Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

Now she could hear the wind rising, moaning through the riggingand launching itself against the sails. A distant voice was shouting faintly somewhere. She could feel the ship rise as it climbed each wave and then fall as it slid into the heaving waters beneath.

She swung off the bunk leaving Mouse Lord still curled up in a ball, fast asleep, and apparently oblivious to the tempest. By gripping whatever hand-holds she could find, Fidelma manoeuvred herself to the window. Drawing back the sodden linen curtain, she peered out onto the deck. A fine sea spray immediately hit her in the face. She blinked and raised one hand to wipe her eyes, stumbling a little as the deck pitched beneath her. It was dark outside. Evening had passed into night. She looked upwards but there was no sign of moon nor stars. They must be covered by clouds, low and rainladen.

The wind was now a whine through the shrouds and beyond the wooden rail she could just see, by their whiteness, the tops of the waves, being whipped into a froth of white lather by the angry buffets of air. She realised that the bow, where her cabin was situated, must be rising high into the waves as cascades of water pounded on the deck above her.

Dark shadows were heaving on ropes around the main mast. Fidelma was astonished as she watched the silhouettes of men braving the uncontrollable winds, the bucking of the ship and the torrential waters, to lower the big mainsail. A heavy sea suddenly heaved the vessel over almost on its side. Fidelma was flung without warning against one of the walls of the cabin, but she held on and grabbed at the rim of the window, regaining her balance. Another flood of water smashed over the decks and for a moment Fidelma thought the sailors had been washed overboard but, as the spray cleared, she could see them re-emerge from the deluge still hanging onto their ropes.

Once again she had to grasp at the grating of the window to maintain her balance when the ship lurched. She felt an almost overwhelming sense of helplessness. She wanted to run out on deck, help the men or simply do something. She felt so inadequate against the forces of nature of which she knew nothing. However, she realised that there was nothing she could do. The sailors were trained and knew the ways of the sea. She did not. All she could do was return to her bunk and hope the ship would ride out the storm.

As she drew the linen curtain across again and began to haul her way back to her bunk, the cry came clearly: ‘All hands! All hands !’

It was a fearful call. Panic seized her and she turned for her cabin door and heaved it open.

A dark shadow was outside, as if coming from the opposite cabin.She did not recognise it but an accented voice shouted at her, raised to carry above the noise of the storm.

‘Get back, lady. You are safer in your cabin.’

Reluctantly, she closed the door and returned to her bunk, sprawling rather than sitting on it. The storm continued. She did not know how long she lay in that half-reclining position on the bed. In a curious way, the fury of the storm became soporific. With nothing to do but to think, the constant jerking, the crash of the seas, the whine of the wind all combined, after a while, into a single sound and gradually Fidelma found herself hypnotised by it. Her languorous thoughts wandered back to Cian. And while she was thinking of Cian, sleep sneaked up on her without her even knowing.

Fidelma was up, washed and dressed and just putting the final touches to her hair when there was a knock on the cabin door.

It was the Breton mate, Gurvan.

‘I beg your pardon, lady.’ With an inward sigh, Fidelma noted the form of address. Doubtless it was all around the ship that her brother was King of Muman. Gurvan did not notice her irritated expression and continued, ‘I was checking that you were recovered from the storm and that there were no problems?’

‘Thank you, I am fine,’ Fidelma acknowledged. Then she hesitated. She vaguely remembered being disturbed just about dawn when the storm had died away. She had the impression that someone had opened the door of her cabin, looked in and then closed it. She had been too tired to open her eyes and had fallen back to sleep immediately. ‘Did you attempt to call me earlier?’

‘Not I, lady,’ the mate assured her. ‘The others will be breaking their fast shortly if you would join them.’ He made to go, then turned back. ‘I hope that I was not lacking manners when I ordered you back into your cabin during the storm.’

So it had been Gurvan outside her door when she had a momentary panicky desire to go on deck.

‘Not at all. I should not have attempted to go out on deck but I was worried.’

Gurvan smiled shyly and touched a hand to his forehead.

‘The breakfast will be served in a moment, lady,’ he repeated.

Fidelma realised that she had probably overslept a little.

‘Very well. I am coming now.’,

The mate withdrew. She heard him go into the cabin opposite and close the door.

When she left her cabin, she was amazed at the sight that met her eyes. It was as if they had entered a cloud, for a thick white mist enveloped The Barnacle Goose. Fidelma could barely see the top of the mast, let alone the stern of the vessel. She had encountered such conditions before, often high up in the mountains when such mistscame down suddenly. It was always best to halt and wait for them to disperse, unless one knew the safest mountain route by which to descend.

There was a strange, echoing silence, with the soft breath of the sea lapping all around the ship. The mist swirled and eddied like smoke from a fire. It was not being dispelled, however, and Fidelma found that strange. She felt an uncontrollable urge to attempt to blow the mist away, so easily did it move as she waved her hand at it.

Gurvan suddenly re-emerged from his cabin.

‘It’s a sea mist,’ he explained unnecessarily. ‘It rolled up on us in the wake of the storm. I think it is something to do with the warmth of the seas in this area and the coldness of the storm. There is nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘I’ve seen such mists before. It was just unexpected after the storm last night.’

‘The sun will chase it away as soon as it climbs higher and warms the skies.’

He turned to speak with a couple of sailors, who were hardly discernible in the shroudlike atmosphere. Sitting cross-legged on the deck, they were apparently engaged in sewing some pieces of canvas.

Fidelma made her way along the misty deck towards the stern of the ship. She was surprised, after the stormy weather of the previous night, to feel the soft air on her cheek which caused the mainsail to flap languidly, a birdlike fluttering in that echoing silence. The ship was steady, indicating that under the blanket of mist, the sea was flat and calm. She could see no sign of storm damage amidst the shadows. Everything appeared shipshape.

Barely able to see a few feet in front of her, and walking too rapidly, Fidelma bumped into a figure shrouded in a robe with the hood over his or her head. The figure grunted as Fidelma collided with it.

‘I am so sorry, Sister,’ Fidelma apologised, realising that it was one of the religieuses. There was something familiar about her.

But to her surprise, the figure kept her face turned away, muttered something indistinguishable and hurried off to be absorbed into the mist. Fidelma gaped at this lack of courtesy, and wondered who it was who would not exchange a civil greeting.

Then Captain Murchad himself materialised in front of her. He was descending the wooden steps from the stern deck to the main deck. Recognising her, the captain raised his hand in greeting.