Master of Souls

by Peter Tremayne

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Impossible!’ Eadulf exploded after the brief silence that followed Ganicca’s announcement. The old man sadly shook his head.

  ‘I wish it was impossible, Brother Saxon. I would know that slight figure of Uaman the Leper anywhere.’

  ‘You actually saw the face?’ Eadulf pressed.

  Ganicca smiled in reprimand.

  ‘No one looks on the face of Uaman the Leper and lives.’

  ‘I did,’ retorted Eadulf.

  ‘You were lucky, my friend. He was not called Master of Souls for nothing.’

  Eadulf frowned at the familiar expression.

  ‘Master of Souls?’

  ‘He who despises his own life is soon master of another’s – beware for such a man can become master of souls,’ Fidelma quoted quietly.

  Ganicca glanced at her with interest.

  ‘You know the old saying then, lady?’

  ‘It was a saying of my mentor, the Brehon Morann.’

  Eadulf was now frowning in annoyance.

  ‘I have said before that I saw him in the quicksand as it pulled him down. Then a great wave descended and he was gone. No one could have survived that.’

  ‘Then it is a wraith who rides out from the Otherworld and instructs his warriors to destroy my people,’ replied Ganicca calmly.

  Eadulf made to say something but then remembered the words of the boy Iobcar. He had said something similar.

  ‘So this attack happened some weeks ago?’ interposed Conrí. When Ganicca nodded emphatically, he turned to Fidelma. ‘Then it is easy to see the train of events. Uaman and his war band wrecked the ship. Then they came on Abbess Faife and her companions. They killed her and took them as prisoners, moving northwards up through the mountains. That’s where they picked up the warship. That’s why it flies the banner of Eoganán of the Uí Fidgente, Uaman’s father.’

  Fidelma was thoughtful.

  ‘I am trying to understand what purpose all this would serve? Why wreck the merchant ship? Why kill the abbess but then take her companions prisoner? Who is the male religieux who is with them? A foreigner? Perhaps a Gaul, perhaps a survivor from the wreck?’

  Conrí, however, was excited as he interpreted the events. He turned to Ganicca.

  ‘Tell my companions where this road leads?’

  The old man looked puzzled.

  ‘Why, it leads northwards out of this valley.’

  ‘But tell them where.’

  ‘Well, if you cross out of the valley by the eastern route over the mountains you can join the road that leads along the coast to the lands of the Uí Fidgente and north again to Ard Fhearta. But if you cross to the west then you will come to the seashore and the road takes you across a low-lying thrust of land called the Machaire peninsula with the great bay of Bréanainn to the west and the Machaire Islands to the northern tip.’

  Conrí was nodding eagerly.

  ‘The Machaire Islands,’ he said meaningfully.

  Ganicca was perplexed.

  ‘They are nothing except a group of small uninhabited islands … well, apart for one that is occupied by hermits. Seanach’s Island.’

  Conrí turned to face Fidelma with a smile of satisfaction.

  ‘The Machaire Islands,’ he said again with emphasis.

  Eadulf, recovering from Ganicca’s claim that he was mistaken in his belief that Uaman was dead, was regarding the warlord seriously.

  ‘Are you claiming that the wreckage on Uaman’s island, the killing of the Abbess Faife and the disappearance of the religieuse and the attack by the mysterious warship are now all connected?’

  ‘I say that they must be. And if Uaman is involved, it makes perfect sense.’

  Eadulf pursed his lips sceptically.

  ‘Ganicca is the only one who has positively identified Uaman as part of this affair,’ he pointed out.

  ‘The boy also did so,’ replied Conrí softly.

  ‘But the boy didn’t know Uaman. He was repeating something he had heard adults say.’

  ‘And I know who I saw, Brother Saxon,’ Ganicca intervened sharply.

  ‘We must follow the path these people took,’ Fidelma interrupted to silence them. She recognised that this exchange might soon lead to an argument. ‘I think the answer will be found on those islands that you called the Machaire.’

