Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

‘Montroulez is a small mainland princedom on the north coast of Little Britain.’

‘What was your captain thinking of, by steering his ship in such dangerous waters?’ was Murchad’s next question.

The former warrior shrugged.

‘The captain died two days ago. That is why the ship came south to Ushant instead of sailing directly north for Laigin. The mate took over and, I fear, he was not a competent seaman nor could he handle some of the crew who refused to obey his orders. He was too fond of cider.’

‘Are you saying that the crew were in mutiny?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Something like that, lady.’

‘Were either of the survivors involved?’ demanded Murchad. ‘I don’t want mutineers on my ship.’

‘I could not say. There was a lot of chaos after the captain died.’

‘What did he die of? Was he killed in the mutiny?’

‘He simply dropped dead at the wheel. His heart stopped beating. I have seen a few such deaths, inexplicable deaths before and even after a battle. Death not from wounds but because the heart stopped beating.’

‘And the captain was the only competent sailor?’ pressed Murchad.

‘That is strange.’

‘Strange or not, you saw the result. Thankfully you were there to see it or else I would not be alive. Captain, I need a passage to Laigin.’

Murchad shook his head.

‘We are on a pilgrim voyage to the Holy Shrine of St James. I doubt that we will see Ardmore again for a full three weeks or more. But we are putting in to Ushant. You will soon pick up a ship sailing home from there.’

The former warrior smiled ruefully.

‘I’ll have to sell a few of these baubles.’ He indicated his bejewelled hand. ‘A year’s earnings have sunk to the bottom of the sea there.’ He jerked his hand back towards the rocks. ‘I own only what you see. Ah well, perhaps I can persuade a ship to take me on as crew.’

Murchad examined him doubtfully.

‘Do you have experience as a sailor?’

The man laughed uproariously.

‘By the gods of battle, not at all. I am a good warrior. I know battle strategy and the art of weaponry. I love horses and have an ability to train them. I know three languages. I can read and write and even cut some Ogham. But as for sailing a ship, no experience at all.’

Murchad pursed his lips.

‘Well, it will be up to you to find a passage at Ushant. You will excuse me?’ He turned back to his duties.

Wenbrit had come up with the spirits and handed the cup to the warrior.

‘You should change out of those wet clothes,’ he advised. ‘I think I can find some spare garments that will fit you.’

‘Good for you, youngster …’ The man paused in mid-sentence.

Fidelma noticed that the former warrior had frozen, the cup of spirits halfway to his mouth. His mouth was open as if to swallow the liquid, but his eyes were wide and staring. An expression of disbelief crossed his features; a nerve began to twitch in the side of his face.

Fidelma turned to see what had caused his abrupt change of attitude.

On to the deck had come Cian, looking around as if to see what had taken place since the pilgrims had been sent below by Murchad. He saw Fidelma and started to come towards them.

A curious animal sound came from the back of Toca Nia’s throat. The cup dropped from his hands, spilling its contents onto the deck.

Before Fidelma realised what he was going to do, the man launched himself across the deck towards an astonished Cian.

‘Bastard! Murderer!’

The two words cracked twice like a whip into the air.

Almost at the same time, he reached Brother Cian and his fist impacted straight into the dumbfounded man’s face. For a moment, Cian stood there, his nose a red, bloody pulp; his eyes wide with incredulity above it. Then he fell backwards, slowly, as if his fall was in defiance of gravity.

Fidelma was rooted to the spot in stupefaction. It was Wenbrit who reacted first, giving a cry of alarm. Two of Murchad’s crew managed to reached Toca Nia as he was raising his foot to stamp on Cian’s unprotected head while he lay on the deck. The sailors dragged him, struggling, away from Cian’s prone form. Murchad came running back across the deck.

‘What the devil …?’ he began.

‘Devil is right!’ snarled Toca Nia, wrestling in the grip of the sailors, his face contorted with hatred.

Fidelma came forward and bent down to the unconscious Cian to check his pulse. She raised her head to Murchad.

‘Would someone mind carrying Brother Cian below to his cabin and attending him? I don’t think the blow is serious, but he is unconscious.’

Murchad signalled to two crewmen and without a word, they lifted Cian’s body and carried it below deck.

Fidelma had risen and faced Toca Nia. He stood still in the firm grip of the sailors. She folded her arms and regarded his agitated features with a frown.

‘What does this mean?’ she demanded.

Toca Nia did not reply.

‘You have been asked for an explanation, my friend,’ Murchad said. ‘I did not pluck you from the sea to watch you murder one of my passengers; a holy Brother on a pilgrimage, at that. What possessed you?’

Toca Nia gazed at the stern features of Murchad and then turned to address Fidelma.

‘He is no holy Brother!’

‘Explain yourself,’ insisted Murchad. ‘Brother Cian is one of a band of pilgrims taking passage on my ship.’

‘Cian! That certainly is his name: I have cause to remember it. But he is a warrior, like me. One of the warriors of Ailech. He is the “Butcher of Rath Bile”!’

Fidelma stared at Toca Nia, trying to understand his accusation.

‘The “Butcher of Rath Bile”?’ she repeated, bemused.

‘A whole village and fortress destroyed, the buildings burnt, men, women and children annihilated at the orders of Cian of Ailech. One hundred and forty souls, dispatched to heaven by that most monstrous evil …’ Toca Nia’s voice rose in agitation.

Fidelma held up a hand to silence him.

‘Calm yourself, Toca Nia. What makes you certain that Brother Cian was the man responsible for such an outrage?’

The Irishman’s face was a mask of fury and his eyes were blazing in torment.

‘Because my mother, sisters and young brother were butchered there; because I was there and stand as witness.’

Fidelma sat on the bunk in Murchad’s cabin while the captain sprawled in a chair. Toca Nia had been placed in Gurvan’s cabin with Drogon standing guard outside. Fidelma was looking anxious. There seemed an unreality about the new situation.

‘I have never seen such a change in a person’s character before,’ she observed to Murchad. ‘This Toca Nia seemed a pleasant, friendly person at first but the moment he saw Cian he became a raging maniac, totally out of control.’

Murchad shrugged.

‘If his claims are correct, his frenzy is understandable. Surely, as you knew Cian in the past, you must have heard something of the claim Toca Nia is making?’

Fidelma stirred uncomfortably.

‘I knew Cian ten years ago,’ she admitted. ‘He was a warrior in the King of Ailech’s bodyguard. But beyond that I know nothing. I have never heard of this Rath Bile.’

There was a long silence while it seemed that Murchad was trying to dredge up a memory.

‘I recall something of it,’ he said at last.

‘When did it happen?’

‘Several years ago now. Maybe five years ago. Rath Bile is in the country of the Ui Feilmeda, in the Kingdom of Laigin.’

‘That is south of the Abbey Kildare,’ frowned Fidelma. ‘I was some years in the Abbey, but I do not recall hearing the story.’ She considered for a moment. ‘Five years ago? It may well have happened when I was sent to the west for a while. What do you know of this massacre?’