Bloodmoon

by Peter Tremayne

  When it appeared that he was going to say no more, Eadulf said cuttingly: ‘You are asking a lot of us, to put our faith in you.’

  ‘If you don’t want to, then put your faith in your God. I swear, Brother Eadulf, for one who claims to serve an omnipotent God, you seem to have little faith in His watchful benevolence over his servants.’

  Eadulf frowned irritably. He liked the humour of the man even less since he had tried to better him verbally and found that Fécho could hold his own in banter. Why was he so irritated by this man? Was it just his manner or something else? Eadulf compressed his lips and turned away from the amused gaze of the owner of Tonn Cliodhna.

  Fidelma, with a glance of annoyance at Eadulf, assured Fécho that they were ready. The nine men in the crew of Tonn Cliodhna had been busy unbolting a section of the side of the vessel to allow the horses to step directly from the wooden quay onto the main deck. Fidelma led her grey-white pony on first. It seemed that Fécho had given much thought to carrying horses on his vessel. There were spaces in the centre of the decking, along which ran thick beams of yew with iron rings attached and ropes to lash the horses so that they did not move from their allotted positions. The ship could take six animals in this fashion.

  Fécho accompanied her to a forward position and motioned to one of his men to fasten the ropes.

  ‘Are any of your horses skittish beasts?’ Fécho suddenly asked, when his man hesitated and glanced at him.

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow in query. ‘Skittish?’

  ‘Sometimes, if the ship rolls on the waves, a horse can become fretful and lash out with its back hooves,’ he explained. ‘We often find it advisable to keep a rope to secure the fetlocks. I’ve known a passenger go to calm his horse in such a condition and get kicked clean overboard. The man died, of course. It’s not wise to stand at the rear of a nervous animal.’

  Fidelma knew that fact well enough. ‘While we are sailing into unknown waters, it would be wise to secure all the horses in that fashion,’ she agreed.

  It took a while to secure all the horses and Fidelma stood watching the expertise of Fécho’s crewmen with approval. It was some time since she had looked at the old texts on laws applying to river and sea travel, and she wondered if there was anything useful she could pick up from the way that Fécho’s crew made everything seem so easy. Eadulf and Enda had made their way to a more comfortable spot at the stern, where Fécho himself had gone to take his place at the great tiller with another man. He was called Iffernán and it seemed he was the helmsman. The remaining members of the crew had loosened the spar of the main mast, with the mainsail still furled, but hauled it into position ready to unfurl it when ordered. That order came almost immediately, and two of the men pulled on the ropes. The square sail came down in a tumble and hung moving gently as if some giant’s breath were gently blowing against it.

  Iffernán took full control of the ship while one of the crew lifted a large pole and began to heave against the quayside, pushing the vessel towards midstream. Here the current of the great river took the craft as if it weighed nothing, and Fidelma felt a shiver as if the timbers had become alive. They seemed to moan and grind beneath her feet as the waters took command, propelling the vessel forward. She turned and made her way towards the stern and realised, with some surprise, that she could now see from stern to the raised prow. Fécho was right: the fog was thinning fast and she could see the banks on either side of the mouth of the river.

  ‘We’re in luck, lady,’ called Fécho, who stood by Iffernán at the tiller, feet spread apart.

  ‘Luck?’ she queried.

  ‘The prevailing wind is from the south-west. When we round Whitepoint and head east, the wind will catch the sail and we’ll be at Ard Nemed before you know it.’

  She had noticed the breath of wind against her cheek and now she knew the meaning of it. She acknowledged the boatman with a smile. Eadulf and Enda stood by the ship’s rail, not looking happy. So she walked across to where they stood.

  ‘The boatman was right. The fog seems to be thinner now and continuing to clear,’ she began.

  ‘The fog is thinner, but it is not to my liking,’ Enda said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ frowned Eadulf.

  ‘With the fog clearing, we could easily be spotted from the shore by the Uí Liatháin, if they now have the upper hand on the island.’

  Eadulf found himself in agreement with the warrior. ‘We have to put a lot of trust in this man Fécho. And I don’t like him.’

