Hemlock at Vespers

“Rimid and Barrdub were in love with each other. Rimid was not possessed of great wealth. He survived as most of us do, content to earn his living. But when Rimid went to ask Congal’s ap-proval to marry Barrdub, who was not yet at the age of consent, Congal refused. Why? Because Congal did not care for his sister’s happiness. He cared for wealth. He demanded the full bride-price or tinnscra due for the daughter of a free hostel keeper of the tribe, even though both his sister and he had long fallen from that social position.”

“Yet that was his right in law,” interposed the Brehon.

“A right, truly. But sometimes rights can be a form of injustice,” replied Fidelma.

“Carry on.”

“Rimid could not afford the full tinnscra. Barrdub was indignant and made it clear to her brother that when she reached the age of consent, when she had free and equal choice, she would go with Rimid anyway. Her brother would not profit from any tinns-cra then.”

Sister Fidelma paused a moment to gather her thoughts.

“Congal had conceived the idea that his only hope to alleviate his poverty and become respectable in the tribe was to get his hands on twenty milk cows which a prospective husband would pay for the full tinnscra or bride-price. Then a new idea came into his mind. A fantastic idea. Why settle for twenty milk cows for the bride-price? If his sister was slain, the murderer or his family would have to pay compensation and that compensation was set in law at no less than forty-five milk cows, the foundation of a respectable herd and one which would make him a person of position in the tribe. But he would have to ensure that the person charged with the crime could pay such a sum.

“Then Brother Fergal appears. It is true that an individual monk is not wealthy. However, it is the law that members of the fine or family of a person unable to pay the eric or compensation become responsible for the payment to the victim’s family. It is well known that the Abbey stands in place of a family. If a member of the Abbey is found guilty of a crime, then the Abbey would be expected to pay the eric. Congal reasoned that the Abbey could well afford the forty-five milk cows that would be the compensation. Poor Barrdub’s fate was then sealed.

“Congal knew of Fergal’s ailment and means of medication. He prepared the potion, threw out Fergal’s usual mixture and substituted his own drugged brew. He reasoned that Fergal would not check the contents of his kettle before he heated the herbal drink. Then Congal saw Rimid and prepared the way further by telling him that Barrdub was smitten by Fergal, that they were in love. Finally, Congal went to find Barrdub and the rest we already know.

“He killed her, carried her into Fergal’s bothán as soon as the monk had dropped into his deep sleep, and left her there, smearing Fergal’s hands and clothes with her blood. His two major mistakes were not leaving the murder weapon at the scene and not destroying the traces of the herbs in Fergal’s bowl.”

She turned to where Congal was standing, his face white, his mouth working.

“There stands your contemptible killer. He murdered his own sister for a herd of cows.”

With a shriek, Congal drew a knife and leapt toward Sister Fi-delma. People scattered left and right before his frenzied figure.

Just before he reached her, the dark figure of a man intercepted him and struck him full in the face. It was Rimid. Congal collapsed senseless to the ground. As Rimid made to move forward, Fidelma reached forward and laid her slender hand on his shoulder.

“Revenge is no justice, Rimid. If we demand vengeance for every evil done against us, we will be guilty of greater evil. Let the court deal with him.”

Rimid hesitated.

“He has no means of paying adequate compensation to those he has wronged,” he protested.

Fidelma smiled softly.

“He has a soul, Rimid. He attempted to wrong a member of the family of the Abbey. The Abbey will demand compensation; the compensation will be his soul which will be given to God for disposal.”

“You will have him killed? Dispatched to God in the Other-world?”

She shook her head gently.

“God will take him when the time is ordained. No, he will come to serve at the Abbey and, hopefully, find repentance in the service.”

After Brother Fergal had been absolved and Congal taken to be held for his trial, Fidelma walked to the door of the great hall with the Brehon.

“How did you suspect Congal?” asked the man.

“A man who lies once, will lie again.”

“In what lie did you discover him?”

“He claimed he knew nothing about herbs but he knew soon enough what the herb stramóiniam is used for and that Brother Fergal took it regularly. The rest was a mixture of elementary deduction and bluff for it might have been hard to prove conclusively without Congal’s admittance of guilt.”

“You are an excellent advocate, Sister Fidelma,” observed the Brehon.

“To present a clever and polished argument is no great art. To perceive and understand the truth is a better gift.” She paused at the door and smiled at the judge. “Peace with you, Brehon of the Eoghanacht of Cashel.” Then she was gone, striding away along the dusty road toward the distant Abbey.

MURDER BY MIRACLE

As the boat rocked its way gently against the natural granite quay, Sister Fidelma could see her welcome committee standing waiting. The committee consisted of one young, very young, man; fresh-faced and youthful, certainly no more than twenty-one summers in age. He wore a noticeable expression of petulance, coupled with resolution, on his features.

At the boatman’s gesture, Sister Fidelma eased herself into position by the side of the vessel and grabbed for the rope ladder, hauling herself quickly up on to the grey granite quay. She moved with a youthful agility which seemed at odds with her demure posture and religious habit. To the young man watching her perilous ascent, her tall but well-proportioned figure, the rebellious strands of red hair streaking from under her headdress, the young, attractive features and bright green eyes, had not been what he was expecting when he had been informed that a dálaigh, an advocate, of the Brehon Court, was coming to the island. This young woman was not his idea of a religieuse let alone a respected member of the law courts of Éireann.

“Sister Fidelma? Did you have a good trip over?” The young man’s voice was slow, his tone measured, not really friendly but “correct.” The phrase “coldly polite” came into Fidelma’s mind and she grimaced wryly before allowing her features to break into an amused grin. The grin disconcerted the young man for a moment. It was also at odds with her status. It was an urchin grin of frivolity. Fidelma gestured wordlessly to the seas breaking behind her.

With the late autumnal seas running, dirty grey and heavy with yellow-cream foamed caps, the trip from the mainland had not been one that she had enjoyed. The wind was cold and blustery and whistling against this serrated crag of an island which poked into the wild, angry Atlantic like the top of an isolated hill that had been severed from its fellows by a flood of brooding water. Approaching the island, the dark rocks seemed like the comb of a fighting cock. She had marveled how anyone could survive and scratch a living on its seemingly inhospitable wasteland.

On her way out the boatman had told her that only one hundred and sixty people lived on the island, which, in winter, could sometimes be cut off for months with not even a deftly rowed currach being able to make a landing. The island’s population were close-knit, introspective, mainly flsherfolk, and there had been no suspicious deaths there since time immemorial.

That was, until now.

The young man frowned slightly and when she made no reply he spoke again.