Hemlock at Vespers: Fifteen Sister Fidelma Mysteries

by Peter Tremayne

  “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 Durrow: 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.

  A solemn-faced monk strode across their path, hesitated and inclined his head. He was a thin, dark-eyed man of swarthy skin who wore a scowl with the same ease that Abbot Laisran wore a smile. Laisran made a curious gesture of acknowledgment with his hand, more as one of dismissal than recognition, and the man moved off into a side room.

  “Brother Finan, our professor of law,” explained Laisran, almost apologetically. “A good man, but with no sense of humor at all. I often think he missed his vocation and that he was designed in life to be a professional mourner.”

  He cast a mischievous grin at her.

  “Finan of Durrow is well respected among the Brehons,” replied Fidelma, trying to keep her face solemn. It was hard to keep a straight face in the company of Laisran.

  “Ah,” sighed Laisran, “it would lighten our world if you came to teach here, Fidelma. Finan teaches the letter of the law, whereas you would explain to our pupils that often the law can be for the guidance of the wise and the obedience of fools, that justice can sometimes transcend law.”

  Sister Fidelma bit her lip.

  “There is sometimes a moral question which has to be resolved above the law,” she agreed. “Indeed, I have had to face decisions between law and justice.”

  “Exactly so. Finan’s students leave here with a good knowledge of the law but often little knowledge of justice. Perhaps you will think on this?”

  Sister Fidelma hesitated.

  “Perhaps,” she said guardedly.

  Laisran smiled and nodded.

  “Look around you, Fidelma. Our fame as a center of learning is even known in Rome. Do you know, no fewer than eighteen languages are spoken among our students? We resort to Latin and sometimes Greek as our lingua franca. Among the students that we have here are not just the children of the Gael. We have a young Frankish prince, Dagobert, and his entourage. There are Saxon princes, Wulfstan, Eadred and Raedwald. Indeed, we have a score of Saxons. There is Talorgen, a prince of Rheged in the land of Britain ...”

  “I hear that the Saxons are making war on Rheged and attempting to destroy it so they can expand their borders,” observed Fidelma. “That cannot make for easy relationships among the students.”

  “Ah, that is so. Our Irish monks in Northumbria attempt to teach these Saxons the ways of Christ, and of learning and piety, but they remain a fierce warrior race intent on conquest, plunder and land. Rheged may well fall like the other kingdoms of the Britons before them. Elmet fell when I was a child. Where the Britons of Elmet once dwelt, now there are Saxon farmers and Saxon thanes!”

  They halted before Laisran’s chamber door. The Bishop opened it to usher Fidelma inside.

  Fidelma frowned. “There has been perpetual warfare between the Britons and the Saxons for the last two and a half centuries. Surely it is hard to contain both Briton and Saxon within the same hall of learning?”

  They moved into Laisran’s official chamber, which he used for administrating the affairs of the great monastery. He motioned Fidelma to be seated before a smoldering turf fire and went to pour wine from an earthenware jug on the table, handing a goblet to her and raising the other in salute.

  “Agimus tibi gratias, Omnipotens Deus,” he intoned solemnly but with a sparkle of humor in his eyes.

  “Amen,” echoed Sister Fidelma, raising the goblet to her lips and tasting the rich red wine of Gaul.

  Abbot Laisran settled himself in a chair and stretched out his feet towards the fire.

  “Difficult to contain Briton and Saxon?” he mused, after a while. In fact, Sister Fidelma had almost forgotten that she had asked the question. “Yes. We have had several fights among the Britons and the Saxons here. Only the prohibition of weapons on our sacred ground has so far prevented injury.”

  “Why don’t you send one group or the other to another center of learning?”

  Laisran sniffed.

  “That has already been suggested by Finan, no less. A neat, practical and logical suggestion. The question is ... which group? Both Britons and Saxons refuse to go, each group demanding that if anyone leave Durrow then it should be the other.”

  “Then you have difficulties,” observed Fidelma.

  “Yes. Each is quick to anger and slow to forget an insult, real or imaginary. One Saxon princeling, Wulfstan, is very arrogant. He has ten in his retinue. He comes from the land of the South Saxons, one of the smaller Saxon kingdoms, but to hear him speak you would think that his kingdom encompassed the world. The sin of pride greatly afflicts him. After his first clash with the Britons he demanded that he be given a chamber whose window was barred from ingress and whose door could be bolted from the inside.”

  “A curious request in a house of God,” agreed Sister Fidelma.

  “That is what I told him. But he told me that he feared for his life. In fact, so apprehensive was his manner, so genuine did his fear appear, that I decided to appease his anxiety and provide him with such a chamber. I gave him a room with a barred window in which we used to keep transgressors but had our carpenter fix the lock so that the door could be barred from the inside. Wulfstan is a strange young man. He never moves without a guard of five of his retinue. And after Vespers he retires to his room but has his retinue search it before he enters and only then will he enter alone and bar the door. There he remains until the morning Angelus.”

