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the chamber door open and a draught whistling through.
    The abbot put down the goblet of wine he had been sipping and rose to his feet. He shuffled to the door, paused a moment and then, with a sigh, shrugged and closed it.
    Although he kept a passive expression on his features, he had to admit that he shared something of the steward’s excitement. It had been ten days since he had asked Conrí, warlord of the Uí Fidgente, for help. Last month, six young female members of the community had left the abbey with Abbess Faife. They had only been gone a few days when Mugrón, a merchant who was well known at Ard Fhearta, had arrived at the abbey with horrifying news. He had found the body of Abbess Faife near the roadside south of the Sliabh Mis mountains. There had been no sign of her six companions. By coincidence, Abbess Faife’s nephew, Conrí, the warlord of the Uí Fidgente, was visiting the abbey at the time. Having recovered the body of the abbess and attended the rituals of burial, Conrí
had assured Abbot Erc that he knew of only one person, a dálaigh, who could solve such a mystery as that now facing them. He had left the abbey with two warriors, promising to find the dálaigh and return to the abbey as soon as possible.
    And now Conrí was returning. But in the meantime a second tragic mystery had occurred: the murder of the Venerable Cinaed.
    Abbot Erc shivered slightly as he remembered finding the Venerable Cináed’s body in the oratory. God! What evil cursed the great abbey that such things could happen? The abbot stared moodily into the fire and wondered what manner of person it was whom Conrí was bringing to his abbey to resolve these mysteries and in whom he had so much faith.
     
     
    Conrí, King of Wolves, warlord of the Uí Fidgente, paused on the brow of the hill and patted the neck of his bay stallion. He was tall and well-muscled, with a shock of black hair, grey eyes and the livid white of a scar across his left cheek. In spite of that, he was a handsome young man whose humour was especially marked when he smiled. It was the smile that changed the haughtiness of his expression into a look of boyish mischievous fun. He turned to his companions and pointed north-westward across the plain.
    ‘There is the great abbey of Ard Fhearta, lady.’
    His companions were a red-haired religieuse and a stocky man wearing the tonsure of St Peter. Behind them rode two young but dour-looking warriors. The woman and her companion edged their horses close to Conrí and followed the line of his outstretched arm.
    ‘Well, Conrí, our journey has not been long from Cashel,’ observed the woman.
    ‘It is as I promised,’ agreed the young warrior. ‘I am only sorry that I felt no other choice was left to me but to ask you to come here to help us.’
    The religieuse’s companion grimaced sceptically. ‘Since you put your case so well, Conri, how could we refuse you?’
    Conrí glanced suspiciously at him.
    ‘I have no eloquence, Brother Eadulf,’ he replied shortly. ‘I think the lady Fidelma was persuaded by the strangeness of the facts.’
    Brother Eadulf was about to make some rejoinder when Sister Fidelma held up a hand and put her head slightly to one side.

    ‘Listen! What is that noise?’
    There came to their ears a faint rhythmic sound like the distant pounding of a drum. It seemed to have a slow but regular beat.
    ‘Have you never been in this corner of Muman, lady?’ asked Conrí. He always addressed Fidelma by her rank as sister to Colgú, king of Muman, rather than her religious title.
    ‘I have not crossed beyond the Sliabh Luachra, the mountain barrier that divides us from the heartland of the Uí Fidgente,’ she replied. Then she grinned mischievously, adding, ‘For obvious reasons, as you will appreciate, Conrí.’
    It was not so long ago that the Uí Fidgente chieftains had led their people into a futile war to overthrow her brother, newly placed upon the throne at Cashel. The Uí