Hemlock at Vespers sf-9

by Peter Tremayne

  “Scoriath loved me, but he was a man of honor.” Irnan’s words were like acid. “He did not want to harm Iiadin nor his young son and so he told me that he would not divorce his wife. He would stay with them.”

  “That provides you with a motive for killing him,” Fidelma pointed out.

  “I loved Scoriath. I would never have harmed him.”

  “So you would have us believe that you accepted the situation?”

  “Scoriath and I were lovers from the first day that he arrived among us. My father, who was then chieftain, found out. While he admired Scoriath as a warrior, my father wanted me to marry an Irish prince of wealth. I think he was more determined that I should do so because of the fact that I was my mother’s daughter and he wanted to compensate for my foreign blood. He then forced Scoriath into an arranged marriage with Liadin. Scoriath did not love her.”

  Irnan paused and stared reflectively at the fire for a moment before drawing her dark eyes back to the graven features of Fi-delma.

  “When my father died, I became the Uí Dróna. I was then free to do as I willed. I urged Scoriath to divorce Liadin, making fair settlement on her and the child. He, however, was a man of honor and refused. He did not want to hurt Liadin. So we remained lovers.

  “Then came the news of how Scoriath and his son were slain. It was so obvious who did it and why. Liadin must have found out and killed him in jealous passion.”

  Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at Iman.

  “Perhaps it is too obvious a conclusion? We must take your word alone as to Scoriath’s attitudes. You could just as easily have slain Scoriath because he rejected your love.”

  Irnan’s jaw came up pugnaciously.

  “I do not he. This is all I have to say.” Irnan stood up. “Have you done with your questions?”

  “All for the time being.”

  The chieftainess turned and, without another glance at the unhappy Rathend or at Fidelma, strode from the room.

  Fidelma sighed. There was something itching at the back of her memory.

  Rathend was about to break the silence when the door of the hall opened and a nervous youth in the brown homespun robes of a religieux entered.

  “Is the Brehon Rathend here?” he began nervously and then, catching sight of Fidelma, he bobbed his head nervously. “Bene vobis, Sister.”

  “I am Rathend,” the Brehon said. “What do you wish?”

  “I am Suathar of the monastery of the Blessed Moling. I came to seek the return of the book we loaned to Scoriath. I was told that before I can reclaim the book, I must have your permission.”

  Fidelma looked up swiftly.

  “Scoriath borrowed the copy of Origenes’s Hexapla from your monastery’s library?”

  “Yes; a week ago, Sister,” agreed the young man.

  “Did Scoriath request the loan of this book in person?”

  Suathar shook his head, puzzled by the question.

  “No. He sent a message and asked that the book be delivered the next time someone came to the ráth of the Uí Dróna. I had to come here six days ago because the aunt of the lady Liadin was ill and requested me to bring her to nurse her. I gave the book to Liadin.”

  Rathend had handed the book satchel to the monk.

  “You’d best check to see whether all is in order,” Fidelma invited as the young man began his thanks.

  The monk hesitated, pulled out the leather-bound book, turning it over in his hands. Then he opened it.

  “Has someone made a mark on the story of Holofemes?” prompted Fidelma

  “The mark was not there when I left it,” agreed the young monk. “Also…” he hesitated. “The dark, brownish stains on the leather binding were not there before. They look like the imprint of the palm of hand.”

  Fidelma exhaled sharply, rebuking herself for her blindness. She took the book and, after a moment’s examination, placed her hand palm down over the dark stain to assess the measurement of the imprint.

  “I have been a fool!” she said softly, as if to herself. Then she drew herself up again. “Suathar, is the work of Origenes one that is popular?”

  “Not popular. As you must know, Sister, it is only of passing interest to we of the Faith because the Hebrew texts, which the great Origenes put together, are of a questionable nature, being the stories which we now call “The Apocrypha,’ from the Greek word-“

  Fidelma raised a hand impatiently to silence him.

  “Just so. Nowhere else is the story of Judith and Holofernes to be found?”

