‘You see the hoofmarks of the animals? Even in the dry earth they are deep. That means that they were heavily loaded. And at this point there is a confusion of prints, as if the animals did not know which way to go and were stamping and trying to turn. There are signs of some horses, shod and quite clear.’
Fidelma walked carefully around the site looking at the marks on the ground.
‘A few imprints of human feet, tramping over the hoofs of the beasts,’ she said. Then she gave a soft exclamation. ‘They were led in that direction! North, I think, through there,’ she pointed. ‘The path is quite clear. Come on, let us see where it leads.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait?’ protested Eadulf nervously. ‘They might still be close by.’
‘I hope they are,’ replied Fidelma grimly, turning and striding along the small path, following the tracks of the donkeys.
Eadulf hurried after her with an appealing glance at Brother Metellus, who sighed, and followed.
After a while, they burst out of the trees and undergrowth and were confronted by a little stream that gushed frothy white over a bed of shingle and large stones. Fidelma was staring at it in disgust.
‘What is it?’ demanded Brother Metellus.
Fidelma pointed as if the explanation was self-evident. ‘They drove the animals into this stream.’
‘So?’
‘It means we cannot track them, for a stream with a stony bottom leaves no trace.’
‘They would have to turn downstream if they wanted to go any way,’ offered Brother Metellus. ‘I know that upstream from here is a rocky hill and no way to pass round it. Not for donkeys.’
‘And downstream? Where does that lead?’
‘I think it flows into some marshland. There is an area that the local people avoid for there are mudflats in which a man can be swallowed up before he has time to cry for help. There are one or two such areas here, even quicksand. However, if they know the way and can follow the stream, they could come to the shore of Morbihan.’
Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘In that case, these robbers might know the country well, or they do not know it at all.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Brother Metellus replied with a frown.
It was Eadulf who answered him.
‘If they took the donkeys and headed downstream to these marshes, they either did so knowingly or out of ignorance. If in ignorance, in so short a distance they would be in trouble and have returned. We would have encountered some signs. If they had knowledge, they must have used it as a means to prevent any pursuit of them, using the marsh for protection. They could have reached the sea by now.’
Fidelma smiled her approval of his reasoning.
‘Whatever the explanation,’ she said, ‘we will follow. But first, I want to examine the bodies of the merchants, which I have neglected to do.’
‘What can you learn from them?’ demanded Brother Metellus.
Fidelma did not bother to respond. Again it fell to Eadulf to explain.
‘Much may be learned from a body, my friend,’ he said confidently. He knew that Fidelma was skilled in such matters.
Back at the site of the attack, Fidelma examined each body, not to see the manner of how they met their deaths but to study the arrows.
‘The arrows are practically all the same,’ she said, after a short while. ‘Now here is an interesting thing — the man who made these arrows uses goose feathers and cuts the three flights with a sharp knife. That is the sign of a fletcher who is an adept at his art. They are of a high standard and, indeed, the same hand made all these flights.’
‘But does it help us?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Not of itself, but it may well be useful later.’
She had risen to her feet when Eadulf noticed that the man whom Brother Metellus had identified as the merchant Biscam was lying face down, one arm flung out before him, while the other arm was hidden underneath his body. He had apparently fallen on it. But Eadulf had noticed a wisp of white cloth poking out from underneath the body. He bent down and turned the corpse over on its back. It was only then that he saw that the arrows had not been the immediate cause of death. There was a cut mark in Biscam’s chest, above the heart. Eadulf had seen enough sword wounds to know that the man had been stabbed with a broad-bladed weapon.
But it was not this that caused him to exclaim and Fidelma to follow his gaze to the body.
The man was clutching a strip of white silk in his hand. There were some marks on it as well as bloodstains.
He knelt down again and prised it loose from the dead hand.
‘Could it be that he tore it from his assailant?’ whispered Eadulf.
