by Mike Ashley
“We shall go to see Brother Torchán,” she said firmly.
Brother Torchán was out in the garden and had to be sent for so Fidelma could interview him in his cell. He was a thickset, muscular young man whose whole being spoke of a life spent in the open.
“Well, Brother, what do you think of Sister Scáthach?”
The burly gardener shook his head sadly.
“I grieve for her as I grieve for Brother Síoda. I knew Brother Síoda slightly but the girl not at all. I doubt if I have seen her more than half a dozen times and never spoken to her but once. By all accounts, she was clearly demented.”
“What do you think about her being driven to murder by voices from the Otherworld?”
“It is clear that she must be placed in the care of a combination of priests and physicians to drive away the evilness that has compelled her.”
“So you think that she is guilty of the murder?”
“Can there be any other explanation?” asked the gardener in surprise.
“You know Sister Sláine, of course. I am told she is a special friend of yours.”
“Special? I would like to think so. We often talk together. We came from the same village.”
“Has she ever discussed Sister Scáthach with you?”
Brother Torchán shifted uneasily. He looked suspiciously at Fidelma.
“Once or twice. When the abbot first asked her to look after Sister Scáthach, it was thought that it was simply a case of what the apothecaries call tinnitus. She heard sounds in her ears. But then Sláine said that the girl had become clearly demented saying that she was being woken up by the sound of voices giving her messages and urging her to do things.”
“Did you know that Sláine was having an affair with Síoda?” Fidelma suddenly said sharply.
Torchán coloured and, after a brief hesitation, nodded.
“It was deeper than an affair. She told me that they planned to leave the abbey and set up home together. It is not forbidden by rule, you know.”
“How did you feel about that?”
Brother Torchán shrugged.
“So long as Sioda treated her right, it had little to do with me.”
“But you were her friend.”
“I was a friend and advised her when she wanted advice. She is the kind of girl who attracts men. Sometimes the wrong men. She attracted Brother Síoda.”
“Was Brother Síoda the wrong man?”
“I thought so.”
“Did she ever repeat to you anything Brother Síoda told her?”
Torchán lowered his eyes.
“You mean about Gormflaith and the child? Sister Sláine is not gifted with the wisdom of silence. She told me various pieces of gossip. Oh . . .” he hesitated. “I have never spoken to Scáthach, if that is what you mean.”
“But, if Sláine told you, then she might well have told others?”
“I do not mean to imply that she gossiped to anyone. There was only Brother Cruinn and myself whom she normally confided in.”
“Brother Cruinn, the steward, was also her friend?”
“I think that he would have liked to have been something more until Brother Síoda took her fancy.”
Fidelma smiled tightly.
“That will be all, Torchán.”
There was a silence as Abbot Laisran followed Fidelma down the stone steps to the floor below. Fidelma led the way back to Sister Scáthach’s cell, paused and then pointed to the next door.
“And this is Brother Cruinn’s cell?”
Abbot Laisran nodded.
Brother Cruinn, the steward of the abbey, was a thin, sallow man in his mid-twenties. He greeted Fidelma with a polite smile of welcome.
“A sad business, a sad business,” he said. “The matter of Sister Scáthach. I presume that is the reason for your wishing to see me?”
“It is,” agreed Fidelma easily.
“Of course, of course; a poor, demented girl. I have suggested to the abbot here that he should send to Ferna to summon the bishop. I believe that there is some exorcism ritual with which he is acquainted. That may help. We have lost a good man in Brother Síoda.”
Fidelma sat down unbidden in the single chair that occupied the cell.
“You were going to lose Brother Síoda anyway,” she said dryly.
Brother Cruinn’s face was an example of perfect self-control.
“I do not believe I follow you, Sister,” he said softly.
“You were also losing Sister Sláine. How did you feel about that?”
Brother Cruinn’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing.
“You loved her. You hated it when she and Brother Síoda became lovers.”
Brother Cruinn was looking appalled at Abbot Laisran as if appealing for help.
Abbot Laisran wisely made no comment. He had witnessed too many of Fidelma’s interrogations to know when not to interfere.
“It must have been tearing you apart,” went on Fidelma calmly. “But instead you hid your feelings. You pretended to remain a friend, simply a friend to Sister Sláine. You listened carefully while she gossiped about her lover and especially when she confided what he had told her about his first affair and the baby.”
“This is ridiculous!” snapped Brother Cruinn.
“Is it?” replied Fidelma as if pondering the question. “What a godsend it was when poor Sister Scáthach was put into the next cell to you. Sister Scáthach was an unfortunate girl who was suffering, not from imagined whispering voices from the Otherworld, but from an advanced cause of the sensation of noises in the ears. It is not an uncommon affliction but some cases are worse than others. As a little child, when it developed, silly folk – her parents – told her that the whistling and hissing sounds were the voice of lost souls in the Otherworld trying to communicate with her and thus she was blessed.
“Her parents brought her here. She probably noticed the affliction more in these conditions than she had when living by the sea where the whispering was not so intrusive. Worried by the worsening affects, on the advice of the apothecary, Abbot Laisran placed her in the cell with Sister Sláine, who knew something of the condition, to look after her.”
