Bloodmoon

by Peter Tremayne

  Darkness had overtaken the vessel and although the winds were gentle in the shelter of the inlet, the ship continued to rise and fall with the rhythm of the white-capped waves. Lamps had been lit at the bow and the stern and Fidelma, who had done plenty of sea travelling, felt the vessel tug against the constraining ropes that indicated that sea anchors had been cast both fore and aft.

  Fidelma leant back against the side of the ship, her mind filled with a turmoil of thoughts.

  Why would Grella be the quarry of a Saxon marauder? How did such a marauder know of the geography of this part of the Five Kingdoms? Was he being advised by the tall, dark-mantled religieux? And who was he? Obviously, the first possibility was that the wife of the High King was being abducted for ransom. Was this the plot that Abbot Nessán had heard about? Who else was involved? Certainly not a member of her family, she was sure. This tall religieux, who Áed Caille reported spoke with a northern accent, might well have been the abbot’s murderer. But why? And what did Aescwine mean when he said he had to consider ‘new options’ now that he believed Glaisne had taken Grella to Cluain?

  She wished she could have had just a brief moment with Abbot Nessán before he had been killed. Had Cairenn told her the complete truth when she’d said that Nessán had refused to say anything until Fidelma arrived? And then … then, of course, it had been too late to say.

  She suddenly scowled angrily. She had also forgotten one thing. The whole crux of this matter was an attempt to assassinate the High King and the claim that it was the princes of the south-west, the Eóganacht, who were behind the conspiracy. So why this abduction of Grella, the High King’s wife? What was the Saxon marauder and his ship doing in these waters? Had she missed something vital? She gave an inward groan and if it had been possible she would have raised her hands in despair. That she couldn’t merely increased her frustration. What was she doing anyway, wasting time trying to piece together all these thoughts? She was a prisoner on the ship of the Saxon marauder. She was being transported to the kingdom of the Gewisse. What could she do to stop a conspiracy to assassinate the High King?

  The darkness was full of sounds: closest, the troubled breathing of her fellow prisoner, fallen asleep through plain exhaustion. Then there was the whispering of the waves, and the slap of the larger ones against the side of the vessel as it bobbed up and down. The sibilant wind in the rigging, the occasional mumble of conversation among those sailors who remained on watch, the rustle and swish of a hundred other sounds that pervaded the silence of the night as the ship rode at anchor. The flickering of the oil lamps made a tangible accompaniment to the motion of the vessel. The crash of the waves upon the hull seemed to intensify, almost drowning out the other sounds, or at least putting them into perspective, muting them. Suddenly she felt that all the sounds were conspiring against her and she wanted to cry out and cover her ears.

  ‘Are you all right, lady?’ Áed’s concerned voice came from the darkness.

  Fidelma caught herself, realising she had been moaning softly as she slipped into an uncomfortable state of fretful sleep.

  Fidelma tried to ease her position against the hardwood planking of the ship.

  ‘I am sorry, Áed. Did I disturb you?’

  ‘I think you were dreaming a little, lady,’ the bow-maker replied gently.

  ‘I think I was,’ she admitted.

  ‘You realise they have brought us nothing to drink, let alone eat, since we were captured?’

  It was only when he mentioned it that she realised how dry her mouth was. She could bear the lack of food but lack of water was something else; it was dangerous. She saw the shadow of a warrior leaning over the rail nearby. He had been placed next to their shelter at the stern, presumably to keep an eye on the prisoners.

  She tried to lick her dry lips, which was difficult because of the sea salt drying on them.

  ‘Seaman!’ she called. ‘We need water.’

  The shadow did not move. She was about to call again when she realised the man probably did not speak her language. She tried to think of a translation into Saxon.

  ‘Garwiga!’ She settled on the word for ‘warrior’. ‘Garwiga, we need water before we die. Please, water!’

  This time the shadow stirred and moved slowly towards them.

  ‘Water, is it? Are you not surrounded by water?’ he sneered in the darkness.

