As I positioned myself at an oar, I heard him mutter a prayer as he pulled on the rudder.
Power of surf be thine, power of swell be thine, power of the sap of my reason.
Thou shalt journey upward and come again down,
thou shalt journey over ocean and come again hither.
I crossed myself, and murmured a prayer to Saint Christopher for his protection, for it looked as though we would have need of it.
I set to rowing against the current. Of a sudden I saw ahead, where the gulf narrowed, a ragged line of white breakers, and felt the spray on my face as the boat began to pitch, turning this way and that despite what direction the captain held the rudder. We tore off course, and the rocks of Scarba raced by, now starboard, now port, now astern, as we circled, caught in the relentless grasp of the Cailleach.
“Look,” shouted the captain, and to the right the surface of the sea seemed suddenly greasy, as though a puddle of melted tallow had been poured on the top of the surging waves. As I gazed, mesmerized, at the flatness, a plume of water spurted upwards, fell back on itself, and swirled, forming a perfect vortex, a descent, so it seemed to me, into the mouth of a watery Hell.
“Pull!” shouted the captain and we bent all our strength to the oars, edging imperceptibly away from the whirlpool, only to find another flat circle appearing to our left.
We changed course, pulling this way and that amongst the maws of the old hag, time and time again escaping one vortex only to see another whirlpool opening before us. My muscles ached, and I could not say how long we were in the jaws of the Cailleach. Time seemed to have no meaning, except that every breath, every pull on the oars, straining against the grip of the hag, seemed an eternity. Exhausted, I thought I could pull no more, but still I strove on the oars, until before me I saw a wall of green sea, fully as high as the mast of our ship it was. This is the end, I thought, but we climbed through that barrier of the ocean, and burst out, suddenly, onto the open waters.
Such heavenly quiet and stillness were there, after the hell we had survived. The sun poured down on our drenched and salt soaked bodies and the black rocks of the islands, and gulls swooped over the calmness of the open sea.
“We were not her victims today,” said the captain, with some satisfaction, “but I am thinking she has not gone hungry, after all. Look there—”
And with a sinking heart I followed his pointing and saw, on the rocks of the coast of Jura, splinters of wood and a mast, a tangled sail washed up on shore, and what looked to be the remains of a small boat. But of bodies I saw none.
* * * * *
“The hag has claimed them,” said the captain. Indeed it seemed to be so. We had beached the boat, and searched the shore near the wreck. We saw no footprints, although, I told myself desperately that the rocky ground might not have held the mark. But a search of the countryside yielded nothing, except a few wild goats, contentedly grazing amongst the rocks, and they did not speak of what they had seen that day. The captain must have told the truth. They had drowned.
I thought of the cold waters closing over Mariota, and stealing the breath away out of her body, and shuddered. I hoped she had gone quickly, not struggling in the grip of the Cailleach, but I feared that that had not been the way it had happened.
The sun was low in the sky, and the crew sodden and salt-soaked, exhausted, but I continued to search until the sky grew dark. And all the time I searched I wept for Mariota. My tears wet the beach, mingling with the cold gray waters of the Cailleach.
I must report to His Lordship at Finlaggan, and somehow find the words to tell the Beaton about his daughter. And that would be setting all the Beatons, and the MacNeills as well, against me, I thought, exhausted, but even that did not matter. Perhaps I would let Mariota’s fine betrothed kill me, when he caught up with me, and that would be the end of it all.
But the murderer of my father had been found. For all that it made no sense to me, he must have crossed to Colonsay and killed my father, out of jealousy over Sheena I supposed, but then been forced to kill her himself when she had seen the murder. And the harp pin that little Sean had showed to me; he had not received it that night the Seòras had played for us at Aorig’s. He must have gotten it at his mother’s house. Perhaps the harper had given it to him, or he had found it after the man had left.
A fire had been kindled, and shelter for the night found in a cave facing the western sea. Someone had caught a rabbit, but the good smell of the roasting meat did not tempt me to eat.