  Fidelma looked at her companions. ‘What is your concern?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Only that we are sailing into unknown territory, a territory with warring factions, and we have no trust in this boatman. We just don’t like him, that’s all.’

  ‘Isn’t that just prejudice?’ she pointed out.

  ‘Perhaps. But then I am at a disadvantage, not knowing who my enemy might be,’ Eadulf replied and turned to start for’ard but Fidelma laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘It’s probably to do with what I told you the other night,’ Fidelma sighed. ‘Believe me, Eadulf, once I am free of this oath, free from the geis, I shall tell you. But before then, I can’t.’

  He remained silent.

  ‘I know you, and Enda, do not like to be excluded from knowledge,’ she said. ‘I just ask you to be patient and not to take your irritation out on the people whose help we need.’

  ‘My feelings against Fécho are not because of that,’ Eadulf almost snapped, surprised to realise that he meant it.

  Fidelma waited for a moment or two and then gave a slight shrug, turning to the ship’s rail to stare at the passing banks of the island, now clearly discernible through the evaporating fog.

  ‘I think we have a right to be concerned and consider everyone a potential enemy, lady,’ pointed out Enda seriously. ‘That is natural, since we do not have knowledge of your mission and who our enemies might be.’

  Fidelma glanced at him in annoyance. ‘You think so?’

  ‘It’s been obvious that this matter, this quest of yours, is to do with some personal matter on behalf of your family, lady. This trip to your cousin Artgal seems to prove that.’

  ‘It does?’ She gave nothing away by her tone.

  The young warrior nodded. ‘He is a member of one of the branches of your family whose lineage, like your own, goes all the way back to Conall Corc, who set up his capital at Cashel. Why journey into this inhospitable marshland for any lesser reason than something to do with the honour of the Eóganacht?’

  She stared thoughtfully at him for a moment or two before replying.

  ‘I have said this to Eadulf and now I say it to you: I will tell you when the time comes. I will tell you then, and not before.’

  Enda grimaced. ‘Fair enough, lady. But I think I am right.’

  Eadulf did not bother to comment. His expression was almost sulky.

  The wind from the south-west was increasing and Fidelma could see that Iffernán, the helmsman, was having to lean against the tiller to keep the ship in the centre of the strong flow of the river. The square mainsail was flapping and cracking sharply as the wind tried to push the vessel over to the eastern bank. Now that the temperature was rising, the wind was also causing the misty white shroud to clear rapidly. They could see both banks of the river in more detail. The river had been widening. Fécho moved to lend his weight against the pull of the wind and the tiller.

  In spite of the movement of the ship, the occasional tilt of the decking, Fidelma saw that the horses seemed docile in their stalls – she could think of no other word but stalls to describe the area where they had been secured on the centre deck. The lashing of their back legs was a help but they were certainly well behaved. Fidelma believed that in such matters the welfare of the horses came first. She had grown up with a love of the animals and had been taught to ride almost as a baby. Eadulf felt differently. He was no horseman and if he could travel by any other means, he would do so. It was only
recently that he had started to ride regularly on the passive cob she had given him. The only animal she was worried for was Enda’s high-spirited warhorse; she knew the stallion would not be happy at being confined on the vessel. But Enda knew his animal and she noted, with approval, that he had gone to whisper to it as the vessel moved against the wind. She saw the horse’s ears draw back but Enda was stroking the muzzle as he whispered and the beast stood patiently.

  The river was still widening; in fact, it was opening out into a broad stretch of water, although there seemed land all around. She glanced back to Fécho.

  The ferryman grinned at her unasked question.

  ‘We are coming to the mouth of the Sabrann, where it empties into the inner sea. Look ahead, lady. Do you see the dark land ahead? That is Inis Sionnach, the Island of the Fox. Did I not promise you that the fog would clear by the time we reached this point and you would see it clearly?’

  ‘I did not doubt your knowledge, Fécho,’ she replied, glancing over to where Eadulf stood scowling at the scene. ‘Is it not said that every man is a beginner at another man’s trade?’

