Act of Mercy sf-8

by Peter Tremayne

  She looked for’ard to where Murchad was balanced on the prow of the ship. His hands were waving in signals which obviously meant something to Gurvan and his companion on the steering oar, for they seemed to move in response to each signal. Fidelma could feel the currents catching at The Barnacle Goose, sweeping it along at anincreasing speed. Once a rock scraped along the ship’s side with a strange groaning sound.

  She closed her eyes and uttered a short prayer.

  Then the rock had sped by and they were still in one piece.

  ‘Can you see behind us, lady?’ called Gurvan. ‘Do you see any sign of the Saxon?’

  Fidelma went to grip the stern rail and peer aft.

  She shivered as she saw the frothing white water of their wake, the reefs and rocks rushing behind them. Then she raised her eyes to look beyond.

  ‘I can see the sail of the Saxon,’ she called excitedly. She could just make out that same lightning flash on the sail which Murchad had pointed out to her before.

  ‘I see them,’ she cried again. ‘They are following us through the channel.’ Her voice rose in excitement.

  ‘Let their god Woden help them now,’ replied Gurvan with a fierce grin.

  ‘Let God help us,’ whispered Fidelma to herself.

  The Barnacle Goose was bouncing down so that the horizon moved violently and she kept losing sight of the sail of the pursuing vessel.

  The ship plunged and bucked at an alarming speed. Gurvan and Drogan had thrown their full weight on the steering oar and now called for assistance from another of the crew as the pressure grew too much for them to handle by themselves.

  With Murchad frantically signalling from the bow, The Barnacle Goose made a dizzy ride through the foam-swept rocks and islets until it seemed to be tossed out into calmer waters. Almost before they had settled, Murchad was running back towards the stern deck, his face filled with anxiety.

  ‘Where are they?’ he grunted.

  ‘I lost sight of them,’ Fidelma called. ‘They were following us through the rocky passage.’

  Murchad squinted back in the direction in which they had come, back towards the rocky coastline which, at this distance, seemed covered in a faint mist.

  ‘Sea spray from the rocks,’ he explained without being asked. ‘It makes it difficult to see.’

  He looked towards the black jagged teeth which protruded through the white foam.

  Fidelma shivered a little, not for the first time. It did not seem possible that they had come out safely from that dangerous maw.

  ‘There!’ Murchad cried suddenly. ‘I see them!’

  Fidelma strained forward but could see nothing.

  There was a pause for a moment or two and then Murchad sighed.

  ‘I thought I saw their top mast for a moment, but it is gone.’

  ‘We have a good head start on them, Captain,’ Gurvan cried.

  ‘They’ll have to do some fast sailing to keep up with us.’

  Murchad turned and slowly shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think we will need to worry about them, my friend,’ he said quietly.

  Fidelma glanced back to the fast-vanishing coastline of the island. There was no sign of any pursuing ship.

  ‘Do you think that they’ve struck the rocks?’ she ventured to ask.

  ‘Had they come through the passage, we would see them by now,’ replied Murchad heavily. ‘It was us or them, lady. Thank God it was them. They’ve gone to their pagan hall of heroes.’

  ‘It is a terrible death,’ Fidelma said soberly.

  ‘Dead men don’t bite,’ was Murchad’s only comment.

  Fidelma muttered a quick prayer for the dead. She was thinking that it was a Saxon ship, whether pagan or not, and she was remembering Brother Eadulf.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘It is a very calm morning, Murchad.’

  The captain nodded but he was not pleased. They were two days out from Ushant. He indicated the limp sail.

  ‘Too calm,’ he complained. ‘There is hardly any wind. We are making no headway at all.’

  Fidelma gazed out across the flat surface of the sea. She, too, was making no headway. Having escaped from their pursuers, they had paused to commit Toca Nia’s body to a watery burial. It was Brother Dathal who said that the voyage was turning into a voyage of death, as if the ship was that of Donn, the ancient Irish god of the dead, who gathered the lost souls on his ship of the dead and transported them to the Otherworld. Dathal’s comparison brought swift criticism from Brother Tola and Sister Ainder, but nevertheless produced a feeling of gloom among the remaining pilgrims.

