Mugrón’s cry had sent his men pulling on the ropes and taking the wind out of the sails.
Abruptly, they were in slack water.
Eadulf could scarcely believe what had happened.
They were now on the southern side of the islet, alongside a sandy stretch of shore, while the warship had raced down on the northern side thinking to catch the merchant ship hemmed in against that rocky shore.
For the moment the barrier of the islet protected them.
Mugrón’s crew were well trained for they had oars out and pushing back so that the vessel did not continue its forward momentum, allowing it to remain in the shelter of the southern shore.
Conrí and his two warriors had prepared their arrows.
Mugrón was already untying the small hide-covered dinghy, a currach, which trailed behind the vessel.
‘The archers will come with me!’ he cried, motioning them aft.
Conrí’s two warriors, with their blazing fire pot, did not question him but went aft and clambered into the smaller vessel. It seemed only a moment or two later that they landed on the sandy stretch. Mugrón led them in crouching fashion up to the point where they apparently had a view of the war vessel on the other side of the islet.
From the ship Fidelma and the others watched as the two warriors, under Mugrón’s direction, loosed off three fire-tipped arrows apiece. No one could see what they were shooting at. Then the three men turned and came scuttling back to the currach, launching it swiftly towards the merchant vessel.
They had hardly reached the side when a long thin column of smoke was seen rising from the far side of the islet.
Mugrón climbed aboard with a broad grin.
‘Your men can shoot well, Conrí.’
The warlord was looking bewildered.
‘You set fire to the warship?’
Mugrón shook his head.
‘We merely singed their sails a little. They’ll have difficulty following us now.’
‘What’s to prevent them clambering on the islet on their side and shooting at us?’ demanded Eadulf.
The merchant was still grinning.
‘It’s rocky that side. You can’t land. However, I do not intend to wait while they attempt such an experiment.’
He turned and gave rapid orders to his crew who hoisted their own sails. In a moment or two they were moving south-south-west away from the islet.
As they cleared it, they could see that the flames had caught the sails of the warship, which would soon burn away to nothing. The members of the crew were still scurrying here and there hauling leather buckets of seawater up the sides on ropes as they attempted to douse the flames. Even if the vessel carried spare sail, it would take them some time before they could get under way again.
The wind was behind them now and with Mugrón back at the tiller the vessel was already putting distance between it and the strange warship.
With things calmer, Eadulf went forward to attend to the crewman who had been wounded by the arrow. Since his training at Tuam Brecain, the great medical school of Breifne, Eadulf always carried a small supply of medicines with him. He found that the crewman had, luckily, sustained no more than a flesh wound through the upper arm. The arrow had torn the flesh but not touched a muscle. He would be sore for some days but would recover. Eadulf treated the cut with some dried woundwort which he mixed with some water into a poultice and applied to the wound. It would help in the healing process.
There was an uneasy quiet when he returned to the stern, where Mugrón was still standing rock-like at the tiller. Conrí was staring moodily back towards the vanishing warship, now apparently becalmed against the islet, while Fidelma was sitting in a silent meditative pose.
There was another islet approaching and this time Mugrón was steering to pass it on the north side. Eadulf saw that it was more of a reef for he could see the rocks just under the water as the ship sped by at a reasonable distance from the hidden menace. Then they finally appeared to be free of the islands and into open sea, with a great broad bay extending south of them. It was large and sand-edged, with mountains rising behind the shoreline.
‘Bréanainn’s bay,’ Mugrón announced, breaking the silence. He pointed to the far western side of the great expanse. ‘That’s Bréanainn’s mount, the high peak, straight ahead. We’ll land in a small inlet where there is a trading settlement. It’s the settlement of Duinn. He will provide you with horses to cross south to An Daingean.’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘Do you mean to say that you intend to go back the way we have come?’
Mugrón was equally serious. ‘I am a trader, lady. So long as the weather holds, what other way is there than to transport my goods back to An Bhearbha?’
Conrí was worried, knowing what Fidelma meant.