  Fidelma sought to make her tone commanding. ‘Do I have to call for your prince, Aescwine? He will not be best pleased if you allow his prisoners to die, especially considering the price he intends to get for us in the markets of the Gewisse.’

  The man hesitated and then swore. They heard him call something, and then a voice replied from some distance away. The man turned, muttering, and said something. Fidelma understood enough to know the first man had asked his comrade to bring the lamp close so that he could attend to the water.

  There was much grumbling but the light was brought by a second man, addressed by his impatient comrade as Osulf, who dipped a wooden ladle into a barrel nearby. He ladled out the water to each of the two prisoners in turn. At last Fidelma had drunk her fill and she sat back, thanking the man, even calling him by name. He frowned for a moment, then replaced the ladle on the small barrel and left, taking the lamp. The prisoners were once more enveloped in darkness. Fidelma sighed and leant back.

  ‘Thank you, lady.’ Áed’s voice came out of the shadows opposite.

  ‘I am afraid there is little to thank me for,’ she replied. ‘I fear that I have merely increased your danger.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Had I not started asking you about Grella, Aescwine would not have overheard. Now I am worried about his future plans.’

  ‘I have no understanding of all this, lady.’

  Fidelma smiled ruefully in the darkness. ‘He knows that Glaisne has taken her to Cluain. He’ll be heading there next.’

  ‘Not in this ship. Cluain is inland. He’ll have to find a safe anchorage. Anyway, how could a Saxon have known that Grella was visiting the land of the Uí Liatháin? Is that why he was making the raid on Eochaill, in order to abduct her?’

  ‘He said that she was his quarry,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Therefore he must have gone to Eochaill for that purpose. But Glaisne is somehow involved in this matter. How? What manner of man is this Glaisne? I seem to remember that he is not well liked.’

  There was a pause while the bow-maker thought.

  ‘He is not well liked by most of the people. Some think that his brother, Éladach, might have made the better prince of the southern Uí Liatháin. Glaisne demands tribute, and is ruthless when he does not get it. He only supports those who are loyal to him without question. Antrí is his lickspittle.’

  Fidelma was about to point out that the Saxon had been surprised by Glaisne’s actions. What made him wonder aloud whether Glaisne was playing some game of his own? What game was Glaisne supposed to be playing? And with whom? She wished Eadulf was here and they could … She paused. With horror, she realised that she had given very little thought to Eadulf or to Enda since her capture. Now her mind began revolving with anguished questions. Had Tialláin’s men survived the massacre and, if so, what had happened to Eadulf and Enda? Had they been recaptured? She knew that Tialláin had been killed in front of her and Gadra badly wounded. Would the survivors have turned on Eadulf and Enda, and killed them? Could they have escaped? She groaned inwardly at her selfishness for not thinking of them before now. Then logic forced its way into her mind. What could she have done anyway – a prisoner on the marauder’s ship, anchored heaven knew where? How would that help Eadulf? How would that help Enda?

  Then there was Cairenn. Had she been able to escape and, if so, where to?

  She sighed deeply, so deeply that Áed asked again: ‘Are you all right, lady?’

  ‘As right as I can be,’ she said testily, then relented. ‘Sorry, Áed. I was just thinking about my husband, Eadulf, and the warrior who was accompanying us.’

  �
�Were they with you when you were captured?’

  ‘They were at first,’ she said. ‘But they were not taken by Aescwine. I last saw them in the inn where we were captured by Tialláin, and while we were on the jetty I heard they had escaped.’

  ‘Then there might be hope for them,’ the bow-maker replied. ‘Perhaps they can seek help?’

  ‘Who would they seek help from in that place?’ Fidelma replied bitterly. ‘Anyway, I am going to try to sleep.’

