He ran as if to embrace Terentius and then seemed to freeze in mid-stride. It was clearly not meant to happen but the young deacon had inadvertently run forward onto the sword which the custos had been holding defensively in front of him. Tullius gave a gurgling cry, blood gushed from his mouth and he fell forward.
Enodoc reached forward and snatched the sword from the guard’s hand. There was no struggle. The custos stood frozen in shock, staring down at the body of his friend.
“But I did it for you, Tullius!” he wailed, suddenly sinking to his knees and reaching for the hand of the corpse. “I did it for you.”
A short time later Fidelma sat with Father Cornelius and Abbot Miseno.
“I was not sure whether Tullius and Terentius had planned this together, or even whether you might be part of the plan yourself, Abbot Miseno,” she said.
Miseno looked pained.
“I might be a fool, one of ill judgment, but I am not a murderer, Sister.”
“How did you realize that Terentius was the murderer?” demanded Father Cornelius. “I cannot understand this.”
“Firstly, the motive. It was easy to eliminate the fact that Docco was an intended victim. There were too many improbables, too many coincidences had to happen to ensure that the Gaul was the first and only victim. So I had to look for another motive. That motive was not so obscure and, as I said, it was Abbot Miseno’s interpretation of the fact of transubstantiation which gave me a clue. The motive was to discredit you, Father Cornelius. Who would benefit from that? Obviously Tullius the deacon.”
“So why did you think Tullius was innocent?”
“Because if he had been involved, then he would have given himself a better alibi for, it appeared at first, only he had the opportunity to poison the wine. Then I learnt that Tullius had a male lover. It became clear that it was Terentius, the custos.”
“Yes, but what made you so sure he was the murderer?”
“He was the only other person with opportunity. And, most importantly, he lied. He said that he had entered the church by the main doors just before the Gaulish seaman. He also told me that he had been coming along the street and saw you both quarreling on the path to the sacristy.”
“Well that was no lie, we were arguing,” Miseno confirmed.
“Surely, you were. But the sacristy, where that argument took place, as Enodoc told me, is entered by a path on the other side of this church. You have to walk a long way round to enter the main doors. Enodoc didn’t have time to do so, so he blundered through the sacristy into the church.”
“I do not follow.”
“If Terentius had seen you both arguing then he was on the path outside the sacristy and therefore he was on the far side of the building. What was he doing there? Why did he not come through the sacristy, like Enodoc, knowing the service was about to start? He had been there enough times with Tullius. No, he came in through the main doors.
“He had seen your quarrel and gone to the sacristy door. Watching through the window, he waited until he saw Tullius take the bread into the ecclesia; then he slipped in and poisoned the wine and left, hurrying round the church to come in by the main doors and thus giving himself an alibi.”
“And he did this terrible deed purely in order to help Tullius become priest here?” asked Miseno, amazed.
“Yes. He had reasoned out that it did not matter who was killed by the poison, the end result was that you would believe that Cornelius was not fit to be a priest because the transubstantiation had not happened. That would ensure Tullius became priest here. That plan nearly succeeded. Love makes people do insane things, Miseno. Doesn’t Publilius Syrus say: amare et sapere vix deo conceditur? Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time.”
Miseno nodded. “Amantes sunt amentes, ” he agreed. “Lovers are not sane.”
Fidelma shook her head sorrowfully.
“It was a sad and unnecessary death. More importantly, Abbot Miseno, it is, to my mind, a warning of the dangers of believing that what was meant as symbolism is, in fact, a reality.”
“There we will have to differ on our theology, Fidelma,” sighed Miseno. “But our Faith is broad enough to encompass differences. If it is not—then it will surely perish.”
“Sol lucet omnibus, Fidelma replied softly, with just a touch of cynicism. ”The sun shines for everyone.”
HOLY BLOOD
“Sister Fidelma! How came you here?”
The Abbess Ballgel, standing at the gate of the Abbey of Nivelles, stared at the dusty figure of the young religieuse with open-mouthed surprise.
