Hemlock At Vespers (2 page)

But, and there is always a
but
in the affairs of mankind, it was a very human age encompassing all the virtues and vices that humans are prey to; virtues and vices that we can recognize and understand today. The motives for crime have remained unaltered over the centuries and in seventh-century Ireland there was still a need for a keen-eyed examiner with an analytical mind, yet with a humane interpretation of the law for, as Fidelma herself once remarked, “law is not always justice.” So we may now follow the good Sister into a world that may be one in which the superficial surroundings are unfamiliar to us but in which we still recognize the same fears, envies, loves, and hates that did and do exist in all ages and in all civilizations.

—Peter Tremayne

MURDER IN REPOSE

“There is no question of Brother Fergal’s guilt in this crime,” said the Brehon with assurance. “He clearly murdered the girl.”

He was a stocky man, this chief judge of the clan of the Eóghanacht of Cashel. His round, lugubrious face was betrayed by a pair of bright, sharp eyes. His slow-speaking meticulous manner disguised a mind that was sharp and decisive. Here was a man who, as his profession demanded, looked at life carefully and weighed the evidence before making a decision. And he was no one’s fool.

Sister Fidelma, tall, green-eyed, stood before the Brehon with hands folded demurely in front of her. Her robes and hood, from under which wisps of rebellious red hair stuck out, scarcely disguised her youthfulness nor her feminine attractiveness. The Brehon had placed her age in her mid-twenties. He noticed that her stance was one of controlled agitation, of someone used to movement and action in life. The habit of a religieuse did not suit her at all.

“The Abbess has assured me that Brother Fergal is no more capable of taking life than a rabbit is capable of flying through the air.”

The Brehon of the Eóghanacht of Cashel sighed. He made little effort to conceal his irritation at the young woman’s contradiction.

“Nevertheless, Sister, the evidence is plain. The man Fergal was found in his
bothán,
the cabin he had rebuilt, on the slopes of Cnocgorm. He was asleep. By his side was the body of the girl, Barrdub. She had been stabbed to death. There was blood on Fergal’s hands and on his robes. When he was awakened, he claimed that he had no knowledge of anything. That is a weak defense.”

Sister Fidelma bowed her head, as if acknowledging the logic of the Brehon’s statement.

“What were the circumstances of the finding of the body of the girl Barrdub?”

“Barrdub’s brother, Congal, had been worried. The girl, it seems, had been smitten with a passion for this Brother Fergal. He is a handsome young man, it must be admitted. That night, according to Congal, his sister went out and did not return. Early in the morning, Congal came to me and asked me to accompany him to Fergal’s
bothán
to confront them. Barrdub is not yet at the age of choice, you understand, and Congal stands as her guardian in law for they have no other relatives living. Together we found Fergal and the body of Barrdub as I have described.”

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips. The evidence was, indeed, damning.

“The hearing will be at noon tomorrow,” the Brehon went on. “Brother Fergal must give account to the law for no one can stand above the jurisdiction of the Brehons, either priest or druid.”

Sister Fidelma smiled thinly.

“Thanks be to the holy Patrick that it is two centuries since the druids of Ireland accepted the teachings of the Savior of this world.”

The Brehon returned her smile.

“Yet they say that many who live in the mountains or in remote fastnesses still practice the old ways; that there are many whom the teachings of Christ have not won from the worship of The Dagda and the ancient gods of Ireland. We have such a one even here, in our territory. Erca is a hermit who also lives on the slopes of Cnocgorm and claims to practice the old ways.”

Sister Fidelma shrugged indifferently.

“I am not here to proselytize.”

The Brehon was examining her carefully now.

“What precisely is your role in this affair, Sister? Do you simply represent the Abbey which, I understand, now stands in place of Brother Fergal’s
fine
or family? Remember, in law, the
fine
must ensure that the penalties are provided when judgment is given by the court.”

“I am aware of the law, Brehon of the Eóghanacht,” replied Sister Fidelma. “The Abbess has sent me to this place in the capacity of a
dálaigh;
an advocate to plead before the court on behalf of Brother Fergal.”

The Brehon raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised. When the girl had come to him, he had assumed that she was simply one of Brother Fergal’s religious community who had come to find out why he had been arrested and charged with murder.

“The law requires that all advocates must be qualified to plead before the
Dál.”

Sister Fidelma drew herself up, a little annoyed at the patronage in the man’s voice, at his arrogant assumption.

“I am qualified. I studied law under the great Brehon Morann of Tara.”

Once again the Brehon barely concealed his surprise. That the young girl before him could be qualified in the law of Éireann was astonishing in his eyes. He was about to open his mouth when the girl pre-empted his question by reaching within her robes and passing him an inscribed vellum. The Brehon read quickly, eyes rounded, hesitated and passed it back. His glance was now respectful , his voice slightly awed.

“It states that you are a qualified
Anruth.”

To have qualified to the level of
Anruth
one had to have studied at a monastic or bardic school for between seven to nine years. The
Anruth
was only one degree below the highest qualification, the
Ollamh,
or professor, who could sit as an equal with kings. The
Anruth
had to be knowledgeable in poetry, literature, law and medicine, speaking and writing with authority on all things and being eloquent in debate.

“I was with the Brehon Morann for eight years,” Fidelma replied.

“Your right to act as advocate before the court is recognized, Sister Fidelma.”

The young religieuse smiled.

“In that case, I call upon my right to speak with the accused and then with the witnesses.”

“Very well. But there can be only one plea before the court. The evidence is too damning to say other than that Brother Fergal is guilty of the murder of Barrdub.”