‘That warship still presents a menace, Mugrón. We must find out who it is threatening this coast. You cannot chance the journey back before it is dealt with.’
The merchant shrugged.
‘True enough. But whose jurisdiction is it to tackle it? It flies Eoganán’s battle flag. That’s defiance to Donennach, chief of the Uí Fidgente. You are warlord under Donennach, Conrí. What do you intend to do?’
Conrí looked embarrassed.
‘I can do little enough with only two warriors at the moment. We encountered the warship in the waters of the Corco Duibhne. Perhaps the responsibility should lie with Slébéne the chief?’
Fidelma interrupted irritably.
‘Whether or not it is the immediate responsibility of whatever territorial chieftain it concerns Cashel and the peace of the kingdom. We will have to find someone who is prepared to send warships to meet this vessel and secure the peace in these waters.’
‘There is something else, of course.’
It was Eadulf who interposed. They all looked expectantly at him. ‘The warship attacked us sailing from the place you called Seanach’s Island. Is that not so?’ he asked.
Mugrón gave an affirmative of his head.
‘You told us that the only people inhabiting Seanach’s Island were a group of religious hermits who have had their hermitage there for a century or more?’
‘I did. I fail to see—’
‘If the warship is using their island, what has happened to the religious? Someone should go there to ensure that they are safe from this marauder.’
‘Eadulf is right,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘It may be that whoever this outlaw vessel belongs to, they may be using the island as a base knowing that no one will land out of respect for the hermits who inhabit it. If so, why are they using it as a base? To ambush unsuspecting merchants such as they thought we were? Somehow I doubt that.’
Conri was in agreement.
‘Those islands would not be ideal for a base. Mugrón has already mentioned the lack of a natural water supply. There must be something else that makes them attack from there. Whatever it is, it must be dealt with.’
‘If the hermits can live there,’ Eadulf contradicted, ‘then a warship can use it as a port.’
‘I think our Saxon friend is right,’ Mugrón agreed. ‘Someone needs to go with warriors to Seanach’s Island, make sure the hermits are safe and find out what is happening.’
‘But that someone needs to be wary,’ Fidelma added. ‘If these bandits are prepared to kill unsuspecting merchants, then it is no use sailing to the island in the hours of daylight and simply demanding to see whether the religious community are well. One needs to go with stealth and at night when they cannot be seen.’
Mugrón sniffed deprecatingly.
‘I understand your caution, lady, but you do not know these waters. It needs someone who knows them well enough to sail in daytime, but at night … ? At night the currents run strong and there are reefs and rocks to consider.’
‘So whoever goes must be someone who knows the waters intimately,’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘It must surely not be beyond the realms of possibility to use a currach to reach the island, land at nigh
t and check whether the community still dwell there in safety or if indeed they have been overtaken by these outlaws.’
‘True enough, lady,’ agreed Mugrón. ‘We must speak of this to Duinn when we get ashore.’
‘Is this Duinn a trader?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Not a trader although he runs the trading post where we will land. He is also the petty chieftain of the area. He controls the area in which Bréanainn’s mountain rises and then his territory stretches west of this great bay and almost south to An Daingean. He is subordinate to Slébéne, chief of all the Corco Duibhne.’
‘Whoever he is, I hope he understands the seriousness of this matter,’ Eadulf said, ‘and realises the need to take immediate action.’
‘If there is a warship interrupting his trade,’ Mugrón observed with a grim smile, ‘then I am sure that he will take the matter extremely seriously.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
By late afternoon that day they had reached Daingean Uí Cúis, the fortress of the descendants of Cúis, the capital of the Corco Duibhne from which Slébéne ruled the entire peninsula. The great fortress overlooked an excellent harbour on the south side of the peninsula. The harbour had a narrow entrance to the sea. Mugrón’s coastal vessel could easily have navigated around the end of the peninsula to it but it was faster to land at the northern harbour of Duinn’s settlement and come through the mountain valleys by horse, a distance of some twenty kilometres.
