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had been prattling on about the life of Declan as he preceded them up the hill. He was an intense young man, scarcely more than the “age of choice,” hardly out of his teenage. Even the steep climb did not seem to make him breathless or cause him to pause in his enthusiastic monologue.
    “He was one of the four great saints who preached in the five kingdoms of Ireland before the coming of the Blessed Patrick. They were Ailbe, the patron saint of our kingdom of Muman, Ciarán also of Muman, Ibar of Laigin, and Declan of the Déices of Muman. So we may boast that this kingdom of Muman was the first to convert to the New Faith…”
    Brother Ross was naively passionate as he began to enumerate the miracles of the saint, of how he raised people who died of the Yellow Plague. The pilgrims listened in a respectful and awed silence. Fidelma had assessed the dozen or so men and women who were trudging up the hill and came to the conclusion that she appeared to have nothing in common with them except a membership of the religious.
    They were now approaching the brow of the bare hill where the small oratory of gray granite stood. It was perched on the top of the round hump, surrounded by a low stone wall. From a distance, it had appeared a small speck of a building. As they drew nearer Fidelma could make out its rectangular dry-stone walls. It was scarcely thirteen feet by nine feet in dimensions and its steep sloping roof was in proportion.
    “This is where the earthly remains of the blessed saint repose,” announced Brother Ross, halting and allowing the pilgrims to gather around him by the gate of the low wall. “After the end of his arduous mission through the countryside he returned to his beloved settlement of Ard Mór. He knew he was not long for this world and so he gathered the people and the clergy around him and counseled them to follow in his footsteps in charity. Then, having received the divine sacrament from Bishop mac Liag, he departed this life in a most holy and happy fashion, escorted by a chorus of angels to the kingdom of heaven. Vigils were held and solemn masses celebrated, signs and wonders were seen, a conclave of saints gathered from all corners of the land.”
    Brother Ross spread one hand toward the oratory, his voice warming to his theme.
    “His earthly remains were escorted to this, his first little church, to be laid to rest within it. I will lead you inside. Only three may accompany me at a time for, as you can see, it is very small. In the oratory lies a recess in the ground in which is a stone-built coffin. This is the resting place designated by Declan himself at the bidding of an angel. His relics are there and great signs and miracles are worked through the intervention of the Blessed Declan.”
    He stood with bowed head for a moment while the pilgrims mumbled their respectful “Amens.”
    “Wait here for a moment until I enter the oratory and ensure we are not disturbing any worshiper. This day is holy to the saint and many people come to pray here.”
    They paused by the wall as Brother Ross instructed while he turned inside the enclosure and crossed to the lintel door and disappeared inside.
    A moment or two later, the young man burst out of the oratory, his face flushed, his mouth working yet uttering no sound. Sister Fidelma and the others stood staring at him in total surprise. The sudden change from quiet respect to such agitation was bewildering. For several moments, the young man could not utter a word and then they came out in a spluttering staccato.
    “Uncorrupted! A miracle! A miracle!”
    His eyes were wide and rolled as if he had trouble in focusing.
    Fidelma stepped forward in front of him, “Calm yourself, brother!” she demanded, her voice rising in sharp command to quell his excitement. “What ails you?”
    Brother Ross seemed finally to focus on her with his wide staring eyes.
    “The body of the saint… it is uncorrupted!”
    “What do you mean?” Fidelma demanded