Act of Mercy (32 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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‘What does it tell you?’
‘The size of that print tells me much about the person who killed Toca Nia. And now I am beginning to see a faint connection. Perhaps coincidences do not happen so frequently as we think that they do. The peson who killed Toca Nia is the same person who slaughtered Sister Canair back in Ardmore and stabbed Sister Muirgel. Perhaps …’ Fidelma fell silent, considering the problem.
‘I would be careful, lady,’ interposed Murchad anxiously. ‘If this
person has attempted to kill you once, they may well try again. They obviously perceive you as a threat. Maybe you are close to discovering them.’
‘We must all be vigilant,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But this person likes to kill in secret, of that I am sure. There is also one other thing that we may be sure of.’
‘I do not follow.’
‘Our murderer is one of only three people on this ship and that person, I believe, is insane. We must, indeed, be vigilant.’
 
That evening the winds began to change again. After the somewhat strained atmosphere at the evening meal, served as usual by Wenbrit, Fidelma went out on deck to join Murchad and Gurvan by the steering oar.
‘I am afraid we are in for another blow, lady,’ Murchad greeted her morosely. ‘We have been more than unlucky this voyage. Had the calm weather continued, we would be two days out from the Iberian port. Now we must see where the winds take us.’
Fidelma glanced up at the skies. They did not seem as bad as those harbingers of the storm during the first night out. True, they were dark-tinged, but not rushing across the sky as she had seen them on the previous occasion.
‘How long do we have before it strikes?’ she asked.
‘It will be with us by midnight,’ replied Murchad.
At that moment Fidelma noticed the ship was positively cleaving the waters, sending a white froth washing by on both sides of the vessel. Everything looked so calm and peaceful.
By midnight, Fidelma could not believe the sudden change of weather. Heavy seas were running now and the wind was changing direction so often that it made her dizzy. Fidelma had been sitting on deck, her mind going over all the facts and incidents, analysing and sorting them in her own mind. She stood up, feeling the deck beginning to pitch under her. Gurvan was busy supervising some of the sailors fastening the rigging.
He came across to her.
‘The safest place will be in your cabin, lady, and don’t forget to—’
‘Stow all loose objects,’ ended Fidelma solemnly, having learnt the lesson during the previous bad weather.
‘You’ll become a sailor yet, lady,’ Gurvan smiled approvingly.
‘Is it going to be as bad as last time?’ she asked.
Gurvan replied with a non-committal gesture.
‘It doesn’t look too good. We are having to beat against the wind.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to return and go with the wind, even if that blows us back on our course?’
Gurvan shook his head.
‘In this sea, to head to the wind would have those heavy seas pouring over us the whole time. We might even be driven under the waves by the force.’
As if to emphasise his words, the spray was beginning to fly over the deck and Fidelma could see the waters around them start to boil. In fact, the wind had increased so severely that the mast, thick and strong as it was, began to groan and bend a little. To Fidelma, it looked as if the wind was threatening to tear the mast itself from its well. The leather sail was thrashing about and appeared to be in danger of splitting.
‘Best get inside now!’ urged Gurvan.
Fidelma acknowledged his advice and, head down, she moved cautiously along the main deck to her cabin.
There was nothing to do but ensure everything movable was stowed away again and then sit on her bunk and wait out the storm. But the storm did not abate quickly. The hours gradually wore on and there was certainly little doubt in Fidelma’s mind that the weather, if anything, was worsening.
At some point she hauled herself from the bunk and went to the window. She peered along the deck but could see nothing. It was black as pitch and the rain – or was it sea spray? – was pouring down in sheets across the ship. It was almost as if
The Barnacle Goose
was totally underwater. As she stared out, the wind sucked the sea from the wave-tops and gathered them to sluice the water across the ship; it lashed into her face and eyes, drenching her.
She turned back into her cabin.
