Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

The snow flurries eased for a moment and she saw the dark outline of some buildings just a short way up the hill. She suddenly relaxed and smiled. The cow must be in one of the sheds, and the buildings indicated it was a hill-farm. That meant shelter, warmth and hospitality for the night. All she had to do was find the path that led upwards to the farmstead. It was not far away but the precipitous slopes were dangerous unless one followed a path. But it was a question of finding the path.

She slid from her horse and, leading it by the reins, began to walk slowly along the track, peering carefully at the ground and bordering embankment. It did not take her long to spot a depression through the snowy banks, that indicated where a path left the main track and wound up the hillside towards the buildings. Even then, Fidelma would not endanger her horse by returning to its back. She walked carefully forward, leading the animal upwards along the path. In this manner it was some time before she arrived at the buildings, which, by their outline, appeared to be a bóthan or large cabin, and a barn beyond that — containing a chicken run, by the sound of the angry clucking.

But the buildings were all in darkness and, apart from the sounds of the animals, there seemed an uncanny silence.

Fidelma paused and shouted: “ Hóigh! ”

The only answer was the cries of the animals. There was neither sound nor movement from the bóthan .

Fidelma took a step forward towards the door of the bothán and found that Aonbharr was tugging on the reins, pulling backwards. The sudden tug hurt her arm and she turned round in surprise. The horse’s eyes were wide, eyeballs rolling and nostrils flaring.

“Steady, boy, steady,” she coaxed, reaching out a hand to rub his muzzle. He calmed down a little, standing still but trembling. She peered round, trying to find what had upset the horse. She noticed a mound of snow before the door. Whatever lay beneath, she realized there was a dark red stain there. Blood! The mound was too small to be that of a human. She turned and led Aonbharr towards the barn, where she noticed there was a stretch of fencing and a rail. She secured the reins to the fence and turned back to the mound.

Bending down, she scraped some of the snow away. It soon became clear that it was the short, leggy body of a dog. It had a dense, wiry coat and wore a collar with a leash attached. When she tugged at it, Fidelma found the leash was also attached to a metal ring by the door. The dog was a terrier. Such a breed was commonly used to hunt small game in this area but they were also alert and courageous guard dogs. What was immediately obvious were the facts that someone had smashed the skull of the animal with a blunt instrument and that it had happened not very long ago, as the blood was not yet congealing.

Fidelma’s mouth compressed in a grim line and she rose to her feet, glancing around with eyes narrowed. There was no movement anywhere. Aonbharr stood patiently tethered. The cow was still plaintively lowing, the chickens clucking. As she turned towards the dark door of the bóthan she heard, once more, the nearby cry of a wolf.

Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders ready to face the unexpected, and moved towards the door. She raised her fist and hammered on it twice and paused. As she expected, there was no sound of movement, no answer. She lowered her hand to the door-catch and raised it. To her surprise — for she fully expected to find it locked or bolted — the door swung inwards into the blackness.

“Is anyone there?” she called, feeling a little foolish at the question.

She hesitated on the threshold a moment or so and took a pace inside. Within the curious twilight from the reflected snow outside, a gloomy half-light that permeated from the door and a single small window, there was little discernible. The chill was almost as bad inside as it was outside. She hesitated a moment before stepping towards the outline of a table where she could just make out an oil lamp.

From her shoulder she removed the strap from which hung her sursaing-bholg, her girdle bag, which she always carried on journeys. In it reposed various items, including her cior-bholg or comb-bag that contained toiletries which all women carried. But, more importantly, it was also where she kept her tenlach-teined, the means of producing “hand-fire”; a flint, steel and a tinder-box. As part of their training, warriors had to practise the art of swiftly lighting fires and Fidelma, growing up among those whose task was to guard her family — for was she not the daughter of Failbe Flann, King of Muman — she would often pass happy days being taught this art by kindly warriors until she was as adept at it as they were. Indeed, it did not take her long to ignite the tinder and light the oil lamp; it was a rough earthenware pot with a snout to support the wick.

Now she had a better light she took it in her hand and peered round the inside of the cabin. Its walls were of dry stone and its roof was of timber. It was poorly furnished. The stout wooden table, on which the oil lamp had sat, also had two earthenware bowls and wooden spoons nearby, as if in preparation for a meal. Two chairs were at the table. A cot stood with blankets near the far corner of the fireplace, which contained grey ash, but there was faint warmth coming from it. There was plenty of kindling and logs piled near the fireplace. A large lantern hung unlit over the fireplace, a sturdy type of lamp, whose wick was protected so that it could be used outside, even in a high wind. Also by the fire, to one side of the pile of logs, stood a hunter’s bow and a sheaf of arrows. Even as quickly as she made the examination, Fidelma knew that they were not of good quality workmanship, but of the sort a hill-farmer might make himself and use for hunting. Apart from an old wooden chest and some cupboards, there was nothing else in the cabin. Nor was there any indication of why or when the occupants had left, except that it was less than a day or so ago because the fire, with its smouldering ashes, could not have lasted much longer before dying entirely.

She stood, undecided. Then she became aware again of the whistling wind, saw the snow flurries beyond the door, and heard the bellow of the cow and the nervous whinny of her horse. Abruptly, she stirred herself into action. She went to the fire and placed some kindling on it, reaching for the small bellows. It took a minute or two before the kindling began to spark and flame and she was able to place a couple of large pieces of wood on it. Satisfied, she stood up and lit the heavier storm-lantern from the oil lamp, turned, and headed outside, closing the cabin door behind her.

She glanced sorrowfully at the dead terrier before passing on to the barn. Aonbharr gave a plaintive neigh, turning his head in her direction, as if comforted to see her again.

“First things first, boy,” she said, as if he could understand. She opened the barn door and passed in quickly, closing the door behind her, lest any of the animals escaped. The animal making the most noise was a large bay-coloured cow that turned mournful eyes on her and began to make a lowing sound. Fidelma saw immediately what the problem was: the cow needing milking as well as feeding. In another corner, two goats came towards her bleating. They were partitioned in a pen but it was clear they needed feeding, as did the half-a-dozen chickens squabbling in a run along one side of the barn.

She stood looking at them and shaking her head. Then she hung up the storm-lantern from a hook on one of the rafters, for the roof was very low and the barn no bigger than a small room.

“Very well,” she addressed them. “I’m not much good at this but …”