Hemlock At Vespers (33 page)

Eadred made an affirmative gesture.

“But…”

“Raedwald was going to implicate you as the assassin and then show how you tried to put the blame on Talorgen. He would have either had you tried for murder under our law or, if all else failed… I doubt whether you would have returned safely to the land of the South Saxons. Perhaps you might have fallen overboard on the sea voyage. Whichever way, both Wulfstan and you would have been removed from the succession, leaving it clear for Raedwald to claim the throne.”

Eadred shook his head wonderingly. His voice was tinged with reluctant admiration.

“Never would I have suspected that a woman possessed such a meticulous mind to unravel the deviousness of this treachery in the way that you have done. I shall look upon your office with a new perspective.”

Eadred turned abruptly to the Abbot Laisran.

“I and my men will depart now for we must return to my country. With your permission, Abbot, I shall take Raedwald with me as my prisoner. He will stand trial according to our laws and his punishment will be prescribed by them.”

Abbot Laisran inclined his head in agreement.

Eadred moved to the door, and as he did so, his eyes caught sight of Talorgen of Rheged.

“Well,
welisc.
It seems I owe you an apology for wrongly accusing you of the murder of Wulfstan. I so apologize.”

Talorgen slowly stood up, his face trying to control his surprise.

“Your apology is accepted, Saxon.”

Eadred paused and then he frowned.

“The apology notwithstanding, there can never be peace between us,
welisc!”

Talorgen sniffed. “The day such a peace will come is when you and your Saxon hordes depart from the shores of Britain and return to the land whence you came.”

Eadred stiffened, his hand going to his waist, then he paused and relaxed and almost smiled.

“Well said,
welisc.
It will never be peace!”

He strode from the room with Ultan and Dagobert leading Raedwald after him.

Talorgen turned and smiled briefly toward Sister Fidelma.

“Truly, there are wise judges among the Brehons of Ireland.”

Then he, too, was gone. Finan, the professor of law, hesitated a moment.

“Truly, now I know why your reputation is great, Fidelma of Kildare.”

Sister Fidelma gave a small sigh as he left.

“Well, Fidelma,” Abbot Laisran smiled in satisfaction, reaching for a jug of wine, “it seems that I have provided you with some diversion on your pilgrimage to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Ard Macha.”

Sister Fidelma responded to the rotund Abbot’s wry expression.

“A diversion, yes. Though I would have preferred something of a more pleasant nature to have occupied my time.”

THE HIGH KING’S SWORD

“God’s curse is upon this land,” sighed the Abbot Colmán, spiritual advisor to the Great Assembly of the chieftains of the five kingdoms of Ireland.

Walking at his side through the grounds of the resplendent palace of Tara, the seat of the High Kings of Ireland, was a tall woman, clad in the robes of a religieuse, her hands folded demurely before her. Even at a distance one could see that her costume did not seem to suit her for it scarcely hid the attractiveness of her youthful, well-proportioned figure. Rebellious strands of red hair crept from beneath her habit adding to the allure of her pale fresh face and piercing green eyes. Her cheeks dimpled and there was a scarcely concealed humor behind her enforced solemnity which hinted at a joy in living rather than being weighted down by the somber pensiveness of religious life.

“When man blames God for cursing him, it is often to disguise the fact that he is responsible for his own problems,” Sister Fidelma replied softly.

The Abbot, a thick-set and ruddy-faced man in his mid-fifties, frowned and glanced at the young woman at his side. Was she rebuking him?

“Man is hardly responsible for the terrible Yellow Plague that has swept through this land,” replied Colmán, his voice heavy with irritation. “Why, is it reported that one third of our population has been carried off by its venomousness. It has spared neither abbot, bishop nor lowly priest.”

“Nor even High Kings,” added Sister Fidelma, pointedly.

The official mourning for the brothers Blathmac and Diarmuid, joint High Kings of Ireland, who had died within days of each other from the terrors of the Yellow Plague, had ended only one week before.

“Surely, then, a curse of God?” repeated the Abbot, his jaw set firmly, waiting for Sister Fidelma to contradict him.

Wisely, she decided to remain silent. The Abbot was obviously in no mood to discuss the semantics of theology.

“It is because of these events that I have asked you to come to Tara,” the Abbot went on, as he preceded her into the chapel of the Blessed Patrick, which had been built next to the High King’s palace. Sister Fidelma followed the Abbot into the gloomy, incensed-sweetened atmosphere of the chapel, dropping to one knee and genuflecting to the altar before she followed him to the sacristy. He settled his stocky figure into a leather chair and motioned for her to be seated.

She settled herself and waited expectantly.

“I have sent for you, Sister Fidelma, because you are an advocate, a
dálaigh,
of the Brehon courts, and therefore knowledgeable in law.”

Sister Fidelma contrived to shrug modestly while holding herself in repose.

“It is true that I have studied eight years with the Brehon Morann, may his soul rest in peace, and I am qualified to the level of
Anruth.”

The Abbot pursed his lips. He had not yet recovered from his astonishment at his first meeting with this young woman who was so highly qualified in law, and held a degree which demanded respect from the highest in the land. She was only one step below an
Ollamh
who could even sit in the presence of the High King himself. The Abbot felt awkward as he faced Sister Fidelma of Kildare. While he was her superior in religious matters, he, too, had to defer to the social standing and legal authority which she possessed as a
dálaigh
of the Brehon Court of Ireland.

“I have been told of your qualification and standing, Sister Fidelma. But, apart from your knowledge and authority, I have also been told that you possess an unusual talent for solving puzzles.”

“Whoever has told you that flatters me. I have helped to clarify some problems. And what little talent I have in that direction is at your service.”

Sister Fidelma gazed with anticipation at the Abbot as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“For many years our country has enjoyed prosperity under the joint High Kingship of Blathmac and Diarmuid. Therefore their deaths, coming within days of one another, must be viewed as a tragedy.”

Sister Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

“Is there anything suspicious about their deaths? Is that why you have asked me here?”

The Abbot shook his head hurriedly.

“No. Their deaths were but human submission to the fearsome Yellow Plague which all dread and none can avoid once it has marked them. It is God’s will.”

The Abbot seemed to pause waiting for some comment but, when Sister Fidelma made none, he continued.

“No, Sister, there is nothing suspicious about the deaths of Blathmac and Diarmuid. The problem arises with their successor to the kingship.”

Sister Fidelma frowned.

“But I thought that the Great Assembly had decided that Sechnasach, the son of Blathmac, would become High King?”

“That was the decision of the provincial kings and chieftains of Ireland,” agreed the Abbot. “But Sechnasach has not yet been inaugurated on the sacred Stone of Destiny.” He hesitated. “Do you know your Law of Kings?”

“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.”