Act of Mercy Page 3

  ‘Maybe.’ Murchad seemed indifferent. ‘As master of this ship, I am pleased to pick up paying passengers whatever their motives. You will have plenty of time to get acquainted with them, lady, and their reasons for coming on this journey.’

  He suddenly glanced up at the pennants flying from the central mast, shading his eyes against the sun for a moment.

  ‘Forgive me, lady. I must go to wear the ship – I mean, to change her heading – for the wind is altering course now.’ She was about to rebuke him for calling her ‘lady’ instead of ‘Sister’ when he continued: ‘If you remain on deck, I suggest that you move to leeward out of the wind.’ Noticing her perplexity, he indicated the side that would be opposite to the wind direction once he had brought the ship’s head around: the wind had changed direction in a surprising fashion as they had cleared the headlands into the open sea.

  ‘I will go below now to find my cabin, if that is all the same to you, Captain,’ she replied.

  He turned and bellowed so unexpectedly that she was startled for the moment.

  ‘Wenbrit! Pass the word for Wenbrit!’ He glanced back to her. ‘I must leave you for the time being. The boy will take your dunnage below and show you to your cabin, lady …’

  He turned away before she could ask him what ‘dunnage’ meant. She watched him hurry across to the men by the steering oar and then begin to roar: ‘Hands to halyards, stand by to wear ship.’

  The vessel was bucking and rolling with such a motion that Fidelma was forced to keep changing her balance to remain upright on the deck.

  ‘Bit rough for you, eh, Sister?’

  She found herself gazing into the urchin-like features of a young boy of about thirteen or fourteen. He stood legs wide apart, hands on hips, balancing effortlessly as the vessel skewed and rolled while the crew manoeuvred it into its new heading. He had bright, copper-coloured hair and a mass of freckles on his fair skin, and curious elfin eyes of sea green. His face was split by a broad grin and he carried himself with a self-conscious attitude of pride. Though he spoke the language of Éireann effortlessly, she could hear the strange accent which belied the country of his birth. He was a Briton.

  ‘Not so rough,’ she assured him, although having to clutch for the nearby rail to steady herself.

  The boy screwed up his face in disbelief at her reply.

  ‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘at least you are standing up to it better than some of your friends below. Sick as dogs, they are.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘And who is it who has to clean out below decks?’

  ‘I presume that you are called Wenbrit?’ smiled Fidelma. In spite of the lurching of the vessel, she felt no queasiness. It was a matter of balance only.

  ‘I am,’ agreed the boy. ‘I suppose you want to go below now?’

  ‘Yes, I should like to see my cabin.’

  ‘Follow me, then, Sister, and hang on tight,’ he said as he picked up her bag. ‘It is sometimes more dangerous below deck than above it during turbulent water. If I were Captain I would not allow my passengers below until they had a good taste of what it is to be like, at least. Once they found their sea legs, then they could go and hide in the darkness ’tween decks.’

  The boy spoke scornfully as he led the way. He moved with sure-footed pride from the stern deck down the steep wooden steps to the main deck. It was as he turned to glance back at her that Fidelma caught a glimpse of a band of white around the boy’s neck – the scar of something which had chafed against the flesh. She was momentarily intrigued at its cause. However, it was neither the time nor place to ask such a question. At the foot of the steps, he turned to watch her descent with a critical eye. Fidelma swung herself down and paused to meet the lad’s reluctant nod of approval.

  ‘One of your friends slipped and fell on those steps, and that was while we were riding at anchor,’ he volunteered airily. ‘Landlubbers !’

  ‘Was he or she hurt?’ demanded Fidelma, aghast at the youth’s callousness.

  ‘Only their dignity was bruised, if you know what I mean,’ he replied lightly. ‘This way, Sister.’

  He entered a doorway – Fidelma wished she could remember the correct nautical terms – and started down a narrow, dingy set of stairs into the cabin space below. Fidelma came to know that it was called a companionway. A single storm lantern swung and bounced on a chain in the passageway, giving a dim illumination to the darkness.

