Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Some religious hermits still live on the largest of them, which is known as Seanach’s Island. A strange band, they are. Now and then I have brought supplies to them but they do not welcome visitors. One wonders why they have chosen such an inhospitable place. There are no natural wells there and often they have to exist on rainwater, and if it doesn’t rain …’ The merchant shrugged.

  ‘Seanach’s Island?’ queried Eadulf.

  ‘After the holy man who established their community a century or more ago.’

  ‘I know of two Seanachs,’ Fidelma intervened. ‘One was abbot of Ard Macha and the other abbot of Clonard. Both of them lived and died nearly a century ago.’

  ‘Ah, but this Seanach was an Uí Fidgente,’ Conrí said, almost with a touch of pride. ‘He was brother of the Blessed Sennin of Inish Carthaigh. He became famous as the tutor of Aidan who was once abbot of Lindisfarne in the land of the Angles.’

  ‘And you say the community that Seanach set up still lives on this island?’

  ‘Apart from the lack of fresh water it has good anchorage in summer, but it and the other islands are low and flat and the winds can strike them cruelly,’ Mugrón said. ‘It is more the haunt of seabirds than of men. The oystercatchers are particularly numerous there.’

  Eadulf never ceased to wonder at the amazing number of small islands around the land of the five kingdoms. And being reminded of seabirds he became aware of the number of them that had been noisily following them. Squabbling gannets hanging motionless on strong updraughts, warning each other off before diving down into the sea in search of their prey; a small flock of strident kittiwakes with black wingtips flying elegantly northward in search of cliff ledges on which to form their colonies, their cries coming back like the souls of those lost in the sea. Mugrón suddenly shielded his eyes before pointing to some small black specks pattering on the surface of the sea, as if walking on it.

  ‘Storm petrels,’ he grunted. ‘Probably a storm coming soon,’ he added, echoing the old sailor’s belief that they represented such a portent.

  No one responded and for a while there was comparative quiet as they glided through the calm seas.

  It was still very cold in spite of the brightness of the day. The brightness gave an illusion of good weather but there was no heat and the seaweed that Mugrón had hanging from the mainmast was limp with the moisture that it had absorbed through the atmosphere, which was a sure sign of wet weather on the way. Fidelma and Eadulf were glad of their sheepskin cloaks which they wore over their woollen garments.

  Mugrón said something to Conrí who went to a wooden box fixed to the side of the ship near him and extracted a pitcher.

  While Conrí took the alcohol to his men further down in the well of the boat, Mugrón spoke to Fidelma.

  ‘How goes your investigation at the abbey? I heard that you were also trying to resolve the death of the Venerable Cinaed? Some said that you felt it was linked with the death of Abbess Faife.’

  Fidelma swung round in her seat so that she could face the weather-beaten merchant, who was standing with his feet apart, hand resting lightly on the tiller of the ship.

  ‘I am proceeding apace,’ she replied. ‘I suppose you knew the Venerable Cinaed well?’

  Mugrón gave a disarming shrug.

  ‘Not well. Not really well. Occasionally, I have conducted business with his companion, Sister Buan. I have tracked down good quality vellum, some coloured inks that she has bought for him. Of course, he was a respected scholar and I just a merchant. But Sister Buan, well — I knew her better.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘She sold the gold and silverwork that the abbey smiths produce. Some of it she offered to me and she would always drive a hard bargain too. She was a good trader and went far and wide to get the best deals for the abbey.’

  ‘You know these lands and people well, Mugrón. Do you have any thoughts about these murders?’

  Mugrón’s face was expressionless.

  ‘All one hears is gossip, lady. Gossip is of no importance.’

  ‘There is a time for rebuke and a time for gossiping,’ replied Fidelma, resorting to an old proverb.

  Mugrón grinned.

  ‘It is a saying that may well be right. So far as the Venerable Cinaed was concerned, saying for saying — be the spring never so clean, some dirt will stick to it.’

  ‘And what dirt stuck to Cinaed?’ asked Fidelma innocently.

  ‘There was talk about the old man and one of the young girls at the abbey.’

  Fidelma was disappointed. She was hoping that Mugrón had some other story to tell.

