‘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 bir
d 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 thoughtfully. ‘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.’
It was Eadulf’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘But we are talking of pirates and in recent times,’ he pressed. ‘We are looking for some means to identify our attacker.’
Lowenen shrugged. ‘The great port of Naoned lies not far to the east of us on the mainland. It is a rich port. Merchants grow wealthy on the trade through that one port alone. Therefore, it is logical that it provides bait that will attract the rats. The Franks cast envious eyes at the town and it is already under pressure from Frankish raids and settlements. When I was young, I sailed there. The Frankish borders of Neustria had not then approached within three days’ ride of Naoned. Now I am told that the Frankish marcher lords claim territory within a quarter of a day’s ride of the port. Their raids are not infrequent. Yes, raiders and pirates are not unknown in these waters, although I have not heard any stories of this black ship with its captain dressed all in white, such as you have described.’
Brother Metellus was looking at Fidelma. His eyes were troubled.
‘There is vengeance on your face, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he observed softly.
Fidelma’s brows came together, and reading the danger signs, Eadulf jumped in with: ‘Fidelma is highly regarded as a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann, my friend. She is consulted frequently by kings and abbots. Even now we were on our way back to the Kingdom of Muman after attending a Council in Burgundia to advise the prelates there in law at their request. It is not vengeance you will observe, but a desire for justice.’
But Brother Metellus did not seem impressed. ‘Sometimes justice can be used to mean vengeance,’ he said.
Fidelma’s lips thinned in annoyance. ‘I took an oath to uphold the law and to bring to justice those who transgress it. It is true that this act of cold-blooded murder was against my own cousin, Bressal of Cashel, and against my friend, Murchad of Aird Mhór, but it is still justice, not vengeance, that cries out for this captain and his crew to be tracked down.’
Brother Metellus shrugged as if he would dismiss the matter from his mind.
‘Surely, Brother Metellus, your people have a similar law system to that used in the Five Kingdoms of Éireann?’ Eadulf asked. ‘Therefore, if the murderer is caught, would they not be brought before that same justice?’
‘I am not a Breton,’ the religious confessed, ‘but I have no quarrel with law and justice. So long as it is clear that justice is the purpose of seeking the perpetrator of this act.’
Fidelma held his dark eyes steadily. There was a flicker of green fire in her own eyes.
‘That is my purpose,’ she said tightly. ‘But if you are not a Breton, where are you from?’
‘I was born and raised in Rome,’ he replied.
Fidelma realised why there had been some reluctance to translate Lowenen’s remarks.
‘You are far from home,’ Eadulf observed.
‘This is my home now,’ Brother Metellus said quietly. There was a pause, then he had a quick exchange with Lowenen.
‘He wonders what you intend to do now,’ translated Brother Metellus.
‘There is nothing we can do,’ Fidelma answered, ‘until we find a way of reaching the mainland where we can find someone willing to transport us back to my brother’s kingdom. But for now we are destitute, having nothing save a few personal items and the clothes that we have borrowed from you.’
‘How far would this be to the nearest point on the mainland?’ asked Eadulf.
‘About twenty kilometres across the water, north from here, is the abbey of Gildas,’ Brother Metellus replied at once. ‘I am under the jurisdiction of the abbot there. Given a good wind, we would be able to make it in half a morning’s sail. I have done it several times. So, if you trust yourself once more to my small boat, I can take you in the morning. As you see,’ he gestured to the window, ‘the sky is darkening already, so it is too late to commence the trip today.’
‘I would not wish to burden you, Brother Metellus,’ Fidelma replied. ‘You have already done much for us. You have given us our lives when they might have been lost.’ She was a little confused because she was sure that the image of the dove had some significance for him that he was not imparting to them, but he had saved them from capture and death, and she was very grateful for that.
‘Is this not what we are in service to the Christ to do?’ Brother Metellus said, brushing aside her thanks. ‘Anyway, it is time that I visited the mainland again, for there are some supplies that I want from the abbey.’
He turned and rapidly addressed Lowenen again before continuing. ‘As you can see, I do not have room to shelter you here for the night, but Lowenen’s wife, Onenn, has a spare bed. It was her son’s. He was drowned last year while fishing off Beg Lagad. I presume that you…’He broke off awkwardly.
‘You may rest assured that we are husband and wife.’ Eadulf supplied the answer to his unasked question with some stiffness. ‘We are not of that sect who believe in the celibacy of all religious.’
‘I thought as much,’ agreed the Roman monk with a sigh. ‘As for myself, I believe in the teachings of the Blessed Benedict. Chastity is a declaration of our commitment to the Faith.’ Then he looked closely at Fidelma. ‘I noticed that you introduced yourself as Fidelma of Cashel rather than Sister Fidelma. And Brother Eadulf here says that you are an advocate of your law courts — can you be both things in your own land?’
Fidelma replied in a slightly defiant tone: ‘I am sister to Colgú, King of Muman, whose capital is at Cashel. It is one of the lands that make up the Five Kingdoms of Éireann
, the land of my people. It is the largest of the Five Kingdoms,’ she added, almost proudly. From her past experience in Rome she had learned that it was best to maintain a slight arrogance with Romans. ‘My first commitment is to serve the law and my people. In our land, one can also serve both and still be in the religious.’
Brother Metellus bowed his head, hiding an amused expression on his features.
‘I am sure that I speak for our chieftain, Lowenen here, when I say that it is an honour to have you and Brother Eadulf as guests on this little island. Alas, I was but a poor shepherd on the slopes of Mount Sabatini until I decided to follow the path of Christ.’
Fidelma could not make up her mind whether the man was mocking her or not. Before she could decide, he had turned and translated to the old chieftain, who immediately rose and bowed to Fidelma, and spoke with some intensity.
‘He says that he is more than honoured to welcome a princess to his humble island. Whatever he has, is yours.’
Fidelma inclined her head to the old man, saying, ‘Tell him he has already given us enough and it is we who are honoured.’
Brother Metellus now rose to his feet.
‘There will be a feast tonight. Lowenen insists upon it. A feast to celebrate your coming to this island. It is the local custom of hospitality. But we will try to get away to the mainland just after first light. Go with Lowenen now and have some rest, and I will come to escort you to the feasting later.’
Although forewarned, when Brother Metellus came to collect them from the house of Lowenen and his wife, Onenn, neither Fidelma nor Eadulf were expecting the festivities that greeted them. They were led down a path between the stone cabins and onto a sandy strand where a large fire had been lit. In fact, there were several smaller fires along the shore. Beyond them the dark seas, now and then with a thin line of white showing where the waves were breaking, whispered and chattered over the rocks before sliding silently shoreward. Many people were crowded round the fires. Brother Metellus had told them that there were only about a hundred or so islanders, and it seemed every one of them was there.
The Dove of Death sf-20 Page 3