Master of Souls

CHAPTER TEN

I t was one of those crystal clear winter days. The sea was flat and still. Its soft whispering was only perceptible round the coastline. The sun was pallid, almost unnoticeable in the pastel blue wash of the sky. Only a few white fluffs of cloud drifted high up, wispy like odd clumps of sheep’s wool caught on a bush. There was a soft but cold breeze blowing from the north.

Fidelma, Eadulf and Conri, with his two stolid and silent warriors, had boarded Mugron’s sturdy coastal vessel, a tough oak-built serrcenn which was fine for navigating round the coastal waters but not for long voyages on the oceans. Half a dozen men manned its two broad sails and Mugron himself preferred to handle the heavy carved oak tiller. The ship was stacked with merchandise for trading among the Corco Duibhne. It consisted mainly of metalwork from the silver mines in the north of the Ui Fidgente country and religious items made at Ard Fhearta itself.

Mugron had smiled warmly as he welcomed them aboard.

‘We are lucky today. The breeze promises us a fair sail across to the peninsula,’ he said, gesturing to where the mountains of the land of the Corco Duibhne rose to the south, standing out dark and sharp on the horizon. It was an indication of how cold and clear the air was to see their outlines delineated thus, for in warm weather their contours seemed to soften and a mist would hang over them.

‘Are those the Sliabh Mis mountains?’ asked Eadulf, remembering the last time he had seen them.

‘That they are,’ affirmed Mugron. ‘We’ll pick up the breeze as it swings offshore and it should bring us due west through the Machaire Islands. Then we can head south into Breanainn’s Bay. That is where I land my

With the crewmen working the sails to make sure they picked up as much of the wind as possible, and Mugron using the tiller to keep the stern to it so that the forward momentum was maintained, the coastal vessel pushed out from the sheltered harbour, passing a little rock which Mugron pointed out as ‘the island of beautiful cabbage’ which puzzled Eadulf until Fidelma explained that it was an edible seaweed usually called lus na gcarrac.

‘Ah, samphire,’ Eadulf interpreted. ‘St Peter’s herb.’

It also grew off the coast of the land of the South Folk and he knew it was exquisite to the taste when eaten with an oily fish like a mackerel. He glanced with a longing expression at the little rocky island as they were passing. He could see the squat plants growing in abundance, their ridged skins protecting them from the drying salt winds that whispered about them. But he could see no umbrella head of pale, greenish yellow flowers, and reminded himself that it was not summer.

‘Do you truly land there and harvest the samphire?’

‘The place provides a bountiful harvest,’ Mugron affirmed. ‘Samphire is also to be found on the larger island back there, beyond our stern. You would see a different picture if you were here in the summer’s months. That’s when the plants display themselves at their best.’

They were now moving slowly across the broad expanse of water towards the distant flat outline of land which Conri informed them was called the Machaire promontory, a narrow low-lying finger of land pointing due north. At the northern tip was a cluster of islets through which they had to sail to bring the vessel into the broad bay named after Breanainn.

‘I thought Machaire meant a plain?’ queried Eadulf, always willing to extend his knowledge of the language.

‘So it does,’ confirmed Conri, ‘but it also means land that is low lying. The islands to the north are also called the Machaire Islands because they, too, lie low in the sea. There are about eight of them, some no more than rocks jutting out of the sea. I have only twice journeyed in these parts. These are dangerous waters, I have heard.’

Mugron laughed disarmingly.

‘Have no fear, lord Conri, for I know the waters well enough.’

‘Does anyone live on those islands?’ Eadulf asked Mugron, peering forward towards the dark specks.

‘Some religious hermits still live on the largest of them, which is known as Seanach’s Island. A strange band, they are. Now and then I have brought supplies to them but they do not welcome visitors. One wonders why they have chosen such an inhospitable place. There are no natural wells there and often they have to exist on rainwater, and if it doesn’t rain…’ The merchant shrugged.

‘Seanach’s Island?’ queried Eadulf.

‘After the holy man who established their community a century or more ago.’

‘I know of two Seanachs,’ Fidelma intervened. ‘One was abbot of Ard Macha and the other abbot of Clonard. Both of them lived and died nearly a century ago.’

‘Ah, but this Seanach was an Ui Fidgente,’ Conri said, almost with a touch of pride. ‘He was brother of the Blessed Sennin of Inish Carthaigh. He became famous as the tutor of Aidan who was once abbot of Lindisfarne in the land of the Angles.’

‘And you say the community that Seanach set up still lives on this island?’