  “None that I know of Sister.”

  “Has the lady Liadin ever visited your library at the monastery?”

  Suathar pursed his lips in thought.

  “Yes. Several weeks ago.”

  Fidelma turned with a grave face to the Brehon.

  “I have finished my inquires, Rathend. I need to only see Liadin once more. The case may be heard tomorrow.”

  “Then you will be entering a ‘not guilty’ plea for the lady Liadin?” asked Rathend.

  Fidelma shook her head at the startled Brehon.

  “No. I shall be making a plea of ‘guilty.’ Liadin has been clever, but not clever enough.”

  Before Sister Fidelma entered Liadin’s small cell, she turned to Conn, the commander of the guard, whom she had asked to accompany her, and told him to remain outside the door in case he was needed.

  As Liadin rose with bright expectation on her face, Fidelma positioned herself just inside the door with folded arms.

  “I will defend you, Liadin,” she began coldly without preamble, “but only to seek some mitigation for your guilt. It has been hard for me to believe that you would attempt to use me in this evil plot.”

  When the horror of realization at what Fidelma had said began to spread across her features, Liadin opened her mouth to protest.

  “I know it all,” Fidelma interrupted. “You appealed to my intellectual vanity with a number of false clues which you thought would lead me to suspect Irnan. Above all, you relied on my human weakness, that of my long friendship with you, to convince me that you could never have done this deed.”

  Liadin’s face was suddenly drained of emotion and she sat back on the cot abruptly.

  “You learnt that Scoriath had never loved you,” went on Fidelma relentlessly. “You learnt that he was having an affair with Irnan. The crime was well planned. If you could not have him, neither would Irnan. You hatched a cunning double plot, You decided to kill him and send for me, leaving me a false trail so that I would defend you by following that trail to Irnan.”

  “How could I do that?” The girl was defiant.

  “You had discovered the story of Irnan’s parentage and it put you in mind of the story of Holofernes. You were always a good Greek scholar and decided to use that as the intellectual bait which you knew would appeal to my imagination. You checked the story in the Hexapla by Origenes on a visit to the library of the monastery of Moling. When the time was right, you sent to ask Suathar, in Scoriath’s name, to bring the book which would provide me with the next clue after you had dropped into your conversation with me that Scoriath was afraid of someone called the ‘Jewess.’“

  Fidelma paused and gazed sadly at her friend.

  “You took the book and hung it in the chamber. One unexpected thing occurred. You were overheard by Branar having a row with Scoriath. But that turned out to be no problem because, having convinced myself so firmly of your innocence, I cleverly used a trick to dismiss Branar’s information to my own satisfaction. Cleverness when used with prejudice is a formidable thing.

  “You went off to your aunt. Later you returned unnoticed to the rath and entered your chambers. There was Scoriath. He had no cause to suspect you, and you struck him from behind. Perhaps it was then that you remembered… in the row that morning you had neglected to plant the main piece of evidence needed for me to follow the trail. You had neglected to mark the passage about Judith and Holofernes. You did so then, for there was blood which s
tained the leather binding and went unnoticed.

  “Then,” Fidelma went on remorselessly, “then you went to hide in the stables and wait until Conn discovered the bodies. You appeared, pretending to have just returned from your aunt. You knew that you would be accused, but you had already sent for me and laid your false trail. The thing that was irritating my mind was the fact that you must have sent for me before the murder to allow me to reach here on time.”

  “It is not true,” Liadin’s voice was broken now. “Even if I did kill Scoriath for jealousy, there is a flaw in your arguments and one I think you know in your heart.”

  Fidelma raised her head and returned her friend’s gaze. Did she detect a triumph in that gaze?

  “And what is that?” she asked softly.

  “You know that I would not be capable of killing my own son. While you have that doubt you will do all you can to argue my case and clear me of this crime.”

  “You are right,” Fidelma admitted. “I know that you could not have killed your son.”

