The Dove of Death

Chapter Two

It was Eadulf who moved next. Even as Fidelma stood looking on aghast at the carnage that had taken place before her eyes, unable to fully comprehend it, Eadulf seized her arm and was hauling her to the rail of the ship. All feelings of nausea had left his body through the shock of what had happened. An arrow splintered the wood of the rail by the side of them.

‘Jump and swim!’ yelled Eadulf. ‘Swim for your life!’

He almost threw Fidelma over the side of the vessel and a moment later followed her. They both hit the water within seconds of each other, the first impact knocking the breath from their bodies.

As Eadulf surfaced he heard shouting that was faint to his ears, and was aware of splashes around him. Arrows! They were being fired out from the ship. He glanced around and saw Fidelma had surfaced nearby.

‘Strike out for the island!’ he cried. ‘Try to keep underwater as much as you can until we are away from the ship.’

He knew that she had heard him but she did not waste precious breath or time to acknowledge. She dived just as several more missiles fell about them. Somehow she had kept a tight hold of the hazel wand and as she struggled beneath the waves she managed to thrust it into the girdle at her waist. Eadulf knew their attempt at escape was probably futile. But faced with immediate death there was no other choice he could think of. It was only a matter of time before the pirates would launch one of the small boats and row after them and they, swimming in their encumbering clothes, would easily be overtaken long before they reached the distant island. In fact, the clothes were weighing them down so much that they were hardly moving at all.

He noticed that in her frustration Fidelma was trying to pull her robe off. She was a brilliant swimmer, he knew. She and her brother Colgú had swum as soon as they could take their first footsteps, in the rushing waters of the ‘sister river’ — the Suir, which ran near to Cashel. She was a better swimmer than Eadulf, but the sodden clothing acted in the same way as if her limbs were bound.

Eadulf heard a shout and glanced back at the Barnacle Goose. His fears were correct, for he could see a small boat being lowered from the side of the ship and three men were clambering down into it. He presumed they would be armed. The shore of the island was too far away. He closed his eyes in anguish for a moment and then a curious anger rose in him as he thought how stupid it was, that his life, Fidelma’s life, could end in such a fashion.

Fidelma suddenly shouted to him above the splashing of the water. He could not hear what she said. Was it a warning?

He turned on his back and saw, bearing down on him, the sleek, dark outline of a small sailing craft. There was only one man in it, crouching at the stern. Eadulf was about to dive away, when he saw that the man was clad in the robes of a religious. He was leaning forward, one hand outstretched, the other on the tiller. Automatically, Eadulf reached out, missed the hand but managed to grab on to the stern of the vessel, which dragged him along, slowing its pace.

The man turned, let go of the tiller, grabbed Eadulf by the shoulders of his robe and literally heaved him into the bottom of the craft. In slowing the tiny vessel down by his weight hanging onto the stern, with the man leaving the tiller, the little boat jibed and lost way. It had allowed Fidelma to swim the few strokes that brought her to the bows of the vessel and she tried to clamber over. The man left Eadulf gasping in the bottom of the boat and moved forward to haul her on board.

Without another word, he glanced to where the three pirates were pulling away from the sides of the Barnacle Goose in their direction.

He muttered something, grabbed the sheets controlling his single sail, seizing the tiller again and moving to find the wind. He seemed to be an expert, for only a moment passed before the wind filled out his sail again. The breeze now carried the small craft along, like a feather across the little waves, the bow wave rippling behind it like a silvery furrow.

Fidelma and Eadulf had managed to struggle into sitting positions and glance towards the disappearing outline of the Barnacle Goose and the ship that had attacked her.

‘I presume from the manner of your dress you are religious?’ the man at the tiller said in Latin.

Fidelma spoke in affirmation in the same language. Their rescuer was middle-aged, his face weather-beaten, and he had black hair, dark eyes and a suntanned skin. He looked more like a sailor than the religious his robes and the crucifix, hanging around his neck, proclaimed him to be. He wore the tonsure of St Peter. While his tone was light, his expression was anxious and he kept turning to look at the ships behind them.

‘We thank you for your timely rescue, Brother,’ Eadulf said, coughing a little to clear the tang of brine from his throat.

The man grimaced. ‘Your thanks may be a little premature. You are not out of danger yet — we are still being followed. If the black ship decides to send more warriors after you, then we may be in trouble, for we are simple fisherfolk and our little island is not large enough to hide you in for any length of time.’

Fidelma raised her head to gaze behind them. The rowing boat from the Barnacle Goose was still coming in their direction.

‘What do you intend to do?’ she asked their rescuer.

‘I intend to offer you what assistance I can. I was on the headland when I saw that your vessel was being attacked. Then I saw two figures leap overboard and the flurry of arrows being loosed. I put out in my own small craft to see what I could do. Who are you?’