  Time and again, Fidelma turned the facts over in her mind, trying to find one tiny thread which might lead her to solving the problem. As for the murder of Toca Nia, Cian swore that he had left the ship just after midnight when the last of the passengers and crew had returned from the island. Gurvan clinched the matter by maintaining that he had looked in on Toca Nia well after that and found him peacefully asleep. If Cian was telling the truth about the time he had left the ship, then he was innocent.

  Fidelma looked up at the limp sails and made a decision.

  ‘Perhaps we can put this weather to good use,’ she said briskly.

  ‘How so?’ enquired Murchad.

  ‘It has been a couple of days since I bathed. I had no time on Ushant and I feel dirty. In this calm sea I can take a swim and at least get the grime from my body.’

  Murchad looked uncomfortable.

  ‘We sailors are used to roughing it, lady. But we have no facilities for a woman to go bathing.’

  Fidelma threw back her head and laughed.

  ‘Fear not, Murchad, I shall not offend your male sensibilities. I shall wear a shift.’

  ‘It is too dangerous,’ he protested with a shake of his head.

  ‘How so? If you sailors swim to keep clean in such calm weather, why not I?’

  ‘My sailors know the vagaries of the sea. They are strong swimmers. What if a wind springs up? The ship can move a fair distance before you could swim back to it. You saw how quickly poor Brother Guss was left behind.’

  ‘That danger must be so, whether one is a sailor or a passenger,’ countered Fidelma. ‘What do your men do?’

  ‘They swim with a rope tied around them.’

  ‘Then that is what I shall do.’

  ‘But …’

  Murchad caught her eye and saw the stubbornness in it. He gave a deep sigh.

  ‘Very well.’ He called to his mate. ‘Gurvan!’

  The Breton came forward.

  ‘Fidelma is going to take advantage of the calm weather to take a swim near the ship. Make sure a rope is tied around her waist and fastened to the rail of the ship.’

  Gurvan raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to protest but then decided to remain silent.

  ‘What point do you wish to swim from, lady?’ he asked with resignation.

  Fidelma smiled: ‘Which is the leeward side? Isn’t that what you call the sheltered side of the vessel?’

  Gurvan’s facial muscles twitched and for a moment Fidelma thought he was going to return her smile.

  ‘That is so, lady,’ he replied gravely. He indicated the starboard side of the vessel. ‘You will find the waters sheltered there, although there is no wind blowing at present. However, I expect when the wind does come, it will come upon the port side of the vessel.’

  ‘Are you a prophet, Gurvan?’

  The Breton shook his head. ‘See those clouds to the north-east? They’ll bring along a wind soon, so do not delay too long in the water.’

  Fidelma stepped to the railing and looked down on the waves. They seemed tranquil enough.

  She started to take off her robe, but paused at the sight of Gurvan’s anguished features.

  ‘Have no fear, Gurvan,’ she said merrily. ‘I shall be keeping my undergarments on.’

  Gurvan seemed to be flushing in spite of his dark-skinned complexion.

  ‘Is it not cons
idered a sin among the religieux to strip oneself in front of others?’

  Fidelma grimaced cynically and quoted: ‘“But the Lord God called the man and said to him, ‘Where are you?’ He replied, ‘I heard the sound as you were walking in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, and I hid myself.’ God answered, ‘Who told you that you were naked?’” I believe that what God was saying is that the sin is in the mind of the beholder, not in his eye.’

  Gurvan looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Anyway, as I said, I shall not be naked. Now, let me have my swim before this wind comes upon us.’

  And without more ado, Fidelma took off her robe. She always wore undergarments of srol — silks and satins imported from Gaul merchants. It was a habit that she had grown accustomed to as a member of the royal house of Cashel — the only luxury clothing Fidelma indulged in, for nothing was so pleasant than the texture of the foreign material next to her skin. Those of wealth and rank could, of course, luxuriate in buying fine materials. Others, she knew, used wool and linen undergarments.

