Suffer Little Children by Peter Tremayne

Eisten old enough to have had such experience, but Eisten was older than her looks, being twenty-two years of age. She had journeyed with a group of religieuse to the Holy Land. She had found herself in the town of Bethlehem and made a pilgrimage to the very birthplace of the Saviour. It had been there she had purchased the ornate crucifix from local craftsmen. So Fidelma encouraged her to talk about
her adventures, merely to keep the children occupied and content.
    Inwardly Fidelma was far from happy. She was disconsolate, not at the idea of contact with potential plague carriers but at the fact that the conditions of her journey were even worse than they had been when, earlier that day, she had been bemoaning the weather and the cold and damp. At least she had been dryshod on horseback then. Now she was stumbling through the mud and slush of the track, trying to keep a delicate balance with the young baby in her arms. The child was constantly whimpering and trying to twist and turn, which made matters worse. Fidelma did not wish to cause alarm but even in the half light she had observed a tell-tale yellow tint to the child’s skin and the fever on its little brow. Now and then, in order to keep the child from wriggling loose in her grip, Fidelma almost lost her footing in the mud which oozed around her ankles.
    â€˜How much farther is it to Ros Ailithir?’ she allowed herself to ask after they had been walking two hours.
    It was Sister Eisten who was specific.
    â€˜Seven miles from here, but the road does not get easier.’
    Fidelma momentarily clenched her teeth and did not reply.
    The gloom of dusk was rapidly spreading from the east, merging with the gloomy low-lying clouds and, almost before she realised it, a thick night fog was obscuring the roadway. The weather had not cleared yet as Cass had predicted.
    Fidelma regretfully called a halt.
    â€˜We’ll never make it to the abbey like this,’ she told Cass. ‘We’ll have to find a place to stay until morning.’
    As if to emphasise the dangers of night travel, a wolf pack began to yelp and bay in unison across the hills. One of the little girls began to cry, a plaintive, painful whimpering which twisted Fidelma’s heart. She had learnt that the copper-haired sisters were named Cera and Ciar. The fair-haired young lad was called Tressach while the other boys, as she had guessed,
were brothers – Cétach and Cosrach. This much information had she been able to extract from them during their short journey through the cold woods.
    â€˜The first thing is to light some torches,’ Cass announced. ‘Then we will have to find a shelter.’
    He handed the reins of his horse to the elder boy, Cétach, and went to the side of the road where the woods bordered it. Fidelma listened to the snapping of twigs and a soft cursing as Cass searched for tinder dry enough to make and light a brand torch.
    â€˜Do you know if there are any dry places near here in which we can shelter?’ Fidelma asked Sister Eisten.
    The young religieuse shook her head.
    â€˜There is only the forest.’
    Cass had succeeded in lighting a bundle of twigs, but they would not burn long.
    â€˜Best if we kindled a fire,’ he muttered as he rejoined Fidelma. ‘If there is nothing else, at least the trees might afford some shelter. Perhaps we can find enough bushes to create some protection. But it will be a cold night for the children.’
    Fidelma sighed and nodded assent. There was little else to do. Already it was impossible to see more than a few yards. Perhaps she should have insisted that they remain in the village for the night. At least it would have been warm among the smouldering ruins. Still, there was little point in self-reproach now.
    â€˜Let’s move into the wood, then, and see if we can find a dry spot. Then we’ll get what sleep we can.’
    â€˜The children haven’t eaten since this morning,’