Act of Mercy sf-8 Read online

  That your ears may catch what He says.

  Teach your daughters the lament,

  Let them teach one another this dirge;

  Death has climbed in through our windows,

  It has entered our palaces,

  It sweeps off the children in the open air …’

  Fidelma gazed at the forbidding monk in some bewilderment, for she thought his harsh cadences were not suited to a service for the repose of a soul. She glanced round at her fellow mourners and found, even through the swirling mist, that Sister Gorman’s eyes were bright and that she was nodding in time to the rhythm of the recitation. Next to her, Cian stood looking absolutely bored. The others appeared to be standing impassively, perhaps mesmerised by the tenor of Brother Tola’s religious declamations.

  ‘The corpses of men shall fall and lie like dung in the fields, Like swathes behind the reaper …’

  Brother Bairne suddenly cleared his throat noisily. It was meant to interrupt and it did.

  ‘I, too, would offer a word from the Holy Book for the soul of our departed sister,’ he announced, as Brother Tola fell silent. ‘I believe I knew her just as well as everyone else who is gathered here.’

  No one seemed to contradict him.

  He began to recite and Fidelma realised that he was doing so with raised eyes and a grim expression on his face as if he were addressing the words at someone. He was focusing his gaze across the gathered circle. From her position, and with the mist still thick, she could not quite tell who he was looking at. Was it Sister Crella, standing with downcast eyes; or was it Cian, gazing upward in his boredom? And there was the naive young Sister Gorman by Cian’s side. It was difficult to follow the line of his eyes.

  ‘I will not punish your daughters for playing the wanton

  Nor your sons’ brides for their adultery,

  Because your men resort to wanton women

  And sacrifice with temple prostitutes.

  A people without understanding comes to grief …’

  Sister Crella raised her head abruptly.

  ‘What have these words to do with Sister Muirgel?’ she demanded threateningly. ‘You did not know her at all! You were just jealous!’ She turned to Sister Ainder, who was looking shocked at the interruption. ‘Make an end of this farce. Proclaim a blessing and let’s have done.’

  Already, in embarrassment, those members of the crew who had attended were drifting quietly away. Fidelma wondered what hidden passions were being enacted in this little memorial.

  Sister Ainder, flushing, intoned a quick blessing and the group of religieux broke up. Only Brother Bairne stood with his head bowed at the spot as if in silent prayer.

  When Fidelma turned away she encountered Murchad. He was looking perplexed.

  ‘A strange group of religieux, lady,’ he muttered.

  Fidelma felt inclined to agree.

  ‘What was that last piece about temple prostitutes?’ went on Murchad. ‘Was it truly from the Christian Holy Book?’

  ‘Hosea,’ affirmed Fidelma. She pulled a doleful face. ‘I think Brother Bairne was quoting from the verses of that fourth chapter.

  ‘The more priests there are, the more they sin against me;

  Their dignity I will turn into dishonour.

  They feed on the sin of my people

  And batten on their iniquity,

  But people and priest shall be treated alike.’

  Murchad gazed at her in admiration.

  ‘I have often felt like saying that about some of the religieux I have met.’

  ‘It seems that God said it first, Captain,’ she rejoined solemnly.

  ‘How do you remember such things, lady?’

  ‘How do you remember how to sail this ship, knowing the winds and tides and the signs that keep The Barnacle Goose from danger? There is no secret to it, Murchad. We all have a memory and can memorise things. The more important thing is how we act on that which we know.’

  She turned down the companionway back to the mess deck in search of some water. At the doorway, she found Wenbrit. He had not come up on deck during the service but had excused himself on the grounds of his duties. Now she noticed for the first time how pale his face was, and how strained he looked. He seemed relieved to see her.

  ‘Lady, I need-’ He stopped abruptly and his eyes focused on something above and beyond Fidelma’s head.

  She frowned at the young boy.

  ‘What is it, Wenbrit?’

  ‘Er …’ He looked distracted for a moment. ‘I just wanted to remind you that the midday meal will be served soon.’

  The boy pushed past her towards the cabins, lowering his voice so that she hardly caught his words.

  ‘Meet me in the cabin which the dead sister used. As soon as you can.’

  There was a cough slightly above her head; she looked up and saw that Cian had followed her down the companionway. He stood, leaning down, a few steps above her.

  ‘I must talk properly with you, Fidelma.’ He still had that confident smile. ‘We didn’t really finish our discussion yesterday.’

  Fidelma swung round to hide her anger. It seemed obvious to her that Wenbrit had wanted to speak urgently with her but not in the presence of Cian.

  ‘I am busy,’ she replied in a cutting tone.

  Cian did not seem perturbed by her attitude.

  ‘Surely you are not afraid to speak with me?’

  She gazed at him with open dislike. There was no escaping his presence. She could make no further excuse. She had known that sooner or later they would have to talk with one another. Perhaps it was better sooner rather than later. There were many days of the voyage yet to come. She hoped that Wenbrit’s news could wait awhile. She was busy remembering.

  Chapter Eight

  It had been left to Grian to bring her the news. Grian had arrived at the tavern where she was staying and entered into her room without knocking. Fidelma was lying on her bed staring up at the ceiling. Her brows drew together in annoyance as she saw Grian.

