The line of cowled monks, preceded by a single religieux bearing an ornate metal cross, moved slowly, almost sedately. Heads bowed, hands hidden in the folds of their robes, they were chanting a psalm in Latin. Behind them, at a short distance, came a similar number of cowled nuns, also with heads bowed, joining in the chant on a higher note and harmonising with the air to make a descant. The effect was eerie, echoing in the confined space.
They moved to take positions on either side of the courtyard, standing facing a wooden platform on which stood a strange construction of three upright poles supporting a triangle of beams. A single rope hung from one of the beams, knotted into a noose. Just below the noose, a three-legged stool had been placed. Next to this grim apparatus, feet splayed apart, stood a tall man. He was stripped to the waist, his heavy, muscular arms folded across a broad, hairy chest. He watched the religious procession without emotion; unmoved and unashamed of the task that he was to perform on that macabre platform.
Fidelma was on her knees before the platform, held down by two viciously grinning women. One she knew by instinct was Abbess Ita of Kildare, who had caused her to leave that religious house, while the other was Abbess Fainder, the evil head of the abbey of Fearna. They held her in a strong grip, and even though she tried to struggle Fidelma found herself unable to move. She was forced to look up at the grim apparatus and executioner.
Then two strong religieux came forward, dragging a young man between them. He, too, was forced to his knees before the platform.
‘Eadulf!’ she cried as she recognised him. But his escort also held him tight so that he could not look at her.
Then a third man came forward holding a baby in his arms. It was handed up to the waiting executioner, who began to move forward towards the noose.
‘Help us, Eadulf! For God’s sake, help us!’
In her dream, Fidelma knew that she was screaming, but suddenly she came awake, moaning and struggling against the bonds that still tied her hands and feet. She was bathed in sweat.
There was a grey light seeping in at the window. She lay still for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts and rationalise the dream. She wished she could wipe her face of the perspiration that stood there.
The faint whinny of a horse came to her ears. She presumed it came from the stables but she heard movement below and voices were whispering. She rolled over to try to listen. Why would the Uí Fidgente be whispering? Suddenly, her heart began to beat faster. Could Colgú have worked out that she was being held somewhere and tracked her down to the hunting lodge at the Well of Oaks? Was there someone out there intent on her rescue? She uttered a quick prayer that it might be true.
Then there was a noise outside and the door opened. The harsh voice of Cuán came to her ears.
‘It must have been some wild animal making the horses restless. I can see no one.’
She felt a sudden black despair. For a moment she had been full of hope. There was some laughter downstairs.
‘Then we’d best be off. No one is looking for us now. Let’s take the woman and get back to our own country.’
‘I’ll saddle the horses,’ replied another voice. ‘Crond can bring the woman.’
Something else caught Fidelma’s ear now; there was a soft sound of scrabbling on the roof above her. Below she heard the door of the lodge open and then an agonised yell as something fell.
Cuirgí’s voice yelled: ‘Crond, get the woman. Quickly!’
Footsteps began to ascend the stairs rapidly just as a dark figure swung in through the shattered glass of the window and dropped on to the floor.
Crond burst in through the door, his sword ready. The figure rose, a sword appearing in his hand as if by magic. Fidelma gasped as she recognised him.
‘Conrí!’ she gasped, but the name went unheard as the blades of the two men clashed in a noisy exchange. The room was too confined for a sword fight but the blows were deadly as the two men sought to kill or injure each other. Crond made a series of rapid thrusts at his opponent’s torso. Had any blow landed, it must have been mortal. But Conrí was obviously not war chief of the Uí Fidgente for nothing. He parried each thrust and then pressed his own attack while Crond paused to rethink his strategy.
A swift thrust drew blood from Crond’s upper arm and seemed to anger him. In his fury he dropped his defence, for he raised his weapon for a blow leaving his right side unguarded. He looked almost comical in his surprise as Conrí’s sword sank deep between his ribs. He dropped his weapon, staggered back and then slowly collapsed on to the floor.
There was a brief silence. Then, down below, Fidelma became aware of shouting. A strange voice called up: ‘The lodge is ours, Conrí!’ Then Conrí had sheathed his sword and was cutting her bonds with a knife.
‘Fidelma! Are you injured? Are you all right?’
Fidelma could, at first, only nod as she massaged her wrists. The bonds had cut deep into the flesh, leaving harsh marks around them and her ankles.
‘How came you here, Conrí?’ she managed to ask at last.
The war chieftain gave her a grin. ‘Have you forgotten that we planned to meet here, lady?’
She smiled at his bantering tone. ‘But not in these circumstances,’ she returned in kind.
‘True indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Our story is simple. We did as I told you we would and went through the valley of Bilboa and waited for the chieftains at Crois na Rae. When they didn’t turn up, I decided to post half my men to cover the mountain passes, in case they went that way, and then to come back to make our rendezvous with you here. Because we waited a while, we could not reach here last evening, but came on through the night to arrive at dawn.’
‘How were you warned of the presence of the chieftains?’
Conrí shrugged. ‘I was more concerned with encountering your brother’s warriors, seeing that Colgú’s whole kingdom could be raised against us. So we approached the hunting lodge cautiously, leaving our mounts behind in a copse at some little distance. I was about to reconnoitre the stables when I spotted Cuán. I knew something was wrong.’
‘So how did you know where to find me?’
‘I told my men to cover the main door and then I climbed up to the roof. I saw you through the window. One of the chieftains went out through the main door and I think one of my men shot him. So I had to come through the window. I barely had time to regain my balance before Crond came bursting in.’
‘You knew him?’ queried Fidelma.
‘He was an Uí Fidgente chieftain. Am I not warlord of the Uí Fidgente? I know them all.’
‘Is he dead?’ Fidelma asked, coming slowly to her feet and looking down at Crond.
‘He is dead,’ confirmed Conrí, ‘but for the harm he has done, I shall not weep at his graveside.’
One of Conrí’s men came up the stairs to see if all was well, and informed them that Cuán had taken an arrow in the shoulder but would recover while Cuirgí had been captured without a struggle.
‘And your baby, lady, where is he?’ asked Conrí.
Fidelma shook her head. ‘That I do not know, my friend. They denied any knowledge of abduction or involvement in abduction. If this was not a plot by some Uí Fidgente to have these chieftains released, then I am at a loss to understand it.’
‘It is as I said, lady,’ Conrí replied. ‘Unless there is some rebellious group that we do not know of, the Uí Fidgente disclaim all knowledge of this matter. We have made our peace with your brother and we will remain at peace with him.’
Fidelma stamped her feet a little to restore her circulation. She looked up at Conrí.
‘Are you prepared to come with me back to Cashel and make that statement? To return these chieftains to my brother’s authority as a sign of good faith?’