead kept it in some semblance of order. She wore a cloak and carried a long scabbard with a workman-like sword and an ornate knife on her right side. The woman’s face was slightly rounded, almost heart-shaped and not unattractive. The lips full and red. The skin pale. The eyes were dark, flashing with challenge.
‘Strangers!’ Her voice was harsh and seemed at odds with her appearance. ‘And Christians at that. I know you from your attire. Know that you are not welcome in this place!’
Fidelma’s mouth was a thin line at the discourtesy of this greeting.
‘The king of this land would be displeased to know that I am not welcome here,’ she replied softly.
Only Eadulf could recognise the quiet tone which bespoke her suppressed anger.
The dark-haired woman frowned slightly.
‘I think not, woman of the god Christ. You are speaking to his sister.’
Fidelma simply raised an eyebrow in cynical query.
‘You claim to be the sister of the king of this land?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘I am Orla, sister to Laisre, who rules this land.’
‘Ah.’ Fidelma realised that the woman had placed a different interpretation on what was meant by king. ‘I do not speak of Laisre,
‘Cashel is a long way from here,’ shot back the woman in annoyance.
‘But Cashel’s reach is sure and firm and it extends justice into all the far corners of the kingdom.’
Fidelma spoke with such assured firmness that Orla’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. She appeared to be unused to being answered with confidence and as an equal.
‘Who are you, woman, who rides so unconcerned into the land of Laisre?’ Her dark eyes flashed in dislike at Eadulf, who sat quietly behind her. ‘And who are you who dares to bring a foreign cleric into this land?’
A burly warrior from the column of horsemen edged his mount forward. He was an ugly looking man, with a bushy black beard and a scar above one eye, the mark of an old wound.
‘Lady, no need to ask more of these people who wear the emasculate robes of their alien religion. Let them be gone or let me drive them forth.’
The woman, Orla, gave the warrior a glance of irritation.
‘When I need advice, Artgal, I shall consult you.’ And with this dismissal, she turned back to Fidelma. There was no change of expression on her hostile features. ‘Speak, woman, and tell me who dares lecture the sister of the chieftain of Gleann Geis on the duties of her brother.’
‘I am Fidelma … Fidelma of Cashel.’
Whether by design or accident, Fidelma made a slight movement in her saddle at which the cross of the Golden Chain, hidden in the folds of her clothing, slipped out and the sunlight struck it momentarily causing the dark eyes of Orla to glimpse it. They widened perceptibly as she recognised it for what it was.
‘Fidelma of Cashel?’ Orla repeated in a hesitant tone. ‘Fidelma, sister of Colgú, king of Muman?’
Fidelma did not bother to answer the question but assumed that Orla knew the answer already.
‘Your brother, Laisre, is expecting my embassy from Cashel,’ she went on, as if disinterested in the reaction she had provoked. She reached behind her into her saddle bags and drew out the white wand with the golden stag atop it, the symbol of her embassy from the king of Cashel.
There was a silent pause as Orla stared as if mesmerised by it.
‘Do you accept the white wand or do you choose the sword?’ Fidelma demanded with a hint of a smile on her features. Envoys going into a hostile land presented either the wand or the sword as a symbolic challenge to peace or war.
‘My brother is expecting a representative of Cashel,’ Orla admitted slowly, raising her eyes from the wand to Fidelma’s face, her expression unsure. There was an unwilling note of respect in her voice now. ‘But that representative is one who should be qualified to negotiate with Laisre on ecclesiastical matters. Someone qualified to …’
Fidelma suppressed an impatient sigh.
‘I am an advocate of the Brehon Courts, qualified to the degree of
Orla failed to disguise her surprise. The qualification of