  She felt the concept of sleep might be easier for him to understand than if she had told him she hoped to retreat into the dercad, the act of meditation that she used to soothe irritations and calm any fears that came rioting into the mind. It was a way of achieving sitcháin, a state of peace. Fidelma also felt it best not to identify what she was doing because many Christians denounced the practice because it had been used by the Druids, those of the Old Faith; it was said that the Blessed Patrick had expressly forbidden its use. But then, many things had been forbidden that were positive and good in the Old Faith. She remembered how aghast she had been when she read that Blessed Patrick had burnt 180 books because they had been written by Druids. That had been boasted of by Bennin mac Sesenen, the Irish prince who had become one of the first followers of Patrick and adoped the Latin name Benignus. The same Benignus had been appointed secretary to the nine-man commission appointed by the High King Laoghaire that had sat for three years to amend the laws of the Fenechus so that they did not say anything contrary to the New Faith.

  Rather than clearing her mind with the dercad, it was with these thoughts that Fidelma, rocked by the bobbing waves, drifted into a deep, troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘There’s going to be a thick sea mist this morning,’ Fécho greeted them cheerfully, ‘although it won’t be as thick as the fog we encountered the other day. Anyway, I was right about the cloud obscuring the night sky, preventing the Saxon ship from sailing before dawn.’

  Eadulf had already noticed that he could not see the figurehead on the prow of the Tonn Cliodhna from the stern. The white wispy mist, with its salty taste on his face and tongue, swirled about but not violently. It was clear that there was a wind beginning to stir.

  ‘It is indeed thick,’ Enda muttered, joining them. The ship’s owner moved away to the side of the vessel to peer seaward.

  ‘Perhaps that is a good thing?’ Eadulf suggested cautiously.

  ‘It will make our approach to the Saxon ship more difficult,’ the young warrior pointed out.

  ‘But it surely helps us in another way. It will obscure our approach to any watchers on the Saxon ship until we are upon it.’

  Enda snorted. ‘That is if we are able to come upon it and do not miss our way in the mist.’

  Fécho had turned back to them, having examined how the sea was running, and overheard the exchange.

  ‘There’s a dawn breeze getting up and that will soon blow this mist away,’ he observed. ‘So you will not miss the ship. Just make sure you stay away from the shallow rocks. As I said, the coracle sits on the waves but that does not mean it is impervious to any sharp rock hidden just beneath them.’

  ‘I’ll have a care,’ Enda reassured him.

  ‘How is the wound?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘It’s no problem, friend Eadulf. Do not worry about me,’ replied the warrior.

  Fécho and Iffernán had already supervised the launching of the coracle, or grotán, from the side of the ship. It now sat bobbing on the water, waiting for them.

  Eadulf went to the side and looked down at the small, fragile craft. He seemed to square his shoulders and then turned to Fécho: ‘If we have not returned by midday, then you are released from your task.’

  Enda had already lowered himself into the coracle and was waiting patiently, paddle in hand. It took a few moments for Eadulf to negotiate himself into the tiny boat. Then they were disappearing into the chilly embrace of the sea mist. So close to the water were they that Eadulf felt the choppy waves were not indifferent but somehow watching for the slightest mistake on their part, waiting to embrace them in their freezing froth-strewn arms.

  Eadulf was glad the poor light and the sea mist hid his hands, for he held the seat on either side of him with such a grip that the white knuckles would have shown his nervousness; indeed, his fear. He had been a fool earlier to think that he could have undertaken the swim to the Saxon ship. But the current method of travel was not too far above swimming. He moved his feet carefully so that they did not touch the sharp tools that had been placed in the bottom of the coracle at his request and looked towards the silent figure of Enda, bent against his paddle. He could not see the warrior’s face, for he was sitting behind him, but he could guess at the determined set of Enda’s features and his fixed gaze as he pushed the boat into the blankness of the mist.

  ‘Is it hard work?’ Eadulf asked nervously, still thinking of Enda’s wound.

  ‘Hard enough with the waves and tide trying to push us in the direction of the cliffs,’ came the response, through gritted teeth. ‘But I can manage.’

  Eadulf realised that through the uneven mist, like smoke blowing in the wind, he could just glimpse the rocky face of the cliffs to his left. Now and then he could see that they were narrowly passing rocks that pierced the sea like sharp pinnacles, around which the water bubbled and sighed with sibilant greed. But for the most part, they journeyed with only the sound of the waves and, now and then, the cries of gulls and guillemots announcing the clearing of the mist.

