Act of Mercy

Chapter Eight

It had been left to Grian to bring her the news. Grian had arrived at the tavern where she was staying and entered into her room without knocking. Fidelma was lying on her bed staring up at the ceiling. Her brows drew together in annoyance as she saw Grian.

‘I hope you haven’t come to lecture me again,’ she said belligerently, before her friend could speak.

Grian sat down on the bed.

‘We all miss you, Fidelma. We don’t want to see you like this.’

Fidelma grimaced, her annoyance spreading.

‘It is not my fault that I am not at the school,’ she countered. ‘It was Morann who interfered in my life. It was he who expelled me.’

‘He did it for the best.’

‘It was none of his business.’

‘He thinks it is.’

‘I don’t interfere with his private life. Nor should he interfere in mine.’

Grian was clearly unhappy.

‘Fidelma, I feel a responsibility for all that has happened. It was my foolishness …’

‘You need not claim that you have any rights over me because you introduced me to Cian,’ Fidelma retorted sharply.

‘I do not. I said I feel responsibility. My action may have destroyed your life. I cannot bear that.’

‘Morann destroyed my studies, not you.’

‘But Cian-’

‘No more stories about Cian. I know he is immature at times but he has good intentions. He will change.’

Grian was quiet for a moment and then she said slowly, ‘You are fond of quoting from Publilius Syrus. Didn’t he say that an angry lover tells himself many lies? The same may be said in the feminine case. Lovers know what they want, but not what they need. You do not need Cian and he does not want you.’

Fidelma tried to start up angrily from the bed, but Grian reachedforward and pushed her back against the pillow. Fidelma never knew that her friend possessed such strength.

‘You will listen to me, even if this is the last time we ever speak. I am doing this for your good, Fidelma. This morning Cian married Una, the daughter of the High King’s steward, and they have gone to live at Aileach, among the Cenel Eoghain.’

The words came out in a rush so that Fidelma did not have time to silence her.

Fidelma stared at Grian for several long moments. There was a deathly hush as she slowly took in the meaning of Grian’s words. Then her face assumed a graven look as though she had turned to stone.

Grian waited for her friend to speak, to react, and when she did not, she pressed: ‘I did try to warn you before. Surely you must have known, surely you realised …?’

Fidelma felt divorced from reality. It was like being immersed in cold water. She was left stunned; incapable of speech. Grian had warned her and she, if the truth were known, suspected — even feared — that it was true. She had tried to fool herself and deny it. Finally, she managed to articulate one of the many thoughts whirling around in her mind.

‘Go away and leave me alone,’ she cried, emotion cracking her voice.

Grian gazed at her in anxiety. ‘Fidelma, you must understand …’

The next moment, Fidelma had thrown herself at her friend, screaming, beating with her hands, scratching. Had Grian not been a practitioner of the art of the troid-sciathaigid — battle through defence — she might have been badly hurt. As it was, Grian was adept at the technique, which had been developed centuries before when the learned ones of the Five Kingdoms had to defend themselves from attack by thieves and bandits. As they believed that it was wrong to carry weapons of defence, they had been forced to develop another method of defending themselves. Now, many of the missionaries who journeyed abroad had become adepts of the art.

Grian found it easy to constrain Fidelma’s uncontrolled fury, for physical intent without control will recoil on itself. Grian soon had her powerless in one of the holds, face down on the bed.

At this point the innkeeper came bursting into the room, demanding to know the reason for the noise which disturbed his guests, his shocked eyes immediately alighting on the broken pots and chair that had been the casualties before Fidelma had been pinioned by her friend.

Grian merely shouted at him to get out and that any damage would be paid for.

For a long, long time, she held on to her friend until the fight and frenzy left her body, until the tension was evaporated and the muscles had become relaxed.

Finally Fidelma said in a quiet and reasonable tone: ‘I am all right now, Grian. You may let go.’

Reluctantly, Grian pulled away and Fidelma sat up.

‘I would prefer it if you let me alone for a while.’

Grian gave her a searching look.

‘Don’t worry,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘I shall not do anything silly again. You can go back to the college.’

Still Grian hesitated to leave her alone.

‘Go on,’ insisted Fidelma, scarcely keeping back her sobs. ‘I have promised you — isn’t that enough?’

Grian decided that the moment of madness had passed and she rose.

‘Remember, Fidelma, that you have friends nearby,’ she said.

It was over a month before Fidelma returned to Brehon Morann’s s school. The old man immediately noticed the tight little lines at the corner of her eyes and mouth. A brittleness that had not been there before.

‘Do you know your Aeschylus, Fidelma?’ the Brehon greeted her without preamble as she was shown into his room.

She gazed blankly at him and did not reply.

‘“Who, except the gods, can live time through for ever without any pain?”’

