Hemlock At Vespers (22 page)

“There are a dozen horsemen arriving,” she sniffed in disapproval. “But they bear a royal standard. I must go down to receive them.”

Sister Fidelma nodded in preoccupation. It was only when Sister Ethne went hurrying off to fulfill her duties as the steward of the community that a thought crossed her mind and she went to the window and gazed down at the courtyard below.

In the light of the flickering torches she saw that several riders had dismounted. Follaman had gone forward to help them. There was light enough for Fidelma to see that they were warriors and one carried the royal standard of the Uí Failgi of Ráith Imgain while another held the traditional
ríchaindell,
the royal light which, during the hours of darkness, was always carried to light the way of a great chieftain or his heir-elect. The new arrivals were no ordinary visitors. Sister Fidelma forgot her training, pursing her lips together in a soundless whistle.

It was only after the passing of a few minutes that the door of the
tech-screpta
flew unceremoniously open and a stocky young man entered, followed by another man, with a worried-looking Sister Ethne trailing behind. Sister Fidelma turned from the window and regarded the intruders calmly.

The stocky young man took a pace forward. His richly decorated clothes were still covered in the dust of travel. His eyes were steel-grey, piercing as if they missed nothing. He was handsome, haughty and his demeanor announced his rank.

“This is Sister Fidelma,” Sister Ethne’s voice almost quavered, even forgetting to sniff, as she nervously pushed her way through the door to stand to one side of the young man.

Sister Fidelma did not move but stood regarding the young man quizzically.

“I am told that Sillán of Kilmantan is dead. Poisoned. I am told that you are conducting an inquiry into this matter.” The phrases were statements and not questions.

Sister Fidelma felt no urge to reply to the young man’s brusque manner.

She let her restless green eyes travel over his features, which gathered into a frown at her lack of response. She paused a moment and then moved her gaze to the muscular warrior at his side, before allowing her eyes to move to the clearly nervous Sister Ethne. Fidelma’s raised eyebrows asked a question.

“This is Tírechán, Tanist of the Uí Failgi.” Sister Ethne’s voice was breathless.

The Tanist was the heir-elect to the kingship or chieftaincy; an heir was elected during the reign of a king or clan chieftain which prevented any successional squabbles after his death or abdication.

Sister Fidelma moved back to her chair and sat down, motioning Tírechán to be seated on the opposite side of the table to her.

The young prince’s face showed his astonishment at her behavior. Angry blood tinged his cheeks.

“I am Sister Fidelma,” she announced, quietly, before he spoke, for she saw the words forming to burst from his lips. “I am a
dálaigh
of the Brehon Court, qualified to the level of
Anruth.”

Tírechán swallowed the words that had gathered on his lips and a look of understanding, mingled with respect, spread over his features. A
dálaigh,
an advocate of the Brehon Court, especially one qualified to the level of Anruth, could meet and be accorded equality with any provincial king or chieftain and could even speak at ease before the High King himself. An
Anruth
was only one degree below the highest professorship of Ollamh whose words even a High King would have to obey. He regarded Sister Fidelma with a slightly awed air of surprise at her attractive youthfulness for one who held such authority. Then he moved forward and seated himself before her.

“I apologize, Sister. No one had informed me of your rank, only that you were investigating the death of Sillán.”

Sister Fidelma decided to ignore the apology. The Tanist’s bodyguard now drew the door shut and stood before it, arms folded. Sister Ethne, a worried expression still on her features, realizing that she had neglected to introduce Sister Fidelma in proper form, still stood where she had halted, her lips compressed.

“I presume that you knew the man Sillán?”

“I knew
of
him,” corrected the Tanist of the Uí Failgi.

“You came here to meet him?”

“I did.”

“For what purpose?”

The Tanist hesitated and dropped his eyes.

“On the business of my chieftain, the Uí Failgi.”

“The man is dead. Poisoned. Perhaps it might help in this inquiry if you were more specific.”

Tírechán exhaled in annoyance.

“Very well. The man Sillán was commissioned to come to this district by the Uí Failgi…”

Sister Fidelma smiled thinly as the man hesitated again. He obviously had difficulty speaking of the private business of his chieftain.

