The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Fidelma took a step forward towards the door of the bothan and found that Aonbharr was tugging on the reins, pulling backwards. The sudden tug hurt her arm and she turned round in surprise. The horse’s eyes were wide, eyeballs rolling and nostrils flaring.

“Steady, boy, steady,” she coaxed, reaching out a hand to rub his muzzle. He calmed down a little, standing still but trembling. She peered round, trying to find what had upset the horse. She noticed a mound of snow before the door. Whatever lay beneath, she realized there was a dark red stain there. Blood! The mound was too small to be that of a human. She turned and led Aonbharr towards the barn, where she noticed there was a stretch of fencing and a rail. She secured the reins to the fence and turned back to the mound.

Bending down, she scraped some of the snow away. It soon became clear that it was the short, leggy body of a dog. It had a dense, wiry coat and wore a collar with a leash attached. When she tugged at it, Fidelma found the leash was also attached to a metal ring by the door. The dog was a terrier. Such a breed was commonly used to hunt small game in this area but they were also alert and courageous guard dogs. What was immediately obvious were the facts that someone had smashed the skull of the animal with a blunt instrument and that it had happened not very long ago, as the blood was not yet congealing.

Fidelma’s mouth compressed in a grim line and she rose to her feet, glancing around with eyes narrowed. There was no movement anywhere. Aonbharr stood patiently tethered. The cow was still plaintively lowing, the chickens clucking. As she turned towards the dark door of the bothan she heard, once more, the nearby cry of a wolf.

Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders ready to face the unexpected, and moved towards the door. She raised her fist and hammered on it twice and paused. As she expected, there was no sound of movement, no answer. She lowered her hand to the door-catch and raised it. To her surprise — for she fully expected to find it locked or bolted — the door swung inwards into the blackness.

“Is anyone there?” she called, feeling a little foolish at the question.

She hesitated on the threshold a moment or so and took a pace inside. Within the curious twilight from the reflected snow outside, a gloomy half-light that permeated from the door and a single small window, there was little discernible. The chill was almost as bad inside as it was outside. She hesitated a moment before stepping towards the outline of a table where she could just make out an oil lamp.

From her shoulder she removed the strap from which hung her sursaing-bholg, her girdle bag, which she always carried on journeys. In it reposed various items, including her cior- bholg or comb-bag that contained toiletries which all women carried. But, more importantly, it was also where she kept her tenlach-teined, the means of producing “hand-fire”; a flint, steel and a tinder-box. As part of their training, warriors had to practise the art of swiftly lighting fires and Fidelma, growing up among those whose task was to guard her family — for was she not the daughter of Failbe Flann, King of Muman — she would often pass happy days being taught this art by kindly warriors until she was as adept at it as they were. Indeed, it did not take her long to ignite the tinder and light the oil lamp; it was a rough earthenware pot with a snout to support the wick.

Now she had a better light she took it in her hand and peered round the inside of the cabin. Its walls were of dry stone and its roof was of timber. It was poorly furnished. The stout wooden table, on which the oil lamp had sat, also had two earthenware bowls and wooden spoons nearby, as if in preparation for a meal. Two chairs were at the table. A cot stood with blankets near the far corner of the fireplace, which contained grey ash, but there was faint warmth coming from it. There was plenty of kindling and logs piled near the fireplace. A large lantern hung unlit over the fireplace, a sturdy type of lamp, whose wick was protected so that it could be used outside, even in a high wind. Also by the fire, to one side of the pile of logs, stood a hunter’s bow and a sheaf of arrows. Even as quickly as she made the examination, Fidelma knew that they were not of good quality workmanship, but of the sort a hill-farmer might make himself and use for hunting. Apart from an old wooden chest and some cupboards, there was nothing else in the cabin. Nor was there any indication of why or when the occupants had left, except that it was less than a day or so ago because the fire, with its smouldering ashes, could not have lasted much longer before dying entirely.