“I am returning home to Kildare, Ballgel,” replied the tall, slimly built figure, a broad smile of greeting on her travel-stained features. “I have been in Rome awhile and where else should I come when passing through the land of the Franks on my way to the coast?”
To the surprise of two elderly religieuse standing just behind the Abbess, the Abbess Ballgel and Sister Fidelma threw their arms around one another and hugged each other with unconcealed joy.
“It is a long time,” observed the Abbess Ballgel.
“Indeed, a long time. I have not seen you since you departed Kildare and left the shores of Éireann to come to this place. Now I am told that you are the Abbess.”
“The community elected me to that honor.”
Sister Fidelma became aware that the two sisters who accompanied the Abbess were fretting impatiently. She was surprised at their grim faces and anxiety. Abbess Ballgel caught her swift examination of her companions. The group had been leaving the abbey when Fidelma had come upon them.
“I am afraid that you have chosen a bad moment to arrive, Fidelma. We are on our way to the Forest of Seneffe, a little way down the road there. You didn’t come by that route, did you?”
Fidelma shook her head.
“No. I came over the hills from Namur where I arrived by boat along the river.”
“Ah!” The Abbess looked serious and then she forced a smile. “Go in and accept our hospitality, Fidelma. I hope to be back before nightfall and then we will talk and catch up on each other’s news.”
Fidelma drew her brows together, sensing a preoccupation in the Abbess’s voice and manner.
“What is the matter?” she demanded. “There is something vexing you.”
Ballgel grimaced.
“You had ever a keen eye, Fidelma. A report has just arrived that one of our Sisters has been found murdered in the Forest of Seneffe and another member of our community is missing. We are hurrying there now to discover the truth of this report. So go and rest yourself from your travels and I will join you later.”
Fidelma shook her head quickly.
“Mother Abbess,” she said softly, “it has been a long time and perhaps you have forgotten. I had spent eight years studying law under the Brehon Morann. I have an aptitude for solving conundrums and investigating mysteries. Let me come with you and I will lend you what talent I have to resolve this matter.”
Fidelma and Ballgel had been novices together in the Abbey of Kildare.
“I remember your talent well, Fidelma. In fact, I have often heard your name spoken for we receive many travelers from Eireann here. By all means come with us.”
In fact, Ballgel looked slightly relieved.
“And you may explain the details of this matter as we go,” Fidelma said, putting down her traveling bag within the gate of the abbey before joining the others.
They set off, walking side by side, with the two other religieuse bringing up the rear.
“Who has been reported murdered?” Fidelma began.
“I do not know. I know that early this morning Sister Cessair and Sister Della set off to the Abbey of Fosse. It is the seventeenth day of March and so they were taking the vial of the Holy Blood of Blessed Gertrude to the Brothers of Fosse for the annual blessing and...”
Fidelma laid a hand on her friend’s arm.
“You are raising more questions than I can keep pace with, Ballge
l. Remember that I am a stranger here.”
The Abbess was apologetic.
“Let me start at the beginning then. Twenty-five years ago the ruler of this land, Peppin the Elder of Landen, died. His widow, Itta, decided to devote herself to a religious life and came here, to Nivelles, with her daughter, Gertrude. They built our abbey. When Itta died, the Blessed Gertrude became Abbess.
“About that time two brothers from Eireann, Foillan and Ultan, came wandering and preaching the word of God. They decided to stay and Gertrude granted them lands a few miles from here in Fosse, the other side of the forest of Seneffe. Foillan and Ultan gathered many Irish religious there and some were attracted to our abbey as well. It is said that the Blessed Foillan prophesied that Abbess Gertrude, because she so loved and encouraged the Irish missionaries, would die on the same day that the Blessed Patrick died. And it happened as it said it would seven years ago today.”
Abbess Ballgel grew silent for a while until Fidelma encouraged her to continue.
