Hemlock At Vespers (17 page)

Sister Sárnat emerged from the cell, holding the letter which Fidelma had laid on the table.

“Sister…” She seemed to find difficulty in speaking. “This letter from Ultan to Selbach… it does not refer to Spelán. Selbach didn’t suspect Spelán at all. He thought that mortification was just a fashion among the youthful Brothers.”

Fidelma’s face remained unchanged.

“Selbach could not bring himself to suspect his companion. It was a lucky thing that Spelán didn’t realize that, wasn’t it?”

OUR LADY OF DEATH

The awesome moaning of the wind blended chillingly with the howling of wolves. They were nearby, these fearsome night hunters. Sister Fidelma knew it but could not see them because of the cold, driving snow against her face. It came at her in clouds of whirling, ice-cold, tiny pellicles. It obliterated the landscape and she could scarcely see beyond her arm’s length in front of her.

Had it not been for the urgency of reaching Cashel, the seat of the kings of Mumha, she would not have been attempting the journey northward through these great, forbidding peaks of Sléibhte an Comeraigh. She bent forward in the saddle of her horse, which only her rank as a
dálaigh
of the law courts of the five kings of Ireland entitled her to have. A simple religieuse would not be able to lay claim to such a means of transportation. But then Fidelma was no ordinary religieuse. She was a daughter of a former king of Cashel, an advocate of the law of the
Fénechus
and qualified to the level of
Anruth,
one degree below the highest qualification in Ireland. The wind drove the snow continuously against her. It plastered the rebellious strands of red hair that spilled from her
cubhal,
or head-dress, against her pale forehead. She wished the wind’s direction would change, even for a moment or two, for it would have been more comfortable to have the wind at her back. But the wind was constantly raging from the north.

The threatening howl of the wolves seemed close. Was it her imagination or had it been gradually getting closer as she rode the isolated mountain track? She shivered and once more wished that she had stopped for the night at the last
bruidhen
or hostel in order to await more clement weather. But the snowstorm had set in and it would be several days before conditions improved. Sooner or later she would have to tackle the journey. The message from her brother Colgú had said her presence was needed urgently for their mother lay dying. Only that fact brought Fidelma traversing the forbidding tracks through the snowbound mountains in such intemperate conditions.

Her face was frozen and so were her hands as she confronted the fierce wind-driven snow. In spite of her heavy woollen cloak, she found her teeth chattering. A dark shape loomed abruptly out of the snow nearby. Her heart caught in her mouth as her horse shied and skittered on the trail for a moment. Then she was able to relax and steady the beast with a sigh of relief as the regal shape of a great stag stared momentarily at her from a distance of a few yards before recklessly turning and bounding away into the cover of the white curtain that blocked out the landscape.

Continuing on, she had reached what she felt must be the crest of a rise and found the wind so fierce here that it threatened to sweep her from her horse. Even the beast put its head down to the ground and seemed to stagger at the icy onslaught. Masses of loose powdery snow drifted this way and that in the howling and shrieking of the tempest.

Fidelma blinked at the indistinct blur of the landscape beyond.

She felt sure she had seen a light. Or was it her imagination? She blinked again and urged her horse onward, straining to keep her eyes focused on the point where she thought she had seen it. She automatically pulled her woollen cloak higher up around her neck.

Yes! She had seen it. A light, surely!

She halted her horse and slipped off, making sure she had the reins looped securely around her arm. The snow came up to her knees, making walking almost impossible but she could not urge her mount through the drifting snow without making sure it was safe enough first. After a moment or two she had come to a wooden pole. She peered upward. Barely discernible in the flurries above her head hung a dancing storm lantern.

She stared around in surprise. The swirling snow revealed nothing. But she was sure that the lantern was the traditional sign of a
bruidhen,
an inn, for it was the law that all inns had to keep a lantern burning to indicate their presence at night or in severe weather conditions.

She gazed back at the pole with its lantern, and chose a direction, moving awkwardly forward in the deep, clinging snow. Suddenly the wind momentarily dropped and she caught sight of the large dark shadow of a building. Then the blizzard resumed its course and she staggered head down in its direction. More by good luck than any other form of guidance, she came to a horse’s hitching rail and tethered her beast there, before feeling her way along the cold stone walls toward the door.

There was a sign fixed on the door but she could not decipher it. She saw, to her curiosity, a ring of herbs hanging from the door almost obliterated in their coating of snow.

She found the iron handle, twisted it and pushed. The door remained shut. She frowned in annoyance. It was the law that a
brugh-fer,
an innkeeper, had to keep the door of his inn open at all times, day and night and in all weathers. She tried again.

The wind was easing a little now and its petulant crying had died away to a soft whispering moan.

Irritated, Fidelma raised a clenched fist and hammered at the door.

Did she hear a cry of alarm or was it simply the wailing wind?

There was no other answer.

She hammered more angrily this time.

Then she did hear a noise. A footstep and then a harsh male cry.

“God and his saints stand between us and all that is evil! Begone foul spirit!”

Fidelma was thunderstruck for a moment. Then she thrust out her jaw.

“Open, innkeeper; open to a
dálaigh
of the courts; open to a Sister of the Abbey of Kildare! In the name of charity, open to a refugee from the storm!”

There was a moment of silence. Then she thought she heard voices raised in argument. She hammered again.

There came the sound of bolts being drawn and the door swung inward. A blast of warm air enveloped Fidelma and she pushed hurriedly into the room beyond, shaking the snow from her woollen cloak.

“What manner of hostel is this that ignores the laws of the Brehons?” she demanded, turning to the figure that was now closing the wooden door behind her.

