Hemlock At Vespers (27 page)

Fidelma suddenly frowned. Someone had marked a passage in a textual section entitled
“Apokrupto.”
Fidelma dredged her knowledge of Greek. It meant “hidden texts.” She read the passage with a frown. The story was of how the Assyrian king, Nebuchadnezzar, sent his army against the Israelites. The army was commanded by an invincible general named Holofernes. As the Assyrian army lay encamped around the Israelite city of Bethulia, a young Jewish maiden named Judith went to the Assyrian camp and was brought before Holofernes. She seduced him and then, afterward, as he lay in a drunken slumber, she cut off his head and returned to her own people, who took heart by this sign, rushed upon the invading army, and routed them.

Fidelma smiled to herself. It was a story worthy of the ancient Irish bards, for it was once believed that the soul reposed in the head and the greatest sign of respect was to sever the head of one’s enemy. Fidelma’s eyes suddenly widened. Judith. Her eye traveled from the Hebrew text to the Greek and then to the Latin. She caught her breath as she realized the meaning of the name Judith—it meant Jewess.

Why had the passage been marked? What had Scoriath meant when he told Liadin that he would give up his warrior’s role and become a farmer unless the “Jewess” prevented him? Scoriath was a foreigner and, in a way, commander of an army as Holofernes had been. Also, Scoriath’s head had nearly been severed. Was there some bizarre meaning to this?

Slowly she replaced the book under the puzzled gaze of the Brehon.

“Have you seen all you wish?”

“I wish,” Fidelma replied, raising her head, “to see the genealogist of the Uí Dróna.”

“You now say that you wish to question the chieftainess of the Uí Dróna? What has she to do with this matter?”

It was an hour later and Rathend and Fidelma were seated in the great hall of the fortress.

“That is for me to discover,” replied Fidelma. “I have the right to call Irnan for examination. Do you deny it?”

“Very well.” Rathend was clearly reluctant. “But I hope you know what you are doing, Fidelma of Kildare.”

Irnan came in after a short, uneasy period of waiting. Rathend leapt to his feet as the chieftainess entered.

“Why am I summoned, Rathend?” Irnan’s voice was irritable and she chose to ignore Fidelma. But it was Fidelma who replied to her.

“How long was Scoriath your lover, Irnan?”

A pin falling to the ground would have been heard for several seconds after Fidelma had spoken.

The face of the swarthy woman blanched, the lips thinned. An expression of shock etched her features.

Rathend was staring at Fidelma as if he could not believe what he had heard.

Suddenly, as if her bones and muscles would no longer support her, Irnan seemed to fold up on a nearby chair, her gaze, combining consternation and fear, not leaving Fidelma’s imperturbable features. As she did not reply, Fidelma continued.

“Before your birth, I am told that your father, Drón, traveled to the port of Síl Maíluidir. His aim was to encourage some merchants of the clan to open trade there. While at the port he met a Phoenician merchant who had a beautiful daughter. Drón married her and they had a child. The child was yourself. Your mother was named Judith—the Jewess. She survived your birth only by a few months. When she died your father then brought you back here, where you were raised.”

“That story is no secret,” replied Irnan sharply. “Molua, the genealogist, doubtless told it to you.”

“When did Scoriath tell you that he no longer loved you and wanted to resign his command and be a simple farmer?”

Irnan had apparently recovered her composure and chuckled drily.

“You do not know everything,
dálaigh
of the court. Scoriath did love me and told me as much on the day his wife slew him for jealousy.”

Fidelma found herself having to control her surprise at the sudden candor of Irnan’s response.

“Scoriath loved me, but he was a man of honor.” Irnan’s words were like acid. “He did not want to harm Liadin nor his young son and so he told me that he would not divorce his wife. He would stay with them.”

“That provides you with a motive for killing him,” Fidelma pointed out.

“I loved Scoriath. I would never have harmed him.”

“So you would have us believe that you accepted the situation?”

“Scoriath and I were lovers from the first day that he arrived among us. My father, who was then chieftain, found out. While he admired Scoriath as a warrior, my father wanted me to marry an Irish prince of wealth. I think he was more determined that I should do so because of the fact that I was my mother’s daughter and he wanted to compensate for my foreign blood. He then forced Scoriath into an arranged marriage with Liadin. Scoriath did not love her.”