“So Foillan proved to be a prophet?”
“He did not live to see his prophecy fulfilled for he died four years before his beloved Gertrude. He and his three companions were traveling from his Abbey of Fosse through the very same forest that we are entering—the forest of Seneffe—when they were set upon by robbers and murdered. Their bodies were so well hidden in the forest that it took three months before anyone stumbled across them. Foillan’s brother Ultan then became the Abbot.
“When the Blessed Gertrude died it was agreed between the two abbeys that, as she was the benefactor of both, each anniversary of her death, a vial of her holy blood, taken from her at death to be held behind the high altar at our abbey, would be taken to the Abbey of Fosse and blessed by the abbot in service with his community and then returned here. This was the task which Sister Cessair and Sister Della set out to fulfill this morning.”
“How did you hear that a Sister had been murdered in the forest?”
“When midday came, the time of the service at Fosse, and no members of our community had arrived with the holy blood, Brother Sinsear, a brother from the Fosse abbey, set out to see what delayed them. He found the dead body of one of the Sisters by the roadside. He came straightaway to us to tell us and then immediately returned to alert the community at Fosse.”
“But you do not know which of the poor Sisters was killed?”
The Abbess shook her head.
“Brother Sinsear was too agitated to say but merely told our gatekeeper the news before returning.”
By now they had entered the tall, dark, brooding forest of Seneffe. The track was fairly straight though at times it twisted around rocky outcrops and avoided streams to find a ford in a more accessible place. The afternoon sun was obliterated by the heavy foliage and the day grew cold around them. Fidelma realized that the highway proved an ideal ambush spot for any robbers and it did not surprise her to hear that lives had been lost along this roadway.
Although Irish religious went out into the world unarmed to preach the Faith, most of them were taught the art of troid-sciathagid or battle through defense—a method of defending oneself without the use of weapons. Not many religious, thus prepared, fell to bands of marauding thieves and robbers. Clearly from their names, the two Sisters had been Irish and must have known some rudiments of the art for it was the custom to have such knowledge before being allowed to take the holy word from the shores of Eireann into the lands of the strangers.
Now they walked silently and swiftly along the forest track, eyes anxiously scanning for any dangers around them.
“Is it not a dangerous path for young Sisters to travel?” observed Fidelma after a while.
“Not more so than other places,” her friend replied. “Do not let the death of Foillan color your thinking. Since his death a decade ago, the robbers were driven from these parts and there have been no further incidents.”
“Until now,” Fidelma added grimly.
“Until now,” sighed Ballgel.
A moment or so later, they rounded a clump of trees which the path had skirted. Not far away they saw a group of religious. There were four or five and they had a cart with them, harnessed to an ass. They clustered under a gnarled oak whose branches formed a canopy over the pathway, so low that one might almost reach up and grab the lower branches. It made this particular section of the forest path even more gloomy and full of shadows.
A tall, florid man, wearing a large gold cross, and clearly one of authority, saw Abbess Ballgel and came hurrying forward.
“Greetings, Mother Abbess. This is a bad business—a profane business.” He spoke in Latin but Fidelma could hear his Frankish accent.
“Abbot Heribert of Fosse,” Ballgel whispered to Fidelma as he approached.
“Where is the body?” Ballgel came straight to the point, also speaking in Latin.
Abbot Heribert looked uncomfortable.
“I would prepare yourself ...” he began.
“I have seen death before,” replied Abbess Ballgel quietly.
He turned and indicated the far side of the oak tree.
Ballgel hurried forward in the direction of his hand, followed by Fidelma.
The woman was tied to the oak tree on the far side from the path, almost in mockery of a crucifixion. There was blood everywhere. Fidelma screwed her features up in distaste. The woman, who was dressed in the habit of a religiuese, had been systematically mutilated about the face.
“Cut her down!” cried the sharp tone of the Abbess Ballgel. “At once! Do not leave the poor girl hanging there!”
Two of the monks went forward grimly.
