The Dove of Death sf-20 Page 4

  ‘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.

  Chapter Three

  Fidelma looked out across the bay for the hundredth time since she had awoken. As Eadulf had predicted, her mood was not of the best at her confinement by the weather. Brother Metellus had called by after first light, but merely to confirm that they would not be able to sail until the weather lifted. As morning proceeded, it became clear that they would be unable to leave the island that day.

  Their own clothing had been washed, dried and even mended where it had been torn during their escape and rescue. While Fidelma had managed to retain her ciorbholg, her comb bag carried by all women of her country, because it was attached to her girdle, a lot of the contents were missing. She had no mirror, the soap was ruined although the phal of a fragrance mad
e from honeysuckle which she preferred to use, was intact. One of her emerald ear-clips was also missing, lost in the sea, as was her favourite gold-leaf brooch. Her marsupium, which contained many travelling items and coinage to purchase food and passage, had been in the cabin of the Barnacle Goose. As for Eadulf, he had rushed on deck when the attack began, straight from his bunk, with only his clothes. The pair of them were destitute and at the sufferance of strangers. However, they did not discuss the matter for, at the moment, there was no prospect of resolving the problem.

  Fidelma, being an active person, had announced her intention of exploring the island to pass the time. Brother Metellus had offered to show them the points of interest. Yet by midday, buffeted by the winds, they had already exhausted such sights as there were to be seen. The island was so low-lying that Fidelma could imagine a single large wave engulfing it. The main habitations and harbour had been built around a wide bay. It was a spot called Argol — the place of danger — a name Eadulf thought odd for a harbour. The rest of the island was one of wild heath; the dunes, especially to the east, were covered with small yellow flowers emerging from spiky silver-green leaf foliage that had a distinct and pungent fragrance. Eadulf recognised this plant as the curious addition to the salad dishes served the previous evening. Among the dunes, there were also wild carnations and sand lilies. Fidelma, so used to great mountains, broad rivers and fertile plains, wondered aloud why anyone would settle in such a dull place. Then she apologised to Brother Metellus for questioning his choice of home.

  ‘If the truth be known, it was not my choice,’ he replied gravely. ‘It is a long story.’

  ‘We appear to have time on our hands,’ Fidelma said with dry humour.

  ‘Very well, I shall explain. When I felt the call to join the religious,’ began Brother Metellus, ‘I left my family on the slopes of Mount Sabatini, which is north of Rome, and joined the community at Subiaco, where Benedict, patriarch of all the monks of the western world, first settled away from the vices of Rome. He was a man of peace and moderation, albeit singular in purpose in teaching the truth of the Faith.’

  ‘From Subiaco to here is quite a journey,’ Eadulf interrupted.

  ‘I grant you, it is a very long journey. I was five years studying in Subiaco before accepting the mission to bring the Rule of Benedict to the west, where I was told that the people had strange rituals and philosophies that were in conflict with those of Rome.’

  ‘And you came here to enlighten us?’ Fidelma’s tone was ironical.

  ‘I have spent ten years now in this land called Bro-Waroch, among the Bretons. I have succeeded in teaching little, I am afraid,’ admitted Brother Metellus.

  ‘But why come here, on this tiny island?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘I wandered the countryside, teaching and learning the language of the Bretons and the Franks. But a year ago I went to serve in the abbey of the Blessed Gildas. At first, all was well, for the Abbot Maelcar said he supported the Rule of Benedict. Then I dared question an interpretation of scripture and the Abbot suggested that I come to serve the isolated community here to reflect and learn humbleness.’

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Why would you need to reflect and be humble, for questioning an interpretation of scripture?’

  ‘For questioning the interpretation of Abbot Maelcar,’ corrected Brother Metellus. ‘He is old-fashioned, the son of a noble family from the Brekilien Forest.’

  ‘I would venture that it was the Abbot who needed to learn humility,’ she commented. ‘One learns by asking questions, and both the questioner and the questioned can profit by the exchange.’

  ‘That is not how the Abbot thinks. Anyway, it is a pleasant enough place to be…for a while.’ Brother Metellus turned and pointed. ‘We have reminders, too, that people have been living here from the time beyond time.’

  They found themselves staring at a strange standing stone, a tall menhir that stood almost three times Fidelma’s height.

  ‘Local people call it the Virgin’s Menhir, and a little way from here is a large cairn which marks the last resting-place of an important chieftain who died long before the Romans came to these lands. The islanders tell great tales of this champion.’

  But even with these fascinating sights and stories, it was not long before the couple realised they had traversed the complete island and seen everything.

  Fidelma was confirmed in her frustration that she was a prisoner on this small rock of an island. However, the keening wind, the gusting little white billows on the sea, with the heavy grey clouds and a mist that seemed to hang like a shroud above the waters, were evidence that there was nothing else to do. So they walked slowly back to the shelter of the homesteads.

