they are trained, too well trained, as war horses. Both of them have scars and it seems they have seen service in battle before now.’
‘Are you saying that he is a complete impostor?’
‘I am saying that neither horse is what he has claimed it to be. He said that he had brought a thoroughbred from the kingdom of the Britons, from Gwynedd. All such horses are short-legged and broad-chested, they have thick, wiry coats and a dense undercoat that insulates the body against the hard winters. But the horses that he has brought are not pure bred at all. They are long-legged and of the sort imported from Gaul for racing or bred for battle. His horses are too old to be worth anything that would justify him journeying all the way from Ulaidh to this remote part of our kingdom. In other words — Ibor of Muirthemne is a liar!’
Eadulf felt helpless for he could offer her no advice or even begin to think of anything which might be of help in solving the mystery.
They finished their meal in meditative silence. Faintly, they could hear the sounds of merry-making from the feasting hall of Laisre. It was Fidelma’s suggestion that, if Eadulf was feeling up to it, theytake another turn around the walls of the ráth before turning in. Eadulf would have preferred to retire immediately to bed for he had still not entirely recovered from the swimming feeling in his head. Yet guilt made him accede to Fidelma’s suggestion. At least they had a rapport in which they did not have to talk but still retained a closeness of thought as if knowing what was passing through each other’s minds as it did so.
They walked from the hostel to the steps leading up to the battlement walkway.
A shadow moved at the top of the stairs. They could hear an embarrassed giggle and the slight, small figure of a young girl disappeared into the darkness. A second shadow emerged and a harsh male voice challenged them. When they identified themselves the figure of Rudgal emerged into the flickering light of a burning brand torch.
‘You are not at Laisre’s feast, then?’ The wagon maker and part-time warrior seemed embarrassed by their appearance.
‘One of Laisre’s feasts is enough for me,’ Eadulf confessed plaintively.
Rudgal’s features seemed to be sympathetic.
‘Bad wine,’ was his verdict. ‘It happens sometimes.’ Then he turned to Fidelma, changing the subject rapidly. ‘I heard from Artgal that there was nothing to be found on the plain where you discovered the bodies; nothing which would explain how that terrible event came to happen.’
Fidelma leant against the battlement and gazed out into the gloom of the evening.
‘You are a Christian, Rudgal. What would you make of this slaughter?’
Rudgal coughed nervously, and cast a look about. He lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘As you say, Sister, I am of the Faith. Life has been difficult for those of us who follow such a path in Gleann Geis. Then it became obvious that we are becoming a substantial portion of the population in this valley and we began to press the chieftain and his assembly to make recognition of our existence. For years now we have been blocked by the chieftain and his council. Then, suddenly, the chieftain seemed to reach enlightenment for he over- ruled his council and sent to Cashel. I never thought I would see the day. However, there are still many here who cling to the old ways. I will say this about this matter …’ He paused. ‘This ritual slaughter, as you claim it to be. There are many people who would like to see those of the Faith demoralised and the old ways triumph again.’
Fidelma turned and tried to read any hidden message in the features of Rudgal’s face in the gloom.
‘Do you think this act was done as a means of intimidating the Christian community here?’
‘Why else would it be done? It serves no other purpose.’
‘But who were the victims? Laisre says that no one in Gleann Geis is missing.’
‘This is true. We would soon know if any of our people were missing. Perhaps the victims were travellers who were waylaid and slaughtered? Who killed them? I think the answer lies not far from where you hear that laughter emanating.’
A burst of rowdy laughter had just echoed from the feasting hall.
‘Who do you accuse? Laisre? Or Murgal?’ prompted Eadulf. ‘Or is there someone else?’
Rudgal glanced briefly at Eadulf.
‘It is not my place to point a finger of accusation. Just ask yourself this — whose interest does this action serve? Laisre was the one who decided to allow the Faith some freedom against the wishes of his council. Examine who opposes Laisre. I can say no more. Goodnight.’
Rudgal made off into the shadowy darkness.
‘There is a logic in what he says,’ offered Eadulf after a moment or two of silence.
‘
Eadulf shook his head, puzzled.
‘That is too clever for me. Logic is surely the art of making truth prevail?’
‘Yet logic can often disguise truth from us. Logic can often ruin the spirit, the creative side of our mind, so that we go running along a straight track when our answers lie in the shadows of the forest glades beside those tracks. Logic alone confines us.’
‘Do you think there can be some other explanation then?’
‘One thing occurs to me — if this slaughter was done merely to frighten and coerce the Christians of Gleann Geis, why not slaughter some of the Christians of this valley? Why enact this ritual in the valley outside and use the bodies of strangers? Why not give more forceful strength to the message of menace? That logical deduction, as you see, has its faults.’
‘Well, turning the same facts over and over without anything new to add makes the mind sterile,’ Eadulf observed.
Fidelma chuckled.
‘At times I need your wisdom, Eadulf,’ she said. ‘Let us complete our circuit of the walls and return to a restful slumber.’
Eadulf hesitated.
‘Perhaps Rudgal was trying to put us off the scent? Who was he conspiring with up here just now?’
‘Conspiring is hardly the term,’ Fidelma said in amusement. ‘Even you must have recognised Orla’s daughter.’
They circuited the walls and returned down the steps. They passed across the courtyard, listening to the sounds of merry-making and music echoing from the feasting hall. There came a moment of comparative quiet, a brief lull in the noise, during which the sound of an angry voice and a slamming door could be plainly heard. The sound was unexpected and Fidelma seized Eadulf s sleeve and drew him back into the shadows of the wall.
‘What is it?’ whispered the Saxon perplexed by her action.
Fidelma shook her head and placed a finger against her lips.
Across the courtyard the door of the building where Murgal’s apartment and library were housed was opening and there was no disguising the thick-set figure of Brother Solin as he came out and slammed it shut. He had one hand against the side of his face as if nursing it. He paused for a moment in the light of an oil lamp which hung outside the door, illuminating his angry features. He looked up and down, as if to ensure he had not been observed. The way he carried himself demonstrated his tense attitude and anger. Then he seemed to smooth his clothing and run a hand through his dishevelled hair. He straightened his shoulders and began to walk across the flag stones with a purposeful tread towards the feasting hall.
Fidelma and Eadulf pressed back into the shadows so that Brother Solin did not observe them. They waited in silence until he had vanished through the doors into the chieftain’s building.
Eadulf pulled a face in the darkness.
‘It was only that pompous idiot,’ he remarked. ‘No need to hide from him.’
Fidelma sighed softly.
‘Sometimes you may learn things if people are unaware of your presence.’
‘Learn what?’
‘For instance, Brother Solin passed under the light of that lamp there. What did you observe?’
‘That he was angry.’
‘True. What else?’
