Bloodmoon

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I agree.’ Eadulf gave an ironic smile. ‘If my knowledge is worth anything, I would say that the captain of their vessel could only anchor there by using a drogue.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It is an anchor like a drag, a funnel-shaped sea anchor which is towed behind the vessel to keep it from drifting too far. It also gives some stability,’ explained Eadulf. ‘On the other hand, in these waters, they might have heavy anchors of metal to keep it fast.’

  ‘What has that to do with trying to board the vessel and rescue the lady Fidelma?’ demanded Enda.

  ‘I am thinking how to use it to cause a distraction.’

  Neither Fécho nor Enda understood what he meant, and he did not enlighten them.

  ‘The ship is not tossing as much as it was,’ Fidelma observed.

  Áed Caille raised his head. ‘Aescwine must have been able to bring it under the shelter of the cliffs beyond Leath-ard, a height they call Gentle Hill. I can see where we are now by the shape of the cliffs up there.’

  From where he was tethered, he could see over Fidelma’s shoulder to the cliff face beyond.

  ‘I don’t suppose there is any hope of the Saxons being seen?’ she asked.

  ‘This headland is pretty isolated. There is a fortress on the promontory at the other side but that has long been deserted.’

  ‘Isn’t it dangerous to ride out the winds here?’

  Áed Caille shrugged. ‘Not if this Aescwine is the seaman he must be in order to have brought this craft all the way along our coast from the land of the Saxons.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He will have either put a drogue out, as some of our ler-longa do, the seagoing ships, or heavy weights with flukes, of the type that the Romans and the Greeks use. What are they called …?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘Anchors. Well, in this instance I hope Aescwine is a good sailor.’

  She was remembering how, years before, the ship she and Eadulf had been on had been caught in a storm and foundered off the coast of the kingdom of Dyfed among the Britons. Then, as the memory stirred, she realised that she had been on sinking ships several times. Once, coming back from her mission to Rome, her vessel had been heading to Massilia when a storm had appeared out of nowhere – a sail ripped, a spar cracked and the ship was driven onto some rocks but, thankfully, the captain had managed to get into the port of Genua before it sank. Then, after leaving the port of Naoned, years later, when she and Eadulf had attended the notorious Synod of Autun, they were attacked by brigands and had to leap overboard and swim for their lives to an island.

  Perhaps if she had been free she might have risked leaping from this vessel and striking out towards the rocky shore. Once again she tried, surreptitiously, to test her strength against the bonds around her wrists. It was a forlorn hope. They were still bound tight. So rather than waste time brooding or even filling it with the traditional dercad, the ancient form of meditation which so often helped calm her extraneous thoughts, she decided to learn what other information she could from the bow-maker.

  ‘I grew up on the banks of the Great River and learnt my art from my father and his father.’

  ‘But you said you went to Cashel?’

  ‘As I told you, I went as bow-maker to King Cathal, your cousin.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘I worked for several of the Eóganacht princes.’

  ‘Including the Eóganacht Raithlind?’ Fidelma was delighted that the path to where she wanted to get to was so easy.

  ‘That is so. I was bow-maker to Bécc, who died a decade ago. Artgal of the Cenél nÁeda, whose fortress is on the Great Island, is his grandson.’

  Fidelma knew that well enough but did not comment. She allowed him to continue: ‘I was working at Cashel when Grella stayed there on her journey to marry Cenn Fáelad, son of Blathmac. That was before your brother was King. In those days no one dreamt that Cenn Fáelad would become High King.’

  Fidelma had to agree. First Cenn Fáelad’s grandfather, Áed Sláine, had died violently as a result of a blood feud within his family. Then his father, Blathmac, and his uncle Diarmait, inaugurated as joint kings at Tara, had both died from the Yellow Plague. Then Cenn Fáelad’s brother Sechnussach, who had ruled wisely and well for six years or more, had been murdered in his own bed. It seemed that this Uí Néill branch had been cursed in maintaining their kingship at Tara.

  ‘So you easily recognised Grella riding out of Eochaill before the Saxons landed?’

  ‘That is so. When the Saxon ship was sighted, her cousin Glaisne must have decided it was better not to fight. He had only half a dozen men with him. That must be why he headed west towards Cluain.’

