Act of Mercy

Chapter Three

‘Cian!’

Like a wraith arising from some ghostly past, there stood before her the man who had been her first love; who had awakened her sensuality as a young girl and then brutally discarded her for another.

In one breathless moment, memories came pouring through her mind. Fidelma remembered their first meeting as vividly as if it had been yesterday. Yet it had been ten years ago now; ten long years …

Old Brehon Morann had allowed his students time off to attend the great triennial fair of Tara — the Feis Teamhrach. Had he not allowed them time off, then they would probably have attended anyway, for the great fair was a major event of the year. The fair had been founded by the High King Ollamh Fodhla some fourteen centuries ago. Its official purpose was to review the laws of the Five Kingdoms. The High King and the provincial Kings were in attendance, together with the most distinguished representatives of all the learned professions from the Five Kingdoms.

Even though it had been a hundred years since the High Kings had abandoned Tara as their principal royal residence, on account of a curse pronounced against it by the Blessed Ruadan of Lorrha in Muman, the great festival itself had not been so abandoned and was held there every third year. No one could devote themselves to study during the seven days of the fair. It started three days before the Feast of Samhain and ended on the third day afterwards.

While learned professors and lawyers, and the Kings and their advisers, discussed affairs of state and the application of the laws, and considered what, if any, new laws should be applied, sports, competitions and feasting were provided for the general public as well as the richer folk who came to see and be seen. Merchants arrived from not only the Five Kingdoms but from many corners of the world — as did entertainers, songsters, jugglers, fools and acrobats. It was a time for relaxing and making merry, for the ancient laws of the fairproclaimed that a sacred armistice was in force during its existence, when all were exempted from arrest or prosecution unless they violated the peace of the fair itself by rowdiness, violence and theft.

Fidelma was barely eighteen years old and had never been to one of the great fairs like Tara. She and her companions from Morann’s law school moved eagerly through the good-natured jostling crowds, gazing at the stalls selling all manner of food and drink and also goods from far-flung lands. They paused now and then to look in awe at groups of professional clowns and jugglers, while musicians and songsters created a not-unpleasing cacophony of sound.

Fidelma and her friends halted before one juggler who had nine sharp short swords in his hands which he flung up into the air, one by one, and which he did not let fall to the ground but caught and flung up again quickly and without injury to himself. The whistling sound the swords produced as they passed through the air was like the sound of buzzing bees.

A terrific cheering drew Fidelma and her companions on to the edge of a crowd around a sward of ground where a game of imman was in progress. Each player, armed with a wooden caman, or stick of ash over a metre in length, carefully shaped and smoothed with the lower end flat and curved, attempted to strike at a ball of leather filled with wool. The name of the game meant urging or driving while the stick took its name from the word cam reflecting on its crooked or curve part.

A goal had just been scored by one of the two teams, and as the young students pushed their way to the front of the crowd, the play had commenced again with the ball being thrown up into the middle of the field. The two teams, at opposite ends of the level grassy rectangle, began to run towards it, each trying to drive the ball through their opponents to the narrow goal formed by two poles.

Fidelma’s group waited until another goal had been scored, then continued on their good-natured way. It was a happy, carefree day even though Fidelma, at the back of her mind, knew that their mentor, Brehon Morann, had hoped his students would not only indulge themselves at the fair but would also attend the great debates on the laws and thus expand their knowledge of their subject. Fidelma was about to remind her comrades of this when they found themselves pushing through the crowd to where a horse race was about to commence.

Cian had caught her eye immediately.

He was only a year or two older than she was. A young man of striking appearance; tall, chestnut-haired to the point that it was almost red. He was pleasantly featured, well-muscled, and his clothing spokeof some degree of rank. For the race, he was clad lightly in linen trousers and shirt, dyed with several colours, and wearing a short beaver fur-edged cloak of woven wool. He was astride a splendid stallion of magnificent physique which, like his rider, was chestnut in colour but with a white splash on its forehead.

Fidelma had not even noticed the other riders lined up with Cian. She stood staring up at him, strangely attracted by his youth and vitality. Some chemistry must have passed between them for his eyes flickered down, caught her gaze, held it for a second or two and then he smiled. It was a warm, open smile.

There came a yell of warning from the race director and a flag was raised. It fluttered above their heads for a brief moment and fell abruptly. Away thundered the horses to a roar of acclamation from the crowds.

‘What a gorgeous man!’ whispered Fidelma’s companion, Grian. Grian was slightly older than Fidelma and her best friend at the school of the Brehon Morann. She was a capable student but had a frivolous side to her nature and placed enjoyment above serious study every time a choice had to be made.

Fidelma flushed in spite of herself.

‘Who do you mean?’ she said, trying to sound casual.

‘The young man with whom you shared a smile just now,’ Grian teased her.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ protested Fidelma, colouring even more.