Fidelma paused, eyes suddenly hardening on him.
“That was your opportunity, eh, Brother Cruinn? A chance to be rid of Brother Síoda and with no questions asked. A strangely demented young woman who was compelled by voices from another world to do so would murder him.”
“You are mad,” muttered Brother Cruinn.
Fidelma smiled.
“Madness can only be used as an excuse once. This is all logical. It was your voice that kept awakening poor Sister Scáthach and giving her these messages which made her behave so. At first you told her to proclaim some general messages. That would cause people to accept her madness, as they saw it. Then, having had her generally accepted as mad, you gave her the message to prepare for Síoda’s death.”
She walked to the head of his bed, her eye having observed what she had been seeking. She reached forward and withdrew from the wall a piece of loose stone. It revealed a small aperture, no more than a few fingers wide and high.
“Abbot Laisran, go into the corridor and unlock Sister Scáthach’s door but do not open it nor enter. Wait outside.”
Puzzled, the abbot obeyed her.
Fidelma waited and then bent down to the hole.
“Scáthach! Scáthach! Can you hear me, Scáthach? All is now well. You will hear the voices no more. Go to the door and open it. Outside you will find Abbot Laisran. Tell him that all is now well. The voices are gone.”
She rose up and faced Brother Cruinn, whose dark eyes were narrowed and angry.
A moment later they heard the door of the next door open and a girl’s voice speaking with Abbot Laisran.
The abbot returned moments later.
“She came to the door and told me that the voices were gone and all was well.”
Fidelma smiled thinly.
“Even as I told her to do
so. Just as that poor influenced girl did what you told her to, Brother Cruinn. This hole goes through the wall into her cell and acts like a conduit for the voice.”
“I did not tell her to stab Brother Síoda in the heart,” he said defensively.
“Of course not. She did not stab anyone. You did that.”
“Ridiculous! The bloodstained robes and weapon were in her cell . . .”
“Placed there by you.”
“The door was locked and the key was inside. That shows that only she could have committed the murder.”
Abbot Laisran sighed.
“It’s true, Fidelma. I went with Brother Cruinn myself to Sister Scáthach’s cell door. I told you, the key was not on the hook outside the door but inside her cell and the door locked. I said before, only she could have taken the knife and robe inside and locked herself in.”
“When you saw that the key was not hanging on the hook outside the door, Laisran, then did you try to open the door?” Fidelma asked innocently.
“We did.”
“No, did you try to open the door?” snapped Fidelma with emphasis.
Abbot Laisran looked blank for a moment.
“Brother Cruinn tried the door and pronounced it locked. He then took his master keys, which he held as steward, and unlocked the door. He had to wiggle the key around in the lock. When the door was open the key was on the floor on the inside. We found it there.”
Fidelma grinned.
“Where Brother Cruinn had placed it. Have Cruinn secured and I will tell you how he did it later.”
After Brother Cruinn was taken away by attendants summoned by Abbot Laisran, Fidelma returned to his chamber to finish her interrupted mulled wine and to stretch herself before the fire.
“I’m not sure how you resolved this matter,” Abbot Laisran finally said, as he stacked another log on the fire.
“It was the matter of the key that made me realise that Brother Cruinn had done this. Exactly how and, more importantly, why, I did not know at first. I realised as soon as Sister Scáthach told me how she was awoken by the whispering voice at night that it must have come from one of three sources. The voice must have come from one of the three neighbouring cells. When she showed me where she slept, I realised from where the voice had come. Brother Cruinn was the whispering in the night. No one else could physically have done it. He also had easy access to Brother Síoda’s locked cell because only he held the master keys. The problem was what had he to gain from Brother Síoda’s death? Well, now we know the answer – it was an act of jealousy, hoping to eliminate Brother Síoda so that he could pursue his desire for Sister Sláine. That he was able to convince you that the cell door was locked and that he was actually opening it, was child’s play. An illusion in which you thought that Sister Scáthach had locked herself in her cell. Brother Cruinn had placed the key on the floor when he planted the incriminating evidence of the bloodstained weapon and robe.
“In fact, the door was not locked at all. Brother Cruinn had taken the robe to protect his clothing from the blood when he killed Sioda. He therefore allowed no blood to fall when he came along the corridor with robe and knife to where Sister Scáthach lay in her exhausted sleep. Remember that she was exhausted by the continuous times he had woken her with his whispering voice. He left the incriminating evidence, left the key on the floor and closed the door. In the morning, he could go through the pantomime of opening the door, claiming it had been locked from the inside. Wickedness coupled with cleverness but our friend Brother Cruinn was a little too clever.”
“But to fathom this mystery, you first had to come to the conclusion that Sister Scáthach was innocent,” pointed out the abbot.
“Poor Scáthach! It is her parents who should be on trial for filling her susceptible mind with this myth about Other-world voices when she is suffering from a physical disability. The fact was Scáthach could not have known about Gormflaith. She was told. If one discounts voices from the Other-world, then it was by a human agency. The question was who was that agency and what was the motive for this evil charade.”
