Hemlock at Vespers

Ultan, the steward, moved swiftly across the room to stand before Sister Fidelma, in anticipation lest Eadred let his emotions, which were clearly visible on his angry features, overcome him.

“You haven’t told us the motive,” Dagobert the Frank said softly. “Why would the thane of Andredswald murder his own cousin and prince?”

Sister Fidelma continued to stare at the arrogant Saxon.

“I have not yet said that the thane of Andredswald is the assassin,” she said softly. “But as for motive, the motive is the very laws of the Saxon society, which, thanks be to God, are not our laws.”

Abbot Laisran was frowning.

“Explain, Fidelma. I do not understand.”

“A Saxon prince succeeds to the kingship by primogeniture. The eldest son inherits.”

Dagobert nodded impatiently. “That is also so with our Frankish succession. But how does this provide the motive for Wulfstan’s murder?”

“Two days ago a messenger from the kingdom of the South Saxons arrived here. His message was for Wulfstan. I discovered what his message was.”

“How?” demanded Raedwald. “Royal messengers have their tongues cut out to prevent them revealing such secrets.”

Fidelma grinned.

“So you told me. Fortunately this poor man was taught to write by Diciul, the missionary of Éireann who brought Christianity and learning to your country of the South Saxons.”

“What was the message?” asked Laisran.

“Wulfstan’s father had died, another victim of the yellow plague. Wulfstan was now king of the South Saxons and urged to return home at once.”

She glanced at Raedwald.

The big Saxon nodded silently in agreement.

“You admitted that much to me when I questioned you, Raedwald,” went on Fidelma. “When I asked you if you liked Wulfstan you answered that it was not up to you to like or dislike your appointed king. A slip of the tongue, but it alerted me to the possible motive.”

Raedwald said nothing.

“In such a barbaric system of succession, where the order of birth is the only criterion for claiming an inheritance or kingdom, there are no safeguards. In Éireann, as among our cousins in Britain, a chieftain or king not only has to be of a bloodline but has to be elected by the derbhfine of his family. Without such a safeguard it becomes obvious to me that only the death of a predecessor removes the obstacles of the aspirant to the throne.”

Raedwald pursed his lips and said softly: “This is so.”

“And, with Wulfstan’s death, Eadred will now succeed to the kingship?”

“Yes.”

Eadred’s face was livid with anger.

“I did not kill Wulfstan!”

Sister Fidelma turned and stared deeply into his eyes.

“I believe you, for Raedwald is the assassin,” she said calmly.

Finan made a grab at Raedwald as the muscular Saxon thane sought desperately to escape from the room. Dagobert leapt forward together with Ultan, the steward, to help restrain the struggling man. When the thane of Staeningum had been overpowered, Sister Fidelma turned to the others.

“I said that the assassin had a devious mind. Yet in the attempt to lead false trails, Raedwald overexcelled himself and brought suspicion down on him. In trying to implicate Talorgen, Raedwald made a mistake and caused confusion by thinking the kerchief to be Talorgen’s. It bore Dagobert’s motto in Latin. Raedwald has no Latin and so did not spot his mistake. This also ruled out Eadred from suspicion, as Eadred knew Latin to the degree that he could recognize Dagobert’s motto.”

She settled her gaze on Eadred.

“If you had also been slain, then Raedwald was next in line to the kingship, was he not?”

Eadred made an affirmative gesture.

“But…”

“Raedwald was going to implicate you as the assassin and then show how you tried to put the blame on Talorgen. He would have either had you tried for murder under our law or, if all else failed… I doubt whether you would have returned safely to the land of the South Saxons. Perhaps you might have fallen over-board on the sea voyage. Whichever way, both Wulfstan and you would have been removed from the succession, leaving it clear for Raedwald to claim the throne.”

Eadred shook his head wonderingly. His voice was tinged with reluctant admiration.

“Never would I have suspected that a woman possessed such a meticulous mind to unravel the deviousness of this treachery in the way that you have done. I shall look upon your office with a new perspective.”

Eadred turned abruptly to the Abbot Laisran.

“I and my men will depart now for we must return to my country. With your permission, Abbot, I shall take Raedwald with me as my prisoner. He will stand trial according to our laws and his punishment will be prescribed by them.”

Abbot Laisran inclined his head in agreement.

Eadred moved to the door, and as he did so, his eyes caught sight of Talorgen of Rheged.

“Well, welisc. It seems I owe you an apology for wrongly accusing you of the murder of Wulfstan. I so apologize.”

Talorgen slowly stood up, his face trying to control his surprise.

“Your apology is accepted, Saxon.”

Eadred paused and then he frowned.

“The apology notwithstanding, there can never be peace between us, welisc!”

Talorgen sniffed. “The day such a peace will come is when you and your Saxon hordes depart from the shores of Britain and return to the land whence you came.”

Eadred stiffened, his hand going to his waist, then he paused and relaxed and almost smiled.

“Well said, welisc. It will never be peace!”

He strode from the room with Ultan and Dagobert leading Raed-wald after him.

Talorgen turned and smiled briefly toward Sister Fidelma.

“Truly, there are wise judges among the Brehons of Ireland.”

Then he, too, was gone. Finan, the professor of law, hesitated a moment.

“Truly, now I know why your reputation is great, Fidelma of Kildare.”

Sister Fidelma gave a small sigh as he left.

“Well, Fidelma,” Abbot Laisran smiled in satisfaction, reaching for a jug of wine, “it seems that I have provided you with some diversion on your pilgrimage to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Ard Macha.”

Sister Fidelma responded to the rotund Abbot’s wry expression.

“A diversion, yes. Though I would have preferred something of a more pleasant nature to have occupied my time.”

THE HIGH KING’S SWORD

“God’s curse is upon this land,” sighed the Abbot Colmán, spiritual advisor to the Great Assembly of the chieftains of the five kingdoms of Ireland.

Walking at his side through the grounds of the resplendent palace of Tara, the seat of the High Kings of Ireland, was a tall woman, clad in the robes of a religieuse, her hands folded demurely before her. Even at a distance one could see that her costume did not seem to suit her for it scarcely hid the attractiveness of her youthful, well-proportioned figure. Rebellious strands of red hair crept from beneath her habit adding to the allure