Hemlock at Vespers

and smote your temple hard enough to cause a nasty-looking wound. But Maenach, who knows something of a physician’s art, told us that he would not have expected you to be unconscious from it. In fact, after you had delivered that blow, you drank your potion and stretched yourself in the oratory where I found you. You were not unconscious from the blow but merely in a deep sleep from your potion. You had already worked out the story that you would tell us. It would be your word against the poor, pitiful and confused youths.”

Fidelma slowly took out the cup and placed it on the table.

“That was the cup I found lying near you in the oratory. It still smells of the herbs, like mullein and red clover tops, which would make up the powerful sleeping draught. You have jars of such ingredients in your cell.”

“You still can’t prove this absurd story,” replied Spelán.

“I think I can. You see, not only did Abbot Selbach begin to suspect that there was a gortaigid at work within his community but he wrote to Ultan of Armagh outlining his suspicions.”

She took out the letter from Ultan of Armagh.

Spelán’s eyes narrowed. She noticed that tiny beads of sweat had begun to gather on his brow for the first time since she had begun to call his bluff. She held the letter tantalizingly in front of her.

“You see, Spelán, when you showed yourself anxious to get your hands on this letter, I realized that it was the piece of evidence I was looking for; indeed, that I was overlooking. The letter is remarkably informative, a reply to all Selbach’s concerns about you.”

Spelán’s face was white. He stared aghast at the letter as she placed it on the table.

“Selbach named me to Ultan?”

Fidelma pointed to the letter.

“You may see for yourself.”

With a cry of rage that stunned everyone into immobility, Spe-lán suddenly launched himself across the room towards Fidelma with his hands outstretched.

He had gone but a few paces when he was abruptly halted as if by a gigantic hand against his chest. He stood for a moment, his eyes bulging in astonishment, and then he slid to the ground without another word.

It was only then that they saw the hilt of the knife buried in Spelán’s heart and the blood staining his robes.

There was a movement at the door. A young, dark-haired youth in the robes of a religieux took a hesitant step in. Lorcán, the first to recover his senses, knelt by the side of Spelán and reached for a pulse. Then he raised his eyes and shook his head.

Fidelma turned to the trembling youth who had thrown the knife. She reached out a hand and laid it on his shaking arm.

“I had to do it,” muttered the youth. “I had to.”

“I know,” she pacified.

“I do not care. I am ready to be punished.” The youth drew himself up.

“In your suffering of mind, you have already punished your self enough, Brother Snagaide. These here,” she gestured toward Lor-cán, Maenach and Sárnat, “are witnesses to Spelán’s action which admitted of his guilt. Your case will be heard before the Brehon in Chléire and I shall be your advocate. Does not the ancient law say every person who places themselves beyond the law is without the protection of the law? You slew a violator of the law and therefore this killing is justified under the Law of the Fenechus.”

She drew the youth outside. He was scarcely the age of credulous and unworldly Sister Sárnat. Fidelma sighed deeply. If she could one day present a law to the council of judges of Ireland she would make it a law that no one under the age of twenty-five could be thrust into the life of the religieux. Youth needed to grow to adulthood and savor life and understand something of the world before they isolated themselves on islands or in cloisters away from it. Only in such sequestered states of innocence and fear of authority could evil men like Spelán thrive. She placed a comforting arm around the youth’s shoulder as he fell to heart-wrenching sobbing.

“Come, Lorcán,” Fidelma called across her shoulder. “Let’s get down to the currach and reach Inis Chléire before your storm arrives.”

Sister Sárnat emerged from the cell, holding the letter which Fidelma had laid on the table.

“Sister…” She seemed to find difficulty in speaking. “This letter from Ultan to Selbach… it does not refer to Spelán. Selbach didn’t suspect Spelán at all. He thought that mortification was just a fashion among the youthful Brothers.”

Fidelma’s face remained unchanged.

“Selbach could not bring himself to suspect his companion. It was a lucky thing that Spelán didn’t realize that, wasn’t it?”

OUR LADY OF DEATH

The awesome moaning of the wind blended chillingly with the howling of wolves. They were nearby, these fearsome night hunters. Sister Fidelma knew it but could not see them because of the cold, driving snow against her face. It came at her in clouds of whirling, ice-cold, tiny pellicles. It obliterated the landscape and she could scarcely see beyond her arm’s length in front of her.

Had it not been for the urgency of reaching Cashel, the seat of the kings of Mumha, she would not have been attempting the journey northward through these great, forbidding peaks of Sléibhte an Comeraigh. She bent forward in the saddle of her horse, which only her rank as a dálaigh of the law courts of the five kings of Ireland entitled her to have. A simple religieuse would not be able to lay claim to such a means of transportation. But then Fidelma was no ordinary religieuse. She was a daughter of a former king of Cashel, an advocate of the law of the Fénechus and qualified to the level of Anruth, one degree below the highest qualification in Ireland. The wind drove the snow continuously against her. It plastered the rebellious strands of red hair that spilled from her cub- hal, or head-dress, against her pale forehead. She wished the wind’s direction would change, even for a moment or two, for it would have been more comfortable to have the wind at her back. But the wind was constantly raging from the north.

The threatening howl of the wolves seemed close. Was it her imagination or had it been gradually getting closer as she rode the isolated mountain track? She shivered and once more wished that she had stopped for the night at the last bruidhen or hostel in order to await more clement weather. But the snowstorm had set in and it would be several days before conditions improved. Sooner or later she would have to tackle the journey. The message from her brother Colgú had said her presence was needed urgently for their mother lay dying. Only that fact brought Fidelma traversing the forbidding tracks through the snowbound mountains in such intemperate conditions.

Her face was frozen and so were her hands as she confronted the fierce wind-driven snow. In spite of her heavy woollen cloak, she found her teeth chattering. A dark shape loomed abruptly out of the snow nearby. Her heart caught in her mouth as her horse shied and skittered on the trail for a moment. Then she was able to relax and steady the beast with a sigh of relief as the regal shape of a great stag stared momentarily at her from a distance of a few yards before recklessly turning and bounding away into the cover of the white curtain that blocked out the landscape.

Continuing on, she had reached what she felt must be the crest of a rise and found the wind so fierce here that it threatened to sweep her from her horse. Even the beast put its head down to the ground and seemed to stagger at the icy onslaught. Masses of loose powdery snow drifted this way and that in the howling and shrieking of the tempest.

Fidelma blinked at the indistinct blur of the landscape beyond.

She felt sure she had seen a light. Or was it her imagination? She blinked again and urged her horse onward, straining to keep her eyes focused on the point where she thought she had seen it. She automatically