  ‘Who accompanied her, apart from Glaisne and his warriors?’

  ‘Who accompanied her?’ Áed seemed puzzled by the question and repeated it.

  ‘You would hardly expect the wife of the High King not to have attendants to accompany her? Some members of her personal household.’

  ‘You mean women?’

  ‘That is precisely who I mean.’ Fidelma smiled thinly

  ‘I really didn’t see. No, there were no women. Just Glaisne and his warriors.’

  ‘And you are certain it was the lady Grella accompanying this noble Glaisne?’

  Áed stared at her for a moment, puzzled. ‘I was close enough to recognise her and she was accompanied only by Glaisne and his warriors,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Did she seem to be going with them willingly?’

  ‘Willingly? But she is wife to the High King. Who would order her to do anything against her will? Besides which, Glaisne is of her own family.’

  Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Has Grella been a guest of Glaisne before?’

  ‘Lady, I am only a poor bow-maker. What would I know of such things as who is a guest to whom?’

  ‘A final question, Áed. You are absolutely sure Glaisne and Grella were going in the direction of Cluain?’

  At that moment, a shadow fell across them. Fidelma raised her head to find the cruel features of Aescwine staring at them with a curious expression.

  ‘Grella?’ he suddenly said to the bow-maker. ‘You mention the lady Grella? So she was at Eochaill?’

  ‘I told you Glaisne had fled his fortress when you came into the estuary,’ Áed replied with spirit. ‘I said he had a lady with him.’

  Aescwine let out a curse. ‘You were saying just now that she returned west to Cluain?’

  Only Fidelma seemed to pick up on the use of the word ‘returned’.

  The Saxon was clearly trying to control his anger. ‘Now you appear to have a lot more information than you gave me before. Where is Grella?’

  Fidelma stared at the Saxon raider, astonished by the anger in his tone. She and Áed Caille sat silently, regarding the man. His whole expression in body and face had changed, as if he were trying to control himself. It was a dramatic contrast to the arrogant, self-controlled captain of the raiding Saxon vessel of a few moments ago.

  ‘Where is she?’ he repeated harshly. ‘Tell me or I will throw you over the side!’

  ‘I said I saw her riding with Glaisne towards the west,’ protested Áed. ‘Cluain is certainly in that direction.’ Aescwine raised his hand to strike the bound body of the bow-maker.

  ‘What does a díberg know of the High King’s wife?’ Fidelma intervened sharply in her own tongue. Then, seeing he did not understand, she tried to repeat it in Saxon but she could not think of a word for ‘sea marauder’. She repeated herself using the Latin word: ‘What does a Gewisse marauder know of the High King’s lady?’

  Aescwine paused, then lowered his raised hand. He seemed to make an effort to control his temper. Then his lips twisted as if in a smile, but there was no humour in it.

  ‘If I am not told what I want to know, then one of you will be tossed over the side, still bound. Perhaps you will answer me now. Where is Grella?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Fécho pointed to t
he western sky.

  ‘It will be dark shortly. I strongly urge you to reconsider this madness. It is the moon of Meadhónach, the middle of winter, and it is obscured by clouds so there is precious little light. The water is freezing. You could be dead of the cold before you even reach the Saxon vessel. Even if you survive the swim into the next cove, you will not find the ship in the darkness unless they have lights on deck.’

  The man was speaking logic and Eadulf knew it. Nevertheless, his concern for Fidelma seemed to override that.

  ‘What if the Saxons set sail in the night?’ he demanded. ‘We will never find them again.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Fécho assured him. ‘No sailor in his right mind would try to sail out of these coves and inlets in darkness.’

  ‘How can you be so certain? The wind will probably blow the clouds away and the sky will provide a good map to steer a ship by.’

  ‘The winds that have brought clouds across the face of the moon will leave much of that map obscured,’ replied Fécho. ‘I know. Besides which, I do not think the Saxon will weigh anchor before first light so that he can be sure of his position. This is a rocky and deceptive shore and I don’t think, as good a sailor as he seems, that he will chance it.’

