Act of Mercy (25 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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‘Your father was a sea captain?’
‘He was a drunk. He was often drunk.’
‘And your mother?’
‘I don’t remember her. He told me that she had died soon after I was born.’
‘Was anyone else saved from the ship?’
‘Not that I know of. I do not recall anything from the time it struck to the time I came to on board
The Barnacle
. Murchad told me that I must have been in the sea several days and was near dead when he fished me out of the water.’
‘Did you make any attempt to trace any survivors? Your father might have lived.’
Wenbrit shrugged indifferently.
‘Murchad put into the port in Cornwall which was the home port of my father’s vessel. There was no word there. All the crew had been given up for lost.’
‘Apart from Murchad, who else knows your story?’
‘Most of the men on this ship, lady. This is my home now. Thanks be to God that Murchad came along when he did. Now I have a new family and a better one than I ever knew.’
Fidelma smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘Thanks be to God, indeed, Wenbrit.’ Then the thought struck her. ‘And thanks be to whoever it was who lashed your unconscious body to that grating, so that you at least stood a chance of rescue.’
There was a cry across the waters as the skiff reached the patch of floating wreckage. Gurvan was standing up, precariously, examining the waters. Then he pointed and sat down. They could see the oars stroking the water.
‘Have they found a survivor?’ Fidelma asked.
Wenbrit shook his head.
‘I think it’s a dead body. They are letting it back into the water.’
‘Can’t we pick up the bodies?’ Fidelma protested, thinking that some funeral ceremony should be performed.
‘At sea, lady, the concern must always be for the living before the dead,’ Wenbrit told her.
They heard another shout across the water and could see a second figure being hauled into the skiff. Then they saw a splashing nearby. Someone was trying to swim to the rescue vessel.
‘Two souls saved at least,’ muttered Wenbrit.
It was fifteen minutes later when the skiff returned. In all, only three people had been found alive and now Murchad was in a hurry to get his ship underway, for even Fidelma could see that the winds and tides were steadily pushing
The Barnacle Goose
towards the rocks in spite of the lowering of the sail and the sea anchors. Fidelma had wondered what exactly sea anchors were. She knew what a normal anchor was. She found, thanks to Wenbrit’s explanation, that the ship carried four great leather bags which were dropped into the water and acted as drags to prevent the vessel moving without any resistance.
The three rescued seamen were hoisted onto the main deck and then Murchad was barking a series of orders.
‘Hoist the mainsail! Weigh sea anchors. Stand by to wear the ship. Gurvan to the steering oar.’
Fidelma took it upon herself to move across to the three rescued men. Most of the crew were already busy trying to take the ship out of danger.
One of them was already sitting up and coughing a little. The other two lay senseless.
Fidelma registered several things immediately. The two men who
lay senseless were dressed in the usual sailors’ clothing – ordinary seamen, by their appearance. The man sitting up and recovering was well dressed, and even though his clothes were sodden and he wore no weapons, Fidelma saw that he was a man of some rank.
He was well built, which might have accounted for his surviving relatively unscathed in the water, and fair-haired with a long moustache, which dangled on either side of his mouth in Gaulish fashion. Salt crusted his features. His eyes were light blue, and his features were clean-cut. In spite of his sea-soaked appearance, his clothing was of excellent quality. He seemed to be a man used to outdoor life. She noted he wore some rich pieces of jewellery.
‘
Ouomodo vales
?’ she asked him in Latin, judging that if he be of rank he would have some knowledge of Latin no matter his nationality.
To her astonishment he replied in her own tongue and with an accent she judged to be that of the Kingdom of Laigin.
‘I shall be all right.’ He indicated his unconscious companions. ‘But they look in poorer shape.’
Fidelma bent down and felt for the pulse of the first man. It was present, but very faint.
‘He has swallowed much water, I think,’ added the Irishman.
Wenbrit came forward.
‘I know something about reviving him, lady,’ he offered.
Fidelma moved back and watched the boy roll the man over on his back and then sit astride him.
‘We must get the water out of him. Go to his head and stretch his arms back and when I say, push them forward to me. Like a pumping action.’
Another member of the crew was doing likewise with the other sailor.
Fidelma placed herself under the instruction of the young boy and saw that the movement raised and lowered the man’s chest. Between each movement, the boy blew deeply into the man’s mouth. It was just when Fidelma was saying that the manipulation seemed not to be succeeding that the man gave a croaking sound; water spurted from his mouth and he started coughing. Wenbrit rolled the man onto his side and the sailor started to retch and vomit on the deck.
Fidelma stood back. The other sailor had a gash on his forehead and was clearly unconscious but, apparently, he was breathing normally. Two sailors were carrying him to the crew’s quarters. Fidelma found the Laigin man was already standing up and appeared none the worse for his experience. He was staring about him ruefully.
Wenbrit helped the resuscitated sailor sit up. The man was muttering something to which Wenbrit replied in the same language.
‘He is not Irish, then?’ Fidelma addressed her remark to the Irishman.
‘It was a Breton trading ship, Sister. A Breton crew. I had purchased passage on her as far as the mouth of the Sléine.’
Fidelma regarded him thoughtfully.
‘You are obviously from Laigin.’
‘I am. Is this an Irish ship?’
‘Out of Ardmore,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘But with a mixed crew. Murchad is the captain.’
‘Out of the Kingdom of Muman?’ The man looked about him and smiled. ‘A pilgrim ship, no doubt. Whither bound?’
‘For the Holy Shrine of St James in Iberia.’
The man let out a soft curse.