  ‘You’ve been placed in a cabin with one of the other Sisters at the far end here.’ The boy pointed. ‘The other travellers occupy the cabins along here. When I am not on deck then I sleep in the big cabin through there.’ He waved his hand for’ard. ‘That’s where we prepare food and eat. It’s called the mess deck. I am always around, if anything is needed.’ He threw out his chest in an attitude of pride. ‘The captain … well, he likes the passengers to deal with me and, if there is anything of an urgent nature, I can pass it on to him. He doesn’t like to have much to do with those who take passage on the ship …’ The boy paused as if waiting for some response.

  ‘Very well, Wenbrit,’ Fidelma acknowledged solemnly. ‘If there are any problems, I will consult you first.’

  ‘There will be a meal at midday and the captain will attend in order to explain the running of the ship to you all. But he doesn’t usually eat with the passengers. He makes an exception on the first day out to ensure everyone knows what’s what. And, of course, don’t expect hot meals on the voyage. Which reminds me, if you light candles below decks, make sure they are not left unattended. I’ve heard of ships flaring up like a tinder box.’

  Fidelma did her best to hide her humour at the boy’s studied self-confident air of a veteran sailor.

  ‘There is a meal at midday, you say?’

  ‘I will ring a bell which will summon the passengers to the meal.’

  ‘Very well.’ Fidelma made to turn to the cabin door indicated by the boy.

  ‘Oh, one more thing …’

  She turned back enquiringly towards him.

  ‘I am required to tell you that these cabins are aft in the vessel. That’s the stern. On the deck above is the captain’s cabin and other quarters. For’ard lies in that direction. It is also called the bow of the ship. There is a privy at the stern here, through that door there. And there is one up in the bow. Anyone will tell you where it is, should the need arise. If there are any problems, if we need to abandon ship, there are two small boats lashed to the deck athwart ships – that is in the middle of the ship. That is where you should make for if we get in trouble. Don’t worry, one of the crew will inform you of what you should do.’

  The boy turned abruptly and hurried back on deck.

  Fidelma stood, letting a smile spread across her features. It was clear that young Wenbrit did not have a high regard for ‘landlubbers’ as he called the passengers. She turned back towards the cabin door which he had indicated. As she did so, a door opened on the other side of the passage just behind her. She heard a sharp intake of breath and then a soft masculine voice said: ‘Fidelma! What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  She swung round, trying to identify the voice from some long-past memory, a memory that she had almost managed to expunge.

  A tall man stood there, irregularly illuminated by the light of the swinging lantern.

  Fidelma took an involuntary step backward, reaching out a hand to grasp the wooden wall as if for balance. This was her first bout of dizziness since coming aboard The Barnacle Goose, and it had less to do with the sea’s swell than with the welling of her emotions.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Cian!’

  Like a wraith arising from some ghostly past, there stood before her the man who had been her first love; who had awakened her sensuality as a young girl and then brutally discarded her for another.

  In one breathless moment, memories came pouring through her mind. Fidelma remembered their first meeting as vividly as if it had been yesterday. Yet it had been ten years ago now; ten long years …
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  Old Brehon Morann had allowed his students time off to attend the great triennial fair of Tara – the Féis Teamhrach. Had he not allowed them time off, then they would probably have attended anyway, for the great fair was a major event of the year. The fair had been founded by the High King Ollamh Fódhla some fourteen centuries ago. Its official purpose was to review the laws of the Five Kingdoms. The High King and the provincial Kings were in attendance, together with the most distinguished representatives of all the learned professions from the Five Kingdoms.

  Even though it had been a hundred years since the High Kings had abandoned Tara as their principal royal residence, on account of a curse pronounced against it by the Blessed Ruadan of Lorrha in Muman, the great festival itself had not been so abandoned and was held there every third year. No one could devote themselves to study during the seven days of the fair. It started three days before the Feast of Samhain and ended on the third day afterwards.