  ‘It is nearly noon, lady, and we have little hospitality to offer now,’ Ganicca said as he realised why Fidelma had stopped the conversation. ‘What we have, you are most welcome to.’

  Fidelma shook her head and thanked the old man.

  ‘We will move on immediately, my friend.’

  ‘Yet there is no hurry,’ the old man pointed out. ‘It is now three weeks since this happened and the chances of catching up with these men …’ He shook his head.

  ‘Nevertheless, we will ride on,’ Fidelma insisted firmly. ‘Whether the leader is Uaman or not, we must find those who have been abducted.’

  ‘Then may God be on all the paths you travel, lady. It is a dangerous game that you hunt.’

  ‘Thank you, Ganicca. I promise in my brother’s name to ensure that your village is compensated for the outrage you have suffered.’

  The old man smiled sadly.

  ‘The Brehons have a list of honour-prices for each one of us. But how do you really judge the value of lives, lady? It is not easy. But we will survive, some of us at least. And while the names of our dead are still spoken, then their lives will have meant something in this sad world in which we live.’

  A short time later they were climbing their horses along the mountain track and keeping on the west side of the river which ran rapidly through the valley below them. They were almost turning east, paralleling the course of the river, when Conrí pointed to a narrow pass through the hills by a number of ancient stones that had apparently been set up by their ancestors in the dim distant past.

  Taking the pass, they found they were now following a smaller stream that rose on the mountain behind them, tumbling northwards. They descended towards a valley and could see a broad plain with the misty sea in the distance.

  ‘We’ll have to think about stopping soon, lady,’ Conrí suggested, ‘otherwise it will be dark before we know it and we haven’t eaten since last night.’

  ‘I thought I glimpsed a farmstead on the plain ahead of us,’ Fidelma replied. ‘We’ll seek hospitality there.’

  Indeed, when they approached the series of wooden buildings, half hidden in the shelter of a copse of some sturdy oaks, a farmer and his son appeared to be waiting for them. They looked nervous and held some farming implements defensively in their hands.

  Fidelma called out a friendly greeting and the two men began to look slightly relieved.

  ‘We saw you coming down the hill road, Sister,’ said the elder man, recognising her robes. ‘We saw some strange riders only and wondered who you were.’

  ‘No one who means harm to you and yours, my friend. We are just weary travellers who need a shelter for the night,’ replied Fidelma, dismounting.

  ‘My wife would be pleased to offer you a bed, Sister,‘replied the farmer, rubbing his jaw and seeming to mentally count them. ‘But your companions will have to shelter in the barn. We have little room in the house.’

  ‘That will suit us fine, farmer,’ Conrí assured him. ‘A place out of the wind and warm straw will suit us well.’

  ‘There is the spring in which to wash but plenty of venison to eat and bread to take away your hunger.’

  ‘You hospitality is generous,’ Fidelma replied warmly. ‘Yet you still seem nervous. Have there been other travellers on this road?’

  The farmer exchanged a brief glance with his son. Fidelma was right. They were nervous.

  ‘In truth, there have, Sister. Travellers that I would not like to play host to. It was several weeks ago but, thanks be to God, they passed on without stopping. They went across the top meadow in the direction of the sea.’

  ‘You appear fea
rful of them. Why so?’

  ‘They were warriors on horseback but we saw them herding a group of prisoners. They were religieuse, poor young women, with a male prisoner.’

  ‘Herding is an odd choice of word,’ Conrí pointed out.

  Herding is the only word that comes to mind, my friend,’ the farmer replied almost defensively. ‘They passed by and we prayed for their souls.’

  ‘You were looking to the north-west,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Is that the direction in which they went?’

  ‘Indeed they did. Towards the Machaire peninsula.’

  Fidelma’s expression was one of satisfaction.

  ‘If you can tell us where we might tether our horses … ?’

  The farmer glanced round and pointed.

  ‘You can put them in the enclosure at the back. We have some sheep there but I doubt whether they will be bothered. It will keep them out of the cold winds. The spring is over there, and the barn where you may sleep. Sister, come to the house. The food will be ready after you have washed.’