Brother Fergal was, as the Brehon said, a handsome young man no more than five and twenty years of age. He wore a bewildered expression on his pale features. The brown eyes were wide, the auburn hair was tousled. He looked like a young man awakened from sleep to find himself in a world he did not recognize. He rose awkwardly as Sister Fidelma entered the cell, coughing nervously.

The burly jailer closed the door behind her but stood outside.

“The grace of God to you, Brother Fergal,” she greeted.

“And of God and Mary to you, Sister,” responded the young religieux automatically. His voice was slightly breathless and wheezy.

“I am Fidelma sent from the Abbey to act as your advocate.”

A bitter expression passed over the face of the young man.

“What good will that do? The Brehon has already judged me guilty.”

“And are you?”

Fidelma seated herself on a stool which, apart from the rough straw pallaisse, was the only furniture in the cell, and gazed up at the young monk.

“By the Holy Virgin, I am not!” The cry was immediate, angry and despairing at the same time. The young man punctuated his response with a paroxysm of coughing.

“Be seated, Brother,” said Fidelma solicitously. “The cell is cold and you must take care of your cough.”

The young man contrived to shrug indifferently.

“I have suffered from asthma for several years now, Sister. I ease it by inhaling the odors of the burning leaves of
stramóiniam
or taking a little herbal drink before I retire at night. Alas, such a luxury is denied me here.”

“I will speak to the Brehon about it,” Fidelma assured him. “He is not a harsh man. Perhaps we can find some leaves and seeds of the
stramóiniam
and have them sent into you.”

“I would be grateful.”

After a little while, Fidelma reminded the young man that she awaited his story.

Reluctantly, the young man squatted on the pallaisse and coughed again.

“Little to tell. The Abbess sent me to the clan of Eóghanacht of Cashel, to preach and administer to them, four weeks ago. I came here and rebuilt a deserted cell on the blue hill of Cnoc-gorm. For a while all went well. True that in this part of Éireann, two hundred years after the blessed saint Patrick converted our people, I have found some whose hearts and souls have not been won over for Christ. That was a great sadness to me …”

“I have heard that there is one here who still follows the old ways of the druids,” Fidelma commented encouragingly when the young man paused and faltered in his thoughts.

“The hermit Erca? Yes. He dwells on Cnoc-gorm, too. He hates all Christians.”

“Does he now?” mused Fidelma. “But tell me, what of the events of the night of the murder?”

Brother Fergal grimaced expressively.

“All I remember is that I returned to my cell at dusk. I was exhausted for I had walked sixteen miles that day, taking the Word of Christ to the shepherds in the mountains. I felt a soreness on my chest and so I heated and drank my herbal potion. It did me good for I slept soundly. The next thing I knew was being shaken awake to find the Brehon standing over me and Congal with him. Congal was screaming that I had killed his sister. There was blood on my hands and clothes. Then I saw, in my cell, the poor, bloodied body of the girl, Barrdub.”

He started coughing again. Fidelma watched the face of the young religieux intently. There was no guile there. The eyes were puzzled yet honest.

“That is all?” she pressed when he had drawn breath.

“You asked me what I knew of the events of the night of the murder. That is all.”

Fidelma bit her lip. It sounded an implausible story.

“You were not disturbed at all? You heard nothing? You went to sleep and knew nothing until the Brehon and Congal woke you, when you saw blood on your clothes and the body of the dead girl in your cabin?”

The young man moaned softly, placing his face in his hands.

“I know nothing else,” he insisted. “It is fantastic, I know, but it is the truth.”

“Do you admit that you knew the girl, Barrdub?”

“Of course. In the time I was here, I knew everyone of the clan of Eóghanacht.”

“And what of Barrdub? How well did you know her?”

“She came to religious service regularly and once or twice came to help me when I was rebuilding my
bothán.
But so did many others from the village here.”

“You had no special relationship with Barrdub?”

Priests, monks and nuns of the Celtic Church could enter into marriage provided such unions were blessed by a bishop or the congregation of the Abbey.

“I had no relationship with Barrdub other than as pastor to one of his flock. Besides, the girl is not yet of the age of choice.”

“You know that Congal is claiming that Barrdub was in love with you and that you had encouraged this? The argument of the prosecution will be that she came to you that night and for some reason you rejected her and when she would not leave you, you killed her. It will be argued that her love became an embarrassment to you.”

The young monk looked outraged.

“But I did not! I only knew the girl slightly and nothing passed between us. Why … why, the girl is also betrothed, as I recall, to someone in the village. I can’t remember his name. I can assure you that there was nothing between the girl and me.”

Fidelma nodded slowly and rose.

“Very well, Brother Fergal. If you have nothing else to tell me…?”

The young man looked up at her with large, pleading eyes.

“What will become of me?”

“I will plead for you,” she consented. “But I have little so far to present to the court in your defense.”

“Then if I am found guilty?”

“You know the law of the land. If you are adjudged guilty of homicide then you must pay the honor-price of the girl, the
eric,
to her next of kin. The girl, I understand, was a free person, the daughter of a member of the clan assembly. The
eric
fine stands at forty-five milk cows plus four milk cows as the fee to the Brehon.”

“But I have no wealth. It was given up when I decided to serve Christ and took a vow of poverty.”

“You will also know that your family becomes responsible for the fine.”

“But my only family is the Abbey, our order of Brothers and Sisters in Christ.”

Fidelma grimaced.

“Exactly so. The Abbess has to decide whether she will pay your
eric
fine on behalf of our order. And the greater trial for your immortal soul will be heard under her jurisdiction. If you are judged guilty of killing Barrdub then not only must you make atonement to the civil court but, as a member of the religieux, you must make atonement to Christ.”