  ‘From what Fécho said,’ Enda called over his shoulder, ‘we should be passing the rocky point and able to sight the Saxon vessel shortly.’

  ‘Well, the mist is still not cleared but we can see further than before,’ Eadulf observed quietly. ‘At least Fécho was right that the mist has kept the vessel from escaping to the sea.’

  ‘Therefore it should be somewhere in front of us,’ replied Enda. ‘Keep a sharp lookout.’ He moved the bobbing coracle cautiously forward, his eyes on the now-lessening intensity of the mist.

  It was Eadulf who suddenly pointed.

  ‘It’s there! Directly ahead of us.’

  A gust of wind suddenly whisked aside the white curtain and they found themselves within metres of the Saxon ship. For a moment, Eadulf felt naked. His mouth was dry, the lips parted against the continual spray of salt from the waves. He glanced up at the vessel. He could see none of the crew or warriors on guard duty at the rail.

  He tapped Enda on the shoulder. ‘Make for the bow anchor first,’ he whispered.

  The warrior did not reply but bent to his paddle.

  It took a few moments of paddling before they came under the high prow of the ship, with its beast-like carved head. A thick rope ran taut from the vessel into the sea. Eadulf caught hold of it as Enda brought the coracle in close. It was a stout rope of braided fibres, called haenep in his own language. It was very strong.

  ‘This secures the first anchor,’ whispered Eadulf. ‘Hold us close by and I’ll try to saw through it.’

  Enda grasped the rope above the point where Eadulf indicated he would attempt to cut it, as high as he could without endangering them. Eadulf took up the saw from the bottom of the coracle. He glanced swiftly upwards to check that they were still unobserved. The mist was clearing rapidly now. He reached forward and began to use the saw against the tautness of the rope. To his relief, the teeth did not make much noise and that which the saw did make was lost in the rustling breath of the waves. It seemed an eternity until he had severed most of the strands. Then he saw the remaining ones begin to snap.

  ‘Let go, Enda.’ Eadulf almost raised his voice in his excitement. ‘It will go of its own accord. We must try to get to the stern.’

  Enda released the rope and grabbed the paddle. The waves caused the coracle to knock against the side of the ship and bump its way along towards the stern before he regained control, but because the little craft was of light basketwork and hide they made no alarming noise to gi
ve them away. The for’ard rope was creaking. They could hear someone moving up above, a voice raised slightly. The for’ard rope snapped. Then they were at the stern and Eadulf could see the line connecting the ship to the stern anchor.

  His face fell as Enda brought the coracle towards it.

  The stern anchor was fastened with an iron chain.

  ‘What do we do now, friend Eadulf?’ muttered the young warrior.

  ‘Maybe the severance of the front anchor will be enough distraction,’ replied Eadulf, though with little hope. ‘Anyway, hold the coracle steady here. I am going to shin up the chain and see if I can find Fidelma.’ So saying, he reached for the knife which lay by the sword in the bottom of the boat and thrust it through his belt.

  Enda was about to oppose the idea but Eadulf had already seized the anchor chain and was climbing up it with an agility that surprised the younger man. Enda was used to the rigours of the military training that a warrior of the Golden Collar had to endure. He had always thought of Eadulf as a person of intellectual rather than physical pursuits and had not realised that Eadulf prided himself on keeping his body in good shape.

  Hand over hand, it did not take Eadulf long to reach the railing of the ship, where the anchor chain was attached. He climbed over the rail and paused, looking around. There was no one to be seen on the raised deck where he stood. The tiller had been secured with ropes. The pitching movement of the bows was more obvious now, and there was shouting and people were rushing to the prow of the ship.

  Eadulf prayed that Fidelma was not being held prisoner in the for’ard part of the vessel, which was now swarming with men leaning over the bows to see what was wrong. He jumped down the short flight of steps to the main deck and turned back to the covered area. The long fighting knife was ready in his hands. As he turned to face the occupants of the recess, the first person he saw, staring at him in amazement, with white face and wide eyes, was Fidelma.