“The bedchamber door was barred with two wooden bars. They were usually placed on iron rests which are attached to the frame of the door. When I examined the first wooden bar I observed that at either end there were two pieces of twine wrapped around it as if to protect the wood when it is placed in the iron rests. Yet on the second wooden bar, the curiosity was that the twine had two lengths of four feet still loose. Each end of the twine had been frayed and charred.”
She grimaced and repeated herself.
“A curiosity. Then I noticed that there was a rail at the top of the door on which a heavy woollen curtain could be drawn across the door when closed in order to prevent a draught. It was, of course, impossible to see whether the curtain had been drawn or not once the room was broken into, for the inward movement of the door would have swept the curtain aside on its rail.”
Eadred made a gesture of impatience.
“Where is this explanation leading?”
“Patience, and I will tell you. I spotted two small spots of grease on the ground on either side of the door. As I bent to examine these spots of grease I saw two nails fixed into the wood about three inches from the ground. There were two short pieces of twine still tied on these nails and the ends were frayed and blackened. It was then I realized just how the assassin had left the room and left one of the bars in place.”
“One?” demanded Abbot Laisran, leaning forward on his seat, his face eager.
Fidelma nodded.
“Only one was really needed to secure the door from the inside. The first bar, that at three feet from the bottom of the door, had not been set in place. There were no marks on the bar and its twine protection was intact, nor had the iron rests been wrenched away from the doorjamb when Ultan forced the door. Therefore, the conclusion was that this bar was not in place. Only the second bar, that which rested across the top of the door, about two feet from the top, had been in place.”
“Go on,” instructed Laisran when she paused again.
“Having killed Wulfstan, the assassin was already prepared. He undid the twine on both ends of the wooden bar and threaded it around the wooden curtain rail across the top of the door. He set in place-or had already placed during the day, when the chamber was open-two nails. Then he raised the wooden bar to the level of the curtain rail. He secured it there by tying the ends of the twine to the nails at ground level. This construction allowed him to leave the room.”
Laisran gestured with impatience.
“Yes, but how could he have manipulated the twine to lower the bar in place?”
“Simply. He took two reed candles and as he went to leave, he placed a candle under either piece of the string near the ground. He took a piece of paper and lit it from his tinder box-I found the ashes of the paper on the floor of the chamber, where he had to drop it. He lit the two reed candles, on either side of the door under the twine. Then he left quickly. The twine eventually burned through, releasing the bar, which dropped neatly into place in the iron rests. It had, remember, only two feet to drop. The candles continued to bum until they became mere spots of grease, almost unnoticeable, except I slipped on one. But the result was that we were left with a mystery. A room locked on the inside with a corpse. Sorcery? No. Planning by a devious mind.”
“So what happened then?” Talorgen encouraged, breaking the spellbound silence.
“The assassin left the room, as I have described. He wanted to create this illusion of mystery because the person he wished to implicate was one he felt his countrymen would believe to be a barbaric sorcerer. As I indicated, he wished to place suspicion on you, Talorgen. He left the room and talked to someone outside Wulfstan’s bedchamber for a while. Then they heard the bar drop into place and that was the assassin’s alibi, because it was clear that they had heard Wulfstan, still alive, slide the bar to lock his chamber door.”
Raedwald was frowning as it seemed he struggled to follow her reasoning.
“You have given an excellent reconstruction,” he said slowly. “But it is only a hypothesis. It remains only a hypothesis unless you name the assassin and his motive.”
Sister Fidelma smiled softly.
“Very well. I was, of course, coming to that.”
She turned and let her gaze pass over their upraised faces as they watched her. Then she let her gaze rest on the haughty features of the thane of Andredswald.
Eadred interpreted her gaze as accusation and was on his feet before she had said a word, his face scowling in anger.
Ultan, the steward, moved swiftly across the room to stand before Sister Fidelma, in anticipation lest Eadred let his emotions, which were clearly visible on his angry features, overcome him.
