The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic

15



At dawn I began to cry out for Patriarch Anastasius.

People pay no attention to stylites, but then most stylites don’t demand to see the Patriarch and shout about stolen icons.

I’m not certain what I expected. After days down there in the dark with a gigantic demon staring at me, and then a frigid night atop a pillar too close to that big being in the sky, I was probably not in my right mind. But I could not be certain I was not still being sought in order to silence me forever.

The one result of my plea I didn’t expect was for Patriarch Anastasius himself to appear.

Yes, possibly it was a vision. The other day I saw Satan perched like a huge bat on Justinian’s statue atop the column in the Augustaion. I’m fairly certain that was a vision. And I’ve seen other things as well. You get a new perspective from one of these stylite’s columns.

But whether the visitation was real or not – and what difference does it make to someone in my position? – a regal-looking man, swathed in layers of heavily embroidered robes, entered the square accompanied by a company of retainers, most carrying lances.

The Patriarch climbed up stairs concealed inside my pillar – a feature I wished I had known about when fleeing – and emerged on the narrow, windswept platform.

He was not an old man. He wore a beard, cut in the manner of the icon with whom I had recently grown acquainted. His eyes were not as large as the image’s, but they were almost as deep and his mouth was as cruel.

“Excellency,” I began, having no idea how you addressed a Patriarch. “A traitor rescued the Chalke Christ you wished destroyed, another found it, and yet another traitor—”

He put up a hand. “We can speak freely here since nobody will hear us except, perhaps, heaven. I was informed that the watchman I ordered stationed on this pillar was behaving oddly. Since he had already been relieved of his duty once my icon was retrieved, I was curious.”

“Watchman? Your icon? What happened to the stylite?”

He smiled but did not answer all my questions. “Have you noticed there’s a good view of that scabby dog from up here? And there’s no other way into that part of the labyrinth apart from through a door in a certain courtyard.”

“But you ordered the icon burned!”

“What choice did I have? The holy image had been taken down and brought to stay overnight in my residence. Then when the splintered remains were brought out to be set on fire, the pile of bits of painted boards was so large that nobody realized part of it was missing.”

“And you concealed the upper portion? But why?”

“We must always think of the future, in this world as in the one to which we will go in due course. The next emperor may have different notions and wish icons to be restored. You see I speak frankly. If I realized the earthquake had fractured the wall of the vault in which that upper panel was hidden, I wouldn’t have allowed the workman down there. He stole it. Carted it off and hid it.”

“Those were your men who came for the icon? It was you who paid Arabia?”

“My former servant, you mean? The girl who went to work for Florentius? A lovely girl. I’ve come to know her quite well. A pity about Florentius. He was found murdered in an alley not far from here. Such is the state of the city, no doubt the villains responsible will never be apprehended.”

The Patriarch looked away and scanned the panorama around us. “I’ve often wondered what you holy men could see from here. It’s magnificent.”

“But I’m not a holy man!”

“I disagree. I believe you are. Look, your hands are blue with cold. Suffering sharpens faith. The more tenuous our connection to our pitiful fleshly husks, the closer we are to heaven. You are blessed, my friend. It is difficult to feel the holy presence while wrapped in fine robes and surrounded by luxury.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head and smiled faintly. “Yet can those of us who choose to serve him refuse the harsh sacrifices as we are asked to make?”

He fixed me in his demon’s gaze. “You know too much to ever descend from this pillar. I shall allow you to stay here and glory in the presence of the Lord. I will arrange to have acolytes, armed for your protection, stationed below day and night.”

It took an instant for me to understand the horror of my situation. “No, excellency,” I cried. “Why not kill me? Why leave me here?”

“Because,” the patriarch said as he turned to go down the stairs, “it pleases me.”





16



“Did you truly believe you would never see me again?”

Arabia smiled sweetly up at me. As usual, my armed guards retired out of earshot when she waved them away.

A warm dawn breeze ruffled her brightly coloured silks. All around, the ruins and vacant spaces of Constantinople were coming alive with the myriad greens of spring. I could almost smell her perfume.

“After the Patriarch left, I wondered,” I said. “I considered throwing myself to the ground, but a colleague of mine died in a fall, and, well …”

“A nasty death,” she agreed.

“Yes. I could never bring myself to do it though I would at least be lying down. Sometimes I long for a doorway to lie in and be out of the rain.”

Her lips formed a red pout. “Then you did doubt me.”

“Oh, yes, I did at times. The morning I woke up with ice in my hair, and the night the angels descended from the clouds and set the sea on fire. Those were the worst.”

“It’s a fine house, isn’t it?” she said. “Even if it isn’t a farmhouse.”

“Yes, though I can only see the corner of it, just past the Great Church and the Patriarch’s residence.”

“It’s very convenient to the Patriarch’s house, that’s true.”

I yanked on the rope and hauled the basket up. Arabia waved to me before pulling the curtain of her litter shut. Her attendants picked the chair up and trotted away across the square. But she would be back. She visits often.

She always brings me a big basket full of boiled eggs.

I wished I’d had a boiled egg that long ago morning. Maybe if I hadn’t eaten the eyes of the Lord, things would have turned out differently.





Night of the Snow Wolf



Peter Tremayne





We move back a century from the previous story and the Byzantine world, to the Celtic world of seventh century Ireland and the time of Sister Fidelma. She is a dalaigh, or advocate of the law courts of Ireland, and was the daughter of the King of Muman, ancient Munster. As Tremayne reveals at the website of the International Sister Fidelma Society (http://www.sisterfidelma.com/), “Her main role could be compared to a modern Scottish sheriff substitute whose job is to gather and assess the evidence, independent of the police, to see if there is a case to be answered.” Fidelma has been conducting her investigations through nineteen novels, so far, and two collections of stories. The series began with Absolution by Murder (1994) set in the year 664. The nineteenth novel, Chalice of Blood (2010) has reached the year 670, and Fidelma is still only 34 years old, so there’s scope for many more stories. The following, which takes place in the winter of 670, is set in the Silvermines Mountains of north-west Tipperary.





Sister Fidelma realized that she had taken the wrong turning the moment the track began to ascend at an unusually steep angle. By this time she knew that she should be on level ground, as her intended route passed along the valley floor between the mountains instead of ascending towards the higher reaches. But the snow was still falling, cold, thick and blinding, so that she saw only whiteness shrouding everything around her. She realized, too, that nightfall was not far off.

She adjusted her woollen cloak closer around her neck in a vain effort to keep out the cold, before halting her horse for a moment to consider the situation. Night and the snow were falling too fast for her to have any hope in finding the right track, even if she turned back. The route that she was taking seemed to lead in the same general direction, perhaps parallel to the track along the valley floor along which she had intended to follow. There was always the expectation that the path she was on might descend and rejoin her original route; although that was a slim expectation, indeed.

Whichever path she took, she would have to find shelter very soon for there was no chance of her reaching her destination before dark. She wondered if Brother Eadulf was already at the settlement of Béal Átha Gabhann, “the mouth of the ford of the smith”, for it was there that she had arranged to meet him in order that they might travel back to Cashel together. She shivered again. The oncoming night was bringing a cold wind with it. There was no doubt that she could not ride much further without seeking shelter. Even if she could find her way down to lower ground, she had to cross a valley and a broad river before negotiating another pass through Sliabh an Airgid, the Silver Mountains, before arriving at her intended objective.

The mournful cry of a wolf came faintly, muffled by the barrier of falling snow. It was taken up by an answering cry but, in these conditions, it was difficult to judge the direction and distance of the sound.

Fidelma’s horse started nervously, tossing its head with its thick mane.

“Steady, steady there, Aonbharr,” Fidelma called, leaning forward and patting its short neck encouragingly. The horse calmed immediately. Aonbharr was of an ancient breed, a gift from her brother, bought from a Gaulish trader. It was usually of a calm temperament, intelligent and agile. She had named him ‘the supreme one” after the horse of Manannán mac Lir, the god of the oceans, who had been worshipped before the coming of the New Faith. According to legend, the horse could run across land or sea, fly across mountains, and could not be killed by man or god. Fidelma smiled softly. At this moment she wished that Aonbharr had the same abilities as his mythical namesake so that she could reach her destination before nightfall.

There came another plaintive cry, both beautiful and chilling. The mournful wolf-call that, although she had heard it often enough, sent a shiver down her spine. This time it seemed closer and slightly above her, somewhere up on the higher reaches of the mountain.

She urged her horse forward gently along the snowy track, blinking against the icy pellicles that blew against her face in the gusting wind. They hit her face like hurtful darts.

She was conscious now of the darkening sky, even through the falling snow, which made the oncoming night more of a curious twilight.

Then there came a new sound, a new cry, from somewhere above her. It was not the cry of a wolf, but something like a woeful bellow. Frowning, she tugged slightly on the rein and obediently her horse came to a halt. She listened carefully, head to one side, trying to analyse the sounds that mingled with the gusting wind. The bellow came again. She was right. It was the distressed cry of a cow. She glanced up the hill, screwing up her eyes to penetrate the driving snow, trying to locate the beast, and wondering what kind of a farmer would leave his animal outside on such a night as this.

