Peter Tremayne - Master of Souls

The salty smell of the sea was never far away on the peninsula of the Corco Duibhne but now it was really strong. The air was filled with the crying of gulls, and these were joined by a few lost-looking greenshanks, wading along the few freshwater pools and lakes that they passed. But it was the noisy gulls that dominated, especially the great black-backed gull with its fierce, heavy, hooked bill. It was a fearsome butcher of a bird, eating refuse and carrion and preying on the chicks of other species like puffins, shearwaters and kittiwakes. In fact, just as the thought entered Eadulf’s mind, there came the strident call of ‘kitti-wa-a-k!’ like the eerie cry of a lost soul. Two adult kittiwakes swooped along the coastline ahead of them, with their soft grey plumage, white heads and yellow bills.

Conri was riding in front with Fidelma and Eadulf and the two warriors behind them.

‘Well,’ Eadulf said, wishing to break the silence that had lasted since they left the hospitality of the farm, ‘we have criss-crossed this peninsula twice now. I should know the place by now.’

Conri glanced across his shoulder.

‘No one can ever really know a country like this.’ He waved a hand across the mountains behind him. ‘I have been through this country before. They call those valleys Gleannta an Easig, the valleys of the waterfall.’

Eadulf could see why. It was a curious land, he thought, where cliffs rose overshadowing lakes and rivers meandered through valleys that were green and tree covered before changing in turn into bleak and rocky areas and then back again into verdant swaths. The land seemed barely populated but as they passed along the white sandy shore leading to the small finger of what they now knew was the Machaire peninsula, Eadulf could see a few isolated farmsteads and buildings almost hidden here and there among trees and rocks.

They passed within sight of a broad lake to their left, a bright loch which seemed swarming with wildfowl. Smoke rose from a point on its shore.

‘It looks like a smith’s forge.’ Conri commented as he followed the direction in which Eadulf was staring. The faint clang of metal on metal came to their ears as if in confirmation of the fact.

They rode on down the narrow green spit of land with the white sands on either side until the reached the end bay with low headlands either side like the claws of a crab, edging in and narrowing at the mouth. It was a rock-clustered, inhospitable shore, not like the broad sandy slopes that had stretched either side of the main strip of land that thrust out into the sea. The only sign that man had been here at all was a tall gallan or standing stone that rose erect at least five metres above the ground.

Beyond the entrance of the bay they could see some of the distant islands of Machaire. But it was the keen-sighted Conri who became aware of something else.

‘Look there!’ he shouted abruptly, causing them to start.

He pointed beyond the rocky eastern headland.

At first, seen against the choppy grey sea, it looked like a dark plank of wood being tossed and thrown about over the waves. Then as it came closer into the bay, heading for the rocky shore, Eadulf realised it was one of the light canoes they used in this part of the world, a wickerwork frame covered with hides stitched together with thongs. There seemed to be only one figure bent to the oars although the light craft must have been eight metres long and a metre or more wide.

‘It’s a naomhog,’ muttered Fidelma, supplying him with the name of the vessel. ‘See, the man has just lost an oar. He is in trouble.’

Already Conri and his two warrior companions were racing their horses on the ground high above the shore, for in this part of the bay the rocks met the waters.

‘He’ll smash the vessel on the rocks,’ Eadulf called unnecessarily, as he and Fidelma followed the others.

‘The man is hurt, I think,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Look, he’s slipped to the bottom of the boat. It’s out of control.’

The long canoe had swung broadside on to the rocks and was suddenly lifted up by one of the racing breakers and thrown on to them. As the sea receded, Conri’s men, jumping from their horses, raced forward, scrambling and slipping over the wet outcrop. One of them, they thought it was the man called Socht, reached the broken vessel while his companion steadied the smashed remains. Apparently the unconscious man was a lightweight for the warrior threw him across his shoulder and, with a shout to his companion, turned and started for the firm earth just as another breaker smashed against the rocks. The force of the water caused Socht to slip and almost lose his balance but his companion was there and steadied him with his unconscious burden. Then they scrambled ashore and were above the watermark where Conri was waiting to help lay the man on the ground.

A moment later Fidelma and Eadulf joined them.

At once they could see that the unconscious man was elderly and deathly pale, with white straggling hair cut into the tonsure of St John. His robes were dirty and torn and there were bloodstains on them. His hands were raw, the flesh torn.

Conri was shaking his head sadly.

‘If he came from the islands, it’s a wonder that he made it this far.’ Eadulf, who knew something of the healing arts, bent down by the man and examined him. As he moved him a little, the man gave forth a groan and his eyes fluttered. Eadulf had seen something in the man’s side.

‘He has been badly wounded by an arrow, I think,’ he muttered. ‘The life is ebbing out of him.’

Conri’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think that he was the religieux who was taken prisoner with Faife’s companions?’

‘This man is no foreigner and he is elderly, unlike Ganicca’s description,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘But it looks as if he did come from one of the islands.’

‘It’s a long way for an old man to come alone,’ Eadulf remarked.

‘We must speak to him,’ said Fidelma.

Conri passed her the container of corma he carried. Fidelma took it and eased the old man’s head up, allowing a few drops to trickle into his mouth.

There was a paroxysm of coughing and the old man’s eyes opened blearily. They grew wide and fearful as he focused on them.

‘You have no need to kill me. I am dying already,’ he gasped.

Fidelma bent over him and tried to give him a reassuring look. Eadulf had continued his brief examination. The old man was beyond hope. It had not been a sword or spear thrust. Eadulf found the head of an arrow still embedded in the man’s side. It had gone deep and the victim had apparently tried to break off the shaft. The wound was already festering. Fidelma caught Eadulf’s eye and silently asked a question. Eadulf shook his head quickly.

‘Have no fear, my friend. We are not your enemies,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Who did this to you?’

The old man blinked; already his eyes were glazing.

‘They have destroyed us all…’ He paused, his chest heaving for breath. ‘They came… those they did not kill… they rounded up…’

‘Who are you, who are they?’ pressed Fidelma as gently as she could.

‘I am… Martan… a brother of Seanach’s Island.’ He gave a sudden gasp of pain.

‘Seanach’s Island. So we were right,’ Conri muttered.

At the sound, the old man’s eyes opened wide.

‘Do not go there!’ His voice was suddenly strong. ‘Do not go there, if you value your life.’

‘What has happened to the brethren there?’ Fidelma asked. ‘What of the women from Ard Fhearta?’

‘Dead, dying… I escaped… but… I am dying.’

Fidelma knew the man had not long to live. Part of her wanted to let him die in peace but she had questions that had to be answered.