Dancing With Demons

lead their horses to the stables.

‘Welcome, lady, welcome, my friends,’ the man said again. ‘I am the brugh- fer.’

‘Ah, so this is a brugaid? A public hostel?’ asked Fidelma.

The man nodded. Hospitality was a virtue highly esteemed in the five kingdoms, and each clan made provision for lodging and entertainingtravellers and officials. The public hostels ran side by side with private inns, and strict laws applied to both establishments. The keepers of each were restricted in what they could and could not provide for their guests, and as guests were constantly arriving and departing, the furniture and other property in the hostels and inns was carefully protected by law from wanton or malicious damage and, as Fidelma knew, the laws went into detail about the compensation to be paid, and for any injuries sustained.

‘Are you travelling to Tara?’ the man asked, showing them into the main room where a fire was spreading a comfortable heat. A fire in a public hostel had to be kept constantly alight, according to law.

‘We are,’ affirmed Fidelma.

‘Ah, then you must travel on a sad business. I heard of the High King’s death. And you are from the south, if your accent is not false.’

‘This is Fidelma of Cashel,’ Caol interrupted, indicating Fidelma’s social rank with some pride.

The hostel-keeper’s eyes widened as he regarded her. ‘I have heard stories of Fidelma of Cashel — a famous dálaigh.’

‘I am Fidelma,’ she said simply. ‘And a dálaigh.’

‘You and your companions are most honoured guests, lady,’ the man said. ‘I will call my wife and there shall be drink and food upon the table shortly. Water will also be heated soon.’

He made to leave but Fidelma stayed him. ‘We came across Magh Nuada,’ she said.

‘Oh yes? Of course, that is the main road from the south-west,’ said the hostel-keeper, puzzled by the solemn way she spoke. ‘Was something amiss?’

‘Some miles back we came upon a church and its buildings destroyed by fire, and the two Brothers of Christ who tend it were dead upon the ground and all their animals driven off.’

‘Dead?’ echoed the man in bewilderment. ‘I know those Brothers of the Faith!’

‘They were slain,’ explained Caol.

The man’s eyes widened and then he shivered. ‘These are troubled times. I have heard that there are dibergach who are active in the west. The High King’s death has come at a difficult time.’

‘Dibergach?’ queried Eadulf.

‘Brigands, marauders — tribeless and desperate men, Brother Saxon, who plunder and rob at will.’ The man had either identified Eadulf by association with Fidelma or had recognised his accent.

‘Are you telling us that there are robbers who would attack a church and kill clerics?’ Eadulf was horrified.

‘I have heard stories from the west,’ the innkeeper repeated. ‘There are groups of them who cling to the old religions, so attacking Christians does not worry them. But they have never come this far east before.’

‘You say that you have not been troubled by them before?’ asked Caol.

‘This is a brugaid under the protection of my chief, the noble lord Tóla. They would not dare rouse my chief’s enmity by destroying any one of his public hostels. He has but to stretch out his hand … his reach is long and vengeance swift.’

‘Who is your chief?’ asked Fidelma.

‘This is the land of the Cairpre,’ replied the innkeeper.

‘But I thought …’ Eadulf was about to point out that it had been the chief of the Cinél Cairpre who had killed the High King, but a look from Fidelma stopped him.

‘It is just that the church is so close to here and we had no time to bury the poor religious who were slain there,’ Fidelma said quickly. ‘We placed their bodies in the underground food store so that scavengers would not disturb them. But they should be buried properly.’

The hostel-keeper was in agreement.

‘In the morning, I shall send my sons to acquaint my chieftain with this news and see that men are sent to give burial to those unfortunates.’

‘That is good.’ Fidelma smiled briefly in thanks.

‘You mentioned that you have heard of similar raids in the west,’ Eadulf pressed. ‘What is known about these robbers — these dibergach, as you call them? Who are they and who is their leader?’

The man shrugged. ‘I only hear stories from passing travellers like yourselves. No one knows who they are — perhaps they are escaped hostages, daer-fuidir — the unfree ones who have committed great offence to their clans and should rightly be working to restore their rights and freedoms. Perhaps they have banded together to live a life without the law. That is all we know. However, the fact that they are raiding on the Plain of Nuada is worrying news.’

There was not much else to learn from the hosteller and so, after they had eaten and refreshed themselves, they retired to bed so they could be up again at first light. The hosteller and his sons, the young men who worked as stable lads, had their horses already saddled and waiting by the time the small party had broken their fast and were ready to leave. Inthese public hostels, food and beds were provided free for up to three days, as part of the obligations of hospitality on a local chieftain. After three days, another arrangement had to be reached between guests and host. They left with the further assurance from the hosteller that he would take care of the bodies of the slain religious.

The final day’s riding was easy. It was a bright morning with pale blue skies and a pastel sun. However, a chilly wind was blowing from the north almost directly into their faces. They rode north-east along the banks of the great River Bóinn for a while and, while it was still daylight, they came within sight of the distant hills over which spread the great walled complex of the palace of the High Kings at Tara.

The highway had led over several rivers and streams, for the stately Bóinn was fed by a myriad of such watery arteries rising in the surrounding high ground. Now, within a few kilometres of Tara, Fidelma remembered there was one more crossing through a marshy area in which the waters were like a spidery web that finally emerged into the Bóinn, which lay some long distance away on their left. Indeed, it came back to her that the last river was called the Scaine from the word that meant a cleaving or dispersal. But she knew that the bridges and the road to Tara were good and well-kept so the journey should be straightforward.

They moved downward through wooded country and emerged onto the banks of a small stretch of water. A well-constructed wooden bridge led across it into more thickly wooded countryside which consisted of close growing evergreens so that the onset of winter had not dispelled the darkness of the forest behind.

‘The hills of Tara rise behind this stretch of trees,’ Fidelma informed her companions with some relief. ‘We can rest soon.’

As she led the way onto the bridge, Fidelma suddenly noticed a crouching figure who appeared to be washing something in the river on the far bank, close by the end of the bridge. It appeared to be a bent-backed old woman in torn clothing and a wild mess of once-white hair. A poor old country-woman washing some clothes, was the thought that came to mind.

She had almost reached the far bank when the crouching figure straightened a little and gazed at her. A bony white arm protruded from the ragged clothing and a finger pointed directly towards Fidelma.

‘Be warned, Fidelma of Cashel,’ came a sharp voice, almost like a screech. ‘You are not welcome in Midhe.’

Fidelma was so surprised that she jerked the reins of her horse anddrew up sharply, causing some consternation among her companions. She gazed at the dishevelled figure, frowning.

‘Do you address me, old woman?’ she asked.

There was a rasping sound that Fidelma realised was meant as laughter.

‘Is there another Fidelma of Cashel, another who is a Sister of the Usurping Faith that blights our land? Be warned, I say, and return from whence you came.’

Caol had clapped a hand to his sword but Fidelma motioned him to be still.

‘You know my name, old woman. May I know yours?’