“You haven’t told us the motive,” Dagobert the Frank said softly. “Why would the thane of Andredswald murder his own cousin and prince?”
Sister Fidelma continued to stare at the arrogant Saxon.
“I have not yet said that the thane of Andredswald is the assassin,” she said softly. “But as for motive, the motive is the very laws of the Saxon society, which, thanks be to God, are not our laws.”
Abbot Laisran was frowning.
“Explain, Fidelma. I do not understand.”
“A Saxon prince succeeds to the kingship by primogeniture. The eldest son inherits.”
Dagobert nodded impatiently. “That is also so with our Frankish succession. But how does this provide the motive for Wulfstan’s murder?”
“Two days ago a messenger from the kingdom of the South Saxons arrived here. His message was for Wulfstan. I discovered what his message was.”
“How?” demanded Raedwald. “Royal messengers have their tongues cut out to prevent them revealing such secrets.”
Fidelma grinned.
“So you told me. Fortunately this poor man was taught to write by Diciul, the missionary of Éireann who brought Christianity and learning to your country of the South Saxons.”
“What was the message?” asked Laisran.
“Wulfstan’s father had died, another victim of the yellow plague. Wulfstan was now king of the South Saxons and urged to return home at once.”
She glanced at Raedwald.
The big Saxon nodded silently in agreement.
“You admitted that much to me when I questioned you, Raedwald,” went on Fidelma. “When I asked you if you liked Wulfstan you answered that it was not up to you to like or dislike your appointed king. A slip of the tongue, but it alerted me to the possible motive.”
Raedwald said nothing.
“In such a barbaric system of succession, where the order of birth is the only criterion for claiming an inheritance or kingdom, there are no safeguards. In Éireann, as among our cousins in Britain, a chieftain or king not only has to be of a bloodline but has to be elected by the derbhfine of his family. Without such a safeguard it becomes obvious to me that only the death of a predecessor removes the obstacles of the aspirant to the throne.”
Raedwald pursed his lips and said softly: “This is so.”
“And, with Wulfstan’s death, Eadred will now succeed to the kingship?”
“Yes.”
Eadred’s face was livid with anger.
“I did not kill Wulfstan!”
Sister Fidelma turned and stared deeply into his eyes.
“I believe you, for Raedwald is the assassin,” she said calmly.
Finan made a grab at Raedwald as the muscular Saxon thane sought desperately to escape from the room. Dagobert leapt forward together with Ultan, the steward, to help restrain the struggling man. When the thane of Staeningum had been overpowered, Sister Fidelma turned to the others.
“I said that the assassin had a devious mind. Yet in the attempt to lead false trails, Raedwald overexcelled himself and brought suspicion down on him. In trying to implicate Talorgen, Raedwald made a mistake and caused confusion by thinking the kerchief to be Talorgen’s. It bore Dagobert’s motto in Latin. Raedwald has no Latin and so did not spot his mistake. This also ruled out Eadred from sus
picion, as Eadred knew Latin to the degree that he could recognize Dagobert’s motto.”
She settled her gaze on Eadred.
“If you had also been slain, then Raedwald was next in line to the kingship, was he not?”
Eadred made an affirmative gesture.
“But…”
“Raedwald was going to implicate you as the assassin and then show how you tried to put the blame on Talorgen. He would have either had you tried for murder under our law or, if all else failed… I doubt whether you would have returned safely to the land of the South Saxons. Perhaps you might have fallen over-board on the sea voyage. Whichever way, both Wulfstan and you would have been removed from the succession, leaving it clear for Raedwald to claim the throne.”
Eadred shook his head wonderingly. His voice was tinged with reluctant admiration.
“Never would I have suspected that a woman possessed such a meticulous mind to unravel the deviousness of this treachery in the way that you have done. I shall look upon your office with a new perspective.”
Eadred turned abruptly to the Abbot Laisran.
“I and my men will depart now for we must return to my country. With your permission, Abbot, I shall take Raedwald with me as my prisoner. He will stand trial according to our laws and his punishment will be prescribed by them.”