  ‘Then I must still leave here in darkness to get to the vessel at first light or before,’ pointed out Eadulf.

  Iffernán, Fécho’s helmsman, had been listening to the conversation with some interest. Now he called to Fécho and whispered urgently in his ear. Fécho nodded rapidly. Then he said: ‘Go and examine it. We’ll have the last of the light soon and if repairs are needed, now is the time to do them.’ The man hurried for’ard to the ship’s storage.

  The owner of the Tonn Cliodhna then turned to Eadulf with a grim smile.

  ‘Have you ever handled a grotán?’ he asked.

  Eadulf looked blank, not having heard the word before.

  Enda, at his side, said: ‘I have.’ He turned to Eadulf. ‘It is a one-paddle cliab, a coracle.’

  ‘You mean one of those basket boats that you punt about on rivers?’ Eadulf queried.

  ‘Not exactly,’ replied Fécho. ‘But I think you have the idea.’

  ‘I’ve been in one but never handled it. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Iffernán reminded me that he has been repairing the one we have stored aboard. Sometimes a harbour is too shallow for the Tonn Cliodhna to get close to. It either means wading ashore or using the grotán … the coracle. Iffernán suggests that if it is seaworthy it would save you an icy swim in the morning.’

  Eadulf was frowning. He had no liking for the idea, but then he had been prepared to attempt the swim in the freezing waters.

  ‘I could handle the coracle,’ interposed Enda. ‘If Eadulf tells me the plan he has, I could carry it out.’

  ‘I must be the one to go,’ Eadulf insisted with a shake of his head. ‘I know the weakness of the Saxon ships. Besides, you are wounded.’

  ‘The wound does not trouble me. And you have never handled a coracle in any type of water, let alone an open sea,’ protested Enda. ‘I know how to handle these craft – because they sit on the water and not in it, they can easily be carried by current and wind – so, if you aim to cross these waters, then best let me handle it.’

  They saw that Iffernán and one other of the crew had brought the ungainly looking craft to an open place on deck. It was a small basket-shaped affair, not more than a tall man’s length across, with two light wooden planks for seats. Eadulf moved forward to look more closely. He saw that the boat’s willow frame formed a flexible skeleton, to which a cow-hide covering had been sewn. Black wood tar coated the hide, making it watertight.

  Enda looked down at it, frowning.

  ‘It was only meant for rivers, or a short stretch of inland water,’ explained Iffernán, ‘but I vouch it is watertight. There is one flat-plank paddle.’

  ‘That settles it,’ Enda announced. ‘I must go.’

  Eadulf thrust out his chin but then, realising the limits of his capabilities, he let out a resigned sigh. ‘If you insist, then the two of us must go.’

  ‘But—’ began Enda.

  ‘The two of us,’ Eadulf said with emphasis.

  There was a silence. Then: ‘So be it,’ Enda conceded.

  ‘I’ll use these last moments of light to double-check the boat,’ offered Iffernán, ‘but I think it is as well built as any such craft.’

  Fécho had been listening to the exchange and offered the benefit of his professional seamanship. ‘Well, if you are both agreed, I suggest that you go just before first light so that you can get to the Saxon vessel before Aescwine starts to think of setting sail. It is no use going in the black of the night. Seeing that the grotán has no depth to worry about, you can keep to the shelter of the rocks for most of the way. Just avoid the sharp ones here and there that will rip the bottom out.’

  Eadulf acknowledged the advice before asking: ‘Do you have any really sharp knives – or even better, a rodhb.’

  Eadulf knew a rodhb was one of two names for a carpenter’s saw, one which had sharp teeth along its blade.

  Fécho was puzzled for a moment and then he chuckled. ‘You mean to saw your way into the Saxon ship? Surely you would be better with a biail, the axe for chopping wood or felling trees?’

  ‘The saw is what is needed not an axe,’ Eadulf replied firmly, his face still serious, ‘but two good sharp knives would also be useful.’

  ‘Well, you have the sword you persuaded me to start this voyage with,’ smiled Fécho, having apparently regained his sense of irony.

  ‘And you have the knife you picked up from Tialláin’s man on the jetty,’ Enda reminded him.