She was silent for a moment. Then, not responding to his words, she said: ‘I would like to return to my studies.’

‘I, for one, would be happy to see you do so.’

‘May I return to my studies?’ she asked him quietly.

‘Is there anything to prevent you, Fidelma?’

Fidelma raised her chin in her old gesture of defiance. She waited for several seconds before replying decisively: ‘Nothing.’

The old man sighed sadly, an almost imperceptible sigh of breath.

‘If there is bitterness in your heart, study is no sugar to dilute it.’

‘Don’t the ancient bards say that we learn by suffering?’ she replied.

‘Truly said, but in my experience the sufferer reflects on their pain either too much or too little. I fear you are reflecting too much, Fidelma. If you return, you must give your mind to study and not to the wrong which you feel that you have suffered.’

The corners of her mouth tightened.

‘Have no worry for me, Brehon Morann. I shall now apply myself to my studies.’

So she did. The years had fled by. She had gained her degree, completing eight years of study and becoming the best pupil that the Brehon Morann had produced. The old man himself admitted as much and he was someone who did not readily praise his pupils. Yet the innocent young girl who had arrived at his school was gone. Innocence and youth could certainly not last for ever, but it was the slight change of character that saddened old Morann. A bitterness had entered where there should have been joy.

Fidelma had never really retrieved her unaffected nature. Cian’s rejection had left her feeling disillusioned and violated, although the years gradually tempered her attitude. But she had never forgotten her experience, nor really recovered from it. Bitterness left a deep scar and a sense of mistrust. Perhaps that was what had made her a good dalaigh; that sense of suspicion, of questioning motives. She could penetrate deception as a diviner might unerringly find water.

Fidelma came back to the present in an angry mood.

‘All right, Cian,’ she said flatly. ‘We will speak, if you wish it.’

She made no effort to move nor make him feel at ease. Cian tried to take command of the situation by moving down the stairs as if to push her towards the mess deck so that they could sit down, but she stood still, blocking the movement. They were positioned in the small passageway between the cabins with Fidelma obstructing the doorway.

‘It has been many years since last we met, Fidelma,’ Cian opened.

‘Ten years precisely,’ she cut in tightly.

‘Ten years? And your name is now spoken of as one who has garnered a reputation. I understand that you went back and continued your studies with the Brehon Morann.’

‘Obviously. I was lucky that he accepted me back into his school after I nearly threw away my chances.’

‘I thought that you wanted to go into teaching rather than law.’

‘There was a lot I wanted when I was young. My plans changed and I found that I had a talent for discovering the truth from those who wished to hide it. It was a talent which I developed from harsh experience.’

Cian did not rise to her acerbic tone. He simply smiled as if absent-minded, pretending that he did not understand her innuendo.

‘I am glad that you made a success of your life, Fidelma. It is more than I have made of mine.’

She waited a moment, expecting some expansion, and then she saidsourly: ‘I am surprised that you have forsaken your profession to take up the religious life. Surely, of all the professions in the land, the calling of a religieux would be the least suited to your temperament?’

Cian laughed; there was an unpleasantly morose tone in that laughter.

‘You have hit the nail on the head immediately, Fidelma. My change of calling was none of my choosing.’

She waited quietly for an explanation.

Then Cian took his left hand and reached across to his right and lifted it up as if it had no power to raise itself. He held it up and let go. It fell limply by his side. He laughed again.

‘What demand is there for a one-armed warrior in the High King’s bodyguard?’

For the first time since she had seen Cian again, Fidelma realised that his right hand had always hung loosely at his side and that he did everything with his left hand. How could she have been so blind not to notice that fact before? Here she was, priding herself on her observational ability when only now she realised that Cian had the full use of just one arm. A fine dalaigh she was! She had been so filled with hatred for him that she was looking on him as he had been ten years ago at Tara. She had not seen him as he was now. She recalled that Cian always seemed to keep his right arm hidden within his robes. In a surge of instinctive sympathy she found herself reaching out to touch him lightly on the arm.

‘I am-’

‘Sorry?’ he interrupted her almost with a snarl. ‘I do not want anyone’s sorrow!’

She remained quiet, her eyes downcast. Her attitude seemed to irritate Cian.

‘Aren’t you going to tell me that a warrior should expect to be wounded? That it is one of the hazards of his profession?’ he sneered.

She was surprised to hear the self-pitying whine creep into his voice. She found it repulsive and her initial sympathy was gone as swiftly as it came.

‘Why? Is that what you want to hear?’ she countered.

Her tone drew more anger from Cian.

‘I have heard it many times from people who are prepared to let the likes of me do their dirty work and then disown me afterwards.’

‘Were you wounded in combat?’ She ignored his accusation.

