Prophet of Blood

CHAPTER ONE

‘The Island of Oaks is not far past the next bend of the river. You will soon see the landing stage and the abbey buildings beyond.’

Duach, the boatman, was pointing with his right hand towards the river bank. His smiling features were in contrast to the name he carried, which meant ‘the melancholy one’. Not a moment passed without him making some humorous remark. Duach had been born and raised along this wide river, called An Abhainn Mór, the Great River. There was not an inlet, a salmon pool nor a trout run that he did not know. He recognised every area of the river’s midge-infested banks. He knew where otters and water voles would watch his boat as it slid pass on the currents. Now and then, he would glimpse badgers standing briefly on hind legs like sentinels watching for danger.

Above, in the great dark oak branches on either bank, wild cats contended for space with pine martens, who would sit scanning the skies with wary eyes for dark golden eagles and the smaller white-tailed sea eagles. If the pine martens descended to the forest floor to escape the winged predators, then there would be danger from another predator, the solitary red fox.

On both sides of the river, ancient oaks vied with one another to line the temperate river banks. Blackthorns broke through in isolated groups, forming copses as if in defiant bastions against the oaks.

Only now and then did the river travellers catch a glimpse of the hills beyond both banks. Although none was more than sixty metres high, from the river they appeared to be the equal of mountains.

Sometimes the human travellers were reminded of the one danger that might concern them in this great natural beauty: a predator as powerful and cunning as themselves. The lonely howl of a grey wolf summoning the pack for the hunt was often heard, rising in eerie resonance. Even armed with weapons and wolfhounds, humans often went in awe of these carnivorous opportunists.

Duach, in his knowledge of the countryside and its inhabitants, was not much in reverence of it. Instead he concentrated his mind on the harsh, unforgiving river from which he made his living. He knew every curve and point along the thirty-five kilometres of the broad waters from the great abbey of Lios Mór to the port of Eochaill, the town of the yew wood, standing on the shore, marking the entrance to the great grey seas beyond.

Duach had risen in his long wooden craft – his ethar – in order to haul down its single sail while his silent companion maintained the craft in mid-river with the use of a single oar. The boat was negotiating a right-hand bend in the river, sweeping round a headland on the western bank.

Having fastened the sail, Duach smiled down at his three passengers seated in the well of the river-boat.

‘We will soon be landing at the abbey. I trust you agree that it has not been a bad trip, lady?’ He addressed the red-haired woman, who was the leader of the three. She glanced up at him with sharp eyes. He was unsure whether they were green or blue. It seemed to depend on how the sun reflected on them.

‘Isn’t it said that any trip without incident must be a good one?’ she replied solemnly. ‘However, I’ll be happier when we reach our destination.’

The boatman laughed with good nature. ‘Do not the philosophers say that happiness is a way of travel and not a destination?’

There was a moment of silence before the woman shrugged. ‘It has been a good time to travel, master boatman,’ she observed, raising her head to the sky for a moment. ‘You have made our journey pleasant enough. Soon we will be entering the dark half of the year and then we will see changes that may not be good along this river.’

Duach, having folded the sail and secured it, sighed.

‘It is good that you chose this time to make your journey. The dark half of the year is always bad for travel.’

He saw a frown cross her face.

‘Unfortunately, events chose my time for me.’ Her voice was resigned. ‘It was not my choice that we take passage downriver.’

Duach was not certain how to respond. He knew that she was Fidelma, the legal adviser to her brother, Colgú, King of Muman, the largest and most south-westerly of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann. Duach also knew that the man who sat next to her was her husband, Eadulf, who came from the kingdom of the East Angles beyond the great seas. The third man, seated behind them, he did not know by name, but it was enough to see that he was young and had the build of a warrior. He wore the golden torc of the élite warrior bodyguard of the Eóghanacht kings around his neck. Astonishingly, this young warrior’s right arm had been severed just below the elbow, although he carried his shield and sword as if they were natural appendages.

Duach was hesitant, wondering whether he should make any further comment concerning the lady Fidelma’s trip. The Uí Liatháin and the Déisi territories stretched along both sides of the Great River, and only six months ago both clans were in alliance to march on Cashel in an attempt to overthrow the young Eóghanacht king. The attempt had failed and now the land was tense with an uneasy peace. Duach could not help feeling nervous with his passengers.