  The food was good and the hay was warm and, for the first time in several days, Eadulf slept a deep comfortable sleep without waking once during the night. He did not begrudge Fidelma her more civilised abode. By the time he woke and washed, everyone else was sitting down to a breakfast. Gifts were given by Conrí, who had the foresight to travel with such items, to the farmer, his wife and their son in exchange for their hospitality. Socht and his companion had saddled their horses and after an exchange of farewells they rode on again.

  The salty smell of the sea was never far away on the peninsula of the Corco Duibhne but now it was really strong. The air was filled with the crying of gulls, and these were joined by a few lost-looking greenshanks, wading along the few freshwater pools and lakes that they passed. But it was the noisy gulls that dominated, especially the great black-backed gull with its fierce, heavy, hooked bill. It was a fearsome butcher of a bird, eating refuse and carrion and preying on the chicks of other species like puffins, shearwaters and kittiwakes. In fact, just as the thought entered Eadulf’s mind, there came the strident call of ‘kitti-wa-a-k!’ like the eerie cry of a lost soul. Two adult kittiwakes swooped along the coastline ahead of them, with their soft grey plumage, white heads and yellow bills.

  Conrí was riding in front with Fidelma and Eadulf and the two warriors behind them.

  ‘Well,’ Eadulf said, wishing to break the silence that had lasted since they left the hospitality of the farm, ‘we have criss-crossed this peninsula twice now. I should know the place by now.’

  Conrí glanced across his shoulder.

  ‘No one can ever really know a country like this.’ He waved a hand across the mountains behind him. ‘I have been through this country before. They call those valleys Gleannta an Easig, the valleys of the waterfall.’

  Eadulf could see why. It was a curious land, he thought, where cliffs rose overshadowing lakes and rivers meandered through valleys that were green and tree covered before changing in turn into bleak and rocky areas and then back again into verdant swaths. The land seemed barely populated but as they passed along the white sandy shore leading to the small finger of what they now knew was the Machaire peninsula, Eadulf could see a few isolated farmsteads and buildings almost hidden here and there among trees and rocks.

  They passed within sight of a broad lake to their left, a bright loch which seemed swarming with wildfowl. Smoke rose from a point on its shore.

  ‘It looks like a smith’s forge.’ Conrí commented as he followed the direction in which Eadulf was staring. The faint clang of metal on metal came to their ears as if in confirmation of the fact.

  They rode on down the narrow green spit of land with the white sands on either side until the reached the end bay with low headlands either side like the claws of a crab, edging in and narrowing at the mouth. It was a rock-clustered, inhospitable shore, not like the broad sandy slopes that had stretched either side of the main strip of land that thrust out into the sea. The only sign that man had been here at all was a tall gallán or standing stone that rose erect at least five metres above the ground.

  Beyond the entrance of the bay they could see some of the distant islands of Machaire. But it was the keen-sighted Conrí who became aware of something else.

  ‘Look there!’ he shouted abruptly, causing them to start.

  He pointed beyond the rocky eastern headland.

  At first, seen against the choppy grey sea, it looked like a dark plank of wood being tossed and thrown about over the waves. Then as it came closer into the bay, heading for the rocky shore, Eadulf realised it was one of the light canoes they used in this part of the world, a wickerwork frame covered with hides stitched together with thongs. There seemed to be only one figure bent to the oars although the light craft must have been eight metres long and a metre or more wide.

  ‘It’s a naomhóg,’ muttered Fidelma, supplying him with the name of the vessel. ‘See, the man has just lost an oar. He is in trouble.’

  Already Conrí and his two warrior companions were racing their horses on the ground high above the shore, for in this part of the bay the rocks met the waters.

  ‘He’ll smash the vessel on the rocks,’ Eadulf called unnecessarily, as he and Fidelma followed the others.

  ‘The man is hurt, I think,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Look, he’s slipped to the bottom of the boat. It’s out of control.’

