Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Fidelma suddenly frowned. Someone had marked a passage in a textual section entitled “ Apokrupto.” Fidelma dredged her knowledge of Greek. It meant “hidden texts.” She read the passage with a frown. The story was of how the Assyrian king, Nebuchadnezzar, sent his army against the Israelites. The army was commanded by an invincible general named Holofernes. As the Assyrian army lay encamped around the Israelite city of Bethulia, a young Jewish maiden named Judith went to the Assyrian camp and was brought before Holofernes. She seduced him and then, afterward, as he lay in a drunken slumber, she cut off his head and returned to her own people, who took heart by this sign, rushed upon the invading army, and routed them.

Fidelma smiled to herself. It was a story worthy of the ancient Irish bards, for it was once believed that the soul reposed in the head and the greatest sign of respect was to sever the head of one’s enemy. Fidelma’s eyes suddenly widened. Judith. Her eye traveled from the Hebrew text to the Greek and then to the Latin. She caught her breath as she realized the meaning of the name Judith-it meant Jewess.

Why had the passage been marked? What had Scoriath meant when he told Liadin that he would give up his warrior’s role and become a farmer unless the “Jewess” prevented him? Scoriath was a foreigner and, in a way, commander of an army as Holofernes had been. Also, Scoriath’s head had nearly been severed. Was there some bizarre meaning to this?

Slowly she replaced the book under the puzzled gaze of the Brehon.

“Have you seen all you wish?”

“I wish,” Fidelma replied, raising her head, “to see the genealogist of the Uí Dróna.”

“You now say that you wish to question the chieftainess of the Uí Dróna? What has she to do with this matter?”

It was an hour later and Rathend and Fidelma were seated in the great hall of the fortress.

“That is for me to discover,” replied Fidelma. “I have the right to call Irnan for examination. Do you deny it?”

“Very well.” Rathend was clearly reluctant. “But I hope you know what you are doing, Fidelma of Kildare.”

Irnan came in after a short, uneasy period of waiting. Rathend leapt to his feet as the chieftainess entered.

“Why am I summoned, Rathend?” Irnan’s voice was irritable and she chose to ignore Fidelma. But it was Fidelma who replied to her.

“How long was Scoriath your lover, Irnan?”

A pin falling to the ground would have been heard for several seconds after Fidelma had spoken.

The face of the swarthy woman blanched, the lips thinned. An expression of shock etched her features.

Rathend was staring at Fidelma as if he could not believe what he had heard.

Suddenly, as if her bones and muscles would no longer support her, Irnan seemed to fold up on a nearby chair, her gaze, combining consternation and fear, not leaving Fidelma’s imperturbable features. As she did not reply, Fidelma continued.

“Before your birth, I am told that your father, Drón, traveled to the port of Síl Maíluidir. His aim was to encourage some merchants of the clan to open trade there. While at the port he met a Phoenician merchant who had a beautiful daughter. Drón married her and they had a child. The child was yourself. Your mother was named Judith-the Jewess. She survived your birth only by a few months. When she died your father then brought you back here, where you were raised.”

“That story is no secret,” replied Irnan sharply. “Molua, the genealogist, doubtless told it to you.”

“When did Scoriath tell you that he no longer loved you and wanted to resign his command and be a simple farmer?”

Irnan had apparently recovered her composure and chuckled drily.

“You do not know everything, dálaigh of the court. Scoriath did love me and told me as much on the day his wife slew him for jealousy.”

Fidelma found herself having to control her surprise at the sudden candor of Irnan’s response.

“Scoriath loved me, but he was a man of honor.” Irnan’s words were like acid. “He did not want to harm Iiadin nor his young son and so he told me that he would not divorce his wife. He would stay with them.”

“That provides you with a motive for killing him,” Fidelma pointed out.

“I loved Scoriath. I would never have harmed him.”

“So you would have us believe that you accepted the situation?”

“Scoriath and I were lovers from the first day that he arrived among us. My father, who was then chieftain, found out. While he admired Scoriath as a warrior, my father wanted me to marry an Irish prince of wealth. I think he was more determined that I should do so because of the fact that I was my mother’s daughter and he wanted to compensate for my foreign blood. He then forced Scoriath into an arranged marriage with Liadin. Scoriath did not love her.”

Irnan paused and stared reflectively at the fire for a moment before drawing her dark eyes back to the graven features of Fi-delma.

“When my father died, I became the Uí Dróna. I was then free to do as I willed. I urged Scoriath to divorce Liadin, making fair settlement on her and the child. He, however, was a man of honor and refused. He did not want to hurt Liadin. So we remained lovers.

“Then came the news of how Scoriath and his son were slain. It was so obvious who did it and why. Liadin must have found out and killed him in jealous passion.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at Iman.

“Perhaps it is too obvious a conclusion? We must take your word alone as to Scoriath’s attitudes. You could just as easily have slain Scoriath because he rejected your love.”

Irnan’s jaw came up pugnaciously.

“I do not he. This is all I have to say.” Irnan stood up. “Have you done with your questions?”

“All for the time being.”

The chieftainess turned and, without another glance at the unhappy Rathend or at Fidelma, strode from the room.

Fidelma sighed. There was something itching at the back of her memory.

Rathend was about to break the silence when the door of the hall opened and a nervous youth in the brown homespun robes of a religieux entered.

“Is the Brehon Rathend here?” he began nervously and then, catching sight of Fidelma, he bobbed his head nervously. “ Bene vobis, Sister.”

“I am Rathend,” the Brehon said. “What do you wish?”

“I am Suathar of the monastery of the Blessed Moling. I came to seek the return of the book we loaned to Scoriath. I was told that before I can reclaim the book, I must have your permission.”

Fidelma looked up swiftly.

“Scoriath borrowed the copy of Origenes’s Hexapla from your monastery’s library?”

“Yes; a week ago, Sister,” agreed the young man.

“Did Scoriath request the loan of this book in person?”

Suathar shook his head, puzzled by the question.

“No. He sent a message and asked that the book be delivered the next time someone came to the ráth of the Uí Dróna. I had to come here six days ago because the aunt of the lady Liadin was ill and requested me to bring her to nurse her. I gave the book to Liadin.”

Rathend had handed the book satchel to the monk.

“You’d best check to see whether all is in order,” Fidelma invited as the young man began his thanks.

The monk hesitated, pulled out the leather-bound book, turning it over in his hands. Then he opened it.

“Has someone made a mark on the story of Holofemes?” prompted Fidelma

“The mark was not there when I left it,” agreed the young monk. “Also…” he hesitated. “The dark, brownish stains on the leather binding were not there before. They look like the imprint of the palm of hand.”

Fidelma exhaled sharply, rebuking herself for her blindness. She took the book and, after a moment’s examination, placed her hand palm down over the dark stain to assess the measurement of the imprint.