Act of Mercy Read Online Free PDF Page B

opponents to the narrow goal formed by two poles.
    Fidelma’s group waited until another goal had been scored, then continued on their good-natured way. It was a happy, carefree day even though Fidelma, at the back of her mind, knew that their mentor, Brehon Morann, had hoped his students would not only indulge themselves at the fair but would also attend the great debates on the laws and thus expand their knowledge of their subject. Fidelma was about to remind her comrades of this when they found themselves pushing through the crowd to where a horse race was about to commence.
    Cian had caught her eye immediately.
    He was only a year or two older than she was. A young man of striking appearance; tall, chestnut-haired to the point that it was almost red. He was pleasantly featured, well-muscled, and his clothing spoke
of some degree of rank. For the race, he was clad lightly in linen trousers and shirt, dyed with several colours, and wearing a short beaver fur-edged cloak of woven wool. He was astride a splendid stallion of magnificent physique which, like his rider, was chestnut in colour but with a white splash on its forehead.
    Fidelma had not even noticed the other riders lined up with Cian. She stood staring up at him, strangely attracted by his youth and vitality. Some chemistry must have passed between them for his eyes flickered down, caught her gaze, held it for a second or two and then he smiled. It was a warm, open smile.
    There came a yell of warning from the race director and a flag was raised. It fluttered above their heads for a brief moment and fell abruptly. Away thundered the horses to a roar of acclamation from the crowds.
    ‘What a gorgeous man!’ whispered Fidelma’s companion, Grian. Grian was slightly older than Fidelma and her best friend at the school of the Brehon Morann. She was a capable student but had a frivolous side to her nature and placed enjoyment above serious study every time a choice had to be made.
    Fidelma flushed in spite of herself.
    ‘Who do you mean?’ she said, trying to sound casual.
    ‘The young man with whom you shared a smile just now,’ Grian teased her.
    ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ protested Fidelma, colouring even more.
    Grian turned to a small elderly man, who had been shouting encouragement to one particular rider.
    ‘Do you know who the riders are?’ she asked.
    The man ceased his exhortations and raised his eyes to her in astonishment.
    ‘Now would I be placing a bet on the outcome of the race if I didn’t?’ he protested. ‘Names of the riders, their horses, and their form are the first things I find out before even setting foot here.’
    Grian smiled eagerly. ‘Then perhaps you could tell us the name of that chestnut, with the white splash on its forehead, and who it is that rides her?’
    ‘The young man with the red cloak?’
    ‘That’s the one.’
    ‘Nothing easier. The chestnut is called Diss …’
    Fidelma entered the conversation with a frown. ‘Diss? But that means “feeble” or “weak”?’

    The fellow tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘That’s because the horse is anything but feeble or weak.’
    Fidelma was bewildered by this logic.
    ‘Who is the rider then?’ pressed Grian, not wishing to be sidetracked.
    ‘The man who rides it, owns it,’ replied the elderly man. ‘He is named Cian.’
    ‘A chiefs son, by the look of him,’ observed Grian slyly.
    The man shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. He is a warrior, though. He serves in the bodyguard of the High King.’
    Grian turned back to Fidelma with a look of triumph.
    The cheers were getting louder and louder and they could hear the thunder of hooves coming closer. The course had nearly been completed, being circular in shape, and the riders were approaching the winning post.
    Fidelma leant forward to see the result.
    There was the big chestnut just behind the leader, a white mare, its rider leaning close along its neck. The cheers rose up as Cian and his