“Perhaps I can help?” Fidelma encouraged, as the thought suddenly took shape in her mind. Indeed, the logic of the idea was unquestionable. “Sillán was from Kilmantan whose hills are full of gold mines, for do we not speak of that area as Kilmantan of the gold? Sillán was a
bruithneóir,
a qualified artificer. Why would the king of Ráith Imgain ask such a man to come to Kildare?”

The Tanist stirred uncomfortably beneath her amused but penetrating gaze. Then he responded with almost surly defiance.

“I take it that what I say shall be treated in confidence?”

Sister Fidelma showed her annoyance at such a impudent question.

“I am a
dálaigh
of the Brehon Court.” She spoke quietly. The rebuke needed no further embellishment.

The cheeks of the young prince reddened. But he spoke again as though he had need to defend something.

“Since the twenty-sixth High King of Milesian descent, the noble Tigernmas, first had gold dug and smelted in Ireland, gold has been searched for throughout the country. From Derry and Antrim in the north, south to the mountains of Kilmantan and the shores of Carman, gold mines have been worked. Yet our need for gold to enhance our courts and to increase our trade is not diminished. We look for new mines.”

“So the Uí Failgi asked Sillán to come to Kildare to search for gold?” Fidelma interpreted.

“The production of gold has not kept pace with the demand, Sister Fidelma. We have to import it from Iberia and other far off places. Our need is keen. Are not the Eóganacht of Glendamnách at war with the Uí Fidgente over possession of the gold mines of Cuillen in the land of holly trees?”

“But why would the Uí Failgi think that there was gold at Kildare?” demanded Sister Fidelma abruptly.

“Because an aged man recalled that once the lands of Kildare held such a mine, knowledge of which has long passed from the minds of men. Seizing on this old man’s recollection, the Uí Failgi sought out Sillán whose fame for seeking the veins of gold was legend among the mountain people of Kilmantan. He asked Sillán to come to Kildare and seek out this lost mine.”

“And did he find it?”

An angry spasm passed the face of the Tanist.

“That is what I came to discover. Now I am told that Sillán is dead. Dead from poison. How came this to be?”

Sister Fidelma wrinkled her nose.

“That is what my investigation shall discover, Tanist of the Uí Failgi.”

She sat back in her chair and gazed meditatively at the young chieftain.

“Who knows of Sillán’s mission here?”

“It was known only to Sillán; to the Uí Failgi; to myself as Tanist and to our chief Ollamh. No one else knew. A knowledge of the whereabouts of gold does harm to the minds of men and drives them mad. It was better not to tempt them by spreading such knowledge abroad.”

Fidelma nodded absently in agreement.

“So if gold had been discovered, it would have been of benefit to the Uí Failgi?”

“And to his people. It would bring prestige and prosperity to our trade with other kingdoms.”

“Sillán came from the territory of the Uí Máil, might he not have spoken of this enterprise to his own chieftain?”

“He was paid well enough,” frowned the Tanist of the Uí Failgi, his features showing that the thought had already occurred to him.

“But if the Uí Mail, or even the Uí Faeláin to the northeast, knew that there was gold in Kildare, surely this might lead to territorial dispute and warfare for possession of the gold? As you correctly state, there is a war between the Uí Fidgente and Eóganacht of Glendamnách over the mines of Cuillin.”

The Tanist sighed impatiently.

“Kildare is in the territory of the Uí Failgi. If the neighboring chieftains invaded Kildare then the wrong would be theirs and our duty to prevent them.”

“But that is not what I asked. Might this discovery not lead to enmity and warfare?”

“That was why the mission was so secret; why none but Sillán was to know the reason for his being in Kildare.”

“Now Sillán is dead,” mused Sister Fidelma. “Did you know he was leaving here to return to Ráith Imgain tomorrow?”

The Tanist’s face showed his surprise. Then a new look replaced the expression, one of scarcely concealed excitement.

“Which means that he must have found the gold mine!”

Sister Fidelma smiled a little as she sought to follow his reasoning.

