Cian blinked at the cold, measured tone in her voice, starting back a little and then he forced a crooked smile. A bitter expression crossed his features, distorting their handsomeness.
‘I am on a pilgrim ship simply because I am a pilgrim.’
Fidelma eyed him cynically. ‘A warrior of the High King’s bodyguard, a warrior of the Fianna, going on a pilgrimage? That does not seem creditable.’
She did not know whether it was the flickering light but his expression seemed strange.
‘That is because I am a warrior no longer.’
Fidelma was puzzled in spite of her hostile reaction at seeing him again.
‘Are you telling me that you have left the High King’s militia to enter a religious Order? That I cannot believe. You were never comfortable with religion.’
‘So you can foretell the course of my entire life? Am I not allowed to change my opinions?’ There was an abrupt animosity in his voice. She was not perturbed by it. She had faced his temper many times in her youth.
‘I know you too well, Cian. I garnered knowledge the hard way — or don’t you remember? I remember. I could hardly forget.’
She made to turn into the cabin that Wenbrit had designated for her, when Cian took his hand from the doorframe, by which he had been balancing himself, and made to reach out to her. The ship was tugged a little by the waves, causing him to stumble forward. He caught his balance using his hand again.
‘We must talk, Fidelma,’ he said urgently. ‘There should not be enmity between us now.’
Her attention was caught for a moment by the curious note of desperation in his voice. She hesitated, but only for an instant.
‘There will be plenty of time to talk later, Cian. It will be a long voyage … perhaps, now, it may be too long,’ she added with acid in her tone.
She entered the cabin, shutting the door quickly behind her before he could reply. For a moment or two she stood with her back against the door, breathing heavily and wondering why she had broken out into a cold sweat. She would not have suspected that meeting Cianagain after all these years would make her feel such a resurgence of the emotions which she had spent many months suppressing after he had deserted her.
She did not deny that she had become infatuated with Cian after that first meeting at the Festival of Tara. No; if she were really honest now, she would admit that she had fallen in love with him. In spite of his arrogance, his vanity, and pride in his martial prowess, she had fallen in love for the first time in her life. He stood for everything that Fidelma disliked but there was no accounting for the chemistry which they shared. They were opposites in character and, inevitably, like magnets, the unlike had attracted. It was surely a recipe for disaster.
Cian was a youth in pursuit of conquests while Fidelma was a young woman bound up in the concept of romantic love. Within a few weeks he had made her life a turmoil of conflicting emotions. Even Grian recognised that Cian’s pursuit of Fidelma was merely a superficial one. Her friend was young, attractive and, above all, an intelligent woman — and Cian wanted to boast about the conquest. He would not care once the conquest had been made. And Fidelma, intelligent or no, refused to believe that her lover had so base a motive. Her refusal was the cause of many arguments with Grian.
Suddenly, there was a heartrending groan from the gloom of the cabin, causing Fidelma to stiffen and return abruptly to the present, forgetting her tumbling anguished memories. For a second she struggled to recall where she was. She had entered the cabin which Wenbrit had indicated to her; the cabin she was to share. She had entered and stood in the darkness.
The groan was agonised as if someone was in deep pain.
‘What’s wrong?’ Fidelma whispered, trying to focus in the direction of the sound.
There was a fraction of a moment’s silence and then a voice cried peevishly: ‘I am dying!’
Fidelma glanced swiftly round. It was almost pitch black in the cabin.
‘Is there no light in here?’
‘Who needs light when one is dying?’ retorted the other. ‘Who are you, anyway? This is my cabin.’
Fidelma re-opened the door to let in some light from the passageway. Just inside the door, she saw a candle stub, which she took to the flickering lantern outside. Thankfully, Cian had disappeared. It took a few moments to light the candle from the lantern and return.
Now Fidelma could see a woman lying on the bottom of the two bunks in the tiny cabin. Her habit appeared dishevelled, her face wasdeathly pale, though still fairly attractive. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties. By the side of the bunk stood a bucket.