“Who is it?” Fidelma asked. “Do you recognize her?”
“Oh yes. We have only one Sister with hair as golden as that. It is young Sister Cessair. God be merciful to her soul.” She genuflected.
Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully. She watched as two male religieux cut down the body.
“Wait!” Fidelma called and, turning to the Abbess, she said quickly, “I would examine the body carefully and with some privacy.”
Ballgel raised her eyes in surprise.
“I do not understand.”
“This is a bizarre matter. It might be that she has been ... brutalized.”
Ballgel passed a hand across her brown eyes as if bewildered but she understood what Fidelma meant.
She called to the monks to set the body down on the ground before the cart and then asked Abbot Heribert to withdraw his men to a respectful distance while Fidelma made her investigation.
Fidelma knelt by the body, noticing that the shade of the oak tree stopped the sun’s rays from drying the ground. It was muddy and the mud had been churned by the cart and the footprints of those trampling round. Her attention was momentarily distracted by indentations of two feet at one point which were far deeper than the others to the extent that water had formed in the hollows. Nevertheless, she ignored the mud and bent over the body. She tuned and motioned the Abbess Ballgel to come closer.
“If you will observe and witness my examination, Ballgel,” she called over her shoulder. “You will observe that the Sister’s face has been severely mutilated with a knife. The skin has been deliberately marked with a sharp blade, disfiguring it, as if the purpose were to destroy the features of this young girl.”
Ballgel forced herself to look on and nodded, suppressing a soft groan of anguish.
Fidelma bent further to her work before pausing satisfied as to her physical examination. Then she turned her attention to the small leather marsupium which hung at the dead Sister’s waist. It was not secured with the leather thong that usually fastened such a purse and it was empty.
Fidelma rose to her feet. Next she went to the tree from which the body had been taken and began to look about. With a grasp of triumph she bent down a picked up a torn scrap of paper. There was no writing on it but a few curious short lines drawn on it. Fidelma frowned and placed it in her marsupium.
Her keen eye then caught
a round stone on the ground. It was bloody and pieces of hair and skin were stuck on it.
“What is it?” demanded Abbess Ballgel, coming forward.
“That is the instrument with which Cessair was killed,” Fidelma explained. “Her death was caused by her skull being smashed in and not through the blade of the knife that destroyed her features. At least this was no attack by robbers.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“We have observed that the girl was not sexually molested in any way. Yet this was an attack of hate toward the Sister.”
Ballgel stared at her friend in amazement.
“How can you say it was an attack of hate?”
“Let us discount the idea of robbers. The purpose of a thief is to steal. It is true that some thieves have been known to even sexually assault Sisters of the faith. There was no attempt at theft here. The Sister’s crucifix of silver still hangs around her neck. It was not a sexual assault. What is left of the motivation which would cause someone to smash her skull, tie her to a tree and mutilate her features? There is surely only hatred left?”
“The holy blood of the Blessed Gertrude is not in her marsupium,” Ballgel pointed out. “I have been looking all around for the vial. That is valuable; but above all, where is Sister Della?”
Fidelma grimaced.
“The holy blood may be valuable to you, yes. Not to a thief. There would be no purpose is stealing that if one wanted money.”
“Do thieves and robbers need a purpose?”
“All people need a purpose, even those whom we deem mad follow a logic, which may not be our logic but one of their own creation with its own rules. Once one deciphers the code of that logic then it is as easy to follow as any.”
“And what of Sister Della?”
Fidelma nodded. “There is the real mystery. Find her and we may find the missing phial. Has a search been made for her?” She asked the question of the Abbot.
Abbot Heribert looked sourly at Fidelma.
“Not yet. And who are you?”
“Sister Fidelma is a qualified advocate of our legal courts,” explained Abbess Ballgel hurriedly, seeing the look of derision on the Abbot’s face.
Hemlock at Vespers: Fifteen Sister Fidelma Mysteries Page 32