The snow flurries eased for a moment and she saw the dark outline of some buildings just a short way up the hill. She suddenly relaxed and smiled. The cow must be in one of the sheds, and the buildings indicated it was a hill-farm. That meant shelter, warmth and hospitality for the night. All she had to do was find the path that led upwards to the farmstead. It was not far away but the precipitous slopes were dangerous unless one followed a path. But it was a question of finding the path.

She slid from her horse and, leading it by the reins, began to walk slowly along the track, peering carefully at the ground and bordering embankment. It did not take her long to spot a depression through the snowy banks, that indicated where a path left the main track and wound up the hillside towards the buildings. Even then, Fidelma would not endanger her horse by returning to its back. She walked carefully forward, leading the animal upwards along the path. In this manner it was some time before she arrived at the buildings, which, by their outline, appeared to be a bóthan or large cabin, and a barn beyond that – containing a chicken run, by the sound of the angry clucking.

But the buildings were all in darkness and, apart from the sounds of the animals, there seemed an uncanny silence.

Fidelma paused and shouted: “Hóigh!”

The only answer was the cries of the animals. There was neither sound nor movement from the bóthan.

Fidelma took a step forward towards the door of the bothán and found that Aonbharr was tugging on the reins, pulling backwards. The sudden tug hurt her arm and she turned round in surprise. The horse’s eyes were wide, eyeballs rolling and nostrils flaring.

“Steady, boy, steady,” she coaxed, reaching out a hand to rub his muzzle. He calmed down a little, standing still but trembling. She peered round, trying to find what had upset the horse. She noticed a mound of snow before the door. Whatever lay beneath, she realized there was a dark red stain there. Blood! The mound was too small to be that of a human. She turned and led Aonbharr towards the barn, where she noticed there was a stretch of fencing and a rail. She secured the reins to the fence and turned back to the mound.

Bending down, she scraped some of the snow away. It soon became clear that it was the short, leggy body of a dog. It had a dense, wiry coat and wore a collar with a leash attached. When she tugged at it, Fidelma found the leash was also attached to a metal ring by the door. The dog was a terrier. Such a breed was commonly used to hunt small game in this area but they were also alert and courageous guard dogs. What was immediately obvious were the facts that someone had smashed the skull of the animal with a blunt instrument and that it had happened not very long ago, as the blood was not yet congealing.

Fidelma’s mouth compressed in a grim line and she rose to her feet, glancing around with eyes narrowed. There was no movement anywhere. Aonbharr stood patiently tethered. The cow was still plaintively lowing, the chickens clucking. As she turned towards the dark door of the bóthan she heard, once more, the nearby cry of a wolf.

Unconsciously, she squared her shoulders ready to face the unexpected, and moved towards the door. She raised her fist and hammered on it twice and paused. As she expected, there was no sound of movement, no answer. She lowered her hand to the door-catch and raised it. To her surprise – for she fully expected to find it locked or bolted – the door swung inwards into the blackness.

“Is anyone there?” she called, feeling a little foolish at the question.

She hesitated on the threshold a moment or so and took a pace inside. Within the curious twilight from the reflected snow outside, a gloomy half-light that permeated from the door and a single small window, there was little discernible. The chill was almost as bad inside as it was outside. She hesitated a moment before stepping towards the outline of a table where she could just make out an oil lamp.

From her shoulder she removed the strap from which hung her sursaing-bholg, her girdle bag, which she always carried on journeys. In it reposed various items, including her cior-bholg or comb-bag that contained toiletries which all women carried. But, more importantly, it was also where she kept her tenlach-teined, the means of producing “hand-fire”; a flint, steel and a tinder-box. As part of their training, warriors had to practise the art of swiftly lighting fires and Fidelma, growing up among those whose task was to guard her family – for was she not the daughter of Failbe Flann, King of Muman – she would often pass happy days being taught this art by kindly warriors until she was as adept at it as they were. Indeed, it did not take her long to ignite the tinder and light the oil lamp; it was a rough earthenware pot with a snout to support the wick.

Now she had a better light she took it in her hand and peered round the inside of the cabin. Its walls were of dry stone and its roof was of timber. It was poorly furnished. The stout wooden table, on which the oil lamp had sat, also had two earthenware bowls and wooden spoons nearby, as if in preparation for a meal. Two chairs were at the table. A cot stood with blankets near the far corner of the fireplace, which contained grey ash, but there was faint warmth coming from it. There was plenty of kindling and logs piled near the fireplace. A large lantern hung unlit over the fireplace, a sturdy type of lamp, whose wick was protected so that it could be used outside, even in a high wind. Also by the fire, to one side of the pile of logs, stood a hunter’s bow and a sheaf of arrows. Even as quickly as she made the examination, Fidelma knew that they were not of good quality workmanship, but of the sort a hill-farmer might make himself and use for hunting. Apart from an old wooden chest and some cupboards, there was nothing else in the cabin. Nor was there any indication of why or when the occupants had left, except that it was less than a day or so ago because the fire, with its smouldering ashes, could not have lasted much longer before dying entirely.

She stood, undecided. Then she became aware again of the whistling wind, saw the snow flurries beyond the door, and heard the bellow of the cow and the nervous whinny of her horse. Abruptly, she stirred herself into action. She went to the fire and placed some kindling on it, reaching for the small bellows. It took a minute or two before the kindling began to spark and flame and she was able to place a couple of large pieces of wood on it. Satisfied, she stood up and lit the heavier storm-lantern from the oil lamp, turned, and headed outside, closing the cabin door behind her.

She glanced sorrowfully at the dead terrier before passing on to the barn. Aonbharr gave a plaintive neigh, turning his head in her direction, as if comforted to see her again.

“First things first, boy,” she said, as if he could understand. She opened the barn door and passed in quickly, closing the door behind her, lest any of the animals escaped. The animal making the most noise was a large bay-coloured cow that turned mournful eyes on her and began to make a lowing sound. Fidelma saw immediately what the problem was: the cow needing milking as well as feeding. In another corner, two goats came towards her bleating. They were partitioned in a pen but it was clear they needed feeding, as did the half-a-dozen chickens squabbling in a run along one side of the barn.

She stood looking at them and shaking her head. Then she hung up the storm-lantern from a hook on one of the rafters, for the roof was very low and the barn no bigger than a small room.

“Very well,” she addressed them. “I’m not much good at this but …”

She glanced around. There was a bucket and milking stool to one side. But first she turned and searched for the grain that would be used for the chicken feed. There was a sack nearby. That task over, she turned her attention to the goats. There was a stack of hay, which she knew to be the primary source of nutrients for goats during the winter months, and she distributed it in their feeding trough, making sure that neither of the two does were in need of milking. There was still water available. It did not take long to place the cow’s feed ready, but the animal was still lowing and it was obvious what the priority was.

With a sigh, she placed the three-legged stool and took the bucket. She had not milked a cow since she was a young girl but she had not forgotten the technique. Finally, with the cow content and the bucket full of warm milk, she turned to her next task. Aonbharr would have to accept being stabled next to the cow. She led her horse in and unsaddled him. Then, finding a soft brush, vigorously took the snow from his coat and dried it as best she could with handfuls of hay. Then she spotted a heavy, ageing horse blanket tucked away in the corner of some rafters. She covered Aonbharr with it and managed to find a small sack of oats, making sure that he was able to reach the trough of water. A contented quiet had descended on the inhabitants of the barn and so, with tasks fulfilled, she took the storm-lantern and the bucket of milk and went outside, closing the door behind her.

Night had fully descended now but the wind was still gusting and howling, causing the snow to come almost horizontally across the valley. She stood for a moment, storm-lantern in hand, head to one side listening to the sound of the tempest. Now and then she turned, thinking she detected the cries of the wolves amidst the mountains. That reminded her, and she retraced her steps back to where the body of the terrier lay. She paused, shaking her head sadly before she passed into the bóthan and placed the milk on the table. The fire was blazing away now. She searched quickly hoping to find a spade or any similar implement.

She was tired now, cold and hungry. The task would have to wait until morning, but she had a practical duty first. She went outside again with the storm-lantern. She set it by the dead animal, untied the leash and wiped the falling snow away as much as she could. Then she examined her surroundings. There was little choice. She had half-dragged, half-carried the carcass of the animal to a depression she could see a little way down the hill from the cabin, and pushed the body into it, before looking around for rocks and stones under the covering of snow. These she placed over the remains, packing them with as much snow as she could.

“Sorry, boy,” she said grimly. “That’s as much as I can do this night.”

Her main purpose was to prevent scavengers from savaging the body, until she could bury it properly. With wolves in the vicinity it was dangerous to leave a carcass in the open, especially when there was a barn of live animals nearby.

Her duty to the livestock complete, she collected the storm-lantern and returned to the cabin, securing the door behind her. She went to the fire and placed more logs on it. Then, glancing round to ensure all was secure, she stood before the fire, took off her clothes and drew a blanket she had taken from the cot around her, using it to rub her cold limbs vigorously. Finally dry and warm, she turned, took an earthenware mug and helped herself to the fresh milk.

