Hemlock At Vespers (29 page)

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 flagged 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.

Near the bed she suddenly noticed a pile of ashes. She dropped to one knee beside the ashes and examined them, trying not to disperse them with her breath, for they appeared to be the remnants of some piece of paper, or vellum, perhaps. Not a very big piece either, but it was burnt beyond recognition.

She rose and examined the door next.

There were two wooden bars which had secured it. Each bar, when in place, slotted into iron rests. The first was at a height of three feet from the bottom of the door while the second was five feet from the bottom. She saw that one of the iron rests had been splintered from the wooden doorjamb, obviously when Ultan had broken in. The pressure against the bar had wrenched the rest from its fastenings. But the bottom set of rests were in place and there was no sign of damage to the second bar, which was lying just behind the door. Both bars were solid enough. The ends were wrapped with twine, she presumed to stop the wood wearing against the iron rests in which they lodged. On one of the bars the pieces of twine had become unwound, blackened and frayed at the end.

Sister Fidelma gave a deep sigh.

Here, indeed, was a problem to be solved, unless the owner of the kerchief could supply an answer.

She moved to the door and suddenly found herself slipping. She reached out a hand to steady herself. There was a small pool of blackened grease just inside the door. Her sharp eyes caught sight of a similar pool on the other side of the door. Bending to examine them, she frowned as she noticed two nails attached on the door frame, on either side of the door. A short length of twine, blackened and frayed at the end, was attached to each nail.

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully and stood staring at the door for a long while before turning to leave the death chamber.

In Abbot Laisran’s chamber, Sister Fidelma seated herself at the long table. She had arranged with the Abbot to interview any she felt able to help her in arriving at a solution to the problem. Laisran himself offered to sit in on her encounters but she had felt it unnecessary. Laisran had taken himself to a side room, having presented her with a bell to summon him if she needed any help.

Brother Ultan was recruited to fetch those whom she wanted to see and was straightaway dispatched to bring Wulfstan’s fellow Saxon prince, Eadred, who had helped Ultan discover the body, as well as his cousin Raedwald.

Eadred was a haughty youth with flaxen hair and cold blue eyes that seemed to have little expression. His features seemed fixed with a mixture of disdain and boredom. He entered the chamber, eyes narrowing as he beheld Sister Fidelma. A tall, muscular young man in his late twenties accompanied Eadred. Although he carried no arms, he acted as if he were the prince’s bodyguard.

“Are you Eadred?” Fidelma asked the youth.

The young man scowled.

“I do not answer questions from a woman.” His voice was harsh, and that combined with his guttural accent made his stilted Irish sound raucous.

Sister Fidelma sighed. She had heard that Saxons could be arrogant and that they treated their womenfolk more as chattels than as human beings.

“I am investigating the death of your countryman, Wulfstan. I need my questions to be answered,” she replied firmly.

Eadred merely ignored her.

“Lady.” It was the tall muscular Saxon who spoke and his knowledge of Irish was better than that of his prince. “I am Raedwald, thane of Staeningum, cousin to the thane of Andredswald. It is not the custom of princes of our race to discourse with women if they be not of equal royal rank.”