Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

‘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.’

‘Have you consulted any other physicians?’

‘That is the purpose of my journey now,’ he admitted. ‘I was told about a physician in Iberia, a man named Mormohec who lives near the Shrine of St James.’

‘And you intend to see this Mormohec?’