On impulse I took the quartz stone from my pouch and rolled it between my fingers, looking at the firelight reflected in its depths. As if, I thought bitterly, like some seer I would see Mariota in it. But I am no such seer.
The stone remained dull and opaque and at length I replaced the crystal in my pouch. Then I sat unmoving, staring into the flames until they died to white ashes, and the last of the firelight faded to black, then merged with the greater darkness of the sky. Only then did I lie down on the hard and rocky ground, but I did not sleep.
* * * * *
I reached Finlaggan late the next day. The captain from Mull took me as far as the port at Bunahabhain, but not before we made another detour, at my request, to that fisherman’s hut on Nave Island.
We found no nets or other gear there, but a few provisions. It looked to be a hiding place of some sort, and I realized that from that spot Seòras could easily have taken his small boat to the Strand and killed my father. He then could have returned to Islay in time to be playing the harp at Finlaggan when I myself had arrived. We had taken him back to Colonsay that next day, where he had stayed until he murdered Sheena.
But when we stopped at Padraic’s hut we did not find him there alive. He lay dead on his bed, strangled.
The captain finally beached the boat in Bunahabhain, and then left for Mull, with the promise of a fine reward from His Lordship along with most of the money I had in my purse.
I kept enough to pay for a horse, and took the road to Finlaggan. It was not too long before I saw the causeway leading to the manor house on the large island glinting in the evening sun. The Lord of the Isles, I was told, had gone to Dunyvaig, to see to some new galleys that were being built there, but he was expected back that same evening. And so I waited, cooling my heels, and, coward that I was, praying I would not see Fearchar and have to tell him about the death of his daughter.
I discovered that the messenger from Mull had arrived the day before, with the news of the stolen boat and the capture of Mariota, but His Lordship, along with the Beaton, had already left for Dunyvaig when the messenger arrived. And the messenger, owing his greater allegiance to the MacLean, had not waited to deliver his message personally to His Lordship but had simply given it to the steward there and then returned to Mull, which meant neither His Lordship nor the Beaton were knowing of what had transpired.
I wondered if Fearchar even knew his daughter had left Islay for Colonsay at all. Perhaps even now, he believed her safe at Balinaby.
So I mused on such unhappy thoughts while I waited, drinking claret, and then more claret, trying to erase the image of the tortured look in Mariota’s eyes as Seòras had held the knife to her throat from my mind’s eye. But in this I was not successful.
That night a messenger arrived with the news that himself had been detained at Dunyvaig, and would not be returning for several more days at the latest, as the galleys he was having built had some difficulties and he was reluctant to leave until the problem was solved.
I decided to go seek him, reasoning he would be happy to hear of the solving of the murder of my father, as that would mean the Holy Father would be off his back and his political dilemma solved neatly. As to how the Beaton would react to the news of his daughter’s loss I dared not think.
And so the next morning, after the messenger had rested, I returned with the messenger to Dunyvaig. The man spoke but little, which suited my mind this day. The sky glimmered a clear blue above us as we rode through the gra
ssy hills. I would have enjoyed the riding and the good gray horse beneath my legs, had it not been for the sore weight of my heart in my chest.
At length we reached Dunyvaig Castle. It sits on the rocks, looking out towards Kintyre to the East and Antrim to the south. A fine imposing castle it is, with the large curtain wall and the grand outer courtyard, leading to the small inner yard, sitting high atop the rocks overlooking the sea. Several galleys anchored in the Lagavulin Bay in front of the castle, and there was much activity, with sailors working on repairs and seeing to the ships.
We entered through the gate into the outer yard. Here also men hurried, several smiths worked on armor at some forges, while in another corner cows and cattle milled. A young boy hurried to the kitchens with a basket of eggs and two squawking chickens under his arm. The messenger and I gave our horses to a lad from the stables, and I followed the man into the keep, and up some narrow stairs to the great hall of the castle.
