Hemlock at Vespers

Congal was a big man. He sat before a plate piled with fish and a boiled duck’s egg. Though he sat at table, he still wore his fisherman’s clothes, as if he could not be bothered to change on entering his bothán. Yet the clothes simply emphasized his large, muscular torso. His hands, too, were large and callused.

“Sad, it is,” he growled across the scrubbed pine table to where Sister Fidelma sat with a bowl of sweet mead which he had offered in hospitality. “The woman had a good life before her but it is a dangerous place to be walking if you don’t know the ground.”

“I’m told that she was exploring here.”

The big man frowned.

“Exploring?”

“I’m told that she spoke with you a few times.”

“Not surprising that she would do so. I am the local seanchaí. I know all the legends and tales of the island.” There was more than a hint of pride in his voice. Sister Fidelma realized that pride went with the islanders. They had little enough but were proud of what they did have.

“Is that what she was interested in? Ancient tales?”

“It was.”

“Any subject or tale in particular?”

Conga! shifted as if defensively.

“None as I recall.”

“What then?”

“Oh, just tales about the ancient times, when the druids of Iar-muma used to hunt down the priests of Christ and kill them. That was a long time ago, even before the Blessed Patrick came to our shores.”

“You provided her with some of these tales?”

Congal nodded.

“I did so. Many priests of Christ found a refuge on this island during the pagan times. They fled from the mainland while the king of Iarmuma’s men were burning down the churches and communities.”

Sister Fidelma sighed. It did not sound the sort of subject Abbess Cuimne would be interested in pursuing. As representative of the Archbishop, she had, as Sister Fidelma knew, special responsibility for the uniform observances of the faith in Ireland.

“But no story in particular interested her?” she pressed.

“None.”

Was Congal’s voice too emphatic? Sister Fidelma felt an uneasy pricking at the back of her neck, that odd sensation she always felt when something was wrong, or someone was not telling the full truth.

Back at the cabin of the bó-aire, Sister Fidelma sorted through the leather satchel which contained the belongings of the dead Abbess. She steeled herself to sorting through the items which became objects of pathetic sentiment. The items proclaimed the Abbess to have some vanity, the few cosmetics and a jar of perfume, her rosary and crucifix, a splendidly worked piece of ivory and gold, which proclaimed her rank, as sister to the High King, rather than her role as a humble religieuse. The rosary beads were of imported ivory. There were items of clothes for her journey. All were contained in the leather shoulder satchel which traveling monks and nuns carried on their journeys and pilgrimages.

Sister Fidelma sorted through the satchel twice before she realized what was worrying her. She turned to the impatient bó-aire.

“Fogartach, are you sure these are all the Abbess Cuimne’s possessions?”

The young magistrate nodded vehemently.

Sister Fidelma sighed. If Abbess Cuimne was on the island to carry out some search or investigation, surely she would have had a means of recording notes? Indeed, where was the pocket missal that most religieuses of rank carried? Over a century before, when Irish monks and nuns had set out on their missions to the far corners of the world, they had to carry with them liturgical and religious tracts. It was necessary, therefore, that such works were small enough for missionaries to carry with them in special leather satchels called tiag liubhar. Therefore the monks engaged in the task of copying such books began to reduce their size. Such small books were now carried by almost all learned members of the church. It would be odd if the Abbess had not carried even a missal with her.

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop for a while. If the answer to the conundrum was not forthcoming on the island, perhaps it might be found in the wager with Artagán, the bishop of An Chúis on the mainland. She made her decision and turned to the expectant bó-aire.

“I need a currach to take me to An Chúis on the mainland at once.”

The young man gaped at her in surprise.

“Have you finished here, Sister?”

“No. But there is someone I must consult at An Chúis immediately. The boat must wait for me so that I can return here by this afternoon.”

Bishop Artagán rose in surprise when Sister Fidelma strode into his study at the Abbey of An Chúis, after being ceremoniously announced by a member of his order. It was from here that Artagán presided over the priesthood of the Corco Dhuibhne.

“There are some questions I would ask you, Bishop,” she announced as soon as the introductions were over.

“As a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, you have but to ask,” agreed the bishop, a flaccid-faced, though nervous man of indeterminable age. He had led her to a seat before his fire and offered hospitality in the form of heated mead.

“The Abbess Cuimne …” began Fidelma.

“I have heard the sad news,” interrupted the bishop. “She fell to her death.”

“Indeed. But before she went to the island, she stayed here in the abbey, did she not?”

“Two nights while waiting for a calm sea in order to travel to the island,” confirmed Artagán.

“The island is under your jurisdiction?”

“It is.”

“Why did the Abbess Cuimne go to the island? There is talk that she had a wager with you on the result of her visit and what she would find there.”

Artagán grimaced tiredly.

“She was going on a wild goose chase,” he said disarmingly. “My wager was a safe one.”

Fidelma drew her brows together in perplexity.

“I would like an explanation.”

“The Abbess Cuimne was of a strong personality. This was natural as she is… was … sister to the High King. She had great talents. This, too, is natural, for the Archbishop at Armagh appointed her as his personal representative to ensure the uniformity of holy office among the monasteries and churches of Éireann. I have met her only twice. Once at a synod at Cashel and then when she came to stay before going to the island. She entertained views that were sometimes difficult to debate with her.”

“In what way do you mean?”

“Have you heard the legend of the reliquary of the Blessed Pal-ladius?”

“Tell me it,” invited Fidelma in order to cover her bewilderment.

“Well, as you know, two and a half centuries ago, the Christian community in Éireann was very small but, God willing, increasing as people turned to the word of Christ. By that time they had reached such a size that they sent to the holy city of Rome to ask the Pope, Celestine, the first of his name to sit on the throne of Peter, the disciple of Christ, to send them a bishop. They wanted a man who would teach and help them follow the ways of the living God. Celestine appointed a man named Palladius as the first bishop to the Irish believing in Christ.”

Artagán paused before continuing.

“There are two versions of the story. Firstly, that Palladius, en route to Éireann, took sick in Gaul and died there. Secondly, that Palladius did reach our shores and administer to the Irish, eventually being foully murdered by an enraged druid in the pay of the king of larmuma.”