  ‘I want something strong with a blade sharp enough to cut a ship’s rope,’ Eadulf explained.

  Fécho pursed his lips and whistled softly as he suddenly understood what Eadulf had in mind.

  ‘The cutting of the anchor ropes will be your distraction?’ he asked slowly.

  When Eadulf confirmed it, Fécho frowned: ‘It could be dangerous, even if you succeed. Don’t forget the tide will be coming in at that time of the morning. And whether low or high, the tides on this part of the coast are not your friend.’

  ‘There seems no other way,’ Eadulf replied. ‘With the anchor cut, hopefully the crew will have to man the oars and all their concentration and effort will be on keeping the ship from running onto the rocks. While everyone is occupied by that, I go up over the side, find Fidelma and get back down to the coracle.’

  Fécho was still sceptical. ‘You mean to escape with three in the coracle? It barely has room for the two of you.’

  ‘Better than nothing,’ Eadulf replied. ‘Anyway, I can try to hang on to the side and swim, while Enda paddles with Fidelma on board. It has to be attempted.’

  ‘And we are to wait here until you return?’

  ‘I am trusting you to wait for us. Enda and I will head for the Saxon ship just before first light and, with luck, we should be back on board while the Saxons are still floundering.’

  Fécho retained his cynical expression. ‘In the old days, we would have said: what man plans, unless he is loved by the gods, they will oppose.’

  Eadulf was still pagan enough to shiver slightly.

  ‘We are in their hands,’ he said simply.

  ‘I know nothing,’ Áed Caille said, looking up at the menacing form of Aescwine as he demanded yet again to know where Grella was. ‘All I saw, as I have told you, was the High King’s wife in the company of Glaisne, riding westward.’

  ‘You told the woman something more,’ replied the Saxon, indicating Fidelma.

  ‘What more could I tell her? Grella rode westward with the lord Glaisne of Eochaill.’

  Aescwine let out violent curse. ‘So she was in Eochaill the whole time?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied the bow-maker. ‘The whole time of what? All I know is what I saw.’

  ‘But you knew enough to recognise the wife of your High King?�
�� sneered Aescwine. ‘How is a churl from this part of your country able to recognise the wife of the High King of Tara?’

  ‘Churl?’ Áed did not understand the Saxon word ceorl.

  Fidelma smiled grimly. ‘He calls you the equivalent of a fiudhir,’ she explained, naming the lowest of the non-freeman class under Brehon law.

  This brought Áed’s head up angrily.

  ‘Tell him I am a saer, a ceile, and my honour price is equivalent to the price of two milch cows.’

  Aescwine appeared to have no difficulty in understanding the language and the interruption seemed to calm him down. It was clear he had thought more on what Áed had said.

  ‘She was in the fortress at Eochaill after all,’ he mused. ‘And I was sent on a fruitless errand to that treacherous scum Tialláin. I should have known better. I should have known they would not have trusted that old thief with any dealings in this matter.’

  ‘What dealings would those be?’ Fidelma asked innocently. ‘Who would not trust him?’

  Aescwine’s eyes narrowed. ‘I should try not to be clever, Fidelma.’

  Fidelma shrugged. ‘I’ll try not to be,’ she responded drily. She shifted uncomfortably to emphasise that she was still tied up. ‘What use would the knowledge be to me anyway, while I am in this position? How could I rush away to reveal your secrets when we are bound for the land of the Gewisse?’

  ‘I am glad you accept that fact,’ Aescwine replied, his customary amused tone returning. ‘The high winds have delayed our departure – which, it seems, is a good thing because now I learn I narrowly missed my quarry. So I have a new option to consider.’

  Fidelma gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘Grella is your quarry?’

  He appeared not to have heard her, because he was staring at the bow-maker. ‘They rode westward, towards Cluain? So Glaisne is taking her back to Cluain. By the teeth of Woden, is he now playing some game of his own?’

  Aescwine probably realised that he had said too much and turned away abruptly. In the gathering gloom, Fidelma watched him with curiosity as he made his way through the oarsmen and resting warriors towards the prow of the ship. She saw a figure stir. It was the tall man with the dark cowl. He and Aescwine bent towards one another in deep and animated conversation.