Act of Mercy by Peter Tremayne Page A

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.

Chapter Five
    Fidelma started awake, wondering what had disturbed her. It was a bell jangling, high-pitched and querulous. For a moment she wondered where she was. Then, with the movement of the ship below her, she remembered. She had fallen asleep thinking about Cian. No wonder she felt that she had been having some distasteful nightmare! Her mind had been drifting over the unhappy events of her relationship with him; they were still sharp in her memory even though it was nearly a decade ago.
    The bell continued its insistent clamour: it must be Wenbrit’s summons to the midday meal. Fidelma rose hastily from the bunk. The cat was nowhere in sight. She hurriedly ran a comb through her hair and straightened her clothes.
    She left her cabin and made her way along the main deck. The motion of the ship was not unpleasant; the sea appeared fairly calm. She glanced up. Above her, the sun was at its zenith, casting short shadows. There seemed no wind. The sail was hanging limply, billowing only now and again as a faint gust caught it. Yet the ship was moving, albeit slowly, across a flat blue sea. A few sailors, lounging cross-legged on the deck, nodded pleasantly as Fidelma passed and one called a greeting in her own language.
    She clambered down the companionway at the stern of the ship, remembering young Wenbrit’s directions to what he called the main mess deck. She followed the dim light of the lanterns and the smells of the confined space.
    There were half-a-dozen people seated at a long table in the broad cabin which stretched from one side of the ship to another. The table was placed behind the main mast for she could