Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

‘What is the truth?’ she demanded, still irritated, though she realised that the irritation lay more with herself than anyone else.

Brehon Morann regarded her with unblinking grey eyes.

‘The truth is that you must discover what is the truth, and that discovery must be made soon. Otherwise you will not succeed in your studies.’

Fidelma’s lips thinned as she pressed them close together for a moment.

‘Are you saying that you will fail me?’ she demanded. ‘That you will fail my work?’

‘No. You will fail yourself.’

Fidelma let out a low, angry breath. She stared at the Brehon Morann for a moment before turning to leave.

‘Wait!’

She was halted by Brehon Morann’s quiet yet commanding voice. Unwillingly, she turned back to him. He had not moved.

‘Let me tell you this, Fidelma of Cashel. Once in a while it transpires that an old teacher, such as myself, encounters a student whose ability, whose mental agility, is so outstanding that it seems their life, as a teacher, is suddenly justified. The daily chore of trying to impress knowledge into a thousand reluctant minds is more than compensated for by finding one single mind so eager and able to absorb and understand knowledge — and by using that knowledge to make a contribution to the betterment of mankind. All the years of frustration are suddenly rewarded. I do not say this lightly, when I say that I thought that the choice I had made to become a teacher was going to be justified in you.’

Fidelma stood gazing in surprise at the old man. He had never talked this way to her before. For a moment she felt defensive again: her quick mind had reasoned that the old man wanted to extract a payment for his compliment.

‘Didn’t you once say that to use others as a fulfilment of one’s own ambition is a reflection on the weakness of one’s own character and abilities?’ she demanded hurtfully.

The Brehon Morann did not even blink at her sharp retort. His eyes merely hooded a fraction as he registered her riposte.

‘Fidelma of Cashel,’ he intoned softly, ‘you have such promise and ability. Do not make yourself an enemy to your promise. Recognise your talent and do not squander it.’

Fidelma did not know how she should react to the old Brehon’s words, for they were totally out of character. He had never pleaded with any of his pupils before to her knowledge, and now she felt his tone was pleading; pleading with her.

‘I must live my own life,’ she replied defiantly.

The old man’s face became stony and he dismissed her with an abrupt wave of his hand.

‘Then go away and live it. Do not come back to my classes until you are willing to learn from them. Until you discover peace within yourself, it is pointless returning.’

Fidelma felt a surge of anger and unable to trust herself, she swung from the room.

Three months passed before she went to see the Brehon Morann again. Three long bitter months full of heartache and loneliness.

Fidelma started awake, wondering what had disturbed her. It was a bell jangling, high-pitched and querulous. For a moment she wondered where she was. Then, with the movement of the ship below her, she remembered. She had fallen asleep thinking about Cian. No wonder she felt that she had been having some distasteful nightmare! Her mind had been drifting over the unhappy events of her relationship with him; they were still sharp in her memory even though it was nearly a decade ago.

The bell continued its insistent clamour: it must be Wenbrit’s summons to the midday meal. Fidelma rose hastily from the bunk. The cat was nowhere in sight. She hurriedly ran a comb through her hair and straightened her clothes.

She left her cabin and made her way along the main deck. The motion of the ship was not unpleasant; the sea appeared fairly calm. She glanced up. Above her, the sun was at its zenith, casting short shadows. There seemed no wind. The sail was hanging limply, billowing only now and again as a faint gust caught it. Yet the ship was moving, albeit slowly, across a flat blue sea. A few sailors, lounging cross-legged on the deck, nodded pleasantly as Fidelma passed and one called a greeting in her own language.

She clambered down the companionway at the stern of the ship, remembering young Wenbrit’s directions to what he called the main mess deck. She followed the dim light of the lanterns and the smells of the confined space.

There were half-a-dozen people seated at a long table in the broad cabin which stretched from one side of the ship to another. The table was placed behind the main mast for she could see it, like a tree, cutting through the decks. Murchad was standing at the head of the table, balanced with his legs wide apart. Behind him, young Wenbrit was bent over a side table, cutting bread.

Murchad smiled as she entered and waved her forward, indicating a seat on his right. The seating consisted of two long benches on eitherside of the long pinewood table. Those already present glanced up at the newcomer in curiosity.

Fidelma moved to her seat and found that she was placed opposite Cian. She hastily turned to her enquiring companions with a brief smile of greeting. Cian rose with a proprietorial smile to introduce her.

‘As you do not know anyone here, Fidelma,’ he began, ignoring the protocol for it should have been Murchad’s place to perform the introductions. He had reckoned without Murchad’s strong personality however.

‘If you please, Brother Cian,’ the captain interrupted irritably. ‘Sister Fidelma of Cashel, allow me to introduce you to your fellow travellers. These are Sisters Ainder, Crella and Gorman.’ He indicated three religieuses swiftly in turn sitting opposite to her and next to Cian. ‘This is Brother Cian, while next to you are Brothers Adamrae, Dathal and Tola.’

Fidelma inclined her head to them, acknowledging them all in one gesture. Their names and faces would come to mean something later. At the moment, the introduction was just a formality. Cian had reseated himself with an expression of annoyance on his face.

One of the women seated directly next to Cian, a religieuse who looked extremely young to be on a pilgrimage, smiled sweetly at her.

‘It seems that you already know Brother Cian?’

It was Cian who answered her hurriedly.

‘I knew Fidelma many years ago in Tara.’

Fidelma felt their gazes of curiosity on her and she turned towards Murchad to hide her embarrassment.

‘I see that this pilgrims’ party is only eight in all. I thought there were more?’ Then she remembered. ‘Ah, there is a Sister Muirgel, isn’t there? Is she still confined to her cabin?’

Murchad smiled grimly but it was the elderly, sharp-featured religieuse seated at the end of the table who answered her question.

‘I fear Sister Muirgel as well as two others, Brother Guss and Brother Bairne, are still indisposed, being overcome with the fatigues of the voyage, and are unable to join us for the time being. Do you know Sister Muirgel as well?’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘I met her when I came aboard although it was not in the best circumstances. I noticed that she was unwell,’ she added by way of explanation.

A pale, elderly monk with dirty grey hair sniffed audibly in disapproval.

‘Say that they are seasick and have done with it, Sister Ainder.People should not come on voyages if they have no stomach for it.’

The third religieuse whose name Fidelma had registered as being Sister Crella, a small, young woman with broad features that somehow marred the attractiveness that she would otherwise have possessed, looked disapproving. She appeared to be of a nervous disposition for she kept glancing quickly around as if she expected someone to appear. It was she who made a sound of reproach with her tongue and shook her head.