Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

‘How long do we have before it strikes?’ she asked.

‘It will be with us by midnight,’ replied Murchad.

At that moment Fidelma noticed the ship was positively cleaving the waters, sending a white froth washing by on both sides of the vessel. Everything looked so calm and peaceful.

By midnight, Fidelma could not believe the sudden change of weather. Heavy seas were running now and the wind was changing direction so often that it made her dizzy. Fidelma had been sitting on deck, her mind going over all the facts and incidents, analysing and sorting them in her own mind. She stood up, feeling the deck beginning to pitch under her. Gurvan was busy supervising some of the sailors fastening the rigging.

He came across to her.

‘The safest place will be in your cabin, lady, and don’t forget to-’

‘Stow all loose objects,’ ended Fidelma solemnly, having learnt the lesson during the previous bad weather.

‘You’ll become a sailor yet, lady,’ Gurvan smiled approvingly.

‘Is it going to be as bad as last time?’ she asked.

Gurvan replied with a non-committal gesture.

‘It doesn’t look too good. We are having to beat against the wind.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to return and go with the wind, even if that blows us back on our course?’

Gurvan shook his head.

‘In this sea, to head to the wind would have those heavy seas pouring over us the whole time. We might even be driven under the waves by the force.’

As if to emphasise his words, the spray was beginning to fly over the deck and Fidelma could see the waters around them start to boil. In fact, the wind had increased so severely that the mast, thick and strong as it was, began to groan and bend a little. To Fidelma, it looked as if the wind was threatening to tear the mast itself from its well. The leather sail was thrashing about and appeared to be in danger of splitting.

‘Best get inside now!’ urged Gurvan.

Fidelma acknowledged his advice and, head down, she moved cautiously along the main deck to her cabin.

There was nothing to do but ensure everything movable was stowed away again and then sit on her bunk and wait out the storm. But the storm did not abate quickly. The hours gradually wore on and there was certainly little doubt in Fidelma’s mind that the weather, if anything, was worsening.

At some point she hauled herself from the bunk and went to the window. She peered along the deck but could see nothing. It was black as pitch and the rain — or was it sea spray? — was pouring down in sheets across the ship. It was almost as if The Barnacle Goose was totally underwater. As she stared out, the wind sucked the sea from the wave-tops and gathered them to sluice the water across the ship; it lashed into her face and eyes, drenching her.

She turned back into her cabin.

Even above the noise of the wind and seas she heard a strange groaning sound. It seemed to be coming from the side planking in her cabin. Without warning, a geyser of seawater shot through the planks, frothing and bubbling.

Fidelma stared at the water and the splintered wood for a moment in horror, then grabbed at the blanket from her bunk and began to stuff it desperately into the crack. She could feel the splintered wood moving underneath her hands. Everything was becoming soaked — her clothes, the straw mattress, the blankets. And the sea was so cold that her teeth began to chatter.

She tried calling but the noise of the wind and sea simply drownedout the sound of her voice. She did not know how long she stayed there, praying that the wood was not going to splinter further. It seemed like hours, and her hands grew numb with the chill.

Eventually she became aware that the cabin door had opened and closed behind her. She glanced across her shoulder and saw the soaked figure of Wenbrit, holding a bucket and something else under his arm, staggering in.

‘Is it bad?’ yelled the boy, putting his mouth close to her ear that he might be heard.

‘Very bad!’ she yelled back.

The boy put down his bucket and the other objects he was carrying. Then he removed the blanket to inspect the damage.

‘The sea has splintered the planking of the hull,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll try to strengthen and caulk it as much as I can. It should hold for a while.’

He had some pieces of wood under his arm and proceeded to hammer these over the damaged area. Then he plastered it with the soaked hazel leaves. The gush of the seawater died away to a tiny trickle.

‘That will have to do until the storm passes!’ Wenbrit had to shout again to make himself heard. ‘I’m afraid we will all be wet until then. The sea keeps breaking over the ship and everyone is soaked.’

An hour after he had left, Fidelma gave in to her exhaustion and tried to doze on the sodden straw. Dimly aware of a loud ‘Miaow!’ she realised that Mouse Lord had been crouching, terrified, under the bunk all this time. Sleepily muttering encouragement, she felt the cat spring up onto the bunk beside her. His warm body curled up on her chest with a deep, contented purring sound. The cat was cosy and comforting on her saturated clothing and she eventually fell into fitful doze.

The pain was sharp.

The tiny needles in her chest were excruciating. Then there was the most appalling cry, almost human, a cry that Fidelma associated with the wail of the bean sidhe , the woman of the fairies, who shrills and moans when a death is imminent. It took a moment for Fidelma to realise that Mouse Lord was standing arched on her chest, fur standing straight out, claws digging deep in her flesh. He was emitting a piercing wail. Then he leapt from the bunk.

Adrenalin caused Fidelma to swing quickly from the bunk, gasping in agony.

She became aware of a figure at the door — a slight figure, framed for only a moment. Then the cabin door slammed shut. The shiplurched, sending Fidelma off-balance. She scrambled to her knees. A dark shadow, she presumed it was the cat, streaked under the bunk. She could hear his terrible wail. Then she grabbed for the door and swung it open.

There was no one there. The figure had gone. Holding on with one hand, she closed the door and looked around, wondering what had happened.

The cat had stopped its fearful cry. It was too dark to see anything, although she had a feeling that dawn was not far away. The ship was still pitching and bucking. She staggered back to the bunk and sat down.

‘Mouse Lord?’ she called coaxingly. ‘What is it?’

There was no response from the cat. She knew he was there because she heard his movements and his breath coming in a strange rasping sound. She realised that she would have to wait for daylight to find out what was wrong with him. She sat on the bunk, unable to sleep, watching the skies lighten but without the wind abating. When she finally judged it light enough, she went down on her knees and peered under the bunk.

Mouse Lord spat at her and struck out with a paw, talons extended. He had never behaved in such a manner to her before.

She heard a movement at the door and swung round. Wenbrit entered carrying something covered in a small leather bucket.

‘I’ve brought some corma and some biscuit, lady,’ he said, not sure what she was doing on her knees. ‘There’ll be no meal today. It’s the best I can do. This storm will not blow itself out before this evening.’

‘Something is wrong with Mouse Lord,’ Fidelma explained. ‘He won’t let me near him.’

Wenbrit put his bucket down and knelt alongside her. Then, glancing at her robe, he frowned and pointed to it.

‘You seem to have some blood on your robe, lady.’

Fidelma raised a hand and felt the sticky substance on her chest.

‘I can’t see any scratches,’ Wenbrit observed. ‘If Mouse Lord has scratched you …’