The Dove of Death (24 page)

‘Impossible! I trust Iarnbud entirely. But as you are not convinced, I will ask my guards to make a search.’ Trifina called to the guard outside the door and when he entered, she issued the instructions.

‘It is still difficult to see a reason why this
Koulm ar Maro
– we may as well use the name for the person behind the raiders as well as the ship – should be so set on bringing your family into disrepute –
and
by such extreme means.’ Fidelma took up the theme that was worrying her once again.

‘If we knew that, we might know who is behind this,’ Trifina said simply.

‘Then let us consider why your family might have incurred the wrath of someone to this extent. The
mac’htiern
of Brilhag is an ancient noble family of this area, so I am told. In fact, your father’s ancestors were kings of this land not so long ago?’

‘The emphasis is on “were”,’ replied Trifina. ‘We are no threat to anyone now.’

‘Brother Metellus spoke about your family, but I have forgotten the details. Tell me the situation so that I can understand it better.’

‘This was once the kingdom of Bro-Erech, which used to be the largest of the kingdoms of this land of Armorica. That was
the old Gaulish name, which meant “the land before the sea”. That has now been displaced. Now it is called “Little Britain” because of the many settlements from Britain in these last two centuries.’

‘That I have understood,’ Fidelma said.

‘There was Bro-Erech and then to the north of us was Domnonia and to the west was Bro-Gernev. There were smaller kingdoms such as Bro-Leon and also Pou Kaer, but these are no more; both were absorbed many years ago. So now there are three large kingdoms.’

Fidelma acknowledged that she was still following.

‘Domnonia, while not as large as Bro-Erech, became very influential and was bearing the brunt of attacks by the Franks and Saxons along the northern coast and eastern borders. Just before I was born, Domnonia was ruled by Judicael who defeated the Franks twice in great battles and even travelled to the court of the Frankish King Dagobert in Paris to conclude a treaty of peace. Judicael claimed to be King of all the Bretons. The scribes wrote that the terror of his name alone was sufficient to keep evil men from violence. Although he was said to be mighty and brave in battle, he eventually decided to follow the religious life and abdicated, retiring to an abbey in Brekilien.’

‘Very well. But how does this tie in with your family and Bro-Erech?’ Fidelma asked, slightly impatient.

‘At the time when Judicael ruled in Domnonia, my family ruled here in Bro-Erech. Just before I was born, my great-grandfather Canao, the third of his name to rule here, died. It was then that Judicael claimed the kingship. He maintained that Waroch, the greatest of our Kings, was also his own ancestor and that Waroch’s daughter, Trifina, after whom I take my name, was his own grandmother. There was a dispute and my grandfather, called Macliau, was defeated. Thus he and my father after him became only the lords of Brilhag.’

‘Your brother mentioned this and explained the symbol of your flag. He also said that one day, he hoped to restore the family to their rightful place. Their place as kings – is that what he meant?’

Trifina laughed sardonically.

‘That is vain talk. My brother is a fool and a dreamer. We must accept reality now. Canao, the last of our family to rule here, was not a nice man. In fact, by all accounts, he was mad. He killed three brothers to secure the throne. Our family are better off out of such politics.’

‘Yet someone is bringing you back into that world,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully.

‘You mean that this is a way to discredit our family in case we ever made the claim against the King?’

‘That might be a reasonable theory. What is your family’s relationship with King Alain?’

‘Alain is the son of Judicael but he succeeded to the kingship after his brother Urbien, who died of the Yellow Plague, so he was not involved in the struggle between my grandfather and his. My father is now a close friend of his. Alain is fair-minded and his rule brings prosperity to us all.’

‘So you do not think there is a chance that he would be regarding your father or your family with suspicion?’

‘I doubt it. As I said, he is a good friend to my father. Even if my brother’s silly ideas were known to him, he would treat them with the contempt they deserve.’

‘Nevertheless, in looking for motivation to back your theory that this
Koulm ar Maro
is trying to discredit your family, this seems to be the only area where we can find any plausible grounds.’

There was a sudden knock on the door and, at Trifina’s summons, one of the guards opened it and spoke rapidly.

‘A search of the villa and island has not revealed Iuna,’ Trifina interpreted. ‘I did not expect it to.’