‘Perhaps,’ replied Fidelma. ‘There is a curious patterning on this silk.’
Brother Metellus had moved forward to peer over her shoulder at it. He was frowning and there was something in his expression that caused Eadulf to ask: ‘Do you recognise this?’
He held up the torn strip of silk in his hands. It was a curious outline of a dove. Brother Metellus gasped.
‘What does that symbol mean?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘The same symbol was carved on the ship that attacked us.’
Brother Metellus ran his tongue around his dry lips but he said nothing.
‘You recognise this image,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘Just as you recognised it when Eadulf described what he had seen carved on the ship’s prow. The black pirate ship that attacked us.’
‘What does it mean?’ insisted Eadulf.
Brother Metellus blinked and said hoarsely, ‘It is the image of a dove in flight.’
‘We can see that,’ Fidelma replied. ‘And its meaning? To whom does it belong?’
The monk took a deep breath before turning to them both and saying, ‘That is the emblem of Lord Canao, the mac’htiern of Brilhag.’
Chapter Six
Eadulf was staring in fascination at the image of the bird on the torn silk.
‘That is an odd emblem for a chieftain to have,’ Fidelma said.
Brother Metellus spread his hands in a strangely helpless gesture.
‘It is the Lord Brilhag’s standard,’ he replied.
‘Do the people here believe it is an oracular bird, as we do?’ queried Fidelma. ‘They made stone figures of doves and, before the coming of the Faith, they used to pray to them in healing shrines for good health. Our Church Fathers often associated themselves with the dove. Crimthann mac Fedilmid took the name Colmcille — Dove of the Church. It is a symbol of peace and harmony, but surely an odd image for a chieftain to carry as an emblem?’
Eadulf folded the silk into a tiny square and placed it in his leather marsupium. ‘Does this mean that this Lord Canao is the leader of thieves and murderers?’
Brother Metellus was shocked.
‘The mac’htiern of Brilhag is very respected,’ he said immediately. ‘He is a friend and adviser to the King Alain Hir, and would not demean himself by attacking unarmed merchants. Anyway, he is supposed to be in Naoned.’
‘But I hear he has a son who is not as worthy as his father?’ Fidelma said thoughtfully.
‘I have met Macliau several times,’ Brother Metellus admitted. ‘He is a young, vain man who likes wine and women. I cannot see him leading such an attack as this.’
Fidelma was silent for a while and Eadulf knew not to interrupt her thoughts. Finally she drew herself up and glanced at them.
‘Nevertheless, the emblem of this lord of Brilhag features both in the attack on the Barnacle Goose and now in this ambush of these poor merchants. I think we must go to Lord Canao’s fortress to see if there is more that we can learn.’
‘That might be dangerous,’ Brother Metellus said immediately, ‘especially if there is some involvement. Though I cannot believe it.’
‘Eadulf and I must follow this path as it is the only lead we have to finding the killer of my cousin and my friend — not least the killer of all these poor people,’ Fidelma said, and she gestured at the bodies around them. ‘You can return to
the abbey and report this before you return to your island.’
Brother Metellus shook his head.
‘I cannot abandon you in this strange country. You will need someone to interpret and one who knows this land. If you go to Lord Canao’s fortress, then I will come with you. Besides, I am as much intrigued by this mystery as you are.’
‘You do not have to come with us,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘As you say, it may be a dangerous path.’
‘I have made my decision,’ the other replied stubbornly. ‘If we set off now, it is not a great distance and we should be there well before the day begins to close in.’
‘Then I thank you, Brother Metellus. Your help is appreciated. Let us go back to the stream and see if we can pick up the tracks again.’
They returned to the spot where the stolen pack animals had apparently entered the stream, and turned to follow its course. Indeed, it was not long before the woodland on either side thinned and they were in flat, muddy marshy grounds where walking was difficult. Several times they had to resort to using the stony bed of the stream itself as an easier way than along the marshy riverbanks. But after a while, even the stream turned into a boggy waste and they had to look for other areas of dry land to seek a passage.
