Act of Mercy (9 page)

Authors: Peter Tremayne

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

BOOK: Act of Mercy

12.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

‘I am just checking that all is well with you, lady,’ he explained. He seemed very calm in the face of the onslaught of nature. ‘Is everything all right with you?’

‘As right as it can be,’ Fidelma replied, turning and finding herself almost running back to her bunk, precipitated by the incline of the deck.

‘The storm is here,’ Wenbrit announced unnecessarily. ‘It’s stronger than the captain anticipated and he is trying to lie head to wind now but there is a heavy sea running. We shall be in for a rough time so please remain here. It is dangerous to move about unless you are used to storms at sea. I’ll bring some food later. I don’t think anyone will be sitting down for a meal.’

‘Thank you, Wenbrit. You are very considerate. I have a feeling we will dispense with food while this storm lasts.’

The boy hesitated in her cabin door. ‘If there is anything you need, just pass the word for me.’

Fidelma interpreted this quaint phrase as meaning that she should send for him. She shook her head.

‘It’s all right. If I need anything, I’ll just come and find you.’

‘No.’
The boy was vehement. ‘Remain in your cabin during the storm. Pass the word to a seaman and do not venture out on deck. Even we seamen wear lifelines on deck during a blow like this.’

‘I will remember,’ she assured him.

The boy raised his knuckles to his forehead in that curious seaman’s salute and disappeared.

She realised how cold and dark it had become yet it was only early evening. There was nothing to do but to sit on her bunk and wrap a blanket over her shoulders. It was too dark even to attempt to read. She wished she had someone to talk to. She found the ship’s cat curled up on her bunk and took comfort from his warm black furry body. She reached out a hand and stroked his head. He raised it, blinked sleepily and gazed at her, letting out a soft rumbling purr.

‘I guess you are used to this sort of weather, eh, Mouse Lord?’ she said.

The cat lowered his head, yawned hugely and returned to his sleep.

‘You are not much of a conversationalist,’ Fidelma reproached him. And then she lay down with the cat beside her, trying to shut out the sounds of the agonised wailing of the wind through the rigging and sails and the heaving of the sea. She absently scratched the cat behind the ear and his purr intensified. Out of nowhere, the old proverb suddenly came into her mind: Cats, like men, are flatterers.

She was thinking of Cian again.

When Fidelma came awake on her bunk, the wind was still whining and roaring and the ship continued to be tossed this way and that. The cat remained warm and comfortable at her side. If only she had trusted her friend Grian; listened to her warnings about Cian’s shallow nature. For years she had been bitter and resentful. Then, out of nowhere, the thought occurred to her that this resentment and bitterness was not, as she had previously thought, directed at Cian. It was directed at herself. Fidelma had been angry with herself, had blamed herself for her stupidity and her silly vanity.

Now she could hear the wind rising, moaning through the rigging
and launching itself against the sails. A distant voice was shouting faintly somewhere. She could feel the ship rise as it climbed each wave and then fall as it slid into the heaving waters beneath.

She swung off the bunk leaving Mouse Lord still curled up in a ball, fast asleep, and apparently oblivious to the tempest. By gripping whatever hand-holds she could find, Fidelma manoeuvred herself to the window. Drawing back the sodden linen curtain, she peered out onto the deck. A fine sea spray immediately hit her in the face. She blinked and raised one hand to wipe her eyes, stumbling a little as the deck pitched beneath her. It was dark outside. Evening had passed into night. She looked upwards but there was no sign of moon nor stars. They must be covered by clouds, low and rainladen.

The wind was now a whine through the shrouds and beyond the wooden rail she could just see, by their whiteness, the tops of the waves, being whipped into a froth of white lather by the angry buffets of air. She realised that the bow, where her cabin was situated, must be rising high into the waves as cascades of water pounded on the deck above her.

Dark shadows were heaving on ropes around the main mast. Fidelma was astonished as she watched the silhouettes of men braving the uncontrollable winds, the bucking of the ship and the torrential waters, to lower the big mainsail. A heavy sea suddenly heaved the vessel over almost on its side. Fidelma was flung without warning against one of the walls of the cabin, but she held on and grabbed at the rim of the window, regaining her balance. Another flood of water smashed over the decks and for a moment Fidelma thought the sailors had been washed overboard but, as the spray cleared, she could see them re-emerge from the deluge still hanging onto their ropes.

