“Indeed,” agreed Artagán. “A legend then arose in the years after Palladius’s death: that relics of this holy saint were placed in reliquary; a box with a roof-shaped lid, about twelve centimeters wide by six in length by five deep. They are usually made of wood, often yew; lined inside in lead and on the outside ornate with gilt, copper alloy, gold foil, with amber and glass decoration. Beautiful things.”
Sister Fidelma nodded impatiently. She had seen many such reliquaries among the great abbeys of Éireann.
“The legend had it that Palladius’s relics were once kept at Cashel, seat of the Eóghanacht kings of Munster. Then about two hundred years ago there was a revival of the beliefs of the druids in Iarmuma. The king of Iarmuma resumed the old religion and a great persecution of Christian communities began. Cashel was stormed. But the relics were taken into the country for safekeeping; taken from one spot to another until the relics of our first bishop were taken to the islands, away from the ravages of man. There they disappeared.”
“Go on,” prompted Sister Fidelma when the bishop paused.
“Well, just think of it. What a find it would be if we could discover the relics of the first bishop of Éireann after all this time! What a center of pilgrimage their resting place would make, what a great abbey could be built there which would attract attention from the four corners of the world...”
Sister Fidelma grimaced wryly.
“Are you saying that the Abbess Cuimne had gone to the island searching for the reliquary of Palladius?”
Bishop Artagán nodded.
“She informed me that in Ard Macha, in the great library there, she had come across some old manuscripts which indicated that the reliquary was taken to an island off the mainland of the Corco Dhuibhne. The manuscripts, which she refused to show me, were claimed to contain notes of its location written at the time. The notes had been kept in an old book in the library of the monastery of Ard Macha. There were legends of priests fleeing to these islands during the persecutions of the king of Iarmuma, but surely we would have known had the sacred reliquary been taken there.”
The bishop sniffed disparagingly.
“So you did not agree with Abbess Cuimne that the reliquary was on the island?” queried Sister Fidelma.
“I did not. I am something of a scholar of the period myself. Palladius died in Gaul. That much is obvious, for most records recount that fact.”
“So this is why you thought that the Abbess was on a wild goose chase?”
“Indeed, I did so. The relics of Palladius have not survived the ravages of time. If they have, then they would be in Gaul, not here. It was hard to dissuade Abbess Cuimne. A strong-willed woman, as I have told you.”
The bishop suddenly frowned.
“But what has this to do with your investigation into her death?”
Sister Fidelma smiled gently and rose from her seat.
“I only needed to assure myself of the purpose of her visit to the island.”
On the bouncing trip back, over the harsh, choppy grey seas, Sister Fidelma sat back in the currach and reflected with wrinkled forehead. So it was logical that the Abbess Cuimne had talked about the reliquary of Palladius to Congal, the seanchaí of the island; why then had the man not been forthcoming about that fact? What was the big fisherman trying to hide? She decided to leave Congal for the time being and go straight away on landing to talk with the island’s priest, Father Patrick. He had been the second person whom the Abbess Cuimne had made a special effort to talk with on the island.
Father Patrick was an old man, certainly into his late mid- or even late eighties. A thin wisp of a man, who, Sister Fidelma thought, would be blown away by the winds that buffeted the island. A man of more bone than flesh with large knuckles, a taut parchmentlike skin and a few strands of white hair. From under overhanging brows, pale eyes of indiscernible color stared at Fidelma.
Father Patrick sat in a chair by his fireside, a thick wool shawl wrapped around his frail frame and held close by a brooch around his scrawny neck.
Yet withal the frailty and age, Fidelma felt she was in the presence of a strong and dynamic personality.
“Tell me about the reliquary of Palladius.” Sister Fidelma opened abruptly. It was a shot in the dark but she saw that it paid off.
The aged face was immobile. Only the eyes blinked once as a token of surprise. But Fidelma’s quiet eyes picked up the involuntary action.
“What have you heard about the old legend?”
The rasping voice was so pitched that Fidelma was hard pressed to hear any emotion, but there was something there... something defensive.
“Is it a legend, Father?” asked Fidelma with emphasis.
“There are many old legends here, my daughter.”
“Well, Abbess Cuimne thought she knew this one to be true. She told the bishop of the Corco Dhuibhne that she was going to see the reliquary before she left the island.”
“And now she is dead,” the old priest observed almost with a sigh. Again the watery pale eyes blinked. “May she rest in peace.”
Sister Fidelma waited a moment. The priest was silent.
“About the reliquary ...” she found herself prompting.
“So far as people are concerned it is only a legend and will remain so.”
Sister Fidelma frowned, trying to interpret this statement.
“So it is not on the island?”
“No islander has seen it.”
Fidelma pursed her lips in an effort to suppress her annoyance. She had the distinct feeling that Father Patrick was playing semantic games with her. She tried another tack.
“Abbess Cuimne came to talk with you on a couple of occasions, didn’t she? What did you talk about?”
“We talked about the folklore of the island.”
“About the reliquary?”
The priest paused. “About the legend of the reliquary,” he corrected.