Grian turned to a small elderly man, who had been shouting encouragement to one particular rider.

‘Do you know who the riders are?’ she asked.

The man ceased his exhortations and raised his eyes to her in astonishment.

‘Now would I be placing a bet on the outcome of the race if I didn’t?’ he protested. ‘Names of the riders, their horses, and their form are the first things I find out before even setting foot here.’

Grian smiled eagerly. ‘Then perhaps you could tell us the name of that chestnut, with the white splash on its forehead, and who it is that rides her?’

‘The young man with the red cloak?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Nothing easier. The chestnut is called Diss …’

Fidelma entered the conversation with a frown. ‘Diss? But that means “feeble” or “weak”?’

The fellow tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘That’s because the horse is anything but feeble or weak.’

Fidelma was bewildered by this logic.

‘Who is the rider then?’ pressed Grian, not wishing to be sidetracked.

‘The man who rides it, owns it,’ replied the elderly man. ‘He is named Cian.’

‘A chiefs son, by the look of him,’ observed Grian slyly.

The man shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. He is a warrior, though. He serves in the bodyguard of the High King.’

Grian turned back to Fidelma with a look of triumph.

The cheers were getting louder and louder and they could hear the thunder of hooves coming closer. The course had nearly been completed, being circular in shape, and the riders were approaching the winning post.

Fidelma leant forward to see the result.

There was the big chestnut just behind the leader, a white mare, its rider leaning close along its neck. The cheers rose up as Cian and his horse, Diss, began to gain but they were just beaten by the white mare and its rider.

Fidelma found herself propelled forward, as the crowd surged to greet the winner. Then she found Grian hanging onto her arm and realised that her companion was pushing her forward as well as the momentum of the crowd. However, Grian was propelling her not towards the winner but towards where Cian was dismounting from his stallion.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Fidelma in protest.

‘You want to meet him, don’t you?’ replied her friend with self-confidence.

‘Not I …’ But before she could make a further objection she found herself arriving in the midst of a small crowd commiserating with the handsome young rider on being beaten by so fine a margin.

Cian was smiling good-naturedly and accepting their compliments. Catching sight of Fidelma and her companion he turned towards them with a broad smile. Her cheeks crimson, Fidelma dropped her eyes, feeling indignant that she had been manoeuvred into this embarrassing situation.

Cian hooked his reins over his arm and came forward.

‘Did you enjoy the race, ladies?’ he queried. Fidelma noticed immediately that he had an attractive tenor voice, full of resonance.

‘A great race!’ Grian spoke for them both. ‘But my companion here was wondering why your horse was called Diss. That’s whyshe insisted on coming to meet you,’ she added with malicious humour.

The rider laughed tolerantly. ‘He is called weak, but he is strong and anything but punny. It is a long story and perhaps you ladies will join me for refreshment after I have taken care of my stallion and have washed myself?’

‘I am sorry, but-’ Fidelma began, about to reject the suggestion, when her arm was jerked fiercely by her friend.

‘We would love to,’ Grian replied quickly with a smile which Fidelma found embarrassing.

‘Excellent,’ returned Cian. ‘Meet me in fifteen minutes at that tent yonder, the one with the yellow silk banner flying from it.’

He turned away, leading his horse off with people clapping him on the back as he passed. He seemed very popular.

Fidelma wheeled on her friend with a scowl of annoyance.

‘How could you?’ she hissed irritably.

Grian stood unabashed.

‘Because I know you. Of course you wanted to meet him! Don’t deny it. Rather than tell me off, you should be pleased to have a friend like me.’

Deep down, Fidelma knew that Grian was right. She had wanted to meet the handsome warrior …

The memories of that meeting came and went in an instant of time, hardly more than the blink of an eye, but crystal clear in her mind.

Now, in the darkness of the lower passageway of The Barnacle Goose, Fidelma stared at the tall man, lit by the rocking lantern, and felt the conflict of emotions almost overwhelm her. She barely noticed that he was clad in the robes of a religieux. He stood in the cabin doorway, balancing himself with one hand against the doorframe, his handsome face etched in a mass of chasing shadows from the lantern.

She realised that he looked older, more mature, and yet his features had barely altered. The years, if anything, had given more character to his pleasant, handsome looks and — she hated to admit it — giving him a greater attraction.

‘Fidelma!’ His voice was eager. ‘You here? I don’t believe it!’

It would be so easy to respond to that glorious smile. She fought the temptation for a moment and finally managed to keep her features expressionless. She was relieved that she had her emotions under control.

‘It is a surprise to see you here, Cian,’ she replied in measured tone. Then she added: ‘What are you doing on a pilgrim ship?’

It was as she asked the question that she suddenly realised he was clad in brown woollen homespun, with a bronze crucifix hanging from a leather thong around his neck.

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.’