The approaching ship was turning bow towards them. The bow was high and cleaving through the waters which seemed to spray out on either side of it. The oars were rising and dipping, the water sparkling like silver as it dripped from them. She could hear the beat of something that sounded like a drum. She knew, from her previous experience of travelling to Rome, that galleys sometimes employed a man to beat time to keep the rowers synchronised.
‘How many do you make it, Gurvan?’ Murchad was squinting forward. ‘Twenty-five oars each side?’
‘So it seems.’
‘Oars. They give the Saxons an advantage over us …’ Murchad seemed to be thinking aloud. ‘However, I think their use of oars might mean that they are not relying on sailing skill at close quarters. Maybe that’s where we have some advantage.’
He glanced up at the mainsail.
‘Tighten the starboard halyards,’ he roared. ‘Too much slack there.’
The tighter the sail, the more speed through the water, but with the wind blowing it might lay the ship over and expose her to any contrary sea. It would also put a strain on the mainmast.
‘Captain, if the wind moderates then we’ll be helpless without oars,’ Gurvan pointed out nervously.
At that moment, Fidelma found Wenbrit beside her.
‘Aren’t you going below, lady?’ he asked anxiously. ‘The others are all below and I’ve told them to stay there. It will be dangerous here.’
Fidelma shook her head swiftly.
‘I would die below not knowing what was happening.’
‘Let’s hope that none of us die,’ muttered the boy, staring at the oncoming ship. ‘Pray God may send a strong wind.’
‘Loose the port sheets! More slack to the port halyards!’ shouted Murchad.
Sailors jumped to do his bidding and the large square mainsail swung round at an angle.
Murchad had judged the wind’s change of direction with such accuracy that almost at once the sail filled and Fidelma could feel the speed of the vessel as it suddenly accelerated over the waves.
Wenbrit pointed excitedly at the Saxon ship as the distance between the two vessels began to increase. The sail on the other ship had fallen slack. Murchad was right: the captain of the other vessel had been relying on his oarsmen and neglected to watch the wind and his sail. For several valuable moments, the Saxon lay becalmed in the water.
Even against the sibilant hiss of the sea and the whispering sound of the wind in the sail and among the rigging, Fidelma caught a faint shouting drifting over the waters.
‘What was that?’ she wondered.
Wenbrit pulled a face.
‘They call on their god of war to help them. Hear the cry? “Woden! Woden!” I have heard such roars from Saxon throats before.’
Fidelma glanced at him with a silent question.
‘The land of my people has an eastern border with the country of the West Saxons,’ he explained. ‘They were always raiding into our territory, and continually cried to Woden for help. They believe that the greatest thing that can happen to them is to die, sword in hand, and with the name of their god Woden on their lips. Then it is said that this god will carry them into some great hall of heroes where they will dwell for ever.’
Wenbrit turned and spat across the railing into the sea to show his disgust.
‘Not all Saxons are like that,’ Fidelma protested as the image of Eadulf suddenly came into her mind. ‘Most of them are Christian now.’
‘Not those in that ship,’ Wenbrit corrected with a cynical expression.
The other vessel had eased into the wind now; its oars had been withdrawn and the sail was filling. Now Fidelma could see the great lightning flash on the sail. Wenbrit saw her narrowing her eyes as she focused on it.
‘They have another god called Thunor who wields a great hammer. When he strikes with it, thunder is caused and the sparks that fly are the lightning,’ he informed her solemnly. ‘They even have one weekday sacred to that god called Thunor’s day. It is the day we Christians called Dies Jovis.’
Fidelma refrained from telling the boy that the Latin name was merely that of another ancient pagan god, but this time of Rome. It was a pointless piece of pedantry now. But she had heard of Thunor from her long talks with Brother Eadulf concerning the ancient beliefs of his people. She found it hard to believe that there were still Saxons who believed in the old gods after two centuries of contact with the Christian Britons and the Irish missionaries who had converted the northern kingdoms from their wild superstitions founded on war and bloodlust. She continued to keep watching the Saxon ship as it began to overhaul them once again.