  ‘I hope you haven’t come to lecture me again,’ she said belligerently, before her friend could speak.

  Grian sat down on the bed.

  ‘We all miss you, Fidelma. We don’t want to see you like this.’

  Fidelma grimaced, her annoyance spreading.

  ‘It is not my fault that I am not at the school,’ she countered. ‘It was Morann who interfered in my life. It was he who expelled me.’

  ‘He did it for the best.’

  ‘It was none of his business.’

  ‘He thinks it is.’

  ‘I don’t interfere with his private life. Nor should he interfere in mine.’

  Grian was clearly unhappy.

  ‘Fidelma, I feel a responsibility for all that has happened. It was my foolishness …’

  ‘You need not claim that you have any rights over me because you introduced me to Cian,’ Fidelma retorted sharply.

  ‘I do not. I said I feel responsibility. My action may have destroyed your life. I cannot bear that.’

  ‘Morann destroyed my studies, not you.’

  ‘But Cian-’

  ‘No more stories about Cian. I know he is immature at times but he has good intentions. He will change.’

  Grian was quiet for a moment and then she said slowly, ‘You are fond of quoting from Publilius Syrus. Didn’t he say that an angry lover tells himself many lies? The same may be said in the feminine case. Lovers know what they want, but not what they need. You do not need Cian and he does not want you.’

  Fidelma tried to start up angrily from the bed, but Grian reachedforward and pushed her back against the pillow. Fidelma never knew that her friend possessed such strength.

  ‘You will listen to me, even if this is the last time we ever speak. I am doing this for your good, Fidelma. This morning Cian married Una, the daughter of the High King’s steward, and they have gone to live at Aileach, among the Cenel Eoghain.’

  The words came out in a rush so that Fidelm
a did not have time to silence her.

  Fidelma stared at Grian for several long moments. There was a deathly hush as she slowly took in the meaning of Grian’s words. Then her face assumed a graven look as though she had turned to stone.

  Grian waited for her friend to speak, to react, and when she did not, she pressed: ‘I did try to warn you before. Surely you must have known, surely you realised …?’

  Fidelma felt divorced from reality. It was like being immersed in cold water. She was left stunned; incapable of speech. Grian had warned her and she, if the truth were known, suspected — even feared — that it was true. She had tried to fool herself and deny it. Finally, she managed to articulate one of the many thoughts whirling around in her mind.

  ‘Go away and leave me alone,’ she cried, emotion cracking her voice.

  Grian gazed at her in anxiety. ‘Fidelma, you must understand …’

  The next moment, Fidelma had thrown herself at her friend, screaming, beating with her hands, scratching. Had Grian not been a practitioner of the art of the troid-sciathaigid — battle through defence — she might have been badly hurt. As it was, Grian was adept at the technique, which had been developed centuries before when the learned ones of the Five Kingdoms had to defend themselves from attack by thieves and bandits. As they believed that it was wrong to carry weapons of defence, they had been forced to develop another method of defending themselves. Now, many of the missionaries who journeyed abroad had become adepts of the art.

  Grian found it easy to constrain Fidelma’s uncontrolled fury, for physical intent without control will recoil on itself. Grian soon had her powerless in one of the holds, face down on the bed.

  At this point the innkeeper came bursting into the room, demanding to know the reason for the noise which disturbed his guests, his shocked eyes immediately alighting on the broken pots and chair that had been the casualties before Fidelma had been pinioned by her friend.

  Grian merely shouted at him to get out and that any damage would be paid for.

  For a long, long time, she held on to her friend until the fight and frenzy left her body, until the tension was evaporated and the muscles had become relaxed.

  Finally Fidelma said in a quiet and reasonable tone: ‘I am all right now, Grian. You may let go.’

  Reluctantly, Grian pulled away and Fidelma sat up.

  ‘I would prefer it if you let me alone for a while.’

  Grian gave her a searching look.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘I shall not do anything silly again. You can go back to the college.’

  Still Grian hesitated to leave her alone.

  ‘Go on,’ insisted Fidelma, scarcely keeping back her sobs. ‘I have promised you — isn’t that enough?’

  Grian decided that the moment of madness had passed and she rose.

  ‘Remember, Fidelma, that you have friends nearby,’ she said.

  It was over a month before Fidelma returned to Brehon Morann’s s school. The old man immediately noticed the tight little lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth. A brittleness that had not been there before.

  ‘Do you know your Aeschylus, Fidelma?’ the Brehon greeted her without preamble as she was shown into his room.

  She gazed blankly at him and did not reply.

  ‘“Who, except the gods, can live time through for ever without any pain?”’

  She was silent for a moment. Then, not responding to his words, she said: ‘I would like to return to my studies.’

  ‘I, for one, would be happy to see you do so.’

  ‘May I return to my studies?’ she asked him quietly.

  ‘Is there anything to prevent you, Fidelma?’

  Fidelma raised her chin in her old gesture of defiance. She waited for several seconds before replying decisively: ‘Nothing.’

  The old man sighed sadly, an almost imperceptible sigh of breath.