An imposing place it looked, with a richly painted ceiling, and walls hung with tapestry. At the end of the hall I spied the Lord of the Isles, deep in conversation with a number of his bodyguard and another man, dressed in work clothes.
As we neared I overheard their discussion, something about numbers of oars and I guessed they spoke of the new galleys and that this man was the master boat-builder. Around the hall lounged other of His Lordship’s retainers. A harper played idly, although no one, not even the great staghounds lounging by the fire, paid much attention to the music. I looked for the Beaton, and, shamefully, felt relief when I did not see him in the room.
His Lordship looked up, glimpsed us, and finished conferring with the shipwright. He sat down in the high chair sitting at the end of the hall, then beckoned us forward, and we approached.
“So it is Muirteach, finally,” he said, drinking from the silver mether that sat by his side on a small, richly carved, wooden table. “And have you been solving the murder for me yet?”
“Indeed I have,” I answered with far more bravado than I was feeling. “But we have found another person slain. And the murderer himself is now dead, as well, drowned in the Cailleach some two days ago.”
“Whoever was he, then?”
“It was Seòras, the harper.”
I heard a murmur of surprise from those men milling in the hall. I told them of Father Padraic’s murder. “I am thinking he kept a small boat on Nave Island, and from there he was traveling to Colonsay to kill the Prior.”
“That priest was from the Rhinns. And he had kin there,” interjected one of His Lordship’s retainers.
And Padraic, out of his kind heart, had let his sister’s boy use the hut from time to time, I realized, the “poor soul” the priest had mentioned to me. Now he had joined his sister, Alsoon, in death.
His Lordship was not looking convinced. “And what reason would he be having to do all of that?” he asked, sipping from his silver glass.
“Jealousy over a woman. The woman Sheena, my father’s hand-fasted wife, whom he also murdered. I am thinking because she knew of the first murder. And then perhaps Padraic came to know of it, and so he was killed as well.” I remembered the look on Seòras’s face as he held the knife to Mariota. “The man was crazed.”
His Lordship considered a moment, then his face broke into a smile. “So it was not one of the canons. That is very good, Muirteach, very good indeed. I am well pleased with your solution.”
I noticed he did not say whether or not he believed me, and I found that rankled a bit, for all that I knew I spoke the truth.
“Now, are you wanting some drink?”
A retainer quickly brought some ale. It tasted good in the heat of the day, and I gulped some of it down, out of nervousness.
“There is something else, your Lordship,” I said, after I had finished the ale. “Some news which I am doubting you will be liking so well. And I am knowing that others here will like it even less.”
“And what would that be?”
I told him of Mariota’s being taken hostage by Seòras, and her death, along with his own, in the Cailleach.
“A great pity that is indeed,” observed His Lordship, hardly seeming affected by the news. “And an unwise woman she was, as well, to go running off to Colonsay as she did.”
“Your Lordship,” I protested, “she was a great help to me in solving the murders. Were it not for her bringing me this pin,” and I drew it from my pouch to show him, “we would not have known for sure that it was Seòras who committed the crime.”
“Her father will not be happy to hear of the news, when you are telling him, Muirteach,” responded His Lordship. “And the MacNeill she was to marry as well.”
The orator leaned forward and whispered something in the ear of the Lord of the Isles. The Lord paused, took another drink of his wine, and then added, “Oh, MacMhurich here is telling me that the betrothal was broken off. Recently, and by the woman herself. Now why, are you thinking, would she be doing such a thing?”
“I do not know, sir. Nor, am I thinking, does it matter much the now.”
“Well, you are no doubt right in that, Muirteach. But you will be having a sad thing to do, when the Beaton is returning from his doctoring. For I leave the telling of it to you, since it was your poor judgment that led her to this sad end.”
And he turned to speak with another of his retainers, and I surmised my interview was at an end. Miserable and bitter, I bowed to him, wanting nothing more than to crawl away, like some injured hound, to lick my wounds, or perhaps to try and drink myself to sick forgetfulness. Yet I sensed even there I would find no solace.
