Hemlock at Vespers sf-9

by Peter Tremayne

  Ornait raised her chin defiantly toward her brother.

  “Well, Ornait? Why would Ailill meet with you in dead of night?” demanded the High King.

  The girl pushed back her head defiantly.

  “I love Ailill and he loves me. We wanted to tell you, but thought we would do so after your inauguration when you might look on us with more charity.”

  Sister Fidelma held up her hand as Sechnasach opened his mouth to respond in anger.

  “Time enough to sort that matter later. Let us continue. If Ailill speaks the truth, then we must consider this. Someone knew of Ailill’s appointment with Ornait. That person was waiting inside the chapel. Being a stranger to Tara, I had not realized that the chapel could be entered from within by means of a passageway. In this matter I was stupid. I should have known at once by the fact that the chapel doors bolted from within. The fact was staring me in the face. I should have realized that if the chapel was left bolted at night, then there must obviously be another means for the person who secured the bolt to make their exit.”

  “But everyone at Tara knows about that passage,” pointed out Sechnasach.

  “Indeed,” smiled Sister Fidelma. “And it would be obvious that at some stage I would come to share that knowledge.”

  “The point is that the bolt on the door was forced,” Abbot Col-man pointed out in a testy tone.

  “Indeed. But not from the outside,” replied Sister Fidelma. “Again my wits were not swift, otherwise I would have seen it immediately. When you force a bolted door, it is the metal on the door jamb, that which secures the bolt, that gets torn from its fixtures. But the bolt itself, on the chapel door, was the section which had been splintered away from its holdings.”

  She stood looking at their puzzled expressions for a moment.

  “What happened was simple enough. The culprit had entered the chapel from the passage within. The culprit had taken the key, pushed back the altar, opened the chest. The sword had been removed and taken to a place of safety. Then the culprit had returned to arrange the scene. Ensuring that the guards were well beyond the door, the perpetrator opened it, took up a stone and smashed at the bolt. Instead of smashing away the metal catch on the door jamb, the bolt on the door was smashed. It was so obvious a clue that I nearly overlooked it. All I saw, at first, was a smashed bolt.”

  Ornait was smiling through her tears.

  “I knew Ailill could not have done this deed. The real perpetrator did this deed for the purpose of making Ailill seem the guilty one. Your reputation as a solver of puzzles is well justified, Sister Fidelma.”

  Sister Fidelma responded with a slightly wan smile.

  “It needed no act of genius to deduce that the evidence could only point to the fact the Ailill Flann Esa could not have stolen the sword in the manner claimed.”

  Ailill was frowning at Sister Fidelma.

  “Then who is the guilty person?”

  “Certain things seemed obvious. Who benefited from the deed?” Sister Fidelma continued, ignoring his question. “Abbot Colmán is a fierce adherent of Rome. He might benefit in this cause if Sech-nasach was removed. And Abbot Colmán was in the right place at the right time. He had the opportunity to do this deed.”

  “This is outrageous!” snarled the Abbot. “I am accused unjustly. I am your superior, Fidelma of Kildare. I am the Abbot of Tara and…”

  Sister Fidelma grimaced. “I need not be reminded of your position in the Church, Abbot Colmán,” she replied softly. “I also remind you that I speak here as an advocate of the Brehon Court and was invited here to act in this position by yourself.”

  Colmán, flushed and angry, hesitated and then said slowly:

  “I make no secret of my adherence to the Rome order but to suggest that I would be party to such a plot-”

  Sister Fidelma held up a hand and motioned him to silence.

  “This is true enough. After all, Ailill would be Colmán’s natural ally. If Colmán stole the sword, why would he attempt to put the blame onto Ailill and perhaps discredit those who advocated the cause of Rome? Surely, he would do his best to support Ailill so that when civil strife arose over the non-production of the sacred sword, Ailill, as Tanist, the heir presumptive, would be in a position to immediately claim the throne of Sechnasach?”

  “What are you saying?” asked Sechnasach, trying to keep track of Sister Fidelma’s reasoning.

  Sister Fidelma turned to him, her blue eyes level, her tone unhurried.

  “There is another factor in this tale of political intrigue. Cernach Mac Diarmuid. His name was mentioned to me several times as a fierce adherent of Rome.”