  While learned professors and lawyers, and the Kings and their advisers, discussed affairs of state and the application of the laws, and considered what, if any, new laws should be applied, sports, competitions and feasting were provided for the general public as well as the richer folk who came to see and be seen. Merchants arrived from not only the Five Kingdoms but from many corners of the world – as did entertainers, songsters, jugglers, fools and acrobats. It was a time for relaxing and making merry, for the ancient laws of the fair proclaimed that a sacred armistice was in force during its existence, when all were exempted from arrest or prosecution unless they violated the peace of the fair itself by rowdiness, violence and theft.

  Fidelma was barely eighteen years old and had never been to one of the great fairs like Tara. She and her companions from Morann’s law school moved eagerly through the good-natured jostling crowds, gazing at the stalls selling all manner of food and drink and also goods from far-flung lands. They paused now and then to look in awe at groups of professional clowns and jugglers, while musicians and songsters created a not-unpleasing cacophony of sound.

  Fidelma and her friends halted before one juggler who had nine sharp short swords in his hands which he flung up into the air, one by one, and which he did not let fall to the ground but caught and flung up again quickly and without injury to himself. The whistling sound the swords produced as they passed through the air was like the sound of buzzing bees.

  A terrific cheering drew Fidelma and her companions on to the edge of a crowd around a sward of ground where a game of immán was in progress. Each player, armed with a wooden camán, or stick of ash over a metre in length, carefully shaped and smoothed with the lower end flat and curved, attempted to strike at a ball of leather filled with wool. The name of the game meant urging or driving while the stick took its name from the word cam reflecting on its crooked or curve part.

  A goal had just been scored by one of the two teams, and as the young students pushed their way to the front of the crowd, the play had commenced again with the ball being thrown up into the middle of the field. The two teams, at opposite ends of the level grassy rectangle, began to run towards it, each trying to drive the ball through their opponents to the narrow goal formed by two poles.

  Fidelma’s group waited until another goal had been scored, then continued on their good-natured way. It was a happy, carefree day even though Fidelma, at the back of her mind, knew that their mentor, Brehon Morann, had hoped his students would not only indulge themselves at the fair but would also attend the great debates on the laws and thus expand their knowledge of their subject. Fidelma was about to remind her comrades of this when they found themselves pushing through the crowd to where a horse race was about to commence.

  Cian had caught her eye immediately.

  He was only a year or two older than she was. A young man of striking appearance; tall, chestnut-haired to the point that it was almost red. He was pleasantly featured, well-muscled, and his clothing spoke of some degree of rank. For the race, he was clad lightly in linen trousers and shirt, dyed with several colours, and wearing a short beaver fur-edged cloak of woven wool. He was astride a splendid stallion of magnificent physique which, like his rider, was chestnut in colour but with a white splash on its forehead.

  Fidelma had not even noticed the other riders lined up with Cian. She stood staring up at him, strangely attracted by his youth and vitality. Some chemistry must have passed between them for his eyes flickered down, caught her gaze, held it for a second or two and then he smiled. It was a warm, open smile.

  There came a yell of warning from the race director and a flag was raised. It fluttered above their heads for a brief moment and fell abruptly. Away thundered the horses to a roar of acclamation from the crowds.

  ‘What a gorgeous man!’ whispered Fidelma’s companion, Grian. Grian was slightly older than Fidelma and her best friend at the school of the Brehon Morann. She was a capable student but had a frivolous side to her nature and placed enjoyment above serious study every time a choice had to be made.

  Fidelma flushed in spite of herself.

  ‘Who do you mean?’ she said, trying to sound casual.

  ‘The young man with whom you shared a smile just now,’ Grian teased her.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ protested Fidelma, colouring even more.

  Grian turned to a small elderly man, who had been shouting encouragement to one particular rider.

  ‘Do you know who the riders are?’ she asked.

  The man ceased his exhortations and raised his eyes to her in astonishment.