Abbot Laisran inclined his head in agreement.
Eadred moved to the door, and as he did so, his eyes caught sight of Talorgen of Rheged.
“Well, welisc. It seems I owe you an apology for wrongly accusing you of the murder of Wulfstan. I so apologize.”
Talorgen slowly stood up, his face trying to control his surprise.
“Your apology is accepted, Saxon.”
Eadred paused and then he frowned.
“The apology notwithstanding, there can never be peace between us, welisc!”
Talorgen sniffed. “The day such a peace will come is when you and your Saxon hordes depart from the shores of Britain and return to the land whence you came.”
Eadred stiffened, his hand going to his waist, then he paused and relaxed and almost smiled.
“Well said, welisc. It will never be peace!”
He strode from the room with Ultan and Dagobert leading Raed-wald after him.
Talorgen turned and smiled briefly toward Sister Fidelma.
“Truly, there are wise judges among the Brehons of Ireland.”
Then he, too, was gone. Finan, the professor of law, hesitated a moment.
“Truly, now I know why your reputation is great, Fidelma of Kildare.”
Sister Fidelma gave a small sigh as he left.
“Well, Fidelma,” Abbot Laisran smiled in satisfaction, reaching for a jug of wine, “it seems that I have provided you with some diversion on your pilgrimage to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Ard Macha.”
Sister Fidelma responded to the rotund Abbot’s wry expression.
“A diversion, yes. Though I would have preferred something of a more pleasant nature to have occupied my time.”
THE HIGH KING’S SWORD
“God’s curse is upon this land,” sighed the Abbot Colmán, spiritual advisor to the Great Assembly of the chieftains of the five kingdoms of Ireland.
Walking at his side through the grounds of the resplendent palace of Tara, the seat of the High Kings of Ireland, was a tall woman, clad in the robes of a religieuse, her hands folded demurely before her. Even at a distance one could see that her costume did not seem to suit her for it scarcely hid the attractiveness of her youthful, well-proportioned figure. Rebellious strands of red hair crept from beneath her habit adding to the allure of her pale fresh face and piercing green eyes. Her cheeks dimpled and there was a scarcely concealed humor behind her enforced solemnity which hinted at a joy in living rather than being weighted down by the somber pensiveness of religious life.
“When man blames God for cursing him, it is often to disguise the fact that he is responsible for his own problems,” Sister Fi-delma replied softly.
The Abbot, a thick-set and ruddy-faced man in his mid-fifties, frowned and glanced at the young woman at his side. Was she rebuking him?
“Man is hardly responsible for the terrible Yellow Plague that has swept through this land,” replied Colmán, his voice heavy with irritation. “Why, is it reported that one third of our population has been carried off by its venomousness. It has spared neither abbot, bishop nor lowly priest.”
“Nor even High Kings,” added Sister Fldelma, pointedly.
The official mourning for the brothers Blathmac and Diarmuid, joint High Kings of Ireland, who had died within days of each other from the terrors of the Yellow Plague, had ended only one week before.
“Surely, then, a curse of God?” repeated the Abbot, his jaw set firmly, waiting for Sister Fidelma to contradict him.
Wisely, she decided to remain silent. The Abbot was obviously in no mood to discuss the semantics of theology.
“It is because of these events that I have asked you to come to Tara,” the Abbot went on, as he preceded her into the chapel of the Blessed Patrick, which had been built next to the High King’s palace. Sister Fidelma followed the Abbot into the gloomy, incensed-sweetened atmosphere of the chapel, dropping to one knee and genuflecting to the altar before she followed him to the sacristy. He settled his stocky figure into a leather chair and motioned for her to be seated.
She settled herself and waited expectantly.
“I have sent, for you, Sister Fidelma, because you are an advocate, a dálaigh, of the Brehon courts, and therefore knowledgeable in law.”
Sister Fidelma contrived to shrug modestly while holding herself in repose.