‘An arrow in the right upper arm, piercing the muscles and making the arm useless.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘About five years ago. It was during the border wars between the High King and the King of Laigin. I was taken by my comrades and nursed in the House of Sorrow at Armagh. It was soon realised that I would no longer be any use as a warrior and so, when I was well enough, I was forced to enter the Abbey at Bangor.’ It was clear that Cian felt himself ill-done by.

‘Forced?’ queried Fidelma.

‘Where else would I go? A one-armed man — what work could I do?’

‘The wound is irreversible? There are some very good physicians at Tuam Brecain.’

Cian shook his head sullenly.

‘Not good enough, then or now. I spent a few years in the Abbey doing such menial tasks as much as my one good arm allowed.’

‘Have you consulted any other physicians?’

‘That is the purpose of my journey now,’ he admitted. ‘I was told about a physician in Iberia, a man named Mormohec who lives near the Shrine of St James.’

‘And you intend to see this Mormohec?’

‘There are enough shrines and tombs of saintly men in the Five Kingdoms for me not to be inspired to journey across the sea simply to see another. Yes, I am going to see this Mormohec. It is my last chance to get back to a real life.’

Fidelma raised her eyebrows slightly. ‘A real life? Apparently you do not consider your current religious calling a real life then?’

Cian gave a bark of cynical laughter.

‘You know me, Fidelma. You know me well enough. Can you see me settled as some fat frater, stuck behind the walls of an abbey all my life, or what is left of it, singing pious Psalms?’

‘What does your wife say?’

Cian looked disconcerted.

‘My wife?’

‘As I recall, you married the daughter of the steward of the King at Aileach. Her name was Una. Wasn’t that why you left me at Tara without a word?’

‘Una?’ Cian pulled a face as if he had tasted something disagreeable. ‘Una divorced me the moment the physicians pronounced my wound would never be cured and that I would be crippled for the rest of my life.’

Fidelma struggled to stop an expression of sheer malicious pleasure moulding her features. Mentally, she rebuked herself that her personal feelings intruded into another’s misfortune and yet she was still governed by what had happened to her ten years before.

‘That must have been a great shock to you … receiving a taste of your own medicine.’ The words were out before she could stop them.

Cian was lost in his thoughts and missed the last part of the sentence which Fidelma had uttered with such satisfaction.

‘Shock. Yes, it was! That mercenary little cow!’

Fidelma disapproved of his vehemence.

‘Had you not been divorced already, Cian, you have uttered one of the fundamental grounds for a wife to divorce her husband, according to the laws of the Cain Lanamna,’ she pointed out diffidently.

Cian would not be constrained.

‘I would say worse about her, if it were worth my while.’

‘Did you have any children?’

‘No!’ The word cracked out. ‘She claimed it was my fault and laid that as the grounds for the divorce, rather than admitting the truth of it, that she did not want to live with a man who could no longer provide luxury for her.’

‘She accused you of sterility?’

Fidelma knew well that sexual failings on the part of a husband provided grounds for divorce. A man who was claimed to be sterile was given as one of the grounds for divorce under the law. Fidelma hardly believed that Cian, so much the archetypical virile and lusty male, always intent to prove his masculinity, could be accused of that. Nevertheless, it seemed ironic to her that he, of all people, had been divorced for that reason.

‘I was not sterile. It was she who refused to have children,’ Cian protested with resentment in his voice.

‘But the court surely demanded and examined evidence in proof of what she accused you of?’

Fidelma knew that the law adopted a very severe line towards women who left their husbands without just cause, as it did towards men who left their wives without a legal reason. A woman who could not show evidence of just cause was proclaimed ‘an absconder from the law of marriage’ and lost her rights in society until she had made amends.

Cian made a noise, blowing air through his clenched teeth. His eyes dropped momentarily and in that gesture Fidelma knew that the courts would not have made their decision without that evidence. It sounded as if natural justice had caught up with Cian at long last. What was it her mentor, Brehon Morann, used to say? ‘Of injustice and justice, the guilty find justice the harder to bear.’

‘Anyway,’ Cian went on, shaking himself as if to rid himself of past ghosts, ‘I am glad the Fates have thrown us together again, Fidelma.’

She pursed her lips cynically.

‘Why would that be, Cian? Do you want to attempt to make amends for the anguish you put a naive young girl through?’

He broke into that old smile of charm that she had come to resent so deeply.

‘Anguish? You know that I was always attracted to you and I admired you, Fidelma. Let’s forget the past. I believed that I was doing the best for you. We have a long voyage ahead and …’

Fidelma felt a sudden icy tingle at his attempt to disarm her. She took a step backwards.

‘Enough has been said between us, Cian,’ she responded coldly.

She made to push by him but he caught her arm with his left hand. She was surprised at the strength of his grip.