One of the cupboards revealed some slightly stale bread, cheese and cold meats. They seemed completely edible. She made herself a meal then, drawing a large wooden chair with arms on it before the fire, sat there eating her frugal meal and staring into the flames. As she did so, she allowed her mind to consider the problem that confronted her.

What had happened to the occupants of the bóthan?

She used the plural because she had discovered female items of clothing and toiletry as well as male. She presumed that they were husband and wife, existing in this lonely hill-farm. They had deserted the place for no more than a day or so before her arrival, leaving the cow to be milked and the animals unfed. Why? She could accept the idea that the man had gone off to look for one of his animals in the snowstorm and come to some grief. That was not impossible in these mountains. Perhaps his wife, in desperation, had gone to look for him.

There was only one thing that made her uncomfortable about that explanation. The dead guard dog; the terrier outside the door with his skull smashed in.

She moved forward and placed another log on the fire, watching it crackle a little with the sparks flying upwards into the chimney. She meditated on the problem for a while, listening to the whispering wail of the wind around the eaves of the cabin and, now and again, the lonely howl of the wolves.

Sleep crept up on her unawares.

When she awoke she felt suddenly cold and with that half-dreaming, half-waking sensation that there were other people in the room talking to her; a laugh, a cry, a strange thumping sound. She lay for a moment, that moment between sleep and waking when dreams seem as real as actuality. Then she stiffened. She was fully awake and she could hear people talking; again she could hear an odd thumping sound. Her eyes stared into the semi-gloom around her. The embers of the fire lighted the cabin for she had extinguished the oil lamp. She could see nothing. The interior of the cabin was as empty as when she had arrived.

Slowly she sat up, feeling stiff and uncomfortable, took the oil lamp and, igniting it from the embers of the fire, stood up holding it high, and peered round again.

She distinctly heard a laugh. It was far away but not outside the cabin. It seemed to come from under her very feet. It was harsh, without humour, almost … almost evil. Fidelma hardly ever applied that word to anything. Then there came two thuds, in quick succession, which seemed to cause the very cabin to shake. The floor seemed to vibrate. She waited, lamp in hand, every nerve tensed, her senses alert. But there was quiet now. An eternity seemed to pass and she could hear nothing more than the wailing of the wind. She moved quietly to the small window but it was blocked with snow. She hesitated a moment, placed the lamp on the table and went to the door, removing the wooden bar which fastened it.

Outside, the snow was still gusting in the wind but it remained dark. She could not tell how near dawn it was, only that there was no glimmer of light in the sky. The snow-clouds hid the moon as well as the stars. Then, near at hand, came the eerie howl of a wolf and, so it seemed, another animal close by answered the cry. She peered forward, suddenly nervous. The cry started again, and was answered again. It was clear that this was no lone wolf, weak and banished from the pack. These sounds were of hunting wolves, which meant perhaps as many as ten. She knew that country folk were liable to exaggerate the stories of wolf attacks on livestock and on people. Tradition painted the wolves as the incarnation of evil and malevolence, and, while Fidelma knew more than most about woodcraft, she admitted to having respect for ancient tales. She swiftly pushed the door shut again and put the bar back in place, making certain that it was secure.

She stood for a moment in uncertainty. Finally she turned, to build up the fire again before sitting down in the chair and pulling the blanket around her for more warmth. Somehow she had no inclination to go to lay down on the bed of the absent occupants.

There were only two possibilities for what had occurred. She had either imagined things or they had been real. And if they were real, then there must be an explanation. She had not been imagining things. Of that, she was absolutely sure. She had heard voices, and she had heard the thuds that shook the cabin.

Even before the coming of Christianity, her people had implicit belief in the Otherworld. Gods and mortals could pass freely between the Otherworld and this world. The old religion was based on the unchanging nature of the elements of this visible world as well as the invisible Otherworld. They were part of one entity. Both worlds were without barriers for, although parallel, they were not mutually exclusive. Fidelma did not reject the concept for it was still a living faith in many parts of the country in spite of the changes put in place by the advocates of the New Faith. When a soul died in this world, it was reborn in the other, and when a soul died in the Otherworld, it was reborn in this. A constant interchange of souls was taking place. And yet, it was said that at midnight on one special day of the year, the Otherworld could be both seen and heard. She shook her head. She had been raised with reason – taught that only facts counted, that everything could be explained by logic if one had sufficient information to do so. Just because she did not have the information to make an explanation, it did not mean to say that an explanation did not exist.

In trying to analyse the matter, sleep stole up on her again.

She woke feeling stiff and uncomfortable. She stretched and eased her limbs before rising to her feet. A faint light was filtering through the snow-covered widow and she could her the distant clucking of chickens. It was past dawn. She took some wood and placed it on the dying fire. Then she found the bowl of cold water, its edges showing where it had begun to freeze. She had used it on the previous night. She splashed her face – used the items from her ciobhog, her comb-bag, to freshen herself – dressed, and looked for something to eat. The milk was cold and still drinkable. Feeling thus refreshed, she went to the door, unbarred it and looked out.

The gusting winds of the night had blown away the snow-clouds and, amazingly, the sky was azure with the pale sun hanging above the eastern peaks. The snow carpeted the mountains, lit in bright white and, seemingly, undisturbed. Everything seemed calm and peaceful. She made her way to the barn to attend to the animals. While she was feeding them, she turned her attention yet again to the mystery, and what she should do next. There was no choice but to ride on to Béal Átha Gabhann although it meant abandoning the animals. Also, if the occupants had come to mishap on the mountains and survived the night, it meant abandoning them too. But what else could she do alone? She was not even sure exactly where she was except that she must be somewhere in the Sliabh Eibhline mountain range, an area she did not know except for the main route through them which, with the snows of last evening, she had managed to miss.

Outside the barn she stood and examined the shapes of the mountains but there was none she recognized. Not that she was expecting much, for she had only travelled this route a few times, but thought she might have retained some memory of the shape of the hills that were always an important guide to travellers.

She returned to the barn and saddled Aonbharr in readiness. The sooner she left, the sooner she might be able to find someone who could help either look after the animals or find the missing occupants.

She made her way back to the cabin to collect her sursaing-bholg, the girdle bag with her belongings. She opened the door and froze abruptly. In the chair before the fire – the chair where she had slept for a few uncomfortable hours – sat a man. He turned his head sharply in surprise at her entrance.

He was tall, thin and with a shock of white hair but without beard or moustache. His high-domed forehead accentuated a thin nose with strangely arched nostrils and high bridge. His pale skin stretched tightly over his sharply etched features. Indeed, there seemed no colour in his cheeks at all. He seemed a man who avoided the excesses of the weather but, in spite of his thin features, the pale hands that spread palm downward on his knees, bespoke strength.

Controlling his surprise, he rose from the chair and stood regarding her with pale, almost colourless eyes.

“Who are you?” Fidelma demanded, also recovering her poise.

“I should ask you that question first,” the man replied, with a thin smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you the owner of this farmstead?” she persisted, not put off by his counter question. Then she relented a little. “I am Fidelma of Cashel. I was on my way to Béal Átha Gabhann last night when I lost my way, saw this cabin and came here to seek shelter.”

At her name, the man showed some recognition.

“Fidelma the dálaigh?” he asked sharply. “The lawyer and sister to the King?”

“I am an advocate of the law courts,” she confirmed. “And now it is your turn to identify yourself.”

“I am … I am brother to Cianat, wife to Cuilind, who owns this farm,” he replied, shortly. “I came to visit them. I tend goats on the far side of this valley? You say that you came here last night?”

“I found this cabin deserted. There is no sign of the occupants. The animals were in need of tending and, most worryingly, the guard dog was laying by the cabin door, still tethered, but its skull crushed in.”

It was impossible to judge the man’s expression in the shadows of the cabin; he breathed out sharply but said nothing.

“You say that you are kin to the people here?” pressed Fidelma. “What is your name?”

“I am known as Fáelur,” he replied. “What do you know of … of the disappearance of Cianat and Cuilind?”

“I have told you all I know,” responded Fidelma. “I suppose that you know these mountains well? They might have had an accident in the snowstorm.”

Fáelur pursed his lips as he thought about it.

“Maybe they have gone to visit someone else in the valley. It would be unusual for anything to happen, because Cuilind knows the mountains well, as does my sister.”

“No matter how well a person thinks they know mountains, in a snowstorm mistakes can be made,” Fidelma assured him. “Cotidiana vilescunt,” she added the Latin phrase automatically, meaning that familiarity breeds contempt.

Fáelur nodded slowly in agreement.

“Perhaps you are right. One thinks one knows the land well but snow obliterates the features, no matter how familiar they have been. Indeed, they may have come to grief on the mountain in the snowstorm. Anything could have happened, a broken leg or some such accident.”

“I presume there are people here who could form a search party for them?”

“I can certainly raise some … some local people.”

