Peter Tremayne - Dancing With Demons

‘Did he answer your question?’ Fidelma asked, still seated on horseback with Gormán, sword defensively drawn and on the alert, at her side.

Eadulf shrugged. ‘A single word … something about blame, I think. Perhaps he meant that he was to blame. I don’t understand.’

Caol looked around vigilantly. ‘We can do nothing here, lady, and this could be a dangerous place to linger in.’

‘This was where I meant us to stay this night.’ Fidelma glanced anxiously at the darkening sky. ‘It will be dusk before long.’

‘I would venture that this would not be the best place to spend a winter’s night, lady, for there is no shelter now.’ Caol looked at the smoking buildings. ‘And whoever did this might well return. I’d rather be in the open country than surrounded by woods.’

‘I remember that there is an inn further along the road,’ Fidelma said tiredly. ‘About half an hour’s ride from here. If it still stands, we can seek shelter there.’

Eadulf gestured at the two bodies. ‘Should we not bury them?’

‘It would be dark before we could do so, my friend,’ Caol replied practically. ‘It is my duty to protect my King’s sister and you, her husband. We must ride together now.’

As if joining in at an appropriate moment to remind them of the dangers, a wolf began to howl in the gathering dusk.

Caol frowned. ‘We will inform the innkeeper and ask him to request his chieftain to send men back here when it is daylight.’

‘There might not be much left to bury if we leave these poor souls exposed overnight,’ Eadulf commented.

‘The least we can do is remove the bodies to a more sheltered spot,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘There was an uaimha, as I recall, near that buildingwhere they stored food.’ She indicated the smouldering ruins that had once been the guesthouse.

‘A cave?’ asked Eadulf, trying to translate the word uaimha.

‘An artificially made underground chamber,’ explained Fidelma.

Caol walked across and peered among the debris. It took a few moments to locate the entrance into the souterrain, which was a common method of storing food and provisions in a cooler temperature. Eadulf and Gormán lent a hand to carrying the bodies of the slain religieux to the chamber and depositing them inside, securing it against the attentions of preying animals.

Fidelma drew a sigh and glanced apprehensively at the approaching dark. ‘At least they will be safe awhile,’ she said. ‘May God have mercy on their souls. Now, we must try to reach the inn before nightfall.’

They remounted and resumed their journey along the road. Fidelma led them in a canter, for the sooner they reached the warmth and safety of the inn the better. Across the plain, the howling of wolves echoed distantly in the gathering dusk.

By the time they saw the light of the inn, after rounding a bend as the road wound over the shoulder of a hill, night had already fallen. At least the light was welcoming. All inns and hostels had a lantern raised at night on a tall pole set on the faithche, the area just outside the entrance to the inn, to guide travellers to it from a distance. It was with some relief that they trotted into the yard, the sound of their arrival disturbing a sleepy cockerel that set up an indignant cry which seemed to agitate the brooding hens. The door opened and a thickset man emerged and surveyed the visitors with an appraising glance before turning and calling to someone inside the inn. Then he took a step forward.

‘Welcome, strangers. You are late abroad. Do you seek shelter for the night?’

Fidelma dismounted as two young men appeared at his side. ‘We do, indeed,’ she replied. ‘But first water to bathe after our travel and food to eat.’

‘Then enter and be comfortable.’

The others also slid wearily from their mounts and took their saddlebags, allowing the two young men to 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.’