Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Now they walked silently and swiftly along the forest track, eyes anxiously scanning for any dangers around them.

“Is it not a dangerous path for young Sisters to travel?” observed Fidelma after a while.

“Not more so than other places,” her friend replied. “Do not let the death of Foillan color your thinking. Since his death a decade ago, the robbers were driven from these parts and there have been no further incidents.”

“Until now,” Fidelma added grimly.

“Until now,” sighed Ballgel.

A moment or so later, they rounded a clump of trees which the path had skirted. Not far away they saw a group of religious. There were four or five and they had a cart with them, harnessed to an ass. They clustered under a gnarled oak whose branches formed a canopy over the pathway, so low that one might almost reach up and grab the lower branches. It made this particular section of the forest path even more gloomy and full of shadows.

A tall, florid man, wearing a large gold cross, and clearly one of authority, saw Abbess Ballgel and came hurrying forward.

“Greetings, Mother Abbess. This is a bad business-a profane business.” He spoke in Latin but Fidelma could hear his Frankish accent.

“Abbot Heribert of Fosse,” Ballgel whispered to Fidelma as he approached.

“Where is the body?” Ballgel came straight to the point, also speaking in Latin.

Abbot Heribert looked uncomfortable.

“I would prepare yourself…” he began.

“I have seen death before,” replied Abbess Ballgel quietly.

He turned and indicated the far side of the oak tree.

Ballgel hurried forward in the direction of his hand, followed by Fidelma.

The woman was tied to the oak tree on the far side from the path, almost in mockery of a crucifixion. There was blood everywhere. Fidelma screwed her features up in distaste. The woman, who was dressed in the habit of a religiuese, had been systematically mutilated about the face.

“Cut her down!” cried the sharp tone of the Abbess Ballgel. “At once! Do not leave the poor girl hanging there!”

Two of the monks went forward grimly.

“Who is it?” Fidelma asked. “Do you recognize her?”

“Oh yes. We have only one Sister with hair as golden as that. It is young Sister Cessair. God be merciful to her soul.” She genuflected.

Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully. She watched as two male religieux cut down the body.

“Wait!” Fidelma called and, turning to the Abbess, she said quickly, “I would examine the body carefully and with some privacy.”

Ballgel raised her eyes in surprise.

“I do not understand.”

“This is a bizarre matter. It might be that she has been… brutalized.”

Ballgel passed a hand across her brown eyes as if bewildered but she understood what Fidelma meant.

She called to the monks to set the body down on the ground before the cart and then asked Abbot Heribert to withdraw his men to a respectful distance while Fidelma made her investigation.

Fidelma knelt by the body, noticing that the shade of the oak tree stopped the sun’s rays from drying the ground. It was muddy and the mud had been churned by the cart and the footprints of those trampling round. Her attention was momentarily distracted by indentations of two feet at one point which were far deeper than the others to the extent that water had formed in the hollows. Nevertheless, she ignored the mud and bent over the body. She tuned and motioned the Abbess Ballgel to come closer.

“If you will observe and witness my examination, Ballgel,” she called over her shoulder. “You will observe that the Sister’s face has been severely mutilated with a knife. The skin has been deliberately marked with a sharp blade, disfiguring it, as if the purpose were to destroy the features of this young girl.”

Ballgel forced herself to look on and nodded, suppressing a soft groan of anguish.

Fidelma bent further to her work before pausing satisfied as to her physical examination. Then she turned her attention to the small leather marsupium which hung at the dead Sister’s waist. It was not secured with the leather thong that usually fastened such a purse and it was empty.

Fidelma rose to her feet. Next she went to the tree from which the body had been taken and began to look about. With a grasp of triumph she bent down a picked up a torn scrap of paper. There was no writing on it but a few curious short lines drawn on it. Fidelma frowned and placed it in her marsupium.

Her keen eye then caught a round stone on the ground. It was bloody and pieces of hair and skin were stuck on it.

“What is it?” demanded Abbess Ballgel, coming forward.

“That is the instrument with which Cessair was killed,” Fidelma explained. “Her death was caused by her skull being smashed in and not through the blade of the knife that destroyed her features. At least this was no attack by robbers.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“We have observed that the girl was not sexually molested in any way. Yet this was an attack of hate toward the Sister.”

Ballgel stared at her friend in amazement.

“How can you say it was an attack of hate?”

“Let us discount the idea of robbers. The purpose of a thief is to steal. It is true that some thieves have been known to even sexually assault Sisters of the faith. There was no attempt at theft here. The Sister’s crucifix of silver still hangs around her neck. It was not a sexual assault. What is left of the motivation which would cause someone to smash her skull, tie her to a tree and mutilate her features? There is surely only hatred left?”

“The holy blood of the Blessed Gertrude is not in her marsu-pium,” Ballgel pointed out. “I have been looking all around for the vial. That is valuable; but above all, where is Sister Delia?”

Fidelma grimaced.

“The holy blood may be valuable to you, yes. Not to a thief. There would be no purpose is stealing that if one wanted money.”

“Do thieves and robbers need a purpose?”

“All people need a purpose, even those whom we deem mad follow a logic, which may not be our logic but one of their own creation with its own rules. Once one deciphers the code of that logic then it is as easy to follow as any.”

“And what of Sister Delia?”

Fidelma nodded. “There is the real mystery. Find her and we may find the missing phial. Has a search been made for her?” She asked the question of the Abbot.

Abbot Heribert looked sourly at Fidelma.

“Not yet. And who are you?”

“Sister Fidelma is a qualified advocate of our legal courts,” explained Abbess Ballgel hurriedly, seeing the look of derision on the Abbot’s face.

“Do women have such a status in your country?” he demanded in astonishment.

“Is that so strange?” Fidelma replied irritably. “Anyway, we waste time. We must find Sister Delia for she may be in danger. If Sister Cessair was not robbed, and was not attacked for sexual motives, the alternative is that she was killed from some personal motive which, judging from the savagery of the attack, shows a depth of malice that makes me shudder. Who could have been so angered by her that they would attempt to destroy her beauty? It is as if she were attacked by a jealous lover for it is known that hate and love are two sides of the same coin.”

Fidelma suddenly saw Abbot Heribert’s eyes widen a fraction. She saw him glance swiftly at Ballgel and then drop his gaze.

“Why does the mention of a lover have some special meaning for you?” she demanded.

It was Abbess Ballgel who answered for him.

“Sister Cessair did have a… a liaison,” she said quietly.

“It was disgusting!” grunted Abbot Heribert.

“A curious choice of word.” Fidelma’s eyes narrowed. “Disgusting in what way?”