‘Then where did she disembark from Iarnbud’s boat?’ Fidelma began. ‘We must find—’

Another warrior suddenly pushed his way unannounced into the room. He looked embarrassed as he saw Fidelma and Eadulf. Trifina seemed to recognise him for her features changed and she said something quickly. The man spoke at a breathless rate. Fidelma’s ears were growing used to the sounds of the language. Now she was able to pick up the words
Koulm ar Maro
and then the name of Macliau.

Trifina went deathly white and half-rose before slumping back in her chair.

‘What is it?’ Fidelma demanded. ‘What news has he brought?’

The girl turned anguished eyes on them.

‘This man brings a message from Bleidbara – from Brilhag. He says that the local people claim to have caught the Dove of Death, the murderer, and are about to execute him.’

‘Who is it?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘Macliau, my brother!’

It did not take them long to return to Brilhag in the same fast skiff that had brought the messenger to Trifina. She, with Fidelma, Eadulf and three warriors, had immediately set out for the fortress on the peninsula of Rhuis. A worried-looking Bleidbara greeted them as they landed on the quay just below the fortress. He looked surprised for a moment at seeing Fidelma and Eadulf in the party.

Helping her from the boat, Bleidbara began to speak rapidly, but Trifina said something and he reverted to Latin.

‘The message came from Brother Metellus just after I returned,’ he said. ‘Brother Metellus says that Macliau had reached the abbey with a mob on his heels crying for his blood. They would have killed him there and then, but Macliau pleaded for sanctuary. Brother Metellus, acting for the community, granted it.’

‘A mob? Who constitutes this mob?’ demanded Trifina.

‘Local people, farmers, fishermen. They are led by Barbatil.’

Trifina recognised the name. ‘The father of Argantken?’

‘The same. The situation is that despite sanctuary having been given, they have surrounded the abbey and are preparing to attack to take Macliau away by force and kill him. The monks are threatening them with damnation if they enter the chapel
where he has taken refuge. Such threats will not keep their anger at bay for long, however.’

‘And this mob are claiming Macliau is the Dove of Death – the leader of the raiders? They are mad!’ Trifina was angry. ‘Very well. Raise your warriors and we will teach them a lesson they won’t forget!’

‘I have already despatched a dozen warriors to the abbey with Boric in command,’ Bleidbara offered. ‘I had told them to defend Macliau and the monks, but only if their lives are in jeopardy.’

Fidelma reached forward and caught the girl’s arm.

‘Calm yourself,’ she admonished. ‘Let us establish the facts. I agree we must stop this mob from visiting harm on Macliau, but we know how people are able to blame Brilhag for these attacks. In no way should you bring force to bear against these people until we have a chance to reason with them.’

Bleidbara added: ‘We need to keep warriors here in case this is a trick to make us leave Brilhag unguarded and Riwanon unprotected.’

‘I am not concerned with Riwanon’s safety but that of my brother,’ snapped Trifina. She thought for a moment. ‘We will take these men,’ she pointed to the warriors who had accompanied her from Govihan, ‘and ride for the abbey.’

‘Can you give Eadulf and me horses?’ asked Fidelma. ‘We need to come with you.’

Eadulf gave an inward groan. The idea of confronting an angry mob with a few warriors and two women was not his idea of being prudent.

As they made their way into the fortress, Bleidbara was already shouting orders for horses to be saddled. Budic agreed to command the warriors remaining in Brilhag.

It was as they were riding out of the gates of the fortress that something made Fidelma glance back over her shoulder.
Standing on the steps before the great hall, watching their departure, was Iuna. For a moment, Fidelma contemplated reining in her horse and turning back to question the girl, but she was swept along in the group of riders, whose priority was to get to the abbey. The mystery of Iuna would have to wait.

The ride to the abbey of the Blessed Gildas was accomplished at breakneck speed. Bleidbara and a warrior led the way, Trifina and Fidelma came next, then Eadulf, with two warriors behind him. The pace of Eadulf’s mount was thus forced by those in front and behind, so that Eadulf, as bad a horseman as he was a sailor, simply clung to his mount and hoped for the best. His headache had returned and the events of the day seemed to be overtaking him. Already the summer day was drawing to a close, the sky darkening. Could it have really been only this morning that he had set out in a sailboat with Fidelma?

The small band of riders raced through the thick forests along the track which led across the peninsula from Brilhag directly to the abbey buildings. As they neared the abbey, the sound of raucous shouting could be clearly heard.

Bleidbara slowed the pace and the party trotted through outlying buildings into the quadrangle that lay before the chapel of the community.