‘Are you seasick?’ She spoke sympathetically, fully aware that she was asking the obvious.
‘I am dying,’ insisted the woman. ‘I wish to die alone. I did not know it would be as bad as this.’
Fidelma glanced round quickly. She saw that her baggage had been placed on the second bunk.
‘I can’t let you do that, Sister. I am sharing your cabin for this voyage. My name’s Fidelma of Cashel,’ she added brightly.
‘You are mistaken. You are not one of my company. I have allotted cabins to each and-’
‘The captain has put me in here,’ Fidelma explained quickly, ‘and now let me help you.’
There was a pause. The young, pale-faced Sister groaned loudly.
‘Then put that light out. I cannot stand a flickering light. After that, go away and tell the captain that I want to be left alone to die in the dark. I demand that you go away!’
Fidelma groaned inwardly. It was all she needed, to be closeted with a moaning hypochondriac.
‘I am sure that you would feel better if you were up on deck rather than in this confined space,’ she replied. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Muirgel.’ The other’s voice was no more than a moan. ‘Sister Muirgel from Moville.’
Fidelma had heard of the Abbey founded by St Finnian a century ago on the shores of Loch Cuan in Ulaidh.
‘Well, Sister Muirgel, let me see what I can do for you,’ Fidelma said determinedly.
‘Just let me die in peace, Sister,’ whimpered the other. ‘Can’t you find some other cabin to be cheerful in?’
‘You need air, fresh sea air,’ Fidelma admonished. ‘The darkness and stuffiness of this cabin will only increase your illness.’
The creature on the bunk retched pitifully and did not reply.
‘I have heard that if you concentrate your gaze on the horizon then the motion sickness will eventually depart,’ volunteered Fidelma.
Sister Muirgel tried to raise her head.
‘Just leave me alone, please,’ she moaned yet again and added spitefully, ‘Go and bother someone else.’
Chapter Four
Fidelma had to admit defeat. It was no use trying to conduct a sensible conversation with the young woman in that condition. She wondered if there was another cabin available. Anywhere would be better than being stuck with someone tormented by largely imaginary fears. Fidelma was sympathetic to anyone who was ill, but not with someone who had the ability to help themselves and chose not to. She decided to find the cabin boy, Wenbrit, and explain the problem.
As she left the cabin, she was surprised to meet Wenbrit himself coming down the stairs. He greeted her with a smile and she noticed that his manner towards her had undergone a slight change. It was less familiar … less impudent than before.
‘Your pardon, lady.’ Fidelma guessed immediately the cause for his changed attitude, and she hid her annoyance that Murchad had revealed her identity. ‘I made a mistake,’ he said politely. ‘You are to have a different cabin as you are not one of the pilgrims from Ulaidh.’
Fidelma knew straight away that it was a lie. Murchad had decided this only after he knew who she was. She did not want any special privileges. However, the indisposition of Sister Muirgel and the stifling atmosphere made the thought of a private cabin appear very attractive. It was coincidental that she was being offered the very thing that
she was going to seek.
‘The Sister with whom I was going to share is rather ill,’ Fidelma conceded. ‘Perhaps it would be nice to have a cabin to oneself.’
Wenbrit was grinning.
‘Seasickness, eh? Well, I suppose the best of people fall prey to it. Yet she looked well enough when she came on board. I would not have thought that she would be the one to fall ill.’
‘I tried to tell her that lying down in an enclosed space without light or ventilation was not going to cure her,’ Fidelma explained, ‘but she would not take advice from me.’
‘Nor me, lady. But sickness takes people different ways.’ Wenbrit aired his philosophy seriously as if it were born of many years’ experience. Then he grinned. ‘Wait here, I’ll get your dunnage.’
‘My what?’ It was the second time she had heard the unfamiliar word.
Wenbrit assumed the expression of one who is teaching a very backward person.
‘Your baggage, lady. Now that you are on shipboard you’ll have to get use to sailor’s jargon.’
