Act of Mercy (6 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #blt, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Act of Mercy
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‘She seems at home here,’ Fidelma observed.
The boy nodded.
‘It’s a male cat, lady,’ he corrected. ‘Yes, Mouse Lord likes to sleep in this cabin. I should have warned you about him. Don’t worry, I’ll remove him for you.’
He started forward but Fidelma laid a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Leave him alone, Wenbrit. He can also occupy the cabin. I don’t mind cats. I was just startled when it … when
he
jumped on me.’
The boy shrugged.
‘You have only to let me know, if he is being a nuisance.’
‘What name do you call him?’
‘Luchtighern – Mouse Lord.’
Fidelma grinned as she regarded her new travelling companion.
‘That was the name of the cat who dwelt in the Cave of Dunmore and defeated all the warriors of the King of Laigin who were sent against him. Only when a female warrior came to fight him did he succumb.’
The boy regarded her in puzzlement.
‘I have never heard of such a cat.’
‘It’s just an ancient story. Who named him Luchtighern?’
‘The captain. He knows all the stories although I can’t remember him telling me that one.’
‘I suppose had it been a she-cat he would have called her Baircne, ship-heroine, after the first cat to arrive in Eireann in the barque of Bresal Bec.’ Fidelma mused.
‘But it’s a male cat,’ protested the boy.
‘I know,’ she assured him. ‘Well, we will not disturb Mouse Lord any further.’
After Wenbrit left, Fidelma returned to her bunk and lay carefully back with the cat curled up snugly at her feet. Its warm, purring presence was curiously comforting. She closed her eyes for a moment, and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. What had she been thinking of before the cat arrived? Ah yes – Cian. Her mouth hardened. How could she have been such a fool? Her youth and lack of experience were her only excuses.
She had imagined that Cian had gone out of her life for ever when she was eighteen years old, leaving only painful memories. Now, here he was again, and she was going to have to endure him in the restricted confines of this ship for at least a week. She felt an anxiety about her emotions. Why have this violent reaction if she had recovered from the experience of her youth – if it had not been haunting her ever since her days at Tara? Perhaps it was the fact that she had never dealt properly with the experience, that caused her to feel such anger when she saw him again.
Cian! How could she have been so naive? How
could
she have let him dupe her and tear her soul apart?
She had forgiven him for his behaviour several times, even rejecting the advice of her best friend Grian, who told her to forget Cian and turn him away. But she had not turned him away and each time he erred she was torn apart by unhappiness. As a result, her work as a student suffered until she was called before the aging Brehon Morann.
She could recall the scene vividly, feel those same emotions which had gripped her as she stood before her old mentor.
 
Brehon Morann gazed at Fidelma with stern but sympathetic eyes.
‘You have done yourself little credit this day, Fidelma,’ he had begun ominously. ‘It seems that you have lost your ability to concentrate on the simplest lessons.’
Fidelma’s jaw came up defensively.
‘Wait!’ The Brehon Morann raised a frail hand as if he anticipated
the justifications which rose to her lips. ‘Is it not said that the person unable to dance blames the unevenness of the floor?’
Fidelma coloured hotly.
‘I know the reason why you have not concentrated on your studies,’ the old man went on in a firm, calm tone. ‘I am not here to condemn you. I will, however, tell you the truth.’
‘What is the truth?’ she demanded, still irritated, though she realised that the irritation lay more with herself than anyone else.
Brehon Morann regarded her with unblinking grey eyes.
‘The truth is that you must discover what is the truth, and that discovery must be made soon. Otherwise you will not succeed in your studies.’
Fidelma’s lips thinned as she pressed them close together for a moment.
‘Are you saying that you will fail me?’ she demanded. ‘That you will fail my work?’
‘No. You will fail yourself.’
Fidelma let out a low, angry breath. She stared at the Brehon Morann for a moment before turning to leave.
‘Wait!’
She was halted by Brehon Morann’s quiet yet commanding voice. Unwillingly, she turned back to him. He had not moved.
‘Let me tell you this, Fidelma of Cashel. Once in a while it transpires that an old teacher, such as myself, encounters a student whose ability, whose mental agility, is so outstanding that it seems their life, as a teacher, is suddenly justified. The daily chore of trying to impress knowledge into a thousand reluctant minds is more than compensated for by finding one single mind so eager and able to absorb and understand knowledge – and by using that knowledge to make a contribution to the betterment of mankind. All the years of frustration are suddenly rewarded. I do not say this lightly, when I say that I thought that the choice I had made to become a teacher was going to be justified in
you.’
