Act of Mercy

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I have been granted sanctuary,’ he announced. ‘You can tell that to Toca Nia. I shall remain here. You and your laws cannot touch me.’

  Murchad frowned and opened his mouth but Fidelma silenced him with a gesture.

  ‘What makes you think that Toca Nia will listen?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘You have a way with words, Fidelma. You can tell him about the law of sanctuary.’

  ‘I do not think Toca Nia is interested in the law any more.’

  Brother Cian blinked rapidly.

  ‘Do you mean that he is withdrawing his charges?’

  Fidelma gazed deeply into Cian’s eyes. She saw suspicion, she saw hope even, but there was no guile nor cunning there.

  ‘I mean that Toca Nia is dead.’

  There was no mistaking the surprise in Cian’s reaction.

  ‘Dead? How can that be?’

  ‘Toca Nia was murdered about the same time as you fled from the ship.’

  Cian took an involuntary step backwards. His shock was genuine; he could not be acting.

  Father Pol shrugged helplessly.

  ‘This puts me in an awkward situation, Brother. Under our ecclesiastical law, I granted you asylum within this church, but only in respect to the charge you claimed that you stood accused of. Now this …’

  Cian looked from the priest to Fidelma in bewilderment.

  ‘But I know nothing about Toca Nia’s death. What is he saying?’ he demanded of her.

  ‘Do you deny that your hand struck those blows that deprived Toca Nia of life?’

  Cian’s eyes widened even more in confusion.

  ‘Are you serious? Do you mean that … that I am accused of his killing?’

  Fidelma was unsympathetic.

  ‘So you do deny it?’

  ‘Of course I deny it. It is not true,’ cried Cian in outrage.

  Fidelma’s face assumed a cynical expression.

  ‘Are you claiming that his murder was a coincidence? That you know nothing about it?’

  ‘Call it what you like, I did not kill him.’

  Fidelma took a seat on the bench from which Cian had risen.

  ‘You have to admit that if this is a coincidence, then it is an extremely convenient one. Perhaps you will tell me why you fled from the ship?’

  Cian sat down opposite her, leaning forward towards her. His whole attitude was one of someone pleading.

  ‘I did not do this thing, Fidelma,’ he said with a quiet intensity.

  ‘You know me. I admit that I have killed in war, but I have never killed in cold blood. Never! You must know that I would not—’

  ‘I am a dálaigh, Cian,’ she interrupted sharply. ‘Tell me the facts as you know them. I need no other appeal.’

  ‘But I know nothing. I have no facts to tell you.’

  ‘Then what made you flee from The Barnacle Goose and come seeking sanctuary here?’

  ‘That should be obvious,’ Cian responded.

  ‘Unless you killed Toca Nia, I would say that it is far from obvious.’

  Cian flushed angrily.

  ‘I did not …’ he began and then stopped. ‘I came here for sanctuary because I needed time to think. When you interrogated me after Toca Nia’s accusation, I realised that you were in earnest. That you and Murchad were going to restrain me and send me back to face trial in Laigin. It is certain that I would be found guilty of the slaughter at Rath Bíle.’

  ‘As I recalled, you admitted to the slaughter.’

  ‘To the action, not to a crime. It was war and I was simply doing what I was told to do.’

  ‘Then you should be prepared to answer to the accusation. If you were not guilty of murder then you should put your trust in the law.’

  ‘I needed time to think. It was so sudden, being accused like that.’

  Murchad interrupted harshly.

  ‘More pressing is the fact that you now have to answer to the charge of killing Toca Nia.’

  Fidelma found herself in agreement.

  ‘In fact, unless another witness comes forward to accuse you, Toca Nia’s accusations have died with him. We cannot restrain you nor make you answerable to those accusations, for he made no legal record of them.’

  Cian was totally astonished.

  ‘You mean that the accusation about Rath Bile is dropped?’

  ‘Toca Nia made no official charge; no charge was written down nor witnessed. A dead man’s oral accusation, unless it is his dying testimony, and witnessed as such, cannot be adjudged as evidence against you.’

  ‘Then I am free of that charge?’

