Although Fidelma, like most women of her class, kept her fingernails carefully cut and rounded, for it was considered shameful to have ragged nails, she did not go so far as those who put crimson dye on them. Nor did she use, as some did, the juice of black or blue berries to darken her eyebrows or paint her eyelids. Nor did she heighten the natural colours of her cheeks by using dye extracted from the sprigs and berries of the elder tree to make an artificial blush. She was careful about her personal toiletry without disguising her natural features.
She unpacked her ciorbholg and set it on the table. The most bulky part of her baggage was, in fact, two taigh liubhair, small satchel books. When the Irish religieux had begun their peregrinatio pro Christo during the previous centuries, the learned scribes of Ireland had realised that missionaries and pilgrims would need to take liturgical works and religious tracts to help them spread the word of the new Faith among the pagans, and that such books had to be small enough to carried by them. Fidelma had brought with her a Missal, measuring fourteen by eleven millimetres. Her brother, King Colgu, had given her a second volume of the same size to while away the time on her long journey. It was A Life of St Ailbe, the first Christian Bishop of Cashel and patron saint of Muman. She carefully hung these book satchels on the pegs with her clothes.
Then she stood back, surveyed her unpacking, and smiled. There was nothing more to do before the midday meal. She could lie back on the bunk, head resting upon her clasped hands and, for the first time since she had closed Sister Muirgel’s door on his pleading features, allow herself a moment to think about the extraordinary coincidence of meeting Cian again.
However, as she stretched out gratefully, there was a high-pitched squeal and something heavy and warm landed on Fidelma’s stomach.She let out a shriek and something black and furry, emitting another strange cry, leapt from her stomach onto the ground.
Shaken, Fidelma sat up. A thin black cat was sitting regarding her with bright green eyes, its sleek fur coat glistening in the rays of the sun which shone through the window. The animal uttered a low ‘miaow’ as it gazed inquisitively upon her and then calmly proceeded to lick its paw before rhythmically drawing it over its ear and eye.
There was a scrabbling sound outside the cabin door, which opened to reveal Wenbrit, breathless and worried.
‘I heard your scream, lady,’ he panted. ‘What is it?’
Fidelma was chagrined; she pointed at the source of her discomfiture.
‘The creature took me unawares. I didn’t realise that you had a cat on board.’
Wenbrit relaxed; he smiled broadly.
‘That’s the ship’s cat, lady. On a vessel like this, a cat is needed to keep down the rats and mice.’
Fidelma shivered slightly at the thought of rats.
Wenbrit reassured her. ‘Don’t worry. They never venture up near people but get below in the bilge or sometimes in the stores. Mouse Lord here keeps them controlled.’
The cat had now jumped back up onto Fidelma’s bunk, curled itself into a snug bundle and seemed to be fast asleep.
‘She seems at home here,’ Fidelma observed.
The boy nodded.
‘It’s a male cat, lady,’ he corrected. ‘Yes, Mouse Lord likes to sleep in this cabin. I should have warned you about him. Don’t worry, I’ll remove him for you.’
He started forward but Fidelma laid a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Leave him alone, Wenbrit. He can also occupy the cabin. I don’t mind cats. I was just startled when it … when he jumped on me.’
The boy shrugged.
‘You have only to let me know, if he is being a nuisance.’
‘What name do you call him?’
‘Luchtighern — Mouse Lord.’
Fidelma grinned as she regarded her new travelling companion.
‘That was the name of the cat who dwelt in the Cave of Dunmore and defeated all the warriors of the King of Laigin who were sent against him. Only when a female warrior came to fight him did he succumb.’
The boy regarded her in puzzlement.
‘I have never heard of such a cat.’
‘It’s just an ancient story. Who named him Luchtighern?’
‘The captain. He knows all the stories although I can’t remember him telling me that one.’
‘I suppose had it been a she-cat he would have called her Baircne, ship-heroine, after the first cat to arrive in Eireann in the barque of Bresal Bec.’ Fidelma mused.
‘But it’s a male cat,’ protested the boy.
‘I know,’ she assured him. ‘Well, we will not disturb Mouse Lord any further.’
After Wenbrit left, Fidelma returned to her bunk and lay carefully back with the cat curled up snugly at her feet. Its warm, purring presence was curiously comforting. She closed her eyes for a moment, and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. What had she been thinking of before the cat arrived? Ah yes — Cian. Her mouth hardened. How could she have been such a fool? Her youth and lack of experience were her only excuses.
She had imagined that Cian had gone out of her life for ever when she was eighteen years old, leaving only painful memories. Now, here he was again, and she was going to have to endure him in the restricted confines of this ship for at least a week. She felt an anxiety about her emotions. Why have this violent reaction if she had recovered from the experience of her youth — if it had not been haunting her ever since her days at Tara? Perhaps it was the fact that she had never dealt properly with the experience, that caused her to feel such anger when she saw him again.
Cian! How could she have been so naive? How could she have let him dupe her and tear her soul apart?
She had forgiven him for his behaviour several times, even rejecting the advice of her best friend Grian, who told her to forget Cian and turn him away. But she had not turned him away and each time he erred she was torn apart by unhappiness. As a result, her work as a student suffered until she was called before the aging Brehon Morann.
She could recall the scene vividly, feel those same emotions which had gripped her as she stood before her old mentor.
Brehon Morann gazed at Fidelma with stern but sympathetic eyes.
‘You have done yourself little credit this day, Fidelma,’ he had begun ominously. ‘It seems that you have lost your ability to concentrate on the simplest lessons.’
Fidelma’s jaw came up defensively.
‘Wait!’ The Brehon Morann raised a frail hand as if he anticipatedthe justifications which rose to her lips. ‘Is it not said that the person unable to dance blames the unevenness of the floor?’
Fidelma coloured hotly.
‘I know the reason why you have not concentrated on your studies,’ the old man went on in a firm, calm tone. ‘I am not here to condemn you. I will, however, tell you the truth.’
‘What is the truth?’ she demanded, still irritated, though she realised that the irritation lay more with herself than anyone else.
Brehon Morann regarded her with unblinking grey eyes.
‘The truth is that you must discover what is the truth, and that discovery must be made soon. Otherwise you will not succeed in your studies.’
Fidelma’s lips thinned as she pressed them close together for a moment.
‘Are you saying that you will fail me?’ she demanded. ‘That you will fail my work?’
‘No. You will fail yourself.’
Fidelma let out a low, angry breath. She stared at the Brehon Morann for a moment before turning to leave.
‘Wait!’
She was halted by Brehon Morann’s quiet yet commanding voice. Unwillingly, she turned back to him. He had not moved.