Even above the noise of the wind and seas she heard a strange groaning sound. It seemed to be coming from the side planking in her cabin. Without warning, a geyser of seawater shot through the planks, frothing and bubbling.
Fidelma stared at the water and the splintered wood for a moment in horror, then grabbed at the blanket from her bunk and began to stuff it desperately into the crack. She could feel the splintered wood moving underneath her hands. Everything was becoming soaked – her clothes, the straw mattress, the blankets. And the sea was so cold that her teeth began to chatter.
She tried calling but the noise of the wind and sea simply drowned
out the sound of her voice. She did not know how long she stayed there, praying that the wood was not going to splinter further. It seemed like hours, and her hands grew numb with the chill.
Eventually she became aware that the cabin door had opened and closed behind her. She glanced across her shoulder and saw the soaked figure of Wenbrit, holding a bucket and something else under his arm, staggering in.
‘Is it bad?’ yelled the boy, putting his mouth close to her ear that he might be heard.
‘Very bad!’ she yelled back.
The boy put down his bucket and the other objects he was carrying. Then he removed the blanket to inspect the damage.
‘The sea has splintered the planking of the hull,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll try to strengthen and caulk it as much as I can. It should hold for a while.’
He had some pieces of wood under his arm and proceeded to hammer these over the damaged area. Then he plastered it with the soaked hazel leaves. The gush of the seawater died away to a tiny trickle.
‘That will have to do until the storm passes!’ Wenbrit had to shout again to make himself heard. ‘I’m afraid we will all be wet until then. The sea keeps breaking over the ship and everyone is soaked.’
An hour after he had left, Fidelma gave in to her exhaustion and tried to doze on the sodden straw. Dimly aware of a loud ‘Miaow!’ she realised that Mouse Lord had been crouching, terrified, under the bunk all this time. Sleepily muttering encouragement, she felt the cat spring up onto the bunk beside her. His warm body curled up on her chest with a deep, contented purring sound. The cat was cosy and comforting on her saturated clothing and she eventually fell into fitful doze.
The pain was sharp.
The tiny needles in her chest were excruciating. Then there was the most appalling cry, almost human, a cry that Fidelma associated with the wail of the
bean sidhe
, the woman of the fairies, who shrills and moans when a death is imminent. It took a moment for Fidelma to realise that Mouse Lord was standing arched on her chest, fur standing straight out, claws digging deep in her flesh. He was emitting a piercing wail. Then he leapt from the bunk.
Adrenalin caused Fidelma to swing quickly from the bunk, gasping in agony.
She became aware of a figure at the door – a slight figure, framed for only a moment. Then the cabin door slammed shut. The ship
lurched, sending Fidelma off-balance. She scrambled to her knees. A dark shadow, she presumed it was the cat, streaked under the bunk. She could hear his terrible wail. Then she grabbed for the door and swung it open.
There was no one there. The figure had gone. Holding on with one hand, she closed the door and looked around, wondering what had happened.
The cat had stopped its fearful cry. It was too dark to see anything, although she had a feeling that dawn was not far away. The ship was still pitching and bucking. She staggered back to the bunk and sat down.
‘Mouse Lord?’ she called coaxingly. ‘What is it?’
There was no response from the cat. She knew he was there because she heard his movements and his breath coming in a strange rasping sound. She realised that she would have to wait for daylight to find out what was wrong with him. She sat on the bunk, unable to sleep, watching the skies lighten but without the wind abating. When she finally judged it light enough, she went down on her knees and peered under the bunk.
Mouse Lord spat at her and struck out with a paw, talons extended. He had never behaved in such a manner to her before.
She heard a movement at the door and swung round. Wenbrit entered carrying something covered in a small leather bucket.
‘I’ve brought some
corma
and some biscuit, lady,’ he said, not sure what she was doing on her knees. ‘There’ll be no meal today. It’s the best I can do. This storm will not blow itself out before this evening.’