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel, and this is Brother Eadulf.’

The man noted the manner of her introduction, as he replied, ‘I am Metellus, Brother Metellus of the community of Lokentaz, the abbey of Gildas of Rhuis. It is on the mainland, but I am serving the little fishing community on Hoedig, which is the island to which we are now heading.’

‘Is there a strong community there?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘Men who can help us against these pirates?’

Metellus shook his head. ‘I told you, my friend, we are simple fisherfolk. We have no warriors, just stout fishermen, their wives and children. Enough for three men, if that is all they send after you, but against armed men from a warship…well. However, we’ll do our best. I know a spot near the Menhir of the Virgin where you may hide.’

‘Menhir?’ queried Eadulf.

‘A tall standing stone set up by the ancients which has been consecrated for the faith, for it was an old custom to go and offer prayers by it.’

They turned to the approaching island, growing large before them. It was mainly low-lying with little sandy beaches, and the waters had turned almost turquoise as they came close inshore. They could see the stretches of green growth on land, sprinkled with little yellow flowers, and here and there were tiny habitations of grey granite.

‘It looks fairly large to me,’ offered Eadulf.

‘No more than a kilometre across and twice that or a little more long, my friend. If those on that ship yonder really want to make a search for you — then, as I say, there is hardly anywhere to hide.’

They were pulling into a bay and Brother Metellus stood up to lower the sail. A small crowd of men, women and children of every age, were crowding curiously on the wooden quay to greet them. They had apparently seen what had taken place.

An elderly man addressed Brother Metellus by name from the shore and an exchange of words followed which was too rapid for Fidelma or Eadulf to understand. Willing hands helped them out as Brother Metellus secured the boat.

‘Come — we must not delay,’ he said urgently. ‘Let us find you a safe place to hide.’

‘But what of our pursuers? Can’t we make a defence now?’ demanded Fidelma, glancing seaward to where the rowers were still some distance out to sea.

‘And bring the crew of that raider down on us? No, we’ll have to find some other way of dealing with them,’ Brother Metellus replied grimly, as he began to usher them through the collection of buildings that formed the main dwelling-places of the islanders near the harbour.

They had not proceeded far when they were halted by sounds echoing across the water.

It was a series of blasts on a trumpet or horn of some type.

Brother Metellus halted, turning with a frown. Then with astonishing dexterity, he scrambled onto a granite wall to give him a higher elevation and looked seaward.

‘What is it?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Your pursuers have halted, and…yes, they are turning back to the ships. The horn must have sounded some signal to recall them.’ He raised his face to the sky and let the wind blow across his features. ‘The wind is changing, and the tide. I think the captain must be calling the men back for the vessels to take advantage of it.’

‘Is there a place where we can see what is happening?’ asked Fidelma, her voice quiet and without emotion, although Eadulf could see that her features were still filled with shock from the experience of seeing the callous murder of her cousin and Murchad the captain.

‘Come with me,’ Brother Metellus said, jumping lightly down from the stone wall. ‘The island is pretty low-lying, therefore it is hard to get a good elevation from which to see. However…’ He pointed to a small building, which had a second storey and looked out of place among the other buildings of the island. ‘We use it as a chapel and we are trying to construct a little tower on top,’ he explained.

They entered and followed Brother Metellus, scrambling up a rough wooden ladder to the top of the unfinished tower. It did not give them a great commanding view of the sea. However, they could make out the bay and beyond it, just visible to the naked eye, the black dot on the waters that was the rowing boat, heading back to the dark outlines of the ships. There was the familiar shape of the Barnacle Goose and the darker silhouette behind of the ship that had attacked it. They still seemed to be linked together. Then, as they watched, it seemed the attacking vessel shuddered. It was an optical illusion produced as the sails were being set and the ship began to move slowly away from the side of its victim. The rowers had reached the side of the Barnacle Goose. Fidelma presumed that they had boarded and the rowing boat was being hauled up. Then the sails were billowing and the ship was turning after the sleek lines of its attacker.

‘They are leaving,’ muttered Brother Metellus, in satisfaction. ‘Heading north-west. You are safe for the time being.’

‘Safe!’ The word was uttered by Fidelma with bitter irony.

At Brother Metellus’ raised eyebrows, Eadulf explained: ‘The captain of our vessel and some of her crew were slaughtered, and Fidelma’s own cousin, Bressal of Cashel, and envoy to your King, Alain Hir, was slain — even showing his wand of office. This is bad, indeed.’

For a moment, Brother Metellus contemplated this. Then he gave a deep sigh.

