Wenbrit was grinning.
‘Seasickness, eh? Well, I suppose the best of people fall prey to it. Yet she looked well enough when she came on board. I would not have thought that she would be the one to fall ill.’
‘I tried to tell her that lying down in an enclosed space without light or ventilation was not going to cure her,’ Fidelma explained, ‘but she would not take advice from me.’
‘Nor me, lady. But sickness takes people different ways.’ Wenbrit aired his philosophy seriously as if it were born of many years’ experience. Then he grinned. ‘Wait here, I’ll get your dunnage.’
‘My what?’ It was the second time she had heard the unfamiliar word.
Wenbrit assumed the expression of one who is teaching a very backward person.
‘Your baggage, lady. Now that you are on shipboard you’ll have to get use to sailor’s jargon.’
‘I see. Dunnage. Very well.’
Wenbrit went to knock on the door of the cabin which Fidelma had just left, and disappeared inside for a few moments, emerging with her bag.
‘Come on, lady, I will show you to your cabin.’
He turned and started back up the companionway to the main deck.
‘Is the cabin not on this deck?’ asked Fidelma as they went up.
‘There is a for’ard deck cabin available. It even has a natural light in it. Murchad thought that it would be more fitting for …’ The boy stopped himself.
‘And what has Murchad been saying?’ she demanded, knowing full well the answer.
The boy looked uncomfortable.
‘I was not supposed to let you know.’
‘Murchad has a big mouth.’
‘The captain only wants you to be comfortable, lady,’ Wenbrit replied, a trifle indignantly.
Fidelma reached out a hand and laid it on the boy’s arm. She spoke with firmness.
‘I told your captain that I did not want special privileges. I am just another religieuse on this voyage. I would not want others to be treated unfairly. To start with, stop calling me “lady”. I am Sister Fidelma.’
The boy said nothing, only blinked a little at her rebuke. Then Fidelma felt guilty for her cold attitude.
‘It’s not your fault, Wenbrit. I asked Murchad not to tell anyone. Since you know, will you keep my secret?’
The boy nodded.
‘Murchad only wanted you to be comfortable on his ship,’ he repeated and added defensively: ‘It’s not his fault, either.’
‘You like your captain, don’t you?’ Fidelma smiled at the protective tone in the boy’s voice.
‘He is a good captain,’ Wenbrit replied shortly. ‘This way, lady … Sister.’
The boy led her across the main deck, beyond the tall oak mast with its single great leather sail, still cracking in the wind. She glanced upand saw that a design had been painted on the front of the saiclass="underline" it was that of a great red cross, the centre of which was enclosed in a circle.
The boy saw her looking upwards.
‘The captain decided to have that painted,’ he explained proudly. ‘We carry so many pilgrims these days that he thought it would be most appropriate.’
The boy moved off again and Fidelma followed as he led the way to the high prow of the ship across which the long-angled mast cleaved upwards towards the sky, bearing on a cross yard, the steering sail. It was a smaller sail than the mainsail and this helped control the direction of the vessel. The bow of the ship rose so that, as at the stern, it presented an area where there were a number of cabins on the main deck level. Like the stern deck area there were some steps leading up to a deck on top of them. Two square openings covered by grilles looked out on the main deck on either side of an entry which led to the cabins beyond.
Wenbrit opened this door and went in. Fidelma followed and found herself in a small passageway beyond with three doors, one to the right, one left and one straight ahead. The boy opened the door to the right of the entrance, the starboard side of the ship — Fidelma registered the term.
‘Here we are, lady,’ he announced cheerfully as he opened it and stood back to allow her to go inside.
The cabin was still gloomy, compared with the brightness on deck, but not as gloomy as the stifling cabins below decks. There was a grilled window covered with a linen curtain for privacy which could be drawn aside to allowed more light within. The cabin was furnished with a single bunk and a table and chair. It was frugal but functional and, at least, there was fresh air. Fidelma looked around with approval. It was better than she had been expecting.
‘Who usually sleeps here?’ she asked.
The boy deposited her bag on the bunk and shrugged.
‘We sometimes take special passengers,’ he said, as if brushing the subject aside.
‘Who sleeps in the cabin across the corridor?’
‘On the port side? That’s Gurvan’s cabin,’ replied the boy. ‘He is the mate and a Breton.’ He pointed towards the bow where she had noticed a third door. ‘The privy is in there. We call it the head, because it is at the head of the ship. There is a bucket in there.’
‘Does everyone use it?’ Fidelma asked, wrinkling her nose a little in distaste and mentally calculating the number of people on the ship.
Wenbrit grinned as he realised why she was asking the question.
‘We try to restrict the use of this one. I have mentioned that there is another privy at the stern of the ship so you should not be bothered much.’
‘What is the position with regard to washing?’
‘Washing?’ The boy frowned as if it were something he had not considered.
‘Does no one wash on board this ship?’ she pressed. Fidelma was used, as with most people of her background, to having a full bath in the evening and a brief wash in the morning.
The boy grinned slyly.
‘I can always bring a bucket of seawater for a morning wash. But if you are talking of bathing … why, when we are in harbour, or if we get a calm sea, we can take a swim over the side. There are no baths aboard The Barnacle Goose, lady.’
Fidelma accepted this resignedly. From her previous voyages by sea she had suspected that washing would not be a priority on shipboard.
‘Can I tell the captain that you are satisfied with the cabin, lady?’
Fidelma realised that the boy was anxious. She gave him a reassuring smile.
‘I will see the captain at midday.’
‘But the cabin?’ pressed the boy.
‘It is very satisfactory, Wenbrit. But do try to call me Sister in front of the others.’
Wenbrit raised his hand to place his knuckles at his forehead in a form of salute and grinned. He turned and scurried off about his duties.
Fidelma shut the cabin door and looked around. So this was to be her home for the next week, provided that they had a fair wind. It was no more than seven feet in length and five feet in width. The table, now that she was able to examine it more closely, was a hinged piece of wood attached to one wall. A three-legged stool stood in one corner. A bucket filled with water stood in another. She presumed that this was for drinking or washing. She tasted the water on her finger. It was freshwater, not seawater — for drinking, she decided. The window, which was at chest-level and which looked onto the main deck, was eighteen inches broad by a foot high, with two struts across it. A lantern hung on a metal hook in one corner; a tinder box and a stump of candle were visible on a small shelf beneath it.
The cabin was well-equipped.
She had a moment of guilt, thinking of her fellow religieux crammedin their airless, lightless cabins below decks. However, the moment passed into thankfulness that she would, at least, be able to breathe fresh air on the voyage and not have to put up with someone else sharing her living-quarters.
She turned to her bag and took out her spare clothes for she saw that there were a number of pegs on which they could be hung. Fidelma did not, like some women, carry treatments for her skin — red berry juice, for instance, to stain her lips — but she did have a ciorbholg — a comb bag containing her combs and mirrors. Fidelma usually carried two ornamented bone combs, not through personal vanity but because it was the custom among her people to keep one’s hair in good condition and untangled. A fine head of hair was much admired.