  When she was a young student, under her mentor the Brehon Morann of Tara, Fidelma had been surprised to learn that there were even laws relating to dress. The Senchus Mor laid down the rules relating to the dress laws of children in fosterage. Each child had to have two complete sets of clothes so that one might be worn while the other was being washed. The clothes of the sons and daughters of kings, then chiefs … going down to those of the lower ranks in society, were all enumerated according to their social grades and, while in fosterage — the form of receiving education — children had always to be dressed in their best on festival days.

  Fidelma caught herself musing on these things and suddenly felt a pang of isolation. How she wished that Eadulf were here! At least she could talk with him about such matters, even if they did tend to disagree. She badly needed his help in trying to solve this puzzle. Perhaps he could see something which she had overlooked.

  She saw that Gurvan was standing with a long length of rope, his eyes averted from her.

  ‘I am ready, Gurvan. I swear, I am decently clothed.’

  Gurvan reluctantly raised his eyes.

  It was true that Fidelma’s garments were not outrageous but neither did they entirely hide her well-proportioned figure; a youthful form that seemed to vibrate with the joy of a life at odds with her religious calling.

  He swallowed nervously.

  ‘Show me how to tie this rope around me,’ she coaxed him.

  He moved forward, the rope end in his hand.

  ‘It is best to fix it round your waist, lady. I shall tie a secure knot that is also easy to undo — a reef-knot.’

  ‘I have seen how it is tied. Let me try it and you can check that I have done so correctly.’

  She took the rope end from his hands and placed it around her waist and then, concentrating, she turned the rope.

  ‘Right over left and left over right … isn’t that the way?’

  Gurvan examined the knot and gave his approval.

  ‘Exactly right. I shall tie the other end by a similar knot to the rail here.’

  He suited his words to action. The rope was long enough for her to swim the entire length of the ship and back.

  Fidelma raised her hand in acknowledgement, went to the rail and dived gracefully over the side.

  The water was colder than she was expecting, and she came up from the dive gasping and almost winded at the impact. It took her a few moments to recover and grow used to the temperature. She took a few lazy strokes. Fidelma had learnt to swim almost before she had begun to toddle, in the Suir River, called the ‘sister river’, which flowed a short distance from Cashel. She had no fear of water, simply a healthy respect for it, for she knew what it was capable of.

  Among the people of Eireann, it was a curiosity that while many of the inland folk learnt to swim in the rivers, most of those who lived in coastal fishing communities, particularly along the West coast, refused to learn. Fidelma remembered asking an old fisherman the reason for this because if their boats sank, surely it was necessary to be able to swim? He had shaken his head.

  ‘If our boats sink, then better to go straight to a watery grave than die a longer and more agonised death trying to survive in these seas.’

  It was true that the brooding, rocky coastline with its frothy, angry waters was no place to go swimming. Perhaps the old fisherman had a point.

  ‘If God wants us to live then He will save us. There is no use struggling against fate.’

  Fidelma had not pursued the conversation for it was not a subject of which most fishermen would speak. Indeed, the greatest curse that anyone could pronounce among these coastal folk was ‘A death from drowning on you!’

  Fidelma lay back, floating on the rippling waters. The great black outline of The Barnacle Goose loomed high above her; the great sail wasstill hanging limply from the yard. She could see the dark form of Gurvan peering over the rail at her and she raised a languid arm and waved at him to indicate she was all right. He nodded and turned away.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes, feeling the soft warmth of the sunshine on her face. The saltwater dried on her lips and she resisted the temptation to lick it off. She knew how incredibly thirsty it would make her.

