Hemlock At Vespers (16 page)

Mortification and suffering. Ultan of Armagh was one of the school preaching moderation to those who were becoming indulgently masochistic, ascetics who were becoming fanatical torturers of the body, wrenching salvation through unnatural wants, strain or physical suffering.

She paused in her striding and sat down on a rock, her hands demurely folded in front of her, as she let her mind dwell on the evidence. It certainly appeared that everything fitted in with Spelán’s explanation. Why did she feel that there was something wrong? She opened her
marsupium
and drew out the piece of cloth she had found ensnared on the belt hook of the youthful Sacán. It had obviously been torn away from something and not from the boy’s habit. And there was the wooden cup, which had dried out now, which she had found on the floor of the oratory. It had obviously been used for an infusion of herbs.

She suddenly saw a movement out of the corner of her eye, among the rocks. She swung round very fast. For a moment her eyes locked into the dark eyes of a startled youth, the cowl of his habit drawn over his head. Then the youth darted away among the rocks.

“Stop!” Fidelma came to her feet, thrusting the cup and cloth into her
marsupium.
“Stop, Brother, I mean you no harm.”

But the youth was gone, bounding away through the rocky terrain.

With an exasperated sigh, Fidelma began to follow, when the sound of her name being called halted her.

Sister Sárnat came panting along the path.

“I have been sent by Brother Spelán and Lorcán,” she said. “Lorcan entreats you to have a care of the approaching storm, Sister.”

Fidelma was about to say something sarcastic about Lorcán’s concern but Sárnat continued.

“Brother Spelán agrees we should leave the island immediately and report the events here to the Abbot of Chléire. The Brother is fully recovered now and he is taking charge of things. He says that he recalls your purpose here was to bring a letter from Ultan to the Abbot Selbach. Since Selbach is dead and he is
dominus
he asks that you give him the letter in case anything is required to be done about it before we leave the island.”

Fidelma forgot about the youth she was about to pursue.

She stared hard at Sister Sárnat.

The young novitiate waited nervously, wondering what Fidelma was staring at.

“Sister…” she began nervously.

Fidelma sat down on the nearest rock abruptly.

“I have been a fool,” she muttered, reaching into her
marsupium
and bringing out the letters she was carrying. She thrust back the letter addressed to the Abbot of Chléire and tore open Ultan’s letter to Selbach, to the astonished gaze of Sister Sárnat. Her eyes rapidly read the letter and her features broke into a grim smile.

“Go, Sister,” she said, arising and thrusting the letter back into the
marsupium.
“Return to Brother Spelán. Tell him and Lorcán that I will be along in a moment. I think we will be able to leave here before the storm develops.”

Sárnat stared at her uncertainly.

“Very well, Sister. But why not return with me?”

Fidelma smiled.

“I have to talk to someone first.”

A short while later Fidelma strode into the cell where Spelán was sitting on the cot, with Lorcán and Maenach lounging nearby. Sister Sárnat was seated on a wooden bench by one wall. As Fidelma entered, Lorcán looked up in relief.

“Are you ready now, Sister? We do not have long.”

“A moment or two, if you please, Lorcán,” she said, smiling gently.

Spelán was rising.

“I think we should leave immediately, Sister. I have much to report to the Abbot of Chléire. Also…”

“How did you come to tear your robe, Spelán?”

Fidelma asked the question with an innocent expression. Beneath that expression, her mind was racing for she had made her opening arrow-shot into the darkness. Spelán stared at her and then stared at his clothing. It was clear that he did not know whether his clothing was torn or not. But his eyes lighted upon a jagged tear in his right sleeve. He shrugged.

“I did not notice,” he replied.

Fidelma took the piece of torn cloth from her
marsupium
and laid it on the table.

“Would you say that this cloth fitted the tear, Lorcán.”

The boatman, frowning, picked it up and took it to place against Spelán’s sleeve.

“It does, Sister,” he said quietly.

“Do you recall where I found it?”

“I do. It was snagged on the hook of the belt of the young boy, Sacán.”

