A Prayer for the Damned

and added: ‘A hunter has to be observant. It is often a matter of eating or starving or, indeed, of life or death.’

Eadulf inclined his head in apology. ‘So Muirchertach rode to this spot. Why? This was on the far left of the hunt. And how did he come to be on his own?’

Rónán shrugged slightly. ‘Perhaps they wanted to circle the main body of the hunt, thinking that the boars would break through the undergrowth in this direction.’

‘It can happen,’ agreed Gormán. ‘The boar is a clever animal. With the hunt moving over there, to the right, and the drivers and their hounds trying to push the boars towards the spears, a clever tusker can decide to break left and escape the encirclement. It has been known many times.’

‘Say that you are right. Muirchertach has decided to move in this direction to outsmart the boar. Then he meets someone else, riding from which direction?’

Rónán pointed back to the forest. ‘Muirchertach came through the forest more or less in the direction from which we came. The other rider — presumably his killer — came from the far left, round the edge of the forest,’ he said. ‘The horse with the split shoe seems to have been following the second horse, but the tracks are rather muddled there and it is difficult to tell.’

Eadulf was puzzled. ‘From the left? Not from the right where the main body of hunters were?’

Rónán shook his head.

‘Then we are developing a mystery,’ Eadulf sighed.

It was Gormán’s turn to frown. ‘A mystery?’

‘How did the person who met Muirchertach Nár know that he would be here?’

‘A chance meeting?’

‘Perhaps. But why would Muirchertach allow this stranger to take his hunting spear and kill him?’

‘A fight? Perhaps he was overpowered?’ suggested Gormán.

‘There is no sign of that. If he had been knocked down from his horse, or set upon and disarmed with physical violence, there would have been some evidence of it. Bruises, torn or disarranged clothing. Look at the way he lies. It is as if he just fell back, arms slightly outstretched. Also,’ he instructed, ‘examine the expression on his face.’

‘People in their death throes often show distortions of the face,’ Gormán pointed out.

‘That is true. Yet very rarely is the expression fixed as one of apparent surprise or even shock. That seems to be the last reaction he registered in life. And then there is the mystery of the third horse.’

There was something reminiscent of Abbot Ultán about the manner of the king’s death. Eadulf turned to Rónán who was standing awaiting instruction.

‘You’d better find some others and have the king’s body removed to Cashel. Take it to Brother Conchobhar the apothecary. Wait!’ he called as the other turned. ‘Get some cloth and make sure the body is covered before you transport it. The more discreetly it is done the better.’

‘It shall be as you say, Brother Eadulf.’

Eadulf turned to Gormán. ‘We shall try to follow the horses’ tracks and see where they lead.’

‘The one with the rider should not be hard to follow,’ Rónán called, overhearing. ‘Look for an imprint of an uneven shoe. I think the metal was badly cast and has split. The left foreleg will be the one to look for.’

Eadulf raised his hand in acknowledgement, and then turned to where Gormán was examining the hoofprints.

‘They seem to be leading through those woods to the north-west,’ the warrior called, mounting his horse.

‘That would bring them back to Cashel, surely.’ Eadulf frowned as he climbed back on his mount.

‘Unless whoever it is turns off the track.’

‘I don’t think they will do so,’ Eadulf replied. ‘I have a feeling we shall find that whoever killed Muirchertach Nár is heading back to Cashel.’

Fidelma had left the two brothers in the hostel and returned to the main gates of the fortress in search of her cousin Finguine. He was crossing the courtyard to the stables when she caught up with him.

‘Apart from the nobles, do you know who else went out on the hunt this morning?’ she asked without preamble.

Finguine shrugged. ‘Practically everyone who is anyone,’ he replied, then added with a grin: ‘With the exception of myself.’

Fidelma was in no mood for his humour. ‘I was thinking of Brother Berrihert?’

Finguine considered for a moment before shaking his head. ‘Apart from Eadulf, the only religious on the hunt were Abbot Augaire, Sister Marga and Brother Drón.’

‘Brother Drón?’ snapped Fidelma in surprise. ‘He went on this hunt?’

‘Brother Drón,’ confirmed Finguine. ‘That unpleasant man who came with Abbot Ultán.’

‘I know Brother Drón well enough,’ she said irritably. ‘Did he and Sister Marga ride off together?’

‘They did not. Sister Marga, as I told you earlier, went off with the ladies. It was some time after that that Brother Drón went after them. . I don’t think he intended to go on the hunt at first.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, he came hurrying to the gate with his horse and asked one of the warriors where some place was and how long would it take him to get there. The guard told me afterwards. I forget where it was, a ride to the south, anyway. He kept looking at some paper in his hand. Then, as he was mounting his horse, the other girl who was in his party came hurrying up. She said something and pointed eastward. That was the direction in which the hunt had gone. I was told that Brother Drón looked really angry, mounted his horse and rode off in that direction at a gallop. Unseemly for a religious,’ her cousin added.

A guard at the gates suddenly called a challenge to someone outside and then a solitary rider came through into the courtyard. Fidelma recognised him as Dúnchad Muirisci, the heir apparent to Muirchertach, King of Connacht.

Finguine had called an order and a gilla scuir, a stable boy, hurried forward to help the man from his horse. Fidelma moved leisurely to greet him.

‘You are back early from the hunt, Dúnchad Muirisci.’

The noble glanced moodily at her. His features showed none of the humour they had displayed when she had questioned him the previous day.

‘You are perceptive, lady,’ he replied sarcastically, automatically reaching with his left hand to hold his right. Fidelma saw that the latter was splashed with blood.

‘I am sorry. You are hurt, Dúnchad Muirisci.’

The man grimaced in annoyance. ‘It is nothing, just a scratch.’

‘A scratch does not bleed with such profusion,’ she reproved him. ‘You had best let someone see it. Brother Conchobhar’s shop is just behind that building there. He is our best apothecary.’

Dúnchad Muirisci grunted and began to move off, holding his arm.

She fell in step with him. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘A stupid accident. A boar charged my horse and it moved to avoid it. It pushed into a thorn bush and I reached out my hand to protect myself and the thorns scratched it. That is all.’

‘You rode back alone, bleeding?’

‘There was no one else about. I was on my own and the boar came out of nowhere.’

‘Then you were lucky that a worse injury did not befall you, Dúnchad Muirisci. Do you know how the rest of the hunt is faring?’

The tánaiste shook his head. ‘I told you that I was on my own. I became separated from the main body once the hue and cry was raised.’

Finguine caught them up. ‘There is no sign of your bir, Dúnchad Muirisci.’

‘I dropped it when the thorns dug into my flesh. It hurt so much that I forgot to pick it up. It must be still lying where it fell.’

‘The boy tells me that one of your horse’s shoes seems to have been badly miscast and has cracked. He will