Irnan paused and stared reflectively at the fire for a moment before drawing her dark eyes back to the graven features of Fidelma.

“When my father died, I became the Uí Dróna. I was then free to do as I willed. I urged Scoriath to divorce Liadin, making fair settlement on her and the child. He, however, was a man of honor and refused. He did not want to hurt Liadin. So we remained lovers.

“Then came the news of how Scoriath and his son were slain. It was so obvious who did it and why. Liadin must have found out and killed him in jealous passion.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at Irnan.

“Perhaps it is too obvious a conclusion? We must take your word alone as to Scoriath’s attitudes. You could just as easily have slain Scoriath because he rejected your love.”

Irnan’s jaw came up pugnaciously.

“I do not lie. This is all I have to say.” Irnan stood up. “Have you done with your questions?”

“All for the time being.”

The chieftainess turned and, without another glance at the unhappy Rathend or at Fidelma, strode from the room.

Fidelma sighed. There was something itching at the back of her memory.

Rathend was about to break the silence when the door of the hall opened and a nervous youth in the brown homespun robes of a religieux entered.

“Is the Brehon Rathend here?” he began nervously and then, catching sight of Fidelma, he bobbed his head nervously.
“Bene vobis,
Sister.”

“I am Rathend,” the Brehon said. “What do you wish?”

“I am Suathar of the monastery of the Blessed Moling. I came to seek the return of the book we loaned to Scoriath. I was told that before I can reclaim the book, I must have your permission.”

Fidelma looked up swiftly.

“Scoriath borrowed the copy of Origenes’s
Hexapla
from your monastery’s library?”

“Yes; a week ago, Sister,” agreed the young man.

“Did Scoriath request the loan of this book in person?”

Suathar shook his head, puzzled by the question.

“No. He sent a message and asked that the book be delivered the next time someone came to the
ráth
of the Uí Dróna. I had to come here six days ago because the aunt of the lady Liadin was ill and requested me to bring her to nurse her. I gave the book to Liadin.”

Rathend had handed the book satchel to the monk.

“You’d best check to see whether all is in order,” Fidelma invited as the young man began his thanks.

The monk hesitated, pulled out the leather-bound book, turning it over in his hands. Then he opened it.

“Has someone made a mark on the story of Holofernes?” prompted Fidelma.

“The mark was not there when I left it,” agreed the young monk. “Also …” he hesitated. “The dark, brownish stains on the leather binding were not there before. They look like the imprint of the palm of hand.”

Fidelma exhaled sharply, rebuking herself for her blindness. She took the book and, after a moment’s examination, placed her hand palm down over the dark stain to assess the measurement of the imprint.

“I have been a fool!” she said softly, as if to herself. Then she drew herself up again. “Suathar, is the work of Origenes one that is popular?”

“Not popular. As you must know, Sister, it is only of passing interest to we of the Faith because the Hebrew texts, which the great Origenes put together, are of a questionable nature, being the stories which we now call ”The Apocrypha,’ from the Greek word—”

Fidelma raised a hand impatiently to silence him.

“Just so. Nowhere else is the story of Judith and Holofernes to be found?”

“None that I know of Sister.”

“Has the lady Liadin ever visited your library at the monastery?”

Suathar pursed his lips in thought.

“Yes. Several weeks ago.”

Fidelma turned with a grave face to the Brehon.

“I have finished my inquires, Rathend. I need to only see Liadin once more. The case may be heard tomorrow.”

“Then you will be entering a ‘not guilty’ plea for the lady Liadin?” asked Rathend.

Fidelma shook her head at the startled Brehon.

“No. I shall be making a plea of ‘guilty.’ Liadin has been clever, but not clever enough.”

Before Sister Fidelma entered Liadin’s small cell, she turned to Conn, the commander of the guard, whom she had asked to accompany her, and told him to remain outside the door in case he was needed.

As Liadin rose with bright expectation on her face, Fidelma positioned herself just inside the door with folded arms.