The mob was not as big as Eadulf had expected, though it was big enough. There were some forty or fifty people gathered in front of the chapel steps, all of them men, waving an assortment of weapons, mainly agricultural implements, and burning torches. They were sturdy men who, from their appearance, laboured on the land. Around the front of the chapel, weapons at the ready, a few warriors stood facing them, obviously the men that Bleidbara had sent on before.

In front of them, hands held up in supplication, as if trying to quieten the mob, stood Brother Metellus. Some of the other religious of the community stood nervously by him.

Bleidbara, at a quick trot, swung his group of riders around the mob – who started to yowl with derision when they saw them. The warriors dismounted swiftly, one grabbing the horses and leading them to a secure place at a rail by the side of the chapel before rejoining his companions. They reinforced the line of stoic men facing the crowd. Bleidbara led Trifina, Fidelma and Eadulf behind to where an anxious Brother Metellus was standing.

‘There will be no reasoning with this crowd much longer,’ the Brother said.

‘Tell us the story as quickly as you can,’ Fidelma said. ‘What has happened?’

‘Macliau came running into the community. He was in a bad condition – bleeding from some wounds, his clothes dishevelled. On his heels came some of these people.’ He jerked his head towards the mob. ‘They wanted to kill him. They accused him of being a murderer and thief, saying he is the leader of raiders who have been attacking their settlements for the last week. Macliau demanded sanctuary in our chapel and I took the decision to give it to him, now that the Abbot no longer lives.’

‘Where is my brother?’ Trifina demanded.

‘In the chapel behind us,’ replied Brother Metellus.

Without another word, Trifina turned and went inside.

Fidelma frowned as she surveyed the angry crowd.

‘From half a dozen men, over the last few hours, the mob has grown,’ Brother Metellus told her. ‘Any moment, they will have gathered enough courage to brush us aside.’

‘I am told someone called Barbatil leads this crowd. Who is he?’

Brother Metellus cast an eye towards the front of the mob.

‘That man there.’ He pointed to a middle-aged, stocky and muscular-looking man, with greying hair. He was weather-beaten, though his cheeks showed a ruddy complexion. His garb and appearance clearly revealed him to be a farmer.

‘I need you to come with me as interpreter,’ said Fidelma. She glanced at Eadulf. ‘Stay here. Only Brother Metellus and I will go forward.’

Then, without another word, Fidelma went down the few steps to the front of the crowd. Brother Metellus was clearly not happy, but dutifully followed at her shoulder.

The crowd grew silent and even fell back a little as she came forward with apparent confidence. Fidelma went straight to the man Brother Metellus had pointed out.

‘I am told that your name is Barbatil and that you accused Macliau, the son of the
mac’htiern
of Brilhag, of murder,’ she said without preamble.

Brother Metellus duly translated this.

The stocky farmer’s eyes narrowed. There was anger in every fibre of his body.

‘I am Barbatil, and I accuse him. We will have vengeance!’

‘If your accusation is proved, then you shall have justice,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But this is not the way to secure it.’

‘What do foreigners know about the injustices that are happening here?’ replied the farmer. He pointed to Brother Metellus. ‘He is from Rome and God alone knows where
you
are from!’

Fidelma advised him that she was a lawyer in her own country of Hibernia and went on: ‘It is the custom among all civilised countries to state your evidence when you accuse somebody.’

‘You should know that during the last two weeks, warriors have been raiding our farms and settlements. They sail in a ship bearing the flag of the
mac’htiern
above it – the flag of our lord of Brilhag, who is supposed to be our protector – not our persecutor!’

‘Anyone can raise a flag,’ pointed out Fidelma. ‘Is that your only evidence?’

The farmer seemed to grow even angrier.

‘It is not. The young lord, Macliau,’ he almost spat the name, ‘has a reputation here. No man’s daughter is safe. He takes his pleasures and we have to pay for them.’

Fidelma remembered Trifina’s estimation of her brother. Then she recalled that Trifina had identified Barbatil as the father of Argantken, Macliau’s companion at the fortress.

‘A man’s character as a womaniser does not make him a murderer,’ she replied.

‘No woman is safe from his lechery – and even the Church,’ Barbatil gestured towards Brother Metellus, ‘does not chide him for his debauchery – just because he is the son of the
mac’htiern
whose flag now inspires terror throughout this peninsula.’

‘You say that men bearing the emblem of Brilhag made these raids. Did you ever go to demand an explanation from Brilhag?’