Fidelma stood gazing in surprise at the old man. He had never talked this way to her before. For a moment she felt defensive again: her quick mind had reasoned that the old man wanted to extract a payment for his compliment.
‘Didn’t you once say that to use others as a fulfilment of one’s own ambition is a reflection on the weakness of one’s own character and abilities?’ she demanded hurtfully.
The Brehon Morann did not even blink at her sharp retort. His eyes merely hooded a fraction as he registered her riposte.
‘Fidelma of Cashel,’ he intoned softly, ‘you have such promise and ability. Do not make yourself an enemy to your promise. Recognise your talent and do not squander it.’
Fidelma did not know how she should react to the old Brehon’s words, for they were totally out of character. He had never pleaded with any of his pupils before to her knowledge, and now she felt his tone was pleading; pleading with her.
‘I must live my own life,’ she replied defiantly.
The old man’s face became stony and he dismissed her with an abrupt wave of his hand.
‘Then go away and live it. Do not come back to my classes until you are willing to learn from them. Until you discover peace within yourself, it is pointless returning.’
Fidelma felt a surge of anger and unable to trust herself, she swung from the room.
Three months passed before she went to see the Brehon Morann again. Three long bitter months full of heartache and loneliness.
Fidelma started awake, wondering what had disturbed her. It was a bell jangling, high-pitched and querulous. For a moment she wondered where she was. Then, with the movement of the ship below her, she remembered. She had fallen asleep thinking about Cian. No wonder she felt that she had been having some distasteful nightmare! Her mind had been drifting over the unhappy events of her relationship with him; they were still sharp in her memory even though it was nearly a decade ago.
The bell continued its insistent clamour: it must be Wenbrit’s summons to the midday meal. Fidelma rose hastily from the bunk. The cat was nowhere in sight. She hurriedly ran a comb through her hair and straightened her clothes.
She left her cabin and made her way along the main deck. The motion of the ship was not unpleasant; the sea appeared fairly calm. She glanced up. Above her, the sun was at its zenith, casting short shadows. There seemed no wind. The sail was hanging limply, billowing only now and again as a faint gust caught it. Yet the ship was moving, albeit slowly, across a flat blue sea. A few sailors, lounging cross-legged on the deck, nodded pleasantly as Fidelma passed and one called a greeting in her own language.
She clambered down the companionway at the stern of the ship, remembering young Wenbrit’s directions to what he called the main mess deck. She followed the dim light of the lanterns and the smells of the confined space.
There were half-a-dozen people seated at a long table in the broad cabin which stretched from one side of the ship to another. The table was placed behind the main mast for she could see it, like a tree, cutting through the decks. Murchad was standing at the head of the table, balanced with his legs wide apart. Behind him, young Wenbrit was bent over a side table, cutting bread.
Murchad smiled as she entered and waved her forward, indicating a seat on his right. The seating consisted of two long benches on either
side of the long pinewood table. Those already present glanced up at the newcomer in curiosity.
Fidelma moved to her seat and found that she was placed opposite Cian. She hastily turned to her enquiring companions with a brief smile of greeting. Cian rose with a proprietorial smile to introduce her.
‘As you do not know anyone here, Fidelma,’ he began, ignoring the protocol for it should have been Murchad’s place to perform the introductions. He had reckoned without Murchad’s strong personality however.
‘If you please, Brother Cian,’ the captain interrupted irritably. ‘Sister Fidelma of Cashel, allow me to introduce you to your fellow travellers. These are Sisters Ainder, Crella and Gormán.’ He indicated three religieuses swiftly in turn sitting opposite to her and next to Cian. ‘This is Brother Cian, while next to you are Brothers Adamrae, Dathal and Tola.’
Fidelma inclined her head to them, acknowledging them all in one gesture. Their names and faces would come to mean something later. At the moment, the introduction was just a formality. Cian had reseated himself with an expression of annoyance on his face.
One of the women seated directly next to Cian, a religieuse who looked extremely young to be on a pilgrimage, smiled sweetly at her.
‘It seems that you already know Brother Cian?’
It was Cian who answered her hurriedly.
‘I knew Fidelma many years ago in Tara.’
