Hemlock At Vespers (7 page)

“What are you looking for?”

“Perhaps for the rest of that chain. I’m not sure.”

She paused and examined a patch of broken gorse and trodden grass with areas of soft muddy ground. There were deep imprints of shoes, which the faint drizzle had not yet washed away. There was nothing identifiable, just enough remaining to show that more than one person had stood in this spot.

“So this area is consistent with the spot she must have gone over from?”

The apothecary nodded.

Fidelma bit her lip. The marks could well indicate that more than one person had left the path, which was two yards away from the edge of the cliff at this point, and stood near to the edge of the cliff. But the most important thing about the cliff edge here was the fact that it was at least six feet away from the worn track. There was surely no way that the Abbess Cuimne could go over the cliff by accident while walking along the path. To fall over, she would have had deliberately to leave the pathway, scramble across some shrub and gorse and balance on that dangerous edge. But if not an accident … what then?

There was something else, too, about the cliff edge. But she did not wish to move too close, for Fidelma hated high, unprotected places.

“Is there a means of climbing down here?” she suddenly asked Corcrain.

“Only if you are a mountain goat, I reckon. No, it’s too dangerous. Not that I am saying it is totally impossible to get down. Those with knowledge of climbing such inaccessible spots might well attempt it. There are a few caves set into the face of the cliff along here and once some people from the mainland wanted to go down to examine them.”

“At this spot?”

“No. About three hundred yards along. But the
bó-aire
saw them off, declaring it was too dangerous. That was last year.”

Fidelma took off her short woollen cloak, which she wore to protect her from the almost continuous drizzle of the island’s grey skies, and put it down near the cliff edge. Then she knelt down before stretching full-length on it and easing forward to peer over the edge. It was as the apothecary said, only someone skilled in the art of climbing or a mountain goat would even attempt to climb down. She shivered for a moment as she stared down to the rocky beach three hundred feet below.

When she had stood up and brushed down her cloak she asked Corcrain, “Where do I find this man Congal?”

Congal was a big man. He sat before a plate piled with fish and a boiled duck’s egg. Though he sat at table, he still wore his fisherman’s clothes, as if he could not be bothered to change on entering his
bothán.
Yet the clothes simply emphasized his large, muscular torso. His hands, too, were large and callused.

“Sad, it is,” he growled across the scrubbed pine table to where Sister Fidelma sat with a bowl of sweet mead which he had offered in hospitality. “The woman had a good life before her but it is a dangerous place to be walking if you don’t know the ground.”

“I’m told that she was exploring here.”

The big man frowned.

“Exploring?”

“I’m told that she spoke with you a few times.”

“Not surprising that she would do so. I am the local
seanchaí.
I know all the legends and tales of the island.” There was more than a hint of pride in his voice. Sister Fidelma realized that pride went with the islanders. They had little enough but were proud of what they did have.

“Is that what she was interested in? Ancient tales?”

“It was.”

“Any subject or tale in particular?”

Congal shifted as if defensively.

“None as I recall.”

“What then?”

“Oh, just tales about the ancient times, when the druids of Iarmuma used to hunt down the priests of Christ and kill them. That was a long time ago, even before the Blessed Patrick came to our shores.”

“You provided her with some of these tales?”

Congal nodded.

“I did so. Many priests of Christ found a refuge on this island during the pagan times. They fled from the mainland while the king of Iarmuma’s men were burning down the churches and communities.”

Sister Fidelma sighed. It did not sound the sort of subject Abbess Cuimne would be interested in pursuing. As representative of the Archbishop, she had, as Sister Fidelma knew, special responsibility for the uniform observances of the faith in Ireland.

“But no story in particular interested her?” she pressed.

“None.”

Was Congal’s voice too emphatic? Sister Fidelma felt an uneasy pricking at the back of her neck, that odd sensation she always felt when something was wrong, or someone was not telling the full truth.