The color drained from Spelán’s face.

“It must have been caught there when I carried the body from the strand…” he began.

“You
carried the body from the strand?” asked Fidelma with emphasis. “You told us that some of the young Brothers fishing there saw it and brought it back and all this happened before you were awakened after they had tied Selbach to the tree and killed him.”

Spelán’s mouth worked for a moment without words coming.

“I will tell you what happened on this island,” Fidelma said. “Indeed, you did have a
gortaigid
here. One who dedicated his life to the enjoyment of mortification and suffering but not from any pious ideal of religious attainment… merely from personal perversion. Where better to practice his disgusting sadism than a hermitage of youths whom he could dominate and devise tortures for by persuading them that only by that pain could they obtain true spirituality?”

Spelán was staring malignantly at her.

“In several essentials, your story was correct, Spelán. There was a conspiracy of secrecy among the youths. Their tormentor would take them one at a time, the youngest and most vulnerable, to a remote part of the island and inflict his punishment, assuring the boy it was the route to eternal glory. Then one day one of the youths, poor little Sacán, was beaten so severely that he died. In a panic the tormentor tried to dispose of his evil deed by throwing the body over the cliffs. As he did so, the hook on the boy’s belt tore a piece of cloth from the man’s robe. Then the next morning the body washed ashore.”

“Utter nonsense. It was Selbach who…”

“It was Selbach who began to suspect that he had a
gortaigid
in his community.”

Spelán frowned.

“All this is supposition,” he sneered but there was a fear lurking in his dark eyes.

“Not quite,” Fidelma replied without emotion. “You are a very clever man, Spelán. When Sacán’s body was discovered, the youths who found him gathered on the shore around it. They did not realize that their abbot, Selbach, was really a kindly man who had only recently realized what was going on in his community and certainly did not condone it. As you said yourself, the conspiracy of silence was such that the youthful brothers thought that you were acting with Selbach’s approval. They thought that mortification was a silent rule of the community. They decided to flee from the island there and then. Eight of them launched the currach and rowed away, escaping from what had become for them an accursed place…”

Lorcán, who had been following Fidelma’s explanation with some astonishment, whistled softly.

“Where would they have gone, Sister?”

“It depends. If they had sense they would have gone to report the matter to Chléire or even to Dun na Séad. But, perhaps, they thought their word would be of no weight against the abbot and
dominus
of this house. Perhaps these innocents still think that mortification is an accepted rule of the Faith.”

“May I remind you that I was knocked unconscious by these same innocents?” sneered Spelán.

Maenach nodded emphatically.

“Indeed, Sister, that is so. How do you explain that?”

“I will come to that in a moment. Let me tell you firstly what happened here. The eight young Brothers left the island because they believed everyone else supported the rule of mortification. It was then that Brother Fogach came across the body and carried it to the oratory and alerted you, Spelán.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because Brother Fogach was not your enemy, nor was Brother Snagaide. They were your chosen acolytes who had actually helped you carry out your acts of sadism in the past. They were young and gullible enough to believe your instructions were the orders of the Faith and the Word of God. But inflicting punishment on their fellows was one thing, murder was another.”

“You’ll have a job to prove this,” sneered Spelán.

“Perhaps,” replied Fidelma. “At this stage Fogach and Snagaide were willing to help you. You realized that your time was running out. If those brothers reported matters then an official of the church, a
dalaigh,
would be sent to the island. You had to prepare your defense. An evil scheme came into your mind. It was still early. Selbach was still asleep. You persuaded Snagaide and Fogach that Selbach was responsible in the same way that you had persuaded their fellows that Selbach approved of this mortification. You told them that Selbach had flogged Sacán that night—not you—and now he must be ritually scourged in turn. Together you awoke Selbach and took him and tied him to that tree. You knew exactly what you were going to do but first you whipped that venerable old man.

“In his pain, the old man cried out and told your companions the truth. They listened, horrified at how they had been misled. Seeing this, you stabbed the abbot to stop him speaking. But the abbot’s life would have been forfeit anyway. It was all part of your plan to hide all the evidence against you, to show that you were simply the dupe of Selbach.