‘Apart from the lack of fresh water it has good anchorage in summer, but it and the other islands are low and flat and the winds can strike them cruelly,’ Mugron said. ‘It is more the haunt of seabirds than of men. The oystercatchers are particularly numerous there.’

Eadulf never ceased to wonder at the amazing number of small islands around the land of the five kingdoms. And being reminded of seabirds he became aware of the number of them that had been noisily following them. Squabbling gannets hanging motionless on strong updraughts, warning each other off before diving down into the sea in search of their prey; a small flock of strident kittiwakes with black wingtips flying elegantly northward in search of cliff ledges on which to form their colonies, their cries coming back like the souls of those lost in the sea. Mugron suddenly shielded his eyes before pointing to some small black specks pattering on the surface of the sea, as if walking on it.

‘Storm petrels,’ he grunted. ‘Probably a storm coming soon,’ he added, echoing the old sailor’s belief that they represented such a portent.

No one responded and for a while there was comparative quiet as they glided through the calm seas.

It was still very cold in spite of the brightness of the day. The brightness gave an illusion of good weather but there was no heat and the

Mugron said something to Conri who went to a wooden box fixed to the side of the ship near him and extracted a pitcher.

While Conri took the alcohol to his men further down in the well of the boat, Mugron spoke to Fidelma.

‘How goes your investigation at the abbey? I heard that you were also trying to resolve the death of the Venerable Cinaed? Some said that you felt it was linked with the death of Abbess Faife.’

Fidelma swung round in her seat so that she could face the weather-beaten merchant, who was standing with his feet apart, hand resting lightly on the tiller of the ship.

‘I am proceeding apace,’ she replied. ‘I suppose you knew the Venerable Cinaed well?’

Mugron gave a disarming shrug.

‘Not well. Not really well. Occasionally, I have conducted business with his companion, Sister Buan. I have tracked down good quality vellum, some coloured inks that she has bought for him. Of course, he was a respected scholar and I just a merchant. But Sister Buan, well — I knew her better.’

‘How so?’

‘She sold the gold and silverwork that the abbey smiths produce. Some of it she offered to me and she would always drive a hard bargain too. She was a good trader and went far and wide to get the best deals for the abbey.’

‘You know these lands and people well, Mugron. Do you have any thoughts about these murders?’

Mugron’s face was expressionless.

‘All one hears is gossip, lady. Gossip is of no importance.’

‘There is a time for rebuke and a time for gossiping,’ replied Fidelma, resorting to an old proverb.

Mugron grinned.

‘It is a saying that may well be right. So far as the Venerable Cinaed was concerned, saying for saying — be the spring never so clean, some dirt will stick to it.’

‘And what dirt stuck to Cinaed?’ asked Fidelma innocently.

‘There was talk about the old man and one of the young girls at the abbey.’

Fidelma was disappointed. She was hoping that Mugron had some other story to tell.

‘Do you know any of the details?’

‘Just that the old man was having an affair with Sister Sinnchene. Well, who can blame him? She is attractive enough, although I would have thought she was the last person to form an attachment to him. But, as the saying goes, do not take as gold everything that shines like gold. It was Sister Buan I felt sorry for.’

‘You know Sister Sinnchene, then?’ Fidelma was interested.

‘Oh, yes. She is a local girl. I knew her mother slightly.’

‘I understand that after the father left her mother died during the Yellow Plague. That is why she went into the abbey. Is that so?’

‘A sad tale. The mother was carried off by the pestilence but, luckily for the girl, Abbess Faife decided to look after her and took her to the abbey. It changed her life. The father had left them some years before that.’

‘I wonder she did not change her name. Was it a nickname she was given?’

Mugron frowned for a moment and then his features lightened in a smile.

‘Ah, you mean the name Sinnchene — little vixen? Oh no, that was no nickname. It was the only thing that ever linked her with her father.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Her father’s name, that is. He was a wandering warrior in the service of Eoganan of the Ui Fidgente. His name was Wolf, or a name like wolf, I can’t remember which…’

Eadulf sniffed in disapproval.

‘Surely there is only one word meaning a wolf.’

Mugron smiled wryly.

‘You speak our language almost fluently, Brother. However, we have many names that imply a wolf. Names such as Conan, Cuan, Congal, Cu Chaille… why, you even travel with Conri there, whose name is “king of the wolves”. I cannot remember which name Sinnchene’s father carried. I recall that her mother called him ceann an chineoil shionnchamhail — which is “chief of the wolf clan”. Sinnchene’s mother named her daughter to remember him.’

