Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

The Abbot stuck out his lower Up.

“In these days, when our people go in fear from the ravages of the plague, they need comfort and distraction. If it was known throughout the land that the new High King could not produce his sword of office on which to swear his sacred oath of kingship then apprehension and terror would seize the people. It would be seen as an evil omen at the start of Sechnasach’s rule. There would be chaos and panic. Our people cling fiercely to the ancient ways and traditions but, particularly at this time, they need solace and stability.”

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully. What the Abbot said was certainly true. The people firmly believed in the symbolism which had been handed down to them from the mists of ancient times.

“If only people relied on their own abilities and not on symbols,” the Abbot was continuing. “It is time for reform, both in secular as well as religious matters. We cling to too many of the pagan beliefs of our ancestors from the time before the Light of Our Savior was brought to these shores.”

“I see that you yourself believe in the reforms of Rome,” Sister Fidelma observed shrewdly.

The Abbot did not conceal his momentary surprise.

“How so?”

Sister Fidelma smiled.

“I have done nothing clever, Abbot Colmán. It was an elementary observation. You wear the tonsure of St. Peter, the badge of Rome, and not that of St. John from whom our own Church takes its rule.”

The corner of the Abbot’s mouth dropped.

“I make no secret that I was in Rome for five years and came to respect Rome’s reasons for the reforms. I feel it is my duty to advocate the usages of the Church of Rome among our people to replace our old rituals, symbolisms and traditions.”

“We have to deal with people as they are and not as we would like them to be,” observed Sister Fidelma.

“But we must endeavor to change them as well,” replied the Abbot unctuously, “setting their feet on the truth path to God’s grace.”

“We will not quarrel over the reforms of Rome,” replied Sister Fidelma quietly. “I will continue to be guided by the rule of the Holy Brigid of Kildare, where I took my vows. But tell me, for what purpose have I been summoned to Tara?”

The Abbot hesitated, as if wondering whether to pursue his theme of Rome’s reforms. Then he sniffed to hide his irritation.

“We must find the missing sword before the High King’s inauguration, which is tomorrow, if we wish to avoid civil strife in the five kingdoms of Ireland.”

“From where was it stolen?”

“Here, from this very chapel. The sacred sword was placed with the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny, under the altar. It was locked in a metal and wood chest. The only key was kept on the altar in full view. No one, so it was thought, would ever dare violate the sanctuary of the altar and chapel to steal its sacred treasures.”

“Yet someone did?”

“Indeed they did. We have the culprit locked in a cell.”

“And the culprit is…?”

“Ailill Flann Esa. He is the son of Donal, who was High King twenty years ago. Ailill sought the High Kingship in rivalry to his cousin, Sechnasach. It is obvious that, out of malice caused by the rejection of the Great Assembly, he seeks to discredit his cousin.”

“What witnesses were there to his theft of the sword?”

“Three. He was found in the chapel alone at night by two guards of the royal palace, Congal and Erc. And I, myself, came to the chapel a few moments later.”

Sister Fidelma regarded the Abbot with bewilderment.

“If he were found in the chapel in the act of stealing the sword, why was the sword not found with him?”

The Abbot sniffed impatiently.

“He had obviously hidden it just before he was discovered. Maybe he heard the guards coming and hid it.”

“Has the chapel been searched?”

“Yes. Nothing has been found.”

“So, from what you say, there were no witnesses to see Ailill Flann Esa actually take the sword?”

The Abbot smiled paternally.

“My dear Sister, the chapel is secured at night. The deacon made a check last thing and saw everything was in order. The guards passing outside observed that the door was secure just after midnight, but twenty minutes later they passed it again and found it open. They saw the bolt had been smashed. The chapel door is usually bolted on the inside. That was when they saw Ailill at the altar. The altar table had been pushed aside, the chest was open and the sword gone. The facts seem obvious.”

“Not yet so obvious, Abbot Colmán,” Sister Fidelma replied thoughtfully.

“Obvious enough for Sechnasach to agree with me to have Ailill Flann Esa incarcerated immediately.”

“And the motive, you would say, is simply one of malice?”

“Obvious again. Ailill wants to disrupt the inauguration of Sech-nasach as High King. Perhaps he even imagines that he can promote civil war in the confusion and chaos, and, using the people’s fears, on the production of the sacred sword from the place where he has hidden it, he thinks to overthrow Sechnasach and make himself High King. The people, in their dread of the Yellow Plague, are in the mood to be manipulated by their anxieties.”

“If you have your culprit and motive, why send for me?” Sister Fidelma observed, a trace of irony in her voice. “And there are better qualified dálaigh and Brehons at the court of Tara, surely?”

“Yet none who have your reputation for solving such conundrums, Sister Fidelma.”

“But the sword must still be in the chapel or within its vicinity.”

“We have searched and it cannot be found. Time presses. I have been told that you have the talent to solve the mystery of where the sword has been hidden. I have heard how skillful you are in questioning suspects and extracting the truth from them. Ailill has, assuredly, hidden the sword nearby and we must find out where before the High King’s inauguration.”

Sister Fidelma pursed her lips and then shrugged.

“Show me the where the sword was kept and then I will question Ailill Flann Esa.”

Ailill Flann Esa was in his mid-thirties; tall, brown-haired and full-bearded. He carried himself with the pride of the son of a former High King. His father had been Donal Mac Aed of the northern Uí Néill, who had once ruled from Tara twenty years before.

“I did not steal the sacred sword,” he replied immediately after Sister Fidelma identified her purpose.

“Then explain how you came to be in the chapel at such a time,” she said, seating herself on the wooden bench that ran alongside the wall of the tenebrous grey stone cell in which he was imprisoned. Ailill hesitated and then seated himself on a stool before her. The stool, with a wooden bed and a table, comprised the other furnishings of the cell. Sister Fidelma knew that only Ailill’s status gave him the luxury of these comforts and alleviated the dankness of the granite jail in which he was confined.

“I was passing the chapel-” began Ailill.

“Why?” interrupted Sister Fidelma. “It was after midnight, I believe?”

The man hesitated, frowning. He was apparently not used to people interrupting. Sister Fidelma hid a smile as she saw the struggle on his haughty features. It was clear he wished to respond in annoyance but realized that she was an Anruth who had the power of the Brehon Court behind her. Yet he hesitated for a moment or two.

“I was on my way somewhere … to see someone.”

“Where? Who?”

“That I cannot say.”

She saw firmness in his pinched mouth, in the compressed lips. He would obviously say nothing further on that matter. She let it pass.

“Continue,” she invited after a moment’s pause.