The Seventh Trumpet by Peter Tremayne

directions; although it was usually very busy, it was not classed as one of the five great highways that united the Five Kingdoms, such as the Slige Dála that connected Cashel to the Palace of the High King at Tara. This smaller highway was classed as a bothar – a cattleway – for it was along earlier tracks in ancient times that people herded their cattle to market and, indeed, still did so. At this hour, the highway was deserted, for most people liked to travel early in the mornings and then halt to take refreshment at midday when the sun stood at its zenith. By the time the day became cooler, their refreshment had usually influenced them to delay their journey until the following morning. Therefore it was not surprising that the small party encountered no one as they joined the highway and crossed to the little wooden chapel that stood on the edge of the wild heathland.
    Surrounding the construction was the burial-ground, each grave aligned east to west. It was to the west that people believed the souls of the dead were taken, even in the earliest times before the coming of the New Faith. It was obvious to Fidelma’s eyes that this was a poor, rural burial-ground, for there were but few wooden crosses, some weathered in the passing of the years. From the time of the coming of the Faith it had become customary to erect a cross over the grave of a Christian. But those of rank would have a flat slab or a pillar stone erected on which was inscribed a name, sometimes in the characters called Ogham and sometimes in Latin. She noticed that there were no such stone grave-markers here.
    As they approached the chapel, they heard the sharp blows of a hammer, striking hollowly, and saw the figure of a man on the roof, securing some roofing boards. A ladder leaned against the side of the building.
    Fidelma gave a quick nod to Gormán, who leaned back in his saddle and called up, ‘God bless the work, Brother.’
    The man paused and looked down before he removed a couple of nails that he was holding between his lips. He carefully replaced them, and his hammer, in a sling in his belt, before he returned the greeting. ‘He does bless this work, indeed, warrior. But I am no Brother. Just an ailtirecht .’
    Eadulf had to think for a moment, confusing the word with ailithir , a pilgrim, before realising that ailtirecht meant a craftsman in wood.
    Fidelma edged her horse forward and looked up towards the workman. ‘What is your name?’ she asked.
    The man peered down and then, appearing to recognise her, he left his position and slid down the ladder with surprising dexterity before coming to stand at her horse’s head. He was a weathered-looking man of medium height with greying hair and light blue eyes, obviously used to heavy work. He bowed his head in respectful acknowledgement to her.
    ‘I am called Saer, lady. I maintain this building for Brother Ailgesach and, indeed, the other buildings of our little settlement.’
    ‘Where might we find this Brother Ailgesach?’
    Saer hesitated and then gestured with his chin in a northward direction.
    ‘At this time of day, lady, you may well find him in the bruden , the tavern run by Fedach Glas. It is but a short distance along the highway.’
    ‘Brother Ailgesach?’ Even in the circumstances Fidelma could not help the smile that came to her lips. ‘He sounds a truly pious man.’ The name meant ‘servant of the saints’.
    Saer caught her humour and muttered sourly, ‘Neither pleasant nor pious, lady. But that is not for me to condone or condemn.’
    ‘You will not get into trouble for giving your opinion,’ Fidelma reassured him, interested by his response. ‘In any event, we intended to go to the tavern even if this Brother Ailgesach had not been there.’
    Saer had noticed the burden that Enda’s horse was carrying. ‘Has one of your party come to harm, lady?’ he asked.
    ‘Not one of our party,’ she replied. ‘The dead man is a stranger whom we found. We do not yet