‘He’s using the wind now, Captain,’ she heard Gurvan call. ‘She seems a fast ship and her captain knows how to sail her with the wind behind him.’
It was an understatement. Even Fidelma could see that the approaching vessel was faster in the water than
The Barnacle Goose
. After all, the attacking ship was built for war and not, like Murchad’s ship, for peaceful trade.
Murchad kept glancing at the sails and then at the oncoming craft. He swore. It was an oath such as Fidelma had never heard before; a full savoured seaman’s oath.
‘At this rate, she’ll be on us in no time. She’s smaller and faster, and what’s more she’s weathering on us.’
Fidelma wished she understood the terms. Wenbrit saw her frustration.
‘The direction of the wind, Sister,’ he explained. ‘Not only is the wind causing the Saxon to overhaul us but, because of the angle we are at in position to the wind, we are being pushed towards the Saxon’s course. In other words, we are drifting on to the Saxon’s course and cannot maintain any parallel distance from her.’
A feeling of apprehension went through her.
‘Is the Saxon going to overtake us then?’
Wenbrit gave her a reassuring grin.
‘Her captain made a mistake before; perhaps he will make another mistake. It will take a good seaman to outsail Murchad. He lives up to his name.’
And Fidelma recalled that the name Murchad meant ‘sea battler’.
At this moment, the captain was pacing up and down, thumping his balled fist into the palm of his other hand, his brows drawn together as if working out a problem.
‘Bring her into the wind!’ he shouted abruptly.
Gurvan looked startled for a second and then he and his companion leaved on the steering oar.
The Barnacle Goose
swung around. Fidelma stumbled and grabbed for the rail. For a few moments the great ship seemed becalmed and then Murchad shouted another order to tack.
Caught up in the sudden change of tactic by Murchad, Fidelma took a few moments to look around for the Saxon ship.
So confident had the opposing captain been of overhauling this prey and coming alongside, that it had taken him several precious moments to realise what Murchad was about. The lightly-built Saxon warship had gone speeding by under full sail with the wind right behind it. It had sped on for almost a mile before the sails were shortened and the craft had come about to follow the new path of
The Barnacle Goose
.
‘A good manoeuvre,’ Fidelma said to Wenbrit. ‘But aren’t we pushing against the wind now? Won’t the Saxon be able to catch up with us?’
Wenbrit smiled, and pointed up at the sky.
‘We might have to sail against the wind, but so does the Saxon. Look at the sun on the horizon. The Saxon will not catch up before nightfall. I think that Murchad plans to slip past her in the darkness, provided those clouds remain and there is no moon.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘With the wind behind our sails, the Saxon, being lighter and therefore faster, had the advantage of speed. We were heavy and more cumbersome. When we come into the wind, it’s a different matter. The waves that impede our progress also hinder the progress of the Saxon … but even more so. Whereas we can ride the heavy seas, the contrary waves will push their lighter craft farther to the leeward, and they will have more work to do to catch up with us.’
Murchad had overheard the boy’s explanation; he now came over to them with a broad grin. He seemed pleased with his seamanship and more relaxed now that the Saxon ship was struggling behind them.
‘The boy’s right, lady. Also, the keel of our ship reaches down farther under the surface than theirs will. A light vessel is beholden to the choppiness of the slightest wave, whereas we can maintain a better hold because we can reach below superficial turbulence. We can outsail the Saxon against the wind.’
Murchad was back in a jovial mood.
‘The Saxon will be struggling awhile, by which time I hope night will come down, heavy and cloudy. Then we’ll turn south-south-west again and with luck, slip by her under cover of darkness.’
