I sensed my arrival was a curiosity to them, something that went beyond the obvious puzzle of my appearance.When I’d fled from Market Cross I’d looked like what I was, the daughter of a skilled craftsman, a girl of good family, neat and respectable. Now I was exhausted and dishevelled, my clothing creased and muddy. My boots had not handled the long walk well. The manner of my departure had left me ill equipped for travel. Of my small store of coins, all but those four coppers had been spent on getting me to this point. A new idea came to me.

“Brother Eichri?”

“Yes, Caitrin, daughter of Berach?”

“I imagine you are attached to a monastery or similar, somewhere near here. Is there also a Christian place of scholarship and retreat for women?”

The monk smiled. He had teeth like miniature tombstones; they made his features look even more gaunt. “Not within several days’ ride, Caitrin. You seek to enter a life of prayer?”

I blushed. “I would hardly be qualified for that.What faith I once had, I have no longer. I thought it possible such a place might offer refuge . . . Never mind.” It had been a mistake to ask such a question.The less people knew about my woeful position the better. I’d been stupid to give these two my real name, friendly as they were.

“Are you in need of funds, Caitrin?” Rioghan’s question was blunt.

“No.” The carter had made me wary. Rioghan’s good manners did not necessarily mean he was trustworthy.“I’m a craftswoman,” I added.“I earn my own living.”

“Ah.” That was all he said, and it pleased me. No intrusive questions; no laughter at the idea that a woman could survive on her own without resorting to selling her body. For the first time in many days I felt almost at ease.

We walked on in silence. I could not help staring at Rioghan’s crimson cloak. The fabric was silky and sumptuous, most likely a cloth imported from a far land at fabulous cost. But the garment was sadly worn, almost to holes here and there. Did Rioghan have nobody to do his mending? A person who wore such an extravagant item, not to speak of the gold around his neck, must surely have servants at his beck and call.