Hemlock at Vespers: Fifteen Sister Fidelma Mysteries

by Peter Tremayne

  “In what respect?” Sister 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 Ui 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 “Caladchalog,” “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 kingship.

  The Abbot stuck out his lower lip.

  “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.”

  Sister Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully. What the Abbot said was certainly true. The people firmly believed in the symbolism which had been handed down to them from the mists of ancient times.

  “If only people relied on their own abilities and not on symbols,” the Abbot was continuing. “It is time for reform, both in secular as well as religious matters. We cling to too many of the pagan beliefs of our ancestors from the time before the Light of Our Savior was brought to these shores.”

  “I see that you yourself believe in the reforms of Rome,” Sister Fidelma observed shrewdly.

  The Abbot did not conceal his momentary surprise.

  “How so?”

  Sister Fidelma smiled.

  “I have done nothing clever, Abbot Colmán. It was an elementary observation. You wear the tonsure of St. Peter, the badge of Rome, and not that of St. John from whom our own Church takes its rule.”

  The corner of the Abbot’s mouth dropped.

  “I make no secret that I was in Rome for five years and came to respect Rome’s reasons for the reforms. I feel it is my duty to advocate the usages of the Church of Rome among our people to replace our old rituals, symbolisms and traditions.”

  “We have to deal with people as they are and not as we would like them to be,” observed Sister Fidelma.

  “But we must endeavor to change them as well,” replied the Abbot unctuously, “setting their feet on the truth path to God’s grace.”

  “We will not quarrel over the reforms of Rome,” replied Sister Fidelma quietly. “I will continue to be guided by the rule of the Holy Brigid of Kildare, where I took my vows. But tell me, for what purpose have I been summoned to Tara?”

  The Abbot hesitated, as if wondering whether to pursue his theme of Rome’s reforms. Then he sniffed to hide his irritation.

  “We must find the missing sword before the High King’s inauguration, which is tomorrow, if we wish to avoid civil strife in the five kingdoms of Ireland.”

  “From where was it stolen?”

  “Here, from this very chapel. The sacred sword was placed with the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny, under the altar. It was locked in a metal and wood chest. The only key was kept on the altar in full view. No one, so it was thought, would ever dare violate the sanctuary of the altar and chapel to steal its sacred treasures.”

  “Yet someone did?”

  “Indeed they did. We have the culprit locked in a cell.”

  “And the culprit is ... ?”

  “Ailill Flann Esa. He is the son of Donal, who was High King twenty years ago. Ailill sought the High Kingship in rivalry to his cousin, Sechnasach. It is obvious that, out of malice caused by the rejection of the Great Assembly, he seeks to discredit his cousin.”

  “What witnesses were there to his theft of the sword?”

  “Three. He was found in the chapel alone at night by two guards of the royal palace, Congal and Erc. And I, myself, came to the chapel a few moments later.”

  Sister Fidelma regarded the Abbot with bewilderment.

  “If he were found in the chapel in the act of stealing the sword, why was the sword not found with him?”

  The Abbot sniffed impatiently.

  “He had obviously hidden it just before he was discovered. Maybe he heard the guards coming and hid it.”

  “Has the chapel been searched?”

  “Yes. Nothing has been found.”

  “So, from what you say, there were no witnesses to see Ailill Flann Esa actually take the sword?”

  The Abbot smiled paternally.

  “My dear Sister, the chapel is secured at night. The deacon made a check last thing and saw everything was in order. The guards passing outside observed that the door was secure just after midnight, but twenty minutes later they passed it again and found it open. They saw the bolt had been smashed. The chapel door is usually bolted on the inside. That was when they saw Ailill at the altar. The altar table had been pushed aside, the chest was open and the sword gone. The facts seem obvious.”

  “Not yet so obvious, Abbot Colmán,” Sister Fidelma replied thoughtfully.

  “Obvious enough for Sechnasach to agree with me to have Ailill Flann Esa incarcerated immediately.”

  “And the motive, you would say, is simply one of malice?”

  “Obvious again. Ailill wants to disrupt the inauguration of Sechnasach as High King. Perhaps he even imagines that he can promote civil war in the confusion and chaos, and, using the people’s fears, on the production of the sacred sword from the place where he has hidden it, he thinks to overthrow Sechnasach and make himself High King. The people, in their dread of the Yellow Plague, are in the mood to be manipulated by their anxieties.”

  “If you have your culprit and motive, why send for me?” Sister Fidelma observed, a trace of irony in her voice. “And there are better qualified dálaigh and Brehons at the court of Tara, surely?”

  “Yet none who have your reputation for solving such conundrums, Sister Fidelma.”

  “But the sword must still be in the chapel or within its vicinity.”