‘At first we did,’ blustered Barbatil. ‘We saw the lady Trifina. She spoke in the absence of her father, Lord Canao. Macliau was not there. She claimed that no warriors of Brilhag were involved. She promised that she would take up our cause and find out who these people were. Nothing has been done.’

‘I ask, yet again, where is your evidence that Macliau is responsible?’ Fidelma demanded doggedly.

‘Evidence? You ask for evidence?’ Spittle edged the farmer’s mouth. ‘Did not this immoral libertine debauch my own daughter, Argantken! I accuse him of murder in her name!’

There was an angry murmur when the girl’s name was pronounced.

‘If Argantken is accusing him of murder, let her come forward and do so,’ Fidelma said stubbornly.

The anger of the crowd seemed to increase.

‘She cannot!’ replied the farmer, barely keeping his temper. ‘For
she
was his victim!’

Fidelma stared at Barbatil for a moment, taking in his words.

‘Argantken, your daughter, has been murdered?’

‘Have I not said as much?’

Fidelma’s mind raced for a moment or two and then she faced the man with a softened expression.

‘I am sorry for your trouble, my friend. But we must have some facts to work on, to resolve this matter. Rest assured, justice will be yours. But, I say again, it will be justice –
and not revenge
. Tell me the facts as you know them.’

The shoulders of the farmer, Barbatil, slumped a little as if there were a heavy weight on them.

‘It was not long ago that Macliau turned his lustful attention on my daughter. She is…she was…attractive – the apple of her mother’s eye and of mine too. She was a good daughter until he rode by our farmhouse one morning and coaxed her with honeyed words to ride away with him. She believed his promises of marriage and riches – as if the daughter of a poor farmer could ever become wife to the lord of Brilhag. She was too naïve and too trusting.’

‘Go on,’ coaxed Fidelma.

‘I pleaded with her to return to the farm, but she would have none of it. She believed that scoundrel’s lies and promises. Yesterday morning, word came to me that Argantken and Macliau had been seen riding along the coast at Kerignard, which is not far from my farm. I decided to make one last attempt to persuade my daughter to come back to her mother’s home. But knowing that Macliau had some warriors with him, I asked some of my neighbours to go with me.’

‘How many?’ Fidelma interrupted.

‘Two or three of those who are here with me now.’ Barbatil gestured to those around him, who muttered in agreement.

‘And then?’

‘We went to Kerignard. I knew the little ruined oratory where Macliau had camped on other hunting trips. I suspected he would be there.’

‘A ruined oratory?’

‘It is an old stone oratory along that coast by Kerignard. There are cliffs all along that coast, and on the top of them is the oratory, which was built and deserted many years ago.’

‘And was he there?’

‘When we arrived we saw no sign of his warriors or huntsmen. I was not even going to look in the oratory until I realised that there was a loose horse wandering behind it. I went to the oratory – there was no door, it had rotted away years before, so the place was open – and the first thing I saw was Macliau, lying on the floor in a drunken stupor.’

‘How did you know that he was drunk?’

‘The smell of intoxicating liquor was strong. Macliau smelled as if he had just crawled out of a cider vat.’

‘So he was lying there drunk. What then?’ continued Fidelma, trying to keep the man calm.

‘Beside him on the ground was…was my daughter! Argantken.’ His voice caught. ‘She was dead. There was blood all over the place. A dagger, Macliau’s dagger, was buried in her lifeless form.’

‘How do you know it was Macliau’s dagger?’

‘Everyone knows the emblem of the lords of Brilhag. It bore the emblem of the dove…the emblem of peace.’

His voice ended in a cry of almost physical pain. The crowd growled ominously and seemed to surge forward.

‘Patience!’ cried Fidelma, through the translation of Brother Metellus. ‘I have promised this man justice but I need answers to more questions.’

She turned back to Barbatil.

‘A few more questions,’ she repeated softly. ‘For your daughter will not rest quietly if the truth remains unknown.’

‘What more do you want?’ grunted the farmer, recovering his composure. ‘The evidence explains itself.’

‘Having come on this terrible scene, what did you do?’

‘One of my neighbours took the dagger from her breast and covered her body.’

‘Do you still have the dagger?’

‘Coric, do you still have the dagger?’ asked the farmer, turning to one of his companions.

A small man, whose short stature belied his thick, muscular body, came forward and held up a knife. Fidelma took it: it was exactly the same design as the one she had found in the body of Abbot Maelcar. The same emblem of a dove was engraved on it.