Fidelma paused watching as two of these craft came ashore towing the carcass of a great beast of the sea behind them.
She had seen a basking shark brought ashore only once before and presumed that the beast was such an creature.
Cass had never seen anything like it and he moved eagerly forward to examine it.
‘I had heard a story that the Blessed Brendan, during his great voyage, once landed on the back of such a monster thinking it was an island. Yet this beast, big as it is, does not look like an island,’ he called across his shoulder to her.
Fidelma responded to his excitement.
‘The fish Brendan is reported to have landed on was said to be far bigger. When Brendan and his companions sat down and made a fire to cook their meal, the fish, feeling the heat, sank into the sea and they barely escaped with their lives into their boat.’
An aged fisherman, overhearing her, nodded sagely.
‘And that’s a true story, sister. But did you ever hear of the great fish, Rosault, which lived in the time of Colmcille?’
Fidelma shook her head, smiling, for she knew old fishermen carried good tales which could often be retold around a fire at night.
‘I used to fish up Connacht way when I was a lad,’ the old man went on, hardly needing an invitation. ‘The Connacht men told me that there was a holy mountain inland which they called Croagh Patrick, after the blessed saint. At the foot of the mountain was a plain which was called Muir-iasc, which means “sea-fish”. Do you know how it received its name?’
‘Tell us,’ invited Cass, knowing there was no other answer to give.
‘It was named because it was formed by the great body of Rosault when it was cast ashore there during a great storm. The dead beast, as it lay decomposing on the plain, caused a great pestilence through the malodorous vapours which rose from its body and descended on the country. It killed men and animals indiscriminately. There be many things in the sea, sister. Many threatening things.’
Fidelma cast a sudden glance towards the Laigin warship.
‘Not all of them are creatures of the deep,’ she observed softly.
The old fisherman caught the direction of her gaze and chuckled.
‘I think that you would be right there, sister. And I am thinking that the fishermen of the Corco Loígde might one day have to go casting their spears at stranger creatures than a poor basking shark.’
He turned and sank his skinning knife into the great carcass with relish.
Fidelma began to walk along the shore again.
Cass hurried after her. For a few moments they walked on in silence and then Cass observed: ‘There are signs of war in the air already, sister. It does not bode well.’
‘I am not oblivious to it,’ she replied shortly. ‘Yet I cannot work miracles even though my brother expects it of me.’
‘Perhaps we have to accept that this war is our destiny. That there will, indeed, be war.’
‘Destiny!’ Fidelma was angry. ‘I do not believe in thepreordination of things, even if some of the Faith do. Destiny is but the tyrant’s excuse for his crimes and the fool’s excuse for not standing up to the tyrant.’
‘How can you change what is inevitable?’ demanded Cass.
‘By first saying that it is not so and then by proceeding to make it otherwise!’ she answered with spirit.
If there was anything she did not need at this moment in time it was someone telling her that things were inevitable. Sophocles had once written that that which the gods have brought about must be born with fortitude. Yet to make the excuse that one’s self-induced limitations were simply destiny was a philosophy that was alien to Fidelma. The creed of destiny was simply an excuse to save oneself from choice.
Cass raised a hand, opened it and gestured as if in resignation.
‘It is a laudable philosophy which you have, Fidelma. But sometimes …’
‘Enough!’
There was a catch to her voice that made the young warrior stop. He realised how suddenly vulnerable was this young woman dálaigh of the court. Colgú of Cashel had put great responsibility on his sister’s shoulders — perhaps too much? As Cass saw things, the death of Dacán was a riddle that would never be solved. Better to simply prepare for war with the Laigin than squander time in sorting out the tangled and insoluble web of this mystery.
Fidelma suddenly sat down on a rock and gazed at the sea as Cass stood restlessly by. In turning matters over in her mind she was trying to remember what her old master, the Brehon Morann of Tara, had once said to her.
‘Better to ask twice than lose your way once, child,’ he had intoned when she had failed some exercise of the mind by failing to grasp an answer he had given.
What question was she not asking; what answer had she failed to realise the significance of?
Cass was startled when, after a moment or two, Fidelma sprang up and uttered a snort of disgust.
‘I must be dull-witted!’ she announced.
‘Why so?’ he demanded as she started to stride swiftly back towards the abbey.
‘Here I have been bemoaning to myself the impossibility of the task before I have even begun it.’
‘I thought that you had already made a very good start on the matter.’
‘I have but merely skimmed the surface,’ she replied. ‘I have asked a question or two but have not yet started to seek the truth. Come, there is much to be done!’
She walked swiftly back to the abbey, through the gate and across the flagged courtyards. Here and there little groups of scholars and some of the teaching religious turned from their huddled bands to surreptitiously examine her as she passed for the news had spread rapidly through the abbey of her purpose there. She ignored them, moving swiftly to the main gateway and there saw the object of her search — the enthusiastic young Sister Necht.
She was about to hail her when Necht looked up and saw Fidelma. She came running towards her, with an undignified gait.
‘Sister Fidelma!’ she gasped. ‘I was about to set out to find you. Brother Tóla asked me to give you this package. It is from Brother Martan.’
She handed Fidelma a rectangular piece of sackcloth. Fidelma took it and unfolded it. Inside were several pieces of long strips of linen, as if torn from a larger piece of material. There were spots of deep brown which Fidelma presumed to be the stains of blood. The colour of the linen itself had been enhanced by dyes in parti-coloured fashion consisting of blues and reds. The pieces were frayed and looked fragile. Fidelma took one of the strips and held it, one end in each hand, giving it a sharp tug. It tore easily.
‘Not very efficient as a constraint,’ observed Cass.
Fidelma glanced appraisingly at him.
‘No,’ she replied thoughtfully as she rewrapped the cloth and placed the material in her large satchel purse. ‘Now, Sister Necht, I need you to conduct us to Sister Grella’s library.’
To her surprise the young girl shook her head.
‘That I cannot do, sister.’
‘Why, what ails you?’ Fidelma demanded testily.
‘Nothing. But the abbot has also sent me to seek you out and bring you to him. He says he must see you without delay.’
‘Very well,’ Fidelma said reluctantly. ‘If Abbot Brocc wants to see me then I shall not disappoint him. But why the urgency?’
‘Ten minutes ago, Salbach, chieftain of the Corco Loígde, arrived in response to a message which Brocc sent him. The chieftain appears very angry.’
Chapter Eight
Fidelma and Cass began to follow as Sister Necht led the way towards the chambers of the abbot. After a moment, the young novice noticed Cass following. She halted and looked embarrassed.