Fidelma stared at the sturdy sailor with some admiration. How well Murchad knew his ship! Something made her start thinking of a horse and its rider. For a moment she did not know why such an image had come into her mind, and then she understood. Murchad felt for his ship and the elements in which it sailed, the sea and the wind, as a good rider felt for his horse. He was at one with it, as if he were but an extension of it.
She peered behind to the distant square-sailed vessel.
‘Are we safe then?’
Murchad did not want to commit himself to absolutes.
‘Depends if her captain shows more forethought than before. He could guess that we will change course under cover of darkness and do the same, hoping to meet us at dawn. My guess, however, is that he will think we are turning tail and running for the safety of a Cornish port. That is the direction in which we are heading now.’
‘Then the excitement is over for the time being?’
Murchad made a humorous grimace.
‘The excitement is over,’ he confirmed. ‘Until daylight!’
That evening, after the meal, Fidelma decided to complete her enquiries. She found Brother Dathal and Brother Adamrae in their cabin. Like the other cabins below deck, it was stuffy and airless there and the lantern which illuminated it also gave off a degree of heat as well as light. She found it stifling after the cool breezes of the deck.
‘What is it you want, Sister?’ demanded Brother Adamrae gruffly as she entered in answer to his sharp invitation when she had knocked upon the door.
‘A brief word – the answers to a few questions,’ she said politely.
‘I suppose this concerns Sister Muirgel,’ Brother Dathal muttered. ‘I heard from Sister Crella that you were following it up.’
Brother Adamrae looked at her with disfavour.
‘What business is it of yours to ask questions?’
Fidelma was not perturbed.
‘I do so at the request of the captain,’ she replied. ‘I am a—’
‘I know. You are an advocate,’ snapped Brother Adamrae. ‘This matter is no concern of ours. We did not come from the same Abbey. Anyway, ask your questions and be gone.’
Brother Dathal looked apologetically at her.
‘What Adamrae means to say is that time is precious to us. We are engaged in scholarship, you see, trying to translate some material.’
‘Time is precious to everyone,’ Fidelma agreed solemnly. ‘It is especially precious for those who have run
out
of time – like Sister Muirgel.’
She picked up the parchment that lay on the table before Brother Dathal. It was written in the ancient Ogham script, the earliest form of calligraphy of the language of Éireann.
‘Ceathracha
is
cheithre chéad
…’ She began to read the ancient lettering.
Brother Dathal looked surprised.
‘Can you read the ancient Ogham letters?’
She grimaced.
‘Did not the pagan god Ogma, god of literacy and learning in primeval times, give the knowledge of such letters to the people of Muman first?’ she countered. ‘Who is able to construe the ancient letters if not a woman of Muman?’
Brother Adamrae scowled.
‘Anyone might be able to pronounce the letters, but what of the meaning of the text? Construe the words, if you are so clever.’
Fidelma pursed her lips and glanced over the ancient words. It was clearly a rhyme.
‘Forty and four hundred
Years, it is not a falsehood
From the going of the people of God,
I assure you,
Over the surface of the sea of Romhar
Till they sped across the sea of Meann,
Thus came the sons of Mile to the land of Éireann.’
Dathal and Adamrae stared at the effortless way she read the ancient poem.
Then Brother Adamrae grunted in disgust as if to belittle her effort.
‘So you know the ancient language of the texts, but do you understand them? Where, for example, is the sea of Romhar? Where is the sea of Meann?’
‘Easy enough,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Romhar is known today as Rua Mhuir, the Red Sea; and Meann must obviously be a form of the great Middle Earth Sea which the Latins call the Mediterranean.’
Brother Dathal was smiling at the discomfort of his companion.
‘Well done, Sister. Well done, indeed,’ he said approvingly.
Brother Adamrae finally relaxed and even forced a smile.
‘It is not everyone who knows the mysteries of the ancient texts,’ he conceded. ‘We are dedicated to retrieving their secrets, Sister.’
