Act of Mercy sf-8

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘So she took charge of the party and you came on board. What then?’

  ‘We all went straight to our cabins.’

  ‘Who organised the accommodation arrangements?’

  ‘Muirgel did so.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as we came aboard.’

  ‘Why didn’t Muirgel and Crella share a cabin, if they were such good friends?’

  ‘Muirgel did not want to, for the reason I have told you. Muirgel and Crella argued about me.’

  ‘Crella told me that she had promised to share her cabin with Canair.’

  ‘It is the first I’ve heard of that.’ Brother Guss was dismissive of the idea. ‘Besides, Sister Canair was not there.’

  ‘So Sister Muirgel was not immediately so sick as to neglect that duty as the new leader of your party then?’

  ‘She was aware of her responsibilities,’ replied Guss. ‘But she did not realise that you were coming on board. She arranged it so that she could have a cabin on her own. We planned later …’ He shuddered and raised his hands to his face.

  ‘It must have been an irritation when I came into her cabin, an unannounced passenger,’ Fidelma suggested.

  ‘It was,’ agreed Guss.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Fidelma asked quickly.

  Guss was unabashed.

  ‘I went to see her,’ he said.

  ‘Yet she had become so unwell that she said she didn’t want to see anyone.’

  ‘She wanted to see me.’

  ‘Very well. When was the last time that you saw her?’

  ‘I suppose it was sometime after midnight. The storm was really bad by then.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I took her some food and drink and we talked a while. That is all. Oh, at one stage we heard someone outside the cabin. We heard their voice in spite of the terrible storm, but I don’t think they were speaking to anyone. It sounded more like someone reciting loudly against the wind and the roar of the sea.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I do not know. It was a woman’s voice. Whoever it was, they did not come in nor did they knock. They just stood outside muttering. When the muttering stopped, I went to the door and looked out. They had vanished, though I think I heard a cabin door close.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Muirgel said that she wanted to rest that night and told me to go back to my cabin. We would find more opportunities later. I did so. Then, in the morning, Cian came with the news that she had been lost overboard. I did not believe it.’

  ‘So the shock of it is why you have remained in your cabin ever since?’

  Brother Guss shrugged.

  ‘I could not face the others, especially Crella.’

  Fidelma rose and went to the cabin door.

  ‘Thank you, Brother Guss. You have been most helpful.’

  The youth looked up at her.

  ‘Sister Muirgel was not swept overboard,’ he said fiercely.

  Fidelma did not reply. Silently, however, she agreed completely. But there was one thing troubling her. For someone who had just lost the woman they claimed to have loved, Brother Guss did not seem to be displaying any of the signs of grief one would normally expect at such a time.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was late afternoon. The skies had cleared and the sun, though not warm, was bathing the sea with dazzling pinpricks of dancing lights. Fidelma was standing, leaning against the rail by the bow reflecting on what she had been told so far about the strange disappearance of Sister Muirgel. A curious picture was emerging. Some of the pilgrims seemed to have strong opinions about Sister Muirgel. Brother Guss claimed to have been in love with her and yet, strangely, he was not overly upset at her death. Guss was undoubtedly lying about something — but what? About his relationship with Muirgel? Or was it something else?

  A cry from the masthead interrupted her thoughts. There seemed some unusual activity at the stern of the ship where Murchad was standing in his usual position by the steering oar. Fidelma made her way along the main deck and found the captain and some of his men looking intently towards the north-east. She followed their collective gaze but could discern nothing except sparkling grey seas.

  ‘What is it? she asked Murchad. ‘Is something wrong?’

  The captain appeared preoccupied. ‘The masthead lookout has sighted a ship,’ he replied.

  ‘I can’t see anything.’ Fidelma peared again in the direction on which they were all intent.

  ‘It is hull down to the north-east but under full sail.’

  Fidelma was unsure what these nautical terms meant and said so.

