‘There are many rumours…’ began Bressal.
Fidelma frowned impatiently. ‘What rumours?’
‘As you know, Cenn Fáelad is of the southern Uí Néill, of the line of the Síl nÁedo Sláine. The family are always quarrelling amongst themselves. Sechnassach was able to overcome petty squabbles by diplomacy. Cenn Fáelad seems to lack that touch. But many believe that he should not have been elected to the High Kingship.’
‘I presume that his derbhfine met — at least three generations in accordance with the law? Was not Cenn Fáelad legally nominated and elected?’ Fidelma sniffed in disapproval.
‘So I understand, but I am told that his Cousin Finsnechta Fledach, the son of Dúnchad, who was brother to Cenn Fáelad’s father, has raised objections. He feels that he should have been elevated to the High Kingship.’
‘The decision of the derbhfine must be respected under law,’ Fidelma pointed out.
‘Cenn Fáelad has tried to win his cousin over by appointing him lord of Brega in the Middle Kingdom.’
‘And Finsnechta is still not satisfied?’
‘The rumour is that he is trying to persuade the chiefs and provincial kings to rally to his cause to challenge his cousin. One rumour says that Finsnechta has sailed to Iona to seek the support of Abbot Adomnán.’
Fidelma looked grave. ‘So there are troubled times ahead?’
‘Your brother is determined to keep Muman out of the affair, for he sees it as an internal struggle between the Uí Néill only.’
‘A difficult path to tread, especially if the legitimate High King calls upon my brother for support, which he is entitled to do.’
‘It is a weakness of our kingship,’ sighed Bressal. ‘We have councils who nominate and elect our kings and thereafter have arguments on whether the decision was right or wrong. Our friends, the Saxons, simply say the eldest son of a king should inherit, no matter if they are good or bad, and if that King can keep the office by means of his sword, then he keeps it.’
‘Violentia praecedit jus,’ muttered Fidelma. Might before right. ‘It is not a good system.’
They finished their meal and Fidelma went to look in on Eadulf in the cabin. He was lying on the bunk, groaning a little in his sleep, but at least he was sleeping. Fidelma smiled before gently closing the cabin door and returning on deck to join her cousin.
The late afternoon had turned darker although the sun was still shining through the uniform grey layer of clouds covering the whole sky like ground glass. She also noticed that the wind had dropped — no, not dropped, but had veered around so that it was blowing against them now.
Gurvan greeted them, still at his place at the tiller.
‘A troubled sky,’ he muttered. ‘But no matter. We might have a storm — some lightning but without thunder. You can always read the signs in the sky.’
‘Will it delay our journey?’ asked Fidelma anxiously.
‘Bless you, not at all,’ replied Gurvan. ‘A few days of unsettled weather is to be expected at this time of year. Good days are sometimes followed by rain. It can be very changeable. Once beyond those islands,’ he thrust out a hand to indicate their direction, ‘through the passage that I mentioned, it should be fair sailing. The wind will turn again soon, have no worry.’
To the south lay the blurred outline of an island which Gurvan now identified as Hoedig, which he confided meant ‘duckling’, and before them was a great mass called Houad, the duck, towards which the ship tacked its way. The passage would bring them between these southern islands and the thrusting headland called Beg Kongell.
As Gurvan was explaining all this to Fidelma, his eyes suddenly narrowed. Almost at the same time, a voice called down from the masthead.
‘Sail ho! Dead ahead!’
Fidelma turned to see what had been spotted beyond the rising and falling of the high bow of the Barnacle Goose. She could only just make out the tiny speck on the horizon: as it grew closer, she saw that it was a vessel under full sail, moving rapidly with the changed wind behind it.
‘Call the captain,’ Gurvan shouted to one of the crew.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Fidelma.
‘That’s no merchant vessel,’ replied the mate. ‘It’s a fast-trimmed ship and heading this way.’
Murchad, followed by Bressal, appeared on deck. He sprang up the rigging and peered towards the vessel. His expression became worried.