“The one thing that bothered me was that I found the dog still tied up and killed, its skull smashed. I dragged it from the door and piled stones and snow over it as there were wolves in evidence in the mountains last night.”

Fáelur glanced at her quickly. “That is worrying. What do you make of it?”

“There is nothing I can make of it without information,” replied Fidelma. “Anyway, I suggest that if there are others living in this valley, you should organize a search for your sister and her husband. Alas, I cannot stay longer. I must try to find the way to Béal Átha Gabhann for I was expected there last night.”

For a passing moment, it seemed a look of relief came into the man’s eyes and then he sighed.

“I will take care of things now.”

“I have fed the animals. But they will need tending to later on. The cow particularly.”

“That is no problem. I will collect some friends and look after things here. As you say, a search must be organized.” There was a hesitation. “Are you rested well, for it will be a hard ride to Béal Átha Gabhann?”

“I was warm and comfortable in the cabin last night. I wish I could stay to help in the search for the owners. I will endeavour to make amends for their hospitality once I have completed my business.”

Something had made her withhold telling Fáelur about her disturbed night. She did not know why. Perhaps it was because he seemed anxious about her having had a good rest.

She moved to the table and collected her things, her comb-bag, and placed them all in her sursaing-bholg and hung it over her shoulder. She turned to the man with a smile.

“Now I will get my horse and if you can point me in the right direction …?”

The man came with her to the door of the cabin and waited while she collected Aonbharr.

“There is a path down there that leads back to a main track,” he said, pointing in the direction she had climbed to the cabin from on the previous night. “Best lead your horse down to it. Then you turn northwards,” he indicated the direction. “You see that peak there, on the far side of the valley? That is Sliabh Coimeálta, Keeper’s Hill. Keep that on your left and this track comes down through a valley, at the end of which you’ll find the streams that rise in these hills, all converging into a broad stream called Glaise an Ghleanna. Follow the bank and that will lead you directly to the main river, the Mhaoilchearn. You’ll see a small stone circle by it. It is easy to ford the river there and beyond it you will see the pass that will bring you through the mountains called Sliabh an Airgid. Once through the pass, you will find your destination.”

Fidelma thanked him and offered her best wishes that his search for his missing sister and brother-in-law would prove successful and that all would be well with them. He nodded thoughtfully and stood by the cabin door watching her as she led her horse back down the path to the main track. It was difficult, as the snowfall of the previous night had completely covered any recognisable signs of where it lay. It was only when she reached a flat area of snow that ran in both directions that she realized she had reached the main track. She mounted Aonbharr before glancing back. It was as if the man had not moved, for he still stood watching her. She raised a hand in acknowledgement and set off at a quick walking pace northward on her journey.

It was only sometime later that she realized what had been causing an irritation in the back of her mind. As she had led Aonbharr from the cabin down the path to the main track, the path had been completely covered in snow, so that she had to feel her way down. It had been completely covered in the snowfall, smooth and white, except where a single set of tracks followed it. They could have been the tracks of a dog but Fidelma knew that they had doubtless been made by one of the wolves that had been howling near the cabin during the night. But that was not what was causing the growing unease. It was the question, how had a man called Fáelur come to the cabin? Surely he would have left tracks in the snow? And there were none.

***

“We were worried about you, Fidelma. We were afraid that you were lost in the snowstorm. Eadulf was very concerned.” It was Fidelma’s cousin Scoth, the daughter of Prince Gilcach of the Eóghanacht Airthir Chliach, who chided her as she ushered her into the hall of her father’s hunting lodge.

Fidelma had reached the settlement at Béal Átha Gabhann by mid-afternoon, when the sky had already begun to darken again. There she had found not only Eadulf, waiting anxiously for her, but also her cousin. Prince Gilcach kept a small hunting lodge at the settlement and Scoth was currently in residence, insisting that Eadulf and Fidelma stay with her. Soon Fidelma was relaxing in a chair before a crackling log fire with a glass of mulled wine. Seated by her were Eadulf and Scoth.

Scoth was younger than Fidelma by five or six years; an attractive girl with golden-red hair who seemed to treat everything and everyone with an intense curiosity. Her family shared a common descent with the Eóghanacht of Cashel from Óengus – the first Christian King of Muman. Scoth was always lively and loved nothing more than to gossip.

“Scoth suggested that we should form a search party for you,” admitted Eadulf, Fidelma’s stoic partner, “for there were violent snowstorms across the peaks last night.”

Fidelma glanced at Eadulf with a quick, reassuring smile.

“There was no need to worry on my account. I found shelter for the night.”

“Where did you find hospitality?” demanded Scoth in surprise. “These mountains are sparsely populated and the tracks are few and far between.” When Fidelma explained the route she had taken, a worried expression formed on the face of her cousin. “I know where you went wrong. You must have left the main track in the valley and headed through the high pass between Sliabh Coimeálta and An Cnoc Fionn. You should have remained in the valley and followed the track to the east of An Cnoc Fionn.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door and one of the female attendants entered.

“Excuse me, my lady,” she said, speaking directly to Scoth. “A messenger has arrived and needs a private word.”

Scoth looked irritable. “I am with my cousin. Can’t they wait?”

“They told me to tell you that it is news of Rechtabra.”

Scoth rose quickly with an apologetic expression. “Rechtabra is my wayward cousin,” she said to Fidelma. “You may remember him? I will be but a moment.”

She was, indeed, back before hardly any time had passed. “What were we talking about? You said that you missed the valley track east of An Cnoc Fionn.”

“It was in the blizzard that I lost the path. There was no track to follow,” countered Fidelma.

Scoth looked serious. “But no one lives up along that high pass. There is scarcely a track you can follow on foot, let alone one to ride.”

Fidelma smiled thinly. “I found that out for myself.”

Scoth seemed clearly worried. “So where did you find shelter? It is said that there are caves in those mountains but they are thought to be the lairs of wolves that haunt that area. Surely you didn’t shelter in a cave?”

Seated before the roaring fire with Scoth and Eadulf, and the warming mug of mulled wine in her hand, Fidelma felt rather embarrassed by some of the fears that had passed through her mind during the previous night. She relaxed and told her story with a smile.

“A curious tale,” Scoth commented reflectively.

“The place being so deserted, I am wondering if we could raise some people and ride back to the valley tomorrow to see if we can help with the search. I was considering passing back that way on my return to Cashel. Of course, with this weather it may well be bodies that we would be searching for, if the woman’s relative has not found them before.”

“There is no need for you to be troubled in that matter,” Scoth insisted. “A trip back through the high pass will take both you and Eadulf out of your way. It is not the best route back to Cashel.” She glanced through the window. “Nightfall will be on us soon otherwise I would suggest my warriors should go to help the search for this missing couple. Who did you say these hill-farmers were, Fidelma? Ciarnat and …?”

“Ciarnat and Cuilind,” repeated Fidelma. “And the man who was the brother of the woman said his name was Fáelur.”

Scoth started nervously. The involuntary movement was not lost on Fidelma.

“Do you know these people?” she asked with interest.

The girl shook her head. “In truth, I have never heard of Ciarnat and Cuilind before … except …”

“Except?” pressed Fidelma when she hesitated.

The girl regarded her with an odd expression.

“You know the meaning of the name Fáelur, surely?”

Fidelma shrugged. It had not occurred to her to think of its meaning. “It means …” she paused. A frown crossed her features as she realized what was passing through Scoth’s mind. “It means ‘wolfman’.”

“What of it?” asked Eadulf, curiously. “Our son is called Alchú – little hound. It’s common enough to use such names, surely? I knew a man called Onchú, which means fierce hound.”

Scoth was still serious. “We do not couple the name of a wolf with a personal name. Not in these mountains. There is a legend …”

“Ah! A legend,” Fidelma smiled, trying to lighten her cousin’s ominous tone.

Eadulf shook his head in rebuke at her, missing the point. “Didn’t you once say that legend is but half-remembered history?”

Fidelma shrugged and asked: “What is the legend?”

“The old ones say that there is an evil wolf-pack in the mountains that is led by a being who is half-wolf and half-man. A being called Fáelur – the wolfman.” There was suppressed awe and excitement in Scoth’s voice.

Fidelma leant back and chuckled. “Are you suggesting that the man I met was no man but a werewolf? Come Scoth! I thought better of you than to give credence to ancient legends.”

The girl remained serious. “It is no ancient legend. People here have been talking about such things during the last week or two.”

“The last week? Why?”

“They say the Fáelur attacks the unwary and carries them off to the lair of his were-folk. About this time, so the locals say, there is a particular full of the moon that they call ‘the night of the snow wolf’. This is when the were-folk are most active.”

Fidelma smiled mischievously. “Well, he didn’t carry me off to his lair, which must prove that this Fáelur wasn’t the wolfman of the legend. Besides, this encounter was in broad daylight. Come, Scoth, these ancient stories …”

“I told you that they were not so ancient. Why, only last week …” she paused and her lips compressed.

“Last week?” Fidelma pressed with interest. “What happened?”

“The people here say that one of their number was carried off by the Fáelur and has not been seen since.”