Back at the cabin of the
bó-aire,
Sister Fidelma sorted through the leather satchel which contained the belongings of the dead Abbess. She steeled herself to sorting through the items which became objects of pathetic sentiment. The items proclaimed the Abbess to have some vanity, the few cosmetics and a jar of perfume, her rosary and crucifix, a splendidly worked piece of ivory and gold, which proclaimed her rank, as sister to the High King, rather than her role as a humble religieuse. The rosary beads were of imported ivory. There were items of clothes for her journey. All were contained in the leather shoulder satchel which traveling monks and nuns carried on their journeys and pilgrimages.

Sister Fidelma sorted through the satchel twice before she realized what was worrying her. She turned to the impatient
bó-aire.

“Fogartach, are you sure these are all the Abbess Cuimne’s possessions?”

The young magistrate nodded vehemently.

Sister Fidelma sighed. If Abbess Cuimne was on the island to carry out some search or investigation, surely she would have had a means of recording notes? Indeed, where was the pocket missal that most religieuses of rank carried? Over a century before, when Irish monks and nuns had set out on their missions to the far corners of the world, they had to carry with them liturgical and religious tracts. It was necessary, therefore, that such works were small enough for missionaries to carry with them in special leather satchels called
tiag liubhar.
Therefore the monks engaged in the task of copying such books began to reduce their size. Such small books were now carried by almost all learned members of the church. It would be odd if the Abbess had not carried even a missal with her.

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop for a while. If the answer to the conundrum was not forthcoming on the island, perhaps it might be found in the wager with Artagán, the bishop of An Chúis on the mainland. She made her decision and turned to the expectant
bó-aire.

“I need a currach to take me to An Chúis on the mainland at once.”

The young man gaped at her in surprise.

“Have you finished here, Sister?”

“No. But there is someone I must consult at An Chúis immediately. The boat must wait for me so that I can return here by this afternoon.”

Bishop Artagán rose in surprise when Sister Fidelma strode into his study at the Abbey of An Chúis, after being ceremoniously announced by a member of his order. It was from here that Artagán presided over the priesthood of the Corco Dhuibhne.

“There are some questions I would ask you, Bishop,” she announced as soon as the introductions were over.

“As a
dálaigh
of the Brehon Court, you have but to ask,” agreed the bishop, a flaccid-faced, though nervous man of indeterminable age. He had led her to a seat before his fire and offered hospitality in the form of heated mead.

“The Abbess Cuimne…” began Fidelma.

“I have heard the sad news,” interrupted the bishop. “She fell to her death.”

“Indeed. But before she went to the island, she stayed here in the abbey, did she not?”

“Two nights while waiting for a calm sea in order to travel to the island,” confirmed Artagán.

“The island is under your jurisdiction?”

“It is.”

“Why did the Abbess Cuimne go to the island? There is talk that she had a wager with you on the result of her visit and what she would find there.”

Artagán grimaced tiredly.

“She was going on a wild goose chase,” he said disarmingly. “My wager was a safe one.”

Fidelma drew her brows together in perplexity.

“I would like an explanation.”

“The Abbess Cuimne was of a strong personality. This was natural as she is … was … sister to the High King. She had great talents. This, too, is natural, for the Archbishop at Armagh appointed her as his personal representative to ensure the uniformity of holy office among the monasteries and churches of Éireann. I have met her only twice. Once at a synod at Cashel and then when she came to stay before going to the island. She entertained views that were sometimes difficult to debate with her.”

“In what way do you mean?”

“Have you heard the legend of the reliquary of the Blessed Palladius?”

“Tell me it,” invited Fidelma in order to cover her bewilderment.

“Well, as you know, two and a half centuries ago, the Christian community in Éireann was very small but, God willing, increasing as people turned to the word of Christ. By that time they had reached such a size that they sent to the holy city of Rome to ask the Pope, Celestine, the first of his name to sit on the throne of Peter, the disciple of Christ, to send them a bishop. They wanted a man who would teach and help them follow the ways of the living God. Celestine appointed a man named Palladius as the first bishop to the Irish believing in Christ.”

Artagán paused before continuing.

