The Dove of Death

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘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 craft. 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.

  ‘I intend to offer you what assistance I can. I was on the headland when I saw that your vessel was being attacked. Then I saw two figures leap overboard and the flurry of arrows being loosed. I put out in my own small craft to see what I could do. Who are you?’

  ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, and this is Brother Eadulf.’

 
The man noted the manner of her introduction, as he replied, ‘I am Metellus, Brother Metellus of the community of Lokentaz, the abbey of Gildas of Rhuis. It is on the mainland, but I am serving the little fishing community on Hoedig, which is the island to which we are now heading.’

  ‘Is there a strong community there?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘Men who can help us against these pirates?’

  Metellus shook his head. ‘I told you, my friend, we are simple fisherfolk. We have no warriors, just stout fishermen, their wives and children. Enough for three men, if that is all they send after you, but against armed men from a warship…well. However, we’ll do our best. I know a spot near the Menhir of the Virgin where you may hide.’

  ‘Menhir?’ queried Eadulf.

  ‘A tall standing stone set up by the ancients which has been consecrated for the faith, for it was an old custom to go and offer prayers by it.’

  They turned to the approaching island, growing large before them. It was mainly low-lying with little sandy beaches, and the waters had turned almost turquoise as they came close inshore. They could see the stretches of green growth on land, sprinkled with little yellow flowers, and here and there were tiny habitations of grey granite.

  ‘It looks fairly large to me,’ offered Eadulf.

  ‘No more than a kilometre across and twice that or a little more long, my friend. If those on that ship yonder really want to make a search for you – then, as I say, there is hardly anywhere to hide.’

  They were pulling into a bay and Brother Metellus stood up to lower the sail. A small crowd of men, women and children of every age, were crowding curiously on the wooden quay to greet them. They had apparently seen what had taken place.

  An elderly man addressed Brother Metellus by name from the shore and an exchange of words followed which was too rapid for Fidelma or Eadulf to understand. Willing hands helped them out as Brother Metellus secured the boat.

  ‘Come – we must not delay,’ he said urgently. ‘Let us find you a safe place to hide.’

  ‘But what of our pursuers? Can’t we make a defence now?’ demanded Fidelma, glancing seaward to where the rowers were still some distance out to sea.

  ‘And bring the crew of that raider down on us? No, we’ll have to find some other way of dealing with them,’ Brother Metellus replied grimly, as he began to usher them through the collection of buildings that formed the main dwelling-places of the islanders near the harbour.

  They had not proceeded far when they were halted by sounds echoing across the water.

  It was a series of blasts on a trumpet or horn of some type.

  Brother Metellus halted, turning with a frown. Then with astonishing dexterity, he scrambled onto a granite wall to give him a higher elevation and looked seaward.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Your pursuers have halted, and…yes, they are turning back to the ships. The horn must have sounded some signal to recall them.’ He raised his face to the sky and let the wind blow across his features. ‘The wind is changing, and the tide. I think the captain must be calling the men back for the vessels to take advantage of it.’

  ‘Is there a place where we can see what is happening?’ asked Fidelma, her voice quiet and without emotion, although Eadulf could see that her features were still filled with shock from the experience of seeing the callous murder of her cousin and Murchad the captain.

  ‘Come with me,’ Brother Metellus said, jumping lightly down from the stone wall. ‘The island is pretty low-lying, therefore it is hard to get a good elevation from which to see. However…’ He pointed to a small building, which had a second storey and looked out of place among the other buildings of the island. ‘We use it as a chapel and we are trying to construct a little tower on top,’ he explained.

  They entered and followed Brother Metellus, scrambling up a rough wooden ladder to the top of the unfinished tower. It did not give them a great commanding view of the sea. However, they could make out the bay and beyond it, just visible to the naked eye, the black dot on the waters that was the rowing boat, heading back to the dark outlines of the ships. There was the familiar shape of the Barnacle Goose and the darker silhouette behind of the ship that had attacked it. They still seemed to be linked together. Then, as they watched, it seemed the attacking vessel shuddered. It was an optical illusion produced as the sails were being set and the ship began to move slowly away from the side of its victim. The rowers had reached the side of the Barnacle Goose. Fidelma presumed that they had boarded and the rowing boat was being hauled up. Then the sails were billowing and the ship was turning after the sleek lines of its attacker.

  ‘They are leaving,’ muttered Brother Metellus, in satisfaction. ‘Heading north-west. You are safe for the time being.’

  ‘Safe!’ The word was uttered by Fidelma with bitter irony.

