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is bad news, indeed. Cináed was a great supporter of our new chief, Donennach, and was one of his advisers.’
    The steward did not look unduly grief-stricken.
    ‘There are some here who think that this place has become cursed because of the surrender of Donennach,’ he said quietly.
    Fidelma’s mouth tightened as she identified the hostility in the steward’s tone.
    ‘Cursed?’ She made the word sound belligerent.
    ‘Perhaps it is the shades of past generations of the Uí Fidgente who lie buried here - perhaps they are released from their Otherworld slumber to come back and wreak havoc upon us for the misfortune brought on them?’

    Fidelma stared at the youthful steward in surprise. He seemed so reasonable and so matter of fact with his question. She could not tell whether he was serious or possessed of some perverse sense of humour.
    ‘As a member of the Faith, Brother, you should know better than to voice such superstitious nonsense.’
    ‘I merely articulate what many here are thinking. Indeed, what some have actually voiced already,’ the steward said defensively. ‘The abbey was built on an ancient pagan cemetery and perhaps we have angered the old spirits of the Uí Fidgente by our defeat?’
    ‘It seems that we have arrived at an opportune time,’ said Eadulf seriously. ‘We have come to save you Uí Fidgente from slipping back into fearful idolatry.’
    Only Fidelma recognised the tone of voice when Eadulf spoke in jest.
    Brother Cú Mara was about to respond in anger but then he turned away, speaking over his shoulder.
    ‘I would not keep Abbot Erc waiting, lord Conrí. As for the lady Fidelma and her companion, the abbot will doubtless expect you both to join him after the evening prayers and meal. Come, let me take you to the hospitium so that you may refresh yourselves after your travels.’
    Eadulf noted the use of the Latin term.
    ‘Do you follow the Roman rule here, Brother?’ he asked as they dismounted and followed the steward on foot, leading their horses, into the abbey complex.
    Brother Cú Mara shook his head immediately.
    ‘I perceive that you bear the tonsure of Rome, Brother Eadulf, but here we adhere to the teachings of our Church Fathers. Nevertheless, Latin is much in fashion in the abbey. Our scholars pride themselves on translating from the Latin texts. The Venerable Cinaed was keeping a great chronicle in Latin wherein he was recording the history of this abbey since its foundation by the Blessed Bréanainn.’
    Conrí had handed his horse to one of his companions, a taciturn warrior named Socht, and departed to find the abbot. The young steward fell silent as he guided the rest of the party through the abbey grounds, through buildings of various shapes and sizes that made up the complex, to a large wooden structure they presumed was the hospitium. Brother Cú Mara paused.
    ‘There are no other guests at the moment so the guest-house is all yours. Make yourselves welcome. Sister Sinnchéne is inside. She will attend to
your wants. I will come to collect you after evening prayers and take you to Abbot Erc’s chamber.’
    Without another word, the young steward turned and left.
    The warrior Socht and his companion took charge of the horses and led them away to the abbey stables.
    Eadulf pulled a face in the direction of the vanishing Brother Cú Mara.
    ‘I get the impression that that young man is not exactly pleased to see us,’ he commented.
    ‘Remember that we are in Uí Fidgente territory, Eadulf,’ Fidelma replied. ‘My brother was victorious in battle over them just over two years ago. Some people do not forgive and forget so easily.’
    Eadulf opened the door to the guest-house and ushered Fidelma inside. They entered a large chamber of red yew panels which, it appeared, was a general room where guests could rest before a fire. The sky was already darkening, for dusk came early on these cold winter’s days, but there was a cheerful fire crackling in a