  “We have searched and it cannot be found. Time presses. I have been told that you have the talent to solve the mystery of where the sword has been hidden. I have heard how skillful you are in questioning suspects and extracting the truth from them. Ailill has, assuredly, hidden the sword nearby and we must find out where before the High King’s inauguration.”

  Sister Fidelma pursed her lips and then shrugged.

  “Show me the where the sword was kept and then I will question Ailill Flann Esa.”

  Ailill Flann Esa was in his mid-thirties; tall, brown-haired and full-bearded. He carried himself with the pride of the son of a former High King. His father had been Donal Mac Aed of the northern Uí Néill, who had once ruled fr
om Tara twenty years before.

  “I did not steal the sacred sword,” he replied immediately after Sister Fidelma identified her purpose.

  “Then explain how you came to be in the chapel at such a time,” she said, seating herself on the wooden bench that ran alongside the wall of the tenebrous grey stone cell in which he was imprisoned. Ailill hesitated and then seated himself on a stool before her. The stool, with a wooden bed and a table, comprised the other furnishings of the cell. Sister Fidelma knew that only Ailill’s status gave him the luxury of these comforts and alleviated the dankness of the granite jail in which he was confined.

  “I was passing the chapel—” began Ailill.

  “Why?” interrupted Sister Fidelma. “It was after midnight, I believe?”

  The man hesitated, frowning. He was apparently not used to people interrupting. Sister Fidelma hid a smile as she saw the struggle on his haughty features. It was clear he wished to respond in annoyance but realized that she was an Anruth who had the power of the Brehon Court behind her. Yet he hesitated for a moment or two.

  “I was on my way somewhere... to see someone.”

  “Where? Who?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  She saw firmness in his pinched mouth, in the compressed lips. He would obviously say nothing further on that matter. She let it pass.

  “Continue,” she invited after a moment’s pause.

  “Well, I was passing the chapel, as I said, and I saw the door open. Usually, at that time of night, the door is closed and the bolt in place. I thought this strange, so I went in. Then I noticed that the altar had been pushed aside. I went forward. I could see that the chest, in which the sword of office was kept, had been opened...”

  He faltered and ended with a shrug.

  “And then?” prompted Sister Fidelma.

  “That is all. The guards came in at that moment. Then the Abbot appeared. I found myself accused of stealing the sword. Yet I did not.”

  “Are you saying that this is all you know about the matter?”

  “That is all I know. I am accused but innocent. My only misdemeanor is that I am my father’s son and presented a claim before the Great Assembly to succeed Blathmac and Diarmuid as High King. Although Sechnasach won the support of the Great Assembly for his claim, he has never forgiven me for challenging his succession. He is all the more ready to believe my guilt because of his hatred of me.”

  “And have you forgiven Sechnasach for his success before the Great Assembly?” Sister Fidelma asked sharply.

  Ailill grimaced in suppressed annoyance.

  “Do you think me a mean person, Sister? I abide by the law. But, in honesty, I will tell you that I think the Great Assembly has made a wrong choice. Sechnasach is a traditionalist at a time when our country needs reforms. We need reforms in our secular law and in our Church.”

  Sister Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

  “You would support the reforms being urged upon us by the Roman Church? To change our dating of Easter, our ritual and manner of land-holding?”

  “I would. I have never disguised it. And there are many who would support me. My cousin Cernach, the son of Diarmuid, for example. He is a more vehement advocate of Rome than I am.”

  “But you would admit that you have a strong motive in attempting to stop Sechnasach’s inauguration?”

  “Yes. I admit that my policies would be different to those of Sechnasach. But above all things I believe that once the Great Assembly chooses a High King, then all must abide by their decision. Unless the High King fails to abide by the law and fulfill its obligations, he is still High King. No one can challenge the choice of the Great Assembly.”

  Sister Fidelma gazed directly into Ailill’s smoldering brown eyes.

  “And did you steal the sword?”

  Ailill sought to control the rage which the question apparently aroused.

  “By the powers, I did not! I have told you all I know.”

  The warrior named Erc scuffed at the ground with his heel, and stirred uneasily.

  “I am sure I cannot help you, Sister. I am a simple guardsman and there is little to add beyond the fact that I, with my companion Congal, found Ailill Flann Esa in the chapel standing before the chest from which the sacred sword had been stolen. There is nothing further I can add.”

  Sister Fidelma compressed her lips. She gazed around at the curious faces of the other warriors who shared the dormitory of the High King’s bodyguard. The murky chamber, shared by a hundred warriors when they were resting from their guard duties, stank of spirits and body sweat which mixed into a bitter scent.

  “Let me be the judge of that.” She turned towards the door. “Come, walk with me for a while in the fresh air, Erc. I would have you answer some questions.”