‘Come, Fidelma,’ he said urgently. ‘I know that you still care for me, otherwise you would not respond with such passion. I can see your feeling in your eyes …’

He made an attempt to draw her towards him with his one good arm. Balancing on one foot, she kicked him sharply in the shins. He winced and let go with a curse.

Her features were filled with loathing.

‘You are pathetic, Cian. I could report your action to the captain of this vessel, but instead I will give you the chance to remain out of my way for the rest of the time we are forced to spend on this ship. Take your miserable little existence from my sight.’

Without waiting for him to do as she instructed, she pushed roughly by him in search of Wenbrit. There was no one in the short corridor between the stern cabins. She paused outside the one that had been used by Sister Muirgel, for she had noticed that the door was slightly ajar. There was a sound of movement from beyond. She pushed the door open a fraction and called softly into the darkness.

‘Wenbrit? Are you in here?’

There was another movement in the shadows.

‘Is that you?’ hissed Fidelma.

There was a scraping noise and a flickering light illuminated the cabin. Wenbrit had adjusted the wick of a lantern to light the scene. Fidelma heaved a sigh of relief and entered the cabin, closing the door behind her.

‘What are you doing in the dark?’ she demanded.

‘Waiting for you.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘At breakfast, I heard them speaking of you as one who has a reputation for solving mysteries. Is it really true that you are a dalaigh of the law courts of your country?’

‘It is true.’

‘There is a mystery here that needs a solution, lady.’ The boy’s voice was full of suppressed excitement and something else — a curious tension, almost fear.

‘You’d better explain to me what this is all about, Wenbrit.’

‘Well, it is about the Sister who used this cabin — Sister Muirgel.’

‘Go on.’

‘She was sick, as you know.’

Fidelma waited patiently.

‘They say that she went up on deck in the storm and fell overboard.’

‘It sounds as though you do not believe that, Wenbrit,’ Fidelma observed, judging the tone of his voice.

Wenbrit suddenly reached forward and, from under the nearby bunk, he pulled out a dark robe.

‘I was sent down to tidy the cabin after breakfast and to gather her things. This was her robe.’

Fidelma glanced at it.

‘I don’t understand.’

Wenbrit grasped her hand and pressed it against the robe. It was moist.

‘Look closely at your hand, Sister. You will find that there is blood on it.’

Fidelma held out her fingers to the flickering light; she could just see a dark stain on her fingertips.

She stared at Wenbrit for a moment. Then she took the robe and held it up; there was a jagged tear in the front of it.

‘Where did you find this robe?’

‘Hidden under the bunk here.’

‘If this is blood …’ Fidelma paused thoughtfully, looking at the boy. Now she could understand the combination of fear and excitement on his face.

‘I am saying that Sister Muirgel was ill. Before I turned in last night, I came to see her, to find out if there was anything she wanted. She was still poorly and told me to leave her alone.’

‘And you did so?’

‘Of course. I went to my bunk. But something worried me.’

‘Such as?’

‘I think that Sister Muirgel was frightened.’

‘What, you mean frightened of the storm?’

‘No not the storm. You see, when I went to find out if she needed anything, she had her cabin door locked. I had to call out and reassure her who I was before she would open it for me.’

Fidelma turned to the door-latch.

‘I did not think these doors could be secured,’ she said.

The boy took the lantern and raised it so that she could see.

‘Look at the scratchmarks. All it needs is a piece of wood, even the end of one of those crucifixes that you religieux wear, lodged here so that the latch cannot be raised, and there you have a lock.’

Fidelma stood back.

‘And Sister Muirgel had secured her door in this manner?’

‘She had. She was ill and she was frightened. It is impossible that she would have gone wandering out on deck in such a terrible storm in that state.’

‘Did you see her afterwards?’

‘No. I went to my bunk and fell asleep. I never stirred again until dawn.’

‘You were not on deck during the storm?’

‘It was not my duty to be, unless the captain specifically sent for me.’

‘So you did not see any more of Sister Muirgel after you left her?’

‘No. I was awakened by one of the religieux searching the ship just after dawn. I heard him talking to the others, saying that Sister Muirgel was missing. It was the man with whom you were speaking just now. Then I heard Murchad saying that if she was not on the ship she must have gone over the side during the night. The captain thought it was the only possible explanation.’

‘So, Wenbrit,’ Fidelma asked reflectively, ‘what do you make of it? Do you have another explanation?’

‘I say that Sister Muirgel was in no condition to go up on deck, especially not with the sea running as it was during the night.’

‘Desperation makes people do desperate things,’ observed Fidelma.

‘Not that one,’ pointed out Wenbrit.

‘So what do you say?’

‘I say that she was too sick to move on her own. The robe she was wearing has a jagged hole in it and bloodstains all over it. If she went overboard, it was not by accident.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘I think she was killed and then thrown overboard!’