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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 why
she 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