Hemlock At Vespers (37 page)

“Are you saying that I stole the sword?” she whispered with ice in her voice.

“That’s ridiculous!” cried Sechnasach. “Ornait is my sister.”

“Nevertheless, the guilty ones are Ailill and Ornait,” replied Sister Fidelma.

“But you have just demonstrated that Ailill was innocent of the crime,” Sechnasach said in total bewilderment.

“No. I demonstrated that evidence was left for me in order that I would believe Ailill was innocent; that he could not have carried out the deed as it was claimed he had. When things are obvious, beware of them.”

“But why would Ornait take part in this theft?” demanded the High King.

“Ornait conceived the plan. Its cunning was her own. It was carried out by Ailill and herself and no others.”

“Explain.”

“Ailill and Ornait entered the chapel that night in the normal way through the passage. They proceeded to carry out the plan. Ornait took the sword while Ailill broke the bolt, making sure of the obvious mistake. They relied on discovery by the two guards and Ailill waited for them. But, as always in such carefully laid plans, there comes the unexpected. As Ornait was proceeding back through the passage she saw the Abbot coming along it. He had left his
Psalter
in the sacristy and needed it. She pressed into an alcove and hid until he had gone by. When she left the alcove she tore her gown on some obstruction.”

Sister Fidelma held out the small piece of frayed colorful cloth.

“But the rest of the plan worked perfectly. Ailill was imprisoned. The second part of the plan was now put into place. Ornait had been informed by a sister from my house at Kildare that I was a solver of mysteries. In fact, without undue modesty, I may say that Ornait’s entire plan had been built around me. When the sword could not be found, she was able to persuade Abbot Colmán to send for me to investigate its mysterious disappearance. Colmán himself had never heard of me before Ornait dropped my name in his ear. He has just admitted this.”

The Abbot was nodding in agreement as he strove to follow her argument.

“When I arrived, the contrived evidence led me immediately to believe Ailill Flann Esa was innocent, as it was supposed to do. It also led me to the chosen scapegoat, Cernach Mac Diarmuid. And in his chamber, scarcely concealed, was the sacred sword. It was all too easy for me. That ease made me suspicious. Both Ailill and Ornait were too free with Cernach’s name. Then I saw the frayed cloth in the passage and I began to think.”

“But if it was a simple plot to discredit me by the non-production of the sword,” observed Sechnasach, “why such an elaborate plot? Why not simply steal the sword and hide it where it could not be so easily recovered?”

“That was the matter which caused the greatest puzzle. However, it became clear to me as I considered it. Ornait and Ailill had to be sure of your downfall. The loss of the sword would create alarm and dissension among the people. But it was not simply chaos that they wanted. They wanted your immediate downfall. They had to ensure that the Great Assembly would come to regret their decision and immediately proclaim for Ailill at the inauguration.”

“How could they ensure that?” demanded Abbot Colmán. “The Great Assembly had already made their decision.”

“A decision which could be overturned any time before the inauguration. After aspersions had been cast on Sechnasach’s judgment, his ability to treat people fairly, the Great Assembly could change its support. By showing the Great Assembly that Sechnasach was capable of unjustly accusing one who had been his rival, this could be done. I am also sure that Sechnasach would be accused of personal enmity because of Ornait’s love of Ailill. I was part of Ornait’s plan to depose her brother and replace him with Ailill. I was to be invited to Tara for no other purpose but to demonstrate Ailill’s innocence and Cernach’s guilt. Doubt on Sechnasach’s judgment would be a blemish on his ability for the High Kingship. Remember the Law of Kings, the law of the seven proofs of a righteous King? That his judgment be firm and just and beyond reproach. Once Sechnasach’s decision to imprison Ailill was shown to have been unjust, Ailill, as Tanist, would be acclaimed in his place with Ornait as his queen.”

Sechnasach sat staring at his sister, reading the truth in her scowling features. If the veracity of Sister Fidelma’s argument needed support, it could be found in the anger and hate written on the girl’s features and the humiliation on Ailill’s face.

“And this was done for no other reason than to seize the throne, for no other motive than power?” asked the High King incredulously. “It was not done because they wanted to reform the Church in line with Rome?”

“Not for Rome. Merely for power,” Fidelma agreed. “For power most people would do anything.”

THE POISONED CHALICE

The last thing Sister Fidelma of Kildare had expected, during her pilgrimage to the Eternal City of Rome, was to see murder committed in front of her eyes in a quiet little backstreet church.

As any citizen of Rome would have expected, Sister Fidelma, like every discerning
barbarus
on their first visit, was duly impressed by the immensity of the city. As neither a Hellene nor a Roman, the term “barbarian” was, however, a pedantry when it applied to the young Irish religieuse. Her Latin was more polished than most of Rome’s citizens’ and her literary knowledge was certainly more extensive than many scholars’. She was the product of Ireland’s distinguished colleges, which were so renowned throughout Europe that in Durrow alone there were to be found the sons and daughters of kings and princelings from no less than eighteen different countries. An education in Ireland was a distinction that even the scions of the Anglo-Saxon kings would boast of.

Fidelma had come to Rome to present the
Regula coenabialis Cill Dara,
the Rule of the House of St. Brigid, in Kildare, to be approved and blessed by the Holy Father at the Lateran Palace. She had been waiting to see an official of the Papal household for several days now. To while away the time, she, like the many thousands of other pilgrims who poured into the city, spent her time in touring the ancient monuments and tombs of the city.