  ‘The old proverb is truly said,’ replied Fécho cheerfully. ‘We’ll commence our turn to the east as soon as we pass that point.’ He indicated the left bank. ‘That’s the Whitepoint, the extreme south-west tip of the great island. With the wind behind us, it will not be long before we see Ard Nemed above the cove where the fortress of Artgal stands.’

  Nothing more was said and Fidelma watched appreciatively as Fécho and his crew worked to wear the ship so that it began its slow turn eastwards, and the southwesterly gusts became a backing wind filling the sail. It was done in such a gentle manner that although the ship heeled over a little it did not unduly disturb the horses. Enda had decided to stay with them just in case of any problems, but apart from the tossing of heads, whinnies and stamping of their forelegs, they remained calm. In spite of the strength of the backing wind, the sailing was relatively smooth. Fidelma could feel the subtle increase in the speed of the craft, moving swiftly over the waters. The wind seemed to be clearing the white vapours of the morning before them and the shoreline to the left, the Great Island of Nemed, was becoming more visible.

  ‘Well, there seem to be no fires on this side of the island,’ Fécho pointed out with satisfaction.

  The comment brought Fidelma back to reality. She had almost forgotten the possibility that the Uí Liatháin might be waiting to trap them. She turned to examine the coastline with interest. Certainly, so far as she could see, there was no sign of anything disturbing the peace of the landscape, but then there seemed few signs of any habitation along the coast. It was then she realised the Tonn Cliodhna seemed to be heading too close to the end of the rocky promontory and glanced in surprise to where Fécho and his helmsman seemed to be struggling with the tiller. It did not take an expert to see they were speeding towards the submerged rocks of the surrounding shoreline.

  ‘Hidden current!’ shouted Fécho. ‘Difficult to control.’

  Eadulf looked around nervously. ‘We’ll be aground on those rocks soon, and that’s if we are lucky. They could rip the bottom out of this ship in a moment.’

  ‘We’ll certainly be on the rocks in a moment,’ called Fidelma. ‘Is there no way we can get back into deep waters?’

  Fécho was about to say something when a cry from a crewman at the prow caused them to turn.

  A vessel had suddenly appeared, emerging from the shelter of a small, rocky headland, just as Fécho and the helmsman regained control. The tide seemed to toss the Tonn Cliodhna about a little and then, by some miracle, they were turning away from the rocky shoreline, the Whitepoint as Fécho called it. The wind was blowing the vessel back into deeper waters, blowing it back into mid-channel – and into the path of the oncoming vessel.

  It was a long, low vessel. Its sharp bow was cleaving the waves, tossing white water to either side of its knife-like edge. Although it carried two masts for sails, the sails were furled, and Fidelma’s mind registered that sails would be no use against the wind. Yet the approaching vessel was speeding towards them. Then her keen eye noticed the rise and fall of oars, ten oars on each side. Positioned on the upper thwarts of the other ship stood a line of men, armed men. She could see their bows, loosely held. For a moment she was hypnotised by the rhythmic rise and fall of the oars, all working in unison.

  Suddenly she felt very cold. Even before Fécho shouted his warning, she realised what the approaching ship was. It was called a laech lestar, a ‘hero vessel’ – a euphemism for a warship.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There was no use putting up any resistance. The war vessel was closing on them too rapidly and it was clear that it was manned by professional muireach, mariners able to fight on the sea as others fought on the land. As the fighting ship came closer, Fidelma could see the bows were already strung, arrows in place. Each bowman stood, his feet wide apart, easily balanced against the pitch. A stern voice called: ‘Identify yourselves!’

  Fécho abandoned the tiller to his companion and moved forward to the starboard rail. ‘This is the Tonn Cliodhna out of the West Passage. We are well known in these waters. Who are you?’

  ‘I do not know you,’ came the unfriendly response. ‘What is your business? I see you have horses aboard.’

  ‘We are a coastal ship and we transport passengers to these islands. Who are you? We have never seen your laech lestar in these waters before.’