  The young man who had so far stood aloof and frowning, now started, his cheeks reddening. A hand dropped to his side as if seeking a weapon. But no one, save the High King’s bodyguard, was allowed to carry a weapon in Tara’s halls.

  “What do you mean by this?”

  “Cernach desired the throne of Tara. As son of one of the joint High Kings, he felt that it was his due. But moreover, he would benefit most if both Sechnasach and Ailill were discredited.”

  “Why…” Cernach started forward, anger on his face. One of the warriors gripped the young man’s arm so tightly that he winced. He turned and tried to shake off the grip but made no further aggressive move.

  Sister Fidelma spoke to one of the guards.

  “Is the warrior, Erc, outside?”

  The guard moved to the door and called.

  The burly warrior entered holding something wrapped in cloth. He glanced at Sister Fidelma and nodded briefly.

  Sister Fidelma turned back to the High King.

  “Sechnasach, I ordered this man, Erc, to search the chamber of Cernach.”

  Cernach’s face was suddenly bloodless. His eyes were bright, staring at the object in Erc’s hand.

  “What did you find there, Erc?” asked Sister Fidelma quietly.

  The warrior moved forward to the High King’s seat, unwrapping the cloth as he did so. He held out the uncovered object. In his hands there was revealed a sword of rich gold and silver mountings, encrusted with a colorful display of jewels.

  “The Caladchalog!” gasped the High King. “The sword of state!”

  “It’s a lie! A lie!” cried Cernach, his lips trembling. “It was planted there. She must have planted it there!”

  He threw out an accusing finger toward Sister Fidelma. Sister Fidelma simply ignored him.

  “Where did you find this, Erc?”

  The burly warrior licked his lips. It was clear he felt awkward in the presence of the High King.

  “It was lying wrapped in cloth under the bed of Cernach, the son of Diarmuid,” he replied, brusquely.

  Everyone’s eyes had fallen on the trembling young man.

  “Was it easy to find, Erc?” asked Sister Fidelma.

  The burly warrior managed a smile. “Almost too easy.”

  “Almost too easy,” repeated Sister Fidelma with a soft emphasis.

  “Why did you do this deed, Cernach Mac Diarmuid?” thundered Sechnasach. “How could you behave so treacherously?”

  “But Cernach did not do it.”

  Fidelma’s quiet voice caused everyone to turn back to stare at her in astonishment.

  “Who then, if not Cernach?” demanded the High King in bewilderment.

  “The art of deduction is a science as intricate as any of the mysteries of the ancients,” Sister Fidelma commented with a sigh. “In this matter I found myself dealing with a mind as complicated in thinking and as ruthless in its goal as any I have encountered. But then the stake was the High Kingship of Ireland.”

  She paused and gazed around at the people in the chamber, letting her eyes finally rest on Sechnasach.

  “There has been one thing which has been troubling me from the start. Why I was called to Tara to investigate this matter? My poor reputation in law is scarcely known out of the boundaries of Holy Brigid’s house at Kildare. In Tara, at the seat of the High Kings, there ar
e many better qualified in law, many more able dálaigh of the Brehon Courts, many more renowned Brehons. The Abbot Colmán admitted that someone had told him about me for he did not know me. I have had a growing feeling that I was being somehow used. But why? For what purpose? By whom? It seemed so obvious that Ailill was demonstrably innocent of the crime. Why was it obvious?”

  Ailill started, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her. Sister Fi-delma continued oblivious of the tension in the chamber.

  “Abbot Colmán summoned me hither. He had much to gain from this affair, as we have discussed. He also had the opportunity to carry out the crime.”

  “That’s not true!” cried the Abbot.

  Sister Fidelma turned and smiled at the ruddy-faced cleric.

  “You are right, Colmán. And I have already conceded that fact. You did not do it.”

  “But the sword was found in Cernach’s chamber,” Sechnasach pointed out. “He must surely be guilty.”

  “Several times I was pointed toward Cernach as a vehement advocate of Roman reforms. A youthful hothead, was one description. Several times I was encouraged to think that the motive lay in replacing Sechnasach, a traditionalist, with someone who would encourage those reforms. And, obligingly, the sword was placed in Cernach’s chamber by the real culprit, for us to find. To Cernach my footsteps were carefully pointed… But why Cer-nach? He was not even of the age of choice, so what could he gain?”