From the
xenodochia,
the small hostel for foreign pilgrims close by the oratory of the Blessed Prassede, where she was lodging, she would walk down the hill to the Lateran Palace each morning to see whether she was to be received that day. She was becoming irritated as the days passed by without word. But there were so many people, from so many different countries—some she had not known existed—crowding into the palace to beg audience that she stoically controlled her frustration. Each day she would leave the palace in resignation to set off in search of some new point of interest in the city.

That morning she had chosen to visit the small
ecclesia
dedicated to the Blessed Hippolytus, which lay only a short walk from her hostel. Her purpose was for no other reason than the fact that it held the tomb of Hippolytus. She knew that her mentor, Abbot Laisran of Durrow, was an admirer of the work of the early Church Father and she had once struggled through the text of
Philosophoumena,
to debate with Laisran on this refutation of the Gnostic teachings. She knew that Laisran would be impressed if she could boast a visit to the very tomb of Hippolytus.

A mass was being celebrated as she took her place at the back of the tiny
ecclesia,
a small place which could hold no more than two or three dozen people. Even so, there were only half a dozen people scattered about with bowed heads, hearing the priest intoning the solemn words of the ritual.

Fidelma examined her co-religionists with interest. The sights and sounds of Rome were still new and intriguing to her. She was attracted by a young girl in the forefront of the worshippers. Fidelma could see only her profile emerging from a hood which respectfully hid the rest of her obviously well-shaped head. It was a delicate, finely chiselled, attractive face. Fidelma could appreciate its discreet beauty. Next to her was a young man in the robes of a religieux. Even though Fidelma could not see his face fully, she saw that he was good-looking and seemed to reflect something of the girl’s features. Next to him stood a lean, weather-tanned young man, dressed in the clothes of a seaman but in the manner she had often seen adopted by sailors from Gaul. This young man did not look at all content with life. He was scowling; his expression fixed. Behind these three stood a short, stocky man in the rich robes of a senior religieux. Fidelma had seen enough of the abbots and bishops of Rome to guess that he was of such rank. In another corner was a nervous-looking, swarthy man, corpulent and richly attired and looking every inch a prosperous merchant. At the back of the church, stood the final member of the congregation, a young man attired in the uniform of the
custodes
of Rome, the guardians of law and order in the city. He was darkly handsome, with a somewhat arrogant manner, as, perhaps, befitted his soldierly calling.

The deacon, assisting in the offering, rang a small bell and the officiating priest raised the chalice of wine and intoned: “The blood of Christ!” before moving forward to join the deacon, who had now taken up a silver plate on which the consecrated Host lay.

The small congregation moved forward to take their places in line before the priest. It was the handsome young religieux who took the first position, receiving the Host, placing it in his mouth and moving forward to receive the wine from the chalice held in the hands of the priest. As he turned away, his young female companion moved forward, being the next in line, to receive the sacrament.

Even as the religieux turned back to the congregation, his face suddenly distorted, he began to choke, his mouth gaping open, his tongue thrusting obscenely forward. A hand raised to his throat as the color of his agonized features went from red to blue. The eyes were wide and staring. Sounds came from him that reminded Fidelma of the squealing of a pig about to be slaughtered.

Before the horrified gaze of the rest of the congregation, the young man fell to the floor, his body writhing and threshing for several moments. Then it was suddenly still and quiet.

There was no sound for a moment or two. Everyone stood immobile with shock.

A moment later, the shriek of the young woman rent the air. She threw herself forward onto the body. She was on her knees crying and screaming in a strange language made incomprehensible by her distress.

As no one seemed capable of moving, Sister Fidelma came quickly forward.

“Do not touch the wine nor the bread,” she instructed the priest, who was still holding the chalice in his hands. “This man has been poisoned.”

She felt, rather than saw, the heads of the people turn to stare at her. She glanced round, observing expressions ranging from bewilderment to surprise.

“Who are you to give orders, Sister?” snapped a rough voice. It was the arrogant young
custos
pushing forward.

Fidelma raised her glinting green eyes to meet his dark suspicious ones.

“I hold no authority here, if that is what you mean. I am a stranger in this city. But in my own country I am a
dálaigh,
an advocate of the law courts, and know the effects of virulent poison when I see it.”

“As you say, you hold no authority here,” snapped the
custos,
clearly a young man who felt the honor of his rank and nationality. “And I—”

“The Sister is right, nevertheless,
custos.”

The voice that interrupted was quiet, modulated but authoritative. It was the short, stocky man who spoke.

The young guard looked disconcerted at this opposition.

“I do hold authority here,” continued the short man, turning to Fidelma. “I am the Abbot Miseno and this
ecclesia
is part of my jurisdiction.”

Without waiting for the guard’s response, Abbot Miseno glanced at the officiating priest and deacon. “Do as the Sister says, Father Cornelius. Put down the wine and bread and ensure no one else touches it.”

Automatically, the priest obeyed, accompanied by the deacon, who placed his tray of bread carefully on the altar.

Abbot Miseno glanced down to the sobbing girl.

“Who was this man, daughter?” he demanded gently, bending down to place a hand on her shoulder.

The girl raised tear-stained eyes to him.

“Is he… ?”

Miseno bent further to place his fingers against the pulse in the man’s neck. The action was really unnecessary. One look at the twisted, frozen features would have been enough to confirm that the young religieux was beyond all human aid. Nevertheless, the action was probably designed as a reassurance for the girl. The Abbot shook his head.

“He is dead, daughter,” he confirmed. “Who was he?”

The girl began sobbing uncontrollably again and could not answer.

“His name was Docco. He was from Pouancé in Gaul.”

It was the young Gaulish seaman, who had been standing with the religieux and the girl, who answered him.

“And you are?” asked Abbot Miseno.