Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

‘Let God help us,’ whispered Fidelma to herself.

The Barnacle Goose was bouncing down so that the horizon moved violently and she kept losing sight of the sail of the pursuing vessel.

The ship plunged and bucked at an alarming speed. Gurvan and Drogan had thrown their full weight on the steering oar and now called for assistance from another of the crew as the pressure grew too much for them to handle by themselves.

With Murchad frantically signalling from the bow, The Barnacle Goose made a dizzy ride through the foam-swept rocks and islets until it seemed to be tossed out into calmer waters. Almost before they had settled, Murchad was running back towards the stern deck, his face filled with anxiety.

‘Where are they?’ he grunted.

‘I lost sight of them,’ Fidelma called. ‘They were following us through the rocky passage.’

Murchad squinted back in the direction in which they had come, back towards the rocky coastline which, at this distance, seemed covered in a faint mist.

‘Sea spray from the rocks,’ he explained without being asked. ‘It makes it difficult to see.’

He looked towards the black jagged teeth which protruded through the white foam.

Fidelma shivered a little, not for the first time. It did not seem possible that they had come out safely from that dangerous maw.

‘There!’ Murchad cried suddenly. ‘I see them!’

Fidelma strained forward but could see nothing.

There was a pause for a moment or two and then Murchad sighed.

‘I thought I saw their top mast for a moment, but it is gone.’

‘We have a good head start on them, Captain,’ Gurvan cried.

‘They’ll have to do some fast sailing to keep up with us.’

Murchad turned and slowly shook his head.

‘I don’t think we will need to worry about them, my friend,’ he said quietly.

Fidelma glanced back to the fast-vanishing coastline of the island. There was no sign of any pursuing ship.

‘Do you think that they’ve struck the rocks?’ she ventured to ask.

‘Had they come through the passage, we would see them by now,’ replied Murchad heavily. ‘It was us or them, lady. Thank God it was them. They’ve gone to their pagan hall of heroes.’

‘It is a terrible death,’ Fidelma said soberly.

‘Dead men don’t bite,’ was Murchad’s only comment.

Fidelma muttered a quick prayer for the dead. She was thinking that it was a Saxon ship, whether pagan or not, and she was remembering Brother Eadulf.

‘It is a very calm morning, Murchad.’

The captain nodded but he was not pleased. They were two days out from Ushant. He indicated the limp sail.

‘Too calm,’ he complained. ‘There is hardly any wind. We are making no headway at all.’

Fidelma gazed out across the flat surface of the sea. She, too, was making no headway. Having escaped from their pursuers, they had paused to commit Toca Nia’s body to a watery burial. It was Brother Dathal who said that the voyage was turning into a voyage of death, as if the ship was that of Donn, the ancient Irish god of the dead, who gathered the lost souls on his ship of the dead and transported them to the Otherworld. Dathal’s comparison brought swift criticism from Brother Tola and Sister Ainder, but nevertheless produced a feeling of gloom among the remaining pilgrims.

Time and again, Fidelma turned the facts over in her mind, trying to find one tiny thread which might lead her to solving the problem. As for the murder of Toca Nia, Cian swore that he had left the ship just after midnight when the last of the passengers and crew had returned from the island. Gurvan clinched the matter by maintaining that he had looked in on Toca Nia well after that and found him peacefully asleep. If Cian was telling the truth about the time he had left the ship, then he was innocent.

Fidelma looked up at the limp sails and made a decision.

‘Perhaps we can put this weather to good use,’ she said briskly.

‘How so?’ enquired Murchad.

‘It has been a couple of days since I bathed. I had no time on Ushant and I feel dirty. In this calm sea I can take a swim and at least get the grime from my body.’

Murchad looked uncomfortable.

‘We sailors are used to roughing it, lady. But we have no facilities for a woman to go bathing.’

Fidelma threw back her head and laughed.

‘Fear not, Murchad, I shall not offend your male sensibilities. I shall wear a shift.’

‘It is too dangerous,’ he protested with a shake of his head.

‘How so? If you sailors swim to keep clean in such calm weather, why not I?’

‘My sailors know the vagaries of the sea. They are strong swimmers. What if a wind springs up? The ship can move a fair distance before you could swim back to it. You saw how quickly poor Brother Guss was left behind.’

‘That danger must be so, whether one is a sailor or a passenger,’ countered Fidelma. ‘What do your men do?’

‘They swim with a rope tied around them.’

‘Then that is what I shall do.’

‘But …’

Murchad caught her eye and saw the stubbornness in it. He gave a deep sigh.

‘Very well.’ He called to his mate. ‘Gurvan!’

The Breton came forward.

‘Fidelma is going to take advantage of the calm weather to take a swim near the ship. Make sure a rope is tied around her waist and fastened to the rail of the ship.’

Gurvan raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to protest but then decided to remain silent.

‘What point do you wish to swim from, lady?’ he asked with resignation.

Fidelma smiled: ‘Which is the leeward side? Isn’t that what you call the sheltered side of the vessel?’

Gurvan’s facial muscles twitched and for a moment Fidelma thought he was going to return her smile.

‘That is so, lady,’ he replied gravely. He indicated the starboard side of the vessel. ‘You will find the waters sheltered there, although there is no wind blowing at present. However, I expect when the wind does come, it will come upon the port side of the vessel.’

‘Are you a prophet, Gurvan?’

The Breton shook his head. ‘See those clouds to the north-east? They’ll bring along a wind soon, so do not delay too long in the water.’

Fidelma stepped to the railing and looked down on the waves. They seemed tranquil enough.

She started to take off her robe, but paused at the sight of Gurvan’s anguished features.

‘Have no fear, Gurvan,’ she said merrily. ‘I shall be keeping my undergarments on.’

Gurvan seemed to be flushing in spite of his dark-skinned complexion.

‘Is it not considered a sin among the religieux to strip oneself in front of others?’

Fidelma grimaced cynically and quoted: ‘“But the Lord God called the man and said to him, ‘Where are you?’ He replied, ‘I heard the sound as you were walking in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, and I hid myself.’ God answered, ‘Who told you that you were naked?’” I believe that what God was saying is that the sin is in the mind of the beholder, not in his eye.’

Gurvan looked uncomfortable.

‘Anyway, as I said, I shall not be naked. Now, let me have my swim before this wind comes upon us.’

And without more ado, Fidelma took off her robe. She always wore undergarments of srol — silks and satins imported from Gaul merchants. It was a habit that she had grown accustomed to as a member of the royal house of Cashel — the only luxury clothing Fidelma indulged in, for nothing was so pleasant than the texture of the foreign material next to her skin. Those of wealth and rank could, of course, luxuriate in buying fine materials. Others, she knew, used wool and linen undergarments.