Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“It states that you are a qualified Anruth.”

To have qualified to the level of Anruth one had to have studied at a monastic or bardic school for between seven to nine years. The Anruth was only one degree below the highest qualification, the Ollamh, or professor, who could sit as an equal with kings. The Anruth had to be knowledgeable in poetry, literature, law and medicine, speaking and writing with authority on all things and being eloquent in debate.

“I was with the Brehon Morann for eight years,” Fidelma re-plied.

“Your right to act as advocate before the court is recognized, Sister Fidelma.”

The young religieuse smiled.

“In that case, I call upon my right to speak with the accused and then with the witnesses.”

“Very well. But there can be only one plea before the court. The evidence is too damning to say other than that Brother Fergal is guilty of the murder of Barrdub.”

Brother Fergal was, as the Brehon said, a handsome young man no more than five and twenty years of age. He wore a bewildered expression on his pale features. The brown eyes were wide, the auburn hair was tousled. He looked like a young man awakened from sleep to find himself in a world he did not recognize. He rose awkwardly as Sister Fidelma entered the cell, coughing nervously.

The burly jailer closed the door behind her but stood outside.

“The grace of God to you, Brother Fergal,” she greeted.

“And of God and Mary to you, Sister,” responded the young religieux automatically. His voice was slightly breathless and wheezy.

“I am Fidelma sent from the Abbey to act as your advocate.”

A bitter expression passed over the face of the young man.

“What good will that do? The Brehon has already judged me guilty.”

“And are you?”

Fidelma seated herself on a stool which, apart from the rough straw pallaisse, was the only furniture in the cell, and gazed up at the young monk

“By the Holy Virgin, I am not!” The cry was immediate, angry and despairing at the same time. The young man punctuated his response with a paroxysm of coughing.

“Be seated, Brother,” said Fidelma solicitously. “The cell is cold and you must take care of your cough

The young man contrived to shrug indifferently.

“I have suffered from asthma for several years now, Sister. I ease it by inhaling the odors of the burning leaves of stramóiniam or taking a little herbal drink before I retire at night. Alas, such a luxury is denied me here.”

“I will speak to the Brehon about it,” Fidelma assured him. “He is not a harsh man. Perhaps we can find some leaves and seeds of the stramóiniam and have them sent into you.”

“I would be grateful.”

After a little while, Fidelma reminded the young man that she awaited his story.

Reluctantly, the young man squatted on the pallaisse and coughed again

“Little to tell. The Abbess sent me to the clan of Eoghanacht of Cashel, to preach and administer to them, four weeks ago. I came here and rebuilt a deserted cell on the blue hill of Cnoc-gorm. For a while all went well. True that in this part of Éireann, two hundred years after the blessed saint Patrick converted our people, I have found some whose hearts and souls have not been won over for Christ. That was a great sadness to me…”

“I have heard that there is one here who still follows the old ways of the druids,” Fidelma commented encouragingly when the young man paused and faltered in his thoughts.

“The hermit Erca? Yes. He dwells on Cnoc-gorm, too. He hates all Christians.”

“Does he now?” mused Fidelma. “But tell me, what of the events of the night of the murder?”

Brother Fergal grimaced expressively.

“All I remember is that I returned to my cell at dusk. I was exhausted for I had walked sixteen miles that day, taking the Word of Christ to the shepherds in the mountains. I felt a soreness on my chest and so I heated and drank my herbal potion. It did me good for I slept soundly. The next thing I knew was being shaken awake to find the Brehon standing over me and Congal with him. Congal was screaming that I had killed his sister. There was blood on my hands and clothes. Then I saw, in my cell, the poor, bloodied body of the girl, Barrdub.”

He started coughing again. Fidelma watched the face of the young religieux intently. There was no guile there. The eyes were puzzled yet honest.

“That is all?” she pressed when he had drawn breath.

“You asked me what I knew of the events of the night of the murder. That is all.”

Fidelma bit her lip. It sounded an implausible story.

“You were not disturbed at all? You heard nothing? You went to sleep and knew nothing until the Brehon and Congal woke you, when you saw blood on your clothes and the body of the dead girl in your cabin?

The young man moaned softly, placing his face in his hands.

“I know nothing else,” he insisted. “It is fantastic, I know, but it is the truth.’

“Do you admit that you knew the girl, Barrdub?”

“Of course. In the time I was here, I knew everyone of the clan of Eóghanacht.”

“And what of Barrdub? How well did you know her?”

“She came to religious service regularly and once or twice came to help me when I was rebuilding my bothán. But so did many others from the village here.”

“You had no special relationship with Barrdub?”

Priests, monks and nuns of the Celtic Church could enter into marriage provided such unions were blessed by a bishop or the congregation of the Abbey.

“I had no relationship with Barrdub other than as pastor to one of his flock. Besides, the girl is not yet of the age of choice.”

“You know that Congal is claiming that Barrdub was in love with you and that you had encouraged this? The argument of the prosecution will be that she came to you that night and for some reason you rejected her and when she would not leave you, you killed her. It will be argued that her love became an embarrassment to you.”

The young monk looked outraged.

“But I did not! I only knew the girl slightly and nothing passed between us. Why… why, the girl is also betrothed, as I recall, to someone in the village. I can’t remember his name. I can assure you that there was nothing between the girl and me.”

Fidelma nodded slowly and rose.

“Very well, Brother Fergal. If you have nothing else to tell me …?”

The young man looked up at her with large, pleading eyes.

“What will become of me?”

“I will plead for you,” she consented. “But I have little so far to present to the court in your defense.”

“Then if I am found guilty?”

“You know the law of the land. If you are adjudged guilty of homicide then you must pay the honor-price of the girl, the eric, to her next of kin. The girl, I understand, was a free person, the daughter of a member of the clan assembly. The eric fine stands at forty-five milk cows plus four milk cows as the fee to the Bre-hon.”

“But I have no wealth. It was given up when I decided to serve Christ and took a vow of poverty.”

“You will also know that your family becomes responsible for the fine.”

“But my only family is the Abbey, our order of Brothers and Sisters in Christ.”

Fidelma grimaced.

“Exactly so. The Abbess has to decide whether she will pay your eric fine on behalf of our order. And the greater trial for your immortal soul will be heard under her jurisdiction. If you are judged guilty of killing Barrdub then not only must you make atonement to the civil court but, as a member of the religieux, you must make atonement to Christ.”

“What if the Abbess refuses to pay the eric fine …?” whispered Fergal, his breath becoming laboured again.