Apart from that, Duach had heard that Fidelma of Cashel was of a brittle temper, like most of the proud Eóghanacht nobles who had ruled the kingdom since time immemorial. Duach had his own pride; he was proud of being a free man; a ferryman, who had been boatman and guide to many distinguished nobles, abbots and churchmen. Such folk would often travel between Lios Mór and the seaport of Eochaill and vice versa, and would use his boat. He was proud that his honour price and reputation made him the confidant of many princes on their journeys.

‘If events dictated your choice to travel, then you may ascribe the decision to the Fates, lady,’ he ventured. ‘That being so, you are lucky that this day, and the river, turned out to be so mild in its temper. However, I share your misfortune of not having a choice as to when I must turn out to ply my ethar for trade along the river. It is the Fates that dictate whether I must run before the winds and ride the current of the river or whether I have to defiantly battle both the winds and the current. I have little choice. Each of us has to accept what the Fates allot to us.’

Fidelma stared at the boatman for a moment, her look darkening as she considered his familiarity. Then, abruptly, humorous lines appeared at the corners of her mouth.

‘You are right, Duach. We are all in the hands of destiny,’ she acknowledged with a deep sigh. ‘It is a nice autumnal day. The river is beautiful and there is always much to observe. So, it is a pleasant journey and we give thanks for your services in making it such.’

The long wooden craft was easing round the headland that marked the slow bend of the river, opening up to the stretch of water that reached to the island abbey. Here the river turned to the west, then sharply south. The current increased as it obeyed the dictates of the confining banks. The long narrow island of sturdy oaks, which Duach indicated, was almost overgrown so that the travellers could hardly spot the abbey buildings hidden among the trees. However, they could make out a broad landing stage, with a few small boats of light frames and hide skins bobbing up and down at their moorings. They became aware of a small group of men working on the quayside, unloading items from the small rivercraft.

Anchored in the river, a short distance from the landing stage, was a larger vessel. Its sails were furled and no one was watching from its stout decks. Duach noticed his passengers’ inquisitive glances.

‘That’s a Déisi merchant ship.’

‘And yet, it displays the battle standard of a war vessel.’ It was the one-armed warrior who spoke.

Duach frowned, wondering what to reply.

‘It is not unusual, whatever ship it is, Dego,’ Fidelma intervened. ‘We are almost in Déisi territory.’

Dego! Duach should have known the warrior, for who had not heard the name of the one-armed champion, who had recently become commander of the King of Cashel’s élite bodyguard? The warrior had been caught in an ambush and badly wounded. It had been Brother Eadulf, the husband of Fidelma, who had performed the operation to severe the infected part of the limb, using the medical skills he had learnt in the great medical school of Tuaim-Drecon in the north. Rather than accept what the Fates had dealt him, which would have destroyed most warriors, Dego had fought not only to recover from his injury but, once fit, to retrain and learn the warrior’s art again. Soon he could wield his sword with his left hand with the same dexterity as he had used his right. It was said he could still better an accomplished warrior with full use of his limbs. The stories about Dego were often told around the hearths of the river folk. Now Duach looked upon the warrior with an expression approaching reverence.

Eadulf, however, was examining the larger ship with puzzlement on his features.

‘You say the Déisi territory, a place called Eochaill, is on the western bank not far down from the abbey? But the abbey is in Uí Liatháin territory, isn’t it?’

‘The borders are not as simple as that,’ Fidelma replied. ‘There was a time when the Déisi were claiming this territory. The settlement of Eochaill became theirs, while the lands beyond the western bank remained Uí Liatháin territory.’

‘So what is a Déisi warship, bearing a warlike emblem, doing here?’ Eadulf asked.

Duach leant forward with a smile. ‘You will see several Déisi merchant ships in these waters. They are entitled to use the river. Eochaill is a port.’

‘What would they be trading with the abbey?’ Eadulf pressed. ‘Does the abbey produce anything?’

Duach shrugged. ‘Nothing much that I know of. Of course, it might be just that ships are needed for movement of people between the centres like Árd Mór and Dún Garbháin and the abbey. Who knows? Anyway, it should be of little concern now that we are all at peace again. The conflict ended six months ago.’

Duach had raised a small stag’s-head banner on the mast while he had been lowering the sail. The banner, no more than a pennant, was the emblem of the Eóghanacht dynasty and this proclaimed that a noble of the King’s household was on board.