‘I see. Dunnage. Very well.’
Wenbrit went to knock on the door of the cabin which Fidelma had just left, and disappeared inside for a few moments, emerging with her bag.
‘Come on, lady, I will show you to your cabin.’
He turned and started back up the companionway to the main deck.
‘Is the cabin not on this deck?’ asked Fidelma as they went up.
‘There is a for’ard deck cabin available. It even has a natural light in it. Murchad thought that it would be more fitting for …’ The boy stopped himself.
‘And what has Murchad been saying?’ she demanded, knowing full well the answer.
The boy looked uncomfortable.
‘I was not supposed to let you know.’
‘Murchad has a big mouth.’
‘The captain only wants you to be comfortable, lady,’ Wenbrit replied, a trifle indignantly.
Fidelma reached out a hand and laid it on the boy’s arm. She spoke with firmness.
‘I told your captain that I did not want special privileges. I am just another religieuse on this voyage. I would not want others to be treated unfairly. To start with, stop calling me “lady”. I am Sister Fidelma.’
The boy said nothing, only blinked a little at her rebuke. Then Fidelma felt guilty for her cold attitude.
‘It’s not your fault, Wenbrit. I asked Murchad not to tell anyone. Since you know, will you keep my secret?’
The boy nodded.
‘Murchad only wanted you to be comfortable on his ship,’ he repeated and added defensively: ‘It’s not his fault, either.’
‘You like your captain, don’t you?’ Fidelma smiled at the protective tone in the boy’s voice.
‘He is a good captain,’ Wenbrit replied shortly. ‘This way, lady … Sister.’
The boy led her across the main deck, beyond the tall oak mast with its single great leather sail, still cracking in the wind. She glanced upand saw that a design had been painted on the front of the sail: it was that of a great red cross, the centre of which was enclosed in a circle.
The boy saw her looking upwards.
‘The captain decided to have that painted,’ he explained proudly. ‘We carry so many pilgrims these days that he thought it would be most appropriate.’
The boy moved off again and Fidelma followed as he led the way to the high prow of the ship across which the long-angled mast cleaved upwards towards the sky, bearing on a cross yard, the steering sail. It was a smaller sail than the mainsail and this helped control the direction of the vessel. The bow of the ship rose so that, as at the stern, it presented an area where there were a number of cabins on the main deck level. Like the stern deck area there were some steps leading up to a deck on top of them. Two square openings covered by grilles looked out on the main deck on either side of an entry which led to the cabins beyond.
Wenbrit opened this door and went in. Fidelma followed and found herself in a small passageway beyond with three doors, one to the right, one left and one straight ahead. The boy opened the door to the right of the entrance, the starboard side of the ship — Fidelma registered the term.
‘Here we are, lady,’ he announced cheerfully as he opened it and stood back to allow her to go inside.
The cabin was still gloomy, compared with the brightness on deck, but not as gloomy as the stifling cabins below decks. There was a grilled window covered with a linen curtain for privacy which could be drawn aside to allowed more light within. The cabin was furnished with a single bunk and a table and chair. It was frugal but functional and, at least, there was fresh air. Fidelma looked around with approval. It was better than she had been expecting.
‘Who usually sleeps here?’ she asked.
The boy deposited her bag on the bunk and shrugged.
‘We sometimes take special passengers,’ he said, as if brushing the subject aside.
‘Who sleeps in the cabin across the corridor?’
‘On the port side? That’s Gurvan’s cabin,’ replied the boy. ‘He is the mate and a Breton.’ He pointed towards the bow where she had noticed a third door. ‘The privy is in there. We call it the head, because it is at the head of the ship. There is a bucket in there.’
‘Does everyone use it?’ Fidelma asked, wrinkling her nose a little in distaste and mentally calculating the number of people on the ship.
Wenbrit grinned as he realised why she was asking the question.
