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land. But as a man she found him weak and vacillating, one minute attempting to impress, another hopelessly inadequate – as at their confrontation with Wulfric.
    Fidelma gave a mental shake of her head. So much for Taran. There were other things to think of now. New sights, new sounds and new people.
    She gave a startled ‘oh’ as she walked around a corner and collided with a thickset monk.
    Only the fact that he reached out strong hands and caught her saved her from stumbling backwards and falling.
    For a moment the young man and woman stared at each other.
It was a moment of pure chemistry. Some empathy passed from the dark brown eyes of the man into Fidelma’s green ones. Then Fidelma noticed the tonsure of Rome on the young man’s crown and realised that he must be one of the Roman delegation and probably a Saxon.
    ‘Forgive me,’ she said stiffly, choosing Latin to address him. Realising that he still grasped her forearms, she gently pulled away.
    The young monk let go immediately and took a step back, fighting the confusion on his face. He succeeded.
    ‘Mea culpa,’ he replied gravely, striking his left breast with his right clenched fist, yet with a smile flickering behind his eyes.
    Fidelma hesitated and then bowed her head in acknowledgment before moving on, wondering why the face of the young Saxon intrigued her. Perhaps it was the quiet humour that lurked in his gaze. Her experience with Saxons was limited but she had not credited them with being a humorous people. To meet one who was not dour and brooding and took insult at the slightest thing, which, in her experience, all Saxons did, fascinated her. In general, she had found them morose and quick-tempered; they were a people who lived by the sword and, with few exceptions, believed in their gods of war rather than the God of Peace.
    She suddenly became annoyed with her thoughts. Odd that a brief encounter could stir such silly notions.
    She turned into the part of the abbey made over for the accommodation of those visitors attending the debate, the domus hospitale. Most of the religious were accommodated in several large dormitoria, but for the many abbots, abbesses, bishops and other dignitaries a special series of cubicula had been set
aside as individual quarters. Sister Fidelma herself had been lucky to have been allocated one of these cubicula, no more than a tiny cell eight feet by six with a simple wooden cot, a table and chair. Fidelma supposed that she had the intercession of Bishop Colmán to thank for such hospitality. She opened the door of her cubiculum and paused in surprise on the threshold.
    A slightly built, good-looking woman rose from the chair with extended hands.
    ‘Étain!’ exclaimed Sister Fidelma, recognising the abbess of Kildare.
    The Abbess Étain was an attractive woman in her early thirties; the daughter of an Eoghanacht king of Cashel, she had given up a world of indolence and pleasure after her husband had been killed in battle. Her star had risen rapidly, for she was soon acknowledged to be possessed of such skill and oratorical knowledge that she had been able to argue theology on the same footing with the archbishop of Armagh and all the bishops and abbots of Ireland. It was in tribute to her reputation that she had been appointed as abbess of St Brigit’s great foundation at Kildare.
    Fidelma moved forward and bowed her head, but Étain took both her hands in a warm embrace. They had been friends for several years before Étain had been elevated to her present position, since when neither had seen the other, for Fidelma had been travelling through Ireland.
    ‘It is good to see you again, even in this outlandish country.’ Étain spoke with a soft, rich soprano voice. Fidelma had often thought it was like a musical instrument which could sharpen in anger, become vibrant with indignation or be used sweetly, as it was now. ‘I am glad your journey here was safe, Fidelma.’
    Fidelma grinned