look for?’
The woman’s voice was scornful. ‘Of course. Have I not waited a lifetime for this? Are you prepared?’
‘I know my part as you do your own. We must be away from here before daylight.’
‘The Old One knows the way. She will guide us. We must not be caught. If anything happens, you are aware of what must be done?’
‘I am,’ he replied grimly.
She disappeared whence she had come without a further word.
He trod noiselessly to the dark oak door at the far end of the corridor. Then he stretched out to insert the key … and turned it slowly. The lock was indeed well-oiled, and made not the slightest sound. A turn of the handle, a slight push and the door opened a fraction. The man felt a second of relief. He listened: in the darkness beyond, he could hear nothing. Stepping stealthily into the gloom, he slipped the key into the purse that he wore at his belt and stood for a moment, back against the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
The room was lit by moonlight. The clouds seemed to have moved on, leaving the pale glow to permeate through the window and spread itself over the bed on which the recumbent figure lay.
The High King appeared to be asleep, stretched on his back.
A look of satisfaction formed on the face of the man. In one quick motion, he drew his knife, its blade sharp like a razor, and moved rapidly across to the side of the bed. Barely pausing, he plunged the knife down towards the High King’s exposed throat. The severed jugular spurted a little blood as he moved the knife across the throat like a butcher slaughtering a lamb. It happened so fast that there was not even a movement of the features of his victim. The assassin doubted whether the sleeper even knew what had happened.
The killer stepped back, still holding the knife in his right hand, a thin smile of triumph on his lips.
He was just about to turn away when a high-pitched shriek of terror echoed through the chamber. His head jerked up. On the far side of the room, a door had opened and the figure of a young girl stood there. She was naked and held her hands to her cheeks in a stance of obvious shock and horror. She screamed again and ran out, slamming the door shut behind her.
For a second the assassin stood aghast. Should he pursue her, or turn for the door by which he had come? Almost immediately, he was aware of shouting and the sound of running feet. Her screams had aroused the servants and the guards. There would be no escape. He knew then what he had to do. There could be no surrender. He felt one moment of regret but there was a greater will than his which compelled him to obey his orders. Raising the hand with the dagger …
A few moments later, the door flew open and Lugna rushed in, his sword drawn. His companion, Cuan, followed, holding a lantern.
It was too late.
The assassin was slumped against the bed of the High King, blood spurting from his chest. He was still alive and but the light was dying in his eyes. Lugna bent down, restraining the urge to finish him off.
‘Why?’ he demanded sharply of the man.
The murderer stared at him with a dull gaze for a moment. Then the pale lips moved. A word was whispered which Lugna stretched forward to catch. There was a gasp and the assassin toppled sideways onto the floor, staining it with one last outpouring of blood.
Lugna rose to his feet, his face showing his disgust. He took the lantern from his companion and looked beyond the assassin’s body to the figure on the bed to assure himself that the victim was beyond help.
Cuan glanced curiously down at the body on the floor. ‘What did he say?’
Lugna shrugged. ‘Something about blame. I think he meant that he was accepting the blame for the crime.’
His companion laughed shortly. ‘That was stating the obvious.’
There was a continued shouting in the corridor and the noise of people running hither and thither, and some began crowding in. Lugna turned towards the door, telling them to stay back. As he did so, Cuan suddenly noticed a small bracelet by the side of the dead assassin; it was a chain from which silver coins hung. It looked valuable. He picked it up and turned to Lugna, but his comrade had not noticed for he was trying to prevent people entering. One or two of them held oil lamps in their hands. Someone was shouting for the High King’s physician. Cuan’s hand closed over the trinket.
‘Too late for that. The High King is dead,’ Lugna informed those at the door, as he sheathed his sword. ‘And the assassin is dead also, but not by my hand.’
Then Irél, the commander of the Fianna, the High King’s bodyguard, appeared, pushing through the alarmed servants.
Lugna stiffened as his superior’s gaze swept the scene with an aghast expression. The man’s eyes alighted on the body of the assassin, slumped on the floor by the bed, and he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
‘It is Dubh Duin, chief of the Cinél Cairpre!’
Lugna had not recognised the man but now he turned with curiosity, holding the lantern over the dead features. By its flickering light he saw that the assassin had been correctly identified, and he whistled softly in disbelief.
‘He was of the Uí Néill, of the same family as the High King,’ Lugna said nervously, turning to Irél. ‘Can this have been some family blood feud? Or does it signal insurrection?’
The commander of the Fianna was noncommittal but he was clearly worried by the same thoughts.
‘We must send for Abbot Colmán, the chief steward, also the High King’s brother, Cenn Faelad. He is heir apparent and will now succeed as lawful King. He must be informed. Meanwhile, I shall order the Fianna to stand to arms until we know what this means.’
Lugna glanced once more at the still form lying on the bed.
Sechnussach, son of Blathmac of Sil nÁedo Sláine, direct descent of the immortal Niall of the Nine Hostages, High King of the five kingdoms of Éireann, was dead. If this were a blood feud, then the five kingdoms would soon be threatened with civil war.
CHAPTER ONE
Ferloga had been an innkéeper most of his adult life and was in the habit of boasting that he had seen all manner of guests — rich and poor, the arrogant and the humble. He had had dealings with kings and chieftains, religious of all descriptions, rich merchants, travelling players, farmers passing on their way to market and even beggars desperate for shelter. Ferloga’s proud claim was that no guest had ever tried to cheat him of his fee, for there were few of them that he was unable to judge; after a glance, he could tell what calling in life they followed and whether they were trustworthy or not. But, as the elderly innkeeper sat talking with his wife while she finished cleaning the utensils after the morning meal, he freely confessed to confusion. The guest who had arrived not long after nightfall on the previous evening had been an utter mystery to him.
A tall, thin man, almost skeletal, the pale parchment-like skin had stretched tightly over his bony features. That he was elderly was indisputable, but whether sixty or eighty years of age was impossible to discern. He had curious eyes, the left one made sinister by the white film of a cataract. His unkempt white hair seemed to tumble in all directions, thick and curly, ending around his shoulders. His neck reminded Ferloga of a chicken’s scrawny folds with a prominent bobbing Adam’s apple. A dark grey woollen cloak, which had probably once been white, covered the man from neck to ankles. He carried a long wooden staff with curious carving on it, and a leather satchel was slung from his shoulder.
At first Ferloga had thought that he was a wandering religious, for he certainly looked like one of the hermits that one infrequently encountered on the road, and it was clear that he had arrived on foot. However, once he loosened his cloak, the stranger displayed none of the usual symbolsof the New Faith but wore a curious necklet of gold and semi-precious stones which, Ferloga knew, no religious would ever wear.
The conversation had been unexpectedly short. Ferloga was used to some sociability from his guests but this elderly traveller merely demanded a bed. He even declined a traditional mug of