  Once again the response was uncompromising. ‘What passengers do you carry? I see at least one fine-bred steed. That’s a warrior’s horse. Do you have warriors on board? Where are you heading?’

  ‘Is it your business?’ replied Fécho sharply.

  ‘My ship and weapons make it my business,’ the voice stated bluntly.

  ‘We can make little argument with that,’ whispered Eadulf, who had come to stand beside Fécho in order to examine the bowmen on the opposing vessel, who still stood immovably with their weapons strung and aimed.

  Fécho turned towards Fidelma with a helpless gesture. ‘I have tried to get some identification, lady,’ he said. ‘I do not know this vessel.’

  Fidelma moved forward, glancing reassuringly at Fécho. She raised her voice.

  ‘Do I address the captain of the war vessel that impedes my progress?’ she shouted across to the vessel, summoning all the authority of her rank.

  ‘I am the commander of this vessel,’ came the response, which told her nothing further.

  She decided to take a chance. ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel. I travel with my companions, Brother Eadulf and Enda, a warrior of the Golden Collar.’

  There was a silence for a moment or two. Then the voice answered: ‘Do you claim to be Fidelma, sister of Colgú of Cashel?’

  ‘Colgú, King of all Muman,’ she replied clearly. ‘We wish to land at Ard Nemed.’

  ‘Just you and your companions?’

  ‘And our horses,’ she replied, without humour.

  There was a further pause before the voice shouted: ‘Is the captain of your ship in attendance?’

  Fécho moved to the rail again. ‘I am.’

  ‘You will head for the cove below the fortress at Ard Nemed. I shall accompany you and, be warned, at any deviation, any attempt to change course, my bowmen will loose their weapons on you and you will be boarded.’

  ‘I was heading for the cove in any event,’ muttered Fécho.

  He turned back to his companion, Iffernán, at the tiller. Meanwhile, Enda had joined Eadulf and Fidelma at the ship’s rail. He was frowning.

  ‘Do you think that they are Uí Liatháin raiders?’ he asked.

  ‘They didn’t say,’ Eadulf replied, with dry humour.

  ‘We shall soon find out.’ Fidelma shrugged. ‘At least they know who I am – and let us hope that carries some weight and respect with them.’

  ‘If they are the raiders,’ Enda pointed out grimly, ‘then this escort to Ard Nemed would indicate the island has fallen to them.’<
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  It was a thought that had already occurred to Fidelma but she had not been willing to express it.

  Fécho was turning his vessel towards the coast of the Great Island and, with the backing wind still holding, was making fair speed across the choppy waters. The warship seemed to match their course and speed with ease. As the Tonn Cliodhna swung around the low tree-covered headland into the cove, Fidelma found it was not as she had imagined it. The long beach certainly curved, scythe-like, from one end to another. It was a long gradual curve with sloping sands. A wooden jetty and fishing boats showed the main occupation of the small settlement that rose from the shoreline, mainly confined to the slopes of the steep hill to where a dark wooden stockade of what was clearly a fair-sized fortress dominated. The fog had totally cleared from this area as it faced due south, and the pale winter sun was bathing the area in soft pink light, creating the illusion of an unusually mild climate. Smaller, wood-covered hills rose on either side, but the trees were without the green adornment of the warmer months.

  Fécho and his crew obviously knew the harbour well, and by a piece of dextrous manipulation with the sail, they came up neatly alongside the wooden jetty. By the time they had secured the vessel to it warriors from the warship had already landed and were waiting for them. Some had come forward with drawn swords and stood ready as they disembarked.

  A tall man, whose mane of sandy hair and large beard made an estimate of his age impossible, met Fidelma and her companions on the jetty. He wore a burnished silver helmet that was worked with extended birds’ wings over the ears and had a plume of blue feather at its peak. He was clearly a warrior of rank and he wore a bright blue cloak over toughened leather armour on a white linen shirt. He carried his weapons, the dirk and short sword, with the confidence of someone who could use them. There was something about his stance and the way he balanced himself that spoke to Fidelma of a seafaring man.