Act of Mercy

Chapter Sixteen

Murchad pointed to the black coastline emerging from the haze on the sea.

‘That is the island of Ushant.’

‘It looks a large island,’ Fidelma observed, from her position at his side. During the last few hours she had been considering the story that Guss had told her about Sister Canair’s death and the involvement of Muirgel and himself. Had Muirgel been killed because she was a witness? Or had Guss been right that there was another motive? And if he were, and that motive was jealousy, could Crella have been the killer? Had Guss met his own death because of it? Fidelma knew that Crella’s truth was certainly not the truth of Brother Guss but she had no firm evidence to solve the riddle.

An hour or so previously, they had held a service for Sister Muirgel and committed her body to the deep; it was the second service they had held for her, more subdued and restrained than the first. At the same time, they held a remembrance for poor young Guss and commended his soul to God’s keeping. It was odd knowing that one among them did not share the sentiments that had been uttered during the service. Now, it was late afternoon with the sun lowering in the cloudy western sky which was streaked with darkening billows. It was growing chilly and slowly, above the horizon, the dark coastline had emerged and drawn closer. The gloomy coast to which Murchad was pointing must have been a few miles in length.

‘It is a large island,’ the captain replied to Fidelma’s question. ‘And a dangerous one. I think we shall be lucky, though.’

Fidelma glanced at him in surprise.

‘Lucky? In what way?’

‘This haze … it could easily develop into a sudden fog, which is frequent around Ushant, and there are strong currents here and innumerable reefs, added to which, if the wind is harsh one stands in danger of being hurled, if not onto the reefs, then onto the rocky, broken shore. A blow here can last a week or ten days without letting up.’

Even in the haze there seemed something sinister about the low black outline they were approaching. There was no sign of any hills. Fidelma estimated that the highest point of the island could not be more than two hundred feet, but there was still something very threatening about the distant crash and hiss of the waves breaking on the rocks along the shoreline. It seemed an island full of menace.

‘How do you know where to land?’ she asked. ‘I can see only an impenetrable wall of rocks.’

Murchad grimaced.

‘We certainly won’t attempt to land on this coast. This is the northern coast. We must sail south, around a point into a broad bay where the main settlement is situated. There is a church there which was set up a century ago by the Blessed Paul Aurelian, the Briton.’

He pointed.

‘We have to round that headland over there — do you see? Where that ship is standing out towards us.’

Fidelma followed his outstretched arm and saw that a distant ship had appeared from behind the dark headland and was beating around towards them. A voice cried from the masthead.

Murchad took a step forward and shouted back in annoyance: ‘We already see it. You should have let us have a holler ten minutes ago!’

Gurvan appeared from the bow of the ship.

‘She’s a square-rigged ship out of Montroulez.’

‘That’s the type of ship. It doesn’t tell us who is sailing her,’ replied Murchad. ‘A lookout is useless unless he keeps the deck informed.’

Fidelma could make out the square-sail rig, similar to some extent to The Barnacle Goose with its high prow.

Gurvan, who had joined Drogon at the steering oar, was peering forward, straining to take in the details of the approaching vessel.

‘I think there is something wrong with her, Captain,’ he called.

Murchad swung round frowning to examine the other vessel.

‘Her sail is badly set and pulling her too close to the wind,’ he muttered. ‘That’s bad seamanship for you.’

For her part, Fidelma could see nothing wrong with the ship itself but accepted that the trained eyes of Murchad and Gurvan could pick out the faults of their fellow seamen.

Then Murchad let out an uncharacteristic exclamation which caused Fidelma to start.

‘The fool! He should be wearing the ship now. That onshore wind is going to turn the vessel towards the rocks.’

The two vessels were drawing closer together, except that TheBarnacle Goose was standing well out to the west of the grim line of rocks, with plenty of sea room to manoeuvre. The other vessel was straining under the wind towards the shore.

‘Why doesn’t he wear the ship? Can’t he see the danger?’ Gurvan cried. No one answered him.

Some members of the crew were lining the port rail and watching the other ship, making critical comments on the other’s seamanship.

‘Belay that!’ bellowed Murchad. ‘Stand by the halyards.’