‘As I am dedicated to pursuing the truth in law,’ Fidelma replied. ‘As you are aware, the captain has asked me to make a report because, in law, he may be liable to pay compensation if there is a fault to be found, should it be claimed that he was negligent.’
‘We understand. What is it that you want from us?’ replied Brother Dathal.
‘Firstly, when did you last see Sister Muirgel?’
Brother Dathal frowned and glanced at his companion. He shrugged.
‘I don’t remember.’
Brother Adamrae said: ‘Wasn’t it when we came aboard?’
Brother Dathal thought a moment.
‘I think that you are right. She allotted us the accommodation. After that we did not see her again. We were told she had fallen prey to the motion sickness and remained in her cabin.’
‘And neither of you saw her after that?’
They shook their heads in unison.
‘Can I ask where you were during the storm last night? I just want to be sure that no one saw Sister Muirgel making her way to the deck during the storm.’
‘We were here during the whole time of the storm,’ Brother Dathal confirmed. ‘It was a bad storm and we could scarcely stand, let alone go wandering about the ship.’
Brother Adamrae nodded agreement.
‘We were comparing it to the great storm which came among the Children of the Gael on their voyage to Gothia. That was when Eber, son of Tat, and Lamhghlas, son of Aghnon, died and soon after the mermaids rose from the sea playing such sad music that the Children of the Gael were lulled to sleep, and only Caicher the Druid was immune; he managed to save them all by pouring melted wax into their ears. When they came to the extremity of Sliabh Ribhe, Caicher prophesied that they would not find a resting place until they reached the land called Éireann, but added that they themselves would not reach it; their descendants would.’
Fidelma stared at the enthusiastic young man in his breathless discourse. His whole being had become animated by his subject.
‘You are much concerned with these ancient times,’ she commented. ‘You must enjoy your subject.’
‘It is our purpose to write a volume on the history of the Children of the Gael before they reached the Five Kingdoms,’ Brother Dathal beamed.
‘Then I wish you luck in your endeavours. I would be fascinated to read such a work. However, I must finish my enquiry. You say that you both remained all the time in your cabin and never saw Sister Muirgel after you came aboard?’
Brother Adamrae nodded.
‘That is an accurate summary, Sister.’
Fidelma suppressed a sigh of frustration.
Someone was lying among the pilgrims. Someone must have gone into Sister Muirgel’s cabin and stabbed her, dragged her on deck and thrown her overboard. Fidelma was sure of it. Then her earlier question came back to her. Why throw the body overboard
and leave her bloodstained robe, clearly showing the stab wounds? That was odd.
‘I am sorry?’ She became aware that Brother Dathal was speaking.
‘I was saying that it is a sad business if one dismissed the value of human life. But in honesty, there are probably few who will grieve for Sister Muirgel for any length of time.’
‘I realise that some people disliked her.’
‘Some even hated her. Brother Tola, for example. Then there is Sister Gormán. Oh yes, there are several who will not grieve too much.’
‘Including yourselves?’ Fidelma asked quickly.
Brother Dathal glanced at his companion.
‘We did not hate her. But she was not someone we would say that we liked,’ he admitted.
‘Why did
you
dislike her?’
Brother Adamrae shrugged.
‘She despised us. She was a highly-sexed young woman. I do not think we need tell you why she looked down on Dathal and me. Anyway, one cannot greet everyone in love and charity. Look at Brother Tola. I would not be saddened if we had lost him from our company.’
Remembering Brother Tola’s views on scholarship, Fidelma gave a quick smile.
‘I take your point. But was there anything particular about Sister Muirgel which created dislike?’
‘Particular?’ Brother Dathal actually giggled. ‘I would say everything about her caused us irritation. She liked people to know that she was a chieftain’s daughter and that she should be in charge of things because of her social rank.’
‘Why did you agree to come on this pilgrimage … ?’ Fidelma knew the answer as soon as she let the question slip.