‘She’s a fighting ship, right enough,’ he called down to Gurvan. He glanced up at the sails and then back to the oncoming vessel. ‘She has the wind behind her and she’s bearing down on us.’ His comment was a statement of the obvious but no one spoke for a moment. Then he snapped: ‘Prepare to go about — let’s get the wind behind us. I’ll head for the shelter of Hoedig.’ The island was visible nearby.
Gurvan was already shouting the necessary orders to the crew.
‘Is it serious, Captain?’ Bressal asked quietly.
The skipper of the Barnacle Goose considered a moment before he spoke.
‘The trade routes along the coast contain rich pickings for anyone who has no scruples about how they make a living. When you see a fast warship approaching in these waters, then it’s better to be safe than sorry. So we take it as serious but hope it is not.’
Bressal muttered something and hurried below.
The attention of the crew was now focused on turning the ship into the wind while, remorselessly, the sleek-built war vessel seemed to be straining, sails taut so that it was almost heeling over, bearing towards them, growing larger and larger. Fidelma grabbed at the railing as the Barnacle Goose began to turn, the deck shifting alarmingly beneath her feet, the oncoming vessel now behind them.
She saw Wenbrit, the cabin boy, poking his head above the hatch.
‘Wenbrit,’ she called, ‘make Brother Eadulf aware of what is happening and get him on deck. Don’t take no for an answer!’
The boy raised a hand to his forehead and disappeared below.
Almost at once, her Cousin Bressal reappeared. He had strapped on his war helmet and his sword and fighting knife, but she noticed that he held in his right hand the white hazel wand of office that denoted his status as a techtaire, an envoy of his King. He took his place by Murchad.
‘Are your crew armed, Captain?’ he asked.
Murchad pulled a face. ‘We are a merchant vessel; certainly we are not armed to fight that sort of warship,’ he answered, jerking his head towards the still-closing vessel.
‘But if they try to board us, we must put up a resistance,’ insisted Bressal.
‘What if they mean us no harm?’ Fidelma wanted to know. ‘We are only assuming the ship has hostile intentions. It might be a war vessel of the King of the Bretons. Anyway, you are a techtaire, an ambassador of our King, and this ship is under your protection.’
This time it was Murchad who shook his head.
‘Let us hope that whoever is the captain of that ship has respect for that protection. There is no flag at her mast, no symbol or insignia on her sails. And now I can see bowmen lined up along her side with their weapons ready. She’ll be level with us in a moment.’
‘Do you mean that it is a pirate ship?’ Bressal enquired grimly. The term he used was spúinneadair-mara — sea plunderer.
‘Pirates?’
The sharp question had come from Eadulf who, looking a ghastly pale colour, had scrambled on deck and stood swaying, clutching a rail to retain his balance.
In answer to the question, Fidelma simply gestured towards the pursuing vessel.
‘If we can’t fight her, Captain, what is your intention?’ demanded Bressal, ignoring him.
‘We can’t fight her,’ Murchad said. ‘We can’t even outrun her now. With those sails, she has the advantage of speed on us.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ll try to get into the harbour of Argol that’s abeam of us on Hoedig. Perhaps if we are sheltered there, they will think twice about trying to board us. The people there
might help.’
But Murchad had barely issued the order to Gurvan, at the helm, when there was a sudden whistling sound, and Gurvan gave a cry. They turned, staring with shock as they realised an arrow had struck the mate, piercing his neck. Blood was pouring from the wound and from his open mouth. He sank to the deck, letting the tiller swing idle.
One of the crewmen, Hoel was the first to recover — perhaps an automatic gesture from his training as a seaman. He leaped to the tiller and steadied it.
A voice called across the water in the language of the Bretons: ‘Heave to, or more of you will die!’
Murchad was well acquainted with the language and hesitated a moment before he gave the orders to start hauling down the sails. He looked apologetically at Bressal.
‘We won’t make it. Their bowmen can easily pick us off before we reach the safety of the island.’