“I will defend you, Liadin,” she began coldly without preamble, “but only to seek some mitigation for your guilt. It has been hard for me to believe that you would attempt to use me in this evil plot.”

When the horror of realization at what Fidelma had said began to spread across her features, Liadin opened her mouth to protest.

“I know it all,” Fidelma interrupted. “You appealed to my intellectual vanity with a number of false clues which you thought would lead me to suspect Irnan. Above all, you relied on my human weakness, that of my long friendship with you, to convince me that you could never have done this deed.”

Liadin’s face was suddenly drained of emotion and she sat back on the cot abruptly.

“You learnt that Scoriath had never loved you,” went on Fidelma relentlessly. “You learnt that he was having an affair with Irnan. The crime was well planned. If you could not have him, neither would Irnan. You hatched a cunning double plot, You decided to kill him and send for me, leaving me a false trail so that I would defend you by following that trail to Irnan.”

“How could I do that?” The girl was defiant.

“You had discovered the story of Irnan’s parentage and it put you in mind of the story of Holofernes. You were always a good Greek scholar and decided to use that as the intellectual bait which you knew would appeal to my imagination. You checked the story in the
Hexapla
by Origenes on a visit to the library of the monastery of Moling. When the time was right, you sent to ask Suathar, in Scoriath’s name, to bring the book which would provide me with the next clue after you had dropped into your conversation with me that Scoriath was afraid of someone called the ‘Jewess.’ ”

Fidelma paused and gazed sadly at her friend.

“You took the book and hung it in the chamber. One unexpected thing occurred. You were overheard by Branar having a row with Scoriath. But that turned out to be no problem because, having convinced myself so firmly of your innocence, I cleverly used a trick to dismiss Branar’s information to my own satisfaction. Cleverness when used with prejudice is a formidable thing.

“You went off to your aunt. Later you returned unnoticed to the
ráth
and entered your chambers. There was Scoriath. He had no cause to suspect you, and you struck him from behind. Perhaps it was then that you remembered … in the row that morning you had neglected to plant the main piece of evidence needed for me to follow the trail. You had neglected to mark the passage about Judith and Holofernes. You did so then, for there was blood which stained the leather binding and went unnoticed.

“Then,” Fidelma went on remorselessly, “then you went to hide in the stables and wait until Conn discovered the bodies. You appeared, pretending to have just returned from your aunt. You knew that you would be accused, but you had already sent for me and laid your false trail. The thing that was irritating my mind was the fact that you must have sent for me before the murder to allow me to reach here on time.”

“It is not true,” Liadin’s voice was broken now. “Even if I did kill Scoriath for jealousy, there is a flaw in your arguments and one I think you know in your heart.”

Fidelma raised her head and returned her friend’s gaze. Did she detect a triumph in that gaze?

“And what is that?” she asked softly.

“You know that I would not be capable of killing my own son. While you have that doubt you will do all you can to argue my case and clear me of this crime.”

“You are right,” Fidelma admitted. “I know that you could not have killed your son.”

Fidelma heard a movement outside the cell but did not take her eyes from Liadin’s triumphant gaze.

“Come in, Conn,” she called quietly and without turning her head. “Tell me why you had to kill Liadin’s little son.”

The fair haired young Tanist entered the cell with his sword drawn.

“For the same reason that I must now kill you,” he replied coldly. “The plot was more or less as you have described it. There was a slight difference. I was the leading spirit. Liadin and I were lovers.”

Liadin had begun crying softly, realizing the truth was finally out.

“I wanted my freedom from Scoriath to go with Conn. I knew Scoriath would not divorce me, for he was a man of principles. So there was no alternative. I had to make you believe that he was having an affair with Irnan….”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow in cynicism.

“Are you telling me that you did not know that Scoriath and Irnan were really lovers?”

Liadin’s look of startled surprise told Fidelma that she did not.

“Then you did not know that Scoriath would have divorced you had you simply asked him? Or that he remained with you only because of what he considered was his duty to you and his son?”

Liadin stood frozen in horror. Then she stammered: “But Conn … Conn said … Oh God! If only I had known … then all this could have been avoided. Conn and I could have been together without guilt.”