Murchad speedily led the way along the path to the cove below.
Fidelma glanced behind and saw Father Pol’s arm raised in ablessing and then he was gone. His duty now was to ensure that his people were taken to a place of safety.
No word was spoken as the four hurried down the winding path to the quay where they had left their skiff. Only when they were in the boat, with Gurvan and Murchad pulling strongly towards The Barnacle Goose, did Cian meet Fidelma’s quizzical green eyes. He held their gaze and did not flinch.
‘I did not kill Toca Nia, Fidelma,’ he affirmed quietly. ‘I did not know he was dead until you came to Father Pol’s house to tell me. I swear it.’
Fidelma found herself almost believing him but she wanted to be sure. She could never trust Cian: she had learnt that lesson a long time ago.
‘There’ll be plenty of time to make your pleas of innocence later,’ she replied brusquely.
They were alongside the ship. Fidelma was almost the last on deck, for Murchad had already leapt on board and was bellowing orders. Gurvan followed her, bringing up the rear to secure the skiff.
‘Is everything squared away?’ demanded Murchad, as Gurvan joined him on the stern deck. The crew had already been roused by Murchad’s hail as they approached the ship.
‘Aye, Captain,’ called the mate, taking charge of the steering oar with the sailor called Drogon.
Fidelma went to take a stand by Murchad’s side. It seemed natural that she should.
‘What can we do, Murchad?’ she demanded, glancing towards the entrance of the bay.
His face was an emotionless mask, his sea-grey eyes narrowed as he gazed along the deep inlet. They could see the dark outline of the Saxon shipping coming around the southern headland, determined to block off their escape from the inlet. From their anchorage it was three kilometres to the mouth of the bay which was hardly more than a kilometre at its widest point. The sea raider had plenty of time to cut off any attempt they might make to escape.
‘They are tenacious, these Saxon devils,’ Murchad muttered. ‘I’ll say that for them. Their captain must have had some good sea sense to realise that we had doubled back past him the other night. That he was able to follow us here says much for him.’
‘There is no darkness now to hide us,’ Fidelma pointed out.
Murchad paused to shout orders that the pilgrims should remain below as he noticed that Cian, left to his own devices, had gone below to rouse his fellows with news of the arrival of the raider. Nowhe glanced ruefully up at the hazy blue sky with its tiny individual beads of white cloud, rippling along in high lines.
‘That’s for sure,’ he answered Fidelma. ‘That’s a mackerel sky up there — clear but unsettled. It’s not going to swallow us up either in darkness or in fog. If there was a mist, I might try to run out past him. Ha! That’s the first time you will find a sailor praying for a fog!’
Fidelma felt that he was talking merely to prevent her from panicking.
‘Don’t worry about me, Murchad. If we are to be attacked, let’s not go down without a fight of it.’
He regarded her with approval.
‘That’s not a religieuse speaking, lady.’
Fidelma returned his fierce grin.
‘It’s an Eoghanacht princess who speaks. Maybe it’s my fate to end my life as I began it, as a daughter of King Failbe Fland and sister to King Colgu. If we must go down fighting, we’ll make sure that we extract a high price from our foes.’
Gurvan left his position to join them. His face was without humour.
‘I, for one, am not going to go down fighting,’ he said. ‘A good retreat is better than a poor defence.’
Murchad knew Gurvan well and caught something in his mate’s voice.
‘Are you saying that you have something in mind?’
‘It’ll depend on the wind and sail again,’ Gurvan replied with a brief nod. ‘The Saxon is sure he has the better of us. He is hauled to by the Pointe de Pern to the north, ready to close with us should we make a run for it. Like a cat waiting to jump on a mouse, eh?’
‘It doesn’t need a sailor’s eye to see that,’ agreed Fidelma.
‘Has your eye taken in the islet which stands in front of us?’ Gurvan pointed along the bay.
‘I see it, about a kilometre distant from us,’ Murchad observed.
‘Now look at the Saxon ship,’ Gurvan said.
They did as he bid them.
The big oblong sail was being hauled down.
‘He plans to rely on his oars again to close with us. That didn’t work last time, as I recall,’ muttered Gurvan.
Murchad smiled approvingly for he had suddenly caught on to what his mate was suggesting.
‘I see what you mean. We’ll make for the islet first and pass along the south side out of his sight. He won’t know which exit we’ll use. It might give us a head start.’
Fidelma was frowning.
‘I am not sure that I am following this plan, Murchad.’
A wind rustled the furled sail and shook the rigging. The crew was waiting expectantly.
‘No time to explain,’ Murchad cried. ‘Let’s get underway!’ He turned and began to shout. ‘All hands! All hands to the sails!’
His crew sprang into action.
Fidelma stood back, watching the sailors hoisting the sail to catch the wind. Gurvan seized the steering oar, once more with Drogon. There was the usual exhilarating crack as the leather sail caught the breeze. The anchor was raised with some alacrity. Then The Barnacle Goose seemed to leap forward.
Across the waters of the bay they could hear a great shout go up from the sea raider. A cry of, ‘Woden!’ The blades of the oars were raised, the water sparkling in the sunlight, and the high prow of the ship seemed to cleave towards them.
As Gurvan had suspected, the Saxon was rowing to intercept them, keeping in the broad northern channel. The wind blew to the south-west and soon an arc of foam was feathering back from the bow of The Barnacle Goose as it strove to make the southern channel behind the shelter of the islet.
‘It’ll be dangerous,’ she heard Murchad cry.
‘True enough,’ replied his mate. ‘But I know these waters.’
‘I’ll get to the bow and signal you through the channel,’ replied Murchad.
Confused, Fidelma watched the captain go forward. Midships he paused and gave his men some orders. Half a dozen of them went below decks to return after a short while with some traditional longbows five feet in length and quivers of arrows. Murchad was taking no chances. If fight he had to, fight he would. By this time The Barnacle Goose had come behind the shelter of the islet. It seemed to speed by them, and as they emerged, she saw that the captain of the Saxon ship had hesitated, suspecting that his prey might attempt to take down its sails and put out the sea anchors to hide behind the island in a game of hide and go seek. Alternatively, The Barnacle Goose could attempt to double back and use the northern channel after all. The Saxon captain’s hesitation allowed The Barnacle Goose a fraction of time to gain a head start on its enemies by sailing straight through the southern channel behind the island. Once they realised what was happening, the Saxon ship clumsily turned around to go after them, its oars splashing frantically with the sailors’ endeavous.
Gurvan grinned at Fidelma and held up his thumb.
‘All we have to pray, lady, is that her captain decides to cram on his sail and come racing after us.’
Fidelma was still confused.
‘I thought the Saxon ship was faster under sail with the wind behind it.’
‘Well remembered — but let’s hope he has not heard the old saying, one glance in front is worth two behind.’
There was an expression of amusement on Gurvan’s face which told Fidelma nothing.