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roof.’
    Fidelma looked at him almost pityingly. ‘The man, as you rightly said, was a professional archer. He would not panic in that manner but would keep his weapons by him. I think that he meant us to find those arrows.’ Another thought suddenly struck her. ‘But if he were such a professional archer, why did he not strike his targets?’
    She stood up in her agitation, closing her eyes as if to recall the scene.

    ‘Colgú suddenly halted his horse and bent forward to greet me. Had he not done so he would have been killed. The mystery is why the archer missed with his second shot when Donennach was a sitting target?’
    ‘I suppose even a well-trained professional may have a bad day,’ offered Eadulf.
    Colgú leant forward eagerly to Fidelma.
    ‘Are you suggesting that the Uí Fidgente had a hand in this matter? That they engineered this to blame Cashel so that there would be a continuance of the war?’
    ‘Before you blame the Uí Fidgente,’ Eadulf pointed out, ‘don’t forget that it was Gionga who cut down the assassins. He would hardly have done so if they were his own people serving him in some plot.’
    ‘What I am saying is that there are many things that need to be explored before we come to a decision,’ Fidelma said. ‘We also discovered that this archer’s companion was a former religieux. He had once worn the tonsure of St Peter but had let his hair grow in these last few weeks. Furthermore, his hands showed ink stains which demonstrated that he was a scriptor . And, finally, he was carrying this …’
    She took out the ornate silver crucifix and held it out to her brother.
    Colgú took it and examined it with a frown.
    ‘This is a fine piece of work, Fidelma. It is very valuable. I doubt it was made in this kingdom. The designs are wrong.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Yet I swear that I have seen this before. But where?’
    Fidelma was interested. ‘Try to remember, brother. And also answer why would a former brother of the Faith turn assassin and be carrying such a valuable piece?’
    Colgú examined his sister’s features thoughtfully.
    ‘Do you believe that there are hidden depths to this matter?’
    ‘I do. There is something that is not right,’ she replied. ‘There is no easy solution from the information we have at hand.’
    There was a knocking on the door and it opened at Colgú’s invitation.
    Donndubháin entered and spoke without waiting to be invited to do so by Colgú. It was his right. He did not look happy.
    ‘The Prince of the Uí Fidgente is demanding an audience with you. His captain Gionga has persuaded him that Cashel is guilty of some plot to assassinate him.’
    Colgú uttered an expressive oath. ‘Can we delay him? We have not yet reached a conclusion on this matter.’

    Donndubhain shook his head. ‘The prince is awaiting you in the Great Hall as we speak. I dare not even rebuke him on his manners for he is in a bad mood.’
    Protocol laid down that even a Prince should await an invitation before entering the Great Hall of Cashel which was where the King received official visitors and guests. Protocol also demanded that guests wait in the anterooms before being invited to an audience with the King.
    The King rose carefully, taking care not to exert pressure on his arm. He could forgive the emotional stress that drove the thoughts of protocol from the mind of his wounded guest.
    ‘Then we had better go to see what it is that the Prince of the Uí Fidgente demands,’ he said with resignation. ‘Come; you, too, Eadulf. I may have need of your stout Saxon arm.’
    When they entered the hall, the Prince of the Uí Fidgente was already seated. There was a sweat on his face and his posture looked restless. Certainly the wound, flesh wound or not, was making him uncomfortable. Behind him stood a grim-faced Gionga. There was no one else in the hall except Capa of the King’s bodyguard standing behind the throne.
    Donennach started to rise but Colgú, who was not