  ‘Do you know any of the details?’

  ‘Just that the old man was having an affair with Sister Sinnchéne. Well, who can blame him? She is attractive enough, although I would have thought she was the last person to form an attachment to him. But, as the saying goes, do not take as gold everything that shines like gold. It was Sister Buan I felt sorry for.’

  ‘You know Sister Sinnchéne, then?’ Fidelma was interested.

  ‘Oh, yes. She is a local girl. I knew her mother slightly.’

  ‘I understand that after the father left her mother died during the Yellow Plague. That is why she went into the abbey. Is that so?’

  ‘A sad tale. The mother was carried off by the pestilence but, luckily for the girl, Abbess Faife decided to look after her and took her to the abbey. It changed her life. The father had left them some years before that.’

  ‘I wonder she did not change her name. Was it a nickname she was given?’

  Mugrón frowned for a moment and then his features lightened in a smile.

  ‘Ah, you mean the name Sinnchéne — little vixen? Oh no, that was no nickname. It was the only thing that ever linked her with her father.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Her father’s name, that is. He was a wandering warrior in the service of Eoganán of the Uí Fidgente. His name was Wolf, or a name like wolf, I can’t remember which …’

  Eadulf sniffed in disapproval.

  ‘Surely there is only one word meaning a wolf.’

  Mugrón smiled wryly.

  ‘You speak our language almost fluently, Brother. However, we have many names that imply a wolf. Names such as Conán, Cuán, Congal, Cú Chaille … why, you even travel with Conrí there, whose name is “king of the wolves”. I cannot remember which name Sinnchéne’s father carried. I recall that her mother called him ceann an chineóil shionnchamhail —which is “chief of the wolf clan”. Sinnchéne’s mother named her daughter to remember him.’

  ‘You were saying that you were sympathetic to Sister Buan and not Sinnchéne,’ Fidelma pointed out.

  ‘The gossip was that the girl pursued the old man.’

  ‘Which then might mean that she was attempting to replace her lost father?’ suggested Fidelma.

  ‘Perhaps. She always struck me as someone who knows what she wants and goes after it and never mind the feelings of others. Perhaps there was some jealousy, some conflict among the women …’

  ‘Are you suggesting that had something to do with Cináed’s violent death?’

  ‘Who knows?’ The merchant shrugged. ‘Where there is conflict among women, jealousy and hatred simmer and such hatred can often lead to violence.’

  ‘But that is merely some gossip that you have heard.’

  ‘Gossip spreads faster than fire. There was much talk about the conflicts at the abbey before I left on my last trip.’

  Fidelma frowned. ‘You mean that there was gossip about Cinaed before the body of the Abbess Faife was discovered by you?’

  He nodded. ‘Before I left I had heard that Abbot Erc was upset and Abbess Faife had cause to defend the girl before him about this very affair. I think Sister Uallann had told Abbot Erc that she knew about it.’

  Fidelma’s jaw firmed. So the physician had not told her the complete truth. She had reported the matter.

  ‘So Abbess Faife defended Sinnchéne?’
r />   Mugrón thought for a moment and then shook his head.

  ‘I have misled you. I should say that she defended old Cinaed rather than the girl.’

  ‘So did the abbess disapprove of the affair?’

  ‘She did. Or so I am told. So much so that she refused to take Sister Sinnchéne with the rest of her religieuse on that pilgrimage. The girl asked her, apparently. In a way, that turned out well for otherwise Sinnchéne would be missing now along with the others … missing or dead.’

  Fidelma glanced across to Eadulf and was about to say something, but he seemed to be concentrating on the horizon, his cheeks pale. She had forgotten that he was not a good sailor. She turned back to Mugrón.

  ‘Are you sure that you heard that Abbess Faife was angry about the affair? Why would she defend Cinaed but condemn Sinnchéne?’

  ‘Perhaps she knew where blame lay?’ the merchant hazarded.

  ‘It seems,’ Eadulf suddenly said, shifting his gaze from the horizon for a moment, ‘we are concentrating a lot on this domestic strife between Sinnchéne and Buan. Yet if, as is claimed, they were both enamoured of the Venerable Cinaed, both in love with him, why would they kill him? Surely in that situation they would be more inclined to kill one another?’