“Snagaide and Fogach ran off. You now had to silence them. You caught up with Fogach and killed him, smashing his skull with a stone. But when you turned in search of Snagaide you suddenly observed a currach approaching. It was Lorcán’s currach. But you thought it was coming in answer to the report of the eight Brothers.

“You admitted that you were a trained apothecary. You hurried to your cell and mixed a potion of herbs, a powerful sleeping draught which would render you unconscious within a short time. First you picked up a stone and smote your temple hard enough to cause a nasty-looking wound. But Maenach, who knows something of a physician’s art, told us that he would not have expected you to be unconscious from it. In fact, after you had delivered that blow, you drank your potion and stretched yourself in the oratory where I found you. You were not unconscious from the blow but merely in a deep sleep from your potion. You had already worked out the story that you would tell us. It would be your word against the poor, pitiful and confused youths.”

Fidelma slowly took out the cup and placed it on the table.

“That was the cup I found lying near you in the oratory. It still smells of the herbs, like mullein and red clover tops, which would make up the powerful sleeping draught. You have jars of such ingredients in your cell.”

“You still can’t prove this absurd story,” replied Spelán.

“I think I can. You see, not only did Abbot Selbach begin to suspect that there was a
gortaigid
at work within his community but he wrote to Ultan of Armagh outlining his suspicions.”

She took out the letter from Ultan of Armagh.

Spelán’s eyes narrowed. She noticed that tiny beads of sweat had begun to gather on his brow for the first time since she had begun to call his bluff. She held the letter tantalizingly in front of her.

“You see, Spelán, when you showed yourself anxious to get your hands on this letter, I realized that it was the piece of evidence I was looking for; indeed, that I was overlooking. The letter is remarkably informative, a reply to all Selbach’s concerns about you.”

Spelán’s face was white. He stared aghast at the letter as she placed it on the table.

“Selbach named me to Ultan?”

Fidelma pointed to the letter.

“You may see for yourself.”

With a cry of rage that stunned everyone into immobility, Spelán suddenly launched himself across the room towards Fidelma with his hands outstretched.

He had gone but a few paces when he was abruptly halted as if by a gigantic hand against his chest. He stood for a moment, his eyes bulging in astonishment, and then he slid to the ground without another word.

It was only then that they saw the hilt of the knife buried in Spelán’s heart and the blood staining his robes.

There was a movement at the door. A young, dark-haired youth in the robes of a religieux took a hesitant step in. Lorcán, the first to recover his senses, knelt by the side of Spelán and reached for a pulse. Then he raised his eyes and shook his head.

Fidelma turned to the trembling youth who had thrown the knife. She reached out a hand and laid it on his shaking arm.

“I had to do it,” muttered the youth. “I had to.”

“I know,” she pacified.

“I do not care. I am ready to be punished.” The youth drew himself up.

“In your suffering of mind, you have already punished your self enough, Brother Snagaide. These here,” she gestured toward Lorcan, Maenach and Sárnat, “are witnesses to Spelán’s action which admitted of his guilt. Your case will be heard before the Brehon in Chléire and I shall be your advocate. Does not the ancient law say every person who places themselves beyond the law is without the protection of the law? You slew a violator of the law and therefore this killing is justified under the Law of the
Fenechus.”

She drew the youth outside. He was scarcely the age of credulous and unworldly Sister Sárnat. Fidelma sighed deeply. If she could one day present a law to the council of judges of Ireland she would make it a law that no one under the age of twenty-five could be thrust into the life of the religieux. Youth needed to grow to adulthood and savor life and understand something of the world before they isolated themselves on islands or in cloisters away from it. Only in such sequestered states of innocence and fear of authority could evil men like Spelán thrive. She placed a comforting arm around the youth’s shoulder as he fell to heart-wrenching sobbing.

“Come, Lorcán,” Fidelma called across her shoulder. “Let’s get down to the currach and reach Inis Chléire before your storm arrives.”