‘It was evident that a man who did not have the use of his right arm could not row a skiff to the island, let alone bring the skiff back to the ship.’
Murchad seemed chagrined that he had not considered the fact.
‘I had not thought of that.’
‘He had to have an accomplice. He persuaded Crella to help him, as he has persuaded her now. Perhaps I should have tried to warn her about further involvement with Cian, but I doubt if she would have taken any notice of me. He always had a way with women. He can charm the birds from the trees when he needs to.’
‘Where will they go now? They surely can’t go back to Eireann.’
‘Who knows? Perhaps he will continue his journey to Mormohec the physician to see if his arm can be healed. Perhaps not. I feel sorry for poor Crella. She will be in for a rude awakening one day.’
‘What made her return to him if he had rejected her as a lover once before?’ demanded Murchad.
‘Maybe she has never learnt that if one is bitten once, one should be careful about being bitten twice. He will discard her when he feels that he has no more need of her. We will probably never see him back in Eireann but not from any feeling of guilt of what has happened on this voyage. His arrogance would not allow him to accept any culpability there. He will avoid the land of his birth to avoid any further witnesses who might charge him with being the “Butcher of Rath Bile”.’
‘So he will go free and unpunished?’
‘In these things, it is often the person who holds the real guilt who goes free while those they use as mere tools or dupes are punished.’
Not long after, the surviving band of pilgrims had set off from the port under the charge of Brother Tola. She had watched Brother Tola and Sister Ainder leaving with the less willing company of Brother Dathal and Brother Adamrae. Brother Bairne accompanied them, but he seemed as reluctant to go with them as they were to have him. Forgiveness did not seem to be a feature of the Faith shared by their little band.
Fidelma stayed in the port while The Barnacle Goose had its storm damage repaired. She took a room in a small tavern overlooking the harbour, resting and readjusting to the feeling of land under her feet and writing her report. When she heard that The Barnacle Goose was preparing to sail, she went down to the quay.
She went on board to say her farewells, especially to Mouse Lord with a gift of fish bought on the quay. The cat was limping slightly but recovering well from the knife-wound. He let her stroke him and purred for a few moments before turning his attention to more important matters, such as the fish she had laid down on the deck before him.
On the now familiar stern deck she had a final word with Murchad.
‘When do you set off to the Holy Shrine, lady? There have been several bands of pilgrims passing that way already since we docked. I would have thought that you would have gone by now.’
Fidelma was not worried about finding a suitable group to accompany.
‘There is an old proverb, Murchad. Choose your company before you sit down. I would not have chosen the travellers you had to transport as companions, had I known what was going to happen.’
Murchad chuckled broadly but he was still worried for her.
‘Do you intend to travel alone? I have a saying for you: is it not said that a healthy sheep will not spurn a scabby flock for company?’
Fidelma allowed one of her mischievous grins to mould her features.
‘I think you have reversed it, Murchad. The proverb is: there never was a scabby sheep which did not like to have the flock for company. But I thank you for the thought. No, I shall wait here for a few days, for there are many sheep coming through this port. I shall see if there is a flock that appeals to me. I might, as you say, even go on the journey alone.’
‘Is that wise, lady?’
‘They tell me that the bandits on the road between here and the Shrine are not many. I am sure the dangers of the road will be fewer than those I encountered on The Barnacle Goose.’
Murchad shook his head.
‘I still do not see how you finally realised that it was Sister Gorman who was the guilty one. Nor what my wife Aoife had to do with it.’
‘It was not your wife — I told you. It was the name Aoife and the story of Lir. Aoife who was the second of the three daughters of the King of Aran, in the story of the Children of Lir. Aoife was beautiful but Lir, the ocean god, married her young sister, Albha. Albha died and Lir then married her eldest sister Niamh. Niamh also died and finally Lir married Aoife.’
‘I vaguely remember the story,’ Murchad said, but without conviction.
‘Well, you will then remember that Aoife became jealous of those who were close to Lir, even though Lir did love her. It grew into such an obsession that she became full of bitterness and brooding evil and set out to destroy everything that loved Lir so that she could have him for herself. The barb of unreasonable jealousy lodged in her heart and she had to destroy. “Jealousy as cruel as the grave”, as Muirgel put it.’
‘I can see how that fits with Gorman but how …?’
‘I was curious that Gorman seemed so interested in how long I had known Cian, almost as soon as I stepped on the ship. Then Crella told me that Cian had slept with Gorman when I questioned her on the second day out. I dismissed these things from my mind. But a good dalaigh must be possessed of a retentive memory. I stored the facts. It was when I kept hearing those Biblical quotations about lust and jealousy that I started to realise that the answer must lie in that direction. Yet only when you mentioned the name of your wife, Aoife, and I thought of the jealousy of the character, did I realise what I should be looking for. An unreasoning, insane jealousy.
‘Cian slept with her one night and, in his arrogance, did not evenremember it until the last moment. Like Aoife, the wife of Lir, Gorman was unbalanced. That fact, her undisguised hatred, was so obvious that I had initially discounted her as a suspect.’
‘It was a pity that Sister Gorman escaped justice, then,’ reflected Murchad.
Fidelma considered the comment before replying.
‘Not so. She was demented. Taken by an illness that is just as debilitating as any other fever. I believe I can understand the depths of jealousy that are aroused in a woman if she feels that she has been betrayed by a man she has come to believe loves her.’
Fidelma flushed a little as she said it, remembering her own feelings.
‘Yet she killed. Should she not be punished?’
‘Ah, punishment. I fear that there is a new morality coming into our culture, Murchad. It’s the one thing that worries me about the Faith. The Penitentials of the Church are preaching punishment instead of compensation and rehabilitation as our native law states.’
‘Yet it is the teaching of the Faith.’ Murchad was bewildered. ‘How can you be a Sister of the Faith and not accept that teaching?’
‘Because it is a teaching of vengeance and not an act of justice. Our laws call for justice, not revenge. Juvenal said that vengeance is merely a joy to narrow, sick and petty minds. Blood cannot be washed out by blood. We must seek compensation for the victims and rehabilitation of the wrong-doer. Unless we do so we may enter into a continuing cycle of vengeance for vengeance and blood will continually flow. Those who make their laws a curse shall surely suffer from those same laws.’
‘Would you have preferred, then, to have the girl escape?’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘She would never have been able to escape from herself. Her mind was too far twisted by her madness so that I think, in this instance, she suffered an act of mercy.’
Gurvan came up and looked apologetically at them.
‘Tide’s on the turn, Captain,’ he told Murchad.
Murchad acknowledged him.
‘We must sail, lady,’ he said respectfully.
‘I hope your return to Ardmore will not be so adventurous as the journey here has been.’