The Dove of Death (4 page)

‘Is anything known of piracy in these waters?’ Eadulf asked hurriedly, to cover the uneasy silence that followed Fidelma’s statement, which had been delivered in a tone of cold hatred. He had never heard her speak in such chilling tones.

Brother Metellus interpreted Lowenen’s response to the question.

‘Alas, these waters have often seen bloodshed. It is not far from here that the galleys of the Romans did battle with our fleet.’

‘Your fleet?’ queried Eadulf in surprise, envisaging a battle between Roman galleys and the fishing boats of the island.

‘The fleet of the Veneti who were the greatest mariners of this land,’ the old man replied proudly. ‘They sailed with over two hundred ships against the Roman commander. The battle lasted a full day before a disappearing wind becalmed our ships and allowed the Romans to destroy them. After that all Gaul fell to the Romans. A sad day when the Veneti were defeated.’

The old man sighed deeply, as if contemplating something that had occurred but yesterday. Fidelma noticed there was an air of embarrassment as Brother Metellus interpreted these words; some reluctance in his delivery.

‘That was many centuries ago, my friend,’ Eadulf pointed out to the elderly chieftain, having realised that he was talking about the time when Julius Caesar had conquered Gaul.

‘You are right,’ the chieftain replied with a shrug. ‘But, as I say,
such bloody events have been frequent here. It is not long since we had Saxon raiders attacking this very island.’

It was Eadulf’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘But we are talking of pirates and in recent times,’ he pressed. ‘We are looking for some means to identify our attacker.’

Lowenen shrugged. ‘The great port of Naoned lies not far to the east of us on the mainland. It is a rich port. Merchants grow wealthy on the trade through that one port alone. Therefore, it is logical that it provides bait that will attract the rats. The Franks cast envious eyes at the town and it is already under pressure from Frankish raids and settlements. When I was young, I sailed there. The Frankish borders of Neustria had not then approached within three days’ ride of Naoned. Now I am told that the Frankish marcher lords claim territory within a quarter of a day’s ride of the port. Their raids are not infrequent. Yes, raiders and pirates are not unknown in these waters, although I have not heard any stories of this black ship with its captain dressed all in white, such as you have described.’

Brother Metellus was looking at Fidelma. His eyes were troubled.

‘There is vengeance on your face, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he observed softly.

Fidelma’s brows came together, and reading the danger signs, Eadulf jumped in with: ‘Fidelma is highly regarded as a
dálaigh
, an advocate of the courts of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann, my friend. She is consulted frequently by kings and abbots. Even now we were on our way back to the Kingdom of Muman after attending a Council in Burgundia to advise the prelates there in law at their request. It is not vengeance you will observe, but a desire for justice.’

But Brother Metellus did not seem impressed. ‘Sometimes justice can be used to mean vengeance,’ he said.

Fidelma’s lips thinned in annoyance. ‘I took an oath to uphold
the law and to bring to justice those who transgress it. It is true that this act of cold-blooded murder was against my own cousin, Bressal of Cashel, and against my friend, Murchad of Aird Mhór, but it is still justice, not vengeance, that cries out for this captain and his crew to be tracked down.’

Brother Metellus shrugged as if he would dismiss the matter from his mind.

‘Surely, Brother Metellus, your people have a similar law system to that used in the Five Kingdoms of Éireann?’ Eadulf asked. ‘Therefore, if the murderer is caught, would they not be brought before that same justice?’

‘I am not a Breton,’ the religious confessed, ‘but I have no quarrel with law and justice. So long as it is clear that justice is the purpose of seeking the perpetrator of this act.’

Fidelma held his dark eyes steadily. There was a flicker of green fire in her own eyes.

‘That is my purpose,’ she said tightly. ‘But if you are not a Breton, where are you from?’

‘I was born and raised in Rome,’ he replied.

Fidelma realised why there had been some reluctance to translate Lowenen’s remarks.

‘You are far from home,’ Eadulf observed.

‘This is my home now,’ Brother Metellus said quietly. There was a pause, then he had a quick exchange with Lowenen.

‘He wonders what you intend to do now,’ translated Brother Metellus.