The sailors broke off and made towards the ropes which raised and lowered the sail. Fidelma was mentally noting down this strange seaman’s jargon for she was interested in learning what was happening. She felt a sudden shift in wind. It was curious how she had now grown accustomed to noticing wind changes since she had observed how essential it was on shipboard.

‘I knew it!’ cried Murchad, almost stamping his foot. ‘Damn that fool of a captain!’

His cry caused her to look towards the other vessel which stood quite some way away. If she understood Murchad correctly, the other captain should have reset his sail and tacked or zigzagged his ship against the wind. Whatever the technicality was, she could see the result.

The wind had hit the sail of the ship with such force that it lurched forward like an arrow from a bow, pushing it directly into the low line of rocks ahead. Then a contrary wind heeled the vessel over, so far that, for a moment, Fidelma though it would turn right over on its side. It balanced precariously for a moment and then swung upright again. The wind caught once more at the sail and, even above the sound of the sea and the wind, Fidelma could hear a terrible rending sound as the sail tore across.

‘Say a prayer for them, lady!’ cried Gurvan. ‘They have no hope in hell now.’

‘What do you mean?’ gasped Fidelma, and then realised it was a silly question to ask.

For a moment or two the other ship seemed strangely becalmed and then the hanging shreds of the mainsail, and the still intact steering sail, caught in the wind and the vessel lurched forward yet again.

There was a sound the like of which Fidelma had never heard before. It was like a gigantic animal tearing through the undergrowth, splintering wood and uprooting bushes and trees in its wake. That sound was magnified a thousand times across the water.

The other vessel seemed to be hurled forward and, as Fidelma looked on in horror, it began to disintegrate.

‘Smashed on the rocks, by the living God!’ cried Murchad. ‘Heaven help the poor souls.’

She watched with a cold fascination as the distant mast suddenly splintered and crashed over like a tall tree falling, bringing the rigging and remains of the tattered sail with it. Then it seemed as if the planks were breaking up. She could see small dark figures leaping from the ship into the white frothy waters. She imagined she could hear cries and screams, although the wind and the sound of the water smashing against the rocks would have drowned out such sounds.

Within a few moments the other vessel had disappeared and around the dark jagged teeth of the rocks there seemed little but flotsam and jetsam bobbing on the water — bits of wreckage, mainly shattered wooden planks. A barrel. A wicker basket. And here and there, face downwards, a few bodies.

Murchad stood looking on as if he had turned to stone. Then, as a man rousing himself from a sleep, he first shook his head and coughed to clear the emotion from his voice.

‘Lower the mainsail!’ he cracked out.

The hands, already at the halyards, began hauling.

Cian and some of the other members of the pilgrim party had come up on deck, aware that something was happening, and demanding to know what had taken place.

Murchad stared at Cian for a moment and then roared angrily: ‘Get your party below! Now!’

Fidelma went forward, feeling embarrassed, and began to push her fellow religieux towards the hatchway.

‘A ship has just struck the rocks over there,’ she replied in answer to their protests. ‘There does not seem much hope for the poor souls on board.’

‘Can’t we do something?’ asked Sister Ainder. ‘Surely it is our duty to be of assistance?’

Fidelma glanced back to where Murchad was shouting instructions and compressed her lips for a moment.

‘The captain is doing all he can,’ she assured the tall religieuse. ‘You may best help him by obeying his commands.’

‘Bring her head to the wind, Gurvan! Sea anchors! Hold her steady. Stand by to launch the skiff!’

From the jumble of orders, Fidelma realised that Murchad was going to attempt to pick up any survivors.

Seeing her companions going reluctantly below, she turned back to Murchad. ‘Is there anything we can do to help?’ She asked.

Murchad grimaced and shook his head.

‘Leave it to us for the moment, lady,’ he replied gruffly.

Fidelma did not really want to go below nor return to her cabin, so she moved to a corner where she thought she would be out of the way and could observe what was taking place.

