come, the man replied: ‘A long journey from the north,’ and nothing more. Ferloga took the view that the man was exhausted from his travels and, indeed, he noticed that the newcomer was swaying slightly and the dark skin under his eyes was a trifle puffy. So the innkeeper did not press the late arrival further but conducted him to a small room above the stairs, and withdrew.
Now, in the light of dawn, Ferloga was still wondering about his mysterious guest.
His plump wife sniffed in irritation as she gave the cauldron of porridge, still warming over the fire, a stir to stop it sticking.
‘Rather than sit there trying to make guesses, why don’t you go and rouse the man. It’s long past sun up. All the other guests have risen, broken their fasts and continued on their way. I do not plan to stay here all day making sure the porridge does not burn. I need to go berry picking.’
Ferloga sighed and slowly rose from his comfortable seat by the side of the fire. Lassar, was right, of course. The business of the inn could not wait for ever and it was unusual for guests to delay so long in the morning.
Fidelma of Cashel halted her horse on a rise of the road, which ran from Cluain Meala, the Field of Honey, the settlement on the banks of the broad River Siúr, where she had spent the night, north to her brother’s fortress. She had spent a week away from Cashel in attendance at Lios Mhór, the great abbey and settlement south beyond the mountain range of Mhaoldomhnaigh. Although she had slept well the previous night, Fidelma felt exhausted after a week’s hard work. She was a
She frequently found it tiring to sit in a stifling court and listen to the complaints and arguments of those who appeared before her. Often it was a waste of time and the plaintiffs should have been advised that their claims, more often than not, were born from pettiness and malice and without foundation in law. But it was her task and duty to sit patiently and decide whether there was a case to be answered and whether it should be brought before a more senior Brehon. And, after a week in the law courts at Lios Mhór, she felt drained and irritable and was delighted when she could finally mount her horse and set off across the mountains back towards her brother’s royal fortress at Cashel.
Turning in her saddle, she watched her companion trotting up towards her. The youthful warrior who joined her was Caol, the commander of her brother’s guard. He had been designated to act as her escort on the trip.
Fidelma smiled as he reined in his mount beside her and gestured with an outstretched arm. ‘That’s Ráth na Drínne ahead. I could do with refreshment at Ferloga’s inn before we continue on to Cashel.’
Caol inclined his head briefly. ‘As it pleases you, lady.’ Those who knew Fidelma as sister to Colgú, King of Muman, always used the respectful form of address rather than her ecclesiastical one of Sister. Caol added: ‘We did leave Cluain Meala without breaking our fast and I could do with something to fill the emptiness in my stomach.’
There was a slight note of rebuke in his voice as he reminded Fidelma of her eagerness to be off even before daylight that morning. However, Caol knew why Fidelma was anxious to return to Cashel. She had been a week away from her little son, Alchú, and Caol appreciated her anxiety as a mother. He knew that she must be feeling an additional anxiety because her husband Eadulf, the Saxon, had left Cashel over a week before on an embassy to the abbey at Ros Ailithir on behalf of Ségdae, Abbot of Imleach and chief bishop of Muman. How long he would be away on his embassy, which involved matters of ecclesiastical importance, was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he would be gone several weeks. That being so, Caol had tried not to complain about her general impatience and quickness of temper during this last week.
Fidelma was smiling almost apologetically at him, as if she read his thoughts.
‘I know, I know,’ she said softly. ‘Had I not been in such a hurry to be on the road to Cashel this morning, we could have broken our fasts and had something warming to keep out the chill on the journey. But Ferloga’sinn lies ahead of us and we can soon rectify the lack of nourishment caused by my impatience.’
She turned and nudged her horse forward towards the distant rise of Ráth na Drínne.
It was not long before they trotted into the yard before the inn, causing the chickens and geese to start an angry chorus at being disturbed. Before they began to dismount, the door of the inn swung open and Ferloga himself came hurrying out. The first thing that Fidelma noticed was his pale features and concerned expression.
‘What ails you, Ferloga?’ she asked, frowning down at him.
‘Lady …’ The innkeeper’s expression seemed to brighten as he recognised her. ‘Thank God that you have come.’
Fidelma raised an eyebrow in query as she dismounted and faced the elderly innkeeper.
‘You appear distraught, Ferloga. What is the trouble?’
‘One of my guests, lady,’ replied the man. ‘He was late to rise and so I went up to wake him. I have just found him in bed — dead.’
Caol had dismounted and was taking Fidelma’s reins from her. ‘Dead?’ He suddenly looked interested. ‘Murdered?’
Ferloga looked shocked. ‘Murdered? I hadn’t thought …’
‘Put the horses in the stable, Caol,’ Fidelma instructed before turning to the shocked innkeeper. ‘Come, let us examine this body. Who is this guest, anyway?’
As he turned to lead the way back into the inn, Ferloga contrived to shrug. ‘I’ve no idea, lady. He arrived late last night and told me nothing. He was elderly, that is all I know.’
As they entered the inn, Lassar came forward anxiously. ‘Ah, it is good that you are here, lady. This could be bad for us if the kin of the guest claim we have been neglectful in our duties towards him and somehow contributed to his death.’
Fidelma knew exactly why the elderly couple were concerned. The laws for innkeepers in the
Fidelma gave the old woman a smile of reassurance. ‘Where is the body?’ she asked Ferloga.
He turned to ascend the dark wooden stairs that led to the upper floor. ‘This way,’ he said.
The body lay on its back in the bed. Ferloga had already opened the shutters to allow light to flood into the room. Fidelma wished that Eadulf was with her. Having studied medical matters for a period in Tuam Brecain, the renowned Irish medical college, his knowledge would have been invaluable. She bent down and allowed her eye to traverse the body of the old man who lay there. There were two things she noticed immediately. The facial muscles seemed twisted into a grimace, as if a last moment of pain had been frozen on the features. That death could not have taken place much before dawn was clear because the flesh was not really cold. The second thing she noticed was that the pale lips were blue, unusually so. Disguising her distaste, she drew back the covers and quickly ascertained that there were no marks of physical violence on the body. Replacing the covers, she stood up, turning to face the anxious Ferloga.
At that moment, Caol came hurrying up the stairs into the room and cast a look at the corpse.
‘Can I help, lady?’ he asked.
Fidelma shook her head. ‘Take a closer look and see if you agree with me. I believe the old man suffered a fit.’ She used the word
Caol glanced down, nodding. ‘Blue and twisted lips and a convulsion of the muscles. I have observed the like before, lady, on the battlefield. Twice now I have seen men work themselves up into such a rage that, suddenly,