When the abbot of Lios Mór had requested Duach to take some distinguished passengers on his journey downriver, including King Colgú’s sister, Fidelma, Duach felt he should find an Eóghanacht pennant to display on his vessel at the appropriate time. Someone on the wooden jetty must have spotted it, for a bell started to ring urgently. That the approaching vessel was seen as having no hostile intent was demonstrated by the men on the jetty continuing their tasks, unconcerned by its arrival.

‘It looks like you are to be officially welcomed,’ Eadulf smiled as he examined the people on the jetty. ‘It seems even the abbot has turned out to welcome you.’

‘That is not the abbot,’ corrected Fidelma. ‘I met Abbot Brocc and his steward when they attended the peace negotiations at Cashel six months ago.’

‘Why was Abbot Brocc at the conference?’ Eadulf asked, screwing up his eyes as he tried to recall the event.

‘Remember when the woman Sister Ernmas tried to assassinate my brother?’ Fidelma reminded him. ‘She claimed that she had been educated here in this abbey. Furthermore, seven hostile warships were allowed to anchor in the shelter here. They were full of Uí Liatháin warriors ready to march on Cashel. After the death of the Prince of the Uí Liatháin in the last skirmish, the abbot came to claim innocence of being involved. He denied that Ernmas had links to his abbey.’

‘Do you recognise this senior religieux?’ Dego asked, turning to the boatman.

‘I think that might be the scriptor, the librarian, of Dair Inis,’ Duach replied. ‘I don’t know his name.’

Fidelma and Eadulf concentrated their gaze on the group on the jetty.

‘There seem to be several women on the jetty, helping with the work,’ Dego pointed out.

‘I would be surprised if there were not,’ Fidelma replied. ‘The abbey is a conhospitae, a mixed house, although I am not sure in what proportions. The community consists of men and women wishing to dwell together in the service of the New Faith.’

‘Well, the scriptor wears the robes of a senior member of the community,’ Dego continued. ‘But I can’t see the abbot, or his rechtaire, his steward, coming to greet you, lady. That does you little honour.’ He sniffed with disapproval.

‘The stag rampant of my family might be thought inappropriate to honour,’ Fidelma returned dryly, indicating the pennant. ‘Someone would doubtless recognise the symbol and remember that we were in conflict six months ago.’

The current had accelerated them around the river bend. The contrary winds did not help them edge close to the shore, and Duach and his silent companion used their oars dexterously to keep the craft heading towards the landing stage. They turned the prow of the vessel slightly, so that it bobbed in a sideways motion until it gently thudded against the jetty. Duach rose to throw a mooring rope to those gathered there. In a moment or two the vessel was secured, and Fidelma and her companions were being helped out of the craft on to the wooden landing stage.

A thin, skeletal religieux, the one Eadulf had mistaken for the abbot, barely allowed them time to regain their balance after the long period seated in the boat before he hurried forward. He carried himself with an almost limping gait, one leg seeming longer than the other.

‘Deus sit apud vos,’ he greeted formally, but with a smile. ‘I am Brother Cróebíne and I welcome you to the Island of Oaks.’

‘Et vobiscum Deus,’ Fidelma returned solemnly. She ignored the curious gait of the scriptor and his emaciated appearance. ‘I am told you are the scriptor here.’

‘I have been scriptor here several years. One of my companions noticed that Duach’s boat was flying the standard of the Eóghanacht of Cashel. So who am I greeting?’

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, travelling with my husband and bodyguard.’

This seemed to surprise the librarian and his eyes widened slightly.

‘It is good to welcome you here, Fidelma of Cashel. Yet your visit comes as a surprise to us, lady. How may we serve you?’

‘A surprise visit?’ It was Fidelma’s turn to be puzzled. ‘But I thought that you were waiting for my arrival?’

‘Why would that be?’ frowned the librarian, glancing quickly towards Eadulf and Dego, who had followed her on to the wooden jetty. He moved forward to repeat the ceremonial greetings with a fixed smile before turning back to Fidelma. ‘We have not been informed of your coming.’

Fidelma was perplexed. ‘If you do not know, then we should be taken at once to see Abbot Brocc. It was he who sent for us.’

The expression on Brother Cróebíne’s face had become a curious mixture of bewilderment and … Fidelma was not sure. Could it be fear? He seemed to have become inarticulate.

