Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“There are a dozen horsemen arriving,” she sniffed in disapproval. “But they bear a royal standard. I must go down to receive them.”

Sister Fidelma nodded in preoccupation. It was only when Sister Ethne went hurrying off to fulfill her duties as the steward of the community that a thought crossed her mind and she went to the window and gazed down at the courtyard below.

In the light of the flickering torches she saw that several riders had dismounted. Follaman had gone forward to help them. There was light enough for Fidelma to see that they were warriors and one carried the royal standard of the Uí Failgi of Ráith Imgain while another held the traditional ríchaindell, the royal light which, during the hours of darkness, was always carried to light the way of a great chieftain or his heir-elect. The new arrivals were no ordinary visitors. Sister Fidelma forgot her training, pursing her lips together in a soundless whistle.

It was only after the passing of a few minutes that the door of the tech-screpta flew unceremoniously open and a stocky young man entered, followed by another man, with a worried-looking Sister Ethne trailing behind. Sister Fidelma turned from the window and regarded the intruders calmly.

The stocky young man took a pace forward. His richly decorated clothes were still covered in the dust of travel. His eyes were steel-grey, piercing as if they missed nothing. He was handsome, haughty and his demeanor announced his rank.

“This is Sister Fidelma,” Sister Ethne’s voice almost quavered, even forgetting to sniff, as she nervously pushed her way through the door to stand to one side of the young man.

Sister Fidelma did not move but stood regarding the young man quizzically.

“I am told that Sillán of Kilmantan is dead. Poisoned. I am told that you are conducting an inquiry into this matter.” The phrases were statements and not questions.

Sister Fidelma felt no urge to reply to the young man’s brusque manner.

She let her restless green eyes travel over his features, which gathered into a frown at her lack of response. She paused a moment and then moved her gaze to the muscular warrior at his side, before allowing her eyes to move to the clearly nervous Sister Ethne. Fidelma’s raised eyebrows asked a question.

“This is Tírechán, Tanist of the Uí Failgi.” Sister Ethne’s voice was breathless.

The Tanist was the heir-elect to the kingship or chieftaincy; an heir was elected during the reign of a king or clan chieftain which prevented any successional squabbles after his death or abdication.

Sister Fidelma moved back to her chair and sat down, motioning Tírechán to be seated on the opposite side of the table to her.

The young prince’s face showed his astonishment at her behavior. Angry blood tinged his cheeks.

“I am Sister Fidelma,” she announced, quietly, before he spoke, for she saw the words forming to burst from his lips. “I am a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, qualified to the level of Anruth.”

Tírechán swallowed the words that had gathered on his lips and a look of understanding, mingled with respect, spread over his features. A dálaigh, an advocate of the Brehon Court, especially one qualified to the level of Anruth, could meet and be accorded equality with any provincial king or chieftain and could even speak at ease before the High King himself. An Anruth was only one degree below the highest professorship of Ollamh whose words even a High King would have to obey. He regarded Sister Fidelma with a slightly awed air of surprise at her attractive youth-fulness for one who held such authority. Then he moved forward and seated himself before her.

“I apologize, Sister. No one had informed me of your rank, only that you were investigating the death of Sillán.”

Sister Fidelma decided to ignore the apology. The Tanist’s bodyguard now drew the door shut and stood before it, arms folded. Sister Ethne, a worried expression still on her features, realizing that she had neglected to introduce Sister Fidelma in proper form, still stood where she had halted, her lips compressed.

“I presume that you knew the man Sillán?”

“I knew of him,” corrected the Tanist of the Uí Failgi.

“You came here to meet him?”

“I did.”

“For what purpose?”

The Tanist hesitated and dropped his eyes.

“On the business of my chieftain, the Uí Failgi.”

“The man is dead. Poisoned. Perhaps it might help in this inquiry if you were more specific.”

Tírechán exhaled in annoyance.

“Very well. The man Sillán was commissioned to come to this district by the Uí Failgi…”

Sister Fidelma smiled thinly as the man hesitated again. He obviously had difficulty speaking of the private business of his chieftain.

“Perhaps I can help?” Fidelma encouraged, as the thought suddenly took shape in her mind. Indeed, the logic of the idea was unquestionable. “Sillán was from Kilmantan whose hills are full of gold mines, for do we not speak of that area as Kilmantan of the gold? Sillán was a bruithneóir, a qualified artificer. Why would the king of Ráith Imgain ask such a man to come to Kildare?”

The Tanist stirred uncomfortably beneath her amused but penetrating gaze. Then he responded with almost surly defiance.

“I take it that what I say shall be treated in confidence?”

Sister Fidelma showed her annoyance at such a impudent question.

“I am a dálaigh of the Brehon Court.” She spoke quietly. The rebuke needed no further embellishment.

The cheeks of the young prince reddened. But he spoke again as though he had need to defend something.

“Since the twenty-sixth High King of Milesian descent, the noble Tigernmas, first had gold dug and smelted in Ireland, gold has been searched for throughout the country. From Derry and Antrim in the north, south to the mountains of Kilmantan and the shores of Carman, gold mines have been worked. Yet our need for gold to enhance our courts and to increase our trade is not diminished. We look for new mines.”

“So the Uí Failgi asked Sillán to come to Kildare to search for gold?” Fidelma interpreted.

“The production of gold has not kept pace with the demand, Sister Fidelma. We have to import it from Iberia and other far off places. Our need is keen. Are not the Eóganacht of Glendamnách at war with the Uí Fidgente over possession of the gold mines of Cuillen in the land of holly trees?”

“But why would the Uí Failgi think that there was gold at Kil-dare?” demanded Sister Fidelma abruptly.

“Because an aged man recalled that once the lands of Kildare held such a mine, knowledge of which has long passed from the minds of men. Seizing on this old man’s recollection, the Uí Failgi sought out Sillán whose fame for seeking the veins of gold was legend among the mountain people of Kilmantan. He asked Sillán to come to Kildare and seek out this lost mine.”

“And did he find it?”

An angry spasm passed the face of the Tanist.

“That is what I came to discover. Now I am told that Sillán is dead. Dead from poison. How came this to be?”

Sister Fidelma wrinkled her nose.

“That is what my investigation shall discover, Tanist of the Uí Failgi.”

She sat back in her chair and gazed meditatively at the young chieftain.

“Who knows of Sillán’s mission here?”

“It was known only to Sillán; to the Uí Failgi; to myself as Tanist and to our chief Ollamh. No one else knew. A knowledge of the whereabouts of gold does harm to the minds of men and drives them mad. It was better not to tempt them by spreading such knowledge abroad.”

Fidelma nodded absently in agreement.