Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“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 Pal-ladius?”

“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 larmuma.”

“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 larmuma. The king of larmuma 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 larmuma, 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.

Yet withal the frailty and age, Fidelma felt she was in the presence of a strong and dynamic personality.

“Tell me about the reliquary of Palladius.” Sister Fidelma opened abruptly. It was a shot in the dark but she saw that it paid off.

The aged face was immobile. Only the eyes blinked once as a token of surprise. But Fidelma’s quiet eyes picked up the involuntary action.

“What have you heard about the old legend?”

The rasping voice was so pitched that Fidelma was hard pressed to hear any emotion, but there was something there … something defensive.

“Is it a legend, Father?” asked Fidelma with emphasis.

“There are many old legends here, my daughter.”