‘There is nothing we can do,’ Fidelma answered, ‘until we find a way of reaching the mainland where we can find someone willing to transport us back to my brother’s kingdom. But for now we are destitute, having nothing save a few personal items and the clothes that we have borrowed from you.’

‘How far would this be to the nearest point on the mainland?’ asked Eadulf.

‘About twenty kilometres across the water, north from here, is the abbey of Gildas,’ Brother Metellus replied at once. ‘I am under the jurisdiction of the abbot there. Given a good wind, we would be able to make it in half a morning’s sail. I have done it several times. So, if you trust yourself once more to my small boat, I can take you in the morning. As you see,’ he gestured to the window, ‘the sky is darkening already, so it is too late to commence the trip today.’

‘I would not wish to burden you, Brother Metellus,’ Fidelma replied. ‘You have already done much for us. You have given us our lives when they might have been lost.’ She was a little confused because she was sure that the image of the dove had some significance for him that he was not imparting to them, but he had saved them from capture and death, and she was very grateful for that.

‘Is this not what we are in service to the Christ to do?’ Brother Metellus said, brushing aside her thanks. ‘Anyway, it is time that I visited the mainland again, for there are some supplies that I want from the abbey.’

He turned and rapidly addressed Lowenen again before continuing. ‘As you can see, I do not have room to shelter you here for the night, but Lowenen’s wife, Onenn, has a spare bed. It was her son’s. He was drowned last year while fishing off Beg Lagad. I presume that you…’He broke off awkwardly.

‘You may rest assured that we are husband and wife.’ Eadulf supplied the answer to his unasked question with some stiffness. ‘We are not of that sect who believe in the celibacy of all religious.’

‘I thought as much,’ agreed the Roman monk with a sigh. ‘As for myself, I believe in the teachings of the Blessed Benedict. Chastity is a declaration of our commitment to the Faith.’ Then he looked closely at Fidelma. ‘I noticed that you introduced yourself as Fidelma of Cashel rather than Sister Fidelma. And Brother
Eadulf here says that you are an advocate of your law courts – can you be both things in your own land?’

Fidelma replied in a slightly defiant tone: ‘I am sister to Colgú, King of Muman, whose capital is at Cashel. It is one of the lands that make up the Five Kingdoms of Éireann, the land of my people. It is the largest of the Five Kingdoms,’ she added, almost proudly. From her past experience in Rome she had learned that it was best to maintain a slight arrogance with Romans. ‘My first commitment is to serve the law and my people. In our land, one can also serve both and still be in the religious.’

Brother Metellus bowed his head, hiding an amused expression on his features.

‘I am sure that I speak for our chieftain, Lowenen here, when I say that it is an honour to have you and Brother Eadulf as guests on this little island. Alas, I was but a poor shepherd on the slopes of Mount Sabatini until I decided to follow the path of Christ.’

Fidelma could not make up her mind whether the man was mocking her or not. Before she could decide, he had turned and translated to the old chieftain, who immediately rose and bowed to Fidelma, and spoke with some intensity.

‘He says that he is more than honoured to welcome a princess to his humble island. Whatever he has, is yours.’

Fidelma inclined her head to the old man, saying, ‘Tell him he has already given us enough and it is we who are honoured.’

Brother Metellus now rose to his feet.

‘There will be a feast tonight. Lowenen insists upon it. A feast to celebrate your coming to this island. It is the local custom of hospitality. But we will try to get away to the mainland just after first light. Go with Lowenen now and have some rest, and I will come to escort you to the feasting later.’

Although forewarned, when Brother Metellus came to collect
them from the house of Lowenen and his wife, Onenn, neither Fidelma nor Eadulf were expecting the festivities that greeted them. They were led down a path between the stone cabins and onto a sandy strand where a large fire had been lit. In fact, there were several smaller fires along the shore. Beyond them the dark seas, now and then with a thin line of white showing where the waves were breaking, whispered and chattered over the rocks before sliding silently shoreward. Many people were crowded round the fires. Brother Metellus had told them that there were only about a hundred or so islanders, and it seemed every one of them was there.

‘Remember that the lives of these people are harsh,’ he explained, ‘so they seize any opportunity to celebrate and make merry.’