  ‘Now would I be placing a bet on the outcome of the race if I didn’t?’ he protested. ‘Names of the riders, their horses, and their form are the first things I find out before even setting foot here.’

  Grian smiled eagerly. ‘Then perhaps you could tell us the name of that chestnut, with the white splash on its forehead, and who it is that rides her?’

  ‘The young man with the red cloak?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Nothing easier. The chestnut is called Diss …’

  Fidelma entered the conversation with a frown. ‘Diss? But that means “feeble” or “weak”?’

  The fellow tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘That’s because the horse is anything but feeble or weak.’

  Fidelma was bewildered by this logic.

  ‘Who is the rider then?’ pressed Grian, not wishing to be sidetracked.

  ‘The man who rides it, owns it,’ replied the elderly man. ‘He is named Cian.’

  ‘A chiefs son, by the look of him,’ observed Grian slyly.

  The man shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. He is a warrior, though. He serves in the bodyguard of the High King.’

  Grian turned back to Fidelma with a look of triumph.

  The cheers were getting louder and louder and they could hear the thunder of hooves coming closer. The course had nearly been completed, being circular in shape, and the riders were approaching the winning post.

  Fidelma leant forward to see the result.

  There was the big chestnut just behind the leader, a white mare, its rider leaning close along its neck. The cheers rose up as Cian and his horse, Diss, began to gain but they were just beaten by the white mare and its rider.

  Fidelma found herself propelled forward, as the crowd surged to greet the winner. Then she found Grian hanging onto her arm and realised that her companion was pushing her forward as well as the momentum of the crowd. However, Grian was propelling her not towards the winner but towards where Cian was dismounting from his stallion.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Fidelma in protest.

  ‘You want to meet him, don’t you?’ replied her friend with self-confidence.

  ‘Not I …’ But before she could make a further objection she found herself arriving in the midst of a small crowd commiserating with the handsome young rider on being beaten by so fine a margin.

  Cian was smiling good-naturedly and accepting their compliments. Catching sight of Fidel
ma and her companion he turned towards them with a broad smile. Her cheeks crimson, Fidelma dropped her eyes, feeling indignant that she had been manoeuvred into this embarrassing situation.

  Cian hooked his reins over his arm and came forward.

  ‘Did you enjoy the race, ladies?’ he queried. Fidelma noticed immediately that he had an attractive tenor voice, full of resonance.

  ‘A great race!’ Grian spoke for them both. ‘But my companion here was wondering why your horse was called Diss. That’s why she insisted on coming to meet you,’ she added with malicious humour.

  The rider laughed tolerantly. ‘He is called weak, but he is strong and anything but punny. It is a long story and perhaps you ladies will join me for refreshment after I have taken care of my stallion and have washed myself?’

  ‘I am sorry, but—’ Fidelma began, about to reject the suggestion, when her arm was jerked fiercely by her friend.

  ‘We would love to,’ Grian replied quickly with a smile which Fidelma found embarrassing.

  ‘Excellent,’ returned Cian. ‘Meet me in fifteen minutes at that tent yonder, the one with the yellow silk banner flying from it.’

  He turned away, leading his horse off with people clapping him on the back as he passed. He seemed very popular.

  Fidelma wheeled on her friend with a scowl of annoyance.

  ‘How could you?’ she hissed irritably.

  Grian stood unabashed.

  ‘Because I know you. Of course you wanted to meet him! Don’t deny it. Rather than tell me off, you should be pleased to have a friend like me.’

  Deep down, Fidelma knew that Grian was right. She had wanted to meet the handsome warrior …

  The memories of that meeting came and went in an instant of time, hardly more than the blink of an eye, but crystal clear in her mind.

  Now, in the darkness of the lower passageway of The Barnacle Goose, Fidelma stared at the tall man, lit by the rocking lantern, and felt the conflict of emotions almost overwhelm her. She barely noticed that he was clad in the robes of a religieux. He stood in the cabin doorway, balancing himself with one hand against the doorframe, his handsome face etched in a mass of chasing shadows from the lantern.