Fidelma’s expression showed ill-concealed sarcasm.

“And did anyone witness this wolf-man carrying off this person?”

Scoth raised her shoulder and let it fall in negative fashion.

“All I know is that he went up into the Sliabh na Airgid, the Silver Mountains, and was never seen again. He came from a settlement near here.”

“There are several reasons, apart from phantom wolves, why a man going alone into the mountains in winter might not return,” Fidelma observed shrewdly. “Was a search made for him?”

“It was but no sign was found of him. People said they heard wolves howling.”

“Not unusual,” Fidelma replied. “But I did not come here to talk about Otherworld creatures.” She dismissed her fears of the previous night and thought about the mystery of the disappearance of the occupants of the cabin in the high pass. She did not believe in such things as phantoms. They did not exist. But the couple were missing. “Eadulf and I can start back to Cashel early tomorrow and go through the high pass to find out whether the farmer and his wife have been found or not. It is not such a great detour.”

“Tomorrow?” Scoth was frowning. Clearly there was something worrying her which she was finding difficult to articulate.

“What brings you here, Scoth?” Fidelma tried to change the subject. “I expected you to be at your father’s fortress, An tAonach, during this inclement weather.”

The girl pursed her lips. “These days I prefer to spend time under the shadows of the mountains than out on the plain at the Place of Assembly. I was surprised when Eadulf arrived here and told me that he was due to meet you.” She hesitated and glanced at the blackening sky through the window. “You still intend to travel back to Cashel tomorrow?”

“If the weather clears,” confirmed Fidelma.

Her cousin hesitated for a moment or two and then sighed. “I confess that your coming here is rather fortuitous. I need your knowledge.”

“You have a legal problem, Scoth?” Fidelma was surprised.

Her cousin nodded solemnly.

“My father and his Brehon are absent, giving judgements at the abbey of Brendán in Biorra. They are not expected back before the Feast of Brigit. So you may be the very person to consult while you are here.”

“What advice do you need that it cannot await the return of your father and his Brehon?”

“I mentioned our cousin Rechtabra earlier. Do you remember him?”

Fidelma frowned, trying to recollect. “A dirty, uncouth little boy who threw mud at me when I came visiting here with my uncle many years ago? I was only thirteen summers and was very sensitive about my appearance, as I recall.”

Scoth grimaced. “He is still uncouth and dirty, but you remember him as a child. Now he is full grown to manhood. He has not improved his personality. He maintains his vicious temper and is even more arrogant.”

“So there is a problem between you? The messenger that just arrived brought you word of him. Something serious?”

“For me, it is serious,” confirmed the girl. “I inherited some land near here from my mother. The land contains a silver mine. Rechtabra has occupied it and claims that I should not inherit.”

Fidelma was surprised. “On what basis does he make that claim?”

“That he believes a woman could not inherit a silver mine.”

“You have the necessary evidence that it was left to you as a banchomarba, a female heir? Such inheritance is within the law.”

“Of course. My father’s Brehon has the evidence and my father knows the story well. But they are not here. It was not by chance that Rechtabra waited until my father and his Brehon had left for the tour of judgements before he occupied the mine and started to work it. By the time they return, he will have denuded the mine of most of its wealth.”

“Then what of your father’s tanist, his heir apparent? Surely he has the authority to stop Rechtabra?”

Scoth’s lips compressed sourly. “Rechtabra is my father’s tanist. And that is my problem.”

Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at her for a moment. “So, what you are saying is that he has moved on to your land and claimed it in defiance of the law? But he must know of the consequences when your father and his Brehon return?”

“He probably means to extract as much as he can before they return. With such riches, I am told that he could buy protection, even travel where retribution is of no consequence. I was wondering what I could do. I do not have enough warriors loyal to me to overthrow him.”

“Well the answer is simple in law. According to the Din Techtugad, if he remains in defiance then you can institute the procedure of bantellach, a legal means of pursuing a claim for female rights of land-ownership. You do not have to resort to force. It would be best, however, if your father’s Brehon gave the judgement. But is it certain that Rechtabra is fully aware that he will have to pay you compensation and fines for his presumption?”

“I do not know,” Scoth replied with a shrug. Then her eyes lightened. “Would it not be possible for you to give him a warning before you leave?”

“We mean to start back first thing in the morning,” she glanced at Eadulf, who shrugged.

“A word from you might stop him,” Scoth went on persuasively. “Tomorrow we could ride to the mine. It is not far to the west of here and you could warn him so that he understands the consequences of what he is doing … Please?”

Fidelma sighed with resignation. “I suppose that I could explain the law to him, if that is all that is needed.”

Scoth relaxed with a smile. “I would appreciate it. Rechtabra might give this matter more serious thought if he knows that the King’s sister is watching his actions.”

“I presume Rechtabra has men working at the mine with him? If I remember that evil little boy, he might not like his cousin lecturing him on the law. Alas, silver seems to turn people’s minds.”

“Are there are many silver mines in this district?” asked Eadulf.

“Those mountains you have to pass through to Cashel are called Sliabh an Argid, the Silver Mountains,” Scoth replied quickly. “The mountains are rich in silver and thus my father is able to pay the gabal na rígh, the king’s tribute, in unga weights, grams of silver rather than cattle as some princes do.”

“And do many people here work in the silver mines?” asked Eadulf, who was always interested in learning about people and places.

“That is why this settlement is called the Mouth of the Ford of the Smith,” replied Scoth. “The smiths, however, that work here are silversmiths. This is where most of the silver in the mines is worked.”

Fidelma suddenly stretched, yawned and rose. “Forgive me, Scoth. I have had a hard journey these last few days and no bath last night. Let me rest before the evening bath and meal and, I promise you, first thing in the morning, we will ride out to find our wayward cousin. We will delay our journey a further day.”

“It is good of you, Fidelma,” Scoth reached forward and placed a hand on Fidelma’s arm. “I am sure Rechtabra will take notice of you. Eadulf knows where the guestroom is. I will order water to be heated for your bath after you have rested.”

Eadulf led the way to the door. As she reached it, Fidelma hesitated with a slight frown and glanced back to her cousin.

“As a matter of interest, that man who disappeared … you said he was local man? Did you know him?”

Scoth shook her head. “I did not. But I heard that he worked for Rechtabra.”

“In what capacity?”

“He was a cerd, an expert silver-worker.”

***

They awoke the next morning to find the snowstorm had returned with a vengeance. From a short time after midnight, the wind was howling outside, hurling the snow this way and that with an intense fury, and daylight brought no respite.

Eadulf regarded Fidelma with a wry expression as they sat at the early morning meal. Of Scoth there was not yet any sign.

“I hope your cousin does not expect us to go tracking through the snowstorm to meet this wayward cousin Rechtarbra.”

Fidelma smiled. “I think not. We will wait until it abates.”

“It seems a curious business.”

Fidelma raised her eyes from her plate and looked at him with interest. “What does?” she asked.

“I heard Scoth talking to one of her attendants this morning. You recall the messenger that arrived yesterday with news of Rechtabra? Apparently, he was sent away immediately, even though the wind was already getting up then. He was sent back to the silver mine. I presume the man was spying for her.”

Fidelma sniffed. “No harm in that. If Rechtabra is flouting the law then it is wise for someone to watch him.”

There was a sudden noise outside and the door was opened abruptly. Scoth came quickly through, slamming it shut behind her. Her eyes were wide as if in fearful anticipation.

“It’s Rechtabra!” she gasped, glancing quickly over her shoulder as if the man was behind her. “He and his bodyguard have just arrived.”

Fidelma looked up without surprise at her apparent trepidation.

“I presume that he comes seeking shelter from the snowstorm? After all, this is your father’s hunting lodge and, presumably, as tanist, he has rights to shelter here?”

“But perhaps he has heard that you are here …” began Scoth, still agitated.

“Does he have a residence near here?”

“He does not. He usually camps at the mine workings.”

“Then why would he come here for any reason other than the obvious one, which would be to escape this snowstorm and the gusting winds? Are you on such bad terms with him about this mine that he would not seek shelter here or that you would refuse him such?”

There was a sudden noise of stamping feet outside the door and it was flung open again as two men entered, shaking the snow from the fur outer garments that they wore. They halted in surprise at the company. Then one of them closed the door and both newcomers stood gazing at Scoth and her companions.

The leader – a young man, quite handsome in a way, though with blue eyes perhaps too close set, and burnished copper-coloured hair – peeled off his fur and grinned at his cousin.

“Greetings, cousin Scoth!” He inclined his head to her. “I trust we are welcome from the unrelenting chill?”

Scoth edged away to stand by the fire and did not reply to his bantering humour.

Fidelma had risen from her seat, standing to face the newcomer and his companion. Eadulf followed her example.

“Rechtabra,” Fidelma greeted him quietly. “Do you recognize me after all these years?”

The young man examined her closely, frowning a little, and then a broad grin shaped his features.

