Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“I have a horse tethered outside. The poor beast will freeze to death if not attended,” Fidelma snapped, when the man did not answer her question but simply stood staring at her.

“Who are you?” demanded a shrill woman’s voice behind her.

Fidelma swung round. The woman who stood there had once been handsome; now age was causing her features to run with surplus flesh, and lines marked her face. Her eyes stared, black and apparently without pupils, at Fidelma. The religieuse had the impression that here was a woman in whom, at some awesome moment in her life, the pulsating blood of life had frozen and never regained its regular ebb and flow. What surprised her more was that the woman held before her a tall ornate crucifix. She held it as if it were some protective icon against the terror that afflicted her.

She and the man were well matched.

“Speak! What manner of person are you?”

Fidelma sniffed in annoyance.

“If you are the keepers of this inn, all you should know is that I am a weary traveler in these mountains, driven to seek refuge from the blizzard.”

The woman was not cowed by her haughty tone.

“It is not all we need to know,” she corrected just as firmly. “Tell us whether you mean us harm or not.”

Fidelma was surprised.

“I came here to shelter from the storm, that is all. I am Fidelma of Kildare,” replied the religieuse in annoyance. “Moreover, I am a dálaigh of the courts, qualified to the level of Anruth and sister to Colgú, of this Tanist kingdom.”

The grandiloquence of her reply was an indication of the annoyance Fidelma felt, for normally she was not one given to stating more than was necessary. She had never felt the need to mention that her brother, Colgú, was heir apparent to the kingdom of Cashel before. However, she felt that she needed to stir these people out of their curious mood.

As she spoke she swung off her woollen cloak, displaying her habit, and noticed that the woman’s eyes fell upon the ornately worked crucifix which hung from her neck. Was there some expression of reassurance in those cold expressionless eyes?

The woman put down her cross and gave a bob of her head.

“Forgive us, Sister. I am Monchae, wife to Belach, the innkeeper.”

Belach seemed to be hesitating at the door.

“Shall I see to the horse?” he asked hesitantly.

“Unless you want it to freeze to death,” snapped Fidelma, making her way to a large open fire in which sods of turf were singing as they caused a warmth to envelop the room. From the corner of her eye she saw Belach hesitate a moment longer and then, swinging a cloak around his shoulders, he took from behind the door a sword and went out into the blizzard.

Fidelma was astonished. She had never seen a ostler take a sword to assist him in putting a horse to stable before.

Monchae was pushing the iron handle on which hung a cauldron across the glowing turf fire.

“What place is this?” demanded Fidelma as she chose a chair in which to stretch out before the warmth of the fire. The room was low-beamed and comfortable but devoid of decorations apart from a tall statuette of the Madonna and Child, executed in some form of painted plaster-a gaudy, alabaster figurine. It dominated as the center display at the end of a large table where, presumably, guests dined.

“This is Brugh-na-Bhelach. You have just come off the shoulder of the mountain known as Fionn’s Seat. The River Tua is but a mile to the north of here. We do not have many travelers this way in winter. Which direction are you heading?”

“North to Cashel,” replied Fidelma.

Monchae ladled a cup of steaming liquid from the cauldron over the fire and handed it to her. Although the liquid must have been warming the vessel, Fidelma could not feel it as she cupped her frozen hands around it and let the steaming vapor assail her nostrils. It smelled good. She sipped slowly at it, her sense of taste confirming what her sense of smell had told her.

She glanced up at the woman.

“Tell me, Monchae, why was the door of this hostel barred? Why did I have to beg to be admitted? Do you and your husband, Belach, know the law of hostel-keepers?”

Monchae pressed her lips together.

“Will you report us to the bó-aire of the territory?”

The bó-aire was the local magistrate.

“I am more concerned with hearing your reasons,” replied Fi-delma. “Someone might have perished from the cold before you and your husband, Belach, opened your door.”

The woman looked agitated, chewing her lips as if she would draw blood from it.

The door opened abruptly with a wild gust of cold air, sending snowflakes swirling across the room and a stream of icy air enveloping them.

Belach stood poised a moment in its frame, a ghastly look upon his pale features and then with a sound which resembled a soft moan, he entered and barred the door behind him. He still carried the sword as a weapon.

Fidelma watched him with curiosity as he threw the bolts.

Monchae stood, both hands raised to her cheeks.

Belach turned from the door and his lips were trembling.

“I heard it!” he muttered, his eyes darting from his wife to Fi-delma, as though he did not want her to hear. “I heard it!”

“Oh Mary, Mother of God, save us!” cried the woman, swaying as if she would faint.

“What does this mean?” Fidelma demanded as sternly as she could.

Belach turned, pleading, to her.

“I was in the barn, bedding down your horse, Sister, and I heard it.”

“But what?” cried Fidelma, trying to keep her patience.

“The spirit of Mugrán,” wailed Monchae suddenly, giving way to a fit of sobbing. “Save us, Sister. For the pity of Christ! Save us!”

Fidelma rose and went to the woman, taking her gently but firmly by the arm and leading her to the fire. She could see that her husband, Belach, was too nervous to attend to the wants of his wife and so she went to a jug, assessed its contents as corma, a spirit distilled from barley, and poured a little into a cup. She handed it to the woman and told her to drink.

“Now what is all this about? I cannot help you unless you tell me.

Monchae looked at Belach, as if seeking permission, and he nodded slowly in response.

“Tell her from the beginning,” he muttered.

Fidelma smiled encouragingly at the woman.

“A good place to start,” she joked lightly. But there was no humorous response on the features of the innkeeper’s wife.

Fidelma seated herself before Monchae and faced her expectantly.

Monchae paused a moment and then began to speak, hesitantly at first and then more quickly as she gained confidence in the story.

“I was a young girl when I came to this place. I came as a young bride to the brugh-fer, the innkeeper, who was then a man named Mugrán. You see,” she added hurriedly, “Belach is my second husband.”

She paused but when Fidelma made no comment, she went on.

“Mugrán was a good man. But often given to wild fantasies. He was a good man for the music, an excellent piper. Often he entertained here in this very room and people would come far and wide to hear him. But he was a restless soul. I found that I was doing all the work of running the inn while he pursued his dreams. Mu-grán’s younger brother, Cano, used to help me but he was much influenced by his brother.

“Six years ago our local chieftain lit the crois-tara, the fiery cross, and sent his rider from village to village, raising the clans to send a band of fighting men to fight Guaire of Connacht in the service of Cathal Cú cen máthair of Cashel. Mugrán one morning announced he and young Cano were leaving to join that band of warriors. When I protested, he said that I should not fear for my security. He had placed in the inn an inheritance which would keep me from want. If anything happened to him, I would not be lacking for anything. With that, he and Cano just rose and left.”