Fidelma felt their gazes of curiosity on her and she turned towards Murchad to hide her embarrassment.
‘I see that this pilgrims’ party is only eight in all. I thought there were more?’ Then she remembered. ‘Ah, there is a Sister Muirgel, isn’t there? Is she still confined to her cabin?’
Murchad smiled grimly but it was the elderly, sharp-featured religieuse seated at the end of the table who answered her question.
‘I fear Sister Muirgel as well as two others, Brother Guss and Brother Bairne, are still indisposed, being overcome with the fatigues of the voyage, and are unable to join us for the time being. Do you know Sister Muirgel as well?’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘I met her when I came aboard although it was not in the best circumstances. I noticed that she was unwell,’ she added by way of explanation.
A pale, elderly monk with dirty grey hair sniffed audibly in disapproval.
‘Say that they are seasick and have done with it, Sister Ainder.
People should not come on voyages if they have no stomach for it.’
The third religieuse whose name Fidelma had registered as being Sister Crella, a small, young woman with broad features that somehow marred the attractiveness that she would otherwise have possessed, looked disapproving. She appeared to be of a nervous disposition for she kept glancing quickly around as if she expected someone to appear. It was she who made a sound of reproach with her tongue and shook her head.
‘A little charity, please, Brother Tola. It is a terrible thing, this sickness of being at sea.’
‘There is a sailor’s cure for seasickness,’ intervened Murchad with grim humour, ‘but I would not recommend it. The best way to avoid sickness is to stay on deck and focus your eyes on the horizon. Breathe plenty of fresh sea air. The worst thing you can do in the circumstances is to remain below, confined to your cabin. I would advise you to pass that on to your fellow travellers.’
Fidelma felt a satisfaction that her earlier prescription for sickness had been an accurate one.
‘Captain!’ It was the sharp-faced Sister Ainder again. ‘Must we stir up images of the sick and dead when we are about to eat? Perhaps Brother Cian will say the
gratias
and then we may proceed with our meal.’
Fidelma raised her eyes expectantly. The idea of Cian as a religieux, leading the
gratias,
was something that she had never imagined.
The former warrior flushed, seemingly aware of her inquisitive gaze, and turned to the elderly, austere Brother.
‘Let Brother Tola proclaim the
gratias
,’ he muttered stiffly, raising his eyes to challenge Fidelma. ‘I have little to be thankful for,’ he added in a soft whisper meant for her ears only. She did not bother to respond. Murchad, hearing the remark, raised his bushy brows but said nothing.
Brother Tola clasped his hands before him and intoned in a loud baritone:
‘Benedictus sit
Deus in Donis
Suis.’
They responded automatically: ‘
Et sanctus in omnis operibus
Suis.’
While the meal was being eaten, Murchad began to explain, as he had previously done to Fidelma, his estimation of the length of their voyage.
‘It is to be hoped that we will be graced with fair weather to the port at which you will disembark. The port is not far from the Holy Shrine to which you are bound. It is a journey of just a few miles inland.’
There was a murmur of excitement among the pilgrims. One of the
two young Brothers, whom Fidelma had seen up on the main deck earlier, a youth she learnt was called Brother Dathal, leant forward, his face as animated as it had been when he had been speaking to his companion on deck.
‘Is the shrine near to the spot where Bregon built his great tower?’
Clearly Brother Dathal was a student of the ancient legends of the Gael because, according to the old bards, the ancestors of the people of Éireann had once lived in Iberia and many centuries ago had spied the country from a great tower, built by their leader Bregon. It was the nephew of Bregon, Golamh, known also as Mike Easpain, who had led his people in the great invasion which secured for them the Five Kingdoms.
Murchad smiled broadly. He had heard the question many times before from other pilgrims.
‘So legend has it,’ he replied in good humour. ‘However, I must warn you that you will find no sign of such a massive construction, apart from a great Roman lighthouse which is called the Tower of Hercules, not of Bregon. Bregon’s Tower must have been a very, very high tower indeed, for a man to be able to see the coast of Éireann from Iberia.’ He paused but no one seemed to appreciate his humour. His voice became serious. ‘Now, since we have a moment together, I need to say a few things to all of you which you must pass on to your fellows who have not been able to join us in this first meal. There are rules which you must observe while on this ship.’
He hesitated before proceeding.