  ‘If there is bitterness in your heart, study is no sugar to dilute it.’

  ‘Don’t the ancient bards say that we learn by suffering?’ she replied.

  ‘Truly said, but in my experience the sufferer reflects on their pain either too much or too little. I fear you are reflecting too much, Fidelma. If you return, you must give your mind to study and not to the wrong which you feel that you have suffered.’

  The corners of her mouth tightened.

  ‘Have no worry for me, Brehon Morann. I shall now apply myself to my studies.’

  So she did. The years had fled by. She had gained her degree, completing eight years of study and becoming the best pupil that the Brehon Morann had produced. The old man himself admitted as much and he was someone who did not readily praise his pupils. Yet the innocent young girl who had arrived at his school was gone. Innocence and youth could certainly not last for ever, but it was the slight change of character that saddened old Morann. A bitterness had entered where there should have been joy.

  Fidelma had never really retrieved her unaffected nature. Cian’s rejection had left her feeling disillusioned and violated, although the years gradually tempered her attitude. But she had never forgotten her experience, nor really recovered from it. Bitterness left a deep scar and a sense of mistrust. Perhaps that was what had made her a good dalaigh; that sense of suspicion, of questioning motives. She could penetrate deception as a diviner might unerringly find water.

  Fidelma came back to the present in an angry mood.

  ‘All right, Cian,’ she said flatly. ‘We will speak, if you wish it.’

  She made no effort to move nor make him feel at ease. Cian tried to take command of the situation by moving down the stairs as if to push her towards the mess deck so that they could sit down, but she stood still, blocking the movement. They were positioned in the small passageway between the cabins with Fidelma obstructing the doorway.

  ‘It has been many years since last we met, Fidelma,’ Cian opened.

  ‘Ten years precisely,’ she cut in tightly.

  ‘Ten years? And your name is now spoken of as one who has garnered a reputation. I understand that you went back and continued your studies with the Brehon Morann.’

  ‘Obviously. I was lucky that he accepted me back into his school after I nearly threw away my chances.’

  ‘I thought that you wanted to go into teaching rather than law.’

  ‘There was a lot I wanted when I was young. My plans changed and I found that I had a talent for discovering the truth from those who wished to hide it. It was a talent which I developed from harsh experience.’

  Cian did not rise to her acerbic tone. He simply smiled as if absent-minded, pretending that he did not understand her innuendo.

  ‘I am glad that you made a success of your life, Fidelma. It is more than I have made of mine.’

  She waited a moment, expecting some expansion, and then she saidsourly: ‘I am surprised that you have forsaken your profession to take up the religious life. Surely, of all the professions in the land, the calling of a religieux would be the least suited to your temperament?’

  Cian laughed; there was an unpleasantly morose tone in that laughter.

  ‘You have hit the nail on the head immediately, Fidelma. My change of calling was none of my choosing.’

  She waited quietly for an explanation.

  Then Cian took his left hand and reached across to his right and lifted it up as if it had no power to raise itself. He held it up and let go. It fell limply by his side. He laughed again.

  ‘What demand is there for a one-armed warrior in the High King’s bodyguard?’

  For the first time since she had seen Cian again, Fidelma realised that his right hand had always hung loosely at his side and that he did everything with his left hand. How could she have been so blind not to notice that fact before? Here she was, priding herself on her observational ability when only now she realised that Cian had the full use of just one arm. A fine dalaigh she was! She had been so filled with hatred for him that she was looking on him as he had been ten years
ago at Tara. She had not seen him as he was now. She recalled that Cian always seemed to keep his right arm hidden within his robes. In a surge of instinctive sympathy she found herself reaching out to touch him lightly on the arm.

  ‘I am-’

  ‘Sorry?’ he interrupted her almost with a snarl. ‘I do not want anyone’s sorrow!’

  She remained quiet, her eyes downcast. Her attitude seemed to irritate Cian.

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me that a warrior should expect to be wounded? That it is one of the hazards of his profession?’ he sneered.

  She was surprised to hear the self-pitying whine creep into his voice. She found it repulsive and her initial sympathy was gone as swiftly as it came.

  ‘Why? Is that what you want to hear?’ she countered.

  Her tone drew more anger from Cian.

  ‘I have heard it many times from people who are prepared to let the likes of me do their dirty work and then disown me afterwards.’

  ‘Were you wounded in combat?’ She ignored his accusation.

  ‘An arrow in the right upper arm, piercing the muscles and making the arm useless.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘About five years ago. It was during the border wars between the High King and the King of Laigin. I was taken by my comrades and nursed in the House of Sorrow at Armagh. It was soon realised that I would no longer be any use as a warrior and so, when I was well enough, I was forced to enter the Abbey at Bangor.’ It was clear that Cian felt himself ill-done by.

  ‘Forced?’ queried Fidelma.

  ‘Where else would I go? A one-armed man — what work could I do?’

  ‘The wound is irreversible? There are some very good physicians at Tuam Brecain.’

  Cian shook his head sullenly.

  ‘Not good enough, then or now. I spent a few years in the Abbey doing such menial tasks as much as my one good arm allowed.’