Hemlock At Vespers (23 page)

Part of it, where she had abraded it, gleamed a bright yellow.

A satisfied smile spread over her features.

Abbess Ita sat upright in her chair, her calm, composed features just a little too set to be an entirely natural expression. It was as if she had not stirred from the chair since last Fidelma had seen her. Abbess Ita regarded Sister Fidelma with her amber eyes wary as a pine-marten might watch a circling hawk.

“You may be seated, Sister,” the Abbess said. It was an unusual invitation, one showing deference to Sister Fidelma’s legal status rather than her religious one.

“Thank you, Mother Abbess,” Fidelma replied, as she lowered herself into a chair facing Abbess Ita.

“The hour grows late. How does your inquiry progress?”

Sister Fidelma smiled gently.

“It draws towards its conclusion,” she answered. “But I am in need of further information.”

Abbess Ita gestured with one hand, a motion from the wrist only, as if in invitation.

“When Sillán came to see you this afternoon, what was said which caused him anger?”

Abbess Ita blinked; the only reaction which expressed her surprise at the directness of the question.

“Did he come to see me?” she asked slowly, parrying as if playing for time.

Sister Fidelma nodded firmly.

“He did, as you know.”

Abbess Ita let out a long sigh.

“It would be foolish to attempt to conceal the truth from you. I have known you too long, Fidelma. It always surprised me that you chose the life of a religieuse rather than pursue a more worldly existence. You have a perception and a reasoning that is not given to everyone.”

Sister Fidelma ignored the praise. She waited quietly for the Abbess to reply to her question.

“Sillán came to apprise me of certain things which he had discovered…”

“He had discovered the lost gold mine of Kildare.”

This time Abbess Ita could not conceal the faint ripple of muscle as she sought to control the astonishment on her face. She struggled to compose herself for some moments and then her lips became thin in an almost bitter smile.

“Yes. I suppose that you learnt this much from the Tanist of the Uí Failgi, whom I am told has just arrived seeking hospitality here. You doubtless know that Sillán was a man skilled in the profession of mining; that he had been sent here by the Uí Failgi to find an ancient gold mine and explore its potential.”

“I do. But his mission was a secret known only to Sillán, the Uí Failgi and his Tanist, Tírechán. How did you come to learn about it?”

“Sillán himself came to tell me about it this very afternoon.”

“Not before?”

“Not before,” agreed the Abbess with emphasis.

“Then tell me what transpired.”

“It was after noon, well after the noon Angelus, that Sillán came to see me. He told me what he was doing in Kildare. In truth, I had suspected it. He had arrived here eight days ago and carried credentials from the Uí Failgi. What could a man from Kilmantan be doing here with approval of the Uí Failgi? Oh, I had heard the ancient legends of the lost gold mine of Kildare. So I had suspected.”

She paused for a moment.

“And?” encouraged Sister Fidelma.

“He came to tell me that he had found it, had found the old gold mine which had been worked centuries ago and had explored some of its passageways. Furthermore, he declared that the gold seams were still in evidence and were still workable. He was leaving Kildare tomorrow to report his find to the Uí Failgi.”

“Why, then, Mother Abbess, did he break secrecy with the Uí Failgi and tell you this?”

Abbess Ita grimaced.

“Sillán of Kilmantan respected our community and wanted to warn us. It was as simple as that. You see, our abbey lies directly above the mine workings. Once this was known, then there is little doubt that the Uí Failgi would have ordered our eviction from this spot, this blessed spot where the Holy Brigid gathered her disciples and preached under the great oak, founding her community. Even should our community be simply ordered to move a short distance, we would have to give up the holy soil where Brigid and her descendants are buried, their clay mingling with the earth to make it sanctified.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the troubled face of the Abbess, listening to the suppressed emotion in her voice.

“So the only purpose he had in telling you this, Mother Abbess, was to warn the community?”

“Sillán, in his piety, thought it only fair to warn me what he had discovered. He merely wanted to give our community time to prepare for the inevitable.”

“Then what angered him?”

Abbess Ita compressed her lips a moment. When she spoke, her voice was firm and controlled.