“There are two versions of the story. Firstly, that Palladius, en route to Éireann, took sick in Gaul and died there. Secondly, that Palladius did reach our shores and administer to the Irish, eventually being foully murdered by an enraged druid in the pay of the king of Iarmuma.”

“I have heard these stories,” confirmed Sister Fidelma. “It was after Palladius’s death that the Blessed Patrick, who was then studying in Gaul, was appointed bishop to Ireland and returned to this land, where once he had been held as a hostage.”

“Indeed,” agreed Artagán. “A legend then arose in the years after Palladius’s death: that relics of this holy saint were placed in reliquary; a box with a roof-shaped lid, about twelve centimeters wide by six in length by five deep. They are usually made of wood, often yew; lined inside in lead and on the outside ornate with gilt, copper alloy, gold foil, with amber and glass decoration. Beautiful things.”

Sister Fidelma nodded impatiently. She had seen many such reliquaries among the great abbeys of Éireann.

“The legend had it that Palladius’s relics were once kept at Cashel, seat of the Eóghanacht kings of Munster. Then about two hundred years ago there was a revival of the beliefs of the druids in Iarmuma. The king of Iarmuma resumed the old religion and a great persecution of Christian communities began. Cashel was stormed. But the relics were taken into the country for safekeeping; taken from one spot to another until the relics of our first bishop were taken to the islands, away from the ravages of man. There they disappeared.”

“Go on,” prompted Sister Fidelma when the bishop paused.

“Well, just think of it. What a find it would be if we could discover the relics of the first bishop of Éireann after all this time! What a center of pilgrimage their resting place would make, what a great abbey could be built there which would attract attention from the four corners of the world…”

Sister Fidelma grimaced wryly.

“Are you saying that the Abbess Cuimne had gone to the island searching for the reliquary of Palladius?”

Bishop Artagán nodded.

“She informed me that in Ard Macha, in the great library there, she had come across some old manuscripts which indicated that the reliquary was taken to an island off the mainland of the Corco Dhuibhne. The manuscripts, which she refused to show me, were claimed to contain notes of its location written at the time. The notes had been kept in an old book in the library of the monastery of Ard Macha. There were legends of priests fleeing to these islands during the persecutions of the king of Iarmuma, but surely we would have known had the sacred reliquary been taken there.”

The bishop sniffed disparagingly.

“So you did not agree with Abbess Cuimne that the reliquary was on the island?” queried Sister Fidelma.

“I did not. I am something of a scholar of the period myself. Palladius died in Gaul. That much is obvious, for most records recount that fact.”

“So this is why you thought that the Abbess was on a wild goose chase?”

“Indeed, I did so. The relics of Palladius have not survived the ravages of time. If they have, then they would be in Gaul, not here. It was hard to dissuade Abbess Cuimne. A strong-willed woman, as I have told you.”

The bishop suddenly frowned.

“But what has this to do with your investigation into her death?”

Sister Fidelma smiled gently and rose from her seat.

“I only needed to assure myself of the purpose of her visit to the island.”

On the bouncing trip back, over the harsh, choppy grey seas, Sister Fidelma sat back in the currach and reflected with wrinkled forehead. So it was logical that the Abbess Cuimne had talked about the reliquary of Palladius to Congal, the
seanchaí
of the island; why then had the man not been forthcoming about that fact? What was the big fisherman trying to hide? She decided to leave Congal for the time being and go straight away on landing to talk with the island’s priest, Father Patrick. He had been the second person whom the Abbess Cuimne had made a special effort to talk with on the island.

Father Patrick was an old man, certainly into his late mid- or even late eighties. A thin wisp of a man, who, Sister Fidelma thought, would be blown away by the winds that buffeted the island. A man of more bone than flesh with large knuckles, a taut parchmentlike skin and a few strands of white hair. From under overhanging brows, pale eyes of indiscernible color stared at Fidelma.

Father Patrick sat in a chair by his fireside, a thick wool shawl wrapped around his frail frame and held close by a brooch around his scrawny neck.