Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

Neither Gurvan nor Murchad objected when she followed the Breton onto the stern deck to stand near the grim-faced captain.

‘I did not think that the Sylinancim Islands were as gaunt and harsh as this,’ she said, gazing a little in awe on the jagged rocks which surrounded them.

‘The main islands are inhabited and have gentle landing places,’ replied Gurvan. ‘We would usually avoid this area by standing out to westward. I think we’ve missed the Broad Sound, which would be a safe channel, and now the winds and tide are driving us through Crebawethan Neck.’

These latter sentences were addressed to Murchad, who nodded in agreement of his mate’s assessment. Fidelma knew nothing of these places. However, she picked up the anxious note in the Breton’s usually phlegmatic voice.

‘Is that a bad place?’ she asked.

‘It is certainly not a good place to be,’ Gurvan replied. ‘If we can get through the Neck we might be able to slip south of the Retarrier Ledges — more rocks. Once clear of them we could make a straight run to the Island of Ushant. We’ll be a full day off our course, providing …’ He suddenly realised that he was speaking to a passenger and glanced guiltily at his companion. Murchad was too preoccupied to notice.

‘Providing we manage to get through this Crebawethan Neck?’ Fidelma finished for him.

‘Exactly so, lady.’

The captain had been watching the wind-filled sail with a careful eye and now signalled one of the men on the steering oar to exchange his position with Murchad himself. Some of the sailors had crowded in the bows ready to cry out warnings in case the ship came too close to the rocks.

‘Secure the bowline!’ Murchad cried.

Two of the hands rushed to the weather side of the ship and hauled on a rope which was attached to the square sail. They pulled on it, swinging the sail more to the starboard side so that the wind strained against the great leather expanse.

Murchard turned towards Fidelma.

‘Lady, I would rather all the pilgrims were on deck during this passage,’ he called. ‘Would you mind asking the rest of them to come up?’ Then he had to return his attention to the steering oar and left it to Gurvan to explain.

‘If …’ Gurvan hesitated and shrugged. ‘If we strike the reefs, well

… It’s just that the pilgrims might stand a better chance if they are on deck.’

‘Is it that dangerous?’ she asked and then saw the affirmative in the man’s eyes. Without a further word, Fidelma hurried across to the companionway. Wenbrit was standing there.

‘The captain wants everyone on deck,’ she explained.

Wenbrit turned and disappeared. Within seconds she could hear him urging the pilgrims from their cabins to join their fellows on deck. They came reluctantly for the most part. Wenbrit took charge, telling them where to stand. Most of them did not seem aware of the dangers, and even when Fidelma joined her entreaties to those of the young cabin boy, they moved with agonising slowness, grumbling all the while. Then, as some of them saw the closeness of the rocks and reefs, a quiet descended as they finally understood the peril they were in.

The pilgrims huddled on the main deck, leaning against the rail andwatching the black rocks, drenched with yellow-white foam, speeding by so dangerously near the sides of the vessel.

The wind was blowing quite fresh, but ugly little white caps were beginning to form on the swell. There was a great deal of hissing white water on all sides and Fidelma realised that it portended something more dangerous to the vessel than the taller, black granite outcrops. It indicated submerged rocks which could tear the bottom out of the ship in a second.

Fidelma shivered. The sunshine had taken on something of a brittle cold quality. White clouds, like long pieces of fleece, were stretching over the blue canopy. A curious glare hung on the waters, reflecting with such intensity that Fidelma had to rub her eyes. She could feel the salt deposits from the fine spray irritating them. The wind was dying away. She saw the strength beginning to go out of the sail; it flapped forlornly and almost limply.

Murchad looked up and mouthed something; perhaps it was a curse. She could forgive him for that. Then Gurvan rushed forward and shouted an order. Two men were left at the bow but the others came scurrying amidships and stood ready as if waiting for an order.

The rocks were still gliding by as the momentum of the ship’s motion continued, helped by the tide.

Looking around, Fidelma had a tremendous sense of isolation. Here, in the middle of the sea, with the pounding noise of the waves on the rocks, she felt terribly vulnerable and alone. She had a sense of being chilled, was weighed down by foreboding.

She found herself muttering something.

‘Deus misereatur …’

She surprised herself when she realised that she was reciting one of the Psalms.

‘“God be gracious and bless us,

God make His face shine upon us,

That His way may be known on earth

And His saving power among all the nations.”’

She stood, hands white on the ship’s rail, as the bowsprit plunged into the spray and rose again, like a horse, bowing and throwing its head back, eager to be into the race. Fidelma could hear a creaking sound; startled, she looked up to see the main mast bending at the top like a whip; the yards were groaning as the winds threatened to burst the straining sails asunder. Murchad was standing feet apart,both hands holding the steering oar, his face an expressionless mask as he concentrated on his task.

Fidelma realised that if anyone fell into that turbulent water they would not last five seconds. There would be no hope. They all had to trust to Murchad’s seamanship. Fidelma was someone who felt unhappy unless she had some degree of control over events. Here she could do nothing and it frustrated her.

Murchad remained impassive, hair streaming in the wind, eyes screwed tight. His only orders were to his companion as they both held tightly to the steering oar.

Now they were entering a narrow passage between what looked like a great island of rock to the starboard side and a scattering of hidden rocks and reefs to the portside. The water was frothing and roaring around them and the ship seemed to be moving uncontrollably with the flood of waters that propelled it towards its doom. Fidelma prayed that Murchad and his companion had an iron grip on the steering oar.

The wind was literally screaming through the spars and cordage of the rigging, and the vessel seemed totally out of control as it swung and bounced perilously close to the jagged granite teeth that rose around them. Yet Murchad and his companion held on.

There was cry from the bows, taken up by two or three of the crew. Fidelma went to the rails and strained forward to see what was amiss.

They seemed to be heading for a great black rock, standing immediately in their path, rising among the streams of yellow-white froth which poured down the sides as the seas broke over it. Great waves thundered as they burst over what must be a line of hidden reefs. It was like a boiling cauldron. For a moment, Fidelma closed her eyes as she imagined the ship being torn to pieces in that maelstrom. She was almost jerked off her feet as the deck tilted. She thought they had impacted on the rocks. She felt an arm round her and Gurvan’s voice hissed: ‘Do not let go of the rail!’

As she opened her eyes, she saw the rocks dashing by along the side of the ship in the hollow of the waves. She could have reached forward and touched them. The tall black rock swept past and then, with an abruptness which she found astonishing, they seemed to have entered calm waters.

There was a triumphant cry from those at the bow.