  Reluctantly the burly warrior laid aside his shield and javelin and followed the religieuse from the dormitory, accompanied by a chorus of whispered comments and a few lewd jests from his comrades.

  “I am told that you were guarding the chapel on the night the theft occurred,” Sister Fidelma said as soon as they were outside, walking in the crystal early morning sunlight. “Is that correct?”

  “Congal and I were the guards that night, but our duties were merely to patrol the buildings of which the chapel is part. Usually from midnight until dawn the doors of the chapel of the Blessed Patrick are shut. The chapel contains many treasures and the Abbot has ordered that the door be bolted at night.”

  “And what time did you arrive at your posts?”

  “At midnight exactly, Sister. Our duties took us from the door of the royal stables, fifty yards from the chapel, to the door of the great refectory, a route which passes the chapel door.”

  “Tell me what happened that night.”

  “Congal and I took up our positions, as usual. We walked by the chapel door. It seemed shut as usual. We turned at the door of the great refectory from which point we followed a path which circumvents the buildings, so that our patrol follows a circular path.”

  “How long does it take to circumnavigate the buildings?”

  “No more than half an hour.”

  “And how long would you be out of sight of the door of the chapel?”

  “Perhaps twenty minutes.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was on our second patrol, as I say, a half-hour later, that we passed the door of the chapel. It was Congal who spotted that the door was opened. We moved forward and then I saw that the door had been forced. The wood was splintered around the bolt on the inside of the door. We entered and saw Ailill Flann Esa standing before the altar. The altar had been pushed back from the position where it covered the Stone of Destiny and the chest in which the sacred sword was kept had been opened.”

  “What was Ailill doing? Did he look flustered or short of breath?”

  “No. He was calm enough. Just staring down at the open chest.”

  “Wasn’t it dark in the chapel? How did you see so clearly?”

  “Some candles were lit within the chapel and provided light enough.”

  “And then?”

  “He saw our shadows and started, turning to us. At that point the Abbot came up behind us. He saw the sacrilege at once and pointed to the fact that the sword was gone.”

  “Did he question Ailill?”

  “Oh, surely he did. He said the sword had gone and asked what Ailill had to say.”

  “And what did Ailill say?”

  “He said that he had just arrived there.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said that was impossible because we were patroling outside and had the chapel door in sight for at least ten minutes from the royal stable doorway. Ailill must have been inside for that ten minutes at least.”

  “But it was nighttime. It must have been dark outside. How could you be sure that Ailill had not just entered the chapel before you, covered by the darkness?”

  “Because the torches are lit in the grounds of the royal palace every night. I
t is the law of Tara. Where there is light, there is no treachery. Ailill must have been in the chapel, as I have said, for at least ten minutes. That is a long time.”

  “Yet even ten minutes does not seem time enough to open the chest, hide the sword and repose oneself before you entered.”

  “Time enough, I’d say. For what else could be done with the sword but hide it?”

  “And where is your companion, Congal? I would question him.”

  Erc looked troubled and genuflected with a degree of haste.

  “God between me and evil, Sister. He has fallen sick with the Yellow Plague. He lies close to death now and maybe I will be next to succumb to the scourge.”

  Sister Fidelma bit her lip, then she shook her head and smiled reassuringly at Erc.

  “Not necessarily so, Erc. Go to the apothecary. Ask that you be given an infusion of the leaves and flowers of the centaurium vulgare. It has a reputation for keeping the Yellow Plague at bay.”

  “What is that?” demanded the warrior, frowning at the unfamiliar Latin words.

  “Dréimire buí,” she translated to the Irish name of the herb. “The apothecary will know it. To drink of the mixture is supposedly a good preventative tonic. By drinking each day, you may avoid the scourge. Now go in peace, Erc. I have done with you for the meanwhile.”

  Sechnasach, lord of Midhe, and High King of Ireland, was a thin man, aged in his mid-thirties, with scowling features and dark hair. He sat slightly hunched forward on his chair, the epitome of gloom.

  “Abbot Colmán reports that you have not yet discovered where Ailill has hidden the sword of state, Sister,” he greeted brusquely as he gestured for Sister Fidelma to be seated. “May I remind you that the inauguration ceremony commences at noon tomorrow?”

  The High King had agreed to meet her, at her own request, in one of the small audience chambers of the palace of Tara. It was a chamber with a high vaulted ceiling and hung with colorful tapestries. There was a crackling log fire in the great hearth at one end before which the High King sat in his ornate carved oak chair. Pieces of exquisite furniture, brought as gifts to the court from many parts of the world, were placed around the chamber with decorative ornaments in gold and silver and semi-precious jewels.