Mugrón had reported the matter of the strange warship to Duinn, who was a rough, almost uncommunicative man, more fitted to be a warrior than a minor chieftain. He did not seem perturbed by their report and felt that the responsibility of sending men to Seanach’s Island was not his immediate concern. Even when Fidelma rebuked his lack of enterprise, he was stubborn.
‘It is up to Slébéne, Sister,’ he said. ‘He will make the decision. My task is to make sure that goods are landed safely here, not to go chasing after raiders unless they come into the waters of my territory.’
Finally, Fidelma gave up trying to persuade him. Mugrón had purchased some horses and it was arranged that they could be used by Fidelma and her party, who would eventually ride them back to Ard Fhearta by the land route. Their own mounts were, of course, still stabled at Ard Fhearta. While Conrí was sorting out the details with Mugrón, a monk arrived who identified himself as Brother Maidíu, the keeper of the oratory on Bréanainn’s mount. He had come to the harbour to trade with Mugrón and was able to confirm that there was still no sign of the missing members of Abbess Faife’s party. Fidelma had expected no less.
They finally left Mugrón and his ship at Duinn’s harbour settlement and rode south; Fidelma, Eadulf and Conrí with his two taciturn warriors bringing up the rear. Along the shores of the great muddy inlet that left the stretches of white sand behind, they took the track that led them inland through wooded slopes to the broad waterlogged valley. As they rode along the banks of a broad twisting river, the Abhainn Mhór, Fidelma could not help but gaze up to the great peaks above them to their right. These were the peaks of Bréanainn’s mount where the Blessed Bréanainn had formed his first isolated settlement. It was impressive, with its steep sides laced with gushing waterfalls, and deep little lochs nestled in small, balanced plains. The peaks were snow-capped and the weather still chill and not warm enough to melt the frosts from the shady areas. There was no one else on the roadway, which pilgrims often traversed to begin their climb to the little oratory that Bréanainn had built high above.
The party spoke little as they rode along. But soon enough they reached the end of the long valley, passing by a series of lochs, and then climbing through a short mountain pass before descending almost immediately into the plain that led to Daingean. While Slébéne’s fortress of grey stones was eye-catching, what was more striking was the settlement that spread around the harbour before it. Even Eadulf was impressed by the populace and by the vessels clustered in the sheltered harbour. There were even two churches within the settlement, set apart from the other buildings by their small wooden bell towers.
There was no difficulty in finding their way through the streets of the settlement to the great wooden gates of Slébéne’s fortress from which the settlement took its name — An Daingean.
Heavily armed warriors barred their way at the gates, demanding to know their business. Fidelma requested to see their chieftain. On being asked who it was who wished to see Slébéne, Fidelma felt the need to impress by announcing herself as Fidelma of Cashel, sister to Colgú, king of Muman. That certainly had the desired effect and they were quickly admitted to the fortress. One of the warriors hurried off to announce their presence to Slébéne. They had barely time to dismount before the warrior came hurrying back to announce that Slébéne would see them immediately. Conrí told his men to stay with the horses and arrange for their feeding. Then the three of them followed the warrior to the great hall of the fortress where Slébéne waited to receive them.
Slébéne, chief of the Corco Duibhne, was a large man with a loud voice who used a great bellow of laughter as a means of punctuation. He was tall but also broad, with a barrel chest, but every inch was muscular. His favourite trick, so they were told later, seemed to be seizing two of his largest warriors by their leather belts and lifting them with arms extended above his head. He had a mane of long silver-grey hair, which flowed into an equally long greying beard that came down to his chest. It was impossible to gauge his age.
He came forward to greet his visitors with a bear hug to each one, even Fidelma, leaving them all breathless in his overwhelming presence.
‘Welcome, you are welcome!’ he thundered. ‘Let me offer you corma - or there is mead if you prefer it?’ He waved to an attendant and would hear no refusal on their part.
He bade them all be seated before the fire that crackled in a circular hearth in the middle of his great hall.