  ‘Unless there are other witnesses from Rath Bile who appear to testify against you. As there are none here, you are free of that charge.’

  Brother Cian’s features broadened into a smile and then, as he realised the implications, he grew serious again.

  ‘I swear by the Holy Trinity that I did not kill Toca Nia.’

  Fidelma heard the ring of truth in his voice, but her personal scepticism made her doubt his protestations of innocence. What was it that Horace had said? Naturam expelles furca tamen usque recurret – you may drive out nature with a pitchfork, but it always returns. Cian was a natural deceiver and his truth was always to be doubted. Then she realised, with a sudden pang of guilt, that she was once again letting her personal feelings condemn him.

  She was about to speak when there came a fierce shouting from nearby.

  Father Pol looked up with a frown as one of the islanders, a thin, wispy fellow in the garb of a fisherman, came running around the corner of the church building. He drew up sharply at the sight of them and stood gasping for breath.

  ‘What is it, Tibatto?’ demanded Father Pol disapprovingly. ‘You know better than to come to the House of God in such turmoil.’

  ‘Saxons!’ grunted the man, breathlessly. ‘Saxon raiders!’

  ‘Where?’ demanded the priest, as Murchad jerked around in consternation, his hand going to the knife in his belt.

  ‘I was on the point above Rochers …’

  ‘It is our northern coast,’ explained Father Pol in a swift aside to them.

  ‘And I saw a Saxon ship beating southward around into the bay. It is a warrior ship with a lightning symbol on its mainsail.’

  Murchad exchanged a quick glance with Fidelma, who had risen to her feet with Cian.

  ‘How soon will they be in the bay?’ the priest demanded, his face grim.

  ‘Within the hour, Father.’

  ‘Sound the alarm. Let’s get the people into the interior,’ he said decisively. ‘Come, Murchad, you’d better get your crew and the pilgrims ashore. There are caves where we can hide or, at worst, defend ourselves.’

  Murchad shook his head firmly.

  ‘I’ll not abandon my ship to pirates, Saxon, Frank or Goth! The tide is only just on the turn. I am sailing out of the bay. If any of my passengers want to come ashore, then it will be up to them.’

  Father Pol stared at him aghast for a moment.

  ‘You will never have time to get underway before they close off the mouth of the bay. If they are off the Rochers they will be around the headland within half an hour.’

  ‘Better to be on the ship than sitting on this island waiting for them to land and slaughter everyone,’ Murchad replied. He turned to Gurvan. ‘Is anyone else ashore apart from ourselves?’

  ‘No one else except us, Captain.’

  ‘Will you come, lady?’ he demanded of Fidelma.

  She did not hesitate.

  ‘If you are going to make a run for it, then I am with you, Murchad.’

  ‘Let’s go!’

  Cian had been standing by while they discussed the position. Now he took a step forward.

  ‘Wait! Let me come with you.’

  Murchad stared at him in surprise.

  ‘I thought you were seeking sanctuary,’ he sneered.

  ‘I told you, I only sought sanctuary to give me time to prepare to defend myself against the accusations of Toca N
ia.’

  ‘But now you may have to defend yourself against an accusation of his murder,’ Fidelma reminded him.

  ‘I’ll chance that. But I don’t want to be caught here without defence by these raiders. Let me come with you.’

  Murchad shrugged. ‘We have no time to waste. Come or stay. We go now.’

  There came the sound of a horn being blown. An angry warning note. As they left the church, they saw people running in all directions, women holding screaming children, men grabbing what weapons they could.

  Murchad grasped the priest’s hand and shook it.

  ‘The best of luck, Father Pol. I think you will find that these particular Saxons are looking for us, rather than raiding your island. We escaped them once; perhaps we will do so again.’

  Murchad speedily led the way along the path to the cove below.

  Fidelma glanced behind and saw Father Pol’s arm raised in a blessing and then he was gone. His duty now was to ensure that his people were taken to a place of safety.

  No word was spoken as the four hurried down the winding path to the quay where they had left their skiff. Only when they were in the boat, with Gurvan and Murchad pulling strongly towards The Barnacle Goose, did Cian meet Fidelma’s quizzical green eyes. He held their gaze and did not flinch.

