‘They swim with a rope tied around them.’
‘Then that is what I shall do.’
‘But …’
Murchad caught her eye and saw the stubbornness in it. He gave a deep sigh.
‘Very well.’ He called to his mate. ‘Gurvan!’
The Breton came forward.
‘Fidelma is going to take advantage of the calm weather to take a swim near the ship. Make sure a rope is tied around her waist and fastened to the rail of the ship.’
Gurvan raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to protest but then decided to remain silent.
‘What point do you wish to swim from, lady?’ he asked with resignation.
Fidelma smiled: ‘Which is the leeward side? Isn’t that what you call the sheltered side of the vessel?’
Gurvan’s facial muscles twitched and for a moment Fidelma thought he was going to return her smile.
‘That is so, lady,’ he replied gravely. He indicated the starboard side of the vessel. ‘You will find the waters sheltered there, although there is no wind blowing at present. However, I expect when the wind does come, it will come upon the port side of the vessel.’
‘Are you a prophet, Gurvan?’
The Breton shook his head. ‘See those clouds to the north-east? They’ll bring along a wind soon, so do not delay too long in the water.’
Fidelma stepped to the railing and looked down on the waves. They seemed tranquil enough.
She started to take off her robe, but paused at the sight of Gurvan’s anguished features.
‘Have no fear, Gurvan,’ she said merrily. ‘I shall be keeping my undergarments on.’
Gurvan seemed to be flushing in spite of his dark-skinned complexion.
‘Is it not considered a sin among the religieux to strip oneself in front of others?’
Fidelma grimaced cynically and quoted: ‘“But the Lord God called the man and said to him, ‘Where are you?’ He replied, ‘I heard the sound as you were walking in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, and I hid myself.’ God answered, ‘Who told you that you were naked?’” I believe that what God was saying is that the sin is in the mind of the beholder, not in his eye.’
Gurvan looked uncomfortable.
‘Anyway, as I said, I shall not be naked. Now, let me have my swim before this wind comes upon us.’
And without more ado, Fidelma took off her robe. She always wore undergarments of srol — silks and satins imported from Gaul merchants. It was a habit that she had grown accustomed to as a member of the royal house of Cashel — the only luxury clothing Fidelma indulged in, for nothing was so pleasant than the texture of the foreign material next to her skin. Those of wealth and rank could, of course, luxuriate in buying fine materials. Others, she knew, used wool and linen undergarments.
When she was a young student, under her mentor the Brehon Morann of Tara, Fidelma had been surprised to learn that there were even laws relating to dress. The Senchus Mor laid down the rules relating to the dress laws of children in fosterage. Each child had to have two complete sets of clothes so that one might be worn while the other was being washed. The clothes of the sons and daughters of kings, then chiefs … going down to those of the lower ranks in society, were all enumerated according to their social grades and, while in fosterage — the form of receiving education — children had always to be dressed in their best on festival days.
Fidelma caught herself musing on these things and suddenly felt a pang of isolation. How she wished that Eadulf were here! At least she could talk with him about such matters, even if they did tend to disagree. She badly needed his help in trying to solve this puzzle. Perhaps he could see something which she had overlooked.
She saw that Gurvan was standing with a long length of rope, his eyes averted from her.
‘I am ready, Gurvan. I swear, I am decently clothed.’
Gurvan reluctantly raised his eyes.
It was true that Fidelma’s garments were not outrageous but neither did they entirely hide her well-proportioned figure; a youthful form that seemed to vibrate with the joy of a life at odds with her religious calling.
He swallowed nervously.
‘Show me how to tie this rope around me,’ she coaxed him.
He moved forward, the rope end in his hand.
‘It is best to fix it round your waist, lady. I shall tie a secure knot that is also easy to undo — a reef-knot.’
‘I have seen how it is tied. Let me try it and you can check that I have done so correctly.’
She took the rope end from his hands and placed it around her waist and then, concentrating, she turned the rope.
‘Right over left and left over right … isn’t that the way?’
Gurvan examined the knot and gave his approval.
‘Exactly right. I shall tie the other end by a similar knot to the rail here.’
He suited his words to action. The rope was long enough for her to swim the entire length of the ship and back.
Fidelma raised her hand in acknowledgement, went to the rail and dived gracefully over the side.
The water was colder than she was expecting, and she came up from the dive gasping and almost winded at the impact. It took her a few moments to recover and grow used to the temperature. She took a few lazy strokes. Fidelma had learnt to swim almost before she had begun to toddle, in the Suir River, called the ‘sister river’, which flowed a short distance from Cashel. She had no fear of water, simply a healthy respect for it, for she knew what it was capable of.
Among the people of Eireann, it was a curiosity that while many of the inland folk learnt to swim in the rivers, most of those who lived in coastal fishing communities, particularly along the West coast, refused to learn. Fidelma remembered asking an old fisherman the reason for this because if their boats sank, surely it was necessary to be able to swim? He had shaken his head.
‘If our boats sink, then better to go straight to a watery grave than die a longer and more agonised death trying to survive in these seas.’
It was true that the brooding, rocky coastline with its frothy, angry waters was no place to go swimming. Perhaps the old fisherman had a point.
‘If God wants us to live then He will save us. There is no use struggling against fate.’
Fidelma had not pursued the conversation for it was not a subject of which most fishermen would speak. Indeed, the greatest curse that anyone could pronounce among these coastal folk was ‘A death from drowning on you!’
Fidelma lay back, floating on the rippling waters. The great black outline of The Barnacle Goose loomed high above her; the great sail wasstill hanging limply from the yard. She could see the dark form of Gurvan peering over the rail at her and she raised a languid arm and waved at him to indicate she was all right. He nodded and turned away.
Sighing, she closed her eyes, feeling the soft warmth of the sunshine on her face. The saltwater dried on her lips and she resisted the temptation to lick it off. She knew how incredibly thirsty it would make her.
Now she began to cast her mind over the situation but, try as she would, she could not concentrate entirely on the loss of poor Sister Muirgel. Instead, Cian came to mind. Cian! It was strange that immediately, words from the Book of Jeremiah came into her mind. ‘You have played the harlot with many lovers; can you come back to me?’ She shivered slightly. Why had that come to mind? Well, she knew that the words were apposite, but why quote Holy Scripture at all? There had been enough passages from Scripture quoted on this voyage! Perhaps it was catching.
She felt a moment of sympathetic sadness for Cian over his wound which had prevented him pursuing the profession of a warrior. She knew how his life had been governed by his physical prowess. He was vanity itself; vain of his body, vain of his ability with weapons, and vain of his belief that youthfulness was immortality. Wasn’t it Aristotle who had said that the young are permanently in a state of intoxication? That was the very word to describe the youthful Cian. He was intoxicated by his own youth, for youth was immortal; only the elderly grew old in his world.