Peter Tremayne - Act of Mercy

She went on board to say her farewells, especially to Mouse Lord with a gift of fish bought on the quay. The cat was limping slightly but recovering well from the knife-wound. He let her stroke him and purred for a few moments before turning his attention to more important matters, such as the fish she had laid down on the deck before him.

On the now familiar stern deck she had a final word with Murchad.

‘When do you set off to the Holy Shrine, lady? There have been several bands of pilgrims passing that way already since we docked. I would have thought that you would have gone by now.’

Fidelma was not worried about finding a suitable group to accompany.

‘There is an old proverb, Murchad. Choose your company before you sit down. I would not have chosen the travellers you had to transport as companions, had I known what was going to happen.’

Murchad chuckled broadly but he was still worried for her.

‘Do you intend to travel alone? I have a saying for you: is it not said that a healthy sheep will not spurn a scabby flock for company?’

Fidelma allowed one of her mischievous grins to mould her features.

‘I think you have reversed it, Murchad. The proverb is: there never was a scabby sheep which did not like to have the flock for company. But I thank you for the thought. No, I shall wait here for a few days, for there are many sheep coming through this port. I shall see if there is a flock that appeals to me. I might, as you say, even go on the journey alone.’

‘Is that wise, lady?’

‘They tell me that the bandits on the road between here and the Shrine are not many. I am sure the dangers of the road will be fewer than those I encountered on The Barnacle Goose. ’

Murchad shook his head.

‘I still do not see how you finally realised that it was Sister Gorman who was the guilty one. Nor what my wife Aoife had to do with it.’

‘It was not your wife — I told you. It was the name Aoife and the story of Lir. Aoife who was the second of the three daughters of the King of Aran, in the story of the Children of Lir. Aoife was beautiful but Lir, the ocean god, married her young sister, Albha. Albha died and Lir then married her eldest sister Niamh. Niamh also died and finally Lir married Aoife.’

‘I vaguely remember the story,’ Murchad said, but without conviction.

‘Well, you will then remember that Aoife became jealous of those who were close to Lir, even though Lir did love her. It grew into such an obsession that she became full of bitterness and brooding evil and set out to destroy everything that loved Lir so that she could have him for herself. The barb of unreasonable jealousy lodged in her heart and she had to destroy. “Jealousy as cruel as the grave”, as Muirgel put it.’

‘I can see how that fits with Gorman but how …?’

‘I was curious that Gorman seemed so interested in how long I had known Cian, almost as soon as I stepped on the ship. Then Crella told me that Cian had slept with Gorman when I questioned her on the second day out. I dismissed these things from my mind. But a good dalaigh must be possessed of a retentive memory. I stored the facts. It was when I kept hearing those Biblical quotations about lust and jealousy that I started to realise that the answer must lie in that direction. Yet only when you mentioned the name of your wife, Aoife, and I thought of the jealousy of the character, did I realise what I should be looking for. An unreasoning, insane jealousy.

‘Cian slept with her one night and, in his arrogance, did not evenremember it until the last moment. Like Aoife, the wife of Lir, Gorman was unbalanced. That fact, her undisguised hatred, was so obvious that I had initially discounted her as a suspect.’

‘It was a pity that Sister Gorman escaped justice, then,’ reflected Murchad.

Fidelma considered the comment before replying.

‘Not so. She was demented. Taken by an illness that is just as debilitating as any other fever. I believe I can understand the depths of jealousy that are aroused in a woman if she feels that she has been betrayed by a man she has come to believe loves her.’

Fidelma flushed a little as she said it, remembering her own feelings.

‘Yet she killed. Should she not be punished?’

‘Ah, punishment. I fear that there is a new morality coming into our culture, Murchad. It’s the one thing that worries me about the Faith. The Penitentials of the Church are preaching punishment instead of compensation and rehabilitation as our native law states.’

‘Yet it is the teaching of the Faith.’ Murchad was bewildered. ‘How can you be a Sister of the Faith and not accept that teaching?’

‘Because it is a teaching of vengeance and not an act of justice. Our laws call for justice, not revenge. Juvenal said that vengeance is merely a joy to narrow, sick and petty minds. Blood cannot be washed out by blood. We must seek compensation for the victims and rehabilitation of the wrong-doer. Unless we do so we may enter into a continuing cycle of vengeance for vengeance and blood will continually flow. Those who make their laws a curse shall surely suffer from those same laws.’

‘Would you have preferred, then, to have the girl escape?’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘She would never have been able to escape from herself. Her mind was too far twisted by her madness so that I think, in this instance, she suffered an act of mercy.’

Gurvan came up and looked apologetically at them.

‘Tide’s on the turn, Captain,’ he told Murchad.

Murchad acknowledged him.

‘We must sail, lady,’ he said respectfully.

‘I hope your return to Ardmore will not be so adventurous as the journey here has been.’

‘I would not have become a sailor had I been afraid of storms and pirates,’ grinned Murchad. ‘However, it is not often that I have experienced murder on board ship. Will you be long in this land,Sister? Maybe, on your return, you will come back on my ship? I am frequently coming to and fro to this port.’

‘It would be a pleasure. Yet I am not sure what my fate will be. Perhaps our paths will cross again. If not, may Christ sail with you. And look after that boy, Wenbrit. He may yet grow to be a fine captain of his own vessel one day.’

She went down to the main deck and bade farewell to Gurvan, Wenbrit, Drogan and the others members of the crew before climbing down onto the quay. Murchad raised his hand in salute.

She watched as the gangplank was hauled back onto the quay and the ropes were untied to allow The Barnacle Goose to ease away. She waved energetically at them all, and was then overcome with homesickness so that she began to walk slowly back to the tavern where she was staying. In spite of her sadness, she also felt relief. She had set out on this pilgrimage with two major intentions and she realised that she had resolved one of them. There was no longer any conflict between her place as a religieuse and her role as a dalaigh. Her passion for law left her with no other choice: she would always put law before any contemplative life. By the time she had reached the tavern, the sail of The Barnacle Goose had been set and she was drifting out of the harbour.

Fidelma sat down on a wooden bench under the shade of a vine tree and stared out thoughtfully across the blue waters of the bay, watching the disappearing vessel.

The tavern-owner came out to her, bearing a glass filled with a drink made from freshly squeezed lemon and cold water which, in the short time she had been there, Fidelma had learnt was the best way to quench her thirst and stay cool in the heat. Then, to her surprise, he handed her a piece of folded vellum. She could not quite understand what he said but he pointed to a sleek-looking vessel which had only entered the harbour within the last hour.