  ‘I did not kill Toca Nia, Fidelma,’ he affirmed quietly. ‘I did not know he was dead until you came to Father Pol’s house to tell me. I swear it.’

  Fidelma found herself almost believing him but she wanted to be sure. She could never trust Cian: she had learnt that lesson a long time ago.

  ‘There’ll be plenty of time to make your pleas of innocence later,’ she replied brusquely.

  They were alongside the ship. Fidelma was almost the last on deck, for Murchad had already leapt on board and was bellowing orders. Gurvan followed her, bringing up the rear to secure the skiff.

  ‘Is everything squared away?’ demanded Murchad, as Gurvan joined him on the stern deck. The crew had already been roused by Murchad’s hail as they approached the ship.

  ‘Aye, Captain,’ called the mate, taking charge of the steering oar with the sailor called Drogon.

  Fidelma went to take a stand by Murchad’s side. It seemed natural that she should.

  ‘What can we do, Murchad?’ she demanded, glancing towards the entrance of the bay.

  His face was an emotionless mask, his sea-grey eyes narrowed as he gazed along the deep inlet. They could see the dark outline of the Saxon shipping coming around the southern headland, determined to block off their escape from the inlet. From their anchorage it was three kilometres to the mouth of the bay which was hardly more than a kilometre at its widest point. The sea raider had plenty of time to cut off any attempt they might make to escape.

  ‘They are tenacious, these Saxon devils,’ Murchad muttered. ‘I’ll say that for them. Their captain must have had some good sea sense to realise that we had doubled back past him the other night. That he was able to follow us here says much for him.’

  ‘There is no darkness now to hide us,’ Fidelma pointed out.

  Murchad paused to shout orders that the pilgrims should remain below as he noticed that Cian, left to his own devices, had gone below to rouse his fellows with news of the arrival of the raider. Now he glanced ruefully up at the hazy blue sky with its tiny individual beads of white cloud, rippling along in high lines.

  ‘That’s for sure,’ he answered Fidelma. ‘That’s a mackerel sky up there – clear but unsettled. It’s not going to swallow us up either in darkness or in fog. If there was a mist, I might try to run out past him. Ha! That’s the first time you will find a sailor praying for a fog!’

  Fidelma felt that he was talking merely to prevent her from panicking.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Murchad. If we are to be attacked, let’s not go down without a fight of it.’

  He regarded her with approval.

  ‘That’s not a religieuse speaking, lady.’

  Fidelma returned his fierce grin.

  ‘It’s an Eóghanacht princess who speaks. Maybe it’s my fate to end my life as I began it, as a daughter of King Failbe Fland and sister to King Colgú. If we must go down fighting, we’ll make sure that we extract a high price from our foes.’

  Gurvan left his position to join them. His face was without humour.

  ‘I, for one, am not going to go down fighting,’ he said. ‘A good retreat is better than a poor defence.’

  Murchad knew Gurvan well and caught something in his mate’s voice.

  ‘Are you saying that you have something in mind?’

  ‘It’ll depend on the wind and sail again,’ Gurvan replied with a brief nod. ‘The Saxon is sure he has the better of us. He is hauled to by the Pointe de Pern to the north, ready to close with us should we make a run for it. Like a cat waiting to jump on a mouse, eh?’

  ‘It doesn’t need a sailor’s eye to see that,’ agreed Fidelma.

  ‘Has your eye taken in the islet which stands in front of us?’ Gurvan pointed along the bay.

  ‘I see it, about a kilometre distant from us,’ Murchad observed.

  ‘Now look at the Saxon ship,’ Gurvan said.

  They did as he bid them.

  The big oblong sail was being hauled down.

  ‘He plans to rely on his oars again to close with us. That didn’t work last time, as I recall,’ muttered Gurvan.

  Murchad smiled approvingly for he had suddenly caught on to what his mate was suggesting.

  ‘I see what you mean. We’ll make for the islet first and pass along the south side out of his sight. He won’t know which exit we’ll use. It might give us a head start.’

  Fidelma was frowning.