  A few people were outside tending the small patches where fruit and vegetables grew, but not many. Most people were inside, for this was a fishing community and in such weather, no one could put out to sea. The boats were bobbing up and down, tied together, in the comparative shelter of the harbour.

  Fidelma looked longingly towards the shrouded mainland.

  ‘So who was this founder of the abbey to which you belong?’ asked Eadulf of Brother Metellus by way of distraction.

  ‘Gildas was his name. He was one of the Britons who fled from the Saxon invasions of his land, as did many of the ancestors of these people here,’ replied Brother Metellus.

  ‘I am aware that the ancestors of my people are but recently settled on that island,’ Eadulf acknowledged.

  ‘Let us go out of the wind and have a cider to keep the chill at bay,’ Brother Metellus suggested tactfully.

  Seated before the smouldering fire inside of Brother Metellus’ cabin, with cider to drink, Eadulf prompted him: ‘You were telling us of this man Gildas who founded the abbey you served in.’

  ‘His story is set against the settlement of your ancestors on the island of Britain, and I would not wish to say anything you might take amiss,’ Brother Metellus replied frankly.

  ‘How can one take history amiss, unless it is contrary to truth?’ queried Eadulf. ‘You are a Roman. Surely, in your wandering through the lands that were once conquered and ruled by Roman armies, you have met with all sorts of stories. You will know that to shut your ears to people’s views of the history of your ancestors is to blind yourself to truth and progress.’

  Often, Fidelma reflected to herself, Eadulf would surprise her by his deep insight into the nature of people. She glanced at Brother Metellus. ‘Tell us about this Gildas,’ she invited. ‘I think I might know of the man.’

  Brother Metellus sat back, taking a sip of his drink first.

  ‘He was born in the year when the great general of the Britons called Arthur defeated the Saxons at Badon Hill, on whose slopes nearly a thousand Saxon princes were said to have been slaughtered.’

  Eadulf stirred uncomfortably but he had often heard the stories from his own people of how they wrested control of the lands from the Britons and slaughtered them. He could not protest at hearing the story as seen from another viewpoint.

  ‘That was about a century and a half ago. Then there were two decades of peace between the two peoples before that black day at Camlann when Arthur was slain. After that, the Saxons began to move westward again and Gildas and many other refugees fled here. He took sanctuary on the sister island to this.’

  ‘The sister island?’ queried Fidelma, stirring herself from her thoughts about the sea raiders that had been occupying her all day. She tried to concentrate on the conversation.

  ‘The island of Houad. It means “the duck” and this island is called “little duck”. Houad is a slightly larger island than this, just to the north-west. Gildas lived and worked there until the Prince of Bro-Waroch invited him to cross to the mainland, to the Rhuis peninsula, and establish a community there. It was there he wrote his famous work on the ruin and conquest of Britain.’

  ‘De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae,’ muttered Fidelma, surprising both Eadulf and Brother Metellus. ‘I have r
ead it. There is a copy in the great scriptorium in the abbey at Menevia in Dyfed. I read it when I was there.’ Then, glancing at Eadulf, she added: ‘As I recall, he blamed several of the kings of the Britons and clergy for their squabbling which allowed the Saxons to conquer the country. Didn’t Gildas believe that the Angles and Saxons were sent to Britain as instruments of God’s wrath?’

  ‘I also took the opportunity of reading that book while I was in the abbey,’ Brother Metellus responded. ‘It is obvious that you know the work, Fidelma of Cashel. It is true that after this general called Arthur was killed, there was no one strong enough to unite the Britons against the Saxons,’ he conceded. ‘They quarrelled among themselves. Gildas likened the Britons to the Israelites, God’s chosen people, who lost their faith and so were to be punished by God. He called on the prophecies of Jeremiah to foretell a bleak outlook for his people unless the Britons turned aside from their immoral course. He was a man of asceticism and fervour. Of course, there are other great works of Gildas, which they have at the abbey — like his letters on pastoral questions and the reform of the Church and his work on penance…Your own Columbanus admired his work and spoke of him as Gildas Sapiens — Gildas the Wise.’

  ‘So this Gildas founded an abbey here?’ prompted Eadulf.

  ‘On the peninsula called Rhuis.’

  ‘And that is where he died?’

  ‘No, he did not die there but decided, after a while, to return to Houad. It is there that he died about a century ago. His body was taken back to the abbey and he is buried behind the high altar.’

  ‘Is it a large abbey?’

  ‘There are about fifty souls in the community.’

  ‘Is it a conhospitae, a mixed house?’

  Brother Metellus shook his head, slightly scandalised. ‘I am told it used to be, but when Abbot Maelcar took over, he introduced the Rule of Benedict. When I joined the abbey, the community was all committed to a life of celibacy.’