‘It seems,’ Eadulf suddenly said, shifting his gaze from the horizon for a moment, ‘we are concentrating a lot on this domestic strife between Sinnchéne and Buan. Yet if, as is claimed, they were both enamoured of the Venerable Cinaed, both in love with him, why would they kill him? Surely in that situation they would be more inclined to kill one another?’
‘There speaks the pragmatist in you, Eadulf. But you are right. That would be the logical outcome of such a situation. Yet when have killers ever sat down and worked things out logically? Even in the most cold-blooded killing, there must be a little of illogic for the culprit to ever think that killing someone was the solution to any problem. It merely adds to the problem and ends any hope of resolution.’
Eadulf was now fixing his gaze on the nearing islands.
Mugrón took a hand from the tiller to indicate the approaching land.
‘That’s Rough Point … that headland there. We’ll take a wide sweep around it. The tides can be fierce even on a day like this.’
Eadulf could clearly see a number of islands to the north and some ahead of them. He was aware of a subtle change in the rocking motion of the boat and glanced curiously at Mugrón standing feet apart, his stocky frame confident, hands firmly back on the tiller. The merchant caught his glance and gave him a reassuring smile.
‘This is why it is called Rough Point. But do not be alarmed, the tide is running smoothly. It only becomes very rough with a westerly wind or big swells against the ebb tide. Then the tide sweeps strongly through the north of those islands.’ He jerked his head towards the distant mounds. ‘I’ll bring the boat well north of that headland there and into calm waters.’
Conrí had made his way back to the stern where they were sitting and was returning the pitcher to the wooden box. As he stood up, he paused and his eyes narrowed.
‘There’s a sail bearing down on us, Mugrón,’ he called quietly.
Fidelma and Eadulf glanced round in the direction he was looking.
‘Where away?’ asked the merchant, his eyes not moving from the bow as he was engaged in swinging the ship on to a new course.
‘Due north of us. It’s bearing down from Seanach’s Island.’
‘Ah, it is probably a Corco Duibhne trading vessel from the religious community going back to the mainland.’
Conrí was shading his eyes.
‘I think not. The cut of that vessel is more of a
laech-lestar
than a merchant vessel …’
Fidelma had scrambled to her feet to get a better look.
Mugrón, too, having completed his manoeuvre, was peering northward to the oncoming sail.
‘A
laech-lestar
? What is that?’ demanded Eadulf.
‘It’s a warship,’ Fidelma said shortly.
‘She has the wind full behind her, whoever she is, and will be on us shortly.’
Fidelma was concerned.
‘Uí Néill?’ she asked. There had been several wars with the expansionist northern Uí Néill of Ulaidh.
Mugrón shook his head in disagreement.
‘We are too far south. The Uí Néill don’t raid these waters in midwinter.’
‘She’s really straining under full sail,’ observed Conrí. ‘Her captain means to cross our bow or …’
He fell silent.
‘What is it?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘Can you see her
méirge —
her war banner?’
Fidelma glanced to the topmast from which a long banner was streaming. It looked like white satin, blown forward of the mast because the wind was behind the ship. It snapped and fluttered.
‘I can’t quite see the design,’ she called. ‘It looks like a tree …’
Her gaze had fallen to the deck of the ship. She could see men lined along the rails behind round shields. She could see the glint of polished metal.
‘It is a tree,’ confirmed Conrí. There was a strange catch to his voice. ‘It’s an oak tree being defended by a champion.’
‘Do you recognise it, then?’ asked Eadulf.
Conrí laughed harshly.
‘I do. It’s the battle flag of Eoganan of the Uí Fidgente.’
Fidelma was staring at the banner in disbelief.
It was now apparent that the warship was racing down to intercept them. It was also apparent that her crew did not have any good intentions. The distance between the vessels was being closed at an alarming rate. The aim of the captain of the warship was suddenly clear. To the south they were crossing the mouth of a moderately sized bay.
‘Should we not run for cover and put in there?’ called Fidelma.
No one answered her because a couple of ranging arrows soared from the bow of the oncoming vessel and came curving through the sky, only to fall well short of Mugrón’s ship, slapping harmlessly on the sea.
‘It won’t be long before they have our range,’ muttered Conrí. He turned and called to his two warriors. ‘Break out your bows and show them we will not be taken without a fight.’
Mugrón was disapproving.
‘You and two warriors mean to hold back the thirty or forty men that must be in that ship? Do you want us all killed because you will not be taken without a fight?’
‘Rather be killed fighting than killed after we surrender,’ snapped Conrí.
‘Surrender to whom?’ demanded a bewildered Eadulf. ‘I thought Eoganan was dead?’
‘So he is,’ replied Conrí, his voice angry. ‘And that means those flying his flag are rebels, outlaws, men without honour who have rejected the peace between the Uí Fidgente and Cashel. They will not spare our lives.’
Mugrón was looking undecided.
‘This has never happened before,’ he began. ‘There have been no raids along this coast since—’
Suddenly there was a soft thud. An arrow embedded itself in the bow rail of the boat.
‘They’ve found our range,’ exclaimed Conrí unnecessarily.
He had barely let out the words, when three or four arrows were shot from the nearing vessel. This time they carried a thin trail of smoke behind them.
‘Fire arrows!’ Mugrón shouted.
The arrows fell near but extinguished themselves in the sea.
‘What about running for shelter in that bay?’ demanded Fidelma again, pointing to the bay to the south.
‘A trap,’ snapped Mugrón. ‘Once in that bay there is no room to come out. We would be caught like rats in a trap.’