  Sister Fidelma pursed her lips and shook her head in wonder.

  “Truly one would think him greatly oppressed and frightened. Have you spoken to the Britons?”

  “I have, indeed. Talorgen, for example, openly admits that all Saxons are enemies of his blood but that he would not deign to spill Saxon blood in a house of God. In fact, the young Briton rebuked me, saying that his people had been Christian for centuries and had made no war on sacred ground, unlike the Saxons. He reminded me that within the memory of living man, scarcely half a century ago, the Saxon warriors of Aethelfrith of Northumbria had defeated Selyf map Cynan of Powys in battle at a place called Caer Legion, but then profaned their victory by slaughtering a thousand British monks from Bangor-is-Coed. He averred that the Saxons were scarcely Christian in thought and barely so in word and deed.”

  �
�In other words ... ?” prompted Fidelma when Laisran paused to sip his wine.

  “In other words, Talorgen would not harm a Saxon protected by the sacred soil of a Christian house, but he left no doubt that he would not hesitate to slay Wulfstan outside these walls.”

  “So much for Christian charity, love and forgiveness,” sighed Fidelma.

  Laisran grimaced. “One must remember that the Britons have suffered greatly at the hands of the Saxons during these last centuries. After all, the Saxons have invaded and conquered much of their land. Ireland has received great communities of refugees fleeing from the Saxon conquests in Britain.”

  Fidelma smiled whimsically. “Do I detect that you approve of Talorgen’s attitude?”

  Laisran grinned.

  “If you ask me as a Christian, no; no, of course not. If you ask me as a member of a race who once shared a common origin, belief and law with our cousins, the Britons, then I must say to you that I have a sneaking sympathy for Talorgen’s anger.”

  There came a sudden banging at the door of the chamber, so loud and abrupt that both Laisran and Fidelma started in surprise. Before the Abbot had time to call out, the door burst open and a middle-aged monk, his face red, his clothes awry from running, burst breathlessly into the room.

  He halted a few paces inside the door, his shoulders heaving, his breath panting from exertion.

  Laisran rose, his brows drawing together in an unnatural expression of annoyance.

  “What does this mean, Brother Ultan? Have you lost your senses?”

  The man shook his head, eyes wide. He gulped air, trying to recover his breath.

  “God between us and all evil,” he got out at last. “There has been a murder committed.”

  Laisran’s composure was severely shaken.

  “Murder, you say?”

  “Wulfstan, the Saxon, your Grace! He has been stabbed to death in his chamber.”

  The blood drained from Laisran’s face and he cast a startled glance toward Sister Fidelma. Then he turned back to Brother Ultan, his face now set in stern lines.

  “Compose yourself, Brother,” he said kindly, “and tell me slowly and carefully. What has occurred?”

  Brother Ultan swallowed nervously and sought to collect his thoughts.

  “Eadred, the companion of Wulfstan, came to me during the midmorning hour. He was troubled. Wulfstan had not attended the morning prayers nor had he been at his classes. No one has seen him since he retired into his chamber following Vespers last night. Eadred had gone to his chamber and found the door closed. There was no response to his summons at the door. So, as I am master of the household, he came to see me. I accompanied him to Wulfstan’s chamber. Sure enough, the door was closed and clearly barred on the inside.”

  He paused a moment and then continued.

  “Having knocked awhile, I then, with Eadred’s help, forced the door. It took a while to do, and I had to summon the aid of two other Brothers to eventually smash the wooden bars that secured it. Inside the chamber ...” He bit his lip, his face white with the memory.

  “Go on,” ordered Laisran.

  “Inside the chamber was the body of Wulfstan. He lay back on the bed. He was in his night attire, which was stained red with congealed blood. There were many wounds in his chest and stomach. He had been stabbed several times. It was clear that he had been slain.”

  “What then?”

  Brother Ultan was now more firmly in control. He contrived to shrug at Laisran’s question.

  “I left the two Brothers to guard the chamber. I told Eadred to return to his room and not to tell anyone until I sent for him. Then I came immediately to inform you, your Grace.”

  “Wulfstan killed?” Laisran whispered as he considered the implications. “Then God protect us, indeed. The land of the South Saxons may be a small kingdom, but these Saxons band together against all foreigners. This could lead to some incident between the Saxons and the land of Éireann.”

  Sister Fidelma came forward from her seat, frowning at the master of the household.

  “Let me get this clear, Brother Ultan, did you say that the chamber door was locked from the inside?”

  Brother Ultan examined her with a frown of annoyance, turning back to Abbot Laisran as though to ignore her.

  “Sister Fidelma is a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, Brother,” Laisran rebuked softly.