  ‘She is hidden from us by the sea,’ explained Murchad. ‘Usually on a day like this, we can see three to four miles to the horizon. Whoever she is, she is just below our range of vision but her sail can be sighted from the masthead because of its higher elevation.’

  ‘Is it a matter of concern?’ Fidelma wondered.

  ‘Until I know who she is, a strange ship is always a matter of concern,’ Murchad replied.

  Gurvan, who was at the steering oar with another sailor whose name Fidelma now knew as Drogan, called across to Murchad.

  ‘She’ll have the wind behind her whoever she is, Captain. She should be in full sight within another hour.’

  Murchad’s response was thoughtful.

  ‘We ought to remain to windward of her until we know who she is. Who has the sharpest eyes?’

  ‘Hoel, Captain.’

  Murchad turned and bellowed towards the well of the ship.

  ‘Hoel!’

  A thickset man with long, muscular forearms came forward in the rolling gait Fidelma had long associated with sailors.

  ‘Up to the masthead, Hoel, and keep us informed on the progress of that ship.’

  The man acknowledged the order and then sprang into the rigging with an agility that Fidelma would not have deemed possible. Within a few seconds he had swarmed up the ropes and replaced the man at the masthead who had first sighted the ship.

  Fidelma could sense the curious tension on the ship.

  ‘Surely the ocean is not so large as to find the sight of another ship so alarming?’ she asked.

  The captain smiled tautly.

  ‘As I said, until you know the identity of the other ship, you must be cautious. Remember what I warned of the other day? These northern waters are full of Saxon slave ships; if not Saxons then they are Franks or even Goths. They are all frequent raiders in these waters.’

  Fidelma stared towards the horizon which hid the ship that seemed to hold such menace.

  ‘You think that it is a pirate ship?’

  Murchad shrugged.

  ‘It is better to be cautious than credulous. It will not be for an hour or so that we shall know enough to answer the question.’

  Fidelma was disappointed.

  It seemed to her that seamanship was nothing but long, boring periods of inactivity, interspersed by frenetic outbursts of action and turmoil. It was a curious way of life. As much as she was fascinated by the sea, she decided that she preferred a life on land. There was nothing to do now about this particular problem but wait, in which case she could best occupy the time continuing her quest for information about Sister Muirgel.

  She saw the tall, austere-looking Brother Tola sitting on the deck with his back against one of the water butts by the main mast. He was reading a small satchel book of the kind most pilgrims carried these days and appeared oblivious to the tensions from the sailors.She walked over to him. As her shadow fell across him, Brother Tola looked up and an expression of irritation crossed his long, graven features.

  ‘Ah, the dalaigh.’ There was a tone of disrespect in his voice. Then he carefully closed his book and replaced it in the book satchel which lay beside him. ‘I know what you want, Sister. I have been warned by Sister Ainder.’

  ‘Did she need to warn you?’ Fidelma’s riposte came automatically to her lips.

  Brother T
ola smiled thinly.

  ‘A matter of expression, that is all. There is nothing to be read in words, I assure you.’

  ‘Often a great deal can be read in the choice of words we use, Brother Tola.’

  ‘But not in this case.’ He gestured to the deck planking beside him. ‘Perhaps you would care to take a seat, if you intend to ask me questions?’

  Fidelma lowered herself to the deck beside him and assumed a cross-legged position. It was actually pleasant sitting in the sun, with a faint breeze cooling her face and rustling her red hair.

  Brother Tola folded his arms across his chest and gazed out across the now calm seas.

  ‘A pleasant enough day now,’ he sighed. ‘In other circumstances this voyage could be stimulating and rewarding.’

  Fidelma looked at him questioningly.

  ‘Why is it not so?’

  Brother Tola leant his head back against the mast and closed his eyes.

  ‘My fellow pilgrims leave much to be desired in a company supposedly pledged to the religious pursuit. I swear there is not a truly committed servant of God among them.’

  ‘You think not?’