‘You were saying that you were sympathetic to Sister Buan and not Sinnchene,’ Fidelma pointed out.

‘The gossip was that the girl pursued the old man.’

‘Which then might mean that she was attempting to replace her lost father?’ suggested Fidelma.

‘Perhaps. She always struck me as someone who knows what she wants and goes after it and never mind the feelings of others. Perhaps there was some jealousy, some conflict among the women…’

‘Are you suggesting that had something to do with Cinaed’s violent death?’

‘Who knows?’ The merchant shrugged. ‘Where there is conflict among women, jealousy and hatred simmer and such hatred can often lead to violence.’

‘But that is merely some gossip that you have heard.’

‘Gossip spreads faster than fire. There was much talk about the conflicts at the abbey before I left on my last trip.’

Fidelma frowned. ‘You mean that there was gossip about Cinaed before the body of the Abbess Faife was discovered by you?’

He nodded. ‘Before I left I had heard that Abbot Erc was upset and Abbess Faife had cause to defend the girl before him about this very affair. I think Sister Uallann had told Abbot Erc that she knew about it.’

Fidelma’s jaw firmed. So the physician had not told her the complete truth. She had reported the matter.

‘So Abbess Faife defended Sinnchene?’

Mugron thought for a moment and then shook his head.

‘I have misled you. I should say that she defended old Cinaed rather than the girl.’

‘So did the abbess disapprove of the affair?’

‘She did. Or so I am told. So much so that she refused to take Sister Sinnchene with the rest of her religieuse on that pilgrimage. The girl asked her, apparently. In a way, that turned out well for otherwise Sinnchene would be missing now along with the others… missing or dead.’

Fidelma glanced across to Eadulf and was about to say something, but he seemed to be concentrating on the horizon, his cheeks pale. She had forgotten that he was not a good sailor. She turned back to Mugron.

‘Are you sure that you heard that Abbess Faife was angry about the affair? Why would she defend Cinaed but condemn Sinnchene?’

‘Perhaps she knew where blame lay?’ the merchant hazarded.

‘It seems,’ Eadulf suddenly said, shifting his gaze from the horizon for a moment, ‘we are concentrating a lot on this domestic strife between Sinnchene 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.

Mugron 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 Mugron 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.’

Conri 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, Mugron,’ 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.’

Conri 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.

Mugron, 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.

‘Ui Neill?’ she asked. There had been several wars with the expansionist northern Ui Neill of Ulaidh.

Mugron shook his head in disagreement.

‘We are too far south. The Ui Neill don’t raid these waters in midwinter.’

‘She’s really straining under full sail,’ observed Conri. ‘Her captain means to cross our bow or…’

He fell silent.

‘What is it?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘Can you see her meirge — 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 Conri. 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.

Conri laughed harshly.

‘I do. It’s the battle flag of Eoganan of the Ui 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 Mugron’s ship, slapping harmlessly on the sea.

‘It won’t be long before they have our range,’ muttered Conri. He turned and called to his two warriors. ‘Break out your bows and show them we will not be taken without a fight.’

Mugron 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 Conri.

‘Surrender to whom?’ demanded a bewildered Eadulf. ‘I thought Eoganan was dead?’

‘So he is,’ replied Conri, his voice angry. ‘And that means those flying his flag are rebels, outlaws, men without honour who have rejected the peace between the Ui Fidgente and Cashel. They will not spare our lives.’

Mugron 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 Conri 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!’ Mugron 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 Mugron. ‘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,’ Conri. said.

Half a dozen more fire arrows were loosed from the warship. Two hit on the foredeck and two of Mugron’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. Conri was right. It depicted an oak tree and before it a warrior with sword and shield. Eadulf

Mugron was yelling to his crew to take cover behind the bales of trade goods.

‘There is an island coming up ahead,’ warned Fidelma but Mugron had seen it and seemed to be steering straight for it. She stood calmly by the merchant as he bent over the tiller. ‘Mugron, 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 Conri. ‘Best get down into the well of the ship.’ There was a sudden squeal of pain as one of Mugron’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 Mugron 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 Mugron 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 Murgron to Conri, 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.’

Conri 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.

Mugron 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 Mugron’s vessel at the north side of the islet. The islet was approaching rapidly. On this course, Fidelma could only presume, as Conri had, that Mugron 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, Mugron 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.

Mugron’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.

Mugron’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.

Conri and his two warriors had prepared their arrows.