  ‘There speaks the pragmatist in you, Eadulf. But you are right. That would be the logical outcome of such a situation. Yet when have killers ever sat down and worked things out logically? Even in the most cold-blooded killing, there must be a little of illogic for the culprit to ever think that killing someone was the solution to any problem. It merely adds to the problem and ends any hope of resolution.’

  Eadulf was now fixing his gaze on the nearing islands.

  Mugrón took a hand from the tiller to indicate the approaching land.

  ‘That’s Rough Point … that headland there. We’ll take a wide sweep around it. The tides can be fierce even on a day like this.’

  Eadulf could clearly see a number of islands to the north and some ahead of them. He was aware of a subtle change in the rocking motion of the boat and glanced curiously at Mugrón standing feet apart, his stocky frame confident, hands firmly back on the tiller. The merchant caught his glance and gave him a reassuring smile.

  ‘This is why it is called Rough Point. But do not be alarmed, the tide is running smoothly. It only becomes very rough with a westerly wind or big swells against the ebb tide. Then the tide sweeps strongly through the north of those islands.’ He jerked his head towards the distant mounds. ‘I’ll bring the boat well north of that headland there and into calm waters.’

  Conrí had made his way back to the stern where they were sitting and was returning the pitcher to the wooden box. As he stood up, he paused and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘There’s a sail bearing down on us, Mugrón,’ he called quietly.

  Fidelma and Eadulf glanced round in the direction he was looking.

  ‘Where away?’ asked the merchant, his eyes not moving from the bow as he was engaged in swinging the ship on to a new course.

  ‘Due north of us. It’s bearing down from Seanach’s Island.’

  ‘Ah, it is probably a Corco Duibhne trading vessel from the religious community going back to the mainland.’

  Conrí was shading his eyes.

  ‘I think not. The cut of that vessel is more of a laech-lestar than a merchant vessel …’

  Fidelma had scrambled to her feet to get a better look.

  Mugrón, too, having completed his manoeuvre, was peering northward to the oncoming sail.

  ‘A laech-lestar? What is that?’ demanded Eadulf.

  ‘It’s a warship,’ Fidelma said shortly.

  ‘She has the wind full behind her, whoever she is, and will be on us shortly.’

  Fidelma was concerned.

  ‘Uí Néill?’ she asked. There had been several wars with the expansionist northern Uí Néill of Ulaidh.

  Mugrón shook his head in disagreement.

  ‘We are too far south. The Uí Néill don’t raid these waters in midwinter.’

  ‘She’s really straining under full sail,’ observed Conrí. ‘Her captain means to cross our bow or …’

  He fell silent.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘Can you see her méirge —her war banner?’

  Fidelma glanced to the topmast from which a long banner was streaming. It looked like white satin, blown forward of the mast because the wind was behind the ship. It snapped and fluttered.

  ‘I can’t quite see the design,’ she called. ‘It looks like a tree …’

  Her gaze had fallen to the deck of the ship. She could see men lined along the rails behind round shields. She could see the glint of polished metal.

  ‘It is a tree,’ confirmed Conrí. There was a strange catch to his voice. ‘It’s an oak tree being defended by a champion.’

  ‘Do you recognise it, then?’ asked Eadulf.

  Conrí laughed harshly.

  ‘I do. It’s the battle flag of Eoganan of the Uí Fidgente.’

  Fidelma was staring at the banner in disbelief.

  It was now apparent that the warship was racing down to intercept them. It was also apparent that her crew did not have any good intentions. The distance between the vessels was being closed at an alarming rate. The aim of the captain of the warship was suddenly clear. To the south they were crossing the mouth of a moderately sized bay.

  ‘Should we not run for cover and put in there?’ called Fidelma.

  No one answered her because a couple of ranging arrows soared from the bow of the oncoming vessel and came curving through the sky, only to fall well short of Mugrón’s ship, slapping harmlessly on the sea.

