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that I am disobeying the customs of our land. I have allowed you time to prepare an appeal. That is what you sought.’
    The servant re-entered with the writing materials and the King scribbled swiftly on the vellum. Fidelma took time to recover her voice.
    ‘Are you giving me no more than twenty-four hours? Is there justice in that?’ She spoke slowly, trying to stop her surging anger from erupting.
    ‘Whatever justice it is, it is still justice,’ replied Fianamail vindictively. ‘I owe you no more.’
    For a moment Fidelma was silent, trying to think of some other appeal she could make to him. Then she realised that there was nothing more she could say. The young man held the power and she had no greater power to overturn his desire for vengeance.
    ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘If I find the grounds for an appeal, will you halt the execution pending the arrival of Barrán, the Chief Brehon, to hear the case?’
    Fianamail sniffed slightly. ‘ If you find grounds for an appeal and they are considered worthy by my own courts of justice, then I shall allow a delay until the Brehon Barrán can be summoned. Those arguments of grounds for such an appeal must be substantial and not merely suspicions.’
    ‘That goes without saying. Will you also allow me to go without let nor hindrance where I will during these next twenty-four hours in pursuit of my enquiries?’

    ‘It is covered by this.’ The King held out the vellum to her. She did not take it.
    ‘Then you must append your seal of authorisation showing that I act with your consent and authority.’
    Fianamail hesitated. Fidelma knew a piece of vellum giving consent for her to ask questions was worth nothing without the King’s seal.
    The King wavered, once again undecided as to how he should act.
    ‘The killing of a techtaire is a serious offence before the Chief Brehon and High King,’ observed Fidelma firmly. ‘The death of a King’s messenger, whether by murder or by execution, has to be answered for. It is wise that you should authorise me to investigate the matter.’
    Fianamail finally shrugged and took from the writing box a piece of wax, melted it over a candle onto the vellum and pressed his signet ring firmly into it.
    ‘You now have that consent. It cannot be said that I did not allow every possible avenue to be explored.’
    Fidelma was satisfied and took the authorisation.
    ‘I would like to see Brother Eadulf immediately. Is he being held here in your fortress?’
    To her surprise, Fianamail shook his head. ‘No, not here.’
    ‘Where then?’
    ‘He is held over at the abbey.’
    ‘What is he doing there?’
    ‘It was there that his crime was committed and there he was tried and sentenced. Abbess Fainder has taken a personal charge of this matter, for the victim was one of her own novices. It was in the abbey that the Saxon stood trial and where he will be executed tomorrow.’
    ‘Abbess Fainder? I thought the Abbey of Fearna came under the jurisdiction of Abbot Noé?’
    ‘As I told you, Abbot Noé is now my spiritual adviser and confessor …’
    ‘Confessor? That is a Roman concept.’
    ‘Call him a “soul friend” if you like to stick to the quaint old-fashioned ways of the Church. I have given him jurisdiction on religious matters throughout my kingdom. The Abbey of the Blessed Máedóc is now under the guidance of Abbess Fainder. Her stewardess is actually a distant cousin of mine, Étromma.’ He suddenly seemed apologetic. ‘A poor branch of the family with whom I have few dealings but who, I am
told, is good at running the day-to-day affairs of the abbey. However, it is the abbess herself who has demanded that the Penitentials be used to guide us in our Christian Faith as well as in our daily lives and to be the instrument of the Saxon’s punishment.’
    ‘Abbess Fainder?’ Fidelma reflected. ‘I have not heard of her.’
    ‘She has but lately returned to this kingdom from several years’ service in