Hemlock at Vespers

Liadin who was arguing with Scoriath behind the closed door?”

The chambers where Liadin and Scoriath had dwelt were a set of rooms in the fortress not far from the stable buildings beyond the central gate. Three chambers constituted the dwelling: a living room, a bedchamber leading off it and, with access from the bedchamber, a smaller chamber in which Liadin’s young son had his bed and in which Liadin apparently stored her clothes.

The rooms now seemed cold and bleak although they were filled with items which once spelt homeliness and comfort. Perhaps it was the lack of a fire in the hearth and the gloom of the day that enhanced the chill.

Rathend led the way, crossing the floor of the room in which meals were cooked and eaten, where an iron cauldron hung on a spit over the dead grey ashes.

“Scoriath was slain in this room,” Rathend explained, showing the way into the large bedchamber.

The granite blocks of the walls were covered with tapestries. There were no windows, and the room was dark. Rathend bent and lit a tallow candle. There was a large, ornately carved bed. The bedclothes, a jumbled mess of linen and blankets, were stained with what was obviously dried blood.

“Scoriath was lying there. The child, Cunobel, was found just by the door of the smaller chamber,” Rathend explained.

Fidelma noted the dark stains crossing the floor to the small arched door which led off the chamber. She saw, by the doorway, that there was a slightly larger pool of dried blood. But the stains also led beyond the chamber door.

She walked into the smaller chamber with Rathend, who held aloft the tallow candle, following her. The trail of dried blood led to a large wooden trunk as Conn had said it had. She noticed some footprints in the dried blood. They were large and must have been made by Conn during his investigation, obscuring the original footprints of the killer.

“That was the trunk in which Liadin’s bloodstained garment was found together with the knife,” the Brehon said. Next to the trunk was a small cot in which the boy, Cunobel, must have slept. “There are no bloodstains there so we can conclude that the child was slain where he was found.”

Fidelma did not reply but returned to the main bedchamber and examined it again.

“What are you looking for, Sister?” ventured Rathend.

“I do not know… yet.” Fidelma frowned suddenly, noticing a book satchel hanging from a peg. She reached into it and drew out a moderate-sized volume. She gazed with interest at the patterned binding, frowning slightly as she noted a few dark stains which spoilt the careful artistry of the leatherwork.

Reverently, she placed it on a nearby table and motioned for Rathend to hold the candle higher.

“Why,” she said softly, opening the first page, “it is a copy of the Hexapla of Origenes. What would Scoriath or Liadin be doing with this?”

The Brehon sighed impatiently.

“There is no law against the ownership of books.”

“But it is unusual,” insisted Fidelma as she turned the pages. It was a collection of Hebrew religious texts which Origenes, head of the Christian school of Alexandria, had copied three centuries before. He had rendered the text in parallel columns, in Hebrew, Greek and then in Latin.

Fidelma suddenly frowned. Someone had marked a passage in a textual section entitled “Apokrupto.” Fidelma dredged her knowledge of Greek. It meant “hidden texts.” She read the passage with a frown. The story was of how the Assyrian king, Nebuchadnezzar, sent his army against the Israelites. The army was commanded by an invincible general named Holofernes. As the Assyrian army lay encamped around the Israelite city of Bethulia, a young Jewish maiden named Judith went to the Assyrian camp and was brought before Holofernes. She seduced him and then, afterward, as he lay in a drunken slumber, she cut off his head and returned to her own people, who took heart by this sign, rushed upon the invading army, and routed them.

Fidelma smiled to herself. It was a story worthy of the ancient Irish bards, for it was once believed that the soul reposed in the head and the greatest sign of respect was to sever the head of one’s enemy. Fidelma’s eyes suddenly widened. Judith. Her eye traveled from the Hebrew text to the Greek and then to the Latin. She caught her breath as she realized the meaning of the name Judith-it meant Jewess.

Why had the passage been marked? What had Scoriath meant when he told Liadin that he would give up his warrior’s role and become a farmer unless the “Jewess” prevented him? Scoriath was a foreigner and, in a way, commander of an army as Holofernes had been. Also, Scoriath’s head had nearly been severed. Was there some bizarre meaning to this?

Slowly she replaced the book under the puzzled gaze of the Brehon.

“Have you seen all you wish?”

“I wish,” Fidelma replied, raising her head, “to see the genealogist of the Uí Dróna.”

“You now say that you wish to question the chieftainess of the Uí Dróna? What has she to do with this matter?”

It was an hour later and Rathend and Fidelma were seated in the great hall of the fortress.

“That is for me to discover,” replied Fidelma. “I have the right to call Irnan for examination. Do you deny it?”

“Very well.” Rathend was clearly reluctant. “But I hope you know what you are doing, Fidelma of Kildare.”

Irnan came in after a short, uneasy period of waiting. Rathend leapt to his feet as the chieftainess entered.

“Why am I summoned, Rathend?” Irnan’s voice was irritable and she chose to ignore Fidelma. But it was Fidelma who replied to her.

“How long was Scoriath your lover, Irnan?”

A pin falling to the ground would have been heard for several seconds after Fidelma had spoken.

The face of the swarthy woman blanched, the lips thinned. An expression of shock etched her features.

Rathend was staring at Fidelma as if he could not believe what he had heard.

Suddenly, as if her bones and muscles would no longer support her, Irnan seemed to fold up on a nearby chair, her gaze, combining consternation and fear, not leaving Fidelma’s imperturbable features. As she did not reply, Fidelma continued.

“Before your birth, I am told that your father, Drón, traveled to the port of Síl Maíluidir. His aim was to encourage some merchants of the clan to open trade there. While at the port he met a Phoenician merchant who had a beautiful daughter. Drón married her and they had a child. The child was yourself. Your mother was named Judith-the Jewess. She survived your birth only by a few months. When she died your father then brought you back here, where you were raised.”

“That story is no secret,” replied Irnan sharply. “Molua, the genealogist, doubtless told it to you.”

“When did Scoriath tell you that he no longer loved you and wanted to resign his command and be a simple farmer?”

Irnan had apparently recovered her composure and chuckled drily.

“You do not know everything, dálaigh of the court. Scoriath did love me and told me as much on the day his wife slew him for jealousy.”

Fidelma found herself having to control her surprise at the sudden candor of Irnan’s response.

“Scoriath loved me, but he was a man of honor.” Irnan’s words were like acid. “He did not want to harm Iiadin nor his young son and so he told me that he would not divorce his wife. He would stay with them.”

“That provides you with a motive for killing him,” Fidelma pointed out.

“I loved Scoriath. I would never have harmed him.”

“So you would have us believe that you accepted the situation?”

“Scoriath and I were lovers from the first day that he arrived among us. My father, who was then chieftain, found out. While he admired Scoriath as a warrior, my father wanted me to marry an Irish prince of wealth. I think he was more determined that I should do so because of the fact that I was my mother’s daughter and he wanted to compensate for my foreign blood. He then forced Scoriath into an arranged marriage with Liadin. Scoriath did not love her.”