Murchad shrugged.
‘If his claims are correct, his frenzy is understandable. Surely, as you knew Cian in the past, you must have heard something of the claim Toca Nia is making?’
Fidelma stirred uncomfortably.
‘I knew Cian ten years ago,’ she admitted. ‘He was a warrior in the King of Ailech’s bodyguard. But beyond that I know nothing. I have never heard of this Rath Bile.’
There was a long silence while it seemed that Murchad was trying to dredge up a memory.
‘I recall something of it,’ he said at last.
‘When did it happen?’
‘Several years ago now. Maybe five years ago. Rath Bile is in the country of the Uí Feilmeda, in the Kingdom of Laigin.’
‘That is south of the Abbey Kildare,’ frowned Fidelma. ‘I was some years in the Abbey, but I do not recall hearing the story.’ She considered for a moment. ‘Five years ago? It may well have happened when I was sent to the west for a while. What do you know of this massacre?’
Murchad shrugged.
‘Precious little. There was some conflict between the High King Blathmac and Faelán of Laigin – some dispute about whether the Uí Chéithig should pay tribute to Blathmac at Tara or to Faelán at Fearna.
‘I know a treaty was agreed. But it seemed that Blathmac wanted to teach Faelán a lesson for his defiance and sent a band of his elite warriors by ship down the coast to the country of the Uí Enechglais. They marched on the fortress of Faelán’s brother at Rath Bile and there was a great slaughter. It is true that many old men, women and children died as well as the handful of Laigin warriors who were defending the place.’
Fidelma was troubled.
‘This is a complication which we did not want on this voyage.’
Murchad shared her anxiety.
‘And you are no nearer solving the murder of Sister Muirgel? There is a whisper that Sister Crella is responsible. Is that true?’
‘I am not satisfied yet. There is more here than meets the eye. How long before we reach harbour in Ushant?’
‘With this wind, we will be there within the hour. You will have to advise me what to do about Toca Nia and Cian, lady.’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘If I remember the laws appertaining to crimes committed in war in the Críth Gablach, it states that once the cairde, the peace treaty, is agreed, only a month is allowed for anyone to pursue claims under its condition. Those wishing to exact retribution under law for any unlawful deaths that might have occurred have to make claim by that time. This massacre you speak of took place several years ago.’
Murchad looked morose.
‘Murder and now war crimes! Never in all my sailing days have I encountered the like. What must we do? Toca Nia is quoting the Holy Book at me and demanding vengeance.’
‘Vengeance is not law,’ replied Fidelma. ‘This matter needs to be heard before a senior Brehon, for I am not competent to advise what should be done.’
‘Well, I certainly am not, lady.’
‘I will speak with Cian,’ Fidelma decided, rising. ‘The first thing to do is see what he has to say on this matter.’
Cian was lying back on his bunk, though in a semi-sitting position with a bloodstained rag at his nose. The cabin he shared with Brother Bairne was in gloom. A lantern swung from a hook in the ceiling, casting flickering lights which chased one another about. No one, as yet, had apparently told him of Toca Nia’s accusation. He removed the rag and gave Fidelma a lopsided smile as she entered the cabin.
‘Our shipwrecked mariner has a curious way of expressing gratitude to his rescuers,’ he greeted her wryly.
Fidelma remained impassive.
‘I presume that you did not recognise the man?’
Cian shrugged and then winced painfully.
‘Should I have recognised him?’
‘His name is Toca Nia.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He was not a mariner but a passenger on the ship that went down. In fact, he was a warrior of the Faelán of Laigin.’
Cian was dismissive.
‘Well, I do not know all the warriors of the Five Kingdoms. What is his quarrel with me?’
‘I thought you might know him, as he knows you.’
‘What was his name again?’ frowned Cian.
‘Toca Nia.’
Cian thought for a moment and then shook his head.
‘Toca Nia of Rath Bile,’ added Fidelma coldly.
There was no doubting that the addition of Rath Bile meant something to. Cian.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ Fidelma went on.
‘About what, precisely?’
‘About what happened at Rath Bile.’
‘It was at Rath Bile that I lost the use of my arm.’ There was bitterness in his voice.
‘What were you doing at Rath Bile?’
‘I was in the service of the High King.’
‘I think I need a little more information than that, Cian.’
‘I was commanding a troop of the High King’s bodyguard. We fought a battle there and I received an arrow in my upper arm.’
Fidelma heaved a deep breath, indicating her frustration.
‘I do not want to fight for every detail.’
Cian’s mouth tightened.
‘What exactly is it that this Toca Nia accuses me of?’
‘He is claiming that you are the “Butcher of Rath Bile”. That it was on your orders that some one hundred and forty men, women and children were slaughtered and the village and fortress put to the torch. Is there truth in that?’
‘Did Toca Nia tell you how many warriors of the High King were slain there?’ Cian countered in anger.
‘That is no defence. If those warriors were attacking the village and fortress, then it was their choice to put themselves in harm’s way. The death of women and children is no compensation for their deaths. There is no just cause that exonerates mass slaughter.’
‘How can you say that?’ challenged Cian. ‘Just cause enough if the High King wills it!’
