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coloured by occasional bursts of groundsel and the white flowers of shepherd’s purse. Here and there were strawberry trees. The silence magnified the slightest sound … such as the lazy flap of a grey heron’s wings as it circled the boats with its long sinuous neck seemingly arched in curiosity before turning indolently and unconcerned in the sky and heading further along the coast for a quieter fishing ground. And now she could hear the rhythmic slap of oars of the approaching boats on the still waters.

    She sighed deeply. Such peace was a cloak, a disguise to reality. There was work to do.
    ‘I’ll go back aboard the merchant ship and make a more detailed examination, Ross,’ she announced.
    Ross gazed at her with anxious eyes.
    ‘With respect, I would wait awhile, sister,’ he suggested.
    A frown of annoyance crossed her features.
    ‘I do not understand …’
    Ross cut her short by gesturing with his head towards the approaching two craft.
    ‘I doubt that they are coming to visit me, sister.’
    Fidelma wavered, still not understanding.
    ‘One boat carries the bó-aire from his fortress while the other carries the Abbess Draigen.’
    Fidelma raised her eyebrows in quiet surprise and gave the occupants of the approaching boats a more careful attention. One of the boats was being rowed by two religieuses with a third sitting upright in the stern. She appeared a tall, handsome-faced woman, even taller than Fidelma herself, muffled in a robe of fox fur. The other boat, racing towards them from the fortress, was rowed by two sturdy warriors and in the stern of that boat sat a tall, black-haired man, wrapped in a badger fur cloak and his silver chain of office proclaimed him to be someone of position. He kept glancing anxiously towards the other boat and, with barks of command, which could be discerned even from this distance, was urging his men to greater efforts as if wishing to reach the barc of Ross first.
    ‘They look as though they are engaged in some race,’ observed Fidelma dryly.
    Ross’s voice was humourless.
    ‘I think their race, as you put it, is to reach you first. Whatever the purpose, I do not think there is a spirit of friendship between them,’ he replied.
    It was the boat from the abbey which reached the side of the barc first and the handsome religieuse scrambled up with
surprising agility, reaching the deck just as the second boat came alongside and the tall man, with his shock of black hair, came springing onto the deck after her.
    The woman, whom Ross had identified as the abbess of the community, was straight-backed as well as tall. Her cloak was flung back to reveal her homespun robes. The red-gold craftsmanship of her crucifix showed that she had not quite decided to relinquish riches for a vow of poverty and obedience, as it was of ornate workmanship and studded with semi-precious gems. Her face was autocratic with red lips and high cheekbones. She was in her mid-thirties and her face spoke of a beauty strangely intermixed with a coarseness of expression. Her eyes were dark and flashed with a hidden fire which was clearly anger as she glanced over her shoulder towards the black-bearded man, hurrying behind her.
    She spied Ross at once. It was evident that she had met him before. Fidelma knew that Ross was a frequent trader along the coast of Muman and would obviously have done business with the religious community here.
    ‘Ah, Ross. I recognised your ship the moment it entered the inlet,’ her voice did not carry any warmth of greeting. ‘I trust that you have come directly from Abbot Brocc of Ros Ailithir? I anticipate that you have brought me the Brehon in answer to my request?’
    Before Ross could respond, the tall, black-haired chieftain joined her, puffing slightly in his exertion. He was into his forties, a handsome-faced man with pleasing features whose eyes bore a striking resemblance to the flashing dark eyes of the abbess. Fidelma noticed that he wore a pleasant, though