  Fidelma heard a movement outside the cell but did not take her eyes from Liadin’s triumphant gaze.

  “Come in, Conn,” she called quietly and without turning her head. “Tell me why you had to kill Liadin’s little son.”

  The fair haired young Tanist entered the cell with his sword drawn.

  “For the same reason that I must now kill you,” he replied coldly. “The plot was more or less as you have described it. There was a slight difference. I was the leading spirit. Liadin and I were lovers.”

  Liadin had begun crying softly, realizing the truth was finally out.

  “I wanted my freedom from Scoriath to go with Conn. I knew Scoriath would not divorce me, for he was a man of principles. So there was no alternative. I had to make you believe that he was having an affair with Irnan….”

  Fidelma raised an eyebrow in cynicism.

  “Are you telling me that you did not know that Scoriath and Irnan were really lovers?”

  Liadin’s look of startled surprise told Fidelma that she did not.

  “Then you did not know that Scoriath would have divorced you had you simply asked him? Or that he remained with you only because of what he considered was his duty to you and his son?”

  Liadin stood frozen in horror. Then she stammered: “But Conn… Conn said… Oh God! If only I had known… then all this could have been avoided. Conn and I could have been together without guilt.”

  “That would not be so, would it, Conn, Tanist of the Uí Dróna?”

  The young man’s expression was sullenly defiant.

  “You see,” Fidelma went on, speaking to Liadin, “Conn was using you, Liadin. He persuaded you to work out the plan to implicate Irnan because if I followed your false trail and could demonstrate that Irnan was implicated, or at least was a suspect in Scoriath’s death, then she would have had to relinquish the chieftaincy of the Uí Dróna. A chieftain must be without blemish or suspicion. Who would benefit from that but the Tanist-the elected heir?”

  Liadin had turned to Conn in disbelief.

  “Deny it!” she cried. “Say it is not so!”

  Conn shrugged arrogantly.

  “Why gamble just for love when one can take power as well? We laid out the plot as you have deduced it, Fidelma of Kildare. Except for one thing: I also slew Scoriath. And when the child stumbled into the room and saw me, I had to kill him as I must now kill you….”

  Conn raised his sword.

  Fidelma flinched, closing her eyes. She heard Liadin scream. The blow was not delivered. She opened her eyes to find that Liadin was clinging to Conn’s sword arm while Rathend and two warriors crowded the cell to disarm and drag the struggling young man away.

  Liadin collapsed into a sobbing heap on the cot.

  Rathend was standing gazing at Fidelma with a look of admiration in his eyes.

  “So you were right, Fidelma of Kildare. How could you have been so sure?”

  “I was not sure. Only my instinct was sure. I was certain that Liadin could not have killed her son but that weighed against my certainty that it was Liadin who set the elaborate series of false clues for me to follow, knowing how they would appeal to my vanity for solving mysteries. I was faced with two conflicting certainties. That meant Liadin had an accomplice, and in that accomplice one could look for motive. I began to suspect Conn when he willingly provided me with the next link about Irnan and the Jewess connection.

  “Poor Liadin, even when she knew that Conn had slain her child, she continued to go through with this plot for love of him. A strong thing, this blindness of love.”

  She glanced compassionately at her friend.

  “Only when I realized the width of the palm print on the book satchel was that of a male hand did things make sense. Conn, in setting the murder scene, had to make sure that Liadin had left the clue in its proper place and, in doing so, he left his own clue there. The plan needed my participation to follow the false clues. I was late in arriving here and found that Conn was looking for my coming. At the time I wondered why he was relieved when I arrived.”

  Rathend sighed softly.

  “So Conn persuaded his lover to participate in the crime, making her believe it was all for love while all the time he merely sought power?”

  “liadin is guilty, but not so guilty as Conn, for he played on her emotions as a fiddler plays upon his instrument. Ah, Liadin, Lia-din!” Fldelma shook her head. “No matter how well one thinks one knows someone, there is always some dark recess of the mind that even the closest of friends may never reach.”