Fidelma had hurried to the side of the fallen mate but she did not even have to feel for his pulse to see that Gurvan was beyond help. By the time she returned to Eadulf’s side, the attacking ship had closed, grappling irons were being thrown across, and men armed with swords were hauling themselves on board the Barnacle Goose.
The scene seemed unreal as the men swarmed through the ship, rounding up the crew. The only person armed had been Bressal, and now his weapons were taken from him. The young warrior stood, looking forlorn, his shoulders hunched, for he would have preferred to put up some resistance.
With the vessels tied to one another by the grapples, a lithe boyish figure suddenly swung on board. The figure presented a strange sight to Fidelma, for it was clad from head to toe in white, from leather boots and trousers to a billowing shirt and small cape. But what was curious was the white headdress that hid every feature in the manner of a mask. A workmanlike short sword and dagger were slung from the belt of the newcomer.
The figure came forward to where Murchad and Bressal stood. Fidelma and Eadulf were standing a little apart.
The attackers, while watchful of Murchad’s crew, seemed to stiffen respectfully in the presence of the newcomer, who was clearly in command.
The figure had halted before Murchad with hands on hips. Even though Murchad was burly and towered over this slight figure in white, yet it was the latter that seemed more threatening.
‘What is the name of your ship?’ snapped the white-clothed figure. The voice was barely broken and the language again was the local one.
‘Gé Ghúirainn — the Barnacle Goose,’ replied Murchad sullenly.
‘Ah, Iwerzhoniz!’
Fidelma recognised this Breton word for ‘Irish’.
‘What cargo?’ came the second sharp question.
‘Salt from Gwenrann.’
‘Holen? Mat!’ The figure grunted in satisfaction. ‘You have a choice, Iwerzhonad. You and your crew can sail this ship to where I and my men direct, or you can die now.’
The voice sounded so matter-of-fact that they had to think of the meaning of the words for a moment or two before they understood them.
Bressal flushed and stepped forward before Murchad.
‘I am Bressal of Cashel, envoy from King Colgú to Alain, King of the Bretons. See — this is my wand of office. This ship and its cargo are under the protection of the treaty agreed between them. I demand-’
Bressal broke off in mid-sentence.
Fidelma saw him bend forward as if he had received a punch in the solar plexus. Then her cousin seemed to slip to the deck on his knees and topple sideways. It was then she realised, with horror, that the figure was holding a bloodstained knife in its hand.
‘You are wrong,’ came the mocking voice. ‘The ship and its cargo are under my protection.’
For a moment there was silence. The disbelief, the shock, was on the face of every member of the crew. The person of a techtaire, an envoy, was sacred and inviolable throughout the lands, and treated with respect even by the bitterest of enemies. The white wand of office had fallen from Bressal’s lifeless hand, the very hazel wand Fidelma’s brother would have presented him with at the start of his journey from Cashel. Now it rolled across the deck to rest at her feet. For a moment, she stared down at it as if she scarcely believed what she had seen. Then she bent down and picked it up.
‘This is murder,’ she said simply.
The white-clothed figure turned its head towards her but Murchad now stepped forward a pace. His voice was raised in anger.
‘This is an outrage. It is murder! It is-’
The knife swung again, thrusting up under the burly seaman’s ribs, and Murchad, the captain, began to slowly sink to his knees before her.
‘Kill those religious and any members of the crew who do not want to sail under me,’ called the figure in white, swinging on its heel and walking back across the deck even before Murchad had measured his length beside Bressal. ‘Quickly now, or the tide will be against us.’
Chapter Two
It was Eadulf who moved next. Even as Fidelma stood looking on aghast at the carnage that had taken place before her eyes, unable to fully comprehend it, Eadulf seized her arm and was hauling her to the rail of the ship. All feelings of nausea had left his body through the shock of what had happened. An arrow splintered the wood of the rail by the side of them.
‘Jump and swim!’ yelled Eadulf. ‘Swim for your life!’
He almost threw Fidelma over the side of the vessel and a moment later followed her. They both hit the water within seconds of each other, the first impact knocking the breath from their bodies.