  The monk’s face was severe.

  ‘I think not. Not even you, Fidelma of Cashel. Would you claim to be first and foremost a servant of the Christ?’ His eyes came open and Fidelma found his bright, dark orbs examining her unblinkingly. She shivered slightly.

  ‘I would hope that I am a servant of the Faith,’ she countered defensively.

  He surprised her by shaking his head negatively.

  ‘I do not think so. You are a servant of the law, not of religion.’

  Fidelma considered his accusation carefully.

  ‘Are the two things incompatible?’ she asked.

  ‘They can be,’ replied Brother Tola. ‘In many cases, the old saying is correct, that one’s religion is whatever one is most interested in.’

  ‘I do not agree.’

  Brother Tola smiled cynically.

  ‘I think that you are more interested in your law than in your religion.’

  Fidelma hesitated, for Tola’s words struck home like an arrow. Wasn’t that the very reason she was on this pilgrimage, to sort out her thoughts on this matter? Tola saw the confusion on her face and smiled in satisfaction before resuming his posture, leaning back and closing his eyes.

  ‘Do not be confused, Fidelma of Cashel. You are merely one of many thousands in the same position. Before the Faith was brought to the Five Kingdoms, you would have been a dalaigh or Brehon without having to wear the garb of a religieuse. Our society confused learning with religion and inexorably the two were bound as though they were one.’

  ‘There are still bardic colleges,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘I attended that of Brehon Morann at Tara. I only entered the religious life after I obtained my degree.’

  ‘Morann of Tara? He was a good man; a good judge and professor of law.’ Brother Tola was approving. ‘But when he died, what happened to his college?’

  Fidelma realised that she did not know and admitted as much.

  ‘It was absorbed into the Church on the order of the Comarb of Patrick.’ The Comarb was the successor of Patrick who was Bishop at Armagh, one of the two senior religious figures of the Five Kingdoms. The other was the Comarb of Ailbe who was the Bishop of Emly in Fidelma’s own kingdom. ‘Morann’s college should have remained outside the Church. Secular and ecclesiastic learning are often conflicting paths.’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ she countered stiffly, rebuking herself that she had not known that her old college had been closed down.

  ‘I am a religieux,’ Brother Tola went on. ‘There is certainly room for learning within the Church but not to the exclusion of religion itself.’

  Fidelma felt annoyed at his implied criticism of her role as a dalaigh.

  ‘I have not excluded religion from my life. I have studied and-’

  ‘Studied?’ Brother Tola made a noise which took Fidelma a few moments to realise was meant as a sardonic chuckle. ‘Those whoclaim to achieve things from book learning might do much more by merely listening to God.’

  ‘The sky and the trees and the rivers tell me little about the world of man,’ Fidelma replied. ‘My instruction comes from the experiences of men and women.’

  ‘Ah, therein is the difference between the pursuit of a religious life and the pursuit of learning.’

  ‘Truth is the goal of our lives,’ returned Fidelma. ‘You do not find truth without knowledge and, as Brehon Morann used to say, “love of learning is to come close to knowledge”.’

  ‘Whose knowledge? Man’s knowledge. Man’s law. You speak eloquently, Fidelma. But remember the words of James: “The kind of religion which is without stain or fault in the sight of God our Father is this: to keep oneself untarnished by the world”.’

  ‘You have left out an important part of that sentence, the piece about going to the help of orphans and widows in distress,’ she said waspishly. ‘I believe I do help those in distress.’

  ‘But you tarnish yourself by maintaining man’s law in preference to God’s Commandments.’

  ‘I see nothing contradictory between the Commandments and man’s law. Since you are fond of quoting the epistle of James, you should remember the lines — “the man who looks closely into the perfect law, the law that makes us free, and who lives in its company, does not forget what he hears, but acts upon it; and that is the man who by acting will find happiness”. I have heard and have not forgotten and act upon the law, and this is why I have come to speak with you, Brother Tola. Not to engage in a discussion on our differences of theology.’