“Oh, and Muirteach,” he added, as I prepared to leave the hall, “just you be seeing my steward, there, and be writing a letter for me to the King, and one to the Holy Father in Rome, telling them of the solution to the murder. And then we will see about a reward for your labor on this matter.”
“None is necessary, sir. The man murdered my father.”
“Yes, but you will be wanting an honor-price. Or if you are not wanting it, the Priory should have one, I am thinking. Well, away with you, and be writing the letters the now. Then this matter will be ended, and good riddance to it.”
The steward led me to a small anteroom and brought writing supplies. I composed my letters by the light of the sun, shining through the tiny slit window in the wall, and wondered how I would tell Fearchar of his daughter’s death.
I had just about finished when I heard a commotion from the Hall. I stood up from my writing bench and stepped to the doorway to listen. A disheveled messenger stood before His Lordship. The man, obviously frightened, panted, and looked as though he had run a far ways.
“What is it?” demanded the steward. “What is this news that brings you here so suddenly?”
“A madman—” gasped the man. “A madman has killed the priest of the chapel at Port Asabuis, and now he has claimed Sanctuary in that same chapel!”
Chapter 21
“Tell us of it,” demanded His Lordship, listening intently as the man repeated his story.
“What does this man look like?” I interrupted. “And how did he get to the Oa?”
I did not dare hope, and yet, how many such madmen could there be on one island?
“I do not know,” responded the man. “We were out working the fields, and heard a hubbub from the chapel, and then the women came running through the corn, saying that there was murder done. And the priest lay there, in front of the chapel he was, with his hand outstretched, just touching the cross, and blood all over the walk—”
“And so you were coming here?”
The man nodded, awed by his surroundings.
“When did all this happen?”
“This morning it was. I took a boat and came here, for it was known you were here at Dunyvaig. You must be helping us, Your Lordship,” cried the man. “It is the devil himself has got into our church.”
“I am thinking it is no devil,” said His Lordship, “but a man, although per
haps he is indeed a devil if the Cailleach herself is spitting him out. Well, let us be sending some men there to be seeing about it all, then.”
“You must let me go,” I demanded of His Lordship.
“Aye, Muirteach, I am thinking that I must.”
And so it was that a short while later a good galley, filled with sixteen strong men, along with the messenger and myself, set sail from Lagavulin Bay and crossed the short distance to the Oa Peninsula. We beached the boat along a short stretch of sandy beach, ringed on either side by high granite cliffs, and climbed the narrow path leading up the steep rocks to the chapel, dedicated to Saint Ailbhe, one of the boatmen had told me. At a distance things looked peaceful enough, but as we neared the site we saw a dark stain on the flagstones in the front of the church, before the great stone cross, and a cluster of men surrounding the chapel.
“He has claimed sanctuary,” one of the local men told us as we drew closer. “He is inside.”
“Was he alone?”
The man shook his head. “I am not knowing that. I was not here when it happened. Here,” he said, gesturing to the dark pool of blood which still lay on the stones, “is where he was killing the priest.”
“What led to this? Why did he kill the priest? Did the priest try to stop him?”
“Och, no. The priest was outside here, he had just finished the morning mass and had stepped outside, and everyone else had left. And then, I am thinking that the madman had hidden himself, somehow, behind the rock there, and came after the priest, demanding sanctuary. But perhaps the priest was not being fast enough with his answer, for it is said the madmen took out his sgian dubh and cut him, and the man bled to death while the lunatic took shelter in the church.”
“And so you are thinking he was alone.”
“No one was here to see it happen. We just found the priest here, when Rhodri came to bring him some eggs.”
“So then how are you knowing he is inside?”
“Look,” The man pointed to the trail of bloodied footprints leading to inside the chapel. But there was only one set of prints, not two, although there was a smear of blood as if something had been dragged inside with him.
A MASS FOR THE DEAD Page 19