Gurvan had relinquished his position on the steering oar to someone else and had taken a couple of men to lower the longboat — the skiff as Murchad called it — into the choppy seas. Fidelma marvelled at how each man seemed to know his position and what he must do. The Barnacle Goose was now hove-to, sails down and sea anchors dragging to keep the vessel in a fairly steady position. Nevertheless, Fidelma realised that no ship could hold a stationary position for long in these waters; it was just a matter of time before Murchad would have to hoist sail and get out of harm’s way. The rocks looked so dangerously near.

The small craft had hit the waters with a smack and with Gurvan in the bow to direct them and two sailors hauling on the oars, it went slicing across the chopping waters in the direction of the rocks and the bobbing wreckage.

Fidelma bent forwards watching them.

‘I doubt there’ll be any survivors from that lot,’ said a small voice at her side.

She glanced down to find Wenbrit beside her. The lad looked very white and he held his hand to his throat, against the scar which she had noticed when she had first come on board. She had never seen such an expression of fear on his face before. She presumed that he was shocked by what had happened.

‘Do such things often happen at sea?’

The boy blinked, his voice was tight.

‘Ships going on the rocks like that, do you mean?’

Fidelma nodded.

‘Frequently. Too frequently,’ answered the boy, still not relaxed.

‘Only a few go on the rocks due to bad seamanship, due to people who have no knowledge nor respect for the sea and who should never set foot on shipboard, let alone be in charge of a vessel responsible for other people’s lives. Many more go on the rocks due to the weather which cannot be controlled, with the winds, tides and storms. A few other ships founder because the crew or their captain have taken too much liquor.’

Fidelma was intrigued at the suppressed vehemence in the boy’s tone.

‘I can see that it is a matter that you have pondered on at length, Wenbrit.’

The boy gave a bark of laughter which surprised her by its angry note.

‘Have I said something wrong?’ she wondered.

Wenbrit was at once apologetic.

‘Nothing wrong, lady. Sorry, it’s not your fault. I don’t mind telling you now. Murchad saved my life. He pulled me from the seas, from such a wreck as that.’ He gestured with his head towards the floating debris across the water.

She was surprised. After a pause she prompted him, ‘When was that, Wenbrit?’

‘A few years ago now. I was on a ship that ran onto some rocks due to bad seamanship. I can’t remember much about it, except that the captain was drunk and gave the wrong orders. The ship went to pieces. Murchad picked me out of the sea several days later. I was tied to a piece of wooden grating, otherwise I would have slid into the sea and drowned. One of the ropes that lashed me to it had slipped around my throat. I know you have noticed my scar.’

Fidelma began to understand now why the boy almost hero-worshipped Murchad.

‘So you were a cabin boy when you were very young, then?’

Wenbrit smiled without humour.

‘Didn’t your parents mind?’ she asked gently.

Wenbrit gazed up at her. She could see the deep anguish in his dark eyes.

‘My father was the captain.’

Fidelma tried not to register her shock.

‘Your father was a sea captain?’

‘He was a drunk. He was often drunk.’

‘And your mother?’

‘I don’t remember her. He told me that she had died soon after I was born.’

‘Was anyone else saved from the ship?’

‘Not that I know of. I do not recall anything from the time it struck to the time I came to on board The Barnacle. Murchad told me that I must have been in the sea several days and was near dead when he fished me out of the water.’

‘Did you make any attempt to trace any survivors? Your father might have lived.’

Wenbrit shrugged indifferently.

‘Murchad put into the port in Cornwall which was the home port of my father’s vessel. There was no word there. All the crew had been given up for lost.’

‘Apart from Murchad, who else knows your story?’

‘Most of the men on this ship, lady. This is my home now. Thanks be to God that Murchad came along when he did. Now I have a new family and a better one than I ever knew.’

Fidelma smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Thanks be to God, indeed, Wenbrit.’ Then the thought struck her. ‘And thanks be to whoever it was who lashed your unconscious body to that grating, so that you at least stood a chance of rescue.’

There was a cry across the waters as the skiff reached the patch of floating wreckage. Gurvan was standing up, precariously, examining the waters. Then he pointed and sat down. They could see the oars stroking the water.

‘Have they found a survivor?’ Fidelma asked.

Wenbrit shook his head.

‘I think it’s a dead body. They are letting it back into the water.’

