Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“There is sometimes a moral question which has to be resolved above the law,” she agreed. “Indeed, I have had to face decisions between law and justice.”

“Exactly so. Finan’s students leave here with a good knowledge of the law but often little knowledge of justice. Perhaps you will think on this?”

Sister Fidelma hesitated.

“Perhaps,” she said guardedly.

Laisran smiled and nodded.

“Look around you, Fidelma. Our fame as a center of learning is even known in Rome. Do you know, no fewer than eighteen languages are spoken among our students? We resort to Latin and sometimes Greek as our lingua franca. Among the students that we have here are not just the children of the Gael. We have a young Prankish prince, Dagobert, and his entourage. There are Saxon princes, Wulfstan, Eadred and Raedwald. Indeed, we have a score of Saxons. There is Talorgen, a prince of Rheged in the land of Britain…”

“I hear that the Saxons are making war on Rheged and attempting to destroy it so they can expand their borders,” observed Fi-delma. “That cannot make for easy relationships among the students.”

“Ah, that is so. Our Irish monks in Northumbria attempt to teach these Saxons the ways of Christ, and of learning and piety, but they remain a fierce warrior race intent on conquest, plunder and land. Rheged may well fall like the other kingdoms of the Britons before them. Elmet fell when I was a child. Where the Britons of Elmet once dwelt, now there are Saxon farmers and Saxon thanes!”

They halted before Laisran’s chamber door. The Bishop opened it to usher Fidelma inside.

Fidelma frowned. “There has been perpetual warfare between the Britons and the Saxons for the last two and a half centuries. Surely it is hard to contain both Briton and Saxon within the same hall of learning?”

They moved into Laisran’s official chamber, which he used for administrating the affairs of the great monastery. He motioned Fidelma to be seated before a smoldering turf fire and went to pour wine from an earthenware jug on the table, handing a goblet to her and raising the other in salute.

“ Agimus tibi gratias, Omnipotens Deus,” he intoned solemnly but with a sparkle of humor in his eyes.

“Amen,” echoed Sister Fidelma, raising the goblet to her lips and tasting the rich red wine of Gaul.

Abbot Laisran settled himself in a chair and stretched out his feet towards the fire.

“Difficult to contain Briton and Saxon?” he mused, after a while. In fact, Sister Fidelma had almost forgotten that she had asked the question. “Yes. We have had several fights among the Britons and the Saxons here. Only the prohibition of weapons on our sacred ground has so far prevented injury.”

“Why don’t you send one group or the other to another center of learning?”

Laisran sniffed.

“That has already been suggested by Finan, no less. A neat, practical and logical suggestion. The question is… which group? Both Britons and Saxons refuse to go, each group demanding that if anyone leave Durrow then it should be the other.”

“Then you have difficulties,” observed Fidelma.

“Yes. Each is quick to anger and slow to forget an insult, real or imaginary. One Saxon princeling, Wulfstan, is very arrogant. He has ten in his retinue. He comes from the land of the South Saxons, one of the smaller Saxon kingdoms, but to hear him speak you would think that his kingdom encompassed the world. The sin of pride greatly afflicts him. After his first clash with the Britons he demanded that he be given a chamber whose window was barred from ingress and whose door could be bolted from the inside.”

“A curious request in a house of God,” agreed Sister Fidelma.

“That is what I told him. But he told me that he feared for his life. In fact, so apprehensive was his manner, so genuine did his fear appear, that I decided to appease his anxiety and provide him with such a chamber. I gave him a room with a barred window in which we used to keep transgressors but had our carpenter fix the lock so that the door could be barred from the inside. Wulfstan is a strange young man. He never moves without a guard of five of his retinue. And after Vespers he retires to his room but has his retinue search it before he enters and only then will he enter alone and bar the door. There he remains until the morning Angelus.”

Sister Fidelma pursed her lips and shook her head in wonder.

“Truly one would think him greatly oppressed and frightened. Have you spoken to the Britons?”

“I have, indeed. Talorgen, for example, openly admits that all Saxons are enemies of his blood but that he would not deign to spill Saxon blood in a house of God. In fact, the young Briton rebuked me, saying that his people had been Christian for centuries and had made no war on sacred ground, unlike the Saxons. He reminded me that within the memory of living man, scarcely half a century ago, the Saxon warriors of Aethelfrith of North-umbria had defeated Selyf map Cynan of Powys in battle at a place called Caer Legion, but then profaned their victory by slaughtering a thousand British monks from Bangor-is-Coed. He averred that the Saxons were scarcely Christian in thought and barely so in word and deed.”

“In other words …?” prompted Fidelma when Laisran paused to sip his wine.

“In other words, Talorgen would not harm a Saxon protected by the sacred soil of a Christian house, but he left no doubt that he would not hesitate to slay Wulfstan outside these walls.”

“So much for Christian charity, love and forgiveness,” sighed Fidelma.

Laisran grimaced. “One must remember that the Britons have suffered greatly at the hands of the Saxons during these last centuries. After all, the Saxons have invaded and conquered much of their land. Ireland has received great communities of refugees fleeing from the Saxon conquests in Britain.”

Fidelma smiled whimsically. “Do I detect that you approve of Talorgen’s attitude?”

Laisran grinned.

“If you ask me as a Christian, no; no, of course not. If you ask me as a member of a race who once shared a common origin, belief and law with our cousins, the Britons, then I must say to you that I have a sneaking sympathy for Talorgen’s anger.”

There came a sudden banging at the door of the chamber, so loud and abrupt that both Laisran and Fidelma started in surprise. Before the Abbot had time to call out, the door burst open and a middle-aged monk, his face red, his clothes awry from running, burst breathlessly into the room.

He halted a few paces inside the door, his shoulders heaving, his breath panting from exertion.

Laisran rose, his brows drawing together in an unnatural expression of annoyance.

“What does this mean, Brother Ultan? Have you lost your senses?”

The man shook his head, eyes wide. He gulped air, trying to recover his breath.

“God between us and all evil,” he got out at last. “There has been a murder committed.”

Laisran’s composure was severely shaken.

“Murder, you say?”

“Wulfstan, the Saxon, your Grace! He has been stabbed to death in his chamber.”

The blood drained from Laisran’s face and he cast a startled glance toward Sister Fidelma. Then he turned back to Brother Ultan, his face now set in stem lines.

“Compose yourself, Brother,” he said kindly, “and tell me slowly and carefully. What has occurred?”

Brother Ultan swallowed nervously and sought to collect his thoughts.

“Eadred, the companion of Wulfstan, came to me during the midmorning hour. He was troubled. Wulfstan had not attended the morning prayers nor had he been at his classes. No one has seen him since he retired into his chamber following Vespers last night. Eadred had gone to his chamber and found the door closed. There was no response to his summons at the door. So, as I am master of the household, he came to see me. I accompanied him to Wulf-stan’s chamber. Sure enough, the door was closed and clearly barred on the inside.”