“I tried to reason with him. I asked him to keep the secret of the lost mine. At first I appealed to him by virtue of our common faith, by the memory of the Blessed Brigid, by the faith and future of our community. He refused, politely but firmly, saying he was bound by honor to report his discovery to the Uí Failgi.

“Then I tried to point out the greater implications. Should news of the gold mine be broadcast, then war might follow as it has done at Cuillin.”

Sister Fidelma nodded slowly as Abbess Ita confirmed her own thoughts.

“I am aware of the conflict over the mines at Cuillin, Mother Abbess.”

“Then you will realize that Kildare, while in the territory of the Uí Failgi, is but a short distance from the territories of the Uí Faeláin to the northeast and the Uí Mail to the southeast with only the desolate plain of the Bog of Aillín to protect us. The word ‘gold’ will cause a fire to be lit in the hearts of chieftains avaricious for the power it will bring. This dear, green spot, now so peaceful and so pleasant, would be stained red with the blood of warriors, and of the people that once lived here in harmony with the green plains and hills of Kildare. Our community of Kildare will be swept away like chaff from the wheat.”

“Yet why did Sillán become angry?” pressed Sister Fidelma.

The Abbess Ita’s expression was painful.

“When I had told him this, and when he still insisted that his duty lay in telling the Uí Failgi, I told him that his would then be the responsibility for what followed. I told him that God’s curse would pursue him for destroying the peace of this land. That he would be damned in the next world as well as this one. The name Sillán would become the synonym for the destruction of the holy shrine of Brigid of Kildare.”

“What then?”

“His face reddened in anger and he flung himself from the room, averring that he would depart at first light.”

“When did you see him again?”

“Not until vespers.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully into the eyes of the Abbess Ita.

The amber orbs smoldered as they reflected back Sister Fidelma’s scrutiny.

“You dare think… ?” whispered the Abbess Ita, her face pale, reading the suspicion in the younger face before her.

Sister Fidelma did not drop her gaze.

“I am here as a
dálaigh,
Abbess Ita, not as a member of your community. My concern is truth, not etiquette. A man lies dead in this abbey. He was poisoned. From the circumstances, it was a poison that was not self-administered. Then by whom and for what reason? To keep Sillán from revealing the secret of the lost mine to the Uí Failgi? That seems a logical deduction. And who stands to gain by the suppression of that knowledge? Why, none but the community of this abbey, Mother Abbess.”

“And the people of the surrounding countryside!” snapped Abbess Ita, angrily. “Do not forget that in your equation, Sister Fidelma. Do not forget all the blood that will be saved during the forthcoming years.”

“Right cannot be served by wrong, it is the law. And I must judge what is lawful. Knowing that it was the law that I must serve as a
dálaigh
of the Brehon Court, separate from my role as a member of this community, why did you ask me to investigate this matter? You yourself could have conducted the inquiry. Why me?”

“In such a matter of importance, a report from a
dálaigh
of the Brehon Court would carry much weight with the Ui Failgi.”

“So you had hoped that I would not discover the existence of the gold mine?” frowned Sister Fidelma.

Abbess Ita had risen in agitation from her chair. Fidelma rose so that her eyes were on a level with the Abbess’s own agitated gaze.

“Tell me directly, Mother Abbess: did you poison, or arrange to have poisoned, Sillán to prevent him speaking with the Uí Failgi?”

For several moments there was an icy silence. The sort of silence which precedes an eruption of the earth. Then the Abbess Ita’s anger faded and a sad expression crossed her face. She dropped her gaze before the younger woman.

“Mine was not the hand that administered poison to Sillán though I confess that the heaviness of my heart lifted when I heard of the deed.”

In the quietude of her cell, Sister Fidelma lay on her cot, fully clothed, hands behind her head, staring into the darkness. She had extinguished the light of her candle and lay merely contemplating the shadows without really registering them as she turned over in her mind the facts of the mysterious death of Sillán.

There was something staring her in the face about this matter, a clue which was so obvious that she was missing it. She felt it in her being. It was there, in her mind, if only she could draw it out.