  The Brother’s eyes widened and he turned hurriedly back to Sister Fidelma with a look of respect.

  “Yes, the door of Wulfstan’s chamber was barred from the inside.”

  “And the window was barred?”

  A look of understanding crossed Ultan’s face.

  “No one could have entered or left the chamber through the window, Sister,” he said slowly, swallowing hard, as the thought crystallized in his mind.

  “And yet no one could have left by the door?” pressed Sister Fidelma relentlessly.

  Ultan shook his head.

  “Are you sure that the wounds of Wulfstan were not self-inflicted?”

  “No!” whispered Ultan, swiftly genuflecting.

  “Then how could someone have entered his chamber slaughtered him, and left it, ensuring that the door was bolted from the inside?”

  “God help us, Sister!” cried Ultan. “Whoever did this deed was a sorcerer! An evil demon able to move through walls of stone!”

  Abbot Laisran halted uneasily at the end of the corridor in which two of his brethren stood to bar the way against any inquisitive members of the brethren or students. Already, in spite of Brother Ultan’s attempt to stop the spread of the news, word of Wulfstan’s death was being whispered among the cloisters. Laisran turned to Sister Fidelma, who had followed at his heels, calm and composed, her hands now folded demurely in the folds of her gown.

  “Are you sure that you wish to undertake this task, Sister?”

  Sister Fidelma wrinkled her nose.

  “Am I not an advocate of the Brehon Court? Who else should conduct this investigation if not I, Laisran?”

  “But the manner of his death ...”

  She grimaced and cut him short.

  “I have seen many bodies and only few have died peacefully. This is the task that I was trained for.”

  Laisran sighed and motioned the two Brothers to stand aside.

  “This is Sister Fidelma, a dálaigh of the Brehon Court who is investigating the death of Wulfstan on my behalf. Make sure that she has every assistance.”

  Laisran hesitated, raised his shoulder almost in a gesture of bewilderment, then turned and left.

  The two Brothers stood aside respectfully as Sister Fidelma hesitated at the door.

  The chamber of Wulfstan was one which led off a corridor of dark granite stone on the ground floor of the monastery. The door, which now hung splintered on its hinges, was thick—perhaps about two inches thick—and had been attached to the door frame with heavy iron hinges. Unlike most doors she was accustomed to, there was no iron handle on the outside. She paused awhile, her keen green eyes searching the timber of the door which showed the scuffing of Ultan’s attempts to force it.

  Then she took a step forward but stayed at the threshold, letting her keen eyes travel over the room beyond.

  Beyond was a bed, a body laid sprawled on its back, arms flung out, head with wild staring eyes directed toward the ceiling in a last painful gape preceding death. The body was clad in a white shirt which was splattered with blood. The wounds were certainly not self-inflicted.

  From her position, she saw a small wooden chair, on which was flung a pile of clothes. There was also a small table with an oil lamp and some writing materials on it. There was little else in the room.

  The light entered the gloomy chamber from a small window which stood at a height of eight feet from the floor and was criss-crossed with iron bars through which one might thrust an arm to shoulder length, but certainly no more than that could pass beyond. All four walls of the chamber were of stone blocks, while the floor was well was f
lagged in great granite slabs. The ceiling of the room was of dark oak beams. There was little light to observe detail in the chamber, even though it was approaching the noonday. The only light that entered was from the tiny, barred window.

  “Bring me a strong lamp, Brothers,” Fidelma called to the two monks in the corridor.

  “There is a lamp already in the room, Sister,” replied one of them.

  Sister Fidelma hid her annoyance.

  “I want nothing in this room touched until I have examined it carefully. Now fetch me the lamp.”

  She waited, without moving, until one of the Brothers hurried away and returned with an oil lamp.

  “Light it,” instructed Fidelma.

  The monk did so.

  Fidelma took it from his hand with a nod of thanks.

  “Wait outside and let no one into the room until I say so.”

  Holding the lamp, she stepped forward into the curious chamber of death.

  Wulfstan’s throat had been slashed with a knife or sword and there were several great stab wounds in his chest around the heart. His night attire was torn by the weapon and bloodied, as were the sheets around him.

  On the floor beside the bed was a piece of fine cloth which was bloodstained. The blood had dried. She picked it up and examined it. It was an elegantly woven piece of linen which was embroidered. It carried a Latin motto. She examined the bloodstains on it. It appeared as if whoever had killed Wulfstan had taken the kerchief from his pocket and wiped his weapon clean, letting the kerchief drop to the floor beside the body in a fit of absentmindedness. Sister Fidelma placed the kerchief in the pocket within the folds of her robe.

  She examined the window next. Although it was too high to reach up to it, the bars seemed secure enough. Then she gazed up at the heavy wooden planking and beams which formed the ceiling. It was a high chamber, some eleven feet from floor to ceiling. The floor too, seemed solid enough.