‘Come, Brother Cróebíne,’ she said, irritated. ‘Take us to Abbot Brocc. The abbot should be informed that I have arrived. I received his message by the wagoner Eachdae when we were staying at Lios Mór, and it sounded urgent. We came by the fastest way.’ She gestured to the river. ‘So the sooner I see him, the sooner I shall know what he expects of me.’

It seemed Brother Cróebíne was rooted to the spot with indecision, in spite of Fidelma’s growing exasperation. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly a few times before he muttered an apology.

‘Forgive me, lady. I know nothing of this …’

It was Duach who broke this curious spell of indecision. The boatman came forward and touched his knuckled fist to his forehead.

‘I hope all is well, lady? I have to move on to Eochaill. If you no longer have need of our services, then Docht and I shall depart.’

‘We thank you for the transport from Lios Mór, Duach,’ Fidelma replied, while she signalled to Eadulf, who came forward and handed the ferryman some coins. Moments later they were watching the vessel pull away from the jetty, catching the current south, moving into the centre of the river as Duach and Docht hauled up the single sail. Fidelma smiled as she noticed Duach already taking down the Eóghanacht pennant from the mast.

‘And now?’ she said, turning to Brother Cróebíne.

The librarian hesitated a moment before giving a sigh.

‘I shall take you to the rechtaire of the abbey, Brother Guala.’ There was reluctance in the man’s tone.

Eadulf immediately took up their bags.

Fidelma was about to point out once again that she had asked to see the abbot and not the steward, but Brother Cróebíne had turned and was walking away. With a shrug, she followed as he led them from the wooden jetty, through the tree-screened bank of the island. Beyond this wall of oaks were the wooden buildings of the abbey. Dair Inis was built entirely from local material. The interior of the Island of Oaks had been cut to make a large clearing and the wood used to build a chapel, various living quarters and outbuildings. Some of the early abbeys built in such form were now being rebuilt in stone as their princes and abbots reflected on more lasting expressions of their roles. Eadulf noticed that there looked to be another entrance on the western bank, across the small rivulet that created the island. There was a major trackway through the rising hills and forests on this side. The abbey and its inhabitants appeared fairly well protected, like a small fortress.

Eadulf remembered that manuscripts were preserved in these wooden buildings. This would be a fine place in the summer, but during the winter months, without stone walls and fires, the precious manuscripts would not last long.

His train of thought was interrupted when a tall, auburn-haired man of erect stature emerged from the door of one of the nearby buildings. He was youthful, with pleasant features, in Eadulf’s opinion. He paused as he caught sight of the strangers and examined them curiously with dark brown eyes. He wore religious robes of even more refined quality than those of the scriptor. Even from a distance the visitors could see the silver chain around his neck from which was suspended a silver staurogram – the symbolic Tau-Rho – the earliest emblem of the Christian movement. The young man seemed to be in authority.

Brother Cróebíne turned towards him and almost bowed.

‘Salvete, Frater Guala.’

Brother Guala seemed to tower over the thin librarian as he stood carefully examining the group. There was a look of curiosity in his dark eyes. He first examined Dego, noting his golden torc, and also observing he had only one arm in spite of his warrior’s accoutrements. Then he glanced at Eadulf, noticing his Roman tonsure. Finally his gaze came to rest on Fidelma. His eyes hardened in recognition. He pressed his lips together as if he found difficulty in making up his mind how to proceed. Suddenly, he sighed, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to expel all the breath from his body.

Brother Cróebíne intervened before the man spoke.

‘Brother Guala, this is Fidelma of Cashel, newly arrived here with her husband, Eadulf, of the kingdom of the East Angles. I believe that you and Abbot Brocc met them when you were summoned to Cashel, following the end of the brief conflict that—’

Brother Guala made a quick dismissive gesture with his hand.

‘Fidelma, sister of King Colgú,’ he said quietly, in a modulated and pleasing baritone. ‘Excipium te cum tuis partibus, domina.’

‘I thank you for your welcome,’ Fidelma replied, forgoing the Latin ritual. ‘I remember you, Brother Guala. Those were bad days; days that should not have been.’

A flicker of annoyance showed on his features, but disappeared almost before she had registered it.

‘Hopefully those bad times have vanished,’ he agreed.

‘So, perhaps you will be good enough to take us immediately to Abbot Brocc? Brother Cróebíne seems reluctant to fulfil this request.’

