Fidelma considered carefully for a moment before asking: ‘Is the island so easy to attack?’
‘Artgal’s fortress is on the southern shore, on cliffs above a cove. I have often used the harbour there when asked to transport goods and people to the fortress. It is an easy landing, and then a track leads up to the high point. That is why it is called Ard Nemed, although the name sometimes applies to all of the Great Island. As I said, if I take you, I would land you there, rather than to the north.’
‘I have no problem with that. I would be willing to go to Ard Nemed.’
‘To see Artgal, just as I have deduced.’ The boatman smiled complacently. ‘Well, nothing is impossible, as I have said, lady. But I would counsel caution, especially if it can be seen that the fortress is damaged or destroyed. If so, I will not land. If I am right about Tomaltaid and he has tried attacking the fortress, then it would be dangerous to land.’
‘I think you are forgetting that the Uí Liatháin recognise and pay tribute to the King of Cashel,’ interrupted Enda sourly. ‘They would never harm his sister, for they would know that they would suffer the consequences.’
Fécho gazed lazily up at the young warrior with a languid smile.
‘The Uí Liatháin are a law to themselves, young warrior. You should know that. Moreover, they claim kinship with the Ui Fidgenti, so they are not quite the respecters of protocol you might believe them to be. Tomaltaid would attack his own mother if he felt it would give him advantage.’
‘I have been in the territory of the Uí Liatháin. I have stayed at Caislean Uí Liatháin, the fortress of Tolmanach, and I was never threatened with danger there,’ Fidelma declared.
‘Tomaltaid is not the man his father was,’ replied Fécho. ‘Did you ever encounter him?’
‘I did not,’ she confessed.
‘Then I suggest that this local knowledge might be worthy of your consideration.’
A look of annoyance crossed her face but was gone in a moment. She sighed. ‘I always take such information into consideration. Yet it is curious Cashel has received no word of the designs of Tomaltaid. Word of his intent to disturb the peace in this area of the kingdom ought to have reached my brother.’
Fécho looked disconcerted. ‘So you know nothing of such designs? But I thought it was this matter that had brought you to this isolated part … I can deduce no other reason that would bring the King of Cashel’s dálaigh here.’
Eadulf looked closely at Fidelma, wondering if this was, in truth, the matter that had brought them here. But why should she be under a sacred oath of secrecy about it?
‘You may think as you like, Fécho,’ Fidelma replied with a shake of her head. ‘However, I can assure you that these raids of the Uí Liatháin are not the cause of my being here. I knew nothing of them until I arrived in this very spot.’
Fécho answered, with a thoughtful look, ‘It is logical that Artgal could have sent to Cashel for a dálaigh to negotiate with the Uí Liatháin, but I accept what you say, lady. Yet you still wish to be put ashore at the fortress of Artgal … that is, if the Uí Liatháin have not destroyed it already?’
The corners of Fidelma’s mouth tightened at the scepticism in the boatman’s tone.
‘I think you would find, if all you say about Tomaltaid is correct, that Cashel would have sent a full battalion of the King’s warriors to deal with the Uí Liatháin, not a dálaigh, her partner and one warrior.’ She paused a moment, then asked with genuine interest, ‘Is the passage from here to this cove that you speak of a long and difficult one?’
Fécho smiled and shook his head. ‘It is neither long nor difficult, but I would not undertake it before first light tomorrow, lady. If the backing wind blows from the north and the waters are not turbulent, then I think I can promise it will be an easy trip.’
‘And your vessel can take all three horses as well as us?’
‘I would not offer my services otherwise,’ replied the man. ‘I have two sturdy coastal vessels and either can carry you and your horses.’
‘It’s not one of those flat river craft, is it?’ Enda intervened. ‘I am told this south coast has turbulent tides and I would not like to chance our lives and our horses on a raft should the weather be inclement.’
Fécho chuckled in amusement.
‘My vessel is a coastal ship, one that will stand the strongest tides.’ He used the word serrcenn, which Eadulf recognised as meaning a specially built coastal vessel. ‘It carries two brat, or sails, and steerage poles and a minimum crew of nine, who know these waters, inlets and rivers as others know the lines on the palms of their hands.’