  Her voice was sharp now. Yet she felt uncomfortable for she knew that Tola must have spotted her weakness; her pride in being a dalaigh and not simply a religieuse.

  ‘I hear you, Sister Fidelma,’ he replied. His face was still serious but Fidelma could not help feeling that he was secretly laughing at her discomfiture. Then he intoned softly:

  ‘ … do not think lightly of the Lord’s discipline,

  Nor lose heart when He corrects you;

  For the Lord disciplines those whom He loves.

  He lays the rod on every son and daughter whom He

  acknowledges.’

  Fidelma suppressed her annoyance.

  ‘Hebrews, twelve,’ she stated with a tight smile meant to demonstrate that he was not going to impress her with his knowledge of Scripture. ‘But now, I have some questions that I must ask you on behalf of Murchad, the captain.’

  ‘I know, as I have already said. Sister Ainder has spoken about your enquiries.’

  ‘Good. You are older than most of your party, Brother. Why did you come on this pilgrimage?’

  ‘Need I make an answer?’

  ‘I have no compulsion to make you do so.’

  ‘That is not what I meant. I meant that it should be obvious.’

  ‘I take it that you are saying that your pilgrimage was made because of religious conviction? Surely that is obvious. But why did you choose to join Sister Canair’s group? They are quite young, with the exception of Sister Ainder. And according to your view, your fellow travellers are not truly concerned with religion.’

  ‘Sister Canair’s group was the only party journeying to the Holy Shrine of St James. Had I not travelled with them, I might not have found group for another year at least. There was a place for me and so I joined them.’

  ‘Did you know Sister Canair and the others before you joined them?’

  ‘I knew none of them except those from my own Abbey of Bangor.’

  ‘Being Brothers Cian, Dathal and Adamrae?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘You have indicated that you found them an ill-assorted group.’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘Does that opinion include Sister Muirgel?’

  Brother Tola opened his eyes wide and a spasm contorted his features.

  ‘A most distasteful young woman! I disliked her most of all!’

>   Fidelma was surprised at the vehemence in his voice.

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘I remember when she first tried to dominate our company of travellers on the basis that her father had been chieftain of the Dal Fiatach. He was nothing to boast about — an evil rascal out for power and self-aggrandisement. Sister Muirgel was the daughter of her father.’

  ‘With your views, surely that would make you hesitate before joining Sister Canair’s group?’

  ‘I did not know that Sister Muirgel was part of the group until weset out. I decided that I could avoid her immediate company on the journey.’

  ‘Did you know her personally, or only by the fact that she was the daughter of a chieftain whom you disliked?’

  ‘I knew her from the stories that circulated within our abbey.’

  ‘What stories?’ Fidelma was curious.

  ‘Of her promiscuity, of her unchaste relations with other Brothers. Of the way she used people for her own ends, and the fact that she was the opposite to a truly religious person.’

  ‘That is a harsh judgement of a Sister,’ observed Fidelma.

  ‘One greater than I will be her judge. “Look eagerly for the coming of the Day of Judgement and work to hasten it on; that day will set the heavens ablaze until they fall apart, and will melt the elements in flames. But we have His promise, and look forward to new heavens and a new earth which is the home of justice”.’

  Fidelma was not impressed with his quotation from the Holy Book and ignored it.

  ‘How is it that such stories came to circulate in your Abbey of Bangor when Muirgel was a religieuse at Moville?’

  ‘There was plenty of intercourse between our two communities. Our Abbot often had cause to send to his Brother the Abbot of Moville. Once he had to inform him that he had heard such tales and that he must not let his community descend into a sink of iniquity.’

  ‘How did the Abbot of Moville respond?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought that it was not the place of the Abbot of Bangor to tell him how to lead his community?’ Fidelma smiled without humour. ‘Anyway, you formed a harsh judgement of Sister Muirgel.