Act of Mercy (13 page)

Authors: Peter Tremayne

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

BOOK: Act of Mercy

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‘Cian had a reputation at Moville. There is hardly a young female there who has not been persuaded to share his bed, from silly young things like Gormán to more mature women such as my cousin. But I had an impression that Muirgel wanted to end her relationship with Cian even before we left the Abbey. She started to become secretive, which was unusual.’

The revelation of Cian’s shortcomings did not surprise Fidelma.

‘Was there anyone Muirgel was afraid of?’ she asked.

Sister Crella shook her head and then glanced curiously at Fidelma.

‘What have such questions to do with enquiring as to how Muirgel came to be washed overboard? I don’t understand.’

Fidelma knew that she had overstepped the mark and begun to create suspicion in the young woman’s mind. She hurriedly changed the direction of her questions.

‘I was just seeking some background, that is all. So far as you are concerned, you remained in your cabin until the next morning.’

‘I was going to see her the next morning but just after dawn Brother Cian came into our cabin saying that he was making a check on everyone. That arrogant—’ Crella caught herself. ‘He has
now taken upon himself the leadership of our party and thinks it is up to him to shepherd us like his own lost sheep.’

Fidelma leaned forward slightly.

‘So Cian came in, making a check? And this was just about dawn. What then?’

‘He had not been gone long when he came back and told me that Muirgel was not in her cabin and that he was going to raise the alarm with the captain.’

‘What sort of character was Muirgel?’

‘Is that relevant?’

‘I just want to get an idea of what made her leave her cabin, being so ill, and go up on deck.’

‘Panic, I suppose.’ Crella replied. ‘I certainly thought the ship was going to founder at times, the way it was tossed hither and thither. Not even in our journeys to Iona have the seas been so rough.’

‘How many times did you cross the strait to Iona?’

‘Muirgel and I took messages from the Abbot of Moville to Iona several times.’

‘And she was never seasick then? It is a storm-tossed strait, isn’t it? I have made the journey only once but I could understand if people found it fearful, for the seas can be frightening.’

‘I can’t recall her ever being sick.’

‘Yet last night you think she panicked and ran up on deck in the middle of a storm?’

‘It is the only conclusion one can come to. Maybe she simply wanted to get some air for the cabin was stifling and odorous.’

Fidelma paused for a moment and then added softly: ‘You did not say what sort of character Muirgel was.’

Crella’s reply was immediate and enthusiastic.

‘Decisive. Possessed of a quick wit. She knew what she wanted. Maybe that is why I followed her lead. She was the one who had all the ideas.’

‘I see.’ Fidelma rose abruptly. ‘You have been very helpful, Crella. Oh, one thing more – when did Cian decide to join your party?’

Crella made a gesture of annoyance. ‘Him? Oh, he joined as soon as Sister Canair announced her plan to lead a party to the Holy Shrine.’

‘Ah! So it was Canair’s idea to go to the Shrine of St James?’

‘She was to be our leader. Cian was from Bangor, although he often came to Moville. We knew him well. He served the Abbot of Bangor as his messenger to Moville. When Canair announced the pilgrimage, he attached himself to our party from the first.’

There was a sudden shouting from the deck above and Wenbrit came scampering through.

‘What is it?’ demanded Fidelma, as he rushed past.

‘The mist is clearing,’ cried the boy, ‘but I think there is trouble.’

Chapter Ten

Fidelma found that several of her fellow travellers were gathered on deck to discover what all the excitement was about, generated by the crew of
The Barnacle Goose.
It was close to midday and the sun had dispelled most of the sea mist, sending it whirling away like smoke from a fire.

As Fidelma had come onto the main deck, there had been another cry from the masthead – a shout filled with alarm. She turned to the stern deck where Murchad, standing by his helmsmen, was looking to port and followed his gaze. Through the rapidly disappearing mist she saw the swell breaking white over a group of rocks on which cormorants stood like glowering sentinels. It was then that Fidelma realised that the sea all around was speckled with such reefs and protruding islets.

Gurvan, the mate, came hurrying along the deck to join the captain.

‘What is this place?’ Fidelma called.

‘Sylinancim,’ grunted the Breton. He did not look happy. ‘The storm has pushed us too far east and south.’

So Murchad had been right, she thought, when he had told her that the storm had driven them eastward off their course.

Neither Gurvan nor Murchad objected when she followed the Breton onto the stern deck to stand near the grim-faced captain.

‘I did not think that the Sylinancim Islands were as gaunt and harsh as this,’ she said, gazing a little in awe on the jagged rocks which surrounded them.

‘The main islands are inhabited and have gentle landing places,’ replied Gurvan. ‘We would usually avoid this area by standing out to westward. I think we’ve missed the Broad Sound, which would be a safe channel, and now the winds and tide are driving us through Crebawethan Neck.’