Mugron 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.

Conri’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. Mugron 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 Mugron’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.

Mugron climbed aboard with a broad grin.

‘Your men can shoot well, Conri.’

The warlord was looking bewildered.

‘You set fire to the warship?’

Mugron 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 Mugron 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.

There was an uneasy quiet when he returned to the stern, where Mugron was still standing rock-like at the tiller. Conri was staring moodily back towards the vanishing warship, now apparently becalmed against the islet, while Fidelma was sitting in a silent meditative pose.

There was another islet approaching and this time Mugron was steering to pass it on the north side. Eadulf saw that it was more of a reef for he could see the rocks just under the water as the ship sped by at a reasonable distance from the hidden menace. Then they finally appeared to be free of the islands and into open sea, with a great broad bay extending south of them. It was large and sand-edged, with mountains rising behind the shoreline.

‘Breanainn’s bay,’ Mugron announced, breaking the silence. He pointed to the far western side of the great expanse. ‘That’s Breanainn’s mount,

Fidelma shook her head. ‘Do you mean to say that you intend to go back the way we have come?’

Mugron was equally serious. ‘I am a trader, lady. So long as the weather holds, what other way is there than to transport my goods back to An Bhearbha?’

Conri was worried, knowing what Fidelma meant.

‘That warship still presents a menace, Mugron. We must find out who it is threatening this coast. You cannot chance the journey back before it is dealt with.’

The merchant shrugged.

‘True enough. But whose jurisdiction is it to tackle it? It flies Eoganan’s battle flag. That’s defiance to Donennach, chief of the Ui Fidgente. You are warlord under Donennach, Conri. What do you intend to do?’

Conri looked embarrassed.

‘I can do little enough with only two warriors at the moment. We encountered the warship in the waters of the Corco Duibhne. Perhaps the responsibility should lie with Slebene the chief?’

Fidelma interrupted irritably.

‘Whether or not it is the immediate responsibility of whatever territorial chieftain it concerns Cashel and the peace of the kingdom. We will have to find someone who is prepared to send warships to meet this vessel and secure the peace in these waters.’

‘There is something else, of course.’

It was Eadulf who interposed. They all looked expectantly at him. ‘The warship attacked us sailing from the place you called Seanach’s Island. Is that not so?’ he asked.

Mugron gave an affirmative of his head.

‘You told us that the only people inhabiting Seanach’s Island were a group of religious hermits who have had their hermitage there for a century or more?’

‘I did. I fail to see-’

‘If the warship is using their island, what has happened to the religious? Someone should go there to ensure that they are safe from this marauder.’

‘Eadulf is right,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘It may be that whoever

Conri was in agreement.

‘Those islands would not be ideal for a base. Mugron has already mentioned the lack of a natural water supply. There must be something else that makes them attack from there. Whatever it is, it must be dealt with.’

‘If the hermits can live there,’ Eadulf contradicted, ‘then a warship can use it as a port.’

‘I think our Saxon friend is right,’ Mugron agreed. ‘Someone needs to go with warriors to Seanach’s Island, make sure the hermits are safe and find out what is happening.’

‘But that someone needs to be wary,’ Fidelma added. ‘If these bandits are prepared to kill unsuspecting merchants, then it is no use sailing to the island in the hours of daylight and simply demanding to see whether the religious community are well. One needs to go with stealth and at night when they cannot be seen.’

Mugron sniffed deprecatingly.

‘I understand your caution, lady, but you do not know these waters. It needs someone who knows them well enough to sail in daytime, but at night…? At night the currents run strong and there are reefs and rocks to consider.’

‘So whoever goes must be someone who knows the waters intimately,’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘It must surely not be beyond the realms of possibility to use a currach to reach the island, land at night and check whether the community still dwell there in safety or if indeed they have been overtaken by these outlaws.’

‘True enough, lady,’ agreed Mugron. ‘We must speak of this to Duinn when we get ashore.’

‘Is this Duinn a trader?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Not a trader although he runs the trading post where we will land. He is also the petty chieftain of the area. He controls the area in which Breanainn’s mountain rises and then his territory stretches west of this great bay and almost south to An Daingean. He is subordinate to Slebene, chief of all the Corco Duibhne.’

‘Whoever he is, I hope he understands the seriousness of this matter,’ Eadulf said, ‘and realises the need to take immediate action.’

‘If there is a warship interrupting his trade,’ Mugron observed with a grim smile, ‘then I am sure that he will take the matter extremely seriously.’