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also see that you have an abundance of warriors, unusual in a small clan,’ observed Fidelma.
    Orla was deprecating.
    ‘None are professional such as those that you have at Cashel. Our clan is too small. Each of our warriors has other tasks to fulfil. Artgal, for example, is a blacksmith and has a small farm. Each man, in turn, serves when needed to ensure our safety against potential enemies. Though, for the most part, we are secured by nature’s decree.’
    ‘An enclosed form of life,’ Eadulf sighed. ‘How many dwell under the rule of Laisre?’
    ‘Five hundred,’ Orla admitted.

    ‘It occurs to me that if you have lived here for generations, surely it restricts your growth as a people?’
    Orla frowned trying to understand Eadulf’s oblique point.
    ‘What my brother in Christ is saying,’ intervened Fidelma, conscious of his line of thought, ‘concerns the matter of incestuous marriage.’
    Orla looked surprised.
    ‘But incest is forbidden by law.’
    ‘Surely in a small community, locked within this valley for years …’ Eadulf began to explain.
    Orla understood and stared at him in disapproval.
    ‘The Cáin Lánamna states that there can only be nine types of marriage and this we adhere to. We are not as primitive as you would paint us, Saxon. Our bards keep strict genealogies and we have the services of a matchmaker who travels on our behalf.’
    ‘Who administers the law among you?’ interrupted Fidelma intrigued.
    ‘My brother’s Druid, Murgal. He is our Brehon as well as spiritual guide. His reputation is without equal in this part of the country. You will soon encounter him for he will negotiate for Laisre. But we delay, let us proceed to my brother’s ráth.’
    Fidelma glanced surreptitiously at the woman. She began to respect Orla’s firmness of mind and easy authority, although she disagreed with her philosophy.
    The road they were taking led from the gorge slightly downhill to a large sprawl of granite boulders. From their midst, standing by the roadside, there arose a large carved statue of a male figure, almost three times as big as a man. It was sitting cross-legged, one leg slightly tucked under the body. From its head great antler horns rose up. Around the neck, was a hero’s gold torc. The arms were held up so that the hands were on a level with each shoulder. In the left hand, a second hero’s torc was grasped while in the right hand a long snake was held, the hand gripping the serpent just behind the head.
    Eadulf’s eyes almost started from their sockets as he viewed the great pagan idol.
    ‘Soli Deo gloria!’ he gasped. ‘What is that?’
    Fidelma was unperturbed.
    ‘It is Lugh Lamhfada – Lugh of the Long Hand – who was worshipped in ancient times …’
    ‘And still is, here,’ Orla reminded her grimly.
    ‘An evil apparition!’ breathed Eadulf.
    ‘Not so,’ Orla said sharply. ‘He is a god of light and learning,
renowned for the splendour of his countenance; the god of all arts and crafts; the father of the hero Cúchulainn by the mortal woman Dechtíre. The god whose festival we celebrate at the feast of Lughnasadh which is next month when we harvest our crops.’
    Eadulf crossed himself swiftly as they passed the impassive seated figure whose grey stone eyes stared at them indifferently.
    They rode silently along the valley road towards the distant ráth. Eadulf found himself confirmed in his first thoughts that this was a wealthy enclave. The mountains which gave protection from the winds also encouraged crops to grow while, at the same time, by catching the rain clouds, causing the valley to be fertile. Here and there, the heavy rainfalls over the millennia had formed little patches of bogland but, all in all, it was fecund country with trees bearing fruits as well as an abundance of grain crops. Sheep, goats and cattle held to the high ground pastures.
    As they passed, now and then, people stopped to stare at them; some greeted Orla with familiarity