These latter sentences were addressed to Murchad, who nodded in agreement of his mate’s assessment. Fidelma knew nothing of these places. However, she picked up the anxious note in the Breton’s usually phlegmatic voice.

‘Is that a bad place?’ she asked.

‘It is certainly not a good place to be,’ Gurvan replied. ‘If we can get through the Neck we might be able to slip south of the Retarrier Ledges – more rocks. Once clear of them we could make a straight run to the Island of Ushant. We’ll be a full day off our course, providing …’ He suddenly realised that he was speaking to a passenger and glanced guiltily at his companion. Murchad was too preoccupied to notice.

‘Providing we manage to get through this Crebawethan Neck?’ Fidelma finished for him.

‘Exactly so, lady.’

The captain had been watching the wind-filled sail with a careful eye and now signalled one of the men on the steering oar to exchange his position with Murchad himself. Some of the sailors had crowded in the bows ready to cry out warnings in case the ship came too close to the rocks.

‘Secure the bowline!’ Murchad cried.

Two of the hands rushed to the weather side of the ship and hauled on a rope which was attached to the square sail. They pulled on it, swinging the sail more to the starboard side so that the wind strained against the great leather expanse.

Murchard turned towards Fidelma.

‘Lady, I would rather all the pilgrims were on deck during this passage,’ he called. ‘Would you mind asking the rest of them to come up?’ Then he had to return his attention to the steering oar and left it to Gurvan to explain.

‘If …’ Gurvan hesitated and shrugged. ‘If we strike the reefs, well

… It’s just that the pilgrims might stand a better chance if they are on deck.’

‘Is it that dangerous?’ she asked and then saw the affirmative in the man’s eyes. Without a further word, Fidelma hurried across to the companionway. Wenbrit was standing there.

‘The captain wants everyone on deck,’ she explained.

Wenbrit turned and disappeared. Within seconds she could hear him urging the pilgrims from their cabins to join their fellows on deck. They came reluctantly for the most part. Wenbrit took charge, telling them where to stand. Most of them did not seem aware of the dangers, and even when Fidelma joined her entreaties to those of the young cabin boy, they moved with agonising slowness, grumbling all the while. Then, as some of them saw the closeness of the rocks and reefs, a quiet descended as they finally understood the peril they were in.

The pilgrims huddled on the main deck, leaning against the rail and
watching the black rocks, drenched with yellow-white foam, speeding by so dangerously near the sides of the vessel.

The wind was blowing quite fresh, but ugly little white caps were beginning to form on the swell. There was a great deal of hissing white water on all sides and Fidelma realised that it portended something more dangerous to the vessel than the taller, black granite outcrops. It indicated submerged rocks which could tear the bottom out of the ship in a second.

Fidelma shivered. The sunshine had taken on something of a brittle cold quality. White clouds, like long pieces of fleece, were stretching over the blue canopy. A curious glare hung on the waters, reflecting with such intensity that Fidelma had to rub her eyes. She could feel the salt deposits from the fine spray irritating them. The wind was dying away. She saw the strength beginning to go out of the sail; it flapped forlornly and almost limply.

Murchad looked up and mouthed something; perhaps it was a curse. She could forgive him for that. Then Gurvan rushed forward and shouted an order. Two men were left at the bow but the others came scurrying amidships and stood ready as if waiting for an order.

The rocks were still gliding by as the momentum of the ship’s motion continued, helped by the tide.

Looking around, Fidelma had a tremendous sense of isolation. Here, in the middle of the sea, with the pounding noise of the waves on the rocks, she felt terribly vulnerable and alone. She had a sense of being chilled, was weighed down by foreboding.

She found herself muttering something.

‘Deus misereatur …’

She surprised herself when she realised that she was reciting one of the Psalms.

‘“God be gracious and bless us,
God make His face shine upon us,
That His way may be known on earth
And His saving power among all the nations.”’

She stood, hands white on the ship’s rail, as the bowsprit plunged into the spray and rose again, like a horse, bowing and throwing its head back, eager to be into the race. Fidelma could hear a creaking sound; startled, she looked up to see the main mast bending at the top like a whip; the yards were groaning as the winds threatened to burst the straining sails asunder. Murchad was standing feet apart,
both hands holding the steering oar, his face an expressionless mask as he concentrated on his task.

Fidelma realised that if anyone fell into that turbulent water they would not last five seconds. There would be no hope. They all had to trust to Murchad’s seamanship. Fidelma was someone who felt unhappy unless she had some degree of control over events. Here she could do nothing and it frustrated her.