Whatever path the thieves had taken, they could not find it and they lost all signs of the movement of the pack animals and the passage of those who had taken them. But by that time, Fidelma was aware of the salt tang of the sea in the air and the mournful cry of the gulls that meant they were near to the northern coast of the peninsula. Trees began to appear again as they left the low-lying marshes, and the land became firm underfoot once more. The woodland rose on hills that formed a ridge along the coast separating the sea from marshland. Beyond the trees they could hear the gentle lapping of waves on the shore.
It did not take long to get through the woodland and then they emerged on a hill overlooking a deep inlet. On the top of a headland to their left rose a large sandstone fortress.
‘That is Brilhag,’ muttered Brother Metellus.
The outer walls rose about four times the height of a tall warrior and there was a tall tower to the seaward side. Fidelma realised that the great expanse of water before them was the Morbihan, or Little Sea. Brilhag looked very alien to the type of fortresses Fidelma was familiar with: it must have originally been of Roman construction. The complex was quite substantial. She could make out two warriors standing outside the tall wooden gates, their slouched postures showing they were bored with their duties. Their heads were turned towards the sea below them and not inland where Fidelma and her companions had emerged from the woodland.
Fidelma suggested they move back to the shelter of the treeline.
‘Well, there are no signs of the raiders’ ship anchored in this inlet.’ Eadulf pointed out the obvious. ‘It would certainly be an excellent place though, to keep a ship secure from prying eyes.’
‘There are other inlets and islands all along here,’ Brother Metellus said. ‘The ship could hide almost anywhere.’
‘I’d like to see inside this fortress first,’ Fidelma said.
‘Impossible,’ replied Brother Metellus. ‘If you think that the Lord of Brilhag is behind the attack on your ship, then the moment you approach the fortress, they will know why you have come.’
‘Aut viam inveniam aut faciam,’ replied Fidelma confidently. ‘I’ll either find a way or make one.’
It was only when a voice close by shouted harshly that they realised that they were being observed. They had been so closely engaged in examining the fortress of Brilhag that they had not seen the two men approaching until it was too late. They swung round to see two warriors, for such they proclaimed themselves by their long swords, which were sheathed, and shields, although they wore no war helmets or body armour. They were young and muscular men. One was short and stocky but with pleasant, even features, dark hair and eyes whose scrutiny seemed to indicate that he missed nothing. He spoke again, sharply. It was obviously an enquiry as to what they were doing in this place.
Brother Metellus took it on himself to answer and he was sparing with the full truth of the matter as he afterwards related the conversation in translation to his companions.
‘I am Brother Metellus, from the abbey. I am showing my companions, who are strangers to this place, our beautiful country.’
The two men glanced at one another but did not look reassured.
‘I do not recognise you,’ replied the spokesman suspiciously. ‘You have a foreign accent.’
‘One is not responsible for where one is born, my friend,’ replied Brother Metellus. ‘Merely for how we live our lives.’
‘Why are you spying on the mac’htiern’s fortress?’
‘I am showing my companions the amazing view.’
Fidelma and Eadulf, with their limited knowledge of the language of the Britons, had been trying to follow the conversation.
‘Tell him we are not spying on the fortress. We are simply strangers from the land of Hibernia,’ Fidelma instructed Brother Metellus.
‘We have never heard of it,’ replied the warrior, still suspicious.
‘It is the island called Iwerzhon,’ explained Brother Metellus, substituting the local name for the Latin one.
The warrior’s silent companion now spoke rapidly to him and he turned to Brother Metellus.
‘It may be that Macliau will desire to meet your companions,’ he announced. ‘You will accompany us to ascertain his wishes.’ And, as if in emphasis, he dropped a hand to his sword hilt.
Fidelma saw Eadulf tense and she surreptitiously shook her head.
