Dancing With Demons by Peter Tremayne Read Free Book Online Page A

woodland, and Fidelma had decided that they would spend their final night there before moving on to Tara. The plain was named after Nuada Necht, of whom there were many confusing legends.
Some claimed he was a powerful god of the ancients and husband to the goddess Bóinn, who gave her name to the great river that ran close by. Others dismissed him as merely a pagan king.
    The sun was low in the sky when Caol called from behind them: ‘Smoke, lady! There’s smoke ahead.’
    Fidelma drew rein, as did the rest of the band. Beyond the border of trees that lay ahead of them rose a dark column of smoke.
    ‘That’s no hearth fire,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘It is much larger. Can it be that the trees have caught alight?’
    ‘A winter fire among the forests is no natural phenomenon, Brother Eadulf,’ replied Gormán. ‘It looks more like—’
    ‘There is a church and a habitation in that direction,’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘I know it well, for I have stayed there many a time on this road. That is where I meant us to stay this night. Come!’ She dug her heels into her mount and sent it speeding down the road, heedless of danger.
    Caol’s protest was lost but he paused only a second before racing after her, drawing his sword at the same time. Gormán was following and, with a groan, Eadulf also urged his own mount after them.
    With Fidelma leading, the band of riders galloped swiftly along the road through the small skirting of woodland. They could smell the acrid stench of the smouldering wood before they came into the clearing, where the blackened remains of a small wooden church still poured smoke and ash into the air. Nearby, other outbuildings that Fidelma recalled as a cowshed and pigpen and a guesthouse were already so much charcoal. Remains of belongings – torn pages of books, clothing and domestic items lay in profusion around the clearing. Two figures lay outstretched on the ground before the buildings. Both wore the woollen habits of religieux; these were stained with blood.
    Caol cried: ‘Wait, lady!’ as Fidelma made to dismount. He looked carefully around, head to one side, listening. Then he slid from his horse, sword still in his hand, explaining: ‘Whoever did this thing may still be lingering nearby.’
    He walked across to one of the bodies but did not even bother to bend down to check the first, shook his head to indicate that the religieux was beyond hope. Then he moved on to the second. Here he bent down quickly and raised the man’s head.
    ‘This one lives!’ he called excitedly.
    Eadulf, who knew something of medicine, dismounted and went to kneel at the side of the man. A brief glance, and he shook his head. The
man might still live, but not for long. Blood was pouring from a deep gash in his chest.
    ‘Pass me the water,’ he instructed Caol. ‘It will not harm him for he has not long.’
    He allowed the dying religieux to swallow a gasping mouthful.
    ‘Who did this thing, my friend?’ he demanded.
    The man’s eyes flickered open and stared up, dilating orbs of pain. He tried to form words but could not find breath to make the sound.
    ‘Who is responsible?’ insisted Eadulf, bending so that his ear almost touched the man’s lips. He caught a sound and then heard a rattle of breath. The man was dead. He laid him gently back on the ground and stood up.
    ‘Did he answer your question?’ Fidelma asked, still seated on horseback with Gormán, sword defensively drawn and on the alert, at her side.
    Eadulf shrugged. ‘A single word … something about blame, I think. Perhaps he meant that he was to blame. I don’t understand.’
    Caol looked around vigilantly. ‘We can do nothing here, lady, and this could be a dangerous place to linger in.’
    ‘This was where I meant us to stay this night.’ Fidelma glanced anxiously at the darkening sky. ‘It will be dusk before long.’
    ‘I would venture that this would not be the best place to spend a winter’s night, lady, for there is no