Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“Well, Abbess Cuimne thought she knew this one to be true. She told the bishop of the Corco Dhuibhne that she was going to see the reliquary before she left the island.”

“And now she is dead,” the old priest observed almost with a sigh. Again the watery pale eyes blinked. “May she rest in peace.”

Sister Fidelma waited a moment. The priest was silent.

“About the reliquary…” she found herself prompting.

“So far as people are concerned it is only a legend and will remain so.”

Sister Fidelma frowned, trying to interpret this statement.

“So it is not on the island?”

“No islander has seen it.”

Fidelma pursed her lips in an effort to suppress her annoyance. She had the distinct feeling that Father Patrick was playing semantic games with her. She tried another tack.

“Abbess Cuimne came to talk with you on a couple of occasions, didn’t she? What did you talk about?”

“We talked about the folklore of the island.”

“About the reliquary?”

The priest paused. “About the legend of the reliquary,” he corrected.

“And she believed it was here, on the island, isn’t that so?”

“She believed so.”

“And it is not?”

“You may ask any islander if they have seen it or know of its whereabouts.”

Fidelma sighed impatiently. Again there had come the semantic avoidance of her question. Father Patrick would have made a good advocate, skillful in debate.

“Very well, Father. Thank you for your time.”

She was leaving the priest’s cell when she met Corcrain, the apothecary, at the step.

“How ill is Father Patrick?” Fidelma asked him directly.

“Father Patrick is a frail old man,” the apothecary replied. “I fear he will not be with us beyond the winter. He has already had two problems with his heart, which grows continually weaker.”

“How weak?”

“Twice it has misbeat. The third time may prove fatal.”

Sister Fidelma pursed her lips.

“Surely the bishop could retire an old man like that? He could go to rest in some comfortable abbey on the mainland.”

“Surely; if anyone could persuade Father Patrick to leave the island. He came here as a young man sixty years ago and has never left. He’s a stubborn old fellow. He thinks of the island as his flefdom. He feels responsible, personally, for every islander.”

Sister Fidelma sought out Congal again. This time the seanchaí met her with suspicion.

“What did the Abbess Cuimne want to know about the reliquary of Palladius?” demanded Sister Fidelma without preamble.

The big man’s jaw dropped a little at the unexpectedness of her question.

“She knew it was on the island, didn’t she?” pressed Fidelma, not giving the man a chance to reflect on the question.

Congal compressed his lips.

“She thought it was so,” he replied at last.

“Why the secret?”

“Secret?”

“If it is on the island, why has it been kept secret?”

The big man shifted awkwardly.

“Have you spoken with Father Patrick?” he asked sullenly.

“I have.”

Congal was clearly unhappy. He hesitated again and then squared his shoulders.

“If Father Patrick has spoken with you, then you will know.”

Fidelma decided not to enlighten the storyteller that Father Patrick had told her virtually nothing.

“Why keep the fact that the reliquary is on the island a secret?” she pressed again.

“Because it is the reliquary of Palladius; the very bones of the first bishop appointed to the Irish believing in Christ, the blessed saint who brought us out of the darkness into Christian light. Think, Sister Fidelma, what would happen if it were generally known that the relics were here on this island. Think of the pilgrims who come streaming in, think of the great religious foundation that would be raised on this island, and everything that would follow that. Soon people from all over the world would be coming here and destroying our peace. Soon our community would be swamped or dispersed. Better that no one knows about the relics. Why, not even I have seen them nor know where they are hidden. Only Father Patrick…”

Conga! caught sight of Sister Fidelma’s face and must have read its amazed expression.

“Did Father Patrick tell you…? What did Father Patrick tell you?” he suddenly demanded, his face full of suspicion.

There was an abrupt knocking at the bothán door and before Congal could call out the young bo-aire put his head around the door. His face was troubled.

“Ah, Sister, Corcrain the apothecary asks if you could return at once to Father Patrick’s cell. Father Patrick has been taken ill but is demanding to see you.”

Corcrain met her at Father Patrick’s door.

“I doubt if he has long, Sister,” he said quietly. “Not long after you left he had that third shock to the heart that I was warning against. However, he insists on seeing you alone. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

The old priest was lying in bed, his face was wan with a curiously bluish texture to the skin.

The eyes flickered open, the same colorless pale eyes.

“You know, don’t you, my daughter?”

Sister Fidelma decided to be truthful.

“I suspect,” she corrected.

“Well, I must make my peace with God and better that you should know the truth rather than let me depart with only suspicion to shroud my name.”

There was a long pause.

“The reliquary is here. It was brought by priests fleeing from the king of Iarmumua’s warriors over two hundred and fifty years ago. They hid it in a cave for safekeeping. For generations, the priest officiating on this island would tell only his successor of its whereabouts. Sometimes when a priest wasn’t available, an islander would be told so that the knowledge would pass on to each new generation. I came here as a young priest some sixty years ago and learnt the secret from the old priest I was to replace.”

The old man paused to take some deep breaths.

“Then the Abbess Cuimne came. A very intelligent woman. She had found evidence. She checked the legends with Congal, who knows a lot save only where the relics are hidden. He tried to stop her going further by telling her nothing, little short of lying to her. Then she came to me. To my horror, she had apiece of parchment, a series of jumbled notes written in the hand of no less a person than the Blessed Patrick himself. When Palladius died, Patrick had been sent by the Pope to succeed him as bishop to the Irish. The parchment contained a map, directions which were meaningless unless one knew what it was that one was looking for, and the place one had to look in.

“Abbess Cuimne was clever. She had heard of the legends and found this paper tucked into an ancient book belonging to the Blessed Patrick in Ard Macha’s great library. She made some educated guesses, my daughter.”

“And you tried to dissuade her from continuing her search?”

“I did everything to persuade her that legends are not necessarily reality. But she was determined.”

“And then?”

“Then I was honest with her. I pleaded with her to spare this island the consequence of the revelation of the news that it was the hiding place of the reliquary. I pointed out the consequences to this community if such a thing was made public. You are a woman with some imagination, Sister Fidelma. I can tell. Imagine what would happen to this peaceful little island, to this happy little community.”

“Could the relics not be taken off the island?” asked Fidelma. “Perhaps they could be sent to Cashel or even to Ard Macha?”

“And then this island would lose the holy protection given to it by being the repository of the sacred relics. No. The relics were brought here for a purpose and here they must remain.”