‘Tell them that we shall be delighted to accompany them,’ she said to Brother Metellus, wondering if he was able to translate the humour correctly.
The warriors made no reply but the leader merely motioned with one arm in the direction of the fortress, indicating that they should precede him and his companion.
‘Óis carcre,’ muttered Eadulf in Fidelma’s own language. ‘We are prisoners.’
Fidelma smiled encouragingly at him.
‘Well, I wanted to examine the fortress,’ she said. ‘These warriors have made it easy for us to do so.’ She noticed that the warriors were regarding them suspiciously and she glanced at Brother Metellus’ gloomy features. As they walked along, she spoke to him loudly, wondering if the warriors knew Latin. ‘As you have told us, Brother, this is a magnificent view and this sea ahead of us is what you called the Morbihan?’
Realising she was speaking for the warriors’ benefit, the monk returned her smile, although with a little effort.
‘Exactly so. Beyond this headland of Brilhag are many islands. It is a beautiful area.’
They came to the gates in the sandstone walls. The sentinels, on observing their approach, had straightened up and assumed more rigid postures. One of their warrior companions shouted an order and the gates were immediately opened.
‘Inside!’ he commanded and, with Brother Metellus leading the way, they entered into a courtyard where they were called upon to halt. The great gates slammed shut behind them.
Then a voice called from somewhere above them.
A young man was leaning out of a window of a large building that towered over the courtyard. They could see that he was a slightly built youth, with a mop of fair hair, pale, sunken cheeks and watery eyes that might be light blue.
‘Why are these people here?’ His voice was a high, nasal drawl. Then he recognised the Roman. ‘Is that Brother Metellus?’
‘It is I, Macliau,’ confirmed the monk, stepping forward.
‘Then do not stand on ceremony. Enter.’ The young man glanced at the warriors. ‘There is no need for an escort, Boric,’ he said to the leading man and then disappeared from the window.
The dark warrior addressed as Boric stepped forward and opened the great door for the visitors with an apologetic look.
‘All strangers must be regarded with suspicion until they are shown to be friends,’ h
e said in Latin, which surprised them. So he had understood them the whole time.
‘Ad utrumque paratus,’ Fidelma smiled with the phrase given to one who is prepared for all eventualities.
The warrior actually grinned. ‘Semper paratus,’ he answered. Always prepared.
They entered into the great hall of the fortress. Logs blazed in the large fireplaces at both ends of the chamber in spite of the summer weather. Tapestries of bright colours and with fascinating imagery, presumably from the myths, hung on most of the walls, and in between, at regular paces, were displayed ornate shields. A great woven carpet, of matching bright colours, spread across the central area of the floor, which was of stone flags. On this was a stout, carved oak table set ready for feasting with bowls of fruit on it. Around the table were several wooden chairs. More comfortable chairs were placed in front of the fires while other chairs seemed dotted at haphazard in various parts of the hall. Here and there was a polished wooden chest or small table, and strange-looking earthenware pots and a giant amphora balanced on a stand in one corner. There were several doors leading off the hall and at the end, to one side of the great fireplace, was a wooden stairway that apparently led to the upper chambers.
In front of the fire a small dog had been stretched. It now arose and came trotting towards them. It had long hair, with a blue-grey coat and black ears and muzzle. The hair reached over the forehead and eyes, so that they were barely seen, and ended in a moderate beard below the muzzle. It was a hunting dog — Fidelma recognised the breed as one often used in the pursuit of badgers. The dog sniffed around them. The young man who had hailed them from the window was now descending the stairs with a smile of welcome on his face. The dog looked up at him with a soft whine, the tail wagged slightly and it trotted back to its place in front of the fire.
Eadulf muttered: ‘Well, this young lord seems friendly enough.’
‘This is Macliau, the son of Lord Canao, the mac’htiern of Brilhag,’ replied Brother Metellus quietly.
The Dove of Death sf-20 Page 9