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the tomb of the blessed Helena, mother of Constantine, this morning. Everywhere we go people see that we are foreign pilgrims and try to sell us holy relics and mementos. They are like beggars who will not be turned aside. Look at this, sister.’
    She gestured to a small, cheap copper brooch with which she had fastened her headpiece. Fidelma peered at it closely. It displayed a piece of coloured glass mounted in the copper.
    ‘I was told that it contained a hair of the blessed Helena’s head and parted with two sestertius … I have no head for such coins. Do you think it was too much?’
    Fidelma peered closely at the brooch and grimaced. She could just see a strand of hair embedded in the glass.
    ‘If, indeed, that was the hair of the blessed Helena, then it is worth the money, but …’ she left the sentence hanging with a shrug.
    The young Saxon religieuse looked crestfallen.

    ‘You doubt that it is genuine?’
    ‘There are many pilgrims in Rome and, as you have already said, many people who earn their living by selling them all manner of things claimed as holy relics.’
    Fidelma had the feeling that Eafa would have liked to talk more but she gave another quick glance over Fidelma’s shoulder and gestured apologetically.
    ‘I must go. Abbess Wulfrun has seen me.’
    The young Kentish anchoress turned, anxiety still on her features, and pushed her way through the people to where a tall woman in religious robes stood waiting with an austere and disapproving expression on her beak-like countenance. Fidelma felt a pang of sorrow for the young sister. Eafa was making this pilgrimage in the company of Abbess Wulfrun. They were both from the abbey of Sheppey but, as Eafa had confessed to Fidelma, Wulfrun was a royal princess, the sister to Seaxburgh, Queen of Kent, and she made sure everyone knew of her rank.
    That was probably why Fidelma had sought to befriend the young girl during the voyage from Massilia to Ostia, for Wulfrun treated the girl as little more than a slave. Yet Eafa had seemed more apprehensive of Fidelma’s offer of friendship than her own loneliness. She was reluctant to be friendly with anyone and made no complaints about the autocratic way Abbess Wulfrun ordered her to do this or that. A strange, lonely girl, reflected Fidelma. Introspective, not anti-social but simply unsociable. Above the hubbub of those around her Fidelma could hear the piercing tones of Abbess Wulfrun ordering Eafa to carry something for her. The Abbess’ imperious figure pushed its way through the crowds towards the palace gates, like the prow of a warship cleaving through
stormy water, with the thin, bobbing figure of Eafa in her wake.
    Sister Fidelma halted a moment or two in order to let them vanish in the throng before, with a soft sigh, she passed through the palace doors and out on to the sunbaked marble steps before the great façade. The Roman sun enveloped her in its warmth causing her to pause and catch her breath. From the cool of the interior of the great palace, the emergence into the heat of the Roman day was like plunging from a cold shower into a hot one. She blinked and took a deep breath.
    ‘Sister Fidelma!’
    She turned towards the crowd pushing their way up the steps and narrowed her eyes trying to identify the owner of the familiar deep baritone voice. A young man wearing rough brown woollen homespun, his dark brown hair capped by the corona spina of the Roman tonsure, detached himself from the group and waved to her. He was muscular, more like a warrior in build than a monk; a handsome man of her own age and height. She found herself smiling broadly in greeting, at the same time mentally questioning why she should feel such a surge of pleasure at seeing him again.
    ‘Brother Eadulf!’
    Eadulf had been her companion on the long and tedious journey from the kingdom of Northumbria. He was secretary and interpreter to Wighard, the archbishop-designate of Canterbury. They had become friends during the