“By the blessed saints. It is cousin Fidelma … Fidelma of Cashel.” He moved forward and embraced her. Then he stood back. “I have not seen you since I was eleven years old.” He turned to Eadulf. “So you must be Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham?” He thrust out a hand. “Well, it seems we have a family gathering.” He gave an exaggerated shiver and peered round. “Surely someone can offer frozen travellers some corma to drive out the wolf from my stomach.”

Scoth pouted disapprovingly. “It is too early for strong drink.”

Rechtabra grinned at his cousin. “I swear that you are becoming a prude. We have spent an hour riding in this weather and will surely expire without something to warm our bellies. Oh,” he turned to his companion, who was removing his fur coat. “This is Máen the Silent, my right hand. Máen, this is my cousin, Fidelma of Cashel, and her husband, Eadulf, of whom I am sure you have heard.”

Máen, true to his name, merely bowed his head in acknowledgement but said nothing.

Rechtabra was looking round: “Now, that drink.”

Eadulf had spotted the flagon of corma, the strong liquor, and poured out two measures in earthenware goblets for the young man and his companion. Rechtabra raised it in silent tribute, before taking a seat by the fire. Scoth remained standing, while Fidelma and Eadulf resumed their seats. Máen took a seat a little farther back.

“Well now, what brings you here of all places in this little corner of your brother’s kingdom?” Rechtabra asked. “And in such winter weather.”

“I had arranged to meet Eadulf here so that we could journey back to Cashel together,” explained Fidelma. “It seems the weather has decided that we must stay longer than we had anticipated.”

“A strange little spot for your paths to meet,” commented the tanist. Eadulf wondered if there was suspicion in his voice.

“A logical spot,” he intervened. “Fidelma was coming back from the port of Luimneach, through the mountains, and I was coming from the abbey of the blessed Cronan at Tuaim Gréine. What logical meeting point for our two paths to cross but here?”

Rechtabra glanced at Eadulf with a smile. “Quite right, my friend. Quite right,” he said gently. Then he glanced at Scoth. “And more company for you for a while?”

The girl blushed furiously. “I am not lacking in company.”

“Of course not. At least your father will approve of the company of our cousin from Cashel.” The tanist’s voice was gentle but hinted at something else.

“And why are you here?” Fidelma asked, seeing the hot colour on Scoth’s cheeks, and changing the conversation.

Rechtabra chuckled. “Our presence is dictated by the weather.”

“But to come here to escape from it, you must have set out from somewhere,” Eadulf said with a smile.

“You are sharp, Eadulf. Máen and I were encamped in the foothills of the mountains, a short way off. We decided we would seek more warmth and comfort than a wind-blown tent and a blanket until this chilly storm has passed.”

Scoth sniffed, made to speak, and then suddenly made for the door. “You will excuse me. I have several things to attend to.”

When she had gone, Rechtabra shook his head and turned in confidential manner to Fidelma, though still with a smile on his face.

“A strange one, that. I think she resents that I am heir apparent to the chieftainship. She also resents the fact that her father wanted her to marry me. Well, the feeling of repugnance between us is mutual.”

“Is there anything else that would make her dislike you?” pressed Fidelma gently.

Rechtabra stared searchingly at her for a moment before he re-assumed his grin.

“I can think of several things, cousin. I am honest about my faults.”

“Shall we speak of silver mines?”

Fidelma was aware of the silent Máen suddenly leaning forward intently in his chair.

“Silver mines?” Rechtabra said, almost sharply. “What have they to do with likes and dislikes?”

“I suppose that you know that I am a dálaigh …”

“You reputation in the kingdom is well known, cousin Fidelma. There is even a rumour that King Colgú may make you his Chief Brehon. And so?”

“Scoth believes that you have appropriated a silver mine and some land that she should rightfully control.”

Rechtabra gazed at her a moment, turned to Máen with a shrug, and sighed deeply before turning back.

“And therefore …?” he queried.

“Therefore, I should remind you of the law. If this is Scoth’s property then it cannot be appropriated. It cannot be alienated from her control as a banchomarba, a female heir. Any illegal use of the mine would bring forth fines, compensation and reimbursement of the estimated amount of silver removed from it.”

Rechtabra was nodding as if in agreement.

“Cousin, there is one word that you have used in that. A most important word. I am sure you can guess at what the word is … if.”

Fidelma regarded him thoughtfully.

“Do you deny it?”

“Assuredly I do.”

“She wanted us to ride with her today to where this mine was in order to warn you that she will take legal action.”

Rechtabra chuckled with amusement. “And what legal action could she take? If our Brehon were here, then he would tell her. If Prince Gilcach, her father, were here then he would not take the matter as lightly as I do. The silver mines here are the wealth of our people, and Gilcach shares that among them on the great annual festival at An tAonach. We jealously guard the wealth of the mines for they are our joint wealth and not owned by one person, whether it be Scoth or even myself.”

There was an honest intensity in his voice that surprised her.

“Then you are willing for this matter to be heard before a Brehon?”

“If that Brehon is aware of all the facts,” confirmed the tanist.

“But if this is not the truth, why would Scoth make it up?”

“Because of her dislike for me.”

“That does not seem a strong reason.”

“Nevertheless, it is the only one I can think of. Not only did she hate me when her father suggested marriage but it seemed that Gilcach was not in favour of a man she did want to marry.” Rechtabra’s tone was indifferent. “Anyway, it is a silly accusation and could only be made during the absence of Gilcach and his Brehon.”

“Then we must leave this matter until it can be judged competently by Gilcach and his Brehon. But remember, Rechtabra, that, in the interim, all the silver taken from the mine in question must be accounted for.”

Rechtabra smiled grimly. “So it has been and so it shall be. I am answerable to the Prince Gilcach for the well-being of the mines and he shall have a full accounting.”

“Speaking of the well-being,” – Fidelma felt it time to change the topic, for the matter was leading to a stalemate between Rechtabra and Scoth – “I am told that one of your mine-workers has disappeared.”

To her surprise it was Máen who suddenly laughed grimly and then exchanged an apologetic glance with the tanist.

“Only one?” Máen said in answer to Fidelma’s scrutiny. “More like a dozen good men have disappeared in this area.”

Fidelma’s eyes widened a fraction at the news.

“A dozen? All workers in the silver mines? During what space of time have these disappearances taken place?”

“From the time of the last full of the moon.”

“The locals call that one ‘the night of the snow wolf’,” added Máen. “There are rumours, of course, which have been set abroad by silly, superstitious people. Stories of the men lured to their doom in the mountains …”

“Lured? By whom?”

“Ancient legends say there is a monster dwelling there,” Máen said. “Some creature called Fáelur, the wolfman, who feeds upon the unwary traveller. So people tell you not to ride through the mountains during these days.”

“And what do you say happened to these men? Twelve, you say? All strong mine-workers.”

This time Rechtabra replied. “I am not good at making guesses, cousin. Maybe the local superstition is right. All I know is that their disappearance is an inconvenience. I have the mines to run.”

It was later that Fidelma put Rechtabra’s denials to Scoth.

“He is a liar! I tell you, he is a liar!” she cried angrily.

“The matter must be judged,” returned Fidelma. “When my brother, the King, learns of the return of your father and his Brehon, he will summon everyone to attend him at Cashel. You and Rechtabra must defend your claims. That will be an end to the matter. Will that satisfy you?”

“But meanwhile he will go on stealing the silver that belongs to me.”

“He has been warned that, if guilty, the amount will be estimated and that will be reimbursed with compensation and fines. Perhaps I can persuade my brother to send some warriors of his bodyguard to observe Rechtabra’s activities. That must satisfy you.”

“I suppose it must satisfy me.” Scoth did not sound convinced.

“Well, I do not think that Rechtabra would have confessed to me immediately as to any wrongdoing – especially if he is guilty,” Fidelma pointed out. “It is the best judgement I can make in the circumstances.”

That night the snow continued to fall.

***

The snow continued to fall for two more days, spreading from the west in the darkened skies. There was little point in looking at the track beyond the gates of the hunting lodge for the wind-driven snow was blinding and freezing. It was an uncomfortable two days, for Fidelma and Eadulf were forced to spend them in the main hall – albeit before a roaring fire – in icy atmosphere between Scoth and Rechtabra, which almost matched the atmosphere outside. In fact, two fires had been lit, each at opposite ends of the great hall, so no one encroached on anyone else.

Eadulf passed much of the time playing fidchell, or wooden wisdom, with Rechtabra. Eadulf had found himself quite adept at the game that was popular among the people of the five kingdoms. It was the equivalent of chess in other lands. The object of the game was to protect the single High King piece, standing in the centre of the board that was divided into squares. His protectors were the four provincial kings. The attacking pieces could mount their attack from any of the four sides of the board with the eventual task of trapping the High King so he was unable to move. It was a game of skill and forethought.

Scoth had retired to a corner not too far from one of the fires but by one of the snow-blocked windows that gave a little light. Mostly the oil lamps were lit to provide illumination. Scoth had taken out her iadach, a workbag in which needles and threads and materials for embroidery were carried. Using various coloured balls of thread called certle, she bent to her task. Embroidery was a recognized art in which all royal ladies were proficient. It was said that every chiefly household maintained a chief druinech or embroideress. Even the Blessed Patrick had three embroiders in his household – his own sister, Lupait, Cruimtheris, a princess of the royal house of Ulaidh, and Erca, the daughter of the prince who gave land to Patrick at Ard Macha so that he could build a church there.

