Cian had caught her eye immediately.
He was only a year or two older than she was. A young man of striking appearance; tall, chestnut-haired to the point that it was almost red. He was pleasantly featured, well-muscled, and his clothing spokeof some degree of rank. For the race, he was clad lightly in linen trousers and shirt, dyed with several colours, and wearing a short beaver fur-edged cloak of woven wool. He was astride a splendid stallion of magnificent physique which, like his rider, was chestnut in colour but with a white splash on its forehead.
Fidelma had not even noticed the other riders lined up with Cian. She stood staring up at him, strangely attracted by his youth and vitality. Some chemistry must have passed between them for his eyes flickered down, caught her gaze, held it for a second or two and then he smiled. It was a warm, open smile.
There came a yell of warning from the race director and a flag was raised. It fluttered above their heads for a brief moment and fell abruptly. Away thundered the horses to a roar of acclamation from the crowds.
‘What a gorgeous man!’ whispered Fidelma’s companion, Grian. Grian was slightly older than Fidelma and her best friend at the school of the Brehon Morann. She was a capable student but had a frivolous side to her nature and placed enjoyment above serious study every time a choice had to be made.
Fidelma flushed in spite of herself.
‘Who do you mean?’ she said, trying to sound casual.
‘The young man with whom you shared a smile just now,’ Grian teased her.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ protested Fidelma, colouring even more.
Grian turned to a small elderly man, who had been shouting encouragement to one particular rider.
‘Do you know who the riders are?’ she asked.
The man ceased his exhortations and raised his eyes to her in astonishment.
‘Now would I be placing a bet on the outcome of the race if I didn’t?’ he protested. ‘Names of the riders, their horses, and their form are the first things I find out before even setting foot here.’
Grian smiled eagerly. ‘Then perhaps you could tell us the name of that chestnut, with the white splash on its forehead, and who it is that rides her?’
‘The young man with the red cloak?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Nothing easier. The chestnut is called Diss …’
Fidelma entered the conversation with a frown. ‘Diss? But that means “feeble” or “weak”?’
The fellow tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘That’s because the horse is anything but feeble or weak.’
Fidelma was bewildered by this logic.
‘Who is the rider then?’ pressed Grian, not wishing to be sidetracked.
‘The man who rides it, owns it,’ replied the elderly man. ‘He is named Cian.’
‘A chiefs son, by the look of him,’ observed Grian slyly.
The man shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. He is a warrior, though. He serves in the bodyguard of the High King.’
Grian turned back to Fidelma with a look of triumph.
The cheers were getting louder and louder and they could hear the thunder of hooves coming closer. The course had nearly been completed, being circular in shape, and the riders were approaching the winning post.
Fidelma leant forward to see the result.
There was the big chestnut just behind the leader, a white mare, its rider leaning close along its neck. The cheers rose up as Cian and his horse, Diss, began to gain but they were just beaten by the white mare and its rider.
Fidelma found herself propelled forward, as the crowd surged to greet the winner. Then she found Grian hanging onto her arm and realised that her companion was pushing her forward as well as the momentum of the crowd. However, Grian was propelling her not towards the winner but towards where Cian was dismounting from his stallion.
‘What are you doing?’ cried Fidelma in protest.
‘You want to meet him, don’t you?’ replied her friend with self-confidence.
‘Not I …’ But before she could make a further objection she found herself arriving in the midst of a small crowd commiserating with the handsome young rider on being beaten by so fine a margin.
Cian was smiling good-naturedly and accepting their compliments. Catching sight of Fidelma and her companion he turned towards them with a broad smile. Her cheeks crimson, Fidelma dropped her eyes, feeling indignant that she had been manoeuvred into this embarrassing situation.
Cian hooked his reins over his arm and came forward.
‘Did you enjoy the race, ladies?’ he queried. Fidelma noticed immediately that he had an attractive tenor voice, full of resonance.
‘A great race!’ Grian spoke for them both. ‘But my companion here was wondering why your horse was called Diss. That’s whyshe insisted on coming to meet you,’ she added with malicious humour.
The rider laughed tolerantly. ‘He is called weak, but he is strong and anything but punny. It is a long story and perhaps you ladies will join me for refreshment after I have taken care of my stallion and have washed myself?’
‘I am sorry, but-’ Fidelma began, about to reject the suggestion, when her arm was jerked fiercely by her friend.
‘We would love to,’ Grian replied quickly with a smile which Fidelma found embarrassing.
‘Excellent,’ returned Cian. ‘Meet me in fifteen minutes at that tent yonder, the one with the yellow silk banner flying from it.’
He turned away, leading his horse off with people clapping him on the back as he passed. He seemed very popular.
Fidelma wheeled on her friend with a scowl of annoyance.
‘How could you?’ she hissed irritably.
Grian stood unabashed.
‘Because I know you. Of course you wanted to meet him! Don’t deny it. Rather than tell me off, you should be pleased to have a friend like me.’
Deep down, Fidelma knew that Grian was right. She had wanted to meet the handsome warrior …
The memories of that meeting came and went in an instant of time, hardly more than the blink of an eye, but crystal clear in her mind.
Now, in the darkness of the lower passageway of The Barnacle Goose, Fidelma stared at the tall man, lit by the rocking lantern, and felt the conflict of emotions almost overwhelm her. She barely noticed that he was clad in the robes of a religieux. He stood in the cabin doorway, balancing himself with one hand against the doorframe, his handsome face etched in a mass of chasing shadows from the lantern.
She realised that he looked older, more mature, and yet his features had barely altered. The years, if anything, had given more character to his pleasant, handsome looks and — she hated to admit it — giving him a greater attraction.
‘Fidelma!’ His voice was eager. ‘You here? I don’t believe it!’
It would be so easy to respond to that glorious smile. She fought the temptation for a moment and finally managed to keep her features expressionless. She was relieved that she had her emotions under control.
‘It is a surprise to see you here, Cian,’ she replied in measured tone. Then she added: ‘What are you doing on a pilgrim ship?’
It was as she asked the question that she suddenly realised he was clad in brown woollen homespun, with a bronze crucifix hanging from a leather thong around his neck.
Cian blinked at the cold, measured tone in her voice, starting back a little and then he forced a crooked smile. A bitter expression crossed his features, distorting their handsomeness.
‘I am on a pilgrim ship simply because I am a pilgrim.’
Fidelma eyed him cynically. ‘A warrior of the High King’s bodyguard, a warrior of the Fianna, going on a pilgrimage? That does not seem creditable.’