‘I am honoured to give hospitality to the daughter of Failbe Flann. There is something in your manner, Fidelma of Cashel, that reminds me of him,’ he told her with a toss of his silver-grey mane.
Fidelma’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.
‘You knew my father?’
‘Did I know Failbe Flann?’ There came the great bellow of laughter.
‘Did I not fight at his right hand at the battle of Áth Goan when we overthrew the king of Laigin’s men? I fought with him at Carn Feradaig when we put to flight that pretentious whelp Guaire Aidne and his Uí Fidgente allies and sent them with their tails between their legs scampering back to their mothers in Connacht. Those were the days when the Eoghanacht were in danger from the pretensions of their neighbours. Indeed, those were great days when we exerted our authority with swords and axes.’
Fidelma glanced anxiously at Conrí but the Uí Fidgente’s face was impassive.
‘Carn Feradaig was fought forty years ago,’ she pointed out, examining Slébéne curiously and wondering how old he could be.
‘I was a young man then,’ smiled the chief. ‘Young and ready for battle. But age and chieftainship create wisdom and the hardest thing in age is that you have to send the keen young innocents off into battle on your behalf. It is a strange thing, life. Youth will not believe that age will come, or age believe that death will come. I believe I shall live for ever.’
Eadulf smiled thinly.
‘Grave senectus est hominibus pondus,’ he proclaimed.
To his surprise Slébéne slapped his thigh in good humour, understanding the Latin aphorism.
‘Age, indeed, is a heavy load, Brother Saxon. But the groans of the aged are often heavier than the load.’
‘I would like to speak more of my father, but an another occasion,’ Fidelma said, ‘but we have little time to spare at present …’
‘Ah, patience was not a virtue of Failbe Flann either. Never mind. We shall speak more of him at the feasting this night. Look, the day is growing dark already. Such is the curse of a winter’s day. Whatever business you have with me will not interfer
e with the meal, for you will stay overnight at least.’
Thanking him for the hospitality, Fidelma told him about the encounter with the warship on their journey.
The chief listened to the story of the attack with an incredulous expression, and when she had finished Slébéne threw back his great mane of hair and let forth a resounding hoot of laughter.
‘A pirate, no less, and in my domain! Well, we’ve dealt with them before, by the fires of Bel! Soon there will be one less pirate to trouble the merchants.’
Eadulf winced a little at the pagan oath, glancing at Fidelma. She was not perturbed. She knew that the territory of the Corco Duibhne was still not entirely converted to the New Faith in spite of the prominent churches in the settlement outside the fortress.
‘We are concerned, Slébéne,’ Fidelma leant forward earnestly, ‘for the members of the hermit community of Seanach’s Island. Your man Duinn, when we told him, did not share that concern. He said that only you were able to make the decision as to whether a ship should be sent to find out whether the religious on the island are safe.’
Slébéne stroked his beard, still smiling at her.
‘Duinn is a cautious man. But have no fear. No one would ever harm a hermit group, especially those of the Faith. Duinn is a good man, when acting under orders. He has little imagination himself.‘He glanced at Conrí. ‘Fidelma says this warship flew the war banner of Eoganán of the Uí Fidgente.’
‘It did.’
‘And you, warlord of the Uí Fidgente, reject all knowledge of Uí Fidgente warships in my territory?’
‘We are at peace now,’ replied Conrí. ‘If this is a ship manned by Uí Fidgente, then they are rebels and outcasts.’
The chief chuckled and shook his head.
‘Rebels? A difficult word to define. Who is a rebel and who is not? They vary from day to day. Yesterday, Eoganan was a legitimate ruler. Today, those who supported him are rebels. Well, without wishing to cast insult, peace means nothing. For years I have had Eoganán’s whelp, Uaman, controlling the passes on my eastern borders. He even dared to call himself Lord of the Passes. Every time I took my warriors against him, he would either shut himself up in that impregnable fortress on that island of his or disappear up into the mountains where it was impossible to find him and come to blows.’
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