As Eadulf surfaced he heard shouting that was faint to his ears, and was aware of splashes around him. Arrows! They were being fired out from the ship. He glanced around and saw Fidelma had surfaced nearby.
‘Strike out for the island!’ he cried. ‘Try to keep underwater as much as you can until we are away from the ship.’
He knew that she had heard him but she did not waste precious breath or time to acknowledge. She dived just as several more missiles fell about them. Somehow she had kept a tight hold of the hazel wand and as she struggled beneath the waves she managed to thrust it into the girdle at her waist. Eadulf knew their attempt at escape was probably futile. But faced with immediate death there was no other choice he could think of. It was only a matter of time before the pirates would launch one of the small boats and row after them and they, swimming in their encumbering clothes, would easily be overtaken long before they reached the distant island. In fact, the clothes were weighing them down so much that they were hardly moving at all.
He noticed that in her frustration Fidelma was trying to pull her robe off. She was a brilliant swimmer, he knew. She and her brother Colgú had swum as soon as they could take their first footsteps, in the rushing waters of the ‘sister river’ — the Suir, which ran near to Cashel. She was a better swimmer than Eadulf, but the sodden clothing acted in the same way as if her limbs were bound.
Eadulf heard a shout and glanced back at the Barnacle Goose. His fears were correct, for he could see a small boat being lowered from the side of the ship and three men were clambering down into it. He presumed they would be armed. The shore of the island was too far away. He closed his eyes in anguish for a moment and then a curious anger rose in him as he thought how stupid it was, that his life, Fidelma’s life, could end in such a fashion.
Fidelma suddenly shouted to him above the splashing of the water. He could not hear what she said. Was it a warning?
He turned on his back and saw, bearing down on him, the sleek, dark outline of a small sailing craft. There was only one man in it, crouching at the stern. Eadulf was about to dive away, when he saw that the man was clad in the robes of a religious. He was leaning forward, one hand outstretched, the other on the tiller. Automatically, Eadulf reached out, missed the hand but managed to grab on to the stern of the vessel, which dragged him along, slowing its pace.
The man turned, let go of the tiller, grabbed Eadulf by the shoulders of his robe and literally heaved him into the bottom of the cr
aft. In slowing the tiny vessel down by his weight hanging onto the stern, with the man leaving the tiller, the little boat jibed and lost way. It had allowed Fidelma to swim the few strokes that brought her to the bows of the vessel and she tried to clamber over. The man left Eadulf gasping in the bottom of the boat and moved forward to haul her on board.
Without another word, he glanced to where the three pirates were pulling away from the sides of the Barnacle Goose in their direction.
He muttered something, grabbed the sheets controlling his single sail, seizing the tiller again and moving to find the wind. He seemed to be an expert, for only a moment passed before the wind filled out his sail again. The breeze now carried the small craft along, like a feather across the little waves, the bow wave rippling behind it like a silvery furrow.
Fidelma and Eadulf had managed to struggle into sitting positions and glance towards the disappearing outline of the Barnacle Goose and the ship that had attacked her.
‘I presume from the manner of your dress you are religious?’ the man at the tiller said in Latin.
Fidelma spoke in affirmation in the same language. Their rescuer was middle-aged, his face weather-beaten, and he had black hair, dark eyes and a suntanned skin. He looked more like a sailor than the religious his robes and the crucifix, hanging around his neck, proclaimed him to be. He wore the tonsure of St Peter. While his tone was light, his expression was anxious and he kept turning to look at the ships behind them.
‘We thank you for your timely rescue, Brother,’ Eadulf said, coughing a little to clear the tang of brine from his throat.
The man grimaced. ‘Your thanks may be a little premature. You are not out of danger yet — we are still being followed. If the black ship decides to send more warriors after you, then we may be in trouble, for we are simple fisherfolk and our little island is not large enough to hide you in for any length of time.’
Fidelma raised her head to gaze behind them. The rowing boat from the Barnacle Goose was still coming in their direction.
‘What do you intend to do?’ she asked their rescuer.
The Dove of Death sf-20 Page 2
