Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Monchae stood regarding the shattered pieces of the statuette. “I will have a new statuette of Our Lady made,” she said softly.

“You can afford it now,” replied Fidelma solemnly.

Sister Fidelma was late. The vesper-bell had already ceased proclaiming the arrival of the sixth canonical hour, the time set aside for prayers, long before she reached the dusk-shrouded gates of the grey stone abbey building. The services were over and the community had already filed into the refectory for the evening meal as she, having cursorily brushed the dust of travel from her, entered and hurried toward her place with arms folded into her habit, her head bent in submissive attitude.

While her head was lowered, the keen observer might have noticed that there was little else that was submissive about Sister Fidelma’s bearing. Her tall, well-proportioned figure, scarcely disguised by her flowing robe, carried the attitude of a joy in living, a worship of activity, rather than being cowed by the somber dignity associated with a religieuse. As if to add to this impression, rebellious strands of red hair broke from beneath her head-dress adding to the youthful coloring of her pale, fresh face and piercing green eyes which hardly concealed a bubbling vitality and sense of humor.

The refectory hall was lit by numerous spluttering oil lamps whose pungent smell mingled with the heavy aroma of the smoky turf fire which smoldered in the great hearth set at the head of the chamber. Lamps and fire combined to generate a poor heat against the cold early spring evening.

The Abbess had already started the Gratias as Sister Fidelma, ignoring the scandalized or amused glances from the lines of Sisters-each expression fitting their individual characters-slipped into her place at the end of one of the long tables and genuflected, slightly breathlessly, and with more than seemly haste.

“ Benedic nobis, Domine Deus, et omnibus donis Tuis quae ex lorgia liberalitate Tua sumnus per -“

The sudden cry of agony was followed by several seconds of shocked silence. Then the cry, a harsh male howl, came again, followed by a crash of someone falling and the sound of breaking pottery. Sister Fidelma, eyes wide at the unexpectedness of the interruption, raised her head. Indeed, all those in the great refectory hall of the abbey had done so, peering around with excited whispers.

All eyes came to stare toward the end of the hall, to the table which was usually occupied by the visitors to the House of Blessed Brigid in Kildare. There was a commotion near the table and then Sister Fidelma saw one of the community hurry forward to where the Abbess, and the other leading members of the House of Brigid, stood behind their table which was placed on a slightly raised platform to dominate the hall.

She saw Sister Poitigéir, whom she recognized as the Sister-apothecary, lean forward and whisper excitedly into the Abbess’s ear. The Abbess’s placidity of features did not alter. She simply inclined her head in dismissal of her informant.

By this time a babble of sound had erupted from the hundred or so members of the community gathered to partake of their evening meal following the celebration of vespers.

The Abbess banged her earthenware mug on the table for silence, determined to finish the formula of the Gratias.

“ … sumnus per Jesum Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”

Across the hall, Sister Fidelma could see two members of the community laboring to carry what appeared to be a man’s body from the refectory. She saw Follaman, a large, ruddy-faced man, who looked after the male guests at the community’s hostel, enter the refectory and help the Sisters with their burden.

“ Amen.” The word echoed raggedly but there was scarcely another sound as the hundred members of the community slid into their seats. This was the moment when the meal usually began with the handing round of bread but the Abbess held her hand to prevent the monitors from commencing to dispense the meal.

There was an expectant silence. She cleared her throat.

“My children, we must delay our repast a moment. Our guest has been taken ill and we must await the report of our Sister-apothecary who believes that our guest may have eaten something which has disagreed with him.”

She stilled another eruption of excited murmuring with a sharp gesture of her thin white hand.

“While we wait, Sister Mugain shall lead you in the devotion…”

Without further explanation, the Abbess swept from the platform while Sister Mugain began intoning a mixture of Latin and Irish in her shrill voice:

Regem regum rogamus

In nostris sermonibus

anacht Nóe a luchtlach

diluui temporibus

King of Kings

We pray to you

Who protected Noah

In the day of the Flood

Sister Fidelma leant close to Sister Luan, a gawky girl, beside whom she sat.

“Who was the person who was carried out?” she asked softly.

Sister Fidelma had only just rejoined her community after a two week journey to Tara, the royal capital of the five kingdoms of Ireland, seat of the High King.

Sister Luan paused until the strident tones of Sister Mugain paused in her chant:

Regis regum rectissimi

prope est dies Domini…

“It was a guest lodging in the tech-óired. A man named Sillán from Kilmantan.”

Each religious house throughout the country had a quarter named the tech-óired, a hostel where travelers lodged, or where important guests were given hospitality.

“Who was this man, Sillán?” demanded Sister Fidelma.

An imperious hand fell on her shoulder. She started nervously and glanced up, firmly expecting a rebuke for talking during the devotions.

The hawklike features of Sister Ethne gazed disapprovingly down at her, her thin lips compressed. Sister Ethne, elderly and pinched-faced, was feared by the younger members of the community. Her pale, dead eyes seemed to gaze through anyone she looked upon. It was whispered that she was so old that she had been in the service of Christ when the Blessed Brigid had come to this spot a century before, to establish the first religious house for women in the country under the great oak tree from which her church took the name Kildare, the Church of the Oak. Sister Ethne was the bean-tigh, the house steward of the community whose job it was to oversee the internal affairs and running of the community.

“The Abbess requires your presence in her chamber immediately,” Sister Ethne sniffed. It was a habit with her. She could speak in no other way except to punctuate her sentences with disapproving sniffs.

Wondering, Sister Fidelma rose and followed the elderly reli-gieuse from the hall, knowing that the eyes of all the Sisters were following her in curiosity, in spite of their bent heads as they continued their pious chanting.

The Abbess Ita of Kildare sat before a long oak table in the chamber which she used as her study. Her face was set and determined. In her fifties, Ita was still a handsome, commanding woman, whose amber eyes usually shone with a quiet jocularity. Now it was hard to see their expression for they sparkled unnaturally in the flickering reflective light of the two tall beeswax candles which lit the shadowy room. The sweet scent of wild hyacinth and narcissus blended to give a pleasant aroma to the chamber. “Come in, Sister Fidelma. Was your trip to Tara successful?” “It was, Mother Abbess,” replied the girl as she moved into the chamber, aware that Sister Ethne had followed her in and closed the door, standing in front of it with arms folded into her habit.

Sister Fidelma waited quietly while the Abbess seemed to gather her thoughts. The Abbess’s gaze suddenly seemed to become preoccupied with a pile of half a dozen small rocks which lay on the table. She rose and, with an apologetic gesture, gathered them up, dropping them into a receptacle. She turned, reseating herself with a contrite smile.