  There was a silence as they waited tensely for her to continue.

  “Abbot Colmán told me that Cernach was a supporter of Rome. So did Ailill and so did Ornait. But Ornait was the only one who told me that Cernach desired the throne, even though unable to do so by his age. Ornait also told me that he would be of age within a month.”

  Sister Fidelma suddenly wheeled round on the girl.

  “Ornait was also the only person who knew of my reputation as a solver of mysteries. Ornait told the Abbot and encouraged him to send for me. Is this not so?”

  She glanced back to Abbot Colmán who nodded in confusion.

  Ornait had gone white, staring at Sister Fidelma.

  “Are you saying that I stole the sword?” she whispered with ice in her voice.

  “That’s ridiculous!” cried Sechnasach. “Ornait is my sister.”

  “Nevertheless, the guilty ones are Ailill and Ornait,” replied Sister Fidelma.

  “But you have just demonstrated that Ailill was innocent of the crime,” Sechnasach said in total bewilderment.

  “No. I demonstrated that evidence was left for me in order that I would believe Ailill was innocent; that he could not have carried out the deed as it was claimed he had. When things are obvious, beware of them.”

  “But why would Omait take part in this theft?” demanded the High King.

  “Ornait conceived the plan. Its cunning was her own. It was carried out by Ailill and herself and no others.”

  “Explain.”

  “Ailill and Ornait entered the chapel that night in the normal way through the passage. They proceeded to carry out the plan. Ornait took the sword while Ailill broke the bolt, making sure of the obvious mistake. They relied on discovery by the two guards and Ailill waited for them. But, as always in such carefully laid plans, there comes the unexpected. As Ornait was proceeding back through the passage she saw the Abbot coming along it. He had left his Psalter in the sacristy and needed it. She pressed into an alcove and hid until he had gone by. When she left the alcove she tore her gown on some obstruction.”

  Sister Fidelma held out the small piece of frayed colorful cloth.

  “But the rest of the plan worked perfectly. Ailill was imprisoned. The second part of the plan was now put into place. Ornait had been informed by a sister from my house at Kildare that I was a solver of mysteries. In fact, without undue modesty, I may say that Ornait’s entire plan had been built around me. When the sword could not be found, she was able to persuade Abbot Colmán to send for me to investigate its mysterious disappearance. Col-mán himself had never heard of me before Ornait dropped my name in his ear. He has just admitted this.”

  The Abbot was nodding in agreement as he strove to follow her argument.

  “When I arrived, the contrived evidence led me immediately to believe Ailill Flann Esa was innocent, as it was supposed to do. It also led me to the chosen scapegoat, Cernach Mac Diarmuid. And in his chamber, scarcely concealed, was the sacred sword. It was all too easy for me. That ease made me suspicious. Both Ailill and Ornait were too free with Cernach’s name. Then I saw the frayed cloth in the passage and I began to think.”

  “But if it was a simple plot to discredit me by the non-production of the sword,” observed Sechnasach, “why such an elaborate plot? Why not simply steal the sword and hide it where it could not be so easily recovered?”

  “That was the matter which caused the greatest puzzle. However, it became clear to me as I considered it. Ornait and Ailill had to be sure of your downfall. The loss of the sword would create alarm and dissension among the people. But it was not simply chaos that they wanted. They wanted your immediate downfall. They had to ensure that the Great Assembly would come to regret their decision and immediately proclaim for Ailill at the inauguration.”

  “How could they ensure that?” demanded Abbot Colmán. “The Great Assembly had already made their decision.”

  “A decision which could be overturned any time before the inauguration. After aspersions had been cast on Sechnasach’s judgment, his ability to treat people fairly, the Great Assembly could change its support. By showing the Great Assembly that Sechnasach was capable of unjustly accusing one who had been his rival, this could be done. I am also sure that Sechnasach would be accused of personal enmity because of Ornait’s love of Ailill. I was part of Ornait’s plan to depose her brother and replace him with Ailill. I was to be invited to Tara for no other purpose but to demonstrate Ailill’s innocence and Cernach’s guilt. Doubt on Sechnasach’s judgment would be a blemish on his ability for the High Kingship. Remember the Law of Kings, the law of the seven proofs of a righteous King? That his judgment be firm and just and beyond reproach. Once Sechnasach’s decision to imprison Ailill was shown to have been unjust, Ailill, as Tanist, would be acclaimed in his place with Ornait as his queen.”

