charity. Then, having received the divine sacrament from Bishop mac Liag, he departed this life in a most holy and happy fashion, escorted by a chorus of angels to the kingdom of heaven. Vigils were held and solemn masses celebrated, signs and wonders were seen, a conclave of saints gathered from all corners of the land.”
Brother Ross spread one hand toward the oratory, his voice warming to his theme.
“His earthly remains were escorted to this, his first little church, to be laid to rest within it. I will lead you inside. Only three may accompany me at a time for, as you can see, it is very small. In the oratory lies a recess in the ground in which is a stone-built coffin. This is the resting place designated by Declan himself at the bidding of an angel. His relics are there and great signs and miracles are worked through the intervention of the Blessed Declan.”
He stood with bowed head for a moment while the pilgrims mumbled their respectful “Amens.”
“Wait here for a moment until I enter the oratory and ensure we are not disturbing any worshiper. This day is holy to the saint and many people come to pray here.”
They paused by the wall as Brother Ross instructed while he turned inside the enclosure and crossed to the lintel door and disappeared inside.
A moment or two later, the young man burst out of the oratory, his face flushed, his mouth working yet uttering no sound. Sister Fidelma and the others stood staring at him in total surprise. The sudden change from quiet respect to such agitation was bewildering. For several moments, the young man could not utter a word and then they came out in a spluttering staccato.
“Uncorrupted! A miracle! A miracle!”
His eyes were wide and rolled as if he had trouble in focusing.
Fidelma stepped forward in front of him, “Calm yourself, brother!” she demanded, her voice rising in sharp command to quell his excitement. “What ails you?”
Brother Ross seemed finally to focus on her with his wide staring eyes.
“The body of the saint. . it is uncorrupted!”
“What do you mean?” Fidelma demanded in irritation.
“You are not making sense.”
The young man swallowed and breathed deeply for a moment as if to gather his composure.
“The sarcophagus! The stone has been swung aside. . the body of the blessed Declan lies there. . the flesh is uncorrupted. . truly. . a miracle. . a miracle! Go and spread the news. .”
Fidelma did not waste time on trying to make further sense of the young man’s incoherent claims.
She strode quickly by him, shaking aside his restraining hand, and went into the oratory, crouching a little to pass under the lintel. There was only one small window to give natural light and she paused, blinked, and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust. Two tall candles on an altar at the end of the small chapel were unlit but, surprisingly, a small stub of candle stood splattering on the tomb slab.
This stone slab had been pushed at an angle from the recess in the ground revealing the contents of the shallow grave. She strode forward and peered down. Brother Ross had been right in so far that a body lay there. But it was not the body of someone who had been interred two centuries before. She bent down to examine it. Two things she noticed: the blood was still glistening and wet, and when she touched the forehead, the flesh was still warm.
When she emerged, she found Brother Ross still lyrical with excitement. The pilgrims were gathered excitedly around him.
“Brethren, this day you have witnessed one of the great miracles of Declan. The saint’s body has not corrupted and decayed. Go down to the abbey and tell them and I will stay here and watch until you return with the abbot. .”
He hesitated as the eyes of the pilgrims turned expectantly as one to where Fidelma exited from the oratory with a grim face.
“You saw it, didn’t you, Sister?” demanded Brother Ross. “I told no lie. The body is uncorrupted. A miracle!”
“No one is to enter the chapel,” Fidelma replied coldly.
Brother Ross drew his brows together in anger.
“I am in charge of the pilgrims. Who are you to give orders, Sister?”
“I am a
The young man blinked at her brusque tone. Then he recovered almost immediately.
“Lawyer or not, these pilgrims should be sent to tell the abbot. I will wait here. . This is truly a miracle!”
Fidelma turned to him cynically.
“You who know so much about the Blessed Declan may provide the answers to these questions. Was Declan stabbed through the heart before being laid to rest?”
Brother Ross did not understand.
“Was the Blessed Declan, in reality, a young woman?” went on Fidelma, ruthlessly.
Brother Ross was outraged and said so.
Fidelma smiled thinly.
“Then I suggest you examine your uncorrupted body a little further. The body in the grave is that of a young woman who has recently been stabbed in the heart. It has been placed in the grave on top of old bones which presumably are the skeleton of Declan.”
Brother Ross stared at her for a moment in horror and then hurried back into the oratory.
Fidelma instructed the pilgrims to wait outside and then hurried after the young man, pausing just inside the door.
Brother Ross, kneeling by the tomb, turned and glanced up toward her. His face, even in the semigloom, was white.
“It is Sister Aróc, a member of the community of Ard mór.”
Fidelma nodded grimly.
“Then I think we should dispatch the pilgrims back to Ard mór and ask them to inform the abbot of what has been found here.”
The band of pilgrims were spending the night in the hostel at Ard mór anyway.
“Shouldn’t we go. .?”
Fidelma shook her head.
“I will stay and you may stay to assist me.”
Brother Ross looked bewildered.
“Assist you?”
“As a
When the pilgrims had been dispatched down the hill toward the monastery, Fidelma returned into the chapel and knelt by the tomb. Sister Aróc was no more than twenty years old. She was not particularly attractive; in fact, rather plain-featured. A country girl with large-boned hands whose skin was rough and callused. They lay in a curious clawlike attitude at her sides, as if the fingers should be grasping something. Her hair was mouse-colored, an indiscernible gray-brown.
As Fidelma had previously noticed, there was one wound on the body. There was no need to ask what had caused it. A thin knife blade with its rough worked handle still protruded from it. Her habit was ripped just under the left breast where the knife had entered and doubtless immediately penetrated her heart. The blood had soaked her clothing. It had not dried and that indicated death had not occurred long before. In fact, she thought the time could probably be measured in minutes rather than hours.
A thought had occurred to Fidelma and she examined the floor of the chapel, tracing her way carefully back to the door and outside. She was looking for blood specks but something else caught her eye-droplets of wax near the sarcophagus. The fact alone was not surprising. She would imagine that many people over the years had entered with candles and bent to examine the stone that had covered the relics of the saint. What was surprising was the fact that the tallow grease lay in profusion over the edge of the sepulcher on which the flat covering stone would have swung shut.
Fidelma, frowning, seized the end of the flat stone and exerted her strength. It swung. It was not easy to