‘Something is wrong with Mouse Lord,’ Fidelma explained. ‘He won’t let me near him.’
Wenbrit put his bucket down and knelt alongside her. Then, glancing at her robe, he frowned and pointed to it.
‘You seem to have some blood on your robe, lady.’
Fidelma raised a hand and felt the sticky substance on her chest.
‘I can’t see any scratches,’ Wenbrit observed. ‘If Mouse Lord has scratched you …’
‘Can you get the cat out from under the bunk? I think he must be hurt,’ she interrupted as she realised that the blood could not have come from the puncture marks the cat had made when he had been frightened during the night.
Wenbrit went down on his knees. It took him some time before the cat allowed himself to be taken hold of. Wenbrit was finally able to get near the animal, having made sure that he held the front paws together
to stop Mouse Lord scratching. Making soft reassuring sounds, the boy gently extracted Mouse Lord from underneath the bunk and laid him on the bedding. Something was obviously hurting the animal.
‘He’s been cut.’ The boy frowned as he examined the animal. ‘Deeply cut, too. There’s still blood on his hind flank. What happened?’
Mouse Lord had calmed down as the animal realised that they meant him no harm.
‘I don’t know … oh!’
Even as she spoke, Fidelma understood the meaning of her painful awakening during the night. She leant over the straw mattress of the bunk and saw what she was looking for immediately. It was the same knife which Sister Crella had given her; the one Crella claimed that Brother Guss had planted under her bunk. It was smeared with blood: Mouse Lord’s blood. Fidelma cursed herself for a fool. She had brought the knife from Crella’s cabin and put it in her baggage and it had disappeared before Toca Nia’s death.
Wenbrit had finished his examination of the cat.
‘I need to take Mouse Lord down below where I can bathe and stitch this cut. I think the creature has been stabbed in the hind flank. Poor cat. He’s tried to lick it better.’
Fidelma glanced at Mouse Lord in sympathy. Wenbrit was fussing over the cat, who was allowing the boy to stroke him under the chin. He began to purr softly.
‘How did this happen, lady?’ asked Wenbrit again.
‘I think Mouse Lord saved my life,’ she told him. ‘I was asleep with him curled up on my chest. Someone came to the cabin door. Perhaps Mouse Lord sprang up when the killer entered. They obviously didn’t see the cat. I must have been lucky for they threw the knife instead of moving to stab me as I lay. Whether the cat’s move deflected it, I am not sure, but poor Puss caught the blade in his flank. The cat’s reaction woke me and scared the attacker.’
‘Did you recognise the person?’ demanded the boy.
‘I am afraid not. It was too dark.’ Fidelma gave a shudder as she realised how close she had come to death for a second time. Then she pulled herself together.
‘Look after Mouse Lord, Wenbrit. Do your best. He saved my life. We’ll have some answers before long.
Deo favente,
this storm must moderate soon. I can’t concentrate with it.’
But they were without God’s favour, for the storm did not moderate for another full day. The constant noise and heaving had dulled Fidelma’s senses; she became almost indifferent to her fate. She just
wanted to sleep, to find some relief from the merciless battering of the weather. Now and then the ship would heel over to such an angle that Fidelma would ask herself whether it would right itself again. Then, after what seemed an age,
The Barnade Goose
would slowly swing back until another great wave came roaring out of the darkness.
At times Fidelma believed the ship to be sinking, so completely immersed in seawater did it seem to be; she even had to fight for breath against the lung-bursting bitter saltwater that drenched her. Her body was bruised and assaulted by the constant tossing of the ship.
It was dawn the next day when she drearily noticed that the wind was less keen than before and the rocking of the ship less violent. She made her way out of her cabin and looked around. The grey morning sky held a few tattered storm clouds, low and isolated, sweeping by amidst a layer of thin white cloud. She even saw the pale, white orb of the sun on the eastern horizon. Not a full-blooded dawn but with just a hint that the day might improve.

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