“How do you arrive at that conclusion, Tírechán?”

“Because he had only been here eight days and no other reason would cause Sillán to return to the Uí Failgi other than to report his success.”

“That is a broad assumption. Perhaps he was returning because he realized that this search for a legendary gold mine in Kildare was a hopeless task.”

The Tanist ignored her observation.

“Are you sure that he was leaving Kildare tomorrow?”

“He told our
timthirig,
Follaman, that he would be leaving,” Fidelma assured him.

The Tanist snapped his fingers, his face agitated.

“No, no. The mine must have been found. Sillán would not have given up the search so soon. But where, where did he find it? Where is the mine?”

Sister Fidelma shook her head slowly.

“The more important question to be resolved is how Sillán came by his death.”

“By the grace of God, Sister Fidelma, that is not my task,” the young man replied in a thankful tone. “But my chieftain, the Uí Failgi, will need to know the location of the gold mine which Sillán must have discovered.”

She rose, inviting the Tanist to do so.

“You and your men are doubtless staying the night at our
tech-óired.
I suggest, Tírechán, that you now go and cleanse the dust of travel from yourself. I will keep you informed of anything that you should know.”

Reluctantly, the Tanist rose and motioned to his bodyguard to open the door of the
tech-screpta.
On the threshold he turned hesitantly as if he would press her further.

“Benedictus benedicat,”
Sister Fidelma dismissed him firmly. He sighed, grimaced and withdrew.

When he had gone, she resumed her seat and spread her hands, palms downward, on the table. For a moment or so she was completely wrapped in her thoughts, forgetting the presence of Sister Ethne. Finally, the
bean-tigh’s
rasping cough, as the steward tried to attract her attention, stirred her from her contemplations.

“Is that all now, Sister?” asked the
bean-tigh
hopefully.

Sister Fidelma rose again with a shake of her head.

“Far from it, Sister Ethne. I should now like to see Sillán’s chamber in the
tech-óired.
Bring one of the lamps.”

The chamber in the
tech-óired,
or guest’s hostel, was not dissimilar to the cells occupied by the members of the community. It was a small, dark, grey stone room with a tiny slit of a window over which hung a heavy woven cloth to keep out the chill night air. A small cot of pine wood, with a straw palliasse and blankets, stood in one corner. A stool and a table were the only other furnishings. On the table stood a single candle. The hostel was provided with only poor lights. The candle was simply a single rush peeled and soaked in animal grease. It gave scant light and burned down very quickly which was why Fidelma had the foresight to bring one of the oil lamps with her.

Sister Fidelma paused on the threshold of the room and examined it very carefully as Sister Ethne set down the lamp on the table.

Sillán had apparently already packed for his journey, for a heavy satchel was dumped on the foot of the bed. It was placed next to a smaller work-bag of leather.

Sister Fidelma crossed to the bed and picked up the leather work-bag. It was heavy. She peered inside and saw a collection of tools which, she supposed, were the tools of Sillán’s profession. She laid the bag aside and peered into the satchel. These were Sillán’s personal effects.

Finally, she turned to Sister Ethne.

“I will not be long here. Would you go to the Mother Abbess and tell her that I would like to see her in her chamber within the hour? And I would like to see her alone.”

Sister Ethne sniffed, opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, bobbed her head and left the room.

Fidelma turned back to the satchel of personal belongings and took them out one by one, examining them minutely. When she had done so, she explored the interior of the satchel with her fingertips, raising the lamp in one hand and examining the dust on the tips of her fingers with a frown.

She then repeated her careful examination with the tools and implements in Sillán’s work-bag. Once again she ran her hand over the dust in the bottom of the bag and examined it carefully in the light.

Only after a careful examination did she replace everything as she had found it.

Then she lowered herself to her knees and began a microscopic examination of the floor, slowly, inch by inch.

It was when she was peering under the wooden cot that what seemed a small lump of rock came in contact with her hand. Her fingers closed around it and she scrambled backward into the room and held it up to the light of the lamp.

At first sight it seemed, indeed, just a piece of rough-hewn rock. Then she rubbed it on the stone flagged floor and held it once again to the light.