Dancing With Demons by Peter Tremayne Page A

However, the fact that they are raiding on the Plain of Nuada is worrying news.’
    There was not much else to learn from the hosteller and so, after they had eaten and refreshed themselves, they retired to bed so they could be up again at first light. The hosteller and his sons, the young men who worked as stable lads, had their horses already saddled and waiting by the time the small party had broken their fast and were ready to leave. In
these public hostels, food and beds were provided free for up to three days, as part of the obligations of hospitality on a local chieftain. After three days, another arrangement had to be reached between guests and host. They left with the further assurance from the hosteller that he would take care of the bodies of the slain religious.
    The final day’s riding was easy. It was a bright morning with pale blue skies and a pastel sun. However, a chilly wind was blowing from the north almost directly into their faces. They rode north-east along the banks of the great River Bóinn for a while and, while it was still daylight, they came within sight of the distant hills over which spread the great walled complex of the palace of the High Kings at Tara.
    The highway had led over several rivers and streams, for the stately Bóinn was fed by a myriad of such watery arteries rising in the surrounding high ground. Now, within a few kilometres of Tara, Fidelma remembered there was one more crossing through a marshy area in which the waters were like a spidery web that finally emerged into the Bóinn, which lay some long distance away on their left. Indeed, it came back to her that the last river was called the Scaine from the word that meant a cleaving or dispersal. But she knew that the bridges and the road to Tara were good and well-kept so the journey should be straightforward.
    They moved downward through wooded country and emerged onto the banks of a small stretch of water. A well-constructed wooden bridge led across it into more thickly wooded countryside which consisted of close growing evergreens so that the onset of winter had not dispelled the darkness of the forest behind.
    ‘The hills of Tara rise behind this stretch of trees,’ Fidelma informed her companions with some relief. ‘We can rest soon.’
    As she led the way onto the bridge, Fidelma suddenly noticed a crouching figure who appeared to be washing something in the river on the far bank, close by the end of the bridge. It appeared to be a bent-backed old woman in torn clothing and a wild mess of once-white hair. A poor old country-woman washing some clothes, was the thought that came to mind.
    She had almost reached the far bank when the crouching figure straightened a little and gazed at her. A bony white arm protruded from the ragged clothing and a finger pointed directly towards Fidelma.
    ‘Be warned, Fidelma of Cashel,’ came a sharp voice, almost like a screech. ‘You are not welcome in Midhe.’
    Fidelma was so surprised that she jerked the reins of her horse and
drew up sharply, causing some consternation among her companions. She gazed at the dishevelled figure, frowning.
    ‘Do you address me, old woman?’ she asked.
    There was a rasping sound that Fidelma realised was meant as laughter.
    ‘Is there another Fidelma of Cashel, another who is a Sister of the Usurping Faith that blights our land? Be warned, I say, and return from whence you came.’
    Caol had clapped a hand to his sword but Fidelma motioned him to be still.
    ‘You know my name, old woman. May I know yours?’
    There came another cackle from the crone. ‘Who would sit at Ath na Foraire, the Ford of Watching, but the watcher herself?’ came the reply.
    Eadulf noticed that his companion Gormán had shivered slightly but he could not see the features of Fidelma and Caol, whose horses were in front of him and now standing motionless on the bridge. Clearly this meant something to Gormán and he was about to ask for an explanation when Fidelma replied,