Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“Come on!” she cried, and climbed hastily down to the pebbly strand. Then she halted and picked up several large pebbles and began to hurl them at the host of carrion-eaters. The scavengers let forth screaming cries of anger and flapped their great wings. Lorcán joined her, picking up stones and throwing them with all his strength.

It was not long before the wheeling mass of birds had dispersed from the object over which they had been fighting. But Fidelma saw that they had not retreated far. They swirled high in the air above them or strutted nearby, beady eyes watching and waiting.

Nonetheless, she strode purposefully across the shingle.

The religieux had been young, very young with fair hair.

He lay on his back, his robes in an unseemly mess of torn and frayed wool covered in blood.

Fidelma swallowed hard. The gulls had been allowed an hour or so of uninterrupted work. The face was pitted and bloody, an eye was missing. Part of the skull had been smashed, a pulpy mess of blood and bone. It was obvious that no bird had perpetrated that damage.

“Can you tell who this was, Lorcán?” Fidelma asked softly.

The boatman came over, one wary eye on the gulls. They were standing well back but with their eyes malignantly on the humans who had dared drive them from their unholy feastmg. Lorcán glanced down. He pulled a face at the sight.

“I have seen him here in the community, Sister. Alas, I do not know his name. Sister, I am fearful. This is the third dead member of the community.”

Fidelma did not reply but steeled herself to bend beside the corpse. The leather crumena or purse was still fastened at his belt. She forced herself to avoid the lacerated features of the youth and his one remaining bright, accusing eye, and put her hand into the purse. It was empty.

She drew back and shook her head.

Then a thought occurred to her.

“Help me push the body over face down,” she instructed.

Keeping his curiosity to himself, Lorcán did so.

The robe was almost torn from the youth’s back by the ravages of the birds. Fidelma did not have to remove the material further to see a patch of scars, some old, some new, some which showed signs of recent bleeding, criss-cross over his back.

“What do you make of that, Lorcán?” Fidelma invited.

The boatman thrust out his lower lip and raised one shoulder before letting it fall in an exaggerated shrug.

“Only that the boy has been whipped. Not once either but many times over a long period.”

Fidelma nodded in agreement.

“That’s another fact I want you to witness, Lorcán.”

She stood up, picking up a few stones as she did so and shying them at two or three large gulls who were slowly closing the distance between them. They screamed in annoyance but removed themselves to a safer position.

“How big was the community’s currach?” she asked abruptly.

Lorcán understood what she meant.

“It was big enough to carry the rest of the brethren,” he replied. “They must be long gone, by now. They could be anywhere on the islands or have even reached the mainland.” He paused and looked at her. “But did they go willingly or were they forced to go? Who could have done this?”

Fidelma did not reply. She motioned Lorcán to help her return the body to its original position and stared at the crushed skull.

“That was done with heavy and deliberate blow,” she observed. “This young religieux was murdered and left here on the strand.”

Lorcán shook his head in utter bewilderment.

“There is much evil here, Sister.”

“With that I can agree,” Fidelma replied. “Come, let us build a cairn over his body with stones so that the gulls do not feast further on him-whoever he was. We cannot carry him back to the settlement.”

When they arrived back at the community, having completed their task, Maenach greeted them in the quadrangle with a look of relief.

“Brother Spelán is coming round. The young Sister is nursing him.”

Fidelma answered with a grim smile.

“Now perhaps we may learn some answers to this mystery.”

Inside the cell, the brother was lying against a pillow. He looked very drowsy and blinked several times as his dark, black eyes tried to focus on Fidelma.

She motioned Sister Sárnat to move aside and sat on the edge of the cot by Spelán.

“I have given him water only, Sister,” the girl said eagerly, as if expecting her approval. “The boatman,” she gestured toward Maenach, who stood at the doorway with Lorcán, “bathed and dressed the wound.”

Fidelma smiled encouragingly at the Brother.

“Are you Brother Spelan?”

The man closed his eyes for a moment, his voice sounded weak.

“I am Spelán. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I am Fidelma of Kildare. I am come here to bring the Abbot Selbach a letter from Ultan of Armagh.”

Spelán stared at her.

“A letter from Ultan?” He sounded confused.

“Yes. That is why we landed on the island. What has happened here? Who hit you on the head?”

Spelán groaned and raised a hand to his forehead.

“I recall.” His voice grew strong and commanding. “The abbot is dead, Sister. Return to Dún na Séad and ask that a Brehon be sent here for there has been a great crime committed.”

“I will take charge of the matter, Spelán,” Fidelma said confi-dently.

“You?” Spelán stared at her in bewilderment. “You don’t understand. It is a Brehon that is needed.”

“I am a dálaigh of the court qualified to the level of Anruth.”

Spelán’s eyes widened a fraction for he realized that the qualification of Anruth allowed the young religieuse to sit in judgment with kings and even with the High King himself.

“Tell me what took place here,” Fidelma prompted.

Spelán’s dark eyes found Sister Sárnat and motioned for her to hand him the cup of water from which he took several swallows.

“There was evil here, Sister. An evil which grew unnoticed by me until it burst forth and enveloped us all in its maw.”

Fidelma waited without saying anything.

Spelán seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment or two.

“I will start from the beginning.”

“Always a good place for starting a tale,” Fidelma affirmed solemnly.

“Two years ago I met Selbach who persuaded me to join him here in order to build a community which would be dedicated to isolation and meditative contemplation of the works of the Creator. I was the apothecary at an abbey on the mainland which was a sinful place-pride, gluttony and other vices were freely practiced there. In Selbach I believed that I had found a kindred spirit who shared my own views. We searched together for a while and eventually came across eleven young souls who wanted to devote themselves to our purpose.”

“Why so young?” demanded Fidelma.

Spelán blinked.

“We needed youth to help our community flourish for in youth lies strength against the hardships of this place.”

“Go on,” pressed Fidelma when the man paused.

“With the blessing of Ultan of Armagh and the permission of the local chieftain, The Ó hEidersceoil, we came to this isolated place.”

He paused to take another sip of water.

“And what of this evil that grew in your midst?” encouraged Fidelma.

“I am coining to that. There is a philosophy among some of the ascetics of the faith that physical pain, even as the Son of the Living God had to endure, pain such as the tortures of the flesh, is the way to man’s redemption, a way to salvation. Mortification and suffering are seen as the paths to spiritual salvation.”

Fidelma sniffed in disapproval.

“I have heard that there are such misguided fools among us.”