Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

‘And Muirgel was jealous?’

‘What does anyone feel when they have been rejected?’

Fidelma found herself blushing. She wondered if Bairne knew about her past but the young man was staring at the drink on the table.

‘When was the last time you saw Muirgel?’

‘Saw her? Last evening, I suppose. I spoke to her through her cabin door just before midnight.’

‘Through the door? What do you mean exactly?’

‘She did not open it when I knocked. I asked if she was better and whether I could fetch her anything. She called through the door that all she wanted was to be left alone. Then I went to bed.’

‘Did you get up during the night?’

He shook his head.

‘When did you get up then?’

‘It was just about dawn, I think. I needed to find the defectora.’ He used the Latin term out of politeness rather than the colloquial one.

‘Ah yes. I am told you did not use the defectora by the stern cabins but apparently made your way to the one in the bow of the ship. That was a long way to go. Why was that?’

Brother Bairne looked at her in surprise.

‘I suppose that I had forgotten about the defectora at the stern. I am not sure.’

‘And when you returned, was anyone about?’

‘I saw that bastard Cian at the door of Muirgel’s cabin. He said something about checking that everyone was all right after the storm. I waited, for I wondered if he was trying to get back with Muirgel. But a few seconds later he re-emerged and said he could not find her.’

‘And then you learnt that there was no sign of her on board?’

Brother Bairne leant across the table and stared at her closely.

‘If you want to know the truth, Sister, then I’ll tell you. I don’t believe that Muirgel fell overboard. I believe that she was pushed. And I’ll tell you who did it.’

He paused dramatically so that she finally had to prompt him: ‘Who did it?’

‘Sister Crella.’

Fidelma tried to make her face inscrutable.

‘You have told me who; now tell me why.’

‘Jealousy!’

Fidelma examined Bairne’s intent expression cautiously.

‘What would she be jealous of?’

‘Of Muirgel, of course! Ask her. It’s all to do with that self-opinionated bast-’

Fidelma interrupted: ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘That one-armed bastard, Cian. He is at the root of all this! Mark my words!’

Fidelma awoke early. It was still dark when she swung from the warmth of her bunk and heard the angry hiss of protest from Mouse Lord as he uncurled himself from the bottom of the bed, disturbed by her sudden movement.

She washed swiftly and dressed, wishing that she was able to have a more thorough bath for she felt sweaty and uncomfortable. She put on her heavy cloak and went out on deck.

A faint line of light along the eastern horizon showed that it was close to dawn. There was a strange eerie silence on the ship, and yet she could see the dark figures of men standing here and there, as if waiting for something. Like her, they were waiting for dawn.

Fidelma made her way cautiously aft and, as she had expected, she found Murchad and Gurvan standing together on deck. Two other shadowy figures stood ready by the steering oar. The only sound was the wind in the rigging and the soft movement of the leather sails.

Darkness had fallen the previous evening with the Saxon ship stillclawing into the wind behind them. As soon as it was dark, Murchad ordered that no light was to be shown to give away their position. He tacked north for another hour before turning and running before the wind at an angle which would take them south-west away from the last known position of the Saxon ship.

With the coming of the dawn, it was time to see whether the ruse had worked.

It was cold in the grey dawn and the winds were not strong. The weather was certainly clearing and the thin strip of grey light was even now broadening.

No one had exchanged a greeting. All were standing as still as statues watching the eastern sky.

‘Red,’ muttered Gurvan, breaking the silence.

Nothing else was said. Everyone knew what he meant. A red sky in the morning foretold bad weather ahead. However, there was a more important consideration now that the daylight was spreading across the waters. Everyone was peering into the vanishing half-light as it grew brighter.

‘Masthead there! Hoel! What do you see?’

There was a pause. Then a faint cry came back.

‘The horizon’s clear. Not a sail in sight.’

Murchad was the first to visibly relax.

‘No sign,’ he muttered. ‘No sail nor even a spar.’

‘I think it worked, Captain,’ Gurvan agreed.

Murchad clapped his hands together in glee. His smile was one of sheer pleasure.

‘Give me a sail against oars any day,’ he grinned. ‘Ah, there it is …’ He held his head to one side and nodded in satisfaction.

Fidelma wondered what he meant.

‘The dawn breeze … yes, the wind’s veering. We’ll be at Ushant later today. Maybe by midday, and if the wind increases,’ he turned his head towards the dissipating red sky, ‘we can shelter there if the weather gets really bad. I don’t want to run across the Biscain sea in bad weather, if I can help it.’

Murchad appeared to be back to his jovial mood now that the evasion of the Saxon sea raiders had proved successful.

‘Keep her on course, Gurvan. I shall be at breakfast. Sister Fidelma, will you join me in my cabin for the meal?’

Fidelma acknowledged the unusual invitation and Murchad called for Wenbrit to bring food to his cabin for the two of them.

It was much more comfortable to breakfast with Murchad than with her fellow pilgrims, Fidelma decided, especially after the tensions ofthe last twenty-four hours. It was Murchad who came to the point that had been uppermost in both their minds.

‘Well, what information have you gathered about the death of this woman — Muirgel?’

Fidelma lowered herself into one of the two chairs squeezed each side of a small wooden table in Murchad’s cabin. The captain took a bottle from a cupboard and two clay cups.

‘ Corma ,’ he announced, as he poured the liquid. ‘It will keep out the morning chill.’

Ordinarily, the idea of drinking such strong spirits just after dawn would have seemed repulsive to Fidelma. But the day was chill and she was cold. She took the cup and sipped at the fiery liquid, letting it trickle over her tongue and then spreading it across her lips with the tip of her tongue. She coughed slightly.

‘I have spoken to all those in her party, Murchad,’ she replied. ‘I have told no one that we suspect that she was not simply swept overboard. It is of interest, however, that at least two of the party suspect that she was murdered.’

‘And?’ prompted Murchad with interest.

‘There are no easy answers to the matter …’

There was a knock on the cabin door and Wenbrit entered carrying a tray of cooked meet, cheeses and fruit, together with hard-baked bread.

Wenbrit grinned at Fidelma.

‘Brother Cian has been asking where you were. I said you were breakfasting with the captain. He looked very resentful.’

Fidelma did not bother to reply. It was of no concern to her that Cian was asking after her.

‘Have you told them that we have eluded the sea raider, boy?’ asked Murchad.

Wenbrit made an affirmative nod.

‘Few of them seemed interested,’ he replied. ‘They would soon have been interested had the Saxons caught up with us, that’s for sure.’

He turned to the door and then hesitated.

‘There is something you wish to say?’ grunted Murchad. He was obviously sensitive to the boy’s actions.