Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“Your apology is accepted, Saxon.”

Eadred paused and then he frowned.

“The apology notwithstanding, there can never be peace between us, welisc!”

Talorgen sniffed. “The day such a peace will come is when you and your Saxon hordes depart from the shores of Britain and return to the land whence you came.”

Eadred stiffened, his hand going to his waist, then he paused and relaxed and almost smiled.

“Well said, welisc. It will never be peace!”

He strode from the room with Ultan and Dagobert leading Raed-wald after him.

Talorgen turned and smiled briefly toward Sister Fidelma.

“Truly, there are wise judges among the Brehons of Ireland.”

Then he, too, was gone. Finan, the professor of law, hesitated a moment.

“Truly, now I know why your reputation is great, Fidelma of Kildare.”

Sister Fidelma gave a small sigh as he left.

“Well, Fidelma,” Abbot Laisran smiled in satisfaction, reaching for a jug of wine, “it seems that I have provided you with some diversion on your pilgrimage to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Ard Macha.”

Sister Fidelma responded to the rotund Abbot’s wry expression.

“A diversion, yes. Though I would have preferred something of a more pleasant nature to have occupied my time.”

“God’s curse is upon this land,” sighed the Abbot Colmán, spiritual advisor to the Great Assembly of the chieftains of the five kingdoms of Ireland.

Walking at his side through the grounds of the resplendent palace of Tara, the seat of the High Kings of Ireland, was a tall woman, clad in the robes of a religieuse, her hands folded demurely before her. Even at a distance one could see that her costume did not seem to suit her for it scarcely hid the attractiveness of her youthful, well-proportioned figure. Rebellious strands of red hair crept from beneath her habit adding to the allure of her pale fresh face and piercing green eyes. Her cheeks dimpled and there was a scarcely concealed humor behind her enforced solemnity which hinted at a joy in living rather than being weighted down by the somber pensiveness of religious life.

“When man blames God for cursing him, it is often to disguise the fact that he is responsible for his own problems,” Sister Fi-delma replied softly.

The Abbot, a thick-set and ruddy-faced man in his mid-fifties, frowned and glanced at the young woman at his side. Was she rebuking him?

“Man is hardly responsible for the terrible Yellow Plague that has swept through this land,” replied Colmán, his voice heavy with irritation. “Why, is it reported that one third of our population has been carried off by its venomousness. It has spared neither abbot, bishop nor lowly priest.”

“Nor even High Kings,” added Sister Fldelma, pointedly.

The official mourning for the brothers Blathmac and Diarmuid, joint High Kings of Ireland, who had died within days of each other from the terrors of the Yellow Plague, had ended only one week before.

“Surely, then, a curse of God?” repeated the Abbot, his jaw set firmly, waiting for Sister Fidelma to contradict him.

Wisely, she decided to remain silent. The Abbot was obviously in no mood to discuss the semantics of theology.

“It is because of these events that I have asked you to come to Tara,” the Abbot went on, as he preceded her into the chapel of the Blessed Patrick, which had been built next to the High King’s palace. Sister Fidelma followed the Abbot into the gloomy, incensed-sweetened atmosphere of the chapel, dropping to one knee and genuflecting to the altar before she followed him to the sacristy. He settled his stocky figure into a leather chair and motioned for her to be seated.

She settled herself and waited expectantly.

“I have sent, for you, Sister Fidelma, because you are an advocate, a dálaigh, of the Brehon courts, and therefore knowledgeable in law.”

Sister Fidelma contrived to shrug modestly while holding herself in repose.

“It is true that I have studied eight years with the Brehon Mor-ann, may his soul rest in peace, and I am qualified to the level of Anruth.”

The Abbot pursed his lips. He had not yet recovered from his astonishment at his first meeting with this young woman who was so highly qualified in law, and held a degree which demanded respect from the highest in the land. She was only one step below an Ollamh who could even sit in the presence of the High King himself. The Abbot felt awkward as he faced Sister Fidelma of Kildare. While he was her superior in religious matters, he, too, had to defer to the social standing and legal authority which she possessed as a dálaigh of the Brehon Court of Ireland.

“I have been told of your qualification and standing, Sister Fi-delma. But, apart from your knowledge and authority, I have also been told that you possess an unusual talent for solving puzzles.”

“Whoever has told you that flatters me. I have helped to clarify some problems. And what little talent I have in that direction is at your service.”

Sister Fidelma gazed with anticipation at the Abbot as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“For many years our country has enjoyed prosperity under the joint High Kingship of Blathmac and Diarmuid. Therefore their deaths, coming within days of one another, must be viewed as a tragedy.”

Sister Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

“Is there anything suspicious about their deaths? Is that why you have asked me here?”

The Abbot shook his head hurriedly.

“No. Their deaths were but human submission to the fearsome Yellow Plague which all dread and none can avoid once it has marked them. It is God’s will.”

The Abbot seemed to pause waiting for some comment but, when Sister Fidelma made none, he continued.

“No, Sister, there is nothing suspicious about the deaths of Blathmac and Diarmuid. The problem arises with their successor to the kingship.”

Sister Fidelma frowned.

“But I thought that the Great Assembly had decided that Sech-nasach, the son of Blathmac, would become High King?”

“That was the decision of the provincial kings and chieftains of Ireland,” agreed the Abbot. “But Sechnasach has not yet been inaugurated on the sacred Stone of Destiny.” He hesitated. “Do you know your Law of Kings?”

“In what respect?” Sister Fidelma countered, wondering where the question was leading.

“That part relating to the seven proofs of a righteous king.”

“The Law of the Brehons states that there are seven proofs of the righteous king,” recited Sister Fidelma dutifully. “That he be approved by the Great Assembly. That he accept the Faith of the One True God. That he hold sacred the symbols of his office and swear fealty on them. That he rule by the Law of the Brehons and his judgment be firm and just and beyond reproach. That he promote the commonwealth of the people. That he must never command his warriors in an unjust war-”

The Abbot held up his hand and interrupted.

“Yes, yes. You know the law. The point is that Sechnasach cannot be inaugurated because the great sword of the Uí Néill, the ’Caladchalog,’ which was said to have been fashioned in the time of the ancient mist by the smith-god Gobhainn, has been stolen.”

Sister Fidelma raised her head, lips slightly parted in surprise.

The ancient sword of the Uí Néill was one of the potent symbols of the High Kingship. Legend had it that it had been given by the smith-god to the hero Fergus Mac Roth in the time of the ancient ones, and then passed down to Niall of the Nine Hostages, whose descendants had become the Uí Néill kings of Ireland. For centuries now the High Kings had been chosen from either the sept of the northern Uí Néill or from the southern Uí Néill. The “Calad-chalog,” ” the hard dinter,” was a magical, mystical sword, by which the people recognized their righteous ruler. All High Kings had to swear fealty on it at their inauguration and carry it on all state occasions as the visible symbol of their authority and king-ship.