‘That is a precious morality, Cian. It is no justification at all. I would urge you to tell me what happened, otherwise it might be argued that Toca Nia’s charges must be true and that you are answerable for them.’
‘Not true! Not at all true!’ cried Cian in frustrated anger.
‘Then tell me your version of events. There was some border dispute between the High King and the King of Laigin, wasn’t there?’
Cian reluctantly agreed.
‘The High King believed that the Uí Chéithig who dwelt around Cloncurry should pay tribute directly to him. The King of Laigin argued that he was lord over them. The High King said that their tribute stood in place of the bóramha.’ Cian used an old word meaning cattle-computation.
‘I do not understand this,’ Fidelma told him.
‘It goes back to the time when the High King Tuathal the Legitimate sat in judgement at Tara. Tuathal had two daughters. The story goes that the King of Laigin was then called Eochaidh Mac Eachach and that he married the first daughter of Tuathal but found he did not like her as much as he liked the second daughter. So he returned to the court of Tuathal and pretended that his first wife had died and thus he was able to marry the second daughter.’
Cian paused and grinned despite the seriousness of his position. ‘He was a sly old goat, that King Eochaidh.’
Fidelma made no comment. There was no humour in the deception.
‘Well, naturally,’ continued Cian, ‘the two daughters eventually discovered the truth. The second daughter learned that she was married illegitimately, for her sister was still alive. When they found out that they had a husband in common, it is said that they died of shame.’ He interrupted his narrative and smirked. ‘What stupidity! Anyway, the story came to the ears of their father, the High King, and as revenge he marched his army into Laigin and met Eochaidh in battle. He slew him and ravaged the kingdom.
‘The men of Laigin came forward and s
ued for peace and agreed to pay an annual tribute – predominantly in cattle. From that time onwards the Uí Néill successors of Tuathal demanded this bóramha or cattle tribute, but often they had to use force to obtain it. That was why Blathmac ordered us to go south and raze Rath Bile as a demonstration to show he was determined to extract the tribute from the Laigin King.’
‘But hadn’t a treaty already been agreed?’ Fidelma pointed out.
‘Didn’t you go south after both kings agreed the treaty?’
Cian replied with a gesture of impatience.
‘It is not for a warrior to question his orders, Fidelma. I was ordered to go south. South I went.’
‘You admit that you were in command?’
‘Of course I was. I do not deny it! But I was acting under the legitimate orders of the High King. I went to extract the tribute.’
‘Even the High King himself is not above the law, Cian. What do you say happened?’
‘We sailed in four ships, four fifties of warriors of the High King’s Fianna. We were the best warriors of the elite bodyguard itself. We landed at the port of the Uí Enechglais and marched west across the River Sléine until we came on Rath Bíle. The brother of Laigin’s King refused to surrender the fort and village.’
‘So you attacked it?’
‘We attacked it,’ confirmed Cian. ‘It was the High King’s orders that we did so.’
‘Do you admit that you and your warriors slaughtered women and children?’
‘When our men went in, we could not stop to enquire who was our enemy and who not. People were fighting us, shooting arrows at us, whether they were warriors or old men, or indeed women or children. Our job was to fulfil our objective and obey our lawful orders.’
Fidelma considered his story for a few moments. The situation on The Barnacle Goose was getting more than complicated. The mystery of Sister Muirgel’s murder had been bad enough, and then Brother Guss’s claim that Sister Canair had also been murdered before the ship even sailed. Now she was faced with the added complication of Toca Nia’s accusation against Cian.
‘This matter, Cian, is serious. It needs to be brought before the Chief Brehon and the High King’s court. I know little of the law on warfare. A more competent judge is needed to see what must be done. I know there are circumstances in which the killing of people is justified and entails no penalties. It is not against the law to kill in battle – or, indeed, to kill a thief caught in the act of stealing … But the decision is up to a court.’
Cian’s face mirrored his resentment.
‘Are you telling me that you believe the word of Toca Nia against mine?’ he demanded.
‘It is not my place to judge who is telling the truth. Toca Nia makes an accusation and you must answer it. It is an accusation of gravity. It is for your own good, Cian, for Toca Nia knows well that a violator of the law can be killed by anyone and with impunity. He could kill you and claim immunity.’
‘The law does not reach outside of the Five Kingdoms,’ protested Cian.
‘It does not matter. You are on an Irish ship and come under the laws of the Fénechus here just as much as if you stood on the soil of Éireann. You must return to Laigin to make your plea.’
Cian stared at her in disbelief.
‘You cannot do this to me, Fidelma.’
She met his gaze; her eyes were hard.
‘I can,’ she said softly. ‘Dura lex sed lex. The law is hard, but it is the law.’
‘And if I were not on this ship, it would not be the law?’
Fidelma answered him with a shrug and turned to leave. She paused at the cabin door.
‘It is up to Murchad as captain to fulfil his obligations under the law. I am afraid that he must judge what is to be done with both Toca Nia and you, whether to let you go or return you both to Eireann for trial. My recommendation will be that he must return you to a Brehon in Laigin.’
‘I was acting on the High King’s orders,’ Cian protested again.
