She tried to stop wasting emotional energy asking questions which were impossible to answer. Her mentor, Brehon Morann of Tara, had taught her that it was no use worrying about answers to problems unless she knew the questions that should be asked. Yet even when she tried to clear her mind and seek refuge in the art of the dercad, the act of meditation, by which countless generations of Irish mystics had achieved the calming of extraneous thought and mental irritations, she found the task impossible.
She decided to focus on the approaching coastal scenery. They had now entered the mouth of the great bay and moved close to the southern shore of the mountainous peninsula. The cold winds and choppy seas began to ease as they entered into these more sheltered waters. And when Ross’s course placed the southern tip of the bulbous island to their eastern flank, the weather became much calmer as the land protected them from the main brunt of the winds. There were few clouds in the sky which was a soft blue with the pale yelloworb of the sun hanging high above casting no warmth at all. The scenery seemed painted in limpid pastel shades.
‘A short way ahead lies a large inlet,’ Ross announced. ‘That is where the abbey of the community of The Salmon of the Three Wells is. I’ll anchor in there, in the quiet waters.’
Fidelma, in spite of her preoccupied thoughts, was not entirely oblivious to the serene beauty of the inlet which was circled by an oak forest which rose in ridges all around and was fringed with varied evergreens. Even while her mind was agitated by the worry of what had happened to Brother Eadulf, the tranquil aura of the area registered with her. It would be spectacular in summer with the multi-coloured flowers and all the trees bursting in varied shades of green. Behind the inlet, the mountains rose, their bald peaks dusted with snow and their slopes studded with granite boulders. A rushing stream emptied into the inlet at one point where, on a headland, a small circular fortress stood. Even looking at its sparkling crystal waters, Fidelma shuddered at how cold those waters must be.
‘That is the fortress of Adnár, the bó-aire of this district,’ Ross jerked his thumb towards the fortress.
A bó-aire was, literally, a cow-chief, a chieftain without land whose wealth was judged by the number of cows he owned. In poor areas, the cow-chief acted as a local magistrate and owed his allegiance to greater chieftains. To this greater chieftain, the bó-aire paid tribute for his position and rank.
Fidelma tried to force her mind back to the task which she had originally come to perform.
‘The fortress of Adnár?’ she repeated, phrasing it as a question to ensure that she had the name correct.
‘Yes. It is called Dún Boí — the fortress of the cow goddess.’
‘Where is the religious community?’ asked Fidelma. ‘The abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells?’
Ross indicated another small headland on the other side of the rivulet, directly opposite Adnár’s fortress.
‘It stands among those trees on that ridge. You can just see the tower of the abbey buildings there. You can also see a small quay leading to a rocky platform on which you might be able to make out the abbey’s main well.’
Fidelma followed his directions. She saw movement on the quay.
‘Captain!’ the helmsman called softly to Ross. ‘Captain, there are boats coming out — one from the fortress and one from the abbey.’
Ross turned to confirm the fact for himself and called on his crew to start furling the sails of the Foracha before dropping the anchor. He turned to signal Odar, on the Gaulish vessel, to release his anchor also so that the ships would not collide. There was a cracking of the great sheets as they were hauled down, the splash as the anchors hit the still waters and the startled cry of seabirds surprised by the unexpected sharpness of the sound. Then — silence.
For a moment or so Fidelma stood still, aware of that sudden silence in the sheltered inlet. Aware of the beauty of the place with the blues, greens, browns and greys of the mountains rising behind, and the sky creating a light blue on the waters around her, reflecting and shimmering in the early afternoon light, giving the impression of a mirror, so still and clear was its surface. Around the end of the inlet was a grey green belt of seaweed abandoned by the tides, the white and grey of rocks and the trees lining the banks, their varying greens and browns coloured by occasional bursts of groundsel and the white flowers of shepherd’s purse. Here and there were strawberry trees. The silence magnified the slightest sound … such as the lazy flap of a grey heron’s wings as it circled the boats with its long sinuous neck seemingly arched in curiosity before turning indolently and unconcerned in the sky and heading further along the coast for a quieter fishing ground. And now she could hear the rhythmic slap of oars of the approaching boats on the still waters.
She sighed deeply. Such peace was a cloak, a disguise to reality. There was work to do.
‘I’ll go back aboard the merchant ship and make a more detailed examination, Ross,’ she announced.
Ross gazed at her with anxious eyes.
‘With respect, I would wait awhile, sister,’ he suggested.
A frown of annoyance crossed her features.
‘I do not understand …’
Ross cut her short by gesturing with his head towards the approaching two craft.
‘I doubt that they are coming to visit me, sister.’
Fidelma wavered, still not understanding.
‘One boat carries the bó-aire from his fortress while the other carries the Abbess Draigen.’
Fidelma raised her eyebrows in quiet surprise and gave the occupants of the approaching boats a more careful attention. One of the boats was being rowed by two religieuses with a third sitting upright in the stern. She appeared a tall, handsome-faced woman, even taller than Fidelma herself, muffled in a robe of fox fur. The other boat, racing towards them from the fortress, was rowed by two sturdy warriors and in the stern of that boat sat a tall, black-haired man, wrapped in a badger fur cloak and his silver chain of office proclaimed him to be someone of position. He kept glancing anxiously towards the other boat and, with barks of command, which could be discerned even from this distance, was urging his men to greater efforts as if wishing to reach the barc of Ross first.
‘They look as though they are engaged in some race,’ observed Fidelma dryly.
Ross’s voice was humourless.
‘I think their race, as you put it, is to reach you first. Whatever the purpose, I do not think there is a spirit of friendship between them,’ he replied.
It was the boat from the abbey which reached the side of the barc first and the handsome religieuse scrambled up withsurprising agility, reaching the deck just as the second boat came alongside and the tall man, with his shock of black hair, came springing onto the deck after her.
The woman, whom Ross had identified as the abbess of the community, was straight-backed as well as tall. Her cloak was flung back to reveal her homespun robes. The red-gold craftsmanship of her crucifix showed that she had not quite decided to relinquish riches for a vow of poverty and obedience, as it was of ornate workmanship and studded with semi-precious gems. Her face was autocratic with red lips and high cheekbones. She was in her mid-thirties and her face spoke of a beauty strangely intermixed with a coarseness of expression. Her eyes were dark and flashed with a hidden fire which was clearly anger as she glanced over her shoulder towards the black-bearded man, hurrying behind her.
She spied Ross at once. It was evident that she had met him before. Fidelma knew that Ross was a frequent trader along the coast of Muman and would obviously have done business with the religious community here.