Abbot Laisran gazed at her in amazement.
“I never ceased to be astonished at your astute mind, Fidelma. Without you, poor Sister Scáthach might have stood condemned.”
Fidelma smiled and shook her head at her old mentor.
“On the contrary, Abbot Laisran, without you and your suspicion that things were a little too cut and dried, we should never even have questioned the guilt or innocence of the poor girl at all.”
Catherine and the Sybil
Sharan Newman
We now enter the Middle Ages and who better to introduce us to that period than Sharan Newman, medieval scholar and author of the recent The Real History Behind the da Vinci Code (2005). Newman became well known for her trilogy about Queen Guinevere, but starting with the award-winning Death Comes as Epiphany (1993), she has developed a fascinating series set in twelfth-century France. This features Catherine LeVendeur, a young novice who comes to study at the Convent of the Paraclete, run by the abbess Héloïse, famous for her love affair with Peter Abelard. The series now runs to ten books. The following story brings together Catherine with another of the great women of the period, the visionary Hildegarde of Bingen.
The day was clear and cloudless, a rare gift in late autumn. Albrecht was eager to get back to work on the church for the new convent. Unlike many of the other workers, he had no fear of climbing on the skeletal scaffolds set up along the walls. He loved looking out across the river Nahe to the valley beyond. He imagined sometimes that he could see his village, where his wife and children waited for him to return in the spring.
He climbed the scaffolding with confidence. He had faith in his skill at carpentry and that of the master builder. Even more, he had faith in the visions of the prioress. Many, including the pope, admitted that God spoke to her directly. If she said they should erect the buildings at this site, so close to the river, then it was certain that it was according to a heavenly plan.
Albrecht swung across the beams of the roof, landing on the platform suspended from the far wall.
There was a loud crack as the narrow board split, sending Albrecht tumbling to the stone floor.
His last emotion was astonishment. God’s plan should not have included someone working by night with a saw.
In his palace in the city of Troyes, Thibault, Count of Champagne, glared at his granddaughter. He was trying to be patient but his bad hip was sending knives down his leg and she was being extremely trying.
Margaret opened her eyes wide in an effort to keep tears from spilling over. She fought a nervous urge to chew the end of her red braid.
“You are eighteen years old, girl,” Thibault barked. “I’ve offered to find you a suitable husband or dower you enough to enter any convent you wished. Why can’t you make up your mind?”
From a corner in the shadows, Catherine watched this trial of her husband’s sister. She longed to interrupt but knew this was not the time or place. And what could she say? Tolerant though he usually was, Thibault would not be pleased to learn that his Margaret had long ago decided upon the impossible. She had fallen in love with a Jew.
Catherine sighed. She had thought this folly merely a child’s fondness but as she grew older, Margaret’s attachment to Solomon had only deepened and now Catherine feared Solomon returned the feeling. Keeping them apart had no effect. Something irrevocable had to be done.
Margaret knew that to admit her feelings could mean death for Solomon and shame for herself. She had stalled as long as she could. She closed her eyes and let the tears flow where they would. But when she spoke, her voice was steady.
“My lord,” she bowed her head and quickly wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “You have been more than indulgent with my indecision. I beg your forgiveness. I have thought long upon this for I seem to have neither a vocation for monasticism or marriage.”
“Well, those are your choices, Margaret,” Thibault said. “Yo
u can hardly set up as a seller of trinkets in the market square.”
Since that was close to what she did want, Margaret bit her tongue before she spoke again.
“Therefore, rather than inflict myself upon a man who deserves a devoted wife, I shall become a bride of Christ and pray that He send me the grace to be worthy of Him.”
Thibault nearly cheered. “Splendid! I’ll have Countess Mahaut make arrangements for you to enter the Paraclete. Don’t weep, child. It’s close enough that your family can visit you often.”
“No!” Margaret took a step closer to him. “I love the Paraclete, but I cannot stay there. I must go somewhere else, somewhere far away.”
“What?” Catherine leapt to her feet, knocking over the stool she had been sitting on. “You can’t do that! Please, my lord Count, don’t let her leave us.”
The count gave her a look that reminded her she was only in the room on sufferance. Margaret’s choice was not in her power to change.
Thibault rose from his chair and put his arms around Margaret.
“I had thought to make the break a gentler one by letting you stay nearby,” he said. “But I agree that it might be easier for you to start your new life in new surroundings. Now, have you considered where you wish to go?”
Margaret avoided looking at Catherine as she answered.
“Yes, I want to join the sisters at the new convent at Rupertsberg.”
Thibault released her quickly. “The one that the visionary woman is building? I don’t know. The pope and Abbot Bernard seem to think well of her, but I understand she can be very difficult.”
Margaret didn’t answer. Thibault thought another minute.
“Still, she only accepts women from the best families,” he considered. “It might be even better than a marriage alliance. And, of course,” he added hastily, “Hildegarde has a great reputation for wisdom and piety as well. Yes, it might be the best place for you. I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Margaret whispered.
She left the room.
Catherine looked at the count in stupefaction. He shrugged.