“And she believed it was here, on the island, isn’t that so?”
“She believed so.”
“And it is not?”
“You may ask any islander if they have seen it or know of its whereabouts.”
Fidelma sighed impatiently. Again there had come the semantic avoidance of her question. Father Patrick would have made a good advocate, skillful in debate.
“Very well, Father. Thank you for your time.”
She was leaving the priest’s cell when she met Corcrain, the apothecary, at the step.
“How ill is Father Patrick?” Fidelma asked him directly.
“Father Patrick is a frail old man,” the apothecary replied. “I fear he will not be with us beyond the winter. He has already had two problems with his heart, which grows continually weaker.”
“How weak?”
“Twice it has misbeat. The third time may prove fatal.”
Sister Fidelma pursed her lips.
“Surely the bishop could retire an old man like that? He could go to rest in some comfortable abbey on the mainland.”
“Surely; if anyone could persuade Father Patrick to leave the island. He came here as a young man sixty years ago and has never left. He’s a stubborn old fellow. He thinks of the island as his fiefdom. He feels responsible, personally, for every islander.”
Sister Fidelma sought out Congal again. This time the seanchaí met her with suspicion.
“What did the Abbess Cuimne want to know about the reliquary of Palladius?” demanded Sister Fidelma without preamble.
The big man’s jaw dropped a little at the unexpectedness of her question.
“She knew it was on the island, didn’t she?” pressed Fidelma, not giving the man a chance to reflect on the question.
Congal compressed his lips.
“She thought it was so,” he replied at last.
“Why the secret?”
“Secret?”
“If it is on the island, why has it been kept secret?”
The big man shifted awkwardly.
“Have you
spoken with Father Patrick?” he asked sullenly.
“I have.”
Congal was clearly unhappy. He hesitated again and then squared his shoulders.
“If Father Patrick has spoken with you, then you will know.”
Fidelma decided not to enlighten the storyteller that Father Patrick had told her virtually nothing.
“Why keep the fact that the reliquary is on the island a secret?” she pressed again.
“Because it is the reliquary of Palladius; the very bones of the first bishop appointed to the Irish believing in Christ, the blessed saint who brought us out of the darkness into Christian light. Think, Sister Fidelma, what would happen if it were generally known that the relics were here on this island. Think of the pilgrims who come streaming in, think of the great religious foundation that would be raised on this island, and everything that would follow that. Soon people from all over the world would be coming here and destroying our peace. Soon our community would be swamped or dispersed. Better that no one knows about the relics. Why, not even I have seen them nor know where they are hidden. Only Father Patrick ...”
Congal caught sight of Sister Fidelma’s face and must have read its amazed expression.
“Did Father Patrick tell you... ? What did Father Patrick tell you?” he suddenly demanded, his face full of suspicion.
There was an abrupt knocking at the bothán door and before Congal could call out the young bo-aire put his head around the door. His face was troubled.
“Ah, Sister, Corcrain the apothecary asks if you could return at once to Father Patrick’s cell. Father Patrick has been taken ill but is demanding to see you.”
Corcrain met her at Father Patrick’s door.
“I doubt if he has long, Sister,” he said quietly. “Not long after you left he had that third shock to the heart that I was warning against. However, he insists on seeing you alone. I’ll be outside if you need me.”
The old priest was lying in bed, his face was wan with a curiously bluish texture to the skin.
The eyes flickered open, the same colorless pale eyes.
“You know, don’t you, my daughter?”
Sister Fidelma decided to be truthful.
“I suspect,” she corrected.
“Well, I must make my peace with God and better that you should know the truth rather than let me depart with only suspicion to shroud my name.”
There was a long pause.
“The reliquary is here. It was brought by priests fleeing from the king of Iarmumua’s warriors over two hundred and fifty years ago. They hid it in a cave for safekeeping. For generations, the priest officiating on this island would tell only his successor of its whereabouts. Sometimes when a priest wasn’t available, an islander would be told so that the knowledge would pass on to each new generation. I came here as a young priest some sixty years ago and learnt the secret from the old priest I was to replace.”
The old man paused to take some deep breaths.
“Then the Abbess Cuimne came. A very intelligent woman. She had found evidence. She checked the legends with Congal, who knows a lot save only where the relics are hidden. He tried to stop her going further by telling her nothing, little short of lying to her. Then she came to me. To my horror, she had a piece of parchment, a series of jumbled notes written in the hand of no less a person than the Blessed Patrick himself. When Palladius died, Patrick had been sent by the Pope to succeed him as bishop to the Irish. The parchment contained a map, directions which were meaningless unless one knew what it was that one was looking for, and the place one had to look in.
“Abbess Cuimne was clever. She had heard of the legends and found this paper tucked into an ancient book belonging to the Blessed Patrick in Ard Macha’s great library. She made some educated guesses, my daughter.”
“And you tried to dissuade her from continuing her search?”
“I did everything to persuade her that legends are not necessarily reality. But she was determined.”
“And then?”