‘Before anything else, I suggest you come with me so that we may provide you with dry clothes and something to drink to get the taste of seawater out of your mouths. Then we will talk more of this. As you say, it is a grievous crime to kill the envoy of a king.’

Outside the chapel they found one of the fishermen who spoke rapidly in the local dialect. Brother Metellus replied and the man turned and hurried off.

‘Our friend had come to report that the men had given up the pursuit and the ships had sailed,’ he explained. Then he pointed to a nearby building. ‘This is where I make my simple home. Come in and welcome. I will try to find some dry clothing for you.’

It was a while before they were dried, and changed into comfortable clothing, brought to them by a homely woman called Onenn. Fidelma would have liked to wash the salt water from her hair, but that would have been too much to ask their host.

They now sat with Brother Metellus in his small stone cabin, together with an elderly man called Lowenen, who was introduced as the chieftain of the island community. Lowenen had a craggy seaman’s face, almost as if it were carved from the granite rock of the island. The sea-green eyes were piercing under heavy eyebrows, but his face was compassionate, expressing sympathy and gentle humour.

As they told their story, Brother Metellus acted as interpreter for Lowenen who spoke no other language than the island dialect. Although Fidelma and Eadulf had some knowledge of the language of the Britons, this local dialect was difficult to follow. Words they thought they knew from their time among the Britons apparently did not mean the same.

‘This is a crime indeed,’ Brother Metellus muttered after a moment’s reflection when they had finished telling the full story of the attack. ‘You have no idea of the identity of this vessel that attacked you? The captain of it did not identify himself?’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘There was no name on the ship that we could see but then, I suppose, we weren’t looking for a name in the moment of attack. I seem to recall it had a white flag at its mast.’

‘I noticed that there was an emblem on the white flag,’ Eadulf put in, ‘but I could not make it out. However, there was a small carving on the bow of the vessel. A bird of some sort. I thought it was a dove.’

Only Fidelma noticed a curious expression cross Brother Metellus’ face but it was gone in an instant.

‘You must be mistaken, my friend,’ he said quickly. ‘If a warship carves a bird on it as a symbol, it is usually a bird of prey.’

Eadulf reluctantly agreed, but said, ‘It is strange, on reflection. It looked like a dove to me. But perhaps the person who carved the bird was not so talented as he thought.’

‘And did you notice anything about the captain of this vessel?’

‘Only that he appeared to be a young man,’ Fidelma replied thoughtfully. ‘But he was shrouded from head to foot in white so that his face was not to be seen.’

‘White!’ exclaimed Brother Metellus. ‘A curious choice for a sea captain and a pirate. White is the colour of light and sanctity, and yet you say this man was a ruthless killer and hid himself under this shroud of white? And he was a young man?’

‘He was slightly built with a high-pitched voice. But for all his apparent youth he was vicious, nonetheless. It was he who killed my cousin as well as Murchad the captain,’ Fidelma confirmed. Then she paused and added quietly, ‘And he shall answer for those crimes.’

‘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.

Wisely, Eadulf did not rebuke her on the matter of dishonour.

‘So what do you intend?’ he asked.

Fidelma gestured with a slight rise and fall of her shoulder. ‘Someone around these shores must know about that ship that attacked us. When the time is right, I shall ask Brother Metellus what that dove means to him. Someone will know which direction the ships sailed, or where the Barnacle Goose was being led.’

‘The sea is a big place.’

‘We have searched bigger,’ replied Fidelma. ‘And we have been successful in our searches.’

Eadulf suppressed a sigh. He realised that no matter what obstacles he pointed out, Fidelma would have none of them. She had made up her mind on a course of action and she was going to take it — in spite of all the obvious difficulties.

‘I presume your plan will be to make enquiries at the abbey of this Gildas when we reach the mainland tomorrow?’

Fidelma could hear the disapproval in his voice.

‘That would be a logical assumption!’ she retorted, turning her back on him as she lay down in the bed.

Eadulf said nothing for a moment or two. Then he shrugged and blew out the candle.

For some time he lay on his back, hands behind his head, listening to the distant sounds of the music and the voices from the beach where the feasting was continuing. Then sleep caught him unawares.

It was still dark when he opened his eyes again. No; not quite dark. There was a greying light, that curious pre-dawn twilight, filtering through the window and causing dark shadows in the room. He wondered what had awakened him at this hour. Fidelma lay beside him, still asleep. He could hear her breathing deeply and regularly. It was surely time to rise and get ready to leave with Brother Metellus…Then he suddenly noticed: the wind had changed. Last night, its sound had been soft, almost sibilant, but it was moaning now around the corners of the house, tearing at the sloping roof. Overnight, the soft summer breezes had changed into fierce gusting winds.

He knew that until the winds abated, they would be forced to remain on this island. He also knew that his wife would not be pleased.