use the foxglove leaves that Marga had given him. However, she knew that Eadulf was well enough trained in the art of herbal mixtures to trust he knew what he was doing.
After a while he came to the table with a beaker of some aromatic brew and began to sip it with closed eyes.
The door opened and Brother Solin entered. He seemed flushed and agitated.
‘Is the hostel keeper here?’ he demanded. ‘I am hungry.’
Fidelma was about to say that he could help himself to food when Brother Dianach leapt to his feet.
‘I will bring you the food, Brother Solin.’
Fidelma stared at the thick-set secretary in disapproval.
‘Your nose is bleeding, Solin,’ she remarked dispassionately. She also noticed that the front of the man’s linen shirt was badly stained with wine and there were some dried flecks over his forehead. Someone had recently thrown wine in the cleric’s face, of that she was certain.
Solin grimaced and drew out a cloth to hold to his nose. He offered no explanation but regarded her with censure in his eyes.
‘I hope this afternoon will see better progress on the matter of bringing the Faith to this place.’
‘You caused this morning to be wasted,’ she replied coldly.
Brother Dianach hurried back with the plate of food for his master and resumed his seat with an unhappy expression.
Solin scowled at Fidelma.
‘Wasted? There is no waste when one preaches the Word. If you would not defend your Faith before these pagans, then it was up to me to do so.’
In spite of their earlier argument, Solin could not apparently understand that he had incurred Fidelma’s censure.
‘Did you not see that Murgal was trying to lead me into the trap of arguing theology to waste time and avoid the main purpose of my visit here?’ she demanded.
‘I simply saw that, sooner than stand up for your Faith, you removed yourself from the hall and left the pagans victorious!’ snapped Solin. ‘And I will pass that information on to Ultan of Armagh to whom you may have to answer.’
‘Then you are blind as well as a fool, Solin. You may pass my opinion on to Ultan as well.’
Having finished her meal, Fidelma rose and left the hostel. She was intrigued as to who the mysterious young man from Ulaidh was but needed to discover the fact without arousing attention.
At the gate she recognised one of the two warriors who stood talking there. The fair-haired Rudgal, the secret Christian. She walked across the courtyard and greeted him by name, nodding in affable fashion to the second man.
‘I hear that there is another visitor to this ráth from the north?’ she began.
Rudgal gave her an appreciative glance.
‘There is little that escapes you, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he replied. ‘Yes, while you and the Saxon were down in Ronan’s hamlet below, a merchant arrived.’
‘A merchant? What is his merchandise?’
Rudgal did not seem particularly interested.
‘He is a dealer in horses, I believe,’ he said dismissively.
Rudgal’s companion grimaced cynically, an expression which was not lost on Fidelma. She turned to him inquisitively.
‘You disagree?’
‘A horse dealer?’ the man replied skeptically. ‘That one has the mark of a professional warrior on him.’
Fidelma examined Rudgal’s companion with interest.
‘You seem to have observed him closely. Why do you say he has the mark of a warrior?’
Rudgal coughed harshly. It was an obvious signal and the other man shrugged, leaving with a muttered apology about being needed elsewhere.
Rudgal was on the point of leaving also when Fidelma stayed him.
‘What did your companion mean?’
‘Only that a man can be many things,’ he replied indifferently. ‘As you know, Sister, I am a wagon maker by trade and yet I am called to serve Gleann Geis as a warrior when needed. Just as Ronan is a farmer as well as a warrior.’
‘Has this horse trader moved on? Or is he staying in the ráth?’
‘We have no room at the guests’ hostel, so Laisre has suggested that the merchant stay at Ronan’s farmstead.’
‘Is he there now?’
‘He has returned to the ráth and is in conversation with Laisre in the council chamber.’
‘I see. And where is his merchandise? Is that at Ronan’s farmstead?’
Rudgal frowned.
‘Merchandise?’
Fidelma was patient.
‘If he is a trader in horses, he must have horses to trade. I am interested in horses. I would like to see what he has to offer. We can see Ronan’s pastures below us from here. I see no herd of horses grazing there among the cows.’
For a moment Rudgal looked baffled.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should speak with him.’
Fidelma gazed after the disappearing warrior for some moments as Rudgal swung down the hill away from the ráth.
She suddenly became aware of someone hurrying by and she turned, finding herself contemplating the angry face of Orla, wife of the tanist, as the woman headed towards a building near the gates.
‘You look distressed, Orla,’ she called, forcing the wife of the tanist to stop in her tracks. ‘Can I be of service?’
The handsome woman stared at her a moment; she swallowed hard but the anger did not go from her features.
‘May the goddess of death and battles curse all you Christians,’ she said with venom. ‘You claim piety, chastity and humility but you are nought but animals!’
Fidelma was astonished.
‘I do not know what you mean. Perhaps you should explain.’
Orla thrust out her chin.
‘I will kill that fat pig, Solin, if he comes near me again!’
‘I hope you did not waste good wine on him,’ smiled Fidelma, suddenly remembering Brother Solin’s appearance.
Orla stared at her.
‘Wine?’
‘I presume it was you who doused Brother Solin with wine?’
Orla shook her head.
‘Not I. I would not waste even bad wine on the pig.’ Without another word, Orla passed on leaving Fidelma with a thoughtful expression on her features. Fidelma turned back into the ráth and began making her way across the courtyard.
A voice hailed her.
It was Marga, the apothecary, who approached.
‘Do you take me for a fool?’
Fidelma kept her features composed. Two angry women in as many minutes?
‘Why would you think that I might do so?’ she countered with interest.