‘But we must do something,’ Conrí. said.
Half a dozen more fire arrows were loosed from the warship. Two hit on the foredeck and two of Mugrón’s crew ran forward to tear them loose and throw them overboard. The ships were very close now. They could hear the warriors banging their swords against their shields in exultation. The streaming silk banner was clearly visible now. Conrí was right. It depicted an oak tree and before it a warrior with sword and shield. Eadulf
knew the oak tree was one of the trees that were considered sacred among the people of the five kingdoms.
Mugrón was yelling to his crew to take cover behind the bales of trade goods.
‘There is an island coming up ahead,’ warned Fidelma but Mugrón had seen it and seemed to be steering straight for it. She stood calmly by the merchant as he bent over the tiller. ‘Mugrón, the island!’ she snapped again.
‘I know it,’ he muttered.
There came another hissing flight of arrows.
‘Take cover, Fidelma!’ Eadulf groaned, crouching by the side of the vessel, not feeling his sea legs strong enough to stand upright to protect her.
‘He’s right, lady,’ cried Conrí. ‘Best get down into the well of the ship.’ There was a sudden squeal of pain as one of Mugrón’s crew was hit by an arrow. Someone rushed to help him.
Reluctantly Fidelma crouched to sit by Eadulf.
They could all see the island approaching dead ahead and Mugrón was swinging the tiller so that it seemed he intended to pass along its northern coast. It was a tiny island, no more than a grassy knoll with rocks along its northern side. Even Fidelma could see that if Mugrón took that course, the warship would be upon them and intercept them in no time.
The captain of the warship realised this as did his men because they heard a wild cheer go up from them.
‘Do your warriors have the means to make fire arrows?’ snapped Murgrón to Conrí, eyes on the strange vessel.
‘What do you mean to do?’ demanded the warlord as he confirmed they had. ‘Ram her? We are no match for such a vessel.’
‘Get them to do so now and wait until I give the word.’
Conrí ran forward to where his two warriors had already used some of their arrows in a futile attempt to hit the steersman on the warship.
Mugrón was now yelling at his crew to prepare to take in sail.
Eadulf exchanged a bewildered glance with Fidelma.
The warship was now turning to bring it in broadside to the point where it would intercept Mugrón’s vessel at the north side of the islet. The islet was approaching rapidly. On this course, Fidelma could only presume, as Conrí had, that Mugrón was going to ram into the side of the warship and then try to fight his way out.
It would be a futile gesture.
Then, with a sudden harsh cry, Mugrón pushed his tiller sharply over so that the vessel almost went over on its side. It sheered away from its course and shot suddenly along the sandy south side of the islet.
Mugrón’s cry had sent his men pulling on the ropes and taking the wind out of the sails.
Abruptly, they were in slack water.
Eadulf could scarcely believe what had happened.
They were now on the southern side of the islet, alongside a sandy stretch of shore, while the warship had raced down on the northern side thinking to catch the merchant ship hemmed in against that rocky shore.
For the moment the barrier of the islet protected them.
Mugrón’s crew were well trained for they had oars out and pushing back so that the vessel did not continue its forward momentum, allowing it to remain in the shelter of the southern shore.
Conrí and his two warriors had prepared their arrows.
Mugrón was already untying the small hide-covered dinghy, a
currach,
which trailed behind the vessel.
‘The archers will come with me!’ he cried, motioning them aft.
Conrí’s two warriors, with their blazing fire pot, did not question him but went aft and clambered into the smaller vessel. It seemed only a moment or two later that they landed on the sandy stretch. Mugrón led them in crouching fashion up to the point where they apparently had a view of the war vessel on the other side of the islet.
From the ship Fidelma and the others watched as the two warriors, under Mugrón’s direction, loosed off three fire-tipped arrows apiece. No one could see what they were shooting at. Then the three men turned and came scuttling back to the
currach
, launching it swiftly towards the merchant vessel.
They had hardly reached the side when a long thin column of smoke was seen rising from the far side of the islet.
Mugrón climbed aboard with a broad grin.
‘Your men can shoot well, Conrí.’
The warlord was looking bewildered.
‘You set fire to the warship?’
Mugrón shook his head.
‘We merely singed their sails a little. They’ll have difficulty following us now.’
‘What’s to prevent them clambering on the islet on their side and shooting at us?’ demanded Eadulf.
The merchant was still grinning.
‘It’s rocky that side. You can’t land. However, I do not intend to wait while they attempt such an experiment.’
He turned and gave rapid orders to his crew who hoisted their own sails. In a moment or two they were moving south-south-west away from the islet.
As they cleared it, they could see that the flames had caught the sails of the warship, which would soon burn away to nothing. The members of the crew were still scurrying here and there hauling leather buckets of seawater up the sides on ropes as they attempted to douse the flames. Even if the vessel carried spare sail, it would take them some time before they could get under way again.
The wind was behind them now and with Mugrón back at the tiller the vessel was already putting distance between it and the strange warship.
With things calmer, Eadulf went forward to attend to the crewman who had been wounded by the arrow. Since his training at Tuam Brecain, the great medical school of Breifne, Eadulf always carried a small supply of medicines with him. He found that the crewman had, luckily, sustained no more than a flesh wound through the upper arm. The arrow had torn the flesh but not touched a muscle. He would be sore for some days but would recover. Eadulf treated the cut with some dried woundwort which he mixed with some water into a poultice and applied to the wound. It would help in the healing process.