She had no doubt in her mind that Sillán had been killed because of the knowledge he possessed.

And Sister Fidelma found herself in sympathy with the suppression of that knowledge.

Yet that was not the law, the law that she was sworn to uphold as a
dálaigh
of the Brehon Court. Yet the law was simply a compact between men. Rigid law could be the greater injustice. While the law was blind, in an ideal world justice should be able to remove the bandage from its eyes long enough to distinguish between the unfortunate and the vicious.

Her mind spinning in moral dilemma, Sister Fidelma drifted unknowingly into a sleep.

Sister Fidelma became aware firstly of someone pulling at her arm and then of the dim tolling of the Angelus bell.

Sister Ethne’s pale, hawklike features cleared out of the blurred vision as Fidelma blinked and focused her eyes.

“Quickly, Sister, quickly. There has been another death.”

Fidelma sat up abruptly and stared at Sister Ethne in incredulity. It lacked an hour before dawn but the
bean-tigh
had already lit the candle in her cell.

“Another death? Who?”

“Follaman.”

“How?” demanded Fidelma, scrambling from her cot.

“In the same manner, Sister. By poison. Come quickly to the
tech-óired.”

Follaman, the
timthirig
of the community, lay on his back, his face contorted in pain. One arm was flung out in a careless gesture and from the still fingers, Sister Fidelma followed the line to the broken pottery below. It had once been an earthenware goblet. There was a dark stain of liquid which had seeped into the flag-stone below.

The Sister-apothecary was already in the room, having been summoned earlier, and had examined the corpse.

“The goblet contained hemlock, Sister Fidelma,” bobbed Sister Poitigéir quickly as Fidelma turned to her. “It was drunk in the same manner as Sillán drank his poison. But Follaman drank the liquid in the night and no one heard his final cries.”

Sister Fidelma surveyed the scene grimly then she turned to Sister Ethne.

“I will be with the Mother Abbess for a while. See that no one disturbs us.”

Abbess Ita stood at the window of her chamber, watching the reds, golds and oranges of the rising dawn.

She half-turned as Sister Fidelma entered, then, ascertaining who it was, she turned back to the open window. The sharp colors of dawn were flooding the room with a pleasant, golden aura.

“No, Fidelma,” she said before Fidelma spoke. “I did not poison Follaman.”

Fidelma’s lips thinned.

“I know that you did not, Mother Abbess.”

With a surprised frown, Abbess Ita turned and stared at Fidelma for a moment. Then she motioned her to be seated and slid herself into her chair. Her face was pale and strained. She seemed to have slept little.

“Then you already know who the culprit is? You know how Sillán and Follaman died?”

Sister Fidelma nodded.

“Last night, Mother Abbess, I was struggling to decide whether I, as a
dálaigh,
should serve the law or serve justice.”

“Is that not the same thing, Fidelma?”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly.

“Sometimes it is; sometimes not. This matter, for example, is a case where the two things diverge.”

“Yes?”

“It is obvious that Sillán was killed unlawfully. He was killed to prevent him revealing his knowledge that a gold mine is situated under these venerable buildings. Was the person who slaughtered him right or wrong to kill him? By what standards do we judge? The taking of a life is wrong by our laws. But if Sillán had disclosed his knowledge, and that knowledge had led to the driving forth of this community from its lands, or had led to warfare between those who would then covert these lands, would that have been justice? Perhaps there is a natural justice which rules above all things?”

“I understand what you are saying, Fidelma,” replied the Abbess. “The death of one innocent may prevent the deaths of countless others.”

“Yet do we have the right to make their choice? Is that not something which we should leave in the hands of God?”

“It can be argued that sometimes God places in our hands the tools by which His will is carried out.”

Sister Fidelma studied the Abbess’s face closely.

“Only two people now know of Sillán’s discovery.”

Abbess Ita raised an eyebrow.

“Two?”

“I know, Mother Abbess and you know.”

The Abbess frowned.

“But surely the poisoner of Follaman knows?”

“Knew,”
corrected Sister Fidelma softly.

“Explain.”

“It was Follaman who administered the hemlock which killed Sillán.”

The Abbess bit her lip.