‘Can’t we pick up the bodies?’ Fidelma protested, thinking that some funeral ceremony should be performed.

‘At sea, lady, the concern must always be for the living before the dead,’ Wenbrit told her.

They heard another shout across the water and could see a second figure being hauled into the skiff. Then they saw a splashing nearby. Someone was trying to swim to the rescue vessel.

‘Two souls saved at least,’ muttered Wenbrit.

It was fifteen minutes later when the skiff returned. In all, only three people had been found alive and now Murchad was in a hurry to get his ship underway, for even Fidelma could see that the winds and tides were steadily pushing The Barnacle Goose towards the rocks in spite of the lowering of the sail and the sea anchors. Fidelma had wondered what exactly sea anchors were. She knew what a normal anchor was. She found, thanks to Wenbrit’s explanation, that the ship carried four great leather bags which were dropped into the water and acted as drags to prevent the vessel moving without any resistance.

The three rescued seamen were hoisted onto the main deck and then Murchad was barking a series of orders.

‘Hoist the mainsail! Weigh sea anchors. Stand by to wear the ship. Gurvan to the steering oar.’

Fidelma took it upon herself to move across to the three rescued men. Most of the crew were already busy trying to take the ship out of danger.

One of them was already sitting up and coughing a little. The other two lay senseless.

Fidelma registered several things immediately. The two men wholay senseless were dressed in the usual sailors’ clothing — ordinary seamen, by their appearance. The man sitting up and recovering was well dressed, and even though his clothes were sodden and he wore no weapons, Fidelma saw that he was a man of some rank.

He was well built, which might have accounted for his surviving relatively unscathed in the water, and fair-haired with a long moustache, which dangled on either side of his mouth in Gaulish fashion. Salt crusted his features. His eyes were light blue, and his features were clean-cut. In spite of his sea-soaked appearance, his clothing was of excellent quality. He seemed to be a man used to outdoor life. She noted he wore some rich pieces of jewellery.

‘Ouomodo vales?’ she asked him in Latin, judging that if he be of rank he would have some knowledge of Latin no matter his nationality.

To her astonishment he replied in her own tongue and with an accent she judged to be that of the Kingdom of Laigin.

‘I shall be all right.’ He indicated his unconscious companions. ‘But they look in poorer shape.’

Fidelma bent down and felt for the pulse of the first man. It was present, but very faint.

‘He has swallowed much water, I think,’ added the Irishman.

Wenbrit came forward.

‘I know something about reviving him, lady,’ he offered.

Fidelma moved back and watched the boy roll the man over on his back and then sit astride him.

‘We must get the water out of him. Go to his head and stretch his arms back and when I say, push them forward to me. Like a pumping action.’

Another member of the crew was doing likewise with the other sailor.

Fidelma placed herself under the instruction of the young boy and saw that the movement raised and lowered the man’s chest. Between each movement, the boy blew deeply into the man’s mouth. It was just when Fidelma was saying that the manipulation seemed not to be succeeding that the man gave a croaking sound; water spurted from his mouth and he started coughing. Wenbrit rolled the man onto his side and the sailor started to retch and vomit on the deck.

Fidelma stood back. The other sailor had a gash on his forehead and was clearly unconscious but, apparently, he was breathing normally. Two sailors were carrying him to the crew’s quarters. Fidelma found the Laigin man was already standing up and appeared none the worse for his experience. He was staring about him ruefully.

Wenbrit helped the resuscitated sailor sit up. The man was muttering something to which Wenbrit replied in the same language.

‘He is not Irish, then?’ Fidelma addressed her remark to the Irishman.

‘It was a Breton trading ship, Sister. A Breton crew. I had purchased passage on her as far as the mouth of the Sleine.’

Fidelma regarded him thoughtfully.

‘You are obviously from Laigin.’

‘I am. Is this an Irish ship?’

‘Out of Ardmore,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘But with a mixed crew. Murchad is the captain.’

‘Out of the Kingdom of Muman?’ The man looked about him and smiled. ‘A pilgrim ship, no doubt. Whither bound?’

‘For the Holy Shrine of St James in Iberia.’

The man let out a soft curse.

‘That will be little use to me. Who did you say is the master of this ship? I must speak with him right away.’