“Then I was honest with her. I pleaded with her to spare this island the consequence of the revelation of the news that it was the hiding place of the reliquary. I pointed out the consequences to this community if such a thing was made public. You are a woman with some imagination, Sister Fidelma. I can tell. Imagine what would happen to this peaceful little island, to this happy little community.”
“Could the relics not be taken off the island?” asked Fidelma. “Perhaps they could be sent to Cashel or even to Ard Macha?”
“And then this island would lose the holy protection given to it by being the repository of the sacred relics. No. The relics were brought here for a purpose and here they must remain.”
The old priest’s voice had suddenly become sharp. Then he fell silent for a while before continuing.
“I tried my best to make her see what a disaster it would be. We have seen what disasters have happened to other communities where relics have been found, or miracles have been witnessed, and great abbeys have been built and shrines erected. Small communities were devastated. Places of simple pious pilgrimage have been made into places of crass commercial enterprise. Devastation beyond imagining, all the things which so repelled our Savior. Did He not chase the moneylenders and merchants from the temple grounds? How much more would He turn on those who made His religion a subject of commercialism today? No, I did not want that for our tiny island. It would destroy our way of life and our very soul!”
The old priest’s voice was vehement now.
“And when Abbess Cuimne refused to accept your arguments, what did you do?” prompted Sister Fidelma, quietly.
“At first, I hoped that the abbess would not be able to decipher properly the figures which would lead her to the reliquary. But she did. It was the morning that she was due to leave the island...”
He paused and an expression of pain crossed his face. He fought to catch his breath but shook his head when Fidelma suggested that she call the apothecary.
Sister Fidelma waited patiently. The priest finally continued.
“As chance would have it I saw the Abbess Cuimne on the path to Aill Tuatha, the north cliff. I followed her, hoping against hope. But she knew where she was going.”
“Is that where the reliquary is hidden,” asked Fidelma. “In one of the cliff-top caves at Aill Tuatha?”
The priest nodded in resignation.
“The abbess started to climb down. She thought the descent was easy. I tried to stop her. To warn her of the danger.”
The priest paused, his watery eyes now stirring in emotion.
“I am soon going to meet my God, my daughter. There is no priest on the island. I must make my peace with you. This is by nature of my confession. Do you understand?”
Fidelma paused; a conflict between her role as an advocate of the Brehon Court and that as a member of a religious order with respect for the confessional caused her to hesitate. Then she finally nodded.
“I understand, Father. What happened?”
“The abbess started to descend the cliff toward the cave entrance. I cried out and told her if she must go down to be careful. I moved forward to the edge of the cliff and bent down even as she slipped. Her hand reached out and grabbed at my crucifix, which I wore on a silver chain around my neck. The links of the chain snapped. In that moment I grabbed for her, holding on momentarily to her shoulders and even her neck.
“Alas, I am old and frail; she slid from my grip and went hurtling down to the rocks.”
The priest paused, panting for breath.
Sister Fidelma bit her lip.
“And then?” she prompted.
“Peering down, I could see that she was dead. I knelt a while in prayer, seeking to absolve her for her sins, of which audacity and arrogance were the only ones I knew. Then a thought struck me, which grew in my mind and gave me comfort. We are all in God’s hands. It occurred to me that it was His intervention. He might have saved the abbess. Instead, perhaps it was His
will that had been wrought, a miracle which prevented the reliquary being discovered. One death to prevent a great evil, the destruction of our community. The thought has given me comfort, my daughter. So I simply picked up my broken crucifix, though some of the chain was missing. Then I forced myself to walk back to the path, walk down to the beach and search her. I found her missal and inside the piece of paper that had given her the clue, the one written by the Blessed Patrick. I took them both and I returned here. I was silly, for I should have simply taken the paper and left her missal. I realized how odd it must have looked to the trained eye that it was missing. But I was exhausted. My health was none too good. But the reliquary was safe... or so I thought.”
Sister Fidelma gave a deep, troubled sigh.
“What did you do with the paper?”
“God forgive me, though it was written in the hand of the Blessed Patrick, I destroyed it. I burnt it in my hearth.”
“And the missal?”
“It is there on the table. You may send it to her kinsmen.”
“And that is all?”
“It is all, my daughter. Yet my conscience has troubled me. Am I, in turn, arrogant enough to think that God would enact a murder... even for such a pious purpose? My grievous sin is not coming forward to the bó-aire with my story. But my main purpose was to keep the secret of the reliquary. Now I am dying. I must tell someone of the secret. Perhaps God has willed that you, a total stranger to this island, should know the truth as you had learnt part of that truth already. What is the old Latin hexameter? —quis, quid, ubi, quibus, auxilius, cur, quomodo, quando?”
Sister Fidelma smiled softly at the old man.
“Who is the criminal? What is the crime? Where was it committed? By what means? With what accomplices? Why? In what way? When?”
“Exactly so, my daughter. And now you know these things. You suspected either Congal or myself of some dark crime. There was no crime. If it was, the cause was a miracle. I felt I had no choice but to tell you and place the fate of this island and its community in your hands. Do you understand what this means, my daughter?”
Hemlock at Vespers: Fifteen Sister Fidelma Mysteries Page 6