Once again she had to grasp at the grating of the window to maintain her balance when the ship lurched. She felt an almost overwhelming sense of helplessness. She wanted to run out on deck, help the men or simply do something. She felt so inadequate against the forces of nature of which she knew nothing. However, she realised that there was nothing she could do. The sailors were trained and knew the ways of the sea. She did not. All she could do was return to her bunk and hope the ship would ride out the storm.

As she drew the linen curtain across again and began to haul her way back to her bunk, the cry came clearly: ‘All hands!
All hands
!’

It was a fearful call. Panic seized her and she turned for her cabin door and heaved it open.

A dark shadow was outside, as if coming from the opposite cabin.
She did not recognise it but an accented voice shouted at her, raised to carry above the noise of the storm.

‘Get back, lady. You are safer in your cabin.’

Reluctantly, she closed the door and returned to her bunk, sprawling rather than sitting on it. The storm continued. She did not know how long she lay in that half-reclining position on the bed. In a curious way, the fury of the storm became soporific. With nothing to do but to think, the constant jerking, the crash of the seas, the whine of the wind all combined, after a while, into a single sound and gradually Fidelma found herself hypnotised by it. Her languorous thoughts wandered back to Cian. And while she was thinking of Cian, sleep sneaked up on her without her even knowing.

Chapter Seven

Fidelma was up, washed and dressed and just putting the final touches to her hair when there was a knock on the cabin door.

It was the Breton mate, Gurvan.

‘I beg your pardon, lady.’ With an inward sigh, Fidelma noted the form of address. Doubtless it was all around the ship that her brother was King of Muman. Gurvan did not notice her irritated expression and continued, ‘I was checking that you were recovered from the storm and that there were no problems?’

‘Thank you, I am fine,’ Fidelma acknowledged. Then she hesitated. She vaguely remembered being disturbed just about dawn when the storm had died away. She had the impression that someone had opened the door of her cabin, looked in and then closed it. She had been too tired to open her eyes and had fallen back to sleep immediately. ‘Did you attempt to call me earlier?’

‘Not I, lady,’ the mate assured her. ‘The others will be breaking their fast shortly if you would join them.’ He made to go, then turned back. ‘I hope that I was not lacking manners when I ordered you back into your cabin during the storm.’

So it had been Gurvan outside her door when she had a momentary panicky desire to go on deck.

‘Not at all. I should not have attempted to go out on deck but I was worried.’

Gurvan smiled shyly and touched a hand to his forehead.

‘The breakfast will be served in a moment, lady,’ he repeated.

Fidelma realised that she had probably overslept a little.

‘Very well. I am coming now.’ ,

The mate withdrew. She heard him go into the cabin opposite and close the door.

When she left her cabin, she was amazed at the sight that met her eyes. It was as if they had entered a cloud, for a thick white mist enveloped
The Barnacle Goose.
Fidelma could barely see the top of the mast, let alone the stern of the vessel. She had encountered such conditions before, often high up in the mountains when such mists
came down suddenly. It was always best to halt and wait for them to disperse, unless one knew the safest mountain route by which to descend.

There was a strange, echoing silence, with the soft breath of the sea lapping all around the ship. The mist swirled and eddied like smoke from a fire. It was not being dispelled, however, and Fidelma found that strange. She felt an uncontrollable urge to attempt to blow the mist away, so easily did it move as she waved her hand at it.

Gurvan suddenly re-emerged from his cabin.

‘It’s a sea mist,’ he explained unnecessarily. ‘It rolled up on us in the wake of the storm. I think it is something to do with the warmth of the seas in this area and the coldness of the storm. There is nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘I’ve seen such mists before. It was just unexpected after the storm last night.’

‘The sun will chase it away as soon as it climbs higher and warms the skies.’

He turned to speak with a couple of sailors, who were hardly discernible in the shroudlike atmosphere. Sitting cross-legged on the deck, they were apparently engaged in sewing some pieces of canvas.

