Hemlock At Vespers (24 page)

“But why would Follaman do that?”

“For the very reason that we have discussed, to prevent Sillán telling the Uí Failgi about the gold.”

“Yes, but Follaman… ? He was a simple man.”

“Simple and loyal. Had he not worked here at the abbey as the keeper of the hostel since he was a boy? He loved this place as much as any of our community. He was not a religieux but he was as much a member of the community as anyone else.”

“How did Follaman know?”

“He overheard you and Sillán arguing. I suspect that he purposely eavesdropped on you. Follaman knew, or surmised, what profession Sillán practiced. He might well have followed Sillán on his explorations. Whether he did or not is beside the point. When Sillán came back yesterday afternoon, Follaman certainly deduced that he had made some find, for Sillán told Follaman that he would be leaving for Ráith Imgain the next morning. He probably followed Sillán to your room and overheard what passed between you.

“Since you could not act against the laws of man and God, he would serve a natural justice in his own way. He took the jar of poison hemlock from the apothecary and when Sillán asked for a drink, he supplied it. Follaman did not know the precise quantity needed and so Sillán did not suffer the full effects until after the bell called the community into the refectory for the evening meal following vespers.”

Abbess Ita was following Sister Fidelma closely.

“And then?”

“Then I began my investigation, then the Tanist of the Uí Failgi arrived seeking Sillán or an explanation for his death.”

“But who killed Follaman?”

“Follaman knew that sooner or later he would be discovered. But more importantly in his guileless mind there was also the guilt of having taken a man’s life to be considered. Follaman was a simple man. He decided that he should accept punishment. The honor-price of a life. What greater honor-price for the life of Sillán could he offer than his own? He also took a draught of the poison hemlock.”

There was a pause.

“It is a plausible story, Sister Fidelma. But how do you substantiate it?”

“Firstly, when I questioned Follaman, he knew all about Sillán’s profession. Secondly, he made two slips. He told me that he had seen Sillán coming from your chamber with anger on his face. Your chamber is on the far side of the abbey to the hostel. Therefore Follaman must have been near your chamber door. But, most importantly, when I asked Follaman if he knew what hemlock looked like, he denied any knowledge.”

“Why is that damning?”

“Because one of Follaman’s duties is to help in the herb garden of the community and Sister Poitigéir had just informed me that she grew hemlock in the garden for medicinal purposes; the very plant used in the apothecary came from the garden. And Sister Poitigéir said she was helped in this task by Follaman. He knew what hemlock looked like. So why did he lie to me?”

Abbess Ita sighed deeply.

“I see. What you are saying is that Follaman tried to protect us, protect our community here at Kildare?”

“I am. He was a simple man and saw no other way.”

The Abbess smiled painfully.

“In truth, Sister, with all my knowledge, I saw no other path that would have led to the same result. So what do you propose?”

“There are times when the law brings injustice with it and the triumph of justice is mankind’s only peace. So the question is between justice or the stricture of the law.” Fidelma hesitated and grimaced. “Let it be natural justice. I shall officially report that the result of my inquiry is that Sillán met his death by accident, so did Follaman. A contaminated jug of water, which had been made up by Follaman to destroy the vermin in the abbey vaults, became inadvertently used to mix with the mead in the hostel. The contaminated jug was not discovered until Follaman had also died.”

Abbess Ita gazed speculatively at Sister Fidelma.

“And what do we tell the Tanist of the Ui Failgi about the gold mine?”

“That Sillán had decided to return to Ráith Imgain because the legend of the gold mine of Kildare was simply a legend and nothing more.”

“Very well.” The Abbess had a smile of contentment on her face. “If this is what you are prepared to report then I endorse your report with my authority as the head of this community. In such a manner may our community be saved for future generations. For the falsehood of the report, I absolve you from all responsibility and sin.”

