Dancing With Demons

Fidelma, smiling, declined. ‘It will not be necessary.’

‘Then take Irél, at least, for he has the authority of the Fianna behind him.’

She shook her head decisively. ‘As we started out, so we’ll go on, Cenn Faelad. It is better. But an authority from you might be welcome. Will you provide me with a wand of office on your behalf, in order that I can act accordingly when we get to the territory of the Cinél Cairpre?’

‘Willingly.’ Cenn Faelad gestured to Abbot Colmán. The latter moved to a locked cupboard that he opened with a key, and withdrew a wooden box. The box was locked also and another key opened it. From it he took a small wand of white rowan wood on which was fixed, at one end, a small upraised golden hand — the symbol of the Ui Néill. He handed it to Cenn Faelad solemnly.

The tánaiste held it out to her.

‘By this wand you derive authority from the High Kings of Tara and speak with my voice,’ he intoned the ancient formula.

Fidelma took the symbol and bowed her head slightly, remembering that the last time she had received such an emblem was from her brother when she had gone to Gleann Geis — the valley of the shadow.⁴ It seemed so long ago.

‘I will not dishonour it,’ she said quietly.

‘And may it not dishonour you,’ Cenn Faelad replied. Then, more brightly: ‘When do you set out?’

‘At first light in the morning. We might be able to reach Delbna Mór by evening tomorrow.’

‘Have you good horses? If there is anything I can provide, you need only ask.’

‘We have everything we want.’

‘Then, success to the journey and may we see you back safely as soon as possible.’

‘Tonight we shall have a special feasting,’ Abbot Colmán added, ‘to wish you well on the journey.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The territory of Delbna Mór lay mainly along the east bank of the dark waters of the River Daoil, which fed through a tiny loch that was named Diseart after the hermitage that had been built there. The ecclesiastical centre was located in picturesque wooded territory. Apart from the wooden church among a group of similarly constructed buildings, there was little else to distinguish it from the various settlements that were scattered throughout the hilly countryside.

Fidelma and Eadulf, with Caol and Gormán behind them, rode up the track towards what appeared to be the main building beside the wooden church. As they did so, they became aware of groups of religious emerging from the buildings in twos and threes.

Caol coughed discreatly to attract Fidelma’s attention.

‘Don’t worry,’ she called quietly to him. ‘I have noticed.’

Eadulf then realised that every one of the brethren was carrying a weapon of some description and their expressions were certainly not welcoming.

‘They don’t seem very friendly,’ he muttered.

‘Perhaps they are just very frightened,’ replied Fidelma as they came to a halt at the main building.

A short, stocky man, red of face and breathless, came forward and stared at them. He was middle-aged and was not armed. However, he was quickly joined by a young man who took a position by his side and his hand nervously fingered a sword.

‘What is your business here?’ the stocky man demanded harshly. There was neither customary greeting nor invitation to dismount.

Fidelma regarded him in silence for a moment and remained seated on her horse. Then she glanced at his companion with the sword before returning her gaze to the speaker.

‘Salve,’ she greeted him in the Roman fashion, making the words of the new Christian greeting in Latin seem ironic. ‘Peace on you, brother, and upon this community.’

The man frowned uncertainly. ‘And to you — peace,’ he muttered, as if irritated at being reminded of his manners. ‘What do you seek here?’

Fidelma sighed deeply before addressing him. ‘I assumed that we had come to a Christian community. What else could we be seeking but the customary hospitality?’ she began.

‘But you are not,’ he argued. ‘Although two of you are dressed as in the manner of religious, your companions are warriors. So I doubt if you are just wanderers preaching the Faith and seeking Christian hospitality and alms.’

He was clearly hostile and the rest of the brethren were regarding them in a sullen and watchful manner. The young man at the side of the speaker held his sword as if waiting for the word to leap forward to attack. Eadulf was aware that the other members of the religious, each grasping staves and other objects that could be used as weapons, were beginning to form a semi-circle at their backs, although not yet closing in. He hoped Fidelma would do nothing precipitous.

‘You have sharp eyes. We have come from Tara seeking Bishop Luachan,’ she replied, remaining calm.

‘Luachan is not here,’ was the uncompromising response.

‘Then tell us where he is and we will bother you no further,’ Fidelma said.

‘All I can tell you is that he is not here,’ replied the other doggedly.

‘That is not helpful,’ she observed quietly.

‘I cannot be responsible for the effect of the information that I give you,’ snapped the rotund man. ‘I can only give you the information.’

Caol could not restrain himself.

‘Do you know to whom you speak?’ he roared. ‘This is Fidelma of Cashel, the dálaigh requested by the Great Assembly of the five kingdoms to investigate the assassination of Sechnussach. Shame on you and on your manners!’

The rotund man’s eyes narrowed a little and an expression of uncertainty crossed his face.

‘Of Cashel? Are you the sister to King Colgú? Fidelma the dálaigh?’

‘This is she,’ replied Caol belligerently before Fidelma could answer. ‘Therefore, I suggest-’

Fidelma held up a hand to still his outburst, then reached into her saddlebag and took out the wand of office, which Cenn Faelad had given her.

‘Do you recognise this?’

The man’s eyes goggled. ‘I do,’ he said.

‘Know then that this is my authority. We come here meaning you no harm. There is no need for your men to finger their weapons so anxiously. We wish to speak with Bishop Luachan, that is all.’

The man held her gaze for a while and then glanced at Eadulf and then at Caol and Gormán. He turned to his companion and nodded a dismissal. The younger man reluctantly lowered his sword and waved to the others to disperse.

‘Please,’ the stocky man said, his voice moderating from belligerency to apology, indicating that they should dismount, ‘forgive this poor welcome but we live in fractious times. Indeed, we live in fear of our lives. But, let me greet you properly. I am Brother Céin and I am steward to Bishop Luachan and, in his absence, am in charge of our poor community.’

Fidelma introduced her companions as they dismounted.

Brother Céin greeted each before continuing: ‘Have you ridden directly from Tara? Let me take you into the hostel and offer you refreshment.’

Fidelma indicated her assent and fell in step with him, while the others followed; the young man with the sword announced that he would see to their horses and have them rubbed down, watered and fed.

‘So, is it true that Luachan is not here?’ she asked. ‘And why are you and your brothers in fear of your lives?’

Brother Céin shrugged. ‘It is true the bishop is not here,’ he confirmed, ‘and the why and wherefore