He stared at it, eyes widening in recognition. The emblem of the Niadh Nasc, the order of the Golden Chain or Collar, was a venerable Muman nobiliary fraternity which had sprung out of the ancient elitewarrior guards of the Kings of Cashel. The honour was in the personal presentation of the Eoghanacht King of Cashel, and each recipient observed personal allegiance to him, being given, in turn, a cross to wear which had originated from an ancient solar symbol — for it was said that the origins of the honour were shrouded in the mists of time. Some scribes claimed that the Order had been founded almost a thousand years before the birth of Christ.
The man from Laigin knew that no ordinary religieuse would be wearing such a symbol. He had apparently remembered that the boy had addressed her as ‘lady’. Now he cleared his throat nervously and moved his head forward in a bow.
‘I am forgetting my manners, lady. I am Toca Nia of Clan Baoiscne. I was once commander of the bodyguard of Faelan, the late King of Laigin. Whom am I addressing?’
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’
The man’s astonishment was evident.
‘The sister of Colgu of Cashel? The dalaigh who appeared in the dispute between Muman and Laigin and …?’
‘Colgu is my brother,’ she interrupted.
‘I know your reputation, lady.’
‘I am only an advocate and a religieuse bound on a pilgrimage to Iberia.
‘Only?’ Toca Nia laughed disarmingly. ‘I realise now that I have seen you before, but I did not recognise you until you spoke your name.’
It was now Fidelma’s turn to be surprised.
‘I do not recall our meeting.’
‘No reason why you should, for we did not actually meet,’ he explained. ‘I merely saw you from across a crowded abbey hall. It was in the Abbey of Ros Ailithir, well over a year ago. After Faelan, my king, had died, I continued on for a while in the service of the young King of Laigin, Fianamail. I accompanied him, the Abbot Noe of Fearna and the Brehon Fornassach, to the Abbey, where you revealed the plot to set Laigin and Muman at war with each other.’
It seemed a lifetime ago, reflected Fidelma. Could it only have been a year or so ago?
‘A strange place to meet again,’ she remarked courteously. ‘How is Fianamail, the Laigin King? A fiery and tempestuous young man, as I recall.’
Toca Nia smiled and nodded.
‘I left his service after Ros Ailithir. I think that I had had enough of war and being a professional warrior. I had heard that the Prince ofMontroulez sought a man to train his horses. I have been successful in that field. I spent a year at his court and was returning to Laigin when …’
He gestured eloquently with his hand towards the sea. The gesture drew Fidelma back to the situation. She turned and saw, to her surprise, that the line of jagged rocks were receding in the distance. Once again Murchad had displayed his seamanship by manoeuvring his ship out of harm’s way.
Indeed, Murchad was coming from the stern deck towards them with a purposeful step.
Toca Nia turned to greet him.
‘Have you suffered injury?’ Murchad demanded, his keen eyes gliding swiftly over the broad-framed warrior.
‘None, thanks to the timely intervention of you and your crew, Captain.’
‘And your companions?’
Wenbrit came forward and answered for him.
‘Two sailors from the crew. One will be a little the worse for the ordeal, but the other may take a few days to recover. His head was badly gashed by the rocks when he went in.’
‘What ship were you on?’ Murchad asked the survivor.
‘The ship was called the Morvaout — we would call that The Cormorant, I think.’
Murchad examined the man keenly.
‘Was she a pilgrim ship?’
Toca Nia smiled. ‘A trading ship, taking wines and olive oil to Laigin, and me along with it.’
Fidelma decided to intervene.
‘This is Toca Nia, one time commander of the King of Laigin’s bodyguard and more lately a trainer of horses for the Prince of … of where?’
‘Montroulez is a small mainland princedom on the north coast of Little Britain.’
‘What was your captain thinking of, by steering his ship in such dangerous waters?’ was Murchad’s next question.
The former warrior shrugged.
‘The captain died two days ago. That is why the ship came south to Ushant instead of sailing directly north for Laigin. The mate took over and, I fear, he was not a competent seaman nor could he handle some of the crew who refused to obey his orders. He was too fond of cider.’
‘Are you saying that the crew were in mutiny?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Something like that, lady.’
‘Were either of the survivors involved?’ demanded Murchad. ‘I don’t want mutineers on my ship.’
‘I could not say. There was a lot of chaos after the captain died.’
‘What did he die of? Was he killed in the mutiny?’
‘He simply dropped dead at the wheel. His heart stopped beating. I have seen a few such deaths, inexplicable deaths before and even after a battle. Death not from wounds but because the heart stopped beating.’
‘And the captain was the only competent sailor?’ pressed Murchad.
‘That is strange.’
‘Strange or not, you saw the result. Thankfully you were there to see it or else I would not be alive. Captain, I need a passage to Laigin.’
Murchad shook his head.
‘We are on a pilgrim voyage to the Holy Shrine of St James. I doubt that we will see Ardmore again for a full three weeks or more. But we are putting in to Ushant. You will soon pick up a ship sailing home from there.’
The former warrior smiled ruefully.
‘I’ll have to sell a few of these baubles.’ He indicated his bejewelled hand. ‘A year’s earnings have sunk to the bottom of the sea there.’ He jerked his hand back towards the rocks. ‘I own only what you see. Ah well, perhaps I can persuade a ship to take me on as crew.’
Murchad examined him doubtfully.
‘Do you have experience as a sailor?’
The man laughed uproariously.
‘By the gods of battle, not at all. I am a good warrior. I know battle strategy and the art of weaponry. I love horses and have an ability to train them. I know three languages. I can read and write and even cut some Ogham. But as for sailing a ship, no experience at all.’
Murchad pursed his lips.
‘Well, it will be up to you to find a passage at Ushant. You will excuse me?’ He turned back to his duties.
Wenbrit had come up with the spirits and handed the cup to the warrior.
‘You should change out of those wet clothes,’ he advised. ‘I think I can find some spare garments that will fit you.’
‘Good for you, youngster …’ The man paused in mid-sentence.
Fidelma noticed that the former warrior had frozen, the cup of spirits halfway to his mouth. His mouth was open as if to swallow the liquid, but his eyes were wide and staring. An expression of disbelief crossed his features; a nerve began to twitch in the side of his face.
Fidelma turned to see what had caused his abrupt change of attitude.
On to the deck had come Cian, looking around as if to see what had taken place since the pilgrims had been sent below by Murchad. He saw Fidelma and started to come towards them.
A curious animal sound came from the back of Toca Nia’s throat. The cup dropped from his hands, spilling its contents onto the deck.
Before Fidelma realised what he was going to do, the man launched himself across the deck towards an astonished Cian.
‘Bastard! Murderer!’
The two words cracked twice like a whip into the air.
Almost at the same time, he reached Brother Cian and his fist impacted straight into the dumbfounded man’s face. For a moment, Cian stood there, his nose a red, bloody pulp; his eyes wide with incredulity above it. Then he fell backwards, slowly, as if his fall was in defiance of gravity.