It was the smile of the Abbess which troubled Fidelma in her decision. She would, for the sake of natural justice, have held her tongue. But the relieved complacency of Abbess Ita suddenly irritated her. And, if she carefully analyzed herself, was it not that her pride in her reputation as a solver of mysteries had been pricked?

Sister Fidelma slowly reached into her robe and pulled out the small piece of rock which she had picked up in the chamber that Sillán had occupied. She tossed it on the table. The Abbess gazed down at it.

“It was part of Sillán’s proof of his discovery. You’d better keep that safe with the other pieces of gold which Follaman gave you after he had poisoned Sillán… at your instruction.”

Abbess Ita’s face was suddenly ashen and the whites showed around her amber eyes.

“How… ?” she stuttered.

Sister Fidelma smiled bitterly.

“Do not fear, Mother Abbess. All will be as I have said it was. Your secret is safe with me. What I do is for the good of our community, for the future of the House of the Blessed Brigid of Kildare, and those people who live within the peace of the shadows of these walls. It is not for me to judge you. For that you will have to answer to God and the shades of Sillán and Follaman.”

Abbess Ita’s lips trembled.

“But how…” she whispered again.

“I have stressed that Follaman was a simple man. Even if he had the wit to understand the implications of Sillán’s find for the abbey and the community around it, could he really have taken the poison hemlock and administered it?”

“But you, yourself, have demonstrated he could. Sister Poitigéir told you that Follaman helped her attend the plants in the herb garden and would know what hemlock looked like.”

“Follaman knew what the plant looked like; yes. But he would have to be told what the crushed leaves of hemlock were. You need to discern colors for that. Follaman could not pick out a bowl of crushed hemlock leaves by their purple spots and white tips once the distinctive shape had been destroyed. You see, what was staring me in the face the whole while was a simple fact. Follaman was color-blind. He could not discern colors. Someone would have had to have given Follaman the poison to administer.”

Abbess Ita’s lips were compressed into a thin, hard line.

“But I did not kill Follaman,” she said fiercely. “Even if I admit that I suggested to Follaman that our community would best be served by the demise of Sillán, even if I admit I showed Follaman a method to do that deed, who killed Follaman? I did not do it!”

“No,” replied Fidelma. “It was as I have said. At your suggestion, Follaman administered the poison to Sillán because you told him it was God’s will. You used him as a tool. But he, being a simple man, could not live with the guilt he felt in taking a life. He took his own life in self-retribution, as I have said. He had not given all the hemlock to Sillán but kept some aside in his room. Last night he drank it as a penance for the deed. His was the penance, Mother Abbess, but yours is the guilt.”

Abbess Ita stared at her blankly.

“What am I to do?” she demanded but her voice broke a little.

Sister Fidelma gave a slight smile of cynicism.

“With your permission, Mother Abbess, I shall be leaving Kildare this morning. I will make my report to the Tanist of the Uí Failgi first. Do not worry. The good of the community is uppermost in my mind. That good outweighs the law. But I shall make a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Armagh to pay penance for the falsehood of my report.”

Sister Fidelma paused and gazed into the troubled amber eyes of the Abbess Ita.

“I cannot help relieve your guilt. I suggest, Mother Abbess, that you acquire the services of a sympathetic confessor.”

AT THE TENT OF HOLOFERNES

Sister Fidelma halted her mare where the track curved round the shoulder of the hill and gazed down at the broad valley below. The placid light-blue strip of a river wound its way through the valley, among the green cultivated clan lands of the Uí Dróna. She saw the grey granite walls of the
ráth,
which was her goal, and her dust-stained features formed into a tired smile of anticipation. She had been four days on the road from the monastery of Durrow. She was tired and uncomfortable with the dust of travel. Yet it was not simply the prospect of the comforts of a bath, fresh clothes, and a rest from being on horseback that caused her to smile. It was the thought of seeing Liadin again.