“It is true that I have studied eight years with the Brehon Mor-ann, may his soul rest in peace, and I am qualified to the level of Anruth.”
The Abbot pursed his lips. He had not yet recovered from his astonishment at his first meeting with this young woman who was so highly qualified in law, and held a degree which demanded respect from the highest in the land. She was only one step below an Ollamh who could even sit in the presence of the High King himself. The Abbot felt awkward as he faced Sister Fidelma of Kildare. While he was her superior in religious matters, he, too, had to defer to the social standing and legal authority which she possessed as a dálaigh of the Brehon Court of Ireland.
“I have been told of your qualification and standing, Sister Fi-delma. But, apart from your knowledge and authority, I have also been told that you possess an unusual talent for solving puzzles.”
“Whoever has told you that flatters me. I have helped to clarify some problems. And what little talent I have in that direction is at your service.”
Sister Fidelma gazed with anticipation at the Abbot as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“For many years our country has enjoyed prosperity under the joint High Kingship of Blathmac and Diarmuid. Therefore their deaths, coming within days of one another, must be viewed as a tragedy.”
Sister Fidelma raised an eyebrow.
“Is there anything suspicious about their deaths? Is that why you have asked me here?”
The Abbot shook his head hurriedly.
“No. Their deaths were but human submission to the fearsome Yellow Plague which all dread and none can avoid once it has marked them. It is God’s will.”
The Abbot seemed to pause waiting for some comment but, when Sister Fidelma made none, he continued.
“No, Sister, there is nothing suspicious about the deaths of Blathmac and Diarmuid. The problem arises with their successor to the kingship.”
Sister Fidelma frowned.
“But I thought that the Great Assembly had decided that Sech-nasach, the son of Blathmac, would become High King?”
“That was the decision of the provincial kings and chieftains of Ireland,” agreed the Abbot. “But Sechnasach has not yet been inaugurated on the sacred Stone of Destiny.” He hesitated. “Do you know your Law of Kings?”
“In what respect?” Sist
er Fidelma countered, wondering where the question was leading.
“That part relating to the seven proofs of a righteous king.”
“The Law of the Brehons states that there are seven proofs of the righteous king,” recited Sister Fidelma dutifully. “That he be approved by the Great Assembly. That he accept the Faith of the One True God. That he hold sacred the symbols of his office and swear fealty on them. That he rule by the Law of the Brehons and his judgment be firm and just and beyond reproach. That he promote the commonwealth of the people. That he must never command his warriors in an unjust war-”
The Abbot held up his hand and interrupted.
“Yes, yes. You know the law. The point is that Sechnasach cannot be inaugurated because the great sword of the Uí Néill, the ’Caladchalog,’ which was said to have been fashioned in the time of the ancient mist by the smith-god Gobhainn, has been stolen.”
Sister Fidelma raised her head, lips slightly parted in surprise.
The ancient sword of the Uí Néill was one of the potent symbols of the High Kingship. Legend had it that it had been given by the smith-god to the hero Fergus Mac Roth in the time of the ancient ones, and then passed down to Niall of the Nine Hostages, whose descendants had become the Uí Néill kings of Ireland. For centuries now the High Kings had been chosen from either the sept of the northern Uí Néill or from the southern Uí Néill. The “Calad-chalog,” ” the hard dinter,” was a magical, mystical sword, by which the people recognized their righteous ruler. All High Kings had to swear fealty on it at their inauguration and carry it on all state occasions as the visible symbol of their authority and king-ship.
The Abbot stuck out his lower Up.
“In these days, when our people go in fear from the ravages of the plague, they need comfort and distraction. If it was known throughout the land that the new High King could not produce his sword of office on which to swear his sacred oath of kingship then apprehension and terror would seize the people. It would be seen as an evil omen at the start of Sechnasach’s rule. There would be chaos and panic. Our people cling fiercely to the ancient ways and traditions but, particularly at this time, they need solace and stability.”
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