A few men were playing instruments, providing a musical background for a young man who was singing and amusing some of the younger folk who clapped their hands to the rhythm. The instruments were similar to those that Fidelma had seen in her own land, although one man was playing a set of pipes which had a higher pitch than those native to Muman.

There was a smell of cooking permeating the area, and many pots were steaming on the small fires while on others, various types of fish were being roasted on sticks. Brother Metellus led them to a table, erected on the sandy shore, on which plates with various vegetables and salads were set out, beside jugs of what they quickly discovered was cider. They were seated next to Lowenen and his wife Onenn.

The feasting, the songs, the drinking and the merrymaking went on into the night. Eadulf could see that, although she did her best to disguise her feelings, Fidelma was still reeling from the shock of the death of her cousin and from the events that had occurred on the
Barnacle Goose
. He attempted to help her by taking much of the conversation on himself. Having studied
herbs as part of a medical training, he was interested in some of the salad that was presented to him; it contained some silver-green leaves that gave it a very strong flavour. Brother Metellus told him that they were from a plant that grew all over the land, in dry sandy soil; its spiky leaves did not vanish with the seasons but kept evergreen. Only at the height of summer did it produce yellow flowers, from which the islanders often made an infusion to cleanse their stomachs. Not knowing the plant and never having seen it in his own land, nor in Éireann for that matter, Eadulf could not speculate on its properties.

After an interminable round of toasting and the consumption of much cider, for wine from the mainland was scarce, it was Brother Metellus who eventually rose and suggested that they ought to retire as they would have a taxing sea journey to the mainland at dawn.

To Eadulf, it seemed that Fidelma looked relieved and rose with alacrity. They walked slowly back to Lowenen’s house where Brother Metellus left them, saying he would come for them just after first light. They retired to the tiny chamber they had been given by Onenn and her husband Lowenen. The noise of the music and the people still at the feasting came faintly to their ears as they prepared for bed. Fidelma sat on the side of the mattress, holding the white hazel wand of office that she had managed to save in their escape; her Cousin Bressal’s wand of office as an envoy. She turned it over in her hands in moody contemplation and then placed it by the side of the bed.

‘I think that symbol of the dove meant something to Brother Metellus,’ she said to Eadulf without preamble.

When he expressed surprise, Fidelma described the expression that she had seen for a fleeting moment on the Roman’s face.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Eadulf, not convinced.

‘You realise that I cannot go back to Cashel until I have
tracked down the murderer of my cousin and brought him to justice,’ she said, not responding to his question. ‘Nor can I abandon Murchad’s crew on the
Barnacle Goose
– young Wenbrit and the others who have been taken as prisoners or worse.’

Eadulf regarded her solemnly. He had suspected the thoughts that had been passing through her mind.

‘Do you not think it more important to get home – home to Alchú, our son, and to your brother, who has more power to pursue this matter? He could send a delegation, warriors, to the King of the Bretons and they would be better placed to track down these murderers.’

Fidelma shook her head firmly. Her features were controlled.

‘I do not make this decision lightly. Of course it is important for us to return home to our son. We have been away too long. But you do not realise the shame that would be upon me if I went back without making any effort to find out who has done this terrible thing. The satirists would bring blotches to my face and, more importantly, to the face of my brother, the King. He could even be forced to abdicate. The line of our dynasty, the Eóghanacht, could be stigmatised for ever.’

Had Eadulf not spent years among the people of the Five Kingdoms, he would have considered the statement overly dramatic. However, he knew that it was a preoccupation among his wife’s people that their honour, what they called
enech
or ‘face’, should in no way be besmirched. If they were dishonoured, it was believed that a poet could write a satire that would raise blotches on their face for everyone to see, revealing their dishonour. A satire could even cause people to die of their shame. Eadulf was sure that Fidelma did not believe in the supernatural powers of the poets but, before the coming of the New Faith, it was widely accepted and even now, while some referred to it with half-hearted humour, many people
fully believed. Indeed, even the laws of which Fidelma was an advocate, dictated that the composing of a wrongful satire was worthy of fine and punishment. Likewise it was illegal to satirise a person after their death. But if the satire was truthful…a king or a noble had to tolerate satire or lose their honour price if they brought the poet to the court and the court found the poet’s words to be truthful.