Read Online The Dove of Death by Peter Tremayne - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Tremayne
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Metellus stared at her in disbelief for a moment and then, to the surprise of both of them, he burst out laughing.
‘I swear that I have not had a good discourse with a woman on the Faith in many years,’ he finally said, wiping his eyes. ‘You are truly learned, Fidelma of Cashel. I am glad I decided to fish you out of the sea…both of you, that is. I don’t agree with you, but I enjoy discussion. May we have many more arguments.’
‘Rather exchanges of ideas,’ corrected Fidelma solemnly, ‘for without exchanging ideas, how can there be any learning or progression?’
Brother Metellus glanced at the cloudy sky outside.
‘It will soon be time for the evening meal,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll see how the weather shapes for tomorrow. In the meantime, there are services to perform in my poor chapel. I would invite you to join me, unless your rituals would prevent you?’
Fidelma gave a small mischievous smile. ‘There is little difference in intent, and while we prefer to conduct our services in the language of the sacred texts – which is Greek – when we were in Rome, I observed little for me to object to.’
‘Then you are welcome to participate in the service with me.’
By evening, the wind was beginning to die away and the sea was changing colour once again, losing its white billows and becoming calmer.
When they gathered for the meal later, Brother Metellus greeted them with a warm smile as if the intensity of their discussion that afternoon had not existed.
‘I think we will be able to set sail in the morning,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘We’ll leave at first light as we originally intended to do this morning.’
This time the weather grew tranquil during the night.
The day dawned calm and warm, with the sun beating down from an almost cloudless sky. The few clouds that did drift high above were fluffy white balls, like the fruiting puffs of groundsel. What was more, there was a soft morning breeze blowing from the south.
With the single sail hoisted, it quickly filled and the small boat, with Brother Metellus at the tiller, was gliding swiftly out from the bay, leaving a small knot of islanders waving their goodbyes on the foreshore. The journey across the water to the mainland seemed swift, and so calm was the sea that even Eadulf did not have time to feel queasy. Brother Metellus was an excellent sailor, manoeuvring his sailing boat with consummate skill, shifting every time there was a subtle change in the wind to re-catch the force of it in his sail. Fidelma observed that the monk knew the waters well, for there was a series of rocky shoals through which he navigated with ease. They did not speak much during the short voyage over the distance that separated the island of the Little Duck from the low-lying stretch of land that Brother Metellus identified as the Rhuis peninsula.
Fidelma was aware of the sheer numbers of seabirds as they approached the coastline. The ringed plover, with their distinctive black ring and bright orange bill and legs, were heading along the shoreline in search of shellfish in the mudflats. High up, marked by their white crowns and underparts, but dark brown upper feathers, two osprey wheeled, alternatively flapping and gliding, as they hunted for fish swimming near the surface. A sudden pause, as if they were hovering, and then with partly closed wings, the birds dived on their kill. Fidelma had seen osprey before, but it was always a spectacular sight, watching them make their kill. Even the gulls, emitting cries like souls in torment, seemed to avoid these hunters.
‘The abbey is around that headland,’ called Brother Metellus, pointing to a rocky headland with a large green mound. The area was covered with thickly growing woodland. There seemed no place to effect a landing.
‘Don’t worry, we shall come into the west of that, where there is an open sandy beach,’ Brother Metellus said, correctly guessing the thoughts that were passing through
‘I swear that I have not had a good discourse with a woman on the Faith in many years,’ he finally said, wiping his eyes. ‘You are truly learned, Fidelma of Cashel. I am glad I decided to fish you out of the sea…both of you, that is. I don’t agree with you, but I enjoy discussion. May we have many more arguments.’
‘Rather exchanges of ideas,’ corrected Fidelma solemnly, ‘for without exchanging ideas, how can there be any learning or progression?’
Brother Metellus glanced at the cloudy sky outside.
‘It will soon be time for the evening meal,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll see how the weather shapes for tomorrow. In the meantime, there are services to perform in my poor chapel. I would invite you to join me, unless your rituals would prevent you?’
Fidelma gave a small mischievous smile. ‘There is little difference in intent, and while we prefer to conduct our services in the language of the sacred texts – which is Greek – when we were in Rome, I observed little for me to object to.’
‘Then you are welcome to participate in the service with me.’
By evening, the wind was beginning to die away and the sea was changing colour once again, losing its white billows and becoming calmer.
When they gathered for the meal later, Brother Metellus greeted them with a warm smile as if the intensity of their discussion that afternoon had not existed.
‘I think we will be able to set sail in the morning,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘We’ll leave at first light as we originally intended to do this morning.’
This time the weather grew tranquil during the night.
The day dawned calm and warm, with the sun beating down from an almost cloudless sky. The few clouds that did drift high above were fluffy white balls, like the fruiting puffs of groundsel. What was more, there was a soft morning breeze blowing from the south.
With the single sail hoisted, it quickly filled and the small boat, with Brother Metellus at the tiller, was gliding swiftly out from the bay, leaving a small knot of islanders waving their goodbyes on the foreshore. The journey across the water to the mainland seemed swift, and so calm was the sea that even Eadulf did not have time to feel queasy. Brother Metellus was an excellent sailor, manoeuvring his sailing boat with consummate skill, shifting every time there was a subtle change in the wind to re-catch the force of it in his sail. Fidelma observed that the monk knew the waters well, for there was a series of rocky shoals through which he navigated with ease. They did not speak much during the short voyage over the distance that separated the island of the Little Duck from the low-lying stretch of land that Brother Metellus identified as the Rhuis peninsula.
Fidelma was aware of the sheer numbers of seabirds as they approached the coastline. The ringed plover, with their distinctive black ring and bright orange bill and legs, were heading along the shoreline in search of shellfish in the mudflats. High up, marked by their white crowns and underparts, but dark brown upper feathers, two osprey wheeled, alternatively flapping and gliding, as they hunted for fish swimming near the surface. A sudden pause, as if they were hovering, and then with partly closed wings, the birds dived on their kill. Fidelma had seen osprey before, but it was always a spectacular sight, watching them make their kill. Even the gulls, emitting cries like souls in torment, seemed to avoid these hunters.
‘The abbey is around that headland,’ called Brother Metellus, pointing to a rocky headland with a large green mound. The area was covered with thickly growing woodland. There seemed no place to effect a landing.
‘Don’t worry, we shall come into the west of that, where there is an open sandy beach,’ Brother Metellus said, correctly guessing the thoughts that were passing through
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