The man was tall and thin. A gaunt, pallid figure of middle age, his temples greying. He was poorly attired and his height was offset by a permanent stoop. But it was not that which caused Fidelma’s eyes to widen a fraction. It was the horror on the man’s face; not a momentary expression of horror but a graven expression that was set deep and permanently into his cadaverous features. Tragedy and grief stalked across the lines of his face.

“I have a horse tethered outside. The poor beast will freeze to death if not attended,” Fidelma snapped, when the man did not answer her question but simply stood staring at her.

“Who are you?” demanded a shrill woman’s voice behind her.

Fidelma swung round. The woman who stood there had once been handsome; now age was causing her features to run with surplus flesh, and lines marked her face. Her eyes stared, black and apparently without pupils, at Fidelma. The religieuse had the impression that here was a woman in whom, at some awesome moment in her life, the pulsating blood of life had frozen and never regained its regular ebb and flow. What surprised her more was that the woman held before her a tall ornate crucifix. She held it as if it were some protective icon against the terror that afflicted her.

She and the man were well matched.

“Speak! What manner of person are you?”

Fidelma sniffed in annoyance.

“If you are the keepers of this inn, all you should know is that I am a weary traveler in these mountains, driven to seek refuge from the blizzard.”

The woman was not cowed by her haughty tone.

“It is not all we need to know,” she corrected just as firmly. “Tell us whether you mean us harm or not.”

Fidelma was surprised.

“I came here to shelter from the storm, that is all. I am Fidelma of Kildare,” replied the religieuse in annoyance. “Moreover, I am a
dálaigh
of the courts, qualified to the level of
Anruth
and sister to Colgú, of this Tanist kingdom.”

The grandiloquence of her reply was an indication of the annoyance Fidelma felt, for normally she was not one given to stating more than was necessary. She had never felt the need to mention that her brother, Colgú, was heir apparent to the kingdom of Cashel before. However, she felt that she needed to stir these people out of their curious mood.

As she spoke she swung off her woollen cloak, displaying her habit, and noticed that the woman’s eyes fell upon the ornately worked crucifix which hung from her neck. Was there some expression of reassurance in those cold expressionless eyes?

The woman put down her cross and gave a bob of her head.

“Forgive us, Sister. I am Monchae, wife to Belach, the innkeeper.”

Belach seemed to be hesitating at the door.

“Shall I see to the horse?” he asked hesitantly.

“Unless you want it to freeze to death,” snapped Fidelma, making her way to a large open fire in which sods of turf were singing as they caused a warmth to envelop the room. From the corner of her eye she saw Belach hesitate a moment longer and then, swinging a cloak around his shoulders, he took from behind the door a sword and went out into the blizzard.

Fidelma was astonished. She had never seen a ostler take a sword to assist him in putting a horse to stable before.

Monchae was pushing the iron handle on which hung a cauldron across the glowing turf fire.

“What place is this?” demanded Fidelma as she chose a chair in which to stretch out before the warmth of the fire. The room was low-beamed and comfortable but devoid of decorations apart from a tall statuette of the Madonna and Child, executed in some form of painted plaster—a gaudy, alabaster figurine. It dominated as the center display at the end of a large table where, presumably, guests dined.

“This is Brugh-na-Bhelach. You have just come off the shoulder of the mountain known as Fionn’s Seat. The River Tua is but a mile to the north of here. We do not have many travelers this way in winter. Which direction are you heading?”

“North to Cashel,” replied Fidelma.

Monchae ladled a cup of steaming liquid from the cauldron over the fire and handed it to her. Although the liquid must have been warming the vessel, Fidelma could not feel it as she cupped her frozen hands around it and let the steaming vapor assail her nostrils. It smelled good. She sipped slowly at it, her sense of taste confirming what her sense of smell had told her.

She glanced up at the woman.

“Tell me, Monchae, why was the door of this hostel barred? Why did I have to beg to be admitted? Do you and your husband, Belach, know the law of hostel-keepers?”

Monchae pressed her lips together.

“Will you report us to the
bó-aire
of the territory?”

The
bó-aire
was the local magistrate.

“I am more concerned with hearing your reasons,” replied Fidelma. “Someone might have perished from the cold before you and your husband, Belach, opened your door.”

The woman looked agitated, chewing her lips as if she would draw blood from it.

The door opened abruptly with a wild gust of cold air, sending snowflakes swirling across the room and a stream of icy air enveloping them.

Belach stood poised a moment in its frame, a ghastly look upon his pale features and then with a sound which resembled a soft moan, he entered and barred the door behind him. He still carried the sword as a weapon.

Fidelma watched him with curiosity as he threw the bolts.

Monchae stood, both hands raised to her cheeks.

Belach turned from the door and his lips were trembling.

“I heard it!” he muttered, his eyes darting from his wife to Fidelma, as though he did not want her to hear. “I heard it!”

“Oh Mary, Mother of God, save us!” cried the woman, swaying as if she would faint.

“What does this mean?” Fidelma demanded as sternly as she could.

Belach turned, pleading, to her.

“I was in the barn, bedding down your horse, Sister, and I heard it.”

“But what?” cried Fidelma, trying to keep her patience.

“The spirit of Mugrán,” wailed Monchae suddenly, giving way to a fit of sobbing. “Save us, Sister. For the pity of Christ! Save us!”

Fidelma rose and went to the woman, taking her gently but firmly by the arm and leading her to the fire. She could see that her husband, Belach, was too nervous to attend to the wants of his wife and so she went to a jug, assessed its contents as
corma,
a spirit distilled from barley, and poured a little into a cup. She handed it to the woman and told her to drink.