  “She saved your life, though. That will stand in mitigation when she is judged.”

  “If only Scoriath had been honest with her,” Fldelma sighed. “If Scoriath had confessed his affair with Irnan and told Liadin that he wanted a divorce, she would not have been led into this fearful plot.”

  “It seems that Scoriath brought his own fate upon himself,” ventured Rathend.

  “He was probably a coward to emotion,” agreed Fldelma as they turned from the cell, leaving the sobbing Liadin alone. “Men often are. Dew vult!”

  “God wills all things,” echoed Rathend hollowly.

  A CANDLE FOR NULFSTAN

  Abbot Laisran smiled broadly. He was a short, rotund, red-faced man. His face proclaimed a permanent state of jollity, for he had been born with that rare gift of humor and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. When he smiled, it was no fainthearted parting of the lips but an expression that welled from the depths of his being, bright and all-encompassing. And when he laughed it was as though the whole earth trembled in accompaniment.

  “It is so good to see you again, Sister Fidelma,” Laisran boomed, and his voice implied it was no mere formula but a genuine expression of his joy in the meeting.

  Sister Fidelma answered his smile with an almost urchin grin, quite at odds with her habit and calling. Indeed, those who examined the young woman closely, observing the rebellious strands of red hair thrusting from beneath her head-dress, seeing the bubbling laughter in her green eyes, and the natural expression of merriment on her fresh, attractive face, would wonder why such an alluring young woman had taken up the life of a religieuse. Her tall, yet well-proportioned figure seemed to express a desire for a more active and joyous role in life than that in the cloistered confines of a religious community.

  “And it is good to see you again, Laisran. It is always a pleasure to come to Durrow.”

  Abbot Laisran reached out both his hands to take Fidelma’s extended one, for they were old friends. Laisran had known Fi-delma since she had reached “the age of choice,” and he it was who had persuaded her to take up the study of law under the Brehon Morann of Tara. Further, he had persuaded her to continue her studies until she had reached the qualification of Anruth, one degree below that of Ollamh, the highest rank of learning. It had been Laisran who had advised her to join the community of Brigid at Kildare when she had become accepted as a
dálaigh, an advocate of the Brehon Court. In the old days, before the Light of Christ reached the shores of Éireann, all those who held professional office were of the caste of Druids. When the Druids gave up their power to the priests and communities of Christ, the professional classes, in turn, enlisted in the new holy orders as they had done in the old.

  “Shall you be long among us?” inquired Laisran.

  Fidelma shook her head.

  “I am on a journey to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Ard Macha.”

  “Well, you must stay and dine with us this night. It is a long time since I have had a stimulating talk.”

  Fidelma grimaced with humor.

  “You are abbot of one of the great teaching monasteries of Ireland. Professors of all manner of subjects reside here with students from the four corners of Ireland. How can you be lacking stimulating discourse?”

  Laisran chuckled.

  “These professors tend to lecture; there is little dialogue. How boring monologues can be. Sometimes I find more intelligence among our students.”

  The great monastery on the plain of the oaks, which gave it the name Durrow, was scarcely a century old but already its fame as a university had spread to many peoples of Europe. Students flocked to the scholastic island, in the middle of the bog of Aillín, from numerous lands. The Blessed Colmcille had founded the community at Durrow before he had been exiled by the High King and left the shores of Éireann to form his more famous community on Iona in the land of the Dàl Riada.

  Sister Fidelma fell in step beside the Abbot as he led the way along the great vaulted corridors of the monastery toward his chamber. Brothers and laymen scurried quietly hither and thither through the corridors, heads bowed, intent on their respective classes or devotions. There were four faculties of learning at Dur-row: theology, medicine, law and the liberal arts.

  It was midmorning, halfway between the first Angelus bell and the summons of the noonday Angelus. Fidelma had been up before dawn and had traveled fifteen miles to reach Durrow on horseback, the ownership of a horse being a privilege accorded only to her rank as a representative of the Brehon Court.