  Sechnasach sat staring at his sister, reading the truth in her scowling features. If the veracity of Sister Fidelma’s argument needed support, it could be found in the anger and hate written on the girl’s features and the humiliation on Ailill’s face.

  “And this was done for no other reason than to seize the throne, for no other motive than power?” asked the High King incredulously. “It was not done because they wanted to reform the Church in line with Rome?”

  “Not for Rome. Merely for power,” Fidelma agreed. “For power most people would do anything.”

  THE POISONED CHALICE

  The last thing Sister Fidelma of Kildare had expected, during her pilgrimage to the Eternal City of Rome, was to see murder committed in front of her eyes in a quiet little backstreet church.

  As any citizen of Rome would have expected, Sister Fidelma, like every discerning barbarus on their first visit, was duly impressed by the immensity of the city. As neither a Hellene nor a Roman, the term “barbarian” was, however, a pedantry when it applied to the young Irish religieuse. Her Latin was more polished than most of Rome’s citizens’ and her literary knowledge was certainly more extensive than many scholars’. She was the product of Ireland’s distinguished colleges, which were so renowned throughout Europe that in Durrow alone there were to be found the sons and daughters of kings and princelings from no less than eighteen different countries. An education in Ireland was a distinction that even the scions of the Anglo-Saxon kings would boast of.

  Fidelma had come to Rome to present the Regula coenabialis Cill Dara, the Rule of the House of St. Brigid, in Kildare, to be approved and blessed by the Holy Father at the Lateran Palace. She had been waiting to see an official of the Papal household f
or several days now. To while away the time, she, like the many thousands of other pilgrims who poured into the city, spent her time in touring the ancient monuments and tombs of the city.

  From the xenodochia, the small hostel for foreign pilgrims close by the oratory of the Blessed Prassede, where she was lodging, she would walk down the hill to the Lateran Palace each morning to see whether she was to be received that day. She was becoming irritated as the days passed by without word. But there were so many people, from so many different countries-some she had not known existed-crowding into the palace to beg audience that she stoically controlled her frustration. Each day she would leave the palace in resignation to set off in search of some new point of interest in the city.

  That morning she had chosen to visit the small ecclesia dedicated to the Blessed Hippolytus, which lay only a short walk from her hostel. Her purpose was for no other reason than the fact that it held the tomb of Hippolytus. She knew that her mentor, Abbot Laisran of Durrow, was an admirer of the work of the early Church Father and she had once struggled through the text of Philoso-phoumena, to debate with Laisran on this refutation of the Gnostic teachings. She knew that Laisran would be impressed if she could boast a visit to the very tomb of Hippolytus.

  A mass was being celebrated as she took her place at the back of the tiny ecclesia, a small place which could hold no more than two or three dozen people. Even so, there were only half a dozen people scattered about with bowed heads, hearing the priest intoning the solemn words of the ritual.

  Fidelma examined her co-religionists with interest. The sights and sounds of Rome were still new and intriguing to her. She was attracted by a young girl in the forefront of the worshippers. Fi-delma could see only her profile emerging from a hood which respectfully hid the rest of her obviously well-shaped head. It was a delicate, finely chiselled, attractive face. Fidelma could appreciate its discreet beauty. Next to her was a young man in the robes of a religieux. Even though Fidelma could not see his face fully, she saw that he was good-looking and seemed to reflect something of the girl’s features. Next to him stood a lean, weather-tanned young man, dressed in the clothes of a seaman but in the manner she had often seen adopted by sailors from Gaul. This young man did not look at all content with life. He was scowling; his expression fixed. Behind these three stood a short, stocky man in the rich robes of a senior religieux. Fidelma had seen enough of the abbots and bishops of Rome to guess that he was of such rank. In another corner was a nervous-looking, swarthy man, corpulent and richly attired and looking every inch a prosperous merchant. At the back of the church, stood the final member of the congregation, a young man attired in the uniform of the custodies of Rome, the guardians of law and order in the city. He was darkly handsome, with a somewhat arrogant manner, as, perhaps, befitted his soldierly calling.