The Dove of Death

‘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 made 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.