Fidelma stood at the cabin door.
‘That may not be an exoneration. You have a moral responsibility.’
Later, when she explained matters to Murchad, the sturdy captain pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
‘You mean that I must take Cian and Toca Nia back to Éireann?’
‘Or hand them over to another ship to take them back,’ she pointed out.
‘Then let’s hope there is such a ship at Ushant,’ muttered Murchad.
‘In the meantime, Captain, I would suggest that you confine both Cian and Toca Nia to their cabins. We don’t want any more bloodshed on this ship.’
‘That I will do, lady,’ agreed the captain. ‘Let us pray that Father Pol, at Ushant, will have some means of helping me in this matter.’
The Barnacle Goose rounded the headland of Ponte de Pern, standing well out to sea, for the rocks and islets were dangerous there. Murchad hardly needed to indicate the dangers for the headland showed the black, jagged pieces of granite poking from the sea like bad teeth, surrounded by yellowing foamy waters. Under Murchad’s guidance they drifted slowly into the long U-shaped bay of Porspaul and headed towards the sheltered anchorage at the far end.
‘It will be good to be on terra firma for a while,’ Fidelma commented thankfully to Murchad.
Murchad pointed to the shore.
‘There are no other ships in the harbour,’ he stated the obvious. ‘The main village and church of Lampaul are above the little quay you see there. I was planning to spend only a day here to take on fresh food and water. The next stage of our journey is going to be the longest, depending on the wind. We’ll be sailing almost straight south, out of sight of land.’
‘But we must consider the matter of Toca Nia,’ Fidelma reminded him.
Murchad looked troubled.
‘I am all for putting Toca Nia and Cian ashore here and leaving them to sort it out between them.’
‘An easy solution … for us. But I can foresee complications in that proposal,’ she replied.
The Barnacle Goose tacked its way along the three-kilometre stretch of water to the far end of the inlet, where Fidelma could see a path leading upwards to the settlement of Lampaul. Their approach into the bay had been observed by some local people and several of them had come down to the harbour to greet them.
Murchad shouted for the mainsail to be dropped and then the steering sail. An anchor was heaved from the bow and the ship swung gently at her mooring in calm waters for the first time in the last few days.
‘I shall be going ashore,’ Murchad told Fidelma. ‘Would you like to come with me and meet Father Pol? He is not only the priest here but is more or less the chieftain of the island. It might be best to discuss the matter of Brother Cian and Toca Nia with him.’
Fidelma had indicated her willingness to do so. They were launching the skiff when Brother Tola and the other pilgrims began to emerge on deck. Tola immediately demanded to know if they could go ashore and his companions joined in a chorus of claims.
Murchad silenced them by raising his hands.
‘I must go first and arrange matters. You will be able to go ashore later and, if you wish, spend a night on shore to get exercise while we gather our stores for the rest of the voyage. But until I have made arrangements, it is best that you all stay aboard.’
It was clear that the arrangement did not make them happy, especially when they saw Fidelma joining the captain to go ashore.
Murchad and Gurvan rowed the small light craft, with Fidelma in the stern, across the short distance from The Barnacle Goose to the rock-built quay.
A tall man, dark and sharp-faced, whose clothes and crucifix, hanging from a chain around his neck, proclaimed his profession, greeted Murchad as the captain climbed out of the craft.
‘It is good to see you again, Murchad!’ The man spoke in an accent that showed that the language of the children of the Gael was not his first tongue.
Gurvan had tied up the skiff and helped Fidelma out.
‘I am Sister Fidelma,’ interrupted Fidelma firmly with a grave smile. ‘I have no other title.’
Father Pol turned and took her hand with a quick scrutiny of her features.
‘Welcome, then, Sister. Welcome,’ he smiled and then turned towards the mate. ‘And you are welcome, too, Gurvan, you rascal. It is good to see you again.’
Gurvan grinned, looking sheepish. It appeared that the entire crew of The Barnacle Goose were known on the island for it was a frequent port of call.
‘Come, join me in refreshment at Lampaul,’ the priest continued, waving his hand towards the pathway. ‘Do you bring me any interesting news?’
They began to follow him up the path.
‘Bad news, I am afraid, Father. News of the Morvaout.’
Father Pol halted and turned sharply.
‘The Morvaout? She set sail from here only this morning. What news do you bring?’
‘She went to pieces on the rocks north of the island.’
The priest crossed himself.
‘Were there any survivors?’ he asked.
‘Only three men. Two sailors and a passenger who was bound for Laigin. I’ll land the sailors shortly.’
Father Pol appeared sorrowful for a moment.
‘Ah well, this is often the fate of those who sail these seas. The crew were all from the mainland. We will light some candles for the homecoming of their souls.’ He caught sight of Fidelma’s puzzled expression. ‘We are an island people here, Sister,’ he explained. ‘When our people are lost at sea, we set up a little cross and light a candle, and sit up in a vigil all night, praying for the repose of the souls of those lost. The next day, the cross is deposited in a reliquary in the church and then in a mausoleum among the crosses of all who have disappeared at sea. There they will await the homecoming of the souls from the sea.’
Act of Mercy Page 24