The Seventh Trumpet by Peter Tremayne Page B

all bruden had in common, as Fidelma well knew, was that they were a place of refuge. A suspected murderer could claim sanctuary from summary arrest and punishment in a bruden until they were assured of a fair trial before a Brehon. The system of the bruden had been carried abroad by the missionaries of Éireann, providing accommodation and food for those pilgrims travelling to Rome, along the roads through Gaul, Frankia and the other Germanic lands.
    Fedach Glas’s hostel was a series of rough-built log cabins surrounding the main house, and with stables for the horses. As they reined in before the entrance, a man came hurrying towards them. He had grey hair and a full beard, a sallow skin and dark mournful eyes. His gaze ran over their mounts and manner of dress. It was obvious that he quickly made up his mind what manner of travellers they were.
    ‘Welcome lady, welcome sirs. We are no brugaid-lethech but only a poor bruden . Do your honours wish to alight here?’
    It was a polite way of pointing out that the tavern of Fedach Glas was not used to catering for people of rank. Gormán assumed the lead. ‘We do not intend to stay, but will refresh ourselves inside with your ale.’
    They dismounted and tied their horses to the wooden hitching-rail.
    The host, for such the man who greeted them turned out to be, went to the door and ushered them inside. It was gloomy, although a smoky wood fire was crackling in the hearth over which a cauldron was simmering; the pleasant aroma of meat and vegetables filled the place. A thin-faced, elderly woman with her hair tied back in a scarf but still showing wisps of grey about her forehead and neck, was stirring the contents with a long wooden spoon. She glanced up at them with surprise and then returned to her task. The man took his place before a crude wooden counter.
    ‘Welcome again, your honours,’ he greeted with a smile. ‘How may this humble tavern be of service to you?’
    This time it was Fidelma who stepped forward. ‘My companions wish for refreshment, your finest ale. As for myself, do you have wine?’
    The man shook his head. ‘Wine, lady, is for the nobility and the clergy of rank. We cannot afford to import it here for we rarely have such distinguished guests. All we have is corma or lind .’
    Corma was a strong intoxicating spirit distilled from barley while lind was weaker ale.
    Fidelma realised her mistake and quickly said: ‘Then we will all have ale.’
    They turned to some benches by a table and seated themselves, watching as the brugaid , the tavern-keeper, filled a jug of ale and set it before them, together with four clay drinking vessels.
    ‘Can I serve you further?’ asked the man, obviously used to his guests pouring their own drinks. Gormán decided to fill the mugs for all of them.
    ‘I presume your name is Fedach Glas?’ asked Fidelma.
    The man moved his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘That it is,’ he answered.
    ‘Then I am told that in this tavern we might find Brother Ailgesach. He is the religious who is in charge of the nearby chapel.’
    Fedach Glas frowned, and his eyes flickered to a dark corner of the tavern before returning to meet her gaze. ‘Why would you seek him?’ he countered.
    Enda snorted indignantly. ‘It is incumbent upon you to answer the questions of a dálaigh , especially—’
    ‘Especially when a hosteller is responsible to his guests,’ Fidelma interrupted, annoyed that Enda had revealed her rank.
    Fedach Glas’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘A dálaigh ?’
    ‘Is Brother Ailgesach here?’ she repeated loudly.
    A figure stirred in the gloom at a far corner of the tavern, then rose to its feet somewhat unsteadily. It moved forward a pace, supporting itself for a moment with one hand on the table at its side.
    ‘I am Brother Ailgesach,’ it intoned wheezily.
    Taking another pace forward, the figure was revealed as a very rotund and short man clad in worn brown woollen robes. A wooden cross hung