The Dove of Death (5 page)

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.

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.

‘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 read 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.’

‘And this Abbot…Abbot Maelcar, you said?’

‘Abbot Maelcar, indeed. He is a man of Bro-Waroch.’

‘I know little of this land of Bro-Waroch,’ Eadulf said, ‘yet I am confused. Some seem to call it Bro-Erech and some Bro-Waroch. Which is the correct name, and is it a large kingdom?’

‘From the time of King Alain’s father it has been called Bro-Waroch and it is, indeed, a large kingdom. I heard its history from people as I travelled through it. The earliest settlers from Britain had to regain some of the territory to drive the Frankish incursions back to the east. They say it was Caradog Freichfras of Gwent who founded the kingdom.’ Brother Metellus sniffed in disapproval before continuing. ‘The people, being frontiersmen continually fighting for their existence against the Franks, became a tough and vicious lot. Harsh lives make harsh morals. So it was for the first century of its existence as a kingdom. That left its mark on the lines of the kings. Canao, for example, killed three of his brothers to claim the kingdom. I am told that he died sixty years ago.’

‘What or who is this Waroch, then?’

‘He was an earlier King than Canao. After Canao died, his one surviving brother, Macliau, became King – and when
he
died, his son, another Canao, became King. Then he died and Judicael of Domnonia claimed the kingdom. In fact, Judicael claimed kingship of all the Bretons and also descent from Waroch. So he named the kingdom as Bro-Waroch, the country of Waroch.’

‘I thought Alain Hir was King of the Bretons?’ Fidelma said.

‘He is the son of Judicael,’ Brother Metellus confirmed. ‘Judicael died about ten years ago, but it was he who merged the two kingdoms of Domnonia and Bro-Warwoch into one.’

‘You sound disapproving?’

‘I am a Roman. It matters not to me the machinations of these kings. I care only for the souls of the people. Meanwhile I am content with the simple life I lead. Alain Hir is a good King, so far as kings go.’

Fidelma smiled slightly. ‘If you have so little time for kings, perhaps you have little time for authority – hence your problem with your Abbot?’

‘Not so.’ Brother Metellus grimaced sourly. ‘Kings are, perhaps, a necessary evil. Before my own people sank into the stupidity of emperors, they had a good system –
res publica
, “affairs of the public”. Every year the people elected consuls from the Senate to rule them.’

‘And who were the people who comprised the
comitia centuriata
who elected the consuls, my Roman friend?’ Fidelma asked sweetly.

Brother Metellus stared at her in surprise. ‘Why, the citizens of Rome.’

‘But wealth governed a man’s ability to be part of this Roman democracy,’ countered Fidelma. ‘As the vote had to be made in Rome itself, the rural people never had a chance to participate. What’s more, the rich always voted first and separately – and as the declaration of the result was made on a simple majority as soon as the first section voted, the poor hardly ever voted at all. And consuls could only be chosen from the Senate, whose membership for life was already made from those patrician families. No citizen was free to address that assembly without the consent of the magistrates and tribunes, and they alone had the right to debate matters.’

Brother Metellus’ surprise turned into an expression of amazement. Fidelma felt moved to explain.