Enda was still thoughtful. ‘That type of vessel has high sides. How will you get the horses on board or, indeed, unload them?’
‘You seem to know little of ships, my friend,’ Fécho said, with another shake of his head. ‘From a jetty, horses can be walked aboard a serrcenn. Elsewhere, the side rails of the ship can be opened up to allow them to be walked off the ship. If you are afraid, I will you show you my ship in daylight tomorrow, and thus you will be reassured. You need have no fear about the seaworthiness of my vessel – I have made this journey too many times to sail it in a ship that is not safe. There are many currents around the islands. But the seas that lap these shores and the currents of the rivers are part of me. I know their moods and tricks.’
Enda was not satisfied but decided to let the matter drop.
‘Then all that remains is to agree a price,’ Fidelma said in a determined tone.
Fécho stretched languidly. ‘Three horses and three people to the cove below Ard Nemed? Easily done. But do you wish to return?’
Fidelma shrugged. ‘That I do not know … yet.’
‘Depending on what is found after the Uí Liatháin attack?’ he replied with the hint of a smile.
‘Amongst other things,’ Fidelma agreed solemnly.
Fécho examined Fidelma speculatively. ‘Your honour price and that of your companions here must amount to a tidy sum. If anything happens while you are in my charge, then, as owner of the ferry, I would be liable to meet that sum.’ He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘Remember that as sister to the King the lady Fidelma presumes hospitality of all the people of the kingdom,’ protested Enda, outraged at what he thought the man was considering.
Fécho ignored him. ‘I would presume that as a dálaigh, irrespective of the connection to your brother, you would be classed as an aire ard with an honour price of five cumals, as one who is skilled in decisions and prepares judgements. You see, I have heard something of your reputation. The warrior is doubtless valued at one colpach. But I am not sure of the stranger’s value.’
Fidelma was smiling grimly at the accuracy of the ferryman’s estimation. Honour prices, or eneclann, were set by law; the term’s original meaning in ancient times was ‘face clearing’. Each member of society had a honour price, which was the basis for all legal compensation against injury, loss and insult and was calculated in proportion to the status of the individual. Because the land was pastoral, with great herds of cattle, values were set against the price of a cow; the value of a milch cow was séd, the highest value, while the value of a heifer was dartaid, the lowest value. A cumal was set at the value of three milch cows, while a colpach was a two-year-old heifer, regarded as of more value than an ordinary dartaid.
‘You appear to have a good eye for evaluating things, Fécho,’ she said slowly. ‘In regard to the stranger, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the land of the South Folk in the kingdom of the East Angles, is also my husband, and his honour price is usually placed at half the value of my own.’
Fécho did not seem impressed. ‘It is your honour price I am concerned with.’
‘Anyway,’ intervened Enda once again, ‘do you really think we would be carrying such sums with us to pay whatever ferryman we encounter?’
The boatman laughed sharply. ‘I am not such a fool as to think that, my friend. Nor would I expect the combi
ned sum of your honour prices as payment for my services, even as imprecise as you have admitted they might be …’ He held up his hand as Enda began to protest. ‘Yes, warrior, imprecise; for while you seek to go to Ard Nemed, you cannot say that you will stay there nor whether you would need my services to return. In this negotiation that is a difficulty.’
‘I would have said a screpall would be adequate for the journey.’ Enda’s voice was sharp. He named one of the two silver coins in use, part of a new coinage development in the Five Kingdoms. The coins were based on weight and the basic unit was the weight of a grain of wheat. The silver screpall weighed as much as twenty-four grains of wheat.
Fécho chuckled. ‘I would argue that three screpall would be a fairer price,’ he corrected. ‘But it still does not resolve the greater problem: honour price compensation if anything happens.’
‘Then it would seem that the problem cannot be resolved,’ Fidelma sighed, ‘for as Enda has told you, we do not carry such sums.’
‘That is so,’ Fécho agreed. ‘But there is an answer.’
‘Which is?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘I should not have to remind a dálaigh that we have an ancient system of loans.’