  The long canoe had swung broadside on to the rocks and was suddenly lifted up by one of the racing breakers and thrown on to them. As the sea receded, Conrí’s men, jumping from their horses, raced forward, scrambling and slipping over the wet outcrop. One of them, they thought it was the man called Socht, reached the broken vessel while his companion steadied the smashed remains. Apparently the unconscious man was a lightweight for the warrior threw him across his shoulder and, with a shout to his companion, turned and started for the firm earth just as another breaker smashed against the rocks. The force of the water caused Socht to slip and almost lose his balance but his companion was there and steadied him with his unconscious burden. Then they scrambled ashore and were above the watermark where Conrí was waiting to help lay the man on the ground.

  A moment later Fidelma and Eadulf joined them.

  At once they could see that the unconscious man was elderly and deathly pale, with white straggling hair cut into the tonsure of St John. His robes were dirty and torn and there were bloodstains on them. His hands were raw, the flesh torn.

  Conrí was shaking his head sadly.

  ‘If he came from the islands, it’s a wonder that he made it this far.’ Eadulf, who knew something of the healing arts, bent down by the man and examined him. As he moved him a little, the man gave forth a groan and his eyes fluttered. Eadulf had seen something in the man’s side.

  ‘He has been badly wounded by an arrow, I think,’ he muttered. ‘The life is ebbing out of him.’

  Conrí’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think that he was the religieux who was taken prisoner with Faife’s companions?’

  ‘This man is no foreigner and he is elderly, unlike Ganicca’s description,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘But it looks as if he did come from one of the islands.’

  ‘It’s a long way for an old man to come alone,’ Eadulf remarked.

  ‘We must speak to him,’ said Fidelma.

  Conrí passed her the container of corma he carried. Fidelma took it and eased the old man’s head up, allowing a few drops to trickle into his mouth.

  There was a paroxysm of coughing and the old man’s eyes opened blearily. They grew wide and fearful as he focused on them.

  ‘You have no need to kill me. I am dying already,’ he gasped.

  Fidelma bent over him and tried to give him a reassuring look. Eadulf had continued his brief examination. The old man was beyond hope. It had not been a sword or spear thrust. Eadulf found the head of an arrow still embedded in the man’s side. It had gone deep and the victim had apparently tried to break off the shaft. The wound
was already festering. Fidelma caught Eadulf’s eye and silently asked a question. Eadulf shook his head quickly.

  ‘Have no fear, my friend. We are not your enemies,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Who did this to you?’

  The old man blinked; already his eyes were glazing.

  ‘They have destroyed us all …’ He paused, his chest heaving for breath. ‘They came … those they did not kill … they rounded up …’

  ‘Who are you, who are they?’ pressed Fidelma as gently as she could.

  ‘I am … Martan … a brother of Seanach’s Island.’ He gave a sudden gasp of pain.

  ‘Seanach’s Island. So we were right,’ Conrí muttered.

  At the sound, the old man’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘Do not go there!’ His voice was suddenly strong. ‘Do not go there, if you value your life.’

  ‘What has happened to the brethren there?’ Fidelma asked. ‘What of the women from Ard Fhearta?’

  ‘Dead, dying … I escaped … but … I am dying.’

  Fidelma knew the man had not long to live. Part of her wanted to let him die in peace but she had questions that had to be answered.

  ‘Who was it who attacked the brethren?’ she demanded again.

  The old man was racked by a fit of coughing.

  ‘Who?’ she pressed.

  ‘Warriors … their leader, they called him the Master. The Master of Souls! I knew him … knew him of old … He …’

  There was a sudden deep exhalation of breath and the old man fell back.

  Eadulf looked up at Conrí and shook his head.

  ‘It looks as though you were right. There is a link between all these events. But I cannot accept that Uaman is still alive and directing them.’

  ‘Let us bury this poor soul,’ Fidelma instructed quietly, ‘and then we can decide on what we must do. It is clear that Slébéne has not sent a ship to investigate the islands.’ She glanced at the smashed naomhóg, the hide canoe, and then shook her head. ‘A pity! That’s beyond repair.’

  Eadulf stared at her aghast as he guessed what was passing through her mind.

  ‘You don’t mean … you weren’t even thinking about going out to the island?’