‘I have told you that our voyage will take the best part of a week. During that time you may use the main deck as much as you like. Try not to get in the way of my crew while they perform their duties, for your lives depend on the efficient running of this ship and sailing these waters is not an easy task.’
‘I have heard stories of great sea monsters.’
It was the youthful Sister Gormán. Fidelma examined her with surreptitious interest, for she felt it would be best to start becoming acquainted with her fellow passengers, to the extent that they would be confined together in the ship for several days. Gormán was, indeed, young; no more than eighteen. She spoke in a nervous, breathless tone, giving the impression of a naive child. In fact, Fidelma had the image of an eager young puppy wishing to please its master. She had one odd feature, in that her eyes seemed never still, but flickering as if in a state of permanent anxiety. Fidelma found herself wondering if she had ever been that young. Eighteen. It suddenly reminded her that she
had been eighteen when she had met Cian. She dismissed the thought immediately.
‘Shall we be seeing sea monsters?’ the girl was asking. ‘Will we be in any danger?’
Murchad laughed, but not unkindly.
‘There is no danger from sea monsters where we voyage,’ he assured her. ‘You may observe sea creatures which you have not encountered before, but they pose no threat. Our main danger lies only in inclement weather. Now, if we do encounter storms, it is best, unless I instruct you otherwise, to remain below and make sure that all lamps and candles are extinguished …’
‘But how can we see down here in the dark without lamps?’ wailed Sister Crella.
‘All lamps and candles must be extinguished,’ insisted Murchad with an emphasis which was his only acknowledgment of her question. ‘We do not want to contend with fire on shipboard as well as a storm. Lamps must be extinguished and everything battened down.’
‘I do not understand.’ The ascetic Brother Tola appeared confused at the term.
‘Anything movable, liable to cause damage in the shifting of the vessel, should be securely tied or fastened,’ explained the captain patiently. ‘In such circumstances, young Wenbrit will be on hand to advise you and ensure that there is nothing you lack.’
‘How likely is it that we will encounter a storm?’ asked the tall, elderly religieuse, Sister Ainder.
‘A fifty-fifty chance,’ admitted Murchad. ‘But don’t worry. I have never lost a pilgrim ship yet, nor even a single pilgrim in a storm.’
There were polite but rather strained smiles among those gathered at the table. Murchad was obviously a good judge of character, for Fidelma noticed that some of her companions were in need of further reassurance and Murchad shared that insight.
‘I will be honest with you,’ he confided. ‘This month is one of frequent storms and rain which can last for many weeks. But why have I chosen to set sail on this particular day? Is it by chance that I insisted we take this morning’s tide? Does anyone know the reason?’
The party gazed at one another and there was some shaking of heads.
‘Being religious people, you all ought to know what this day is,’ the captain chided them good-naturedly. He waited for an anser. They looked bewildered. Fidelma thought she should answer for them.
‘Are you talking about the feast day of the Blessed Luke, Beloved Luke the Physician?’
Murchad glanced approvingly at her knowledge.
‘Exactly so. The feast day of Luke. Have none of you heard of “St Luke’s Little Summer”?’
There was a bewildered shaking of heads.
‘We sailors have noticed that there is usually a fine period in the middle of this month which occurs on the feast day of St Luke – a dry period with lots of sunshine. That’s why, if we are going to sail during this month, we usually choose to sail at that time.’
‘Can you guarantee this fine weather for the voyage?’ demanded Sister Ainder.
‘I am afraid that nothing can be guaranteed once you set sail on the sea, no matter the time nor the place, whether at high summer or midwinter. I am merely saying that out of the several voyages that I have made at this time of year, only one has failed to be pleasant and calm.’
Murchad paused and, as there were no comments, he continued.
‘There is, of course, one other matter that I am sure you have all been told about before you booked passage. The seas are dangerous these days and the waters in which we will be journeying are not excluded from such danger. I no longer refer to risk from the elements – from the tides, winds and storms. I refer to the risk from our fellow men – from pirates and sea-raiders, who attack and rob ships, seize their occupants and sell them into slavery.’
A hush descended on the company.
Fidelma, who had travelled to Rome, knew some of the dangers of which Murchad spoke. She had heard many stories of raiders who sailed against the western ports of Italy from the Balearic Islands, and of the spread of the Corsairs from the Arabian world through the Mediterranean – the great middle sea of the world.

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