The Dove of Death

marshy grounds where walking was difficult. Several times they had to resort to using the stony bed of the stream itself as an easier way than along the marshy riverbanks. But after a while, even the stream turned into a boggy waste and they had to look for other areas of dry land to seek a passage.

Whatever path the thieves had taken, they could not find it and they lost all signs of the movement of the pack animals and the passage of those who had taken them. But by that time, Fidelma was aware of the salt tang of the sea in the air and the mournful cry of the gulls that meant they were near to the northern coast of the peninsula. Trees began to appear again as they left the low-lying marshes, and the land became firm underfoot once more. The woodland rose on hills that formed a ridge along the coast separating the sea from marshland. Beyond the trees they could hear the gentle lapping of waves on the shore.

It did not take long to get through the woodland and then they emerged on a hill overlooking a deep inlet. On the top of a headland to their left rose a large sandstone fortress.

‘That is Brilhag,’ muttered Brother Metellus.

The outer walls rose about four times the height of a tall warrior and there was a tall tower to the seaward side. Fidelma realised that the great expanse of water before them was the Morbihan, or Little Sea. Brilhag looked very alien to the type of fortresses Fidelma was familiar with: it must have originally been of Roman construction. The complex was quite substantial. She could make out two warriors standing outside the tall wooden gates, their slouched postures showing they were bored with their duties. Their heads were turned towards the sea below them and not inland where Fidelma and her companions had emerged from the woodland.

Fidelma suggested they move back to the shelter of the treeline.

‘Well, there are no signs of the raiders’ ship anchored in this inlet.’ Eadulf pointed out the obvious. ‘It would certainly be an excellent place though, to keep a ship secure from prying eyes.’

‘There are other inlets and islands all along here,’ Brother Metellus said. ‘The ship could hide almost anywhere.’

‘I’d like to see inside this fortress first,’ Fidelma said.

‘Impossible,’ replied Brother Metellus. ‘If you think that the Lord of Brilhag is behind the attack on your ship, then the moment you approach the fortress, they will know why you have come.’

‘Aut viam inveniam aut faciam,’ replied Fidelma confidently. ‘I’ll either find a way or make one.’

It was only when a voice close by shouted harshly that they realised that they were being observed. They had been so closely engaged in examining the fortress of Brilhag that they had not seen the two men approaching until it was too late. They swung round to see two warriors, for such they proclaimed themselves by their long swords, which were sheathed, and shields, although they wore no war helmets or body armour. They were young and muscular men. One was short and stocky but with pleasant, even features, dark hair and eyes whose scrutiny seemed to indicate that he missed nothing. He spoke again, sharply. It was obviously an enquiry as to what they were doing in this place.

Brother Metellus took it on himself to answer and he was sparing with the full truth of the matter as he afterwards related the conversation in translation to his companions.

‘I am Brother Metellus, from the abbey. I am showing my companions, who are strangers to this place, our beautiful country.’

The two men glanced at one another but did not look reassured.

‘I do not recognise you,’ replied the spokesman suspiciously. ‘You have a foreign accent.’

‘One is not responsible for where one is born, my friend,’ replied Brother Metellus. ‘Merely for how we live our lives.’

‘Why are you spying on the mac’htiern’s fortress?’

‘I am showing my companions the amazing view.’

Fidelma and Eadulf, with their limited knowledge of the language of the Britons, had been trying to follow the conversation.

‘Tell him we are not spying on the fortress. We are simply strangers from the land of Hibernia,’ Fidelma instructed Brother Metellus.

‘We have never heard of it,’ replied the warrior, still suspicious.

‘It is the island called Iwerzhon,’ explained Brother Metellus, substituting the local name for the Latin one.

The warrior’s silent companion now spoke rapidly to him and he turned to Brother Metellus.

‘It may be that Macliau will desire to meet your companions,’ he announced. ‘You will accompany us to ascertain his wishes.’ And, as if in emphasis, he dropped a hand to his sword hilt.

Fidelma saw Eadulf tense and she surreptitiously shook her head.

‘Tell them that we shall be delighted to accompany them,’ she said to Brother Metellus, wondering if he was able to translate the humour correctly.

The warriors made no reply but the leader merely motioned with one arm in the direction of the fortress, indicating that they should precede him and his companion.

‘Óis carcre,’ muttered Eadulf in Fidelma’s own language. ‘We are prisoners.’

Fidelma smiled encouragingly at him.

‘Well, I wanted to examine the fortress,’ she said. ‘These warriors have made it easy for us to do so.’ She noticed that the warriors were regarding them suspiciously and she glanced at Brother Metellus’ gloomy features. As they walked along, she spoke to him loudly, wondering if the warriors knew Latin. ‘As you have told us, Brother, this is a magnificent view and this sea ahead of us is what you called the Morbihan?’

Realising she was speaking for the warriors’ benefit, the monk returned her smile, although with a little effort.

‘Exactly so. Beyond this headland of Brilhag are many islands. It is a beautiful area.’

They came to the gates in the sandstone walls. The sentinels, on observing their approach, had straightened up and assumed more rigid postures. One of their warrior companions shouted an order and the gates were immediately opened.

‘Inside!’ he commanded and, with Brother Metellus leading the way, they entered into a courtyard where they were called upon to halt. The great gates slammed shut behind them.

Then a voice called from somewhere above them.

A young man was leaning out of a window of a large building that towered over the courtyard. They could see that he was a slightly built youth, with a mop of fair hair, pale, sunken cheeks and watery eyes that might be light blue.

‘Why are these people here?’ His voice was a high, nasal drawl. Then he recognised the Roman. ‘Is that Brother Metellus?’

‘It is I, Macliau,’ confirmed the monk, stepping forward.

‘Then do not stand on ceremony. Enter.’ The young man glanced at the warriors. ‘There is no need for an escort, Boric,’ he said to the leading man and then disappeared from the window.

The dark warrior addressed as Boric stepped forward and opened the great door for the visitors with an apologetic look.

‘All strangers must be regarded with suspicion until they are shown to be friends,’ he said in Latin, which surprised them. So he had understood them the whole time.

‘Ad utrumque paratus,’ Fidelma smiled with the phrase given to one who is prepared for all eventualities.

The warrior actually grinned. ‘Semper paratus,’ he answered. Always prepared.

They entered into the great hall of the fortress. Logs blazed in the large fireplaces at both ends of the chamber in spite of the summer weather. Tapestries of bright colours and with fascinating imagery, presumably from the myths, hung on most of the walls, and in between, at regular paces, were displayed ornate shields. A great woven carpet, of matching bright colours, spread across the central area of the floor, which was of stone flags. On this was a stout, carved oak table set ready for feasting with bowls of fruit on it. Around the table were several wooden chairs. More comfortable chairs were placed in front of the fires while other chairs seemed dotted at haphazard in various parts of the hall. Here and there was a polished wooden chest or small table, and