Fidelma made her way along the misty deck towards the stern of the ship. She was surprised, after the stormy weather of the previous night, to feel the soft air on her cheek which caused the mainsail to flap languidly, a birdlike fluttering in that echoing silence. The ship was steady, indicating that under the blanket of mist, the sea was flat and calm. She could see no sign of storm damage amidst the shadows. Everything appeared shipshape.

Barely able to see a few feet in front of her, and walking too rapidly, Fidelma bumped into a figure shrouded in a robe with the hood over his or her head. The figure grunted as Fidelma collided with it.

‘I am so sorry, Sister,’ Fidelma apologised, realising that it was one of the religieuses. There was something familiar about her.

But to her surprise, the figure kept her face turned away, muttered something indistinguishable and hurried off to be absorbed into the mist. Fidelma gaped at this lack of courtesy, and wondered who it was who would not exchange a civil greeting.

Then Captain Murchad himself materialised in front of her. He was descending the wooden steps from the stern deck to the main deck. Recognising her, the captain raised his hand in greeting.

‘A curious morning, lady,’ he said as he joined her. She could see
that he was looking irritated. ‘Have you ever seen the like of this before?’

‘Up in the mountains occasionally,’ she nodded.

‘So you would,’ agreed Murchad. ‘Yet it should clear away soon. The sun should rise and its warmth ought to dispel the mist.’ He was making no move to continue on below decks. ‘How did you fare during the blow?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Blow?’ Then Fidelma remembered that this was the sailors’ term for the storm. ‘I eventually fell asleep but more from exhaustion than anything.’

Murchad let out a long sigh.

‘It was a bad blow. The storm has driven me a half-day or more off my course. We’ve been pushed south-east – far more easterly than I was intending.’ He seemed preoccupied and far from happy.

‘Is that a problem?’ Fidelma queried. ‘Surely no one is worried about an extra day or so on this voyage.’

‘It’s not that …’ He hesitated.

Fidelma was bewildered by his hesitancy and his seeming reluctance to join the others below.

‘What’s wrong then, Murchad?’ she pressed.

‘I am afraid … we have lost a passenger.’

Fidelma stared at him in incomprehension. ‘Lost a passenger? You mean one of the pilgrims? How, lost?’

‘Overboard,’ he elaborated laconically.

Fidelma was shocked.

After a pause, Murchad added: ‘You did the right thing by remaining in your cabin during the blow, lady. Passengers have no right to be on deck when such a sea is running. I will have to lay down a rule that this is so. I have never lost anyone overboard before.’

‘Who was it?’ Fidelma asked breathlessly. ‘How did it happen?’

Murchad raised his shoulders and let them fall in an eloquent shrug, disclaiming knowledge.

‘How? That I don’t know. No one saw anything.’

‘Then how do you know that they were lost overboard?’

‘Brother Cian suggested it.’

Fidelma drew her brows together.

‘What does
he
have to do with it?’

‘He came to see me just after dawn. Apparently he feels that he should be in charge of all the pilgrims on board this ship – be their spokesman.’

Fidelma sniffed disparagingly.

‘You may rest assured that he has no authority to speak for
me
,’ she said tightly.

Murchad did not take any notice. He went on, ‘After the storm, he took it upon himself to go round and see if everyone was all right. He even went to your cabin.’

‘He did not check on me.’

‘Begging your pardon, lady,’ Murchad contradicted. ‘He said he looked into your cabin but saw that you were still asleep.’

So that was what had awoken her! The soft sound of a door shutting. She felt anger and a sense of violation that Cian, of all people, had entered her cabin and looked on her while she slept.

‘Go on, then.’ She decided that she would make very sure that, in future, Cian did not have such easy access to her cabin again.

‘Well, he found that one of the party was nowhere to be seen. Their cabin was deserted. When he came to me and told me his fears, I ordered Gurvan to conduct a thorough search of the ship. He found nothing. I have how sent him to double-check.’

So that explained Gurvan’s curious visit to her cabin a few moments ago. As if thinking of him had caused him to be drawn to them, Gurvan came swinging along the deck.

Murchad gazed anxiously at him. The first mate shook his head at the captain’s unasked question.

‘Stem to stern, skipper. No sign.’ Gurvan was not a man who believed in wasting words.