She stood, undecided. Then she became aware again of the whistling wind, saw the snow flurries beyond the door, and heard the bellow of the cow and the nervous whinny of her horse. Abruptly, she stirred herself into action. She went to the fire and placed some kindling on it, reaching for the small bellows. It took a minute or two before the kindling began to spark and flame and she was able to place a couple of large pieces of wood on it. Satisfied, she stood up and lit the heavier storm-lantern from the oil lamp, turned, and headed outside, closing the cabin door behind her.

She glanced sorrowfully at the dead terrier before passing on to the barn. Aonbharr gave a plaintive neigh, turning his head in her direction, as if comforted to see her again.

“First things first, boy,” she said, as if he could understand. She opened the barn door and passed in quickly, closing the door behind her, lest any of the animals escaped. The animal making the most noise was a large bay- coloured cow that turned mournful eyes on her and began to make a lowing sound. Fidelma saw immediately what the problem was: the cow needing milking as well as feeding. In another corner, two goats came towards her bleating. They were partitioned in a pen but it was clear they needed feeding, as did the half-a-dozen chickens squabbling in a run along one side of the barn.

She stood looking at them and shaking her head. Then she hung up the storm-lantern from a hook on one of the rafters, for the roof was very low and the barn no bigger than a small room.

“Very well,” she addressed them. “I’m not much good at this but …”

She glanced around. There was a bucket and milking stool to one side. But first she turned and searched for the grain that would be used for the chicken feed. There was a sack nearby. That task over, she turned her attention to the goats. There was a stack of hay, which she knew to be the primary source of nutrients for goats during the winter months, and she distributed it in their feeding trough, making sure that neither of the two does were in need of milking. There was still water available. It did not take long to place the cow’s feed ready, but the animal was still lowing and it was obvious what the priority was.

With a sigh, she placed the three-legged stool and took the bucket. She had not milked a cow since she was a young girl but she had not forgotten the technique. Finally, with the cow content and the bucket full of warm milk, she turned to her next task. Aonbharr would have to accept being stabled next to the cow. She led her horse in and unsaddled him. Then, finding a soft brush, vigorously took the snow from his coat and dried it as best she could with handfuls of hay. Then she spotted a heavy, ageing horse blanket tucked away in the corner of some rafters. She covered Aonbharr with it and managed to find a small sack of oats, making sure that he was able to reach the trough of water. A contented quiet had descended on the inhabitants of the barn and so, with tasks fulfilled, she took the storm-lantern and the bucket of milk and went outside, closing the door behind her.

Night had fully descended now but the wind was still gusting and howling, causing the snow to come almost horizontally across the valley. She stood for a moment, storm-lantern in hand, head to one side listening to the sound of the tempest. Now and then she turned, thinking she detected the cries of the wolves amidst the mountains. That reminded her, and she retraced her steps back to where the body of the terrier lay. She paused, shaking her head sadly before she passed into the bothan and placed the milk on the table. The fire was blazing away now. She searched quickly hoping to find a spade or any similar implement.

She was tired now, cold and hungry. The task would have to wait until morning, but she had a practical duty first. She went outside again with the storm-lantern. She set it by the dead animal, untied the leash and wiped the falling snow away as much as she could. Then she examined her surroundings. There was little choice. She had half-dragged, half-carried the carcass of the animal to a depression she could see a little way down the hill from the cabin, and pushed the body into it, before looking around for rocks and stones under the covering of snow. These she placed over the remains, packing them with as much snow as she could.

“Sorry, boy,” she said grimly. “That’s as much as I can do this night.”

Her main purpose was to prevent scavengers from savaging the body, until she could bury it properly. With wolves in the vicinity it was dangerous to leave a carcass in the open, especially when there was a barn of live animals nearby.

Her duty to the livestock complete, she collected the storm-lantern and returned to the cabin, securing the door behind her. She went to the fire and placed more logs on it. Then, glancing round to ensure all was secure, she stood before the fire, took off her clothes and drew a blanket she had taken from the cot around her, using it to rub her cold limbs vigorously. Finally dry and warm, she turned, took an earthenware mug and helped herself to the