As she sat there, lost in this inner sea of thought and sensation, a ripple of movement in the muddy water caught her eye. Laurel lifted her hand away, and quickly slammed the chest's lid shut. Around her, the world continued on, nothing pausing or even hesitating.
But she saw it again. A golden ripple in the lee of one of the jutting rocks that made navigation in these shallows so treacherous. As she frowned at it, a dark head lifted from the waters. Had anyone else noticed it, they might have taken it for a seal come too far up the river from the sea. But Laurel knew at once that was not what it was. Long, dripping locks streamed across its naked shoulders. Its eyes were far too dark for any animals, the skin too smooth and its face too flat.
Morverch. Laurel's throast tightened.
The morverch were the sea-women. Mermaids some called them. Bards spoke of them as beautiful women with sparkling fish's tails where their legs should have been. They had never seen one of the corpse-grey beings before Laurel now, her hair tangled with weeds and strange flowers and a narrow slit in place of her nose.
Greetings, sister ...
'You said just now that your son Ahlfrith plots against you,' Fidelma said. 'Did you mean that seriously?'
Oswy raised his arms and let them fall in a motion indicating indecision.
'A king has no friends in ambitious sons,' he said heavily. 'What ambition does a king's son have but to become king?'
'Ahlfrith wishes to be king?'
'I made him petty king of Deira to contain his ambition but he wishes the throne of the entire kingdom of Northumbria. I know it. He knows I know it. We play a game of dutiful son and father. But the day may well come ...'
He shrugged with eloquence.
[...]
'It is the people manipulating the religion not the religion itself that threatens to break the peace of this land. And Ahlfrith is not above using religion to motivate people to help him in his search for power ...'
The final blessing had been given and the procession reformed to be led away by the choristers with a dramatic paen of triumph, the Gloria Patri, Glory be to the Father, symbolising thanks for the passing of Wighard's soul into heavenly repose. It was appropriate, thought Fidelma. The lament to the grave and the rejoicing at the return.
She moved closer to Eadulf.
'We must discuss the case,' she insisted.
'There is plenty of time, surely, especially now we know that Ronan Ragallach is guilty.'
'We know nothing of the sort,' snapped Fidelma, annoyed by Eadulf's presumption.
Heads turned from the departing mourners in surprise at her sharp tone.
She coloured and lowered her gaze.
'We know nothing of the sort,' she repeated in a whisper.
'But it is obvious,' Eadulf responded, with a frown of equal annoyance. 'What other evidence do you want than Ronan's flight? His escape from custody is an admission of his guilt by itself.'
Fidelma shook her head vigorously.
'Not so.'
'Well, so far as I am concerned, Ronan is clearly guilty,' replied Eadulf stubbornly.
Fidelma's lips compressed. A dangerous sign.
'Let me remind you of our agreement; the decision on this matter of culpability was to be unanimous. I will continue my investigation ... alone, if need be.'
