Act of Mercy

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.

However, as she stretched out gratefully, there was a high-pitched squeal and something heavy and warm landed on Fidelma’s stomach.She let out a shriek and something black and furry, emitting another strange cry, leapt from her stomach onto the ground.

Shaken, Fidelma sat up. A thin black cat was sitting regarding her with bright green eyes, its sleek fur coat glistening in the rays of the sun which shone through the window. The animal uttered a low ‘miaow’ as it gazed inquisitively upon her and then calmly proceeded to lick its paw before rhythmically drawing it over its ear and eye.

There was a scrabbling sound outside the cabin door, which opened to reveal Wenbrit, breathless and worried.

‘I heard your scream, lady,’ he panted. ‘What is it?’

Fidelma was chagrined; she pointed at the source of her discomfiture.

‘The creature took me unawares. I didn’t realise that you had a cat on board.’

Wenbrit relaxed; he smiled broadly.

‘That’s the ship’s cat, lady. On a vessel like this, a cat is needed to keep down the rats and mice.’

Fidelma shivered slightly at the thought of rats.

Wenbrit reassured her. ‘Don’t worry. They never venture up near people but get below in the bilge or sometimes in the stores. Mouse Lord here keeps them controlled.’

The cat had now jumped back up onto Fidelma’s bunk, curled itself into a snug bundle and seemed to be fast asleep.

‘She seems at home here,’ Fidelma observed.

The boy nodded.

‘It’s a male cat, lady,’ he corrected. ‘Yes, Mouse Lord likes to sleep in this cabin. I should have warned you about him. Don’t worry, I’ll remove him for you.’

He started forward but Fidelma laid a restraining hand on his arm.

‘Leave him alone, Wenbrit. He can also occupy the cabin. I don’t mind cats. I was just startled when it … when he jumped on me.’

The boy shrugged.

‘You have only to let me know, if he is being a nuisance.’

‘What name do you call him?’

‘Luchtighern — Mouse Lord.’

Fidelma grinned as she regarded her new travelling companion.

‘That was the name of the cat who dwelt in the Cave of Dunmore and defeated all the warriors of the King of Laigin who were sent against him. Only when a female warrior came to fight him did he succumb.’

The boy regarded her in puzzlement.

‘I have never heard of such a cat.’

‘It’s just an ancient story. Who named him Luchtighern?’

‘The captain. He knows all the stories although I can’t remember him telling me that one.’

‘I suppose had it been a she-cat he would have called her Baircne, ship-heroine, after the first cat to arrive in Eireann in the barque of Bresal Bec.’ Fidelma mused.

‘But it’s a male cat,’ protested the boy.

‘I know,’ she assured him. ‘Well, we will not disturb Mouse Lord any further.’

After Wenbrit left, Fidelma returned to her bunk and lay carefully back with the cat curled up snugly at her feet. Its warm, purring presence was curiously comforting. She closed her eyes for a moment, and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. What had she been thinking of before the cat arrived? Ah yes — Cian. Her mouth hardened. How could she have been such a fool? Her youth and lack of experience were her only excuses.

She had imagined that Cian had gone out of her life for ever when she was eighteen years old, leaving only painful memories. Now, here he was again, and she was going to have to endure him in the restricted confines of this ship for at least a week. She felt an anxiety about her emotions. Why have this violent reaction if she had recovered from the experience of her youth — if it had not been haunting her ever since her days at Tara? Perhaps it was the fact that she had never dealt properly with the experience, that caused her to feel such anger when she saw him again.

Cian! How could she have been so naive? How could she have let him dupe her and tear her soul apart?

She had forgiven him for his behaviour several times, even rejecting the advice of her best friend Grian, who told her to forget Cian and turn him away. But she had not turned him away and each time he erred she was torn apart by unhappiness. As a result, her work as a student suffered until she was called before the aging Brehon Morann.

She could recall the scene vividly, feel those same emotions which had gripped her as she stood before her old mentor.

Brehon Morann gazed at Fidelma with stern but sympathetic eyes.

‘You have done yourself little credit this day, Fidelma,’ he had begun ominously. ‘It seems that you have lost your ability to concentrate on the simplest lessons.’

Fidelma’s jaw came up defensively.

‘Wait!’ The Brehon Morann raised a frail hand as if he anticipatedthe justifications which rose to her lips. ‘Is it not said that the person unable to dance blames the unevenness of the floor?’

Fidelma coloured hotly.

‘I know the reason why you have not concentrated on your studies,’ the old man went on in a firm, calm tone. ‘I am not here to condemn you. I will, however, tell you the truth.’

‘What is the truth?’ she demanded, still irritated, though she realised that the irritation lay more with herself than anyone else.

Brehon Morann regarded her with unblinking grey eyes.

‘The truth is that you must discover what is the truth, and that discovery must be made soon. Otherwise you will not succeed in your studies.’

Fidelma’s lips thinned as she pressed them close together for a moment.

‘Are you saying that you will fail me?’ she demanded. ‘That you will fail my work?’

‘No. You will fail yourself.’

Fidelma let out a low, angry breath. She stared at the Brehon Morann for a moment before turning to leave.

‘Wait!’

She was halted by Brehon Morann’s quiet yet commanding voice. Unwillingly, she turned back to him. He had not moved.

‘Let me tell you this, Fidelma of Cashel. Once in a while it transpires that an old teacher, such as myself, encounters a student whose ability, whose mental agility, is so outstanding that it seems their life, as a teacher, is suddenly justified. The daily chore of trying to impress knowledge into a thousand reluctant minds is more than compensated for by finding one single mind so eager and able to absorb and understand knowledge — and by using that knowledge to make a contribution to the betterment of mankind. All the years of frustration are suddenly rewarded. I do not say this lightly, when I say that I thought that the choice I had made to become a teacher was going to be justified in you.’

Fidelma stood gazing in surprise at the old man. He had never talked this way to her before. For a moment she felt defensive again: her quick mind had reasoned that the old man wanted to extract a payment for his compliment.

‘Didn’t you once say that to use others as a fulfilment of one’s own ambition is a reflection on the weakness of one’s own character and abilities?’ she demanded hurtfully.

The Brehon Morann did not even blink at her sharp retort. His eyes merely hooded a fraction as he registered her riposte.

‘Fidelma of Cashel,’ he intoned softly, ‘you have such promise and ability. Do not make yourself an enemy to your promise. Recognise your talent and do not squander it.’

Fidelma did not know how she should react to the old Brehon’s words, for they were totally out of character. He had never pleaded with any of his pupils before to her knowledge, and now she felt his tone was pleading; pleading with her.

‘I must live my own life,’ she replied defiantly.

The old man’s face became stony and he dismissed her with an abrupt wave of his hand.

‘Then go away and live it. Do not come back to my classes until you are willing to learn from them. Until you discover peace within yourself, it is pointless returning.’

Fidelma felt a surge of anger and unable to trust herself, she swung from the room.

Three months passed before she went to see the Brehon Morann again. Three long bitter months full of heartache and loneliness.