Fidelma glanced to where Murchad was busy on the quarter deck.

‘I would advise that unless you want to renew your acquaintance with the rocky waters, you should wait awhile,’ she smiled. ‘Anyway, we shall be putting into Ushant for fresh water shortly.’

The corner of the man’s mouth turned down.

‘Ushant is where we just came from.’

Wenbrit had helped one of the crew move the survivors and was now swabbing down the deck.

‘Will the sailors be all right?’ Fidelma called to him.

The boy grinned.

‘They are lucky, those two, I’m thinking. I shall find some spirits in a moment that will put warmth into that gentleman there.’

‘Good thinking, boy,’ approved the new arrival.

‘What is your name?’ Fidelma asked the man pleasantly.

‘I tell that to the captain,’ the man said dismissively.

Fidelma swung round to rebuke him for his ill manners and, in doing so, the emblem of the Golden Chain slid from her loosed habit. The ancient dynastic order of the Eoghanacht had been bestowed on her by her brother, Colgu, the King of Cashel. The sun glinted on the golden cross. Afterwards, Fidelma was uncertain whether she had subconsciously made the movement on purpose so that it would be revealed. It certainly had a sharp effect on the man.

He stared at it, eyes widening in recognition. The emblem of the Niadh Nasc, the order of the Golden Chain or Collar, was a venerable Muman nobiliary fraternity which had sprung out of the ancient elitewarrior guards of the Kings of Cashel. The honour was in the personal presentation of the Eoghanacht King of Cashel, and each recipient observed personal allegiance to him, being given, in turn, a cross to wear which had originated from an ancient solar symbol — for it was said that the origins of the honour were shrouded in the mists of time. Some scribes claimed that the Order had been founded almost a thousand years before the birth of Christ.

The man from Laigin knew that no ordinary religieuse would be wearing such a symbol. He had apparently remembered that the boy had addressed her as ‘lady’. Now he cleared his throat nervously and moved his head forward in a bow.

‘I am forgetting my manners, lady. I am Toca Nia of Clan Baoiscne. I was once commander of the bodyguard of Faelan, the late King of Laigin. Whom am I addressing?’

‘I am Fidelma of Cashel.’

The man’s astonishment was evident.

‘The sister of Colgu of Cashel? The dalaigh who appeared in the dispute between Muman and Laigin and …?’

‘Colgu is my brother,’ she interrupted.

‘I know your reputation, lady.’

‘I am only an advocate and a religieuse bound on a pilgrimage to Iberia.

‘Only?’ Toca Nia laughed disarmingly. ‘I realise now that I have seen you before, but I did not recognise you until you spoke your name.’

It was now Fidelma’s turn to be surprised.

‘I do not recall our meeting.’

‘No reason why you should, for we did not actually meet,’ he explained. ‘I merely saw you from across a crowded abbey hall. It was in the Abbey of Ros Ailithir, well over a year ago. After Faelan, my king, had died, I continued on for a while in the service of the young King of Laigin, Fianamail. I accompanied him, the Abbot Noe of Fearna and the Brehon Fornassach, to the Abbey, where you revealed the plot to set Laigin and Muman at war with each other.’

It seemed a lifetime ago, reflected Fidelma. Could it only have been a year or so ago?

‘A strange place to meet again,’ she remarked courteously. ‘How is Fianamail, the Laigin King? A fiery and tempestuous young man, as I recall.’

Toca Nia smiled and nodded.

‘I left his service after Ros Ailithir. I think that I had had enough of war and being a professional warrior. I had heard that the Prince ofMontroulez sought a man to train his horses. I have been successful in that field. I spent a year at his court and was returning to Laigin when …’

He gestured eloquently with his hand towards the sea. The gesture drew Fidelma back to the situation. She turned and saw, to her surprise, that the line of jagged rocks were receding in the distance. Once again Murchad had displayed his seamanship by manoeuvring his ship out of harm’s way.

Indeed, Murchad was coming from the stern deck towards them with a purposeful step.

Toca Nia turned to greet him.

‘Have you suffered injury?’ Murchad demanded, his keen eyes gliding swiftly over the broad-framed warrior.