Fidelma passed the time with the silent Máen, playing brandubh – another board game, called ‘Black Raven’. They set up their board at the far end of the hall by the other fire. Máen was not a brilliant player and eventually Fidelma tried to draw him into a little conversation about himself and his service to the tanist. They spoke in low, whispered tones, so as not to disturb anyone else. Little by little she learnt that he had been fostered with Rechtabra, trained as a warrior and thenceforth became his trenfher or champion, a term meaning chief bodyguard.

“Do you spend all the time in this part of the territory? Among the mines?”

Máen shook his head. “As tanist, Rechtabra’s task is to frequently go on a circuit of the territory, much like the Brehon, to be watchful over the people and the property of Prince Gilcach.”

“What do you make of this argument between the lady Scoth and the tanist?”

Máen looked about him quickly but, seeing Scoth intent on her sewing and Eadulf and Rechtabra concentrating on their game, he realized they could not be overheard if he spoke softly.

“It started when Prince Gilcach made his wish known that he wanted Scoth to marry Rechtabra. Rechtabra accepted the idea – not that he was in love, but it was a logical move for the good of the chieftainship.”

“And the lady, Scoth?”

“She was enraged. If the truth be known, she had met someone else. I do not know who it was, but rumour had it that he was from Bréifne but not of a chiefly family. The more her father tried to persuade her against it, the more she fought and the more her dislike of Rechtabra increased.”

“And what did Rechtabra think of this?”

“He was not happy. He knows that Prince Gilcach indulges his daughter. Moreover, the petty chieftains want to curry favour with Gilcach, and it had occurred to Rechtabra that Gilcach could call a meeting of his council and persuade them to elect a new tanist and one which he could persuade his daughter to marry. I think Rechtabra is very insecure.”

“And what of this business of the silver mine? Have you heard of this inheritance before?”

“That I have no knowledge of it. Rechtabra, as tanist, keeps his eye on the silver mines of the Airthir Chliach and that is his duty to the Prince Gilcach. It could well be that the lady Scoth has a prior claim. But I thought that the matter was now in hand and that we were to wait for the return of Gilcach and his Brehon?” The warrior was suddenly suspicious that Fidelma was pumping him for information about the tanist.

“You are quite right, Máen,” she agreed quickly. “I cannot help being curious, that is all. Let us forget this matter.”

***

On the morning of the third day, the winds had dropped and the skies cleared. Fidelma and Eadulf left the settlement soon after first light, having bid farewell to Scoth. They learnt that, even as early as they had risen, Rechtabra and his companion Máen had already departed. Fidelma was silent and dissatisfied as they began to head for the pass through Sliabh an Airgid. The conditions became fair and sunny, although the pale winter sun had no effect on alleviating the coldness of the day. However, the riding conditions were good, the track was firm although covered by a layer of crisp snow. Their intention had been to cross the ford over the river Maoilchearn, south of the Silver Mountains, then keep south-east, to join the main track south to Cashel beyond Cnoc Thaidhg, a small peak rising only 400 metres. It did not take them too long to pass through the four-kilometre stretch that constituted the pass through the Silver Mountains, and to come to the river crossing. It was here that Fidelma halted and frowned in sudden decision.

“Ahead of us is Sliabh Coimeálta,” she announced, indicating the height. Then pointing, “Along the south bank of the river is a stone circle. If we turn directly south from there we will be able to climb into the high pass.”

Eadulf groaned. “So you want to go back to see if those hill-farming folk were rescued?”

“It should only be a few hours detour, for it’s a fair day. We can rejoin the main road south of Motharshliabh and there are several hostels along the route where we can stay if we are unduly delayed.”

Eadulf glanced at her speculatively. “You are really intrigued by what happened to you the other night.” He made it a statement, not a question.

She nodded slowly. “Let us say that I do not like mysteries that have no solution. There are certain things I want to rest my mind about.”

It was midday when Fidelma called a halt again. The twisting valley was still covered in snow and it was hard for her to locate their position. She knew from the outline of Sliabh Coimeálta, across the valley to her right that she was on the right track but she could not locate the spot where the hill-farm stood. That she found curious. The two dark buildings should have been obvious on the hillside. Eadulf looked on as she tried to take a bearing from the peaks around her. She was certain, snow or no snow, she would have been able to see the buildings on her left, a little way up the hill. She compressed her lips in vexation.

“You did come here in a snowstorm,” Eadulf pointed out, trying to reason with her. “Things might have seemed entirely different.”

She shook her head. “But I did not leave in a snowstorm. I took bearings from the peaks. The farmstead should be somewhere up the hill in front of us.”

Eadulf looked carefully over the slopes. Suddenly he uttered a sharp exclamation. “You are right. There were some buildings. There, look …”

Following his outstretched hand, Fidelma could see some dark patches a little way up the hill. Patches that were not part of the natural hillside. The snow had fallen and covered whatever it had been. Fidelma slid from her horse and looked about her, seeking to find a stone or object to secure the reins of her horse. Then she began to scramble up the hillside. After a moment’s hesitation, Eadulf followed her example.

For Fidelma, there was something very familiar about the flat space she paused on. She breathed out long and hard. Beside her, Eadulf was puzzled. “It looks like a demolished cabin,” he muttered, as his eyes drifted over the stones and pieces of wood that were strewn around.

“That was the cabin I spent the night in,” she replied softly.

Eadulf shivered slightly at the tone in her voice.

“But you said …” he began.

“I know what I said. I know what happened,” her voice was now confident.

Eadulf moved forward and began to brush the coating of snow from the stones and wood. Then he turned to her with a serious expression.

“Where did you say the barn was?”

Fidelma pointed without saying anything further. Eadulf went to explore, scraping the snow away here and there. Then he looked up with a shake of his head.

“One thing is for certain, a cabin and a barn stood here until a short while ago.”

Fidelma turned quickly. “You mean that it was knocked down recently?”

“That I do,” replied Eadulf. “And that must have taken several men, working hard, for some hours. Where they have left bits of wood, it has been smashed and obviously one can see that the breaks are not weathered. This was done very recently. But who did it and why? If there had been no snowfall during the last few days then we might have seen the remains of the buildings earlier.”

“Maybe we were meant to ride past without noticing them. But did they drive off the cow, the goats and the chickens?”

“That would be logical,” agreed Eadulf. “Also, you will have noticed that most of the timbers and a lot of the domestic materials are not here. Only the bits of rough-hewn stone that could not be removed have been left, knocked down and spread about. But why?”

“There must be some evidence of where the remains of this cabin and barn have been taken.”

“With the snows of the last two days and nights, I doubt we could find a trail,” murmured Eadulf, glancing around. He crossed back to the ruins of the cabin and stared at it thoughtfully. Then he suddenly bent down and rubbed snow away from some objects on the ground. He rose, holding them in his hand. “Maybe they were in a hurry, for these seem valuable, too valuable to leave behind.”

Fidelma moved forward and peered at them closely.

“Not the usual tools of a hill-farmer,” she muttered. “That is a fonsura, a chisel of the type used by miners, and that we call a lightning mallet, a forcha-teinnighe.” She suddenly smiled and nodded her head. “I think that I am beginning to understand.”

Eadulf gazed at her blankly. “Understand?”

“The voices I heard in the night. The thuds. What might have happened to the couple who lived here. Above all, why a man could leave no tracks in the snow. Why a so-called hill-farmer could have a colloquial knowledge of Latin. And why he would call himself Fáelur. It all begins to fit together.”

“I wish I could follow this,” sighed Eadulf. “Anyway, what do we do now?”

Fidelma was regarding the piles of stone which had marked the walls of the bóthan, and looked hard along the rocky slope that rose behind it and which bore towards the shoulder of the immediate hill.

“Come with me but watch where you are walking. It is very dangerous terrain here, I think. And, perhaps, we should be quiet.”

Eadulf regarded her in amazement but he shrugged and did as he was told.

Keeping her eyes close to the ground, Fidelma walked slowly up from what had been the back of the cabin towards the distant shoulder of the hill. The way led past large boulder-like rocks that were as tall as a man. She had not gone far when she paused by the side of one such boulder. She bent down. Peering over her shoulder, Eadulf could see a place where it seemed twigs and fronds had been laid, but which the fallen snow had almost covered. Fidelma removed one or two of these and revealed an opening into the ground.

Eadulf was about to say something when a sound caught his attention. A distant thudding and he was sure he heard a voice calling.

Fidelma turned quickly, a finger to her lips, and motioned him to back away, returning to the cabin.

“We must get away from here immediately,” she whispered.

Eadulf found the intensity in her voice frightening.

“Monsters? Dwellers underground? What is it?” he demanded.

She smiled thinly. “More dangerous than that. Come, let’s get our horses. We have a long ride ahead of us.”