Fidelma had been an only daughter with elder brothers, and Liadin, her childhood friend, had been as a sister to her. The bonding had been strong. They had reached the “age of choice” together when they had, under law, become women. At that time Fidelma had become
anamchara,
the “soul-friend,” to Liadin: her spiritual guide according to the practice of the faith in Ireland.

Now, in her pocket, there reposed an urgent message from Liadin which had been delivered to Fidelma at Durrow a week ago. It read: “Come at once! I am greatly troubled. Liadin.” Now, as she reached her journey’s end, Fidelma felt both anticipation at the reunion and apprehension.

Fidelma had not seen her friend for several years. Their paths had eventually separated, for Fidelma had gone to Tara to continue her studies while Liadin had taken the path of marriage.

Fidelma remembered Liadin’s trepidation at marriage, for it had been Liadin’s father, a petty chieftain of Cashel, who had agreed to an arranged marriage as a matter of political expedience. Liadin’s wish had been to become a teacher. She had a good knowledge of Greek and Latin and other studies. The marriage was to a foreign chieftain. He was a Gaul named Scoriath of the Fir More who had been driven into exile from his own lands. Scoriath had been granted sanctuary in the clan lands of the Uí Dróna in Laigin. It was the chieftain of the Uí Dróna who had interceded with Liadin’s father and persuaded him of the political and financial advantage in marrying his daughter to the Gaulish warrior. He had made Scoriath captain of his bodyguard.

At the time, Fidelma’s heart had been heavy for her unfortunate soul-friend, forced into such a marriage. Their paths continued on separate courses as Fidelma pursued her studies, eventually being admitted as a
dálaigh,
an advocate, of the law courts of Ireland.

After Liadin’s marriage, Fidelma had met her friend only once, and she was replete with happiness for she had, in spite of expectations, fallen in love with her husband. Fidelma had been astonished at her friend’s transformation. Liadin and Scoriath’s joining, so far as Fidelma could assess from her friend’s enthusiasm, was that of a vine to a tree. Fidelma rejoiced in her friend’s happiness and in the subsequent birth of her son. Then their paths separated again.

The child must be three years old now, Fidelma reflected, guiding her mount toward the fortress of the Uí Dróna. What could ail Liadin to make her send such a message?

Fidelma had observed that the man had been watching her approach for an hour, ever since she had rounded the shoulder of the hill and ridden carefully down into the valley toward the dark, brooding walls of the fortress. He lounged by the gate of the
ráth
with folded arms and made no attempt to change his position as she approached and halted her mount.

“What do you seek here?” he demanded gruffly.

Fidelma gazed down at him with irritation.

“Is this
ráth
of the Uí Dróna?” she demanded.

The man motioned assertively with his head.

“Then I demand entrance.”

“On what business?”

“On my own business.” Her voice was soft but dangerous.

“I am Conn, Tanist of the Uí Dróna. My business is to know your business here,” was the implacable response. A Tanist was the heir-elect of a chieftain.

Fidelma was unperturbed. “I am come to see Liadin. I am Fidelma of Kildare.”

Fidelma was aware of a momentary change of expression on the man’s face. She had a curious feeling that it was a look of relief, but it was gone before she was sure. The Tanist shifted his weight upright.

“I regret, Sister, that Liadin is being heard before the Brehon Rathend even as we speak.”

Sister Fidelma’s features re-formed into an expression of surprise.

“Being
heard?
Do you mean that she pleads a case in law before the Brehon?”

The Tanist hesitated. “In a way. She pleads her innocence.”

“Innocence? Of what is she accused?”

“Liadin is accused of the murder of her husband, Scoriath of the Fir More, and of her own son.”

The Brehon Rathend was tall and thin, with pale, bloodless-looking skin. The learned judge had hooded dark eyes with shadowy pouches under them which seemed to suggest that he was a man unused to sleep. The lines of his face certainly denoted that he was a man who had little sense of humor. His entire expression was one of controlled irritation. The whole measured up to an expression of ill-health and ill-humor.