It was a series of blasts on a trumpet or horn of some type.
Brother Metellus halted, turning with a frown. Then with astonishing dexterity, he scrambled onto a granite wall to give him a higher elevation and looked seaward.
‘What is it?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Your pursuers have halted, and…yes, they are turning back to the ships. The horn must have sounded some signal to recall them.’ He raised his face to the sky and let the wind blow across his features. ‘The wind is changing, and the tide. I think the captain must be calling the men back for the vessels to take advantage of it.’
‘Is there a place where we can see what is happening?’ asked Fidelma, her voice quiet and without emotion, although Eadulf could see that her features were still filled with shock from the experience of seeing the callous murder of her cousin and Murchad the captain.
‘Come with me,’ Brother Metellus said, jumping lightly down from the stone wall. ‘The island is pretty low-lying, therefore it is hard to get a good elevation from which to see. However…’ He pointed to a small building, which had a second storey and looked out of place among the other buildings of the island. ‘We use it as a chapel and we are trying to construct a little tower on top,’ he explained.
They entered and followed Brother Metellus, scrambling up a rough wooden ladder to the top of the unfinished tower. It did not give them a great commanding view of the sea. However, they could make out the bay and beyond it, just visible to the naked eye, the black dot on the waters that was the rowing boat, heading back to the dark outlines of the ships. There was the familiar shape of the Barnacle Goose and the darker silhouette behind of the ship that had attacked it. They still seemed to be linked together. Then, as they watched, it seemed the attacking vessel shuddered. It was an optical illusion produced as the sails were being set and the ship began to move slowly away from the side of its victim. The rowers had reached the side of the Barnacle Goose. Fidelma presumed that they had boarded and the rowing boat was being hauled up. Then the sails were billowing and the ship was turning after the sleek lines of its attacker.
‘They are leaving,’ muttered Brother Metellus, in satisfaction. ‘Heading north-west. You are safe for the time being.’
‘Safe!’ The word was uttered by Fidelma with bitter irony.
At Brother Metellus’ raised eyebrows, Eadulf explained: ‘The captain of our vessel and some of her crew were slaughtered, and Fidelma’s own cousin, Bressal of Cashel, and envoy to your King, Alain Hir, was slain — even showing his wand of office. This is bad, indeed.’
For a moment, Brother Metellus contemplated this. Then he gave a deep sigh.
‘Before anything else, I suggest you come with me so that we may provide you with dry clothes and something to drink to get the taste of seawater out of your mouths. Then we will talk more of this. As you say, it is a grievous crime to kill the envoy of a king.’
Outside the chapel they found one of the fishermen who spoke rapidly in the local dialect. Brother Metellus replied and the man turned and hurried off.
‘Our friend had come to report that the men had given up the pursuit and the ships had sailed,’ he explained. Then he pointed to a nearby building. ‘This is where I make my simple home. Come in and welcome. I will try to find some dry clothing for you.’
It was a while before they were dried, and changed into comfortable clothing, brought to them by a homely woman called Onenn. Fidelma would have liked to wash the salt water from her hair, but that would have been too much to ask their host.
They now sat with Brother Metellus in his small stone cabin, together with an elderly man called Lowenen, who was introduced as the chieftain of the island community. Lowenen had a craggy seaman’s face, almost as if it were carved from the granite rock of the island. The sea-green eyes were piercing under heavy eyebrows, but his face was compassionate, expressing sympathy and gentle humour.
As they told their story, Brother Metellus acted as interpreter for Lowenen who spoke no other language than the island dialect. Although Fidelma and Eadulf had some knowledge of the language of the Britons, this local dialect was difficult to follow. Words they thought they knew from their time among the Britons apparently did not mean the same.
‘This is a crime indeed,’ Brother Metellus muttered after a moment’s reflection when they had finished telling the full story of the attack. ‘You have no idea of the identity of this vessel that attacked you? The captain of it did not identify himself?’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘There was no name on the ship that we could see but then, I suppose, we weren’t looking for a name in the moment of attack. I seem to recall it had a white flag at its mast.’
‘I noticed that there was an emblem on the white flag,’ Eadulf put in, ‘but I could not make it out. However, there was a small carving on the bow of the vessel. A bird of some sort. I thought it was a dove.’
Only Fidelma noticed a curious expression cross Brother Metellus’ face but it was gone in an instant.
‘You must be mistaken, my friend,’ he said quickly. ‘If a warship carves a bird on it as a symbol, it is usually a bird of prey.’
Eadulf reluctantly agreed, but said, ‘It is strange, on reflection. It looked like a dove to me. But perhaps the person who carved the bird was not so talented as he thought.’
‘And did you notice anything about the captain of this vessel?’
‘Only that he appeared to be a young man,’ Fidelma replied thoughtfully. ‘But he was shrouded from head to foot in white so that his face was not to be seen.’
‘White!’ exclaimed Brother Metellus. ‘A curious choice for a sea captain and a pirate. White is the colour of light and sanctity, and yet you say this man was a ruthless killer and hid himself under this shroud of white? And he was a young man?’
‘He was slightly built with a high-pitched voice. But for all his apparent youth he was vicious, nonetheless. It was he who killed my cousin as well as Murchad the captain,’ Fidelma confirmed. Then she paused and added quietly, ‘And he shall answer for those crimes.’
‘Is anything known of piracy in these waters?’ Eadulf asked hurriedly, to cover the uneasy silence that followed Fidelma’s statement, which had been delivered in a tone of cold hatred. He had never heard her speak in such chilling tones.
Brother Metellus interpreted Lowenen’s response to the question.
‘Alas, these waters have often seen bloodshed. It is not far from here that the galleys of the Romans did battle with our fleet.’
‘Your fleet?’ queried Eadulf in surprise, envisaging a battle between Roman galleys and the fishing boats of the island.
‘The fleet of the Veneti who were the greatest mariners of this land,’ the old man replied proudly. ‘They sailed with over two hundred ships against the Roman commander. The battle lasted a full day before a disappearing wind becalmed our ships and allowed the Romans to destroy them. After that all Gaul fell to the Romans. A sad day when the Veneti were defeated.’
The old man sighed deeply, as if contemplating something that had occurred but yesterday. Fidelma noticed there was an air of embarrassment as Brother Metellus interpreted these words; some reluctance in his delivery.
‘That was many centuries ago, my friend,’ Eadulf pointed out to the elderly chieftain, having realised that he was talking about the time when Julius Caesar had conquered Gaul.
‘You are right,’ the chieftain replied with a shrug. ‘But, as I say, such bloody events have been frequent here. It is not long since we had Saxon raiders attacking this very island.’
It was Eadulf’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘But we are talking of pirates and in recent times,’ he pressed. ‘We are looking for some means to identify our attacker.’
Lowenen shrugged. ‘The great port of Naoned lies not far to the east of us on the mainland. It is a rich port. Merchants grow wealthy on the trade through that one port alone. Therefore, it is logical that it provides bait that will attract the rats. The Franks cast envious eyes at the town and it is already under pressure from Frankish raids and settlements. When I was young, I sailed there. The Frankish borders of Neustria had not then approached within three days’ ride of Naoned. Now I am told that the Frankish marcher lords claim territory within a quarter of a day’s ride of the port. Their raids are not infrequent. Yes, raiders and pirates are not unknown in these waters, although I have not heard any stories of this black ship with its captain dressed all in white, such as you have described.’