“To Cashel?” Eadulf queried. “I thought we were going to stay at a bruden overnight?”

“We do not go to Cashel but to the fortress of Caol, the commander of my brother’s bodyguard. We should be able to reach it before nightfall. Caol will be able to raise warriors so that we can return and put an end to this evil business.”

***

It was two days later that a party of warriors, most of them wearing the golden torc collars of the élite warriors of the Nasc Niadh, bodyguards to the King of Muman, rode into the settlement of Béal Átha Gabhann. Fidelma and Eadulf were among them but it was Caol, their commander, who rode at their head. Swiftly he brushed aside the challenge of the guards, two warriors of Rechtabra, the tanist of the Airthir Chliach, by asserting the authority of the King. They stood uncertainly at the gates of the hunting lodge as Caol swept by them into the main hall. His men swiftly deployed to secure the place. Even as they did so, Rechtabra emerged from one of the rooms with Máen at his side. The tanist was red-faced in fury and demanded to know what was meant, while Scoth, with a female attendant, had emerged from another chamber. Scoth was looking frightened.

Caol had confronted them both. “We are on the business of your King.”

He then stood aside and signalled one of his men to allow Fidelma and Eadulf to make their entrance into the hall.

“Fidelma!” cried Scoth. “’What on earth does this mean?”

“I have come to talk about silver mines,” she said quietly.

Rechtabra’s brows drew together and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “What nonsense is this?” he demanded. “Do you think I would break my word? I have told you, that I am prepared to answer Scoth’s allegations before my prince and his Brehon. What more do you want?”

“I want, cousin, to resolve a matter of illicit mining, of the kidnapping of workers to excavate the mine, and of the kidnapping of hill-farmers to prevent them revealing news of the whereabouts of the mine.”

“I have told you that there is nothing illegal about the mines I run,” snapped Rechtabra. “As for kidnapping …”

Scoth had turned to her cousin.

“Nothing illegal? You know full well that the mine is—”

“It is not of that particular matter I have come,” asserted Fidelma. “I speak of the silver mine in the high pass opposite Sliabh Coimeálta.”

Rechtabra stared at her for a moment and then laughed shortly. “There is no such mine there, let alone a silver mine.”

Fidelma regarded him for a moment as if trying to peer beyond his bland expression, and then she turned to examine Scoth in the same way. Then she shook her head sadly before she began to speak.

“The main entrance to the silver mine was hidden on the far side of the mountain. But the seams that the miners followed ran deep. One of the seams came through the hillside – underneath, or close enough, to the cabin of Cuilind and his wife, Ciarnat. Apparently, they heard the thudding and the voices of the miners at work under their cabin. Cuilind, roused from his sleep, went to investigate. He found one of the air tunnels and was trying to find where it led when the warriors, who were guarding the miners, caught him. Ciarnat heard his call but was caught also. Their guard-dog must have set up a barking and, the poor beast, for adhering to its duty, was bludgeoned to death.

“The warriors made Cuilind and Ciarnat prisoners but were unsure of what to do next. They left the hill-farm alone until they could send for orders. That was when I arrived and spent a curious night there. I tended to the animals and, in the cabin, during the night, I also heard the miners at work as Cuilind must have done. Thankfully, so it seems, I did not go to investigate as he had done. However, the next morning I was confronted by a man calling himself Fáelur, wolfman. A nice touch of the dramatic. He was the overseer of the mine, who had come through the air tunnel to check on the hill-farm.

“I was perturbed that there were no trace of his footprints on a path leading from the main track up to the cabin. How had he arrived there in the snow without leaving footprints? It almost gave confirmation to the story of mystic forces. But, of course, there were no footprints because Fáelur had not come to the cabin by that route, He had emerged from the air tunnel at the back of the cabin. He was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Once he knew who I was, he did not want the problem of kidnapping the sister of the King of Muman and bringing down the wrath of Cashel on his head. So he tried to persuade me that the couple were lost on the mountain and that he was a relative and would organize a search. I have met with very few hill-farmers who spoke Latin to the extent of knowing some of its complicated axioms. That alerted me that he was not who he said he was.

“When I rode off, he believed I was satisfied that there was no mystery there. However, he sent someone to report the matter to the person who was in charge of the illicit mining. They ordered the destruction of the hill-farm so that any future travellers would not notice it. The miners were told to destroy the buildings and remove the livestock to the other side of the mountains on the east. A lot of the materials, the wood that constituted the barn and things from the cabin, were taken into the mine because it would be useful for shoring it up and helping the work. The kidnapped miners were forced to do this work. Thankfully, one of them purposely left his mining tools on the chance they might be spotted by someone who would ask questions.

“Indeed, there was one problem. My suspicion. When I mentioned that I was going back through the high pass to see how the search for Ciarnat and Cuilind progressed, a means had to be devised to ensure that I did not travel back that morning – so as to give the miners a chance to do their work of destruction. As it turned out, such subterfuge was superfluous. The snowstorm ensured that we were snowbound for several days before Eadulf and I could begin our journey to Cashel. We went with stories of the Fáelur ringing in our ears in an attempt to persuade us not to return through the high pass.”

She paused looking sadly from Scoth to Rechtabra.

“This is madness,” the tanist responded angrily. “There is no mine where you say it is. You will have to prove it.”

Fidelma sighed. “That I can do. Before we came here, Caol and his men raided the mine. We found Cuilind and Ciarnat and released them. The miners who had been kidnapped from local mines were also released. They were forced to work under armed guards, and the supervision of the person who called himself Fáelur. Fáelur was a professional miner and a specialist on silver mining. His motivation for the illicit mining was for a share of the profits. So there is proof enough for you, Rechtabra.”

The tanist was staring at her unable to speak. He stood, shaking his head.

Scoth glanced angrily at him. “I knew something strange was happening. I thought it was odd when those miners began to disappear. Was the mine very rich in silver, Fidelma?”

“I am told it is one of the richest mines that the men have ever worked in.”

“But how could Rechtabra hope to get away with the silver?”

“When I asked what motivation Rechtabra would have in trying to obtain the silver from a mine that you could prove belonged to you, you told me the motivation. With such riches, you said, one could go and live anywhere, for riches create power. Anywhere in the world, it is the same.” Fidelma paused and added quietly, “Where did you mean to go, Scoth?”

The girl started uncertainly.

“I do not understand …” she began hesitantly.

“You did not think that you had bought the silence of the guards who dealt with you?” Fidelma asked. “Nor, in the circumstances facing him, do you think that Fáelur would shoulder in silence the retribution that must come? Even love has its limitations. While he still refuses to give his real name, his Bréifne origin betrays him.”

Rechtabra was wide eyed, trying to understand what was being said.

“You mean this illicit mining was Scoth’s idea?” he demanded. “But why? She is the daughter of Cilcach, Prince of Airithir Chliach. What need has she of more wealth and position?”

“Some people are never satisfied with what they have,” Fidelma replied quietly. At her nod, two of Caol’s warriors had taken up positions behind Scoth. But she had no defiance left in her. “Take her to her room while we consider how to deal with the matter. Her father and his Brehon must certainly be sent for now.”

“I think you should explain,” Rechtabra pressed, when Scoth had been removed. He was clearly still confused.

“It seems that she met Fáelur – I have no other name for him – who was from Bréifne. She is in love with him. You told me about this yourself. But he was not from a chiefly family so her father disapproved. He made his wish that Scoth and you should marry. She grew afraid that her refusal would eventually lead to her losing her wealth and position. We don’t know who discovered the silver lode, but Fáelur opened it up with some hired mercenaries. However, to fully exploit the mine, he needed skilled miners; those who disappeared had been kidnapped and were pressed into service. Scoth and Fáelur probably thought that, once they had gathered enough silver from the mine, they would go somewhere where no one knew them and, with identities changed, would establish themselves with their wealth.”

“How did you come to suspect Scoth?” asked Rechtabra.

“It was shortly after I arrived here that a man came to tell her what had taken place in the high pass. She immediately sent him back to Fáelur to tell him to destroy the hill-farm. Easier to say than to accomplish. I told her the story of my encounter at the farm and she took the lead from her lover. It was Scoth who raised the legend of Fáelur, of wolf creatures in the Silver Mountains, in an attempt to put me off travelling back that way.

“When she saw that I cared little for superstition and that I was intent on leaving the next morning, she had to come up with another excuse to keep me out of the high pass for a day or two. In that she was very stupid. Her accusation against you was very lame. But she thought that would delay me some time while I, as a dálaigh, tried to sort it out. It was silly because it was a matter that would soon be shown to be false. It was also, as I said, superfluous, because the snowstorm stopped Eadulf and I from travelling anyway. Had she remained silent, she might probably have escaped detection.

“So, when we were able to travel, my suspicions had been heightened to the point that I went through the high pass again and found the air tunnel to the mine. The rest followed.”

As she paused there came the distant but distinct howling of a wolf, shortly joined by others and rising to a crescendo. In the quiet that followed, Fidelma smiled sadly. “The night of the snow wolf? Wolves are social creatures. I think we could learn much from them.”