Eadulf was not certain of the meaning of the word óin. Enda explained in a whisper that it was a loan to cover a certain period or specific event. Eadulf could still not understand it completely but apparently Fidelma did, for she called for writing equipment and stretched the parchment before her on the table. The words she wrote promised to Fécho compensation of enechlann to answer claims which might be made against him provided he were not to blame, such claims and compensation to be judged by the Chief Brehon of the kingdom. To this, Fidelma added her name and asked the others to add theirs. Then she asked for some wax to melt on the document and set her seal as a dálaigh.
With a cheerful grin, the boatman took the document.
‘There now,’ he said, ‘the difficulty is resolved. Don’t you believe in the old saying – either find a way or make one?’
Fidelma did not answer his smile. ‘Time is gliding by and we should be resting to prepare for the journey tomorrow. When do you expect to depart, Fécho?’
‘Is not a journey always best when begun at first light?’ The boatman rose, tucking the parchment into his peasán, the purse that hung from his belt. ‘I will await you at the far end of the settlement, where there is a jetty. That is where my ship is moored.’
When he had departed, Enda sniffed loudly. ‘Is he to be trusted, lady?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Just because he is astute on matters of finance and legality is no reason not to trust him.’
‘But he seemed overly keen to know your business, who you were meeting with on Ard Nemed and …’ Enda said suspiciously.
Fidelma smiled. ‘I am sure that you and Eadulf are also very keen to know that. Yet I trust you both. And until I can share certain information with you, you will also have to take me on trust. Now, I suggest we get some rest, for who knows what tomorrow will bring.’
The next morning brought a fog. When they left Cogadháin’s inn, they found that a heavy sea fog had swirled over the landscape, thicker than any sea mist that Fidelma and Eadulf had ever encountered in their voyaging. The rain had stopped well before midnight and the long clear hours and light winds had, apparently, created the humid conditions in which the water-saturated air had formed the white veil that now hung evocatively over the landscape. They could barely see across the stretch of water that separated the settlement from the looming shadow of the hills of the island. The cold, wet fog seemed to be a living entity, swirling this way and that in the morning breeze.
‘Well,’ Enda groaned, ‘that probably ends our hope of setting sail this morning.’
‘We’ll find Fécho anyway,’ Fidelma insisted. ‘Perhaps this fog will start to clear when the sun comes up.’
‘A winter fog clearing before midday?’ Enda declared in disbelief. ‘I cannot see that.’
‘It is a sea fog, Enda,’ she pointed out mildly, realising the young warrior had little experience of the coast.
‘In which direction is this jetty?’ interrupted Eadulf. ‘I can hardly see more than ten paces ahead.’
‘I’ll take you there,’ a young voice said behind them.
They had not realised that Cogeráin, the son of the innkeeper, was standing behind them, holding their horses.
‘I’ll take you there,’ he repeated. ‘I have saddled your horses ready for you.’
Fidelma turned and smiled as she cast a discerning eye over the animals and noted, with appreciation, that they had been well groomed.
‘They have been fed and watered, lady,’ the boy said nervously, observing her examination.
Fidelma smiled and nodded, reached into her marsupium, drew forth a coin and handed it to him. ‘I can see they have been well taken care of. Now, which is the way to Fécho’s ship?’
Following the innkeeper’s son, they walked their horses through the settlement, which was now stirring into life. Fires were being rekindled and torches were being lit, and the smoke was mixing with the fog although to Fidelma’s keen eye the the white vapour did not seem as dense as it had been. By the time they had crossed the village and reached the river bank at the far end the fog had thinned to the extent they could see the outlines of the ship.
It was certainly larger than they had been expecting. It had two tall masts, called crann, and two brat, or sails, furled and lashed on a crossbeam, ready to be hoisted. A small guide sail was ready to be hoisted at the airrainn, or prow, which rose higher than the stern. The ship had all the appearance of a large, elongated curragh in design, broad in the central beam. It was made of solid wood, predominantly oak – always a favourite for seagoing ships such as ler-longa, the heavy vessels that traded round the coast or across the seas. Masts and spars were always made from tough wood such as ash, which could also withstand heavy onslaught from the elements.