‘Because it was Sister Canair who was the leader when we set out. Muirgel was just one of the party. Sister Canair was able to keep her under control, even though Muirgel tried to assert her authority.’
‘She was a different personality to Sister Canair?’
‘Absolutely. Sister Muirgel was mean-minded, riddled with jealousy, haughty and ambitious!’ Brother Dathal snapped out the words with venom. Fidelma examined him in surprise. Brother Adamrae came to his companion’s rescue.
‘I think Dathal may be forgiven for his unchristian thoughts.’ He smiled softly. ‘Telling the truth can also be considered as being unkind and harsh.’
‘What was she ambitious for?’
The two men exchanged a glance. It was Brother Dathal who responded.
‘Power, I suppose. Power over people; power over men.’
‘I understand she bullied little Sister Gormán.’
‘It’s the first that we have heard of it,’ replied Adamrae. ‘But Gormán always kept herself to herself.’
‘And you said that Muirgel was jealous. Of whom was she jealous?’ she asked, turning to Dathal.
‘Of Sister Canair obviously. Ask among her companions from Moville. We never met her until we started our journey although we heard many things on the excursion to Ardmore. You do not journey with a small group for several days without picking up the things that others try to hide. Muirgel was jealous of Sister Canair, with an intensity that alarmed us.’
‘What was the cause of her jealousy?’
‘I think that there was a hate embedded in Sister Muirgel that could have developed into violence.’
‘It was said that Muirgel was jealous of Canair because of … of Brother Cian.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘Brother Bairne,’ replied Dathal.
‘Were you concerned then when Sister Canair did not join you on the morning the ship sailed, and Sister Muirgel took charge?’
Brother Adamrae gave a shake of his head and answered.
‘It might have been a cause for concern but for two things. Firstly, Sister Canair had not accompanied us to Ardmore. She went to visit someone before we reached the Abbey. It was logical to assume she did not even come to Ardmore. Secondly, Sister Muirgel stayed at the Abbey with us until we came to the quay and found there was no Canair and that we had to get aboard or miss the sailing. Dathal and I would have come aboard anyway, Canair or no Canair, because we would not have considered forgoing our chance to travel to Iberia and finish our task of tracing the ancient history of our people.’
Fidelma was thinking carefully.
‘I still have a question.’
Brother Dathal smiled.
‘Questions always provoke more questions.’
‘Are you
sure
that Muirgel was jealous of Sister Canair and Cian? I have been told that Muirgel wanted to end the affair with Cian.’
‘Well, Bairne has his problems. He was moonstruck on Muirgel.
But Muirgel did dislike Canair. She might well have been hungry for power and for the little brief authority that Canair had.’
Brother Adamrae nodded decisively.
‘I think we have helped you all we can, Sister. I don’t believe you will find the answers you want among our gossip. You have doubtless talked about this to Brother Bairne or will do so?’ He rose and opened the cabin door, and Fidelma left, in a greater state of confusion than before.
Cian looked up in surprise as Fidelma knocked on his cabin door and entered.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked. ‘Have you come to bemoan the past again?’
Fidelma answered him coldly. ‘I was looking for Brother Bairne, who shares your cabin.’
‘As you can see, he is not here.’
‘As I can see,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘Where would I find him?’
‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ quipped Cian sarcastically.
Fidelma stared at him with distaste.
‘You should remember in what context that question was asked before making it into a joke,’ she replied, withdrawing before he could respond.
She found Brother Bairne seated at the meal table on the mess deck, looking dolefully at a mug of mead. His eyes were red-rimmed and there was little need to ask about his emotional state.
He looked up as she entered and sat down near him.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘a few questions. I have heard all about your investigation. Yes, I was in love with Muirgel. No, I did not see her after last evening when the storm rose.’
Fidelma took in his statement without apparent surprise.
‘You told me that you were from Moville, didn’t you?’
‘I was training there in order to preach the Word among the heathen,’ he confirmed.