‘That will be little use to me. Who did you say is the master of this ship? I must speak with him right away.’
Fidelma glanced to where Murchad was busy on the quarter deck.
‘I would advise that unless you want to renew your acquaintance with the rocky waters, you should wait awhile,’ she smiled. ‘Anyway, we shall be putting into Ushant for fresh water shortly.’
The corner of the man’s mouth turned down.
‘Ushant is where we just came from.’
Wenbrit had helped one of the crew move the survivors and was now swabbing down the deck.
‘Will the sailors be all right?’ Fidelma called to him.
The boy grinned.
‘They are lucky, those two, I’m thinking. I shall find some spirits in a moment that will put warmth into that gentleman there.’
‘Good thinking, boy,’ approved the new arrival.
‘What is your name?’ Fidelma asked the man pleasantly.
‘I tell that to the captain,’ the man said dismissively.
Fidelma swung round to rebuke him for his ill manners and, in doing so, the emblem of the Golden Chain slid from her loosed habit. The ancient dynastic order of the Eóghanacht had been bestowed on her by her brother, Colgú, the King of Cashel. The sun glinted on the golden cross. Afterwards, Fidelma was uncertain whether she had subconsciously made the movement on purpose so that it would be revealed. It certainly had a sharp effect on the man.
He stared at it, eyes widening in recognition. The emblem of the Niadh Nasc, the order of the Golden Chain or Collar, was a venerable Muman nobiliary fraternity which had sprung out of the ancient elite
warrior guards of the Kings of Cashel. The honour was in the personal presentation of the Eóghanacht King of Cashel, and each recipient observed personal allegiance to him, being given, in turn, a cross to wear which had originated from an ancient solar symbol – for it was said that the origins of the honour were shrouded in the mists of time. Some scribes claimed that the Order had been founded almost a thousand years before the birth of Christ.
The man from Laigin knew that no ordinary religieuse would be wearing such a symbol. He had apparently remembered that the boy had addressed her as ‘lady’. Now he cleared his throat nervously and moved his head forward in a bow.
‘I am forgetting my manners, lady. I am Toca Nia of Clan Baoiscne. I was once commander of the bodyguard of Faelan, the late King of Laigin. Whom am I addressing?’
‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’
The man’s astonishment was evident.
‘The sister of Colgú of Cashel? The
dálaigh
who appeared in the dispute between Muman and Laigin and … ?’
‘Colgú is my brother,’ she interrupted.
‘I know your reputation, lady.’
‘I am only an advocate and a religieuse bound on a pilgrimage to Iberia.
‘
Only
?’ Toca Nia laughed disarmingly. ‘I realise now that I have seen you before, but I did not recognise you until you spoke your name.’
It was now Fidelma’s turn to be surprised.
‘I do not recall our meeting.’
‘No reason why you should, for we did not actually meet,’ he explained. ‘I merely saw you from across a crowded abbey hall. It was in the Abbey of Ros Ailithir, well over a year ago. After Fáelán, my king, had died, I continued on for a while in the service of the young King of Laigin, Fianamail. I accompanied him, the Abbot Noé of Fearna and the Brehon Fornassach, to the Abbey, where you revealed the plot to set Laigin and Muman at war with each other.’
It seemed a lifetime ago, reflected Fidelma. Could it only have been a year or so ago?
‘A strange place to meet again,’ she remarked courteously. ‘How
is
Fianamail, the Laigin King? A fiery and tempestuous young man, as I recall.’
Toca Nia smiled and nodded.
‘I left his service after Ros Ailithir. I think that I had had enough of war and being a professional warrior. I had heard that the Prince of
Montroulez sought a man to train his horses. I have been successful in that field. I spent a year at his court and was returning to Laigin when …’
He gestured eloquently with his hand towards the sea. The gesture drew Fidelma back to the situation. She turned and saw, to her surprise, that the line of jagged rocks were receding in the distance. Once again Murchad had displayed his seamanship by manoeuvring his ship out of harm’s way.
Indeed, Murchad was coming from the stern deck towards them with a purposeful step.
Toca Nia turned to greet him.
‘Have you suffered injury?’ Murchad demanded, his keen eyes gliding swiftly over the broad-framed warrior.
‘None, thanks to the timely intervention of you and your crew, Captain.’
‘And your companions?’
Wenbrit came forward and answered for him.
‘Two sailors from the crew. One will be a little the worse for the ordeal, but the other may take a few days to recover. His head was badly gashed by the rocks when he went in.’
‘What ship were you on?’ Murchad asked the survivor.
‘The ship was called the
Morvaout
– we would call that
The Cormorant
, I think.’
Murchad examined the man keenly.
‘Was she a pilgrim ship?’
Toca Nia smiled. ‘A trading ship, taking wines and olive oil to Laigin, and me along with it.’
Fidelma decided to intervene.
‘This is Toca Nia, one time commander of the King of Laigin’s bodyguard and more lately a trainer of horses for the Prince of … of where?’
‘Montroulez is a small mainland princedom on the north coast of Little Britain.’
‘What was your captain thinking of, by steering his ship in such dangerous waters?’ was Murchad’s next question.
The former warrior shrugged.
‘The captain died two days ago. That is why the ship came south to Ushant instead of sailing directly north for Laigin. The mate took over and, I fear, he was not a competent seaman nor could he handle some of the crew who refused to obey his orders. He was too fond of cider.’
‘Are you saying that the crew were in mutiny?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Something like that, lady.’
‘Were either of the survivors involved?’ demanded Murchad. ‘I don’t want mutineers on my ship.’

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