Hemlock at Vespers

The Abbess banged her earthenware mug on the table for silence, determined to finish the formula of the Gratias.

“… sumnus per Jesum Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”

Across the hall, Sister Fidelma could see two members of the community laboring to carry what appeared to be a man’s body from the refectory. She saw Follaman, a large, ruddy-faced man, who looked after the male guests at the community’s hostel, enter the refectory and help the Sisters with their burden.

“Amen.” The word echoed raggedly but there was scarcely another sound as the hundred members of the community slid into their seats. This was the moment when the meal usually began with the handing round of bread but the Abbess held her hand to prevent the monitors from commencing to dispense the meal.

There was an expectant silence. She cleared her throat.

“My children, we must delay our repast a moment. Our guest has been taken ill and we must await the report of our Sister-apothecary who believes that our guest may have eaten something which has disagreed with him.”

She stilled another eruption of excited murmuring with a sharp gesture of her thin white hand.

“While we wait, Sister Mugain shall lead you in the devotion…”

Without further explanation, the Abbess swept from the platform while Sister Mugain began intoning a mixture of Latin and Irish in her shrill voice:

Regem regum rogamus

In nostris sermonibus

anacht Nóe a luchtlach

diluui temporibus

King of Kings

We pray to you

Who protected Noah

In the day of the Flood

Sister Fidelma leant close to Sister Luan, a gawky girl, beside whom she sat.

“Who was the person who was carried out?” she asked softly.

Sister Fidelma had only just rejoined her community after a two week journey to Tara, the royal capital of the five kingdoms of Ireland, seat of the High King.

Sister Luan paused until the strident tones of Sister Mugain paused in her chant:

Regis regum rectissimi

prope est dies Domini…

“It was a guest lodging in the tech-óired. A man named Sillán from Kilmantan.”

Each religious house throughout the country had a quarter named the tech- óired, a hostel where travelers lodged, or where important guests were given hospitality.

“Who was this man, Sillán?” demanded Sister Fidelma.

An imperious hand fell on her shoulder. She started nervously and glanced up, firmly expecting a rebuke for talking during the devotions.

The hawklike features of Sister Ethne gazed disapprovingly down at her, her thin lips compressed. Sister Ethne, elderly and pinched-faced, was feared by the younger members of the community. Her pale, dead eyes seemed to gaze through anyone she looked upon. It was whispered that she was so old that she had been in the service of Christ when the Blessed Brigid had come to this spot a century before, to establish the first religious house for women in the country under the great oak tree from which her church took the name Kildare, the Church of the Oak. Sister Ethne was the bean-tigh, the house steward of the community whose job it was to oversee the internal affairs and running of the community.

“The Abbess requires your presence in her chamber immediately,” Sister Ethne sniffed. It was a habit with her. She could speak in no other way except to punctuate her sentences with disapproving sniffs.

Wondering, Sister Fidelma rose and followed the elderly reli-gieuse from the hall, knowing that the eyes of all the Sisters were following her in curiosity, in spite of their bent heads as they continued their pious chanting.

The Abbess Ita of Kildare sat before a long oak table in the chamber which she used as her study. Her face was set and determined. In her fifties, Ita was still a handsome, commanding woman, whose amber eyes usually shone with a quiet jocularity. Now it was hard to see their expression for they sparkled unnaturally in the flickering reflective light of the two tall beeswax candles which lit the shadowy room. The sweet scent of wild hyacinth and narcissus blended to give a pleasant aroma to the chamber. “Come in, Sister Fidelma. Was your trip to Tara successful?” “It was, Mother Abbess,” replied the girl as she moved into the chamber, aware that Sister Ethne had followed her in and closed the door, standing in front of it with arms folded into her habit.

Sister Fidelma waited quietly while the Abbess seemed to gather her thoughts. The Abbess’s gaze suddenly seemed to become preoccupied with a pile of half a dozen small rocks which lay on the table. She rose and, with an apologetic gesture, gathered them up, dropping them into a receptacle. She turned, reseating herself with a contrite smile.

“Some stones I was gathering to create a small rock garden,” she felt urged to explain. “I dislike clutter.” Abbess Ita bit her lip, hesitated and then shrugged, coming abruptly to the point.

“Were you in the refectory?”

“I was. I had just arrived at Kildare.”

“A problem has arisen which is of great concern to our community. Our guest, Sillán of Kilmantan, is dead. Our Sister-apothecary says he was poisoned.”

Sister Fidelma tried to conceal her astonishment.

“Poisoned? By accident?”

“That we do not know. The Sister-apothecary is now examining the food in the refectory hall. That was why I forbade our community to eat.”

Sister Fidelma frowned.

“Do I take it that this Sillán began to eat before you had finished the Gratias, Mother Abbess?” she asked. “You will recall that he cried in agony and collapsed while you were not yet finished.”

The Abbess’s eyes widened a little and then she nodded, agreeing with the point.

“Your perception justifies your reputation as a solver of mysteries, Fidelma. It is good that our community is served by one skilled in such matters and in the laws of the Brehons. Indeed, this is why I asked Sister Ethne to bring you here. I know you have just returned from your journey and that you are fatigued. But this is a matter of importance. I would like you to undertake the immediate inquiry into Sillán’s death. It is imperative that the matter be cleared up as quickly as possible.”

“Why so quickly, Mother Abbess?”

“Sillán was an important man. He was in this territory at the request of the Uí Failgi of Ráith Imgain.”

Sister Fidelma realized what this meant.

Kildare stood in the territory of the petty kingdom of the Uí Failgi. The royal residence of the kings of the Uí Failgi was situated at the fortress of Ráith Imgain, to the northwest of Kildare on the edge of the wasteland known as the Bog of Aillín. Several questions sprung into her mind but she bit her lip. They could be asked later. It was clear that the Abbess had no wish to incur the enmity of Congall, the petty king of the territory, who was known simply as the Uí Failgi, for, under the Brehon Law, the petty king and his assembly granted the land to the community of Kildare and they could just as easily drive the community out if displeased. All ecclesiastical lands were granted by the clan assemblies for there was no such thing as private property within the kingdom of Ireland. Land was apportioned and allotted at the decision of the assemblies which governed the tribes and kingdoms.

“Who was this man Sillán, Mother Abbess?” asked Sister Fi-delma. “Was he a representative of the Uí Failgi?”