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secret,” Caitríona replied.
    Alethea snuggled closer, enjoying the mysteriousness of it. “Is the royal family there?”
    â€œNo,” replied Cait. “I have to see someone.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œA man called Renaud de Bracineaux.”
    â€œIt is to do with Papa’s death?”
    â€œYes.”
    Cait turned once more to her meditation on the day’s events. As soon as the ship had been secured in its new berth in Bucoleon Harbor they returned to the church where Duncan was lying on his bier in the sanctuary, waiting for burial. She allowed Haemur to accompany them—more for Haemur’s sake than for her own. The old sea captain had liked and admired her father very much, and it would have been a needless cruelty to have denied him the consolation of attending the burial.
    So, leaving Olvir and Otti to look after the vessel, they had proceeded to the church where they were received by the abbot himself and conducted into the darkened sanctuary where burned but two tall candles, one either end of theshroud-wrapped corpse. Upon entering the chapel, Alethea had begun to cry. Once they were seated, the cleric had read a simple service for the dead, at the conclusion of which the body of their father had been taken up by the brothers and carried to a small burial ground in a portion of the garden outside the monastery scriptorium where a fresh grave had been dug in the dry, rocky earth.
    After a lengthy prayer in Greek, Cait said another in Gaelic, whereupon Alethea, weeping uncontrollably now, had placed on the body a handful of summer flowers and foliage wrapped in a length of white silk. The monks lowered the body into the hole and, while the abbot read a passage from the holy scripture, the brothers slowly filled in the grave. Haemur stood with bowed head and folded hands, and both Caitríona and Alethea knelt as the monks heaped the dirt high over the bundled corpse, tamped it down, and then planted a new-made wooden cross in the mound.
    The service concluded, the abbot led the little funeral party to the refectory where they were given some wine and honey cakes with raisins to refresh themselves. Afterward, Cait delivered the monetary gift they had agreed upon—together with an additional sum for the grave to be continually maintained—whereupon the chapter’s infirmarer was summoned. A stoop-shouldered man of middle age with sad dark eyes, the infirmarer presented the women with a small box made of lead; a chi-rho had been embossed in the soft metal, and the container sealed with solder.
    â€œI thank you, brother,” Cait said, accepting the small casket from his hand. She then thanked the abbot for his care and kindness, and the three were conducted by the porter through the gates of the monastery and out into the light of a hot summer day. Cait moved out into the sun-bright street in a thoughtful mood, Haemur solemn and silent beside her.
    Alethea, who had dried her tears, walked along the tree-lined streets with a buoyant step. The great tide of sorrow which surged over her unexpectedly now and again had ebbed for the time being, and she felt light-headed—as if the heavier humors had been drained off, and now she might float away on the breeze. “It was a fine funeral,” she observed, once they were through the gate. “Do you not think so, Cait?”
    â€œIt served a purpose.”
    â€œ You could have done better, I suppose.”
    Not wishing to argue with her sister, she merely said, “Papa wished Padraig to conduct his funeral.”
    â€œOh,” said Alethea. She had not thought of that. “Of course.”
    A Célé Dé funeral was a very sacred and special occasion, combining not only prayers and hymns, but stories, songs, and special readings. It culminated in a feast at which family and friends gathered at the banquet table to celebrate the life of the departed and share their fondest recollections. The feast