Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

It was then she realised that the waves were not so gentle as they had been. They were becoming much more choppy and she heard a distant crack. She opened her eyes and blinked. The great sail of The Barnacle Goose was beginning to billow out. The promised wind was rising and the ship was beginning to move. She turned over and began to take a few strokes.

The realisation hit her like a cold shock.

The rope attached around her waist was not taut. It was floating, that part of it which was not soaked by the sea and therefore made heavier. The rope was no longer attached to the ship’s rail.

She gave a cry for help.

She could see no sign of Gurvan or anyone else at the ship’s rail. The Barnacle Goose was moving away from her with gathering speed.

She began to swim for dear life now, but the waves were rising and it was becoming difficult to swim at speed. She knew, even as she began to strike out, that it would be impossible for her to reach the side of the ship before it vanished, leaving her alone in the middle of the ocean.

The sibilant sounds of the sea, the soft whistling of the wind over the frothing waves, which from her viewpoint seemed to be gigantic, vicious and powerful, drowned out all other sounds. She thought that she heard distant shouting but, head down, she was striking out for all she was worth. Then someone was in the water beside her.

She looked up, startled. It was Gurvan.

‘Grab hold of me!’ he shouted, his voice almost drowned out as the waves washed over him. ‘Quickly!’

Fidelma did not argue. She grasped him by the shoulders.

‘For the love of Christ, do not let go!’ yelled Gurvan.

He turned and now Fidelma saw that he had a rope attached to him which was beginning to pull them both along at speed. Dark figures on the side of the ship were struggling to haul on the rope and she realised that slowly, agonisingly slowly, they were being pulled up the side of the ship by the sheer muscle of the crewmen hauling on the rope.

An awful thought came to her mind. Dangling helplessly as they were by the side of the speeding vessel, if the men above let go of the rope, the momentum would pull them both under the ship itself. Their death would be certain.

Then they were being lifted clear of the water.

‘Keep a tight grip,’ yelled Gurvan.

Fidelma did not reply. Her hands automatically tightened on the mate’s clothing.

Moments later they were pulled upward with the sea almost reluctant to let them go, the white-capped waves catching at them like faltering fingers, enticing them backwards into the dark maw of the waters.

Fidelma closed her eyes, hoping the rope would not break. Then hands were grabbing at her wrists and arms. They heaved her up over the rails and she collapsed on the deck, gasping and shivering. Young Wenbrit hurried over and threw her robe around her shoulders. His facewas concerned. She glanced up and tried to smile at him in gratitude, unable to speak for lack of breath.

It took some time before she could rise unsteadily to her feet. Wenbrit caught her arm to prevent her from falling. She realised that Gurvan was now on board leaning against the rail and also trying to catch his breath. Had he been a moment or two later in his rescue bid, there would have been no hope. The ship was fairly cutting through the waves now. The sail was straining against the yard as the wind came up. She held out her hand to Gurvan in silent thanks. She could not trust herself to speak for a moment or two and then she said: ‘You saved my life, Gurvan.’

The mate shrugged. His features mirrored his concern. He, too, finally found voice.

‘I should have been more vigilant when you were in the water, lady.’

Murchad came hurrying along the deck to them, glad to see that Fidelma was not injured.

‘I did warn you, lady, that it was dangerous to bathe in this manner,’ he said sternly.

‘Look.’ Gurvan stood aside and pointed at the rail. ‘Look, Captain, the rope has been cut.’

The rope’s end was still tied there, but only a short length of rope was attached to it.

Fidelma tried to see what Gurvan was pointing at.

‘Is it frayed?’ she asked. But she realised it was a silly question for now she could see that the rope was cut, the strands sliced through as though by a sharp knife.

‘Someone tried to kill you, lady,’ Gurvan told her quietly. There had been no need for him to make the point. It was all too plain.

‘After I went into the sea,’ she said to Gurvan, ‘how long were you standing by the rope?’

Gurvan considered the question.

‘I waited until I saw that you were swimming comfortably. You waved to me and I acknowledged. Then Brother Tola distracted me. He asked me who was swimming and he started to ask me about the dangers of the water.’

‘Did you move away from this spot for any amount of time?’

‘For no more than a few minutes. I turned astern to speak with the captain.’

‘Was no one else on the deck then?’

‘A few of the crew.’

‘I don’t mean crew. I mean passengers.’

‘There was the young religieuse, Sister Gorman, and there was Sister Crella together with the man with the useless arm, Brother Cian. Also the taciturn one — Brother Bairne.’

Fidelma glanced around and saw that most of them were gathered some distance away watching her uncomfortably. All had been spectators of the rescue.

‘Was any one of them close to the rope?’

‘I am not sure. Any one of them could have been. I came back as soon as I felt the wind coming up. Then I saw that the rope had been cut. I called to a couple of crew; we seized another rope and the rest you know.’

Fidelma stood in silent thought.

‘Lady.’ It was young Wenbrit. ‘It is best for you to get out of those wet things.’

Fidelma smiled down at him. She realised that the sodden silk was clinging to her body like a second skin. She pulled her robe more closely around her shoulders.

‘A drink of corma will not go amiss, Wenbrit,’ she hinted. ‘I’ll be in my cabin.’

She hurried across the deck as crew and passengers broke into groups, talking with one another in passionate but quiet voices.

It was half an hour before Fidelma, warmed inside by the fiery spirits of the corma as well as outside by a vigorous rub and some dry clothes, came aft to join Murchad in his cabin. The captain was still looking disturbed by the event, realising just how close the sister of his King, Colgu of Cashel, had come to her death.

‘Are you all right now, lady?’ he greeted her as she entered the cabin.

‘I am feeling like a fool, that is all, Murchad. I forgot that a person who kills can sometimes acquire a taste for killing.’

Murchad was startled.

‘Are you saying that we have a homicidal maniac on board?’

‘To actually set out to kill someone is always the sign of a disturbed mind, Murchad.’

‘Do you still suspect Brother Cian? After all, no one else could gain by the killing of Toca Nia. Therefore, he must have killed Sister Muirgel and then attempted to silence you.’

Fidelma gestured negatively as she sat down facing him.

‘I do not think the logic follows. It might be that the person who killed Toca Nia is not the same person who killed Muirgel. There is also the murder of Sister Canair to bear in mind, but to which we only have the word of Brother Guss. I am afraid that now Guss is dead, hisword as sole witness is worthless. The same criterion which prevents the arrest and prosecution of Cian applies to the matter of Canair … where is the witness? However, the law aside, I am prepared to believe that Guss was speaking the truth.’

‘Do you mean that you believe that Sister Crella is the guilty party?’