  Now she began to cast her mind over the situation but, try as she would, she could not concentrate entirely on the loss of poor Sister Muirgel. Instead, Cian came to mind. Cian! It was strange that immediately, words from the Book of Jeremiah came into her mind. ‘You have played the harlot with many lovers; can you come back to me?’ She shivered slightly. Why had that come to mind? Well, she knew that the words were apposite, but why quote Holy Scripture at all? There had been enough passages from Scripture quoted on this voyage! Perhaps it was catching.

  She felt a moment of sympathetic sadness for Cian over his wound which had prevented him pursuing the profession of a warrior. She knew how his life had been governed by his physical prowess. He was vanity itself; vain of his body, vain of his ability with weapons, and vain of his belief that youthfulness was immortality. Wasn’t it Aristotle who had said that the young are permanently in a state of intoxication? That was the very word to describe the youthful Cian. He was intoxicated by his own youth, for youth was immortal; only the elderly grew old in his world.

  That was what had attracted her to him. His youth. His power. He had few intellectual attributes. He knew how to ride well; he knew how to cast a javelin with great accuracy; he knew how to thrust and parry with a sword and use his shield to protect his body; he knew how to shoot an arrow from a bow. The only intellectual pursuit he had come close to following was stratagem in warfare.

  Cian never tired of telling the story of the High King Aedh Mac Ainmirech who, sixty years before, had been defeated by the Laigin King, Brandubh, who had smuggled his warriors into the High King’s encampment concealed in hampers of provisions.

  Fidelma had not been especially interested in the story, but had tried to persuade Cian into playing games of Black Raven and Wooden Wisdom, with the idea of using these games to explore military strategy. Even that had not interested Cian. Such board games were a matter of frustration for him.

  Now with his useless right arm, he could no longer be a warrior. She had seen he was unable to adjust and cope with his new rolein life. The idea of Cian as a religieux was inconceivable. He had already demonstrated his bitterness and anger at his misfortune. His silly attempt to assert his idea of his masculinity as a compensation was pathetic in her eyes. That was not something that Eadulf would have done. The words of Virgil’s Aenid drifted into her mind. ‘Tu ne cede maluis sed contra audentior ito’ — yield not to misfortunes, but advance all the more boldly against them. That would be Eadulf’s attitude, but Cian with his useless arm …

  Her body stiffened in the water.

  His useless arm! How could Cian have left the ship at midnight and rowed himself to the island all alone? It would have been impossible to row the skiff with one
arm. And the skiff! Dear Lord, what was happening to her powers of observation? If he had, by some miracle, managed to propel the skiff to the island from the ship, how had the skiff been returned to the ship? Someone had rowed Cian to the island and then returned to the ship.

  Eadulf would have spotted that. Oh God, how she needed him. She had grown so used to talking things out with him and considering his advice.

  She stirred self-consciously as she realised in what direction her thoughts were travelling. She should have thought of this before, instead of day-dreaming. The effect of floating in the gentle waves was too soporific and …

  It was then she realised that the waves were not so gentle as they had been. They were becoming much more choppy and she heard a distant crack. She opened her eyes and blinked. The great sail of The Barnacle Goose was beginning to billow out. The promised wind was rising and the ship was beginning to move. She turned over and began to take a few strokes.

  The realisation hit her like a cold shock.

  The rope attached around her waist was not taut. It was floating, that part of it which was not soaked by the sea and therefore made heavier. The rope was no longer attached to the ship’s rail.

  She gave a cry for help.

  She could see no sign of Gurvan or anyone else at the ship’s rail. The Barnacle Goose was moving away from her with gathering speed.

  She began to swim for dear life now, but the waves were rising and it was becoming difficult to swim at speed. She knew, even as she began to strike out, that it would be impossible for her to reach the side of the ship before it vanished, leaving her alone in the middle of the ocean.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sibilant sounds of the sea, the soft whistling of the wind over the frothing waves, which from her viewpoint seemed to be gigantic, vicious and powerful, drowned out all other sounds. She thought that she heard distant shouting but, head down, she was striking out for all she was worth. Then someone was in the water beside her.

  She looked up, startled. It was Gurvan.