Murchad remained impassive, hair streaming in the wind, eyes screwed tight. His only orders were to his companion as they both held tightly to the steering oar.

Now they were entering a narrow passage between what looked like a great island of rock to the starboard side and a scattering of hidden rocks and reefs to the portside. The water was frothing and roaring around them and the ship seemed to be moving uncontrollably with the flood of waters that propelled it towards its doom. Fidelma prayed that Murchad and his companion had an iron grip on the steering oar.

The wind was literally screaming through the spars and cordage of the rigging, and the vessel seemed totally out of control as it swung and bounced perilously close to the jagged granite teeth that rose around them. Yet Murchad and his companion held on.

There was cry from the bows, taken up by two or three of the crew. Fidelma went to the rails and strained forward to see what was amiss.

They seemed to be heading for a great black rock, standing immediately in their path, rising among the streams of yellow-white froth which poured down the sides as the seas broke over it. Great waves thundered as they burst over what must be a line of hidden reefs. It was like a boiling cauldron. For a moment, Fidelma closed her eyes as she imagined the ship being torn to pieces in that maelstrom. She was almost jerked off her feet as the deck tilted. She thought they had impacted on the rocks. She felt an arm round her and Gurvan’s voice hissed: ‘Do not let go of the rail!’

As she opened her eyes, she saw the rocks dashing by along the side of the ship in the hollow of the waves. She could have reached forward and touched them. The tall black rock swept past and then, with an abruptness which she found astonishing, they seemed to have entered calm waters.

There was a triumphant cry from those at the bow.

Fidelma saw the saturnine face of Gurvan break into a lopsided grin of relief.

‘Have we escaped?’ she asked.

‘We passed through the Neck,’ replied Gurvan solemnly. ‘We can turn south into calmer waters from here.’

He turned then, shouting an order to Wenbrit to allow the passengers to go below if they chose.

Fidelma was still standing, gripping the rail and gazing at the black seas sliding by, when Cian approached her.

‘How long are you going to keep up your antagonism?’ he began, slightly belligerently. ‘I am just trying to be friendly. After all, we shall be in one another’s company for a long time yet.’

Fidelma came back to the reality of her situation with a sharp exhalation of breath. She was about to respond when she changed her mind.

‘As a matter of fact, Cian,’ she said tightly, turning towards him, ‘I do need to talk with you.’

It was obvious that Cian was not prepared for her acquiescence. He looked at her in blank astonishment for a moment and then a triumphant look came into his eyes.

‘There, I knew you would see sense eventually.’

Fidelma hated that knowing look of one who had won some victory. She would dispel that notion immediately. Her voice was cold.

‘Murchad has asked me to make an official enquiry into the disappearance of Sister Muirgel in order to protect him from any action her kin might take against him for negligence. I need to ask you some questions.’

Cian’s face fell. It was clearly not the reply he had been expecting.

‘I hear that you have taken it upon yourself to lead this company.’

Cian’s mouth tightened and his jaw tilted upwards.

‘Is there anyone better qualified?’

‘It is not my place to challenge your competence, Cian. I am not one of your company. I merely asked to get the matter clear in my report.’

‘There needs to be a leader. I have said as much ever since we left the Abbey.’

‘I thought Sister Canair was the leader of this pilgrimage?’ she asked.

‘Canair was …’ He paused and shrugged. ‘Canair is not here.’

‘What made you become concerned for the safety of your company last night? What made you start checking if everyone was all right and at dawn? Surely it was not your place to do so? Were you disturbed by the storm?’

‘I was not disturbed.’

The blunt denial caused Fidelma to raise an eyebrow slightly.

‘I thought we were all disturbed by the violence of the storm,’ she commented.

‘You know that I am … was … a warrior. I am used to being in situations where—’

‘So you slept through the storm?’ Fidelma cut him short.

‘Not exactly, but—’

‘So you were disturbed along with the rest of us?’ Fidelma took a vindictive pleasure in pressing the point. ‘But you have not answered my question. Why did you feel that you needed to check on the members of your company?’

‘As I have said, someone needed to be in charge. Sister Muirgel was clearly not in control.’

‘So it was merely to show your claim to authority?’

Cian glowered.

‘I just wanted to make sure no one had any problems.’

‘So you appointed yourself as guardian to check on everyone?’

‘As it turned out it was a good thing I did so.’

‘So everyone was safe in their cabin, with the exception of Sister Muirgel?’

‘Since you are being so specific,’ he sneered, ‘no, not everyone was in their cabin.’

‘Can you explain?’

‘When I awoke, Brother Bairne, with whom I share, was not in his bunk. I later found that he had been to what these sailors call the head.’

‘I see. Anyone else apart from Muirgel not in their cabin?’

‘No.’