  At Brother Metellus’ raised eyebrows, Eadulf explained: ‘The captain of our vessel and some of her crew were slaughtered, and Fidelma’s own cousin, Bressal of Cashel, and envoy to your King, Alain Hir, was slain – even showing his wand of office. This is bad, indeed.’

  For a moment, Brother Metellus contemplated this. Then he gave a deep sigh.

  ‘Before anything else, I suggest you come with me so that we may provide you with dry clothes and something to drink to get the taste of seawater out of your mouths. Then we will talk more of this. As you say, it is a grievous crime to kill the envoy of a king.’

  Outside the chapel they found one of the fishermen who spoke rapidly in the local dialect. Brother Metellus replied and the man turned and hurried off.

  ‘Our friend had come to report that the men had given up the pursuit and the ships had sailed,’ he explained. Then he pointed to a nearby building. ‘This is where I make my simple home. Come in and welcome. I will try to find some dry clothing for you.’

  It was a while before they were dried, and changed into comfortable clothing, brought to them by a homely woman called Onenn. Fidelma would have liked to wash the salt water from her hair, but that would have been too much to ask their host.

  They now sat with Brother Metellus in his small stone cabin, together with an elderly man called Lowenen, who was introduced as the chieftain of the island community. Lowenen had a craggy seaman’s face, almost as if it were carved from the granite rock of the island. The sea-green eyes were piercing under heavy eyebrows, but his face was compassionate, expressing sympathy and gentle humour.

  As they told their story, Brother Metellus acted as interpreter for Lowenen who spoke no other language than the island dialect. Although Fidelma and Eadulf had some knowledge of the language of the Britons, this local dialect was difficult to follow. Words they thought they knew from their time among the Britons apparently did not mean the same.

  ‘This is a crime indeed,’ Brother Metellus muttered after a moment’s reflection when they had finished telling the full story of the attack. ‘You have no idea of the identity of this vessel that attacked you? The captain of it did not identify himself?’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘There was no name on the ship that we could see but then, I suppose, we weren’t looking for a name in the moment of attack. I seem to recall it had a white flag at its mast.’

  ‘I noticed that there was an emblem on the white flag,’ Eadulf put in, ‘but I could not make it out. However, there was a small carving on the bow of the vessel. A bird of some sort. I thought it was a dove.’

  Only Fidelma noticed a curious expression cross Brother Metellus’ face but it was gone in an instant.

  ‘You must be mistaken, my friend,’ he said quickly. ‘If a warship carves a bird on it as a symbol, it is usually a bird of prey.’

  Eadulf reluctantly agreed, but said, ‘It is strange, on reflection. It looked like a dove to me. But perhaps the person who carved the bird was not so talented as he thought.’

  ‘And did you notice anything about the captain of this vessel?’

  ‘Only that he appeared to be a young man,’ Fidelma replied t
houghtfully. ‘But he was shrouded from head to foot in white so that his face was not to be seen.’

  ‘White!’ exclaimed Brother Metellus. ‘A curious choice for a sea captain and a pirate. White is the colour of light and sanctity, and yet you say this man was a ruthless killer and hid himself under this shroud of white? And he was a young man?’

  ‘He was slightly built with a high-pitched voice. But for all his apparent youth he was vicious, nonetheless. It was he who killed my cousin as well as Murchad the captain,’ Fidelma confirmed. Then she paused and added quietly, ‘And he shall answer for those crimes.’

  ‘Is anything known of piracy in these waters?’ Eadulf asked hurriedly, to cover the uneasy silence that followed Fidelma’s statement, which had been delivered in a tone of cold hatred. He had never heard her speak in such chilling tones.

  Brother Metellus interpreted Lowenen’s response to the question.

  ‘Alas, these waters have often seen bloodshed. It is not far from here that the galleys of the Romans did battle with our fleet.’

  ‘Your fleet?’ queried Eadulf in surprise, envisaging a battle between Roman galleys and the fishing boats of the island.

  ‘The fleet of the Veneti who were the greatest mariners of this land,’ the old man replied proudly. ‘They sailed with over two hundred ships against the Roman commander. The battle lasted a full day before a disappearing wind becalmed our ships and allowed the Romans to destroy them. After that all Gaul fell to the Romans. A sad day when the Veneti were defeated.’

  The old man sighed deeply, as if contemplating something that had occurred but yesterday. Fidelma noticed there was an air of embarrassment as Brother Metellus interpreted these words; some reluctance in his delivery.

  ‘That was many centuries ago, my friend,’ Eadulf pointed out to the elderly chieftain, having realised that he was talking about the time when Julius Caesar had conquered Gaul.

  ‘You are right,’ the chieftain replied with a shrug. ‘But, as I say, such bloody events have been frequent here. It is not long since we had Saxon raiders attacking this very island.’