The men of the settlement stood close together, eyeing me. They looked both combative and terrified. This didn’t make sense. What did they think I was, a one-woman raiding party? I shivered, hugging my shawl around me, as they held a muttered consultation.

“Where did you say you were headed?”The man with the club asked the question without quite looking me in the eye.

“I didn’t,” I said.“But my mother’s kin live in these parts.”That was not quite a lie: my mother’s family had indeed lived in the far west of Connacht, but there were none of them left now, at least none I knew of.

“Fetch Tomas,” someone said. A lull, then; no more missiles thrown, but plenty of talk in low, agitated voices on that side of the barrier, while on this side I stood waiting as the last light faded. I wondered how much longer my legs would hold me up.

“What are you?”A new voice.Another man had joined the first group, an older man with a more capable manner. “Ordinary folk don’t come to Whistling Tor. Especially not after dark.”

“Are you Tomas?” I asked. “My name is Caitrin. I’ve been on the road all day. I just need somewhere to sleep. I can pay.”

“If you mean no harm, prove it,” someone called out.

“How?” I wondered if I would be subjected to a search or other indignities when I got through the defensive barrier.Well-born young women did not usually travel alone. It would be plain to everyone that I was in some kind of trouble. After today it was all too easy to believe men would interpret that as an invitation.

“Say a Christian prayer.” That was the man with the club, his voice still thick with unease.

I stared at him.Whatever these villagers were afraid of, it seemed it was not the Normans, for the most part a Christian people.“God in heaven,” I said, “guide and support me on my journey and bring me safely to shelter. Blessed Saint Patrick, shield me. Mother Mary, intercede for me. Amen.”