As they stared up at the dead man, Gormán appeared a little impatient.
‘Is it wise to tarry here, lady? After all, this is the border of the Uí Fidgente territory.’
Fidelma grimaced. ‘I doubt whether the Uí Fidgente do anything without a purpose, so I do not think they would attack us for merely looking at this unfortunate. If they did not want travellers to observe this body then they, whoever they might be, would have cut it down, not left it hanging in this place.’
Gormán did not appear reassured. He kept his sword ready in his hand while his eyes darted here and there in case of unexpected dangers.
‘I wonder who or what this young man was?’
Fidelma suddenly bent from her horse and reached out to take the left hand of the corpse, peering at the palm and fingers. She then stared awhile at the fingers of the right hand before letting it go with a sigh.
‘And what does that tell you?’ Eadulf asked with an expression of repugnance on his features.
‘It tells me that the young man wore a ring on the third finger of his left hand which, over the years, has left a mark. His palms and fingers are soft, so he did not do manual work – but the nails are torn and there is blood under them, so he must have either used his hands to fight his captors or tried to dig himself out of some prison.’
‘You think he was a noble?’
‘There are other people in society who do not do manual work,’ she replied.
‘Well, this is a frustrating trip,’ Eadulf complained. ‘We have moved from one mystery to another and there is no information to take us forward to a resolution of either of them.’
A small smile flickered on Fidelma’s lips. ‘If life’s mysteries were easy, Eadulf, then there would be little for me to do and I should doubtless pine away with boredom.’
They had reached the marshland country around Ulla with its small hill called Cnoc Ulla rising barely fifty metres above them but seemingly out of place on the flat plain. Below the hill was a collection of buildings, which was where Fidelma had proposed to spend the long winter night before moving on to Mungairit. It was twilight as they approached, that strange grey light that appears in the moments approaching sundown. And it was in this light that Gormán, once more riding a little way ahead, saw the condition of the buildings they were approaching. His hand again went to his sword-hilt.
‘The buildings are in ruins,’ he muttered as they came up alongside him. ‘We must be careful.’
Fidelma examined them for a moment. ‘Some time has passed since this was done. This probably occurred during the raids that Étain of An Dún and her followers made.’
Gormán relaxed a little. ‘I had forgotten they were active in this area. You are right. They wreaked much devastation here.’
Being mainly wooden constructions, the fires had consumed almost all the habitations. There was little left but the three travellers were thankful that there were no signs of human remains. From the look of things, either the attackers, survivors or those who had come later had cleared up the human debris. Étain of An Dún, in her attempt to create war in the kingdom, had exacted a high price for her madness. But now she was dead and the kingdom was supposedly at peace.
‘A pity,’ Fidelma said, regarding the ruins.
‘Where is the next settlement?’ asked Eadulf. ‘We can’t stay here.’
‘There is no other settlement close by that I know of,’ replied Gormán. ‘At least none that we can reach before darkness.’
‘Then there is nothing for it but to find the least damaged of the buildings and make ourselves as comfortable as possible for the night,’ decided Fidelma.
‘At least we have firewood enough,’ Eadulf observed with cynical humour.
At one end of what had been the settlement they found the remains of a substantial construction. It appeared to have been built mainly of stones, although the door and windows had been burned away.
‘A chapel, I think,’ Eadulf observed. ‘I wonder where everyone went?’
‘If any of them survived at all,’ Fidelma commented dourly as she dismounted. ‘Let’s look inside and see if we can make it habitable for the night.’
A corner of the drystone-built chapel seemed surprisingly undamaged. The roof of wooden planking had fallen, but against a beam which kept it secure from the ground so that one could still stand up with head clearance in the area. Apart from dust, the flagstones were relatively clean, enough to provide a comfortable sleeping area.
‘We can lay a fire here,’ Fidelma pointed to an area before this sheltered section, ‘and that should keep us warm.’