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have,’ confirmed Cass as they followed him. The warrior in Cass paused to draw attention to a matter Fidelma had neglected. ‘Our horses need a rub down and feeding, brother.’

    â€˜I will attend to your horses just as soon as I have conducted you to the abbot,’ Conghus replied.
    The doorkeeper of the abbey started to hurry with somewhat unseemly haste across the paved yard, through the complex of buildings, pausing from time to time to urge them to follow with as much speed as they could. Fidelma and Cass complied, however, with a more leisurely pace which was governed by their fatigue. The walk seemed interminable but, at last, having ascended the stairs of a large building, set slightly apart from the others, the aistreóir halted before a dark oak door and motioned them to wait while he knocked and disappeared behind it. Only moments passed before he re-emerged and, holding wide the door, gestured for them to go inside.
    They found themselves in a large vaulted chamber whose cold grey stone walls were relieved by colourful tapestries, each illustrating something of the life of Christ. A fire smouldered in the hearth and there was the smell of incense permeating through the room. The floor was carpeted with soft woollen rugs. The furniture was rich and the ornaments extravagant in their opulence. The abbot of Ros Ailithir did not appear to believe in frugality.
    â€˜Fidelma!’
    A tall man rose from behind a dark, polished oak table. He was thin, with a hook nose, piercing blue eyes, and his red hair was cut in the tonsure of the Irish church, shaven at the front to a line from ear to ear and the hair hanging long at the back. There was something about his facial appearance which, to the discerning eye, suggested a relationship to Fidelma.
    â€˜I am your cousin, Brocc,’ the thin man announced. His voice seemed to boom with a deep bass quality. ‘I have not seen you since you were a child.’
    The greeting was meant to be a warm one yet there was some false note in the abbot’s voice. It was as if part of his
thoughts were elsewhere while he was trying to summon a welcome.
    Even when he stretched out both hands to take Fidelma’s own in greeting, they were cold and flaccid and also seemed to belie the attempted tone of welcome in his voice. Fidelma had little recollection of her cousin from her exuberant childhood. Perhaps that was understandable for Abbot Brocc was at least ten or fifteen years her senior.
    She returned his greeting with a degree of studied formality and then introduced Cass.
    â€˜Cass has been appointed to assist me in this matter by my brother, Colgú.’
    Brocc examined Cass with an uneasy gaze, his eyes going to Cass’s throat where the warrior had loosened his cloak and it had fallen away to reveal the golden necklet of his office. For his part, Cass reached out with a strong grip to take the abbot’s hand. Fidelma saw Brocc’s facial muscles twitch at the power of the grip.
    â€˜Come, be seated, cousin. You also, Cass. My doorkeeper, Brother Conghus, tells me that you arrived with Sister Eisten and some children from Rae na Scríne. Eisten’s mission there comes under the jurisdiction of this abbey and so we are much concerned at what has happened there. Tell me the story.’
    Fidelma glanced to Cass as she slumped thankfully into a chair, relaxing for the first time in twenty-four hours in some degree of comfort. The young warrior picked up the invitation that her glance implied and quickly told the story of how they had found Eisten and the children at Rae na Scríne.
    Brocc’s face became a mask of anger and he reached up a hand to tap absently on the bridge of his nose.
    â€˜This is an evil business. I will send a messenger at once to Salbach, the chieftain of the Corco Loígde. He will have this man Intat and his men punished for this heinous act. Leave
this matter with me. I shall ensure Salbach hears of