  ‘I am not sure that I am following this plan, Murchad.’

  A wind rustled the furled sail and shook the rigging. The crew was waiting expectantly.

  ‘No time to explain,’ Murchad cried. ‘Let’s get underway!’ He turned and began to shout. ‘All hands! All hands to the sails!’

  His crew sprang into action.

  Fidelma stood back, watching the sailors hoisting the sail to catch the wind. Gurvan seized the steering oar, once more with Drogon. There was the usual exhilarating crack as the leather sail caught the breeze. The anchor was raised with some alacrity. Then The Barnacle Goose seemed to leap forward.

  Across the waters of the bay they could hear a great shout go up from the sea raider. A cry of, ‘Woden!’ The blades of the oars were raised, the water sparkling in the sunlight, and the high prow of the ship seemed to cleave towards them.

  As Gurvan had suspected, the Saxon was rowing to intercept them, keeping in the broad northern channel. The wind blew to the south-west and soon an arc of foam was feathering back from the bow of The Barnacle Goose as it strove to make the southern channel behind the shelter of the islet.

  ‘It’ll be dangerous,’ she heard Murchad cry.

  ‘True enough,’ replied his mate. ‘But I know these waters.’

  ‘I’ll get to the bow and signal you through the channel,’ replied Murchad.

  Confused, Fidelma watched the captain go forward. Midships he paused and gave his men some orders. Half a dozen of them went below decks to return after a short while with some traditional longbows five feet in length and quivers of arrows. Murchad was taking no chances. If fight he had to, fight he would. By this time The Barnacle Goose had come behind the shelter of the islet. It seemed to speed by them, and as they emerged, she saw that the captain of the Saxon ship had hesitated, suspecting that his prey might attempt to take down its sails and put out the sea anchors to hide behind the island in a game of hide and go seek. Alternatively, The Barnacle Goose could attempt to double back and use the northern channel after all. The Saxon captain’s hesitation allowed The Barnacle Goose a fraction of time to gain a head start on its enemies by sailing straight through the southern channel behind the island. Once they realised what was happening, the Saxon ship clumsily turned around to go after them, its
oars splashing frantically with the sailors’ endeavous.

  Gurvan grinned at Fidelma and held up his thumb.

  ‘All we have to pray, lady, is that her captain decides to cram on his sail and come racing after us.’

  Fidelma was still confused.

  ‘I thought the Saxon ship was faster under sail with the wind behind it.’

  ‘Well remembered – but let’s hope he has not heard the old saying, one glance in front is worth two behind.’

  There was an expression of amusement on Gurvan’s face which told Fidelma nothing.

  The Barnacle Goose was almost heeled over before the wind, cleaving through the waters within yards of the rocky granite coastline of the southern side of the bay. Fidelma realised that Gurvan was going to steer the Goose around the southern headland. After that, she could not understand what he meant to do, for they would surely be into the open sea and on a fairly calm open sea at that. The Saxon ship would be able to overhaul them with ease.

  Did the answer lie with the longbows that the crew had brought to the deck? Did Murchad and Gurvan simply mean to fight it out once on the open sea?

  It was then she caught sight of what lay ahead of them: a maze of granite islets and rocks through which strong currents were roaring in a cascade of white water. There were innumerable reefs as far as she could see. It was far more threatening to her gaze than their passage through the rocks off the Sylinancim islands.

  Gurvan saw the sudden tautness of her body.

  ‘Trust me, lady,’ he shouted, his eyes straight ahead. ‘What you are seeing is why ships never sail out around the southern headland of this island. Here, the wind and tide are the masters and will hurl a ship against the broken and rocky shores to be splintered into a thousand pieces. This is why we are taking this passage. I’ve sailed through here once; I hope I may do so again. If not, well … better to die free than to be a slave or die tasting Saxon steel.’

  ‘What if the Saxon comes after us?’

  ‘Then he should pray to his god Woden that he is a good sailor. I doubt he is and if he takes the wider channel, away from the rocks, we will have a good many miles’ start on him.’

  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 an increasing speed. Once a rock scraped along the ship’s side with a strange groaning sound.