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standing before her fire, hands clasped before her. Her face was grey and grave. Bishop Colmán was seated in the chair to one side of the fire as he had been seated on the previous evening. He, too, had an air of
solemnity, as if weighed down by a heavy problem.
    They both appeared almost too preoccupied to notice her entrance.
    ‘Mother Abbess, you sent for me?’
    Hilda seemed to pull herself together with a sigh and glanced at Colmán who responded with a curious gesture of his hand as if motioning her to proceed.
    ‘My lord bishop reminds me that you are an advocate of the law in your own land, Fidelma.’
    Sister Fidelma frowned.
    ‘That is so,’ she confirmed, wondering what was coming.
    ‘He reminds me that you have acquired a reputation for unravelling mysteries, for solving crimes.’
    Fidelma waited expectantly.
    ‘Sister Fidelma,’ went on the abbess after a pause, ‘I have great need of the talents of one such as you.’
    ‘I am willing to place my poor abilities at your disposal,’ Fidelma replied slowly, wondering what problem had arisen.
    Abbess Hilda bit her lip as she struggled to frame the sentences.
    ‘I have bad news, sister. The Abbess Étain of Kildare was found in her cell this morning. Her throat was cut – cut in such a manner that one is left with but one interpretation. The Abbess Étain was most foully murdered.’

Chapter Six
    The door opened unceremoniously while Sister Fidelma was still in a state of shock at the news. She dimly became aware that Colmán was struggling to rise from his chair and turned to see who could bring the bishop to his feet.
    Oswy of Northumbria entered the room.
    Events had moved quickly, too quickly for Fidelma to accept that her friend, her colleague for several years, and more recently her abbess, had been cruelly slain. She made a conscious effort to suppress the grief she felt, for the news had grieved her considerably. Yet grief would not help Étain now. Her mind was working rapidly. Fidelma’s training and talents were being called upon and grief would only cloud her ability. Grief could be given way to later.
    She tried to concentrate her thoughts on the new entrant into the chamber.
    Close up, the king of Northumbria did not seem as handsome as he had appeared from a distance. He was tall and muscular but his fair hair was a dirty yellowing grey and he was obviously approaching his three score years. His skin was yellowing and across his nose and cheeks the breaking of small blood vessels had caused bright red lines to weave across the skin. His eyes were sunken, his brow heavily creased. Fidelma had heard it said that every Northumbrian king had died a violent death in battle. It was an unfavourable heritage to look forward to.

    Oswy glanced around, almost with a haunted look, and let his eyes settle on Sister Fidelma.
    ‘I have heard that you are a dálaigh of the Brehon courts of Ireland?’
    To Fidelma’s surprise he spoke the language of Ireland almost as a native. Then she remembered that he had been brought up in exile in Iona. She realised that she should not be surprised at his command of her language.
    ‘I am qualified to the level of anruth.’
    Colmán shuffled forward to explain.
    ‘That means—’
    Oswy turned on him with an impatient gesture.
    ‘I know exactly what it means, lord bishop. One qualified to the level of anruth is representative of the noble stream of knowledge and can discourse on equal footing with kings, even with the High King himself.’ He smiled in self-satisfaction at the embarrassed bishop before turning back to Sister Fidelma. ‘Nevertheless, even I am surprised to find such a learned head on such young shoulders.’
    Fidelma suppressed a sigh.
    ‘I studied for eight years with the Brehon Morann of Tara, one of the great judges of my country.’
    Oswy nodded absently.
    ‘I do not question your qualifications and my lord Colmán has informed me of your reputation. You know that we have need of