For a moment it seemed as if a cold wind had sudden immobilised the steward. Then he glanced swiftly at the thin, anxious face of the librarian. Fidelma, observing, tried to reason what signal was passing between them.

‘Is there something amiss?’ she queried sharply.

The steward shifted his balance and then tried to form a smile.

‘Perhaps we should arrange some accommodation for you first. Some rest and refreshment after your long journey? You came by boat along the Great River?’

‘Perhaps it would be better to announce our arrival first to the abbot,’ Fidelma countered. ‘Abbot Brocc urged us to come to see him at the earliest opportunity. It sounded urgent.’

It was clear from the steward’s expression that the abbot’s request was news to him.

‘If we could see the Abbot Brocc,’ Fidelma pressed with emphasised patience, ‘I am sure that he would then explain to us, and also to you, why he needed us to come here.’ By now she was finding her temper hard to control.

But the steward was stubborn. ‘Did Abbot Brocc explain anything in his message?’ he asked.

‘As the abbot did not confide in you, then I demand that we should be taken directly to him so that he might explain,’ she replied, raising her voice to meet her exasperation.

‘He explained nothing else to you?’ insisted Brother Guala.

Fidelma drew a heavy breath and mentally counted a few seconds. ‘He said only that he had urgent need of my services as a dálaigh and advocate of—’

‘He said no more?’ The steward cut her off sharply. ‘He said nothing about a deogaire?’

Fidelma stared bewilderedly at Brother Guala. ‘Why would he mention a soothsayer when he requested my visit?’

Eadulf had flushed with indignation, misinterpreting what the steward meant.

‘My wife, the lady, is not a soothsayer. She is a respected advocate of the law; she is a dálaigh, not some fortune-teller. There are plenty of people that travel with fairs who claim to tell fortunes for the price of a meal.’

Brother Guala shifted uncomfortably. ‘I did not mean to imply that the lady Fidelma was sent for because she was considered to be a mystic. Perhaps I should have said prophet.’

‘You should explain what you mean.’ Fidelma now realised there was something serious behind the remark.

‘Abbot Brocc told me that he had encountered a woman who had made a prophecy,’ Brother Guala explained. ‘It caused him much concern and I wondered if it were the reason why he sent for you.’

Fidelma was not amused. ‘I have dealt with enough prophets and fortune-tellers to say that, if it was a reason, then it must be some sort of witticism of Abbot Brocc. No one takes them seriously. So, finally, let us go and see him and find out what really troubles him.’

The steward’s gaze once more rested on his librarian for a moment as if trying to get support for a decision. Fidelma saw his troubled expression.

Then he went on, ‘This female prophet was encountered by Abbot Brocc over a week ago. The prophecy caused the abbot much stress.’

‘I fail to see what you are talking about,’ Fidelma finally snapped. ‘Your abbot requested my presence to consult with me. He said nothing about a soothsayer or prophetess, or that she had caused him any distress.’

‘The woman foretold the death of Abbot Brocc.’ The steward’s words were cold and without emotion.

Fidelma’s eyes widened. ‘Someone has threatened the life of Abbot Brocc? Is that why he sent for us to advise him?’

‘The prophetess was specific. She said that he would be dead before the celebration of the feast of the Blessed Monessa was ended.’

‘Monessa?’ Eadulf looked puzzled. ‘Who was Monessa?’

The steward looked almost pityingly at him, but it was Dego who replied. He had been standing so quietly that they had almost forgotten his presence.

‘I heard the story of Monessa when I was escorting the Chief Brehon to a town near Loch Aininn. Monessa was the beautiful daughter of a northern Uí Néill noble. Her father had been converted by Patricius the Briton. He persuaded the girl that she should also be baptised into the New Faith. The story was that Monessa was so pure that, when she rose from the baptismal waters, she fell dead.’

‘That does not sound like a nice story,’ Fidelma said.

‘Why not?’ Brother Cróebíne replied. ‘Her spirit had been summoned by God because of its intense purity. That is why the women of this abbey celebrate her feast day this very month.’

‘I see.’ Fidelma exhaled impatiently. ‘Are you saying that this so-called prophetess told Abbot Brocc that he would be dead before the end of your feast of Monessa, and the abbot sent for us because he felt it was a specific physical threat?’

