Hemlock at Vespers

something on the shore below.

They were black-backed gulls. Of all gulls, these were birds to be respected. They frequently nested on rocky islands such as Inis Chloichreán. It was a carrion-eater, a fierce predator given to taking mammals even as large as cats. They had obviously found something down on the beach. Fidelma could see that even the crows could not compete with their larger brethren. There were several pairs of crows above the melee, circling and waiting their chance.

Fidelma compressed her lips firmly.

Lorcán continued to lead the way down between the rocks. The area was full of nesting birds. May was a month in which the black-backed gulls, along with many another species, laid their eggs. The rocky cliffs of the island were ideal sites for birds. The females screamed furiously as they entered the area but Lorcán ignored their threatening displays. Fidelma did not pretend that she was unconcerned.

“The Brothers kept their boat just here…” began Lorcán, reaching a large platform of rocky land about twelve feet above a short pebbly beach. He halted and stared.

Fidelma saw the wooden trestles, on which the boat had apparently been set. There was no vessel resting on them now.

“They used to store the boat here,” explained Lorcán, “placed upside down to protect it against the weather.”

It was the gathering further down on the pebbly strand, an area of beach no more than three yards in width and perhaps ten yards long, that caused Fidelma to exclaim sharply. She realized what the confusion of birds was about. A dozen or more large gulls were gathered, screaming and fighting each other, while forming an outer circle were several other birds who seemed to be interested spectators to the affair. Here and there a jet-black carrion crow perched, black eyes watching intently for its chance, while others circled overhead. They were clustering around something which lay on the pebbles. Fidelma suspected what it was.

“Come on!” she cried, and climbed hastily down to the pebbly strand. Then she halted and picked up several large pebbles and began to hurl them at the host of carrion-eaters. The scavengers let forth screaming cries of anger and flapped their great wings. Lorcán joined her, picking up stones and throwing them with all his strength.

It was not long before the wheeling mass of birds had dispersed from the object over which they had been fighting. But Fidelma saw that they had not retreated far. They swirled high in the air above them or strutted nearby, beady eyes watching and waiting.

Nonetheless, she strode purposefully across the shingle.

The religieux had been young, very young with fair hair.

He lay on his back, his robes in an unseemly mess of torn and frayed wool covered in blood.

Fidelma swallowed hard. The gulls had been allowed an hour or so of uninterrupted work. The face was pitted and bloody, an eye was missing. Part of the skull had been smashed, a pulpy mess of blood and bone. It was obvious that no bird had perpetrated that damage.

“Can you tell who this was, Lorcán?” Fidelma asked softly.

The boatman came over, one wary eye on the gulls. They were standing well back but with their eyes malignantly on the humans who had dared drive them from their unholy feastmg. Lorcán glanced down. He pulled a face at the sight.

“I have seen him here in the community, Sister. Alas, I do not know his name. Sister, I am fearful. This is the third dead member of the community.”

Fidelma did not reply but steeled herself to bend beside the corpse. The leather crumena or purse was still fastened at his belt. She forced herself to avoid the lacerated features of the youth and his one remaining bright, accusing eye, and put her hand into the purse. It was empty.

She drew back and shook her head.

Then a thought occurred to her.

“Help me push the body over face down,” she instructed.

Keeping his curiosity to himself, Lorcán did so.

The robe was almost torn from the youth’s back by the ravages of the birds. Fidelma did not have to remove the material further to see a patch of scars, some old, some new, some which showed signs of recent bleeding, criss-cross over his back.

“What do you make of that, Lorcán?” Fidelma invited.

The boatman thrust out his lower lip and raised one shoulder before letting it fall in an exaggerated shrug.

“Only that the boy has been whipped. Not once either but many times over a long period.”

Fidelma nodded in agreement.

“That’s another fact I want you to witness, Lorcán.”

She stood up, picking up a few stones as she did so and shying them at two or three large gulls who were slowly closing the distance between them. They screamed in annoyance but removed themselves to a safer position.

“How big was the community’s currach?” she asked abruptly.

Lorcán understood what she meant.

“It was big enough to carry the rest of the brethren,” he replied. “They must be long gone, by now. They could be anywhere on the islands or have even reached the mainland.” He paused and looked at her. “But did they go willingly or were they forced to go? Who could have done this?”

Fidelma did not reply. She motioned Lorcán to help her return the body to its original position and stared at the crushed skull.

“That was done with heavy and deliberate blow,” she observed. “This young religieux was murdered and left here on the strand.”

Lorcán shook his head in utter bewilderment.

“There is much evil here, Sister.”

“With that I can agree,” Fidelma replied. “Come, let us build a cairn over his body with stones so that the gulls do not feast further on him-whoever he was. We cannot carry him back to the settlement.”

When they arrived back at the community, having completed their task, Maenach greeted them in the quadrangle with a look of relief.

“Brother Spelán is coming round. The young Sister is nursing him.”

Fidelma answered with a grim smile.

“Now perhaps we may learn some answers to this mystery.”

Inside the cell, the brother was lying against a pillow. He looked very drowsy and blinked several times as his dark, black eyes tried to focus on Fidelma.

She motioned Sister Sárnat to move aside and sat on the edge of the cot by Spelán.

“I have given him water only, Sister,” the girl said eagerly, as if expecting her approval. “The boatman,” she gestured toward Maenach, who stood at the doorway with Lorcán, “bathed and dressed the wound.”

Fidelma smiled encouragingly at the Brother.

“Are you Brother Spelan?”

The man closed his eyes for a moment, his voice sounded weak.

“I am Spelán. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I am Fidelma of Kildare. I am come here to bring the Abbot Selbach a letter from Ultan of Armagh.”

Spelán stared at her.

“A letter from Ultan?” He sounded confused.

“Yes. That is why we landed on the island. What has happened here? Who hit you on the head?”

Spelán groaned and raised a hand to his forehead.

“I recall.” His voice grew strong and commanding. “The abbot is dead, Sister. Return to Dún na Séad and ask that a Brehon be sent here for there has been a great crime committed.”

“I will take charge of the matter, Spelán,” Fidelma said confi-dently.

“You?” Spelán stared at her in bewilderment. “You don’t understand. It is a Brehon that is needed.”