‘None, thanks to the timely intervention of you and your crew, Captain.’

‘And your companions?’

Wenbrit came forward and answered for him.

‘Two sailors from the crew. One will be a little the worse for the ordeal, but the other may take a few days to recover. His head was badly gashed by the rocks when he went in.’

‘What ship were you on?’ Murchad asked the survivor.

‘The ship was called the Morvaout — we would call that The Cormorant, I think.’

Murchad examined the man keenly.

‘Was she a pilgrim ship?’

Toca Nia smiled. ‘A trading ship, taking wines and olive oil to Laigin, and me along with it.’

Fidelma decided to intervene.

‘This is Toca Nia, one time commander of the King of Laigin’s bodyguard and more lately a trainer of horses for the Prince of … of where?’

‘Montroulez is a small mainland princedom on the north coast of Little Britain.’

‘What was your captain thinking of, by steering his ship in such dangerous waters?’ was Murchad’s next question.

The former warrior shrugged.

‘The captain died two days ago. That is why the ship came south to Ushant instead of sailing directly north for Laigin. The mate took over and, I fear, he was not a competent seaman nor could he handle some of the crew who refused to obey his orders. He was too fond of cider.’

‘Are you saying that the crew were in mutiny?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Something like that, lady.’

‘Were either of the survivors involved?’ demanded Murchad. ‘I don’t want mutineers on my ship.’

‘I could not say. There was a lot of chaos after the captain died.’

‘What did he die of? Was he killed in the mutiny?’

‘He simply dropped dead at the wheel. His heart stopped beating. I have seen a few such deaths, inexplicable deaths before and even after a battle. Death not from wounds but because the heart stopped beating.’

‘And the captain was the only competent sailor?’ pressed Murchad.

‘That is strange.’

‘Strange or not, you saw the result. Thankfully you were there to see it or else I would not be alive. Captain, I need a passage to Laigin.’

Murchad shook his head.

‘We are on a pilgrim voyage to the Holy Shrine of St James. I doubt that we will see Ardmore again for a full three weeks or more. But we are putting in to Ushant. You will soon pick up a ship sailing home from there.’

The former warrior smiled ruefully.

‘I’ll have to sell a few of these baubles.’ He indicated his bejewelled hand. ‘A year’s earnings have sunk to the bottom of the sea there.’ He jerked his hand back towards the rocks. ‘I own only what you see. Ah well, perhaps I can persuade a ship to take me on as crew.’

Murchad examined him doubtfully.

‘Do you have experience as a sailor?’

The man laughed uproariously.

‘By the gods of battle, not at all. I am a good warrior. I know battle strategy and the art of weaponry. I love horses and have an ability to train them. I know three languages. I can read and write and even cut some Ogham. But as for sailing a ship, no experience at all.’

Murchad pursed his lips.

‘Well, it will be up to you to find a passage at Ushant. You will excuse me?’ He turned back to his duties.

Wenbrit had come up with the spirits and handed the cup to the warrior.

‘You should change out of those wet clothes,’ he advised. ‘I think I can find some spare garments that will fit you.’

‘Good for you, youngster …’ The man paused in mid-sentence.

Fidelma noticed that the former warrior had frozen, the cup of spirits halfway to his mouth. His mouth was open as if to swallow the liquid, but his eyes were wide and staring. An expression of disbelief crossed his features; a nerve began to twitch in the side of his face.

Fidelma turned to see what had caused his abrupt change of attitude.

On to the deck had come Cian, looking around as if to see what had taken place since the pilgrims had been sent below by Murchad. He saw Fidelma and started to come towards them.

A curious animal sound came from the back of Toca Nia’s throat. The cup dropped from his hands, spilling its contents onto the deck.

Before Fidelma realised what he was going to do, the man launched himself across the deck towards an astonished Cian.

‘Bastard! Murderer!’

The two words cracked twice like a whip into the air.

Almost at the same time, he reached Brother Cian and his fist impacted straight into the dumbfounded man’s face. For a moment, Cian stood there, his nose a red, bloody pulp; his eyes wide with incredulity above it. Then he fell backwards, slowly, as if his fall was in defiance of gravity.