Murchad turned back to Fidelma with a mournful look.

‘That was our last chance. I had hoped that she might have become so scared of the storm that she had found some hole on board ship to hide in.’

Fidelma felt somewhat deflated. It was not an auspicious beginning to the pilgrimage. The first night out from Ardmore and a pilgrim lost overboard.

‘Who was it?’ she asked. ‘Who is the missing person?’

‘It is Sister Muirgel. We’d better get below, for the others are breaking their fast. I’d best give them this sad news of their companion. I do not want to lose any more passengers on this voyage.’

He dismissed Gurvan to look after the running of the ship while he went below. Fidelma was feeling shocked as she followed him down the companionway.

Yesterday, Sister Muirgel could barely raise her head from her bunk; she had been so sick and ill. The idea that, in the middle of such a terrifying storm, the pale-faced young woman had been able to leave
her cabin, climb up on deck unnoticed and then get swept overboard was startling in the extreme.

In the mess-deck cabin, young Wenbrit was serving a meal of bread, cold meats and fruit to the pilgrims who had gathered there. Fidelma immediately noticed that Brother Bairne had now joined the company. There was a muttered greeting, not hearty in the circumstances, as Fidelma took her seat and Murchad went to the head of the table. Everyone had obviously been told about the missing Sister Muirgel. Cian was the first to ask the news from Murchad. The captain addressed the entire assembly.

‘I am afraid that I have some very bad news for you,’ the captain began. ‘I can confirm that Sister Muirgel is no longer on board. A thorough search has been made of the vessel. No other explanation remains except that she was washed overboard in the night during the storm.’

There was a grim silence among those at the table. Then one of the religieuses, Fidelma thought it was the broad-faced Sister Crella, made a sound like a suppressed sob.

‘I have never lost a passenger before,’ Murchad continued, in a heavy tone. ‘I do not intend to lose another. Therefore, I am forced to tell you again that you must remain in your cabins, or below decks, should any further bad weather strike. Then you will only come on deck at my specific orders. In calm weather, of course, you may come on deck but only when one of my men is there to keep a watchful eye on you.’

The red-haired Brother Adamrae was frowning.

‘We are adults, Captain, not children,’ he protested. ‘We paid for our passage, we did not expect to be confined as if we were … criminals.’ He had paused a moment to search out a suitable word.

Cian was nodding in agreement.

‘Brother Adamrae does have a point, Captain.’

‘You are not trained sailors,’ Murchad countered brusquely. ‘The deck of a ship can be treacherous in bad weather unless you know what you are doing.’

Cian flushed with annoyance.

‘Not all of us have spent our lives closeted within abbey walls. I was a warrior and—’

The grim-faced Brother Tola raised his voice in interruption to add to the debate.

‘Because a silly woman who, by all accounts, was too sick to know what she was doing, went on deck when she should not and was lost overboard, surely there is no need to make us all suffer?’

There was an angry exclamation from Sister Crella. She sprang up, leaning across the table.

‘Apologise for those words, Brother Tola! Muirgel was the daughter of nobility before whom, if you did not wear that brown homespun robe, you would have to fall on your knees as they walked by you. Muirgel was my cousin and my friend. How
dare
you insult her?’ Her voice had risen hysterically.

Sister Ainder, tall and commanding, rose and, without any apparent effort, drew Crella from the table and led her away to the cabins, making strange noises like a mother comforting her child.

Brother Tola sat looking uncomfortable at the reaction he had provoked.

‘What I meant to say was that we paid our passage money, as Brother Adamrae has said. What if we refuse to obey this order?’

‘Then the captain has the right to imprison you.’ Fidelma spoke quietly and yet her voice penetrated the muttering which greeted Tola’s s words so that a deathly hush fell as everyone turned towards her.

Brother Tola was frowning at her, clearly disapproving of what he considered to be her impertinence.

‘Oh – and by what right?’ he demanded. ‘And how do you know?’

Fidelma glanced at Murchad as if ignoring his questions.

‘Do you own this vessel, Murchad?’

The captain replied with a curt nod, although he seemed puzzled by her question.

‘And where is your home port?’

‘Ardmore.’

‘The ship, then, is to all intent and purposes, subject to the laws of Eireann.’