‘It is certainly an unusual request,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘If the abbot feels threatened then there are surely enough strong lads in your abbey to provide protection. They would be more useful in that task than seeking help from a lawyer. Similarly, if the threat was just some curse, I would have thought the abbot’s own religious faith was strong enough armour against that.’

Fidelma uttered a disparaging sniff. ‘It is not seemly to talk of matters involving the abbot here in his absence. We should go now and speak with him of this matter and not stand gossiping.’

‘I overestimated your knowledge, lady,’ said Brother Guala. ‘The feast of the Blessed Monessa was two days ago.’ His voice was cold.

‘Then, surely, the threat is over? So let us go to discuss with the abbot.’

‘The threat is over but the evil remains,’ Brother Guala replied in a hollow tone.

‘How so?’

‘Abbot Brocc was found dead on the morning of the day of the feast. We buried him last night at midnight, as the tradition stipulates. The prophecy was a true one in all respects.’

CHAPTER TWO

Shortly afterwards, Fidelma, Eadulf and Dego were escorted into the late Abbot Brocc’s chamber, having been shown to their quarters and allowed to have the ritual wash after their travels.

It was from this chamber that the abbot had run the business of his mixed community. Brother Guala had taken it on himself to sit in the abbot’s chair. Brother Cróebíne was seated to the steward’s right, while an elderly woman sat to the left. She was introduced as Sister Cáemóc, the chomairlid or the chief counsellor for the female religious in the abbey. Fidelma and Eadulf took the two remaining chairs facing them. Dego stood respectfully by the door.

Brother Guala broke the uneasy silence of the subdued gathering moments after they had seated themselves.

‘I am not sure how these proceedings are run, not being in any way conversant with legal matters. In what manner should we begin? I shall follow your lead, Fidelma. What do you wish to know?’

‘Having met Abbot Brocc when he came to Cashel with you, Brother Guala, I presume that was the reason why he sent for me to attend him. After the would-be uprising among the Uí Liatháin, you both came to make the case that this abbey did not have any involvement. At the time of the insurrection, I recall that the conspirator Selbach, Prince of the Eóghanacht Raithlinn, and his women retainers, stayed at this abbey and that the principal mind behind the plot, the vengeful Princess Esnad, claimed that she had even studied here.’

‘That was not true.’ It was Sister Cáemóc who answered sharply. ‘The woman Esnad did not study here.’

‘However,’ Fidelma continued mildly, ‘that is what she claimed. Seven warships of the Uí Liatháin rebels remained anchored in the river by the abbey, apparently waiting for the signal to begin their attack.’

‘All the Uí Liatháin were accused of being part of the plan to overthrow your brother,’ Brother Guala admitted. ‘But this was not true. It is unfortunate that our prince, Tigerna Cosraigib of Dún Guairne, was a leader of the insurrection and died in the fighting. Many of our nobles felt it their duty to follow him. Abbot Brocc and I went to Cashel, to the peace talks, to give evidence and give assurance that we played no part in the uprising. Although we were found innocent of involvement by the Chief Brehon of Muman, many of the nobles of the Uí Liatháin were ordered to pay reparation to Cashel.’

Fidelma’s features displayed a faint cynical smile. ‘You do not have to remind me, Brother Guala. I only mention meeting you and the abbot in Cashel at that time to indicate a reason why he might choose me to come to give him advice.’

There was an awkward pause.

‘I think we should start with the simple facts,’ Fidelma continued. ‘You have already implied that Abbot Brocc died an unnatural death. You have said that someone foretold his death and that death came about exactly so. We will deal with this prophecy later. First, the facts. In what manner did the abbot meet his death?’

Brother Guala shifted uneasily and glanced at the librarian. It seemed to be a habit that he sought the librarian’s approval before he answered any questions.

‘He was scalded to death.’

There was a moment’s silence as Fidelma and Eadulf considered this surprise answer. Then Eadulf asked: ‘You mean he was consumed in a fire?’

‘I meant he was scalded, scorched, not burnt by the heat,’ Brother Guala replied, enunciating the words slowly and carefully.

‘You use the word scalded, but that could have the same meaning as one who dies in a fire,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Are you saying that death was not in a conflagration?’

‘My words should be clear.’ Brother Guala was defensive. ‘Scalded. I did not mean incinerated.’

Fidelma considered this thoughtfully. ‘Then where was the body found?’

‘In the tigh ’n