Hemlock at Vespers

“I would. I have never disguised it. And there are many who would support me. My cousin Cernach, the son of Diarmuid, for example. He is a more vehement advocate of Rome than I am.”

“But you would admit that you have a strong motive in attempting to stop Sechnasach’s inauguration?”

“Yes. I admit that my policies would be different to those of Sechnasach. But above all things I believe that once the Great Assembly chooses a High King, then all must abide by their decision. Unless the High King fails to abide by the law and fulfill its obligations, he is still High King. No one can challenge the choice of the Great Assembly.”

Sister Fidelma gazed directly into Ailill’s smoldering brown eyes.

“And did you steal the sword?”

Ailill sought to control the rage which the question apparently aroused.

“By the powers, I did not! I have told you all I know.”

The warrior named Erc scuffed at the ground with his heel, and stirred uneasily.

“I am sure I cannot help you, Sister. I am a simple guardsman and there is little to add beyond the fact that I, with my companion Congal, found Ailill Flann Esa in the chapel standing before the chest from which the sacred sword had been stolen. There is nothing further I can add.”

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips. She gazed around at the curious faces of the other warriors who shared the dormitory of the High King’s bodyguard. The murky chamber, shared by a hundred warriors when they were resting from their guard duties, stank of spirits and body sweat which mixed into a bitter scent.

“Let me be the judge of that.” She turned towards the door. “Come, walk with me for a while in the fresh air, Erc. I would have you answer some questions.”

Reluctantly the burly warrior laid aside his shield and javelin and followed the religieuse from the dormitory, accompanied by a chorus of whispered comments and a few lewd jests from his comrades.

“I am told that you were guarding the chapel on the night the theft occurred,” Sister Fidelma said as soon as they were outside, walking in the crystal early morning sunlight. “Is that correct?”

“Congal and I were the guards that night, but our duties were merely to patrol the buildings of which the chapel is part. Usually from midnight until dawn the doors of the chapel of the Blessed Patrick are shut. The chapel contains many treasures and the Abbot has ordered that the door be bolted at night.”

“And what time did you arrive at your posts?”

“At midnight exactly, Sister. Our duties took us from the door of the royal stables, fifty yards from the chapel, to the door of the great refectory, a route which passes the chapel door.”

“Tell me what happened that night.”

“Congal and I took up our positions, as usual. We walked by the chapel door. It seemed shut as usual. We turned at the door of the great refectory from which point we followed a path which circumvents the buildings, so that our patrol follows a circular path.”

“How long does it take to circumnavigate the buildings?”

“No more than half an hour.”

“And how long would you be out of sight of the door of the chapel?”

“Perhaps twenty minutes.”

“Go on.”

“It was on our second patrol, as I say, a half-hour later, that we passed the door of the chapel. It was Congal who spotted that the door was opened. We moved forward and then I saw that the door had been forced. The wood was splintered around the bolt on the inside of the door. We entered and saw Ailill Flann Esa standing before the altar. The altar had been pushed back from the position where it covered the Stone of Destiny and the chest in which the sacred sword was kept had been opened.”

“What was Ailill doing? Did he look flustered or short of breath?”

“No. He was calm enough. Just staring down at the open chest.”

“Wasn’t it dark in the chapel? How did you see so clearly?”

“Some candles were lit within the chapel and provided light enough.”

“And then?”

“He saw our shadows and started, turning to us. At that point the Abbot came up behind us. He saw the sacrilege at once and pointed to the fact that the sword was gone.”

“Did he question Ailill?”

“Oh, surely he did. He said the sword had gone and asked what Ailill had to say.”

“And what did Ailill say?”

“He said that he had just arrived there.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said that was impossible because we were patroling outside and had the chapel door in sight for at least ten minutes from the royal stable doorway. Ailill must have been inside for that ten minutes at least.”

“But it was nighttime. It must have been dark outside. How could you be sure that Ailill had not just entered the chapel before you, covered by the darkness?”

“Because the torches are lit in the grounds of the royal palace every night. It is the law of Tara. Where there is light, there is no treachery. Ailill must have been in the chapel, as I have said, for at least ten minutes. That is a long time.”

“Yet even ten minutes does not seem time enough to open the chest, hide the sword and repose oneself before you entered.”

“Time enough, I’d say. For what else could be done with the sword but hide it?”

“And where is your companion, Congal? I would question him.”

Erc looked troubled and genuflected with a degree of haste.

“God between me and evil, Sister. He has fallen sick with the Yellow Plague. He lies close to death now and maybe I will be next to succumb to the scourge.”

Sister Fidelma bit her lip, then she shook her head and smiled reassuringly at Erc.

“Not necessarily so, Erc. Go to the apothecary. Ask that you be given an infusion of the leaves and flowers of the centaurium vulgare. It has a reputation for keeping the Yellow Plague at bay.”

“What is that?” demanded the warrior, frowning at the unfamiliar Latin words.

“Dréimire buí,” she translated to the Irish name of the herb. “The apothecary will know it. To drink of the mixture is supposedly a good preventative tonic. By drinking each day, you may avoid the scourge. Now go in peace, Erc. I have done with you for the meanwhile.”

Sechnasach, lord of Midhe, and High King of Ireland, was a thin man, aged in his mid-thirties, with scowling features and dark hair. He sat slightly hunched forward on his chair, the epitome of gloom.

“Abbot Colmán reports that you have not yet discovered where Ailill has hidden the sword of state, Sister,” he greeted brusquely as he gestured for Sister Fidelma to be seated. “May I remind you that the inauguration ceremony commences at noon tomorrow?”

The High King had agreed to meet her, at her own request, in one of the small audience chambers of the palace of Tara. It was a chamber with a high vaulted ceiling and hung with colorful tapestries. There was a crackling log fire in the great hearth at one end before which the High King sat in his ornate carved oak chair. Pieces of exquisite furniture, brought as gifts to the court from many parts of the world, were placed around the chamber with decorative ornaments in gold and silver and semi-precious jewels.

“That presupposes Ailill stole the sword,” observed Sister Fi-delma calmly as she sat before him. She observed strict protocol. Had she been trained to the degree of Ollamh she could have sat in the High King’s presence without waiting for permission. Indeed, the chief Ollamh of Ireland, at the court of the High King, was so influential that even the High King was not allowed to speak at the Great Assembly before the chief Ollamh. Sister Fi-delma had never been in the presence of a High King before and her mind raced hastily over the correct rituals to be observed.

Sechnasach drew his brows together at her observation.

“You doubt it? But the facts given by Abbot Colmán are surely plain enough? If Ailill did not steal it, who then?”

Sister Fidelma raised a shoulder and let it fall.