Peter Tremayne - The Dove of Death

‘You wanted to be rid of Iuna so that, after King Alain’s death, you could marry your real mistress, whose union with you would enhance your image when you claimed the kingship.’

‘And do you name her?’ demanded King Alain, in a terrible voice. It was now self-evident to most people where her logic led and whom she would name.

Fidelma raised her eyes to those of Riwanon.

‘You are Budic’s mistress, lady. It was a matter that puzzled me greatly. Why were you so keen to give me, a foreigner with a poor knowledge of your language, the responsibility of investigating the murder of Abbot Maelcar? With the murder committed under the same roof as where you were staying, as Queen, you had to be seen to be doing something. It would have otherwise been suspicious. Obviously, you did not expect me, with the disadvantages I have mentioned, to discover anything at all.’

Riwanon’s jaw was thrust out defiantly but it was Budic who replied with a laugh.

‘So where is your proof? Iarnbud died on the shore of Govihan — should we take the word of a dead man? This Taran of Pou-Kaer, the captain of the Koulm ar Maro , is at the bottom of Morbihan. The few survivors cannot identify the Dove of Death. So who else will support your fantasy?’

Fidelma turned towards him.

‘You forget that Iarnbud had brought Iuna with him to find Heraclius the apothecary so that he might administer an antidote to the poison. Iuna was alive when she was brought ashore on Govihan.’

For a moment there was a deathly silence in the great hall, broken only by the crackle of flames from the fire.

Then Budic sprang up; his chair went over backwards and his sword appeared in his hand as if conjured there from nothing. With a terrible cry of rage, he leaped towards his shocked father. As quick as Budic was, Bleidbara was faster — for his dagger flew swiftly from his hand and embedded itself in Budic’s sword wrist. The weapon dropped as he gave a scream of pain. Then the King’s bodyguard came forward to restrain him. Another guard appeared quickly at the side of Riwanon. She had slumped in her chair, pale and shaking.

King Alain rose unsteadily.

‘My son is condemned by his own actions.’ His voice was thick with emotion. He glanced down at the bretat Kaourentin. ‘I think the accusation against Macliau, son of Lord Canao, can now be dismissed. My son Budic will be punished under our laws for all the crimes he has committed against me and against my peoples.’ He turned to Riwanon. ‘Do you have anything to add to what we have heard?’

There was an imperceptible shake of the woman’s head and a suppressed sob.

‘Then know that you, too, must face the consequences for your part in this conspiracy.’ King Alain turned his back on her.

After the guards had taken them away, King Alain addressed Fidelma, his face still bearing the marks of shock and sorrow.

‘I am grateful to you, Fidelma of Hibernia. Thankfully, Iuna has survived to bear witness against my son, otherwise he might have continued to feign his innocence.’

Fidelma answered with a sad smile.

‘I am afraid that I was being frugal with the facts,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘It is true that Iuna was alive when we brought her ashore in Govihan and Heraclius administered to her. But she was unable to speak and, indeed, she died befores he could say anything to confess her guilt or to implicate Budic in her death. It was merely logical deduction that ensnared Budic and Riwanon. Their guilt produced their own confessions.’

King Alain gazed long and hard at her. For a moment he plucked at his lower lip. Then he sighed deeply.

‘You are an ingenious woman, Fidelma of Hibernia. Riwanon’s greatest mistake was in underestimating your ability and thinking you would be handicapped by a lack of knowledge of our language.’

Fidelma bowed slightly, a motion with her head only.

‘I was always taught vincit omnia veritas — truth conquers all things.’

All sails set, the Barnacle Goose was leaning into the wind, with the hum of the breeze in her rigging and the soft groaning of her wooden spars. Ribbons of cream-cap-waves spread from her plunging bow and trailed out at angles from either side of the large wooden vessel. It seemed odd to be back on the ship again. Everything seemed so familiar to Fidelma and Eadulf and yet, at the same time, so strangely alien. Instead of Murchad and Gulvan at the helm, there was the lean, fair-haired figure of Hoel the Briton. He stood easily balanced, with feet wide apart, his chin thrust forward into the gusting air, his keen eyes on the sails, noting every movement of the wind and adjusting the tiller accordingly.

Fidelma knew and trusted him as a capable seaman. She had no concern that the passage home would be anything but safe in his able hands. But the strangeness was due to the fact that she had been so used to Murchad’s predictable mannerisms and Gulvan’s stoic responses. They had been such an integral part of the ship, as much a part of it as the carved figure of the goose at her bows or the tall oak masts or beams. It was just hard to imagine that the Barnacle Goose could ever sail without them.

Yet everything else was the same. Or was it? Wenbrit seemed quieter, older, somehow not the same carefree child that he had once been, running eagerly to do her bidding. He had become — what was the word that she was looking for? — mature. That was it. He had become mature. And even Luchtigern, the Mouse Lord, the black cat that had been such an essential feature of the life on shipboard, had become more reclusive, preferring to stay in the dark shadows of the vessel rather than venturing out into the sunlight. Hoel too seemed taciturn and had taken refuge in his task of captain.

Once, the ship had been manned with a light-hearted quality among the crew. Sadly, there was no longer the occasional jest among them, the bluff, good-natured ripostes. All the crew had been marked by their recent experiences.

Fidelma leaned against the taffrail and stared solemnly at the receding headlands that marked the dangerous entrance to Morbihan. At her side, Eadulf seemed to read her mind.

‘I shan’t be sorry to see the last of that place,’ he said tightly.

‘It will be good to sight the coast of Muman again,’ she agreed. ‘Even better to see Cashel rising before us and to embrace our little Alchú again.’ She suddenly gave a deep sigh. ‘But there is also regret at leaving Brilhag. Travelling and meeting people, getting to know them, surely enhance one’s experiences in life? Yet establishing such friendships also makes parting a sad experience when the time comes that we must travel on. Leaving such new friends behind is always a matter of regret. I hope things work out with Trifina and Bleidbara.’

‘I am sure they will. Bleidbara’s suspicion was natural. She will forgive him.’

‘But he should have had more trust in her if he truly loved her,’ Fidelma objected.

‘It’s hard to say. He is a man much concerned with duty. With some people, duty is often paramount rather than obedience to the heart.’

Fidelma looked at him closely, wondering if there was a hidden meaning somewhere.

‘It seems that Brother Metellus will come well out of this,’ went on Eadulf, apparently oblivious of her glance. ‘He now stands to be elected Abbot of the community of Gildas. That was something he never expected.’

‘And, perhaps, never wanted. Also, this adventure might be a means of making a man of Macliau.’

‘Perhaps.’ Eadulf did not seem sure. ‘I gather he has left Brilhag to study poetry and music and, in that, he will have plenty of opportunity to pursue his libertine existence.’