The Dove of Death

needed. Since the kidnapping of Alchú by Uaman, Lord of the Passes of Sliabh Mis, the infamous leper, the couple had been fiercely devoted to the welfare of the child and to Fidelma and Eadulf.

Sometimes it worried Fidelma. She tried to hide her concern that her role as a dálaigh, an advocate of the Laws of the Fénechus, often conflicted with the time she should have spent as a mother in her son’s company. Even Eadulf had raised complaints from time to time. In the last six months the couple had been summoned to Tara to investigate the death of the High King himself. Barely had they returned to Cashel when Abbot Ségdae of Imleach, the principal abbey of the Kingdom of Muman, had requested her presence at the major Church Council that was to meet in the city of Autun in the land of Burgundia. It was a council whose decision might have a great impact on the rites and theology of the Church in the Five Kingdoms. Now, after so long, it would be good to be home in Cashel.

She realised that Bressal was regarding her worried expression with some sympathy.

‘Cousin, you have no need to worry about the welfare of your child,’ he repeated.

‘It is a mother’s privilege,’ she replied simply, as she returned to her meal. After a swallow of the cider, she asked: ‘And what news from Tara? Sechnassach was a wise man, well praised by the bards and the people. His assassination has truly disrupted the peace of the Five Kingdoms.’

Bressal toyed with his food for a moment, as if in thought.

‘His death was certainly a great blow to the unity of the kingdoms,’ he agreed. ‘Thanks to your intervention, however, civil war was averted when you revealed the culprit.’

‘But what of the new High King — Cenn Fáelad the son of Blathmaic. Is he as wise as his brother, Sechnassach? How is he regarded by the people?’

‘There are many rumours…’ began Bressal.

Fidelma frowned impatiently. ‘What rumours?’

‘As you know, Cenn Fáelad is of the southern Uí Néill, of the line of the Síl nÁedo Sláine. The family are always quarrelling amongst themselves. Sechnassach was able to overcome petty squabbles by diplomacy. Cenn Fáelad seems to lack that touch. But many believe that he should not have been elected to the High Kingship.’

‘I presume that his derbhfine met — at least three generations in accordance with the law? Was not Cenn Fáelad legally nominated and elected?’ Fidelma sniffed in disapproval.

‘So I understand, but I am told that his Cousin Finsnechta Fledach, the son of Dúnchad, who was brother to Cenn Fáelad’s father, has raised objections. He feels that he should have been elevated to the High Kingship.’

‘The decision of the derbhfine must be respected under law,’ Fidelma pointed out.

‘Cenn Fáelad has tried to win his cousin over by appointing him lord of Brega in the Middle Kingdom.’

‘And Finsnechta is still not satisfied?’

‘The rumour is that he is trying to persuade the chiefs and provincial kings to rally to his cause to challenge his cousin. One rumour says that Finsnechta has sailed to Iona to seek the support of Abbot Adomnán.’

Fidelma looked grave. ‘So there are troubled times ahead?’

‘Your brother is determined to keep Muman out of the affair, for he sees it as an internal struggle between the Uí Néill only.’

‘A difficult path to tread, especially if the legitimate High King calls upon my brother for support, which he is entitled to do.’

‘It is a weakness of our kingship,’ sighed Bressal. ‘We have councils who nominate and elect our kings and thereafter have arguments on whether the decision was right or wrong. Our friends, the Saxons, simply say the eldest son of a king should inherit, no matter if they are good or bad, and if that King can keep the office by means of his sword, then he keeps it.’

‘Violentia praecedit jus,’ muttered Fidelma. Might before right. ‘It is not a good system.’

They finished their meal and Fidelma went to look in on Eadulf in the cabin. He was lying on the bunk, groaning a little in his sleep, but at least he was sleeping. Fidelma smiled before gently closing the cabin door and returning on deck to join her cousin.

The late afternoon had turned darker although the sun was still shining through the uniform grey layer of clouds covering the whole sky like ground glass. She also noticed that the wind had dropped — no, not dropped, but had veered around so that it was blowing against them now.

Gurvan greeted them, still at his place at the tiller.

‘A troubled sky,’ he muttered. ‘But no matter. We might have a storm — some lightning but without thunder. You can always read the signs in the sky.’

‘Will it delay our journey?’ asked Fidelma anxiously.

‘Bless you, not at all,’ replied Gurvan. ‘A few days of unsettled weather is to be expected at this time of year. Good days are sometimes followed by rain. It can be very changeable. Once beyond those islands,’ he thrust out a hand to indicate their direction, ‘through the passage that I mentioned, it should be fair sailing. The wind will turn again soon, have no worry.’

To the south lay the blurred outline of an island which Gurvan now identified as Hoedig, which he confided meant ‘duckling’, and before them was a great mass called Houad, the duck, towards which the ship tacked its way. The passage would bring them between these southern islands and the thrusting headland called Beg Kongell.

As Gurvan was explaining all this to Fidelma, his eyes suddenly narrowed. Almost at the same time, a voice called down from the masthead.

‘Sail ho! Dead ahead!’

Fidelma turned to see what had been spotted beyond the rising and falling of the high bow of the Barnacle Goose. She could only just make out the tiny speck on the horizon: as it grew closer, she saw that it was a vessel under full sail, moving rapidly with the changed wind behind it.

‘Call the captain,’ Gurvan shouted to one of the crew.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Fidelma.

‘That’s no merchant vessel,’ replied the mate. ‘It’s a fast-trimmed ship and heading this way.’

Murchad, followed by Bressal, appeared on deck. He sprang up the rigging and peered towards the vessel. His expression became worried.

‘She’s a fighting ship, right enough,’ he called down to Gurvan. He glanced up at the sails and then back to the oncoming vessel. ‘She has the wind behind her and she’s bearing down on us.’ His comment was a statement of the obvious but no one spoke for a moment. Then he snapped: ‘Prepare to go about — let’s get the wind behind us. I’ll head for the shelter of Hoedig.’ The island was visible nearby.

Gurvan was already shouting the necessary orders to the crew.

‘Is it serious, Captain?’ Bressal asked quietly.

The skipper of the Barnacle Goose considered a moment before he spoke.

‘The trade routes along the coast contain rich pickings for anyone who has no scruples about how they make a living. When you see a fast warship approaching in these waters, then it’s better to be safe than sorry. So we take it as serious but hope it is not.’

Bressal muttered something and hurried below.

The attention of the crew was now focused on turning the ship into the wind while, remorselessly, the sleek-built war vessel seemed to be straining, sails taut so that it was almost heeling over, bearing towards them, growing larger and larger. Fidelma grabbed at the railing as the Barnacle Goose began to turn, the deck shifting alarmingly beneath her feet, the oncoming vessel now behind them.

She saw Wenbrit, the cabin boy, poking his head above the hatch.

‘Wenbrit,’ she called, ‘make Brother Eadulf aware of what is happening and get him on deck. Don’t take no for an answer!’

The boy raised a hand to his forehead and disappeared below.

Almost at once, her Cousin Bressal reappeared. He had strapped on his war helmet and his sword and fighting knife, but she noticed that he held in his right hand the white hazel wand of office that denoted his status