“I have heard these stories,” confirmed Sister Fidelma. “It was after Palladius’s death that the Blessed Patrick, who was then studying in Gaul, was appointed bishop to Ireland and returned to this land, where once he had been held as a hostage.”
“Indeed,” agreed Artagán. “A legend then arose in the years after Palladius’s death: that relics of this holy saint were placed in reliquary; a box with a roof-shaped lid, about twelve centimeters wide by six in length by five deep. They are usually made of wood, often yew; lined inside in lead and on the outside ornate with gilt, copper alloy, gold foil, with amber and glass decoration. Beautiful things.”
Sister Fidelma nodded impatiently. She had seen many such reliquaries among the great abbeys of Éireann.
“The legend had it that Palladius’s relics were once kept at Cashel, seat of the Eóghanacht kings of Munster. Then about two hundred years ago there was a revival of the beliefs of the druids in larmuma. The king of larmuma resumed the old religion and a great persecution of Christian communities began. Cashel was stormed. But the relics were taken into the country for safekeeping; taken from one spot to another until the relics of our first bishop were taken to the islands, away from the ravages of man. There they disappeared.”
“Go on,” prompted Sister Fidelma when the bishop paused.
“Well, just think of it. What a find it would be if we could discover the relics of the first bishop of Éireann after all this time! What a center of pilgrimage their resting place would make, what a great abbey could be built there which would attract attention from the four corners of the world…”
Sister Fidelma grimaced wryly.
“Are you saying that the Abbess Cuimne had gone to the island searching for the reliquary of Palladius?”
Bishop Artagán nodded.
“She informed me that in Ard Macha, in the great library there, she had come across some old manuscripts which indicated that the reliquary was taken to an island off the mainland of the Corco Dhuibhne. The manuscripts, which she refused to show me, were claimed to contain notes of its location written at the time. The notes had been kept in an old book in the library of the monastery of Ard Macha. There were legends of priests fleeing to these islands during the persecutions of the king of larmuma, but surely we would have known had the sacred reliquary been taken there.”
The bishop sniffed disparagingly.
“So you did not agree with Abbess Cuimne that the reliquary was on the island?” queried Sister Fidelma.
“I did not. I am something of a scholar of the period myself. Palladius died in Gaul. That much is obvious, for most records recount that fact.”
“So this is why you thought that the Abbess was on a wild goose chase?”
“Indeed, I did so. The relics of Palladius have not survived the ravages of time. If they have, then they would be in Gaul, not here. It was hard to dissuade Abbess Cuimne. A strong-willed woman, as I have told you.”
The bishop suddenly frowned.
“But what has this to do with your investigation into her death?”
Sister Fidelma smiled gently and rose from her seat.
“I only needed to assure myself of the purpose of her visit to the island.”
On the bouncing trip back, over the harsh, choppy grey seas, Sister Fidelma sat back in the currach and reflected with wrinkled forehead. So it was logical that the Abbess Cuimne had talked about the reliquary of Palladius to Congal, the
Father Patrick was an old man, certainly into his late mid- or even late eighties. A thin wisp of a man, who, Sister Fidelma thought, would be blown away by the winds that buffeted the island. A man of more bone than flesh with large knuckles, a taut parchmentlike skin and a few strands of white hair. From under overhanging brows, pale eyes of indiscernible color stared at Fidelma.
Father Patrick sat in a chair by his fireside, a thick wool shawl wrapped around his frail frame and held close by a brooch around his scrawny neck.
Yet withal the frailty and age, Fidelma felt she was in the presence of a strong and dynamic personality.
“Tell me about the reliquary of Palladius.” Sister Fidelma opened abruptly. It was a shot in the dark but she saw that it paid off.
The aged face was immobile. Only the eyes blinked once as a token of surprise. But Fidelma’s quiet eyes picked up the involuntary action.
“What have you heard about the old legend?”
The rasping voice was so pitched that Fidelma was hard pressed to hear any emotion, but there was something there … something defensive.
“Is it a legend, Father?” asked Fidelma with emphasis.
“There are many old legends here, my daughter.”
“Well, Abbess Cuimne thought she knew this one to be true. She told the bishop of the Corco Dhuibhne that she was going to see the reliquary before she left the island.”
“And now she is dead,” the old priest observed almost with a sigh. Again the watery pale eyes blinked. “May she rest in peace.”
Sister Fidelma waited a moment. The priest was silent.
“About the reliquary…” she found herself prompting.
“So far as people are concerned it is only a legend and will remain so.”
Sister Fidelma frowned, trying to interpret this statement.
“So it is not on the island?”
“No islander has seen it.”
Fidelma pursed her lips in an effort to suppress her annoyance. She had the distinct feeling that Father Patrick was playing semantic games with her. She tried another tack.
“Abbess Cuimne came to talk with you on a couple of occasions, didn’t she? What did you talk about?”
“We talked about the folklore of the island.”
“About the reliquary?”
The priest paused. “About the legend of the reliquary,” he corrected.
“And she believed it was here, on the island, isn’t that so?”
“She believed so.”
“And it is not?”
“You may ask any islander if they have seen it or know of its whereabouts.”
Fidelma sighed impatiently. Again there had come the semantic avoidance of her question. Father Patrick would have made a good advocate, skillful in debate.
“Very well, Father. Thank you for your time.”
She was leaving the priest’s cell when she met Corcrain, the apothecary, at the step.
“How ill is Father Patrick?” Fidelma asked him directly.
“Father Patrick is a frail old man,” the apothecary replied. “I fear he will not be with us beyond the winter. He has already had two problems with his heart, which grows continually weaker.”
“How weak?”
“Twice it has misbeat. The third time may prove fatal.”
Sister Fidelma pursed her lips.
“Surely the bishop could retire an old man like that? He could go to rest in some comfortable abbey on the mainland.”
“Surely; if anyone could persuade Father Patrick to leave the island. He came here as a young man sixty