  ‘It won’t be long before they have our range,’ muttered Conrí. He turned and called to his two warriors. ‘Break out your bows and show them we will not be taken without a fight.’

  Mugrón was disapproving.

  ‘You and two warriors mean to hold back the thirty or forty men that must be in that ship? Do you want us all killed because you will not be taken without a fight?’

  ‘Rather be killed fighting than killed after we surrender,’ snapped Conrí.

  ‘Surrender to whom?’ demanded a bewildered Eadulf. ‘I thought Eoganan was dead?’

  ‘So he is,’ replied Conrí, his voice angry. ‘And that means those flying his flag are rebels, outlaws, men without honour who have rejected the peace between the Uí Fidgente and Cashel. They will not spare our lives.’

  Mugrón was looking undecided.

  ‘This has never happened before,’ he began. ‘There have been no raids along this coast since—’

  Suddenly there was a soft thud. An arrow embedded itself in the bow rail of the boat.

  ‘They’ve found our range,’ exclaimed Conrí unnecessarily.

  He had barely let out the words, when three or four arrows were shot from the nearing vessel. This time they carried a thin trail of smoke behind them.

  ‘Fire arrows!’ Mugrón shouted.

  The arrows fell near but extinguished themselves in the sea.

  ‘What about running for shelter in that bay?’ demanded Fidelma again, pointing to the bay to the south.

  ‘A trap,’ snapped Mugrón. ‘Once in that bay there is no room to come out. We would be caught like rats in a trap.’

  ‘But we must do something,’ Conrí. said.

  Half a dozen more fire arrows were loosed from the warship. Two hit on the foredeck and two of Mugrón’s crew ran forward to tear them loose and throw them overboard. The ships were very close now. They could hear the warriors banging their swords against their shields in exultation. The streaming silk banner was clearly visible now. Conrí was right. It depicted an oak tree and before it a warrior with sword and shield. Eadulf knew the oak tree was one of the trees that were considered sacred among the people of the five kingdoms.

  Mugrón was yelling to his crew to take cover behind the bales of trade goods.

  ‘There is an island coming up
ahead,’ warned Fidelma but Mugrón had seen it and seemed to be steering straight for it. She stood calmly by the merchant as he bent over the tiller. ‘Mugrón, the island!’ she snapped again.

  ‘I know it,’ he muttered.

  There came another hissing flight of arrows.

  ‘Take cover, Fidelma!’ Eadulf groaned, crouching by the side of the vessel, not feeling his sea legs strong enough to stand upright to protect her.

  ‘He’s right, lady,’ cried Conrí. ‘Best get down into the well of the ship.’ There was a sudden squeal of pain as one of Mugrón’s crew was hit by an arrow. Someone rushed to help him.

  Reluctantly Fidelma crouched to sit by Eadulf.

  They could all see the island approaching dead ahead and Mugrón was swinging the tiller so that it seemed he intended to pass along its northern coast. It was a tiny island, no more than a grassy knoll with rocks along its northern side. Even Fidelma could see that if Mugrón took that course, the warship would be upon them and intercept them in no time.

  The captain of the warship realised this as did his men because they heard a wild cheer go up from them.

  ‘Do your warriors have the means to make fire arrows?’ snapped Murgrón to Conrí, eyes on the strange vessel.

  ‘What do you mean to do?’ demanded the warlord as he confirmed they had. ‘Ram her? We are no match for such a vessel.’

  ‘Get them to do so now and wait until I give the word.’

  Conrí ran forward to where his two warriors had already used some of their arrows in a futile attempt to hit the steersman on the warship.

  Mugrón was now yelling at his crew to prepare to take in sail.

  Eadulf exchanged a bewildered glance with Fidelma.

  The warship was now turning to bring it in broadside to the point where it would intercept Mugrón’s vessel at the north side of the islet. The islet was approaching rapidly. On this course, Fidelma could only presume, as Conrí had, that Mugrón was going to ram into the side of the warship and then try to fight his way out.

  It would be a futile gesture.

  Then, with a sudden harsh cry, Mugrón pushed his tiller sharply over so that the vessel almost went over on its side. It sheered away from its course and shot suddenly along the sandy south side of the islet.