‘We try to restrict the use of this one. I have mentioned that there is another privy at the stern of the ship so you should not be bothered much.’
‘What is the position with regard to washing?’
‘Washing?’ The boy frowned as if it were something he had not considered.
‘Does no one wash on board this ship?’ she pressed. Fidelma was used, as with most people of her background, to having a full bath in the evening and a brief wash in the morning.
The boy grinned slyly.
‘I can always bring a bucket of seawater for a morning wash. But if you are talking of bathing … why, when we are in harbour, or if we get a calm sea, we can take a swim over the side. There are no baths aboard The Barnacle Goose, lady.’
Fidelma accepted this resignedly. From her previous voyages by sea she had suspected that washing would not be a priority on shipboard.
‘Can I tell the captain that you are satisfied with the cabin, lady?’
Fidelma realised that the boy was anxious. She gave him a reassuring smile.
‘I will see the captain at midday.’
‘But the cabin?’ pressed the boy.
‘It is very satisfactory, Wenbrit. But do try to call me Sister in front of the others.’
Wenbrit raised his hand to place his knuckles at his forehead in a form of salute and grinned. He turned and scurried off about his duties.
Fidelma shut the cabin door and looked around. So this was to be her home for the next week, provided that they had a fair wind. It was no more than seven feet in length and five feet in width. The table, now that she was able to examine it more closely, was a hinged piece of wood attached to one wall. A three-legged stool stood in one corner. A bucket filled with water stood in another. She presumed that this was for drinking or washing. She tasted the water on her finger. It was freshwater, not seawater — for drinking, she decided. The window, which was at chest-level and which looked onto the main deck, was eighteen inches broad by a foot high, with two struts across it. A lantern hung on a metal hook in one corner; a tinder box and a stump of candle were visible on a small shelf beneath it.
The cabin was well-equipped.
She had a moment of guilt, thinking of her fellow religieux crammedin their airless, lightless cabins below decks. However, the moment passed into thankfulness that she would, at least, be able to breathe fresh air on the voyage and not have to put up with someone else sharing her living-quarters.
She turned to her bag and took out her spare clothes
for she saw that there were a number of pegs on which they could be hung. Fidelma did not, like some women, carry treatments for her skin — red berry juice, for instance, to stain her lips — but she did have a ciorbholg — a comb bag containing her combs and mirrors. Fidelma usually carried two ornamented bone combs, not through personal vanity but because it was the custom among her people to keep one’s hair in good condition and untangled. A fine head of hair was much admired.
Although Fidelma, like most women of her class, kept her fingernails carefully cut and rounded, for it was considered shameful to have ragged nails, she did not go so far as those who put crimson dye on them. Nor did she use, as some did, the juice of black or blue berries to darken her eyebrows or paint her eyelids. Nor did she heighten the natural colours of her cheeks by using dye extracted from the sprigs and berries of the elder tree to make an artificial blush. She was careful about her personal toiletry without disguising her natural features.
She unpacked her ciorbholg and set it on the table. The most bulky part of her baggage was, in fact, two taigh liubhair, small satchel books. When the Irish religieux had begun their peregrinatio pro Christo during the previous centuries, the learned scribes of Ireland had realised that missionaries and pilgrims would need to take liturgical works and religious tracts to help them spread the word of the new Faith among the pagans, and that such books had to be small enough to carried by them. Fidelma had brought with her a Missal, measuring fourteen by eleven millimetres. Her brother, King Colgu, had given her a second volume of the same size to while away the time on her long journey. It was A Life of St Ailbe, the first Christian Bishop of Cashel and patron saint of Muman. She carefully hung these book satchels on the pegs with her clothes.
Then she stood back, surveyed her unpacking, and smiled. There was nothing more to do before the midday meal. She could lie back on the bunk, head resting upon her clasped hands and, for the first time since she had closed Sister Muirgel’s door on his pleading features, allow herself a moment to think about the extraordinary coincidence of meeting Cian again.
Act of Mercy sf-8 Page 4