Fidelma could just make out a carved female figurehead at the prow of the vessel, obviously the work of a talented ersoraidhe, or woodcarver. Behind that, on the deck, was what looked like a small curragh, a small light boat with a wooden frame, covered by skins. It was obviously used to transport no more than one or two persons at a time from the boat to the shore.
Fécho suddenly emerged from the ship.
‘Welcome, lady, welcome to the Tonn Cliodhna.’
‘To the what?’ Eadulf said unthinkingly.
‘Cliodhna’s Wave,’ Fidelma said. ‘The name of the ship.’
‘Cliodhna was a goddess of great beauty in the old times,’ explained Fécho to the bemused Eadulf, and pointed to the figurehead. ‘She dwelt in Tir Tairngire, the Land of Promise, which was the kingdom of the ocean god Manannán mac Lir. The story goes that the warrior Ciabhán of the Curling Locks went adventuring on the great seas and encountered a terrible storm which swept him to Tir Tairngire. The goddess fell in love with him and together they fled back to the land of mortals at Cúan Dor, not far from here. Coming ashore, the goddess was overcome with tiredness. So that while Ciabhán went inland to hunt for food, she fell asleep on the shore. It is said that the ocean god was so angry that she had fled to the kingdom of mortals he sent a great wave to engulf her and bring her back to his domain, leaving her lover desolate. Thereafter Tonn Cliodhna became known as one of the three Great Waves of Ireland, together with Tonn Rudraige and Tonn Tuaig in the far north. They bring harassment and destruction.’
Eadulf stifled a groan, wondering why there was never a simple answer. It seemed to him that it was part of the culture of this land to answer any question with a long story, and he was not in the mood for it so early on a winter morning.
To Fidelma, however, the storytelling was just a natural part of conversation.
‘I would say that Tonn Cliodhna is an odd name for your ship,’ she pointed out. ‘Isn’t it a more fitting name for a warship, which does bring harassment and destruct
ion?’
‘True enough,’ Fécho grinned. ‘Although it depends on the meaning you choose. Cliodhna’s Wave laps these shores and so does my ship here, bringing trade and people to these areas. Manannán mac Lir, the ocean god, can also be a benevolent presence at times.’
‘I hope he is in a benevolent mood, for my horse is named after his great stead that could gallop across oceans,’ replied Fidelma.
The man’s eyes widened with his smile. ‘So you bring the mighty Aonbharr on board? That is a good omen.’ He gestured to his ship with a movement of his head. ‘Anyway, are you ready to sail with your horses and your companions?’
‘You will set sail in this?’ interrupted Enda in an astonished tone, waving an arm at the fog.
‘The channel is straight until we reach the headland at the south-western end of the island,’ replied Fécho, in an almost soothing tone. ‘You notice that the fog is less dense than before?’
‘I can barely see a few paces before me.’
Fécho shook his head. ‘Keep watching, warrior. By the time we get downriver and round the headland we call Whitepoint, the rising wind and temperatures will have dispersed this fog. There is no need for anxiety.’
Eadulf had been feeling some antipathy towards the man since he had first met him the previous evening. He disliked Fécho’s amused assurance, his attitude that everyone was an idiot apart from himself. He disliked his easy manner, his familiarity – especially the lack of formality with which he treated Fidelma, sister to his King. Eadulf felt obliged to interject.
‘We are putting our lives in your hands, boatman. Remember that one of your passengers is the sister of your King.’ He chose the words deliberately, to emphasise that the boatman should remember his rank. ‘We see the fog and I think you may appreciate our anxiety at wishing to end our journey on dry land, not dashed against some unseen rock. Yet it is true I am no sailor, so I suppose you have more cause than just confidence for your optimism?’
Fécho regarded him for a moment with no change of expression. ‘You are right, Brother Eadulf,’ he finally said. ‘You are not a sailor. We’ll come round the Whitepoint and you’ll see the Island of the Fox as clearly before you as if there had never been a fog. We swing eastward before that island and turn north towards the cove where Ard Nemed dominates the passage to the Great Southern Sea.’
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