Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

She turned to where Congal was standing, his face white, his mouth working.

“There stands your contemptible killer. He murdered his own sister for a herd of cows.”

With a shriek, Congal drew a knife and leapt toward Sister Fi-delma. People scattered left and right before his frenzied figure.

Just before he reached her, the dark figure of a man intercepted him and struck him full in the face. It was Rimid. Congal collapsed senseless to the ground. As Rimid made to move forward, Fidelma reached forward and laid her slender hand on his shoulder.

“Revenge is no justice, Rimid. If we demand vengeance for every evil done against us, we will be guilty of greater evil. Let the court deal with him.”

Rimid hesitated.

“He has no means of paying adequate compensation to those he has wronged,” he protested.

Fidelma smiled softly.

“He has a soul, Rimid. He attempted to wrong a member of the family of the Abbey. The Abbey will demand compensation; the compensation will be his soul which will be given to God for disposal.”

“You will have him killed? Dispatched to God in the Other-world?”

She shook her head gently.

“God will take him when the time is ordained. No, he will come to serve at the Abbey and, hopefully, find repentance in the service.”

After Brother Fergal had been absolved and Congal taken to be held for his trial, Fidelma walked to the door of the great hall with the Brehon.

“How did you suspect Congal?” asked the man.

“A man who lies once, will lie again.”

“In what lie did you discover him?”

“He claimed he knew nothing about herbs but he knew soon enough what the herb stramóiniam is used for and that Brother Fergal took it regularly. The rest was a mixture of elementary deduction and bluff for it might have been hard to prove conclusively without Congal’s admittance of guilt.”

“You are an excellent advocate, Sister Fidelma,” observed the Brehon.

“To present a clever and polished argument is no great art. To perceive and understand the truth is a better gift.” She paused at the door and smiled at the judge. “Peace with you, Brehon of the Eoghanacht of Cashel.” Then she was gone, striding away along the dusty road toward the distant Abbey.

As the boat rocked its way gently against the natural granite quay, Sister Fidelma could see her welcome committee standing waiting. The committee consisted of one young, very young, man; fresh-faced and youthful, certainly no more than twenty-one summers in age. He wore a noticeable expression of petulance, coupled with resolution, on his features.

At the boatman’s gesture, Sister Fidelma eased herself into position by the side of the vessel and grabbed for the rope ladder, hauling herself quickly up on to the grey granite quay. She moved with a youthful agility which seemed at odds with her demure posture and religious habit. To the young man watching her perilous ascent, her tall but well-proportioned figure, the rebellious strands of red hair streaking from under her headdress, the young, attractive features and bright green eyes, had not been what he was expecting when he had been informed that a dálaigh, an advocate, of the Brehon Court, was coming to the island. This young woman was not his idea of a religieuse let alone a respected member of the law courts of Éireann.

“Sister Fidelma? Did you have a good trip over?” The young man’s voice was slow, his tone measured, not really friendly but “correct.” The phrase “coldly polite” came into Fidelma’s mind and she grimaced wryly before allowing her features to break into an amused grin. The grin disconcerted the young man for a moment. It was also at odds with her status. It was an urchin grin of frivolity. Fidelma gestured wordlessly to the seas breaking behind her.

With the late autumnal seas running, dirty grey and heavy with yellow-cream foamed caps, the trip from the mainland had not been one that she had enjoyed. The wind was cold and blustery and whistling against this serrated crag of an island which poked into the wild, angry Atlantic like the top of an isolated hill that had been severed from its fellows by a flood of brooding water. Approaching the island, the dark rocks seemed like the comb of a fighting cock. She had marveled how anyone could survive and scratch a living on its seemingly inhospitable wasteland.

On her way out the boatman had told her that only one hundred and sixty people lived on the island, which, in winter, could sometimes be cut off for months with not even a deftly rowed currach being able to make a landing. The island’s population were close-knit, introspective, mainly flsherfolk, and there had been no suspicious deaths there since time immemorial.

That was, until now.

The young man frowned slightly and when she made no reply he spoke again.

“There was no need to bother you with this matter, Sister Fi-delma. It is quite straightforward. There was no need to bring you out from the mainland.”

Sister Fidelma regarded the young man with a soft smile.

There was no disguising the fact that the young man felt put out. Sister Fidelma was an outsider interfering with his jurisdiction.

“Are you the bó-aire of the island?” she asked.

The young man drew himself up with a posture of dignity in spite of his youth.

“I am,” he replied with a thinly disguised air of pride. The bo-aire was a local magistrate, a chieftain without land whose wealth was judged by the number of cows he owned, hence he was called a “cow chief.” Small communities, such as those on the tiny islands off the coast, were usually ruled by a bo-aire who owed allegiance to greater chieftains on the mainland.

“I was visiting Fathan of the Corca Dhuibhne when news of this death reached him,” Fidelma said softly.

Fathan of the Corca Dhuibhne was the chieftain over all these islands. The young bó-aire stirred uncomfortably. Sister Fidelma continued:

“Fathan requested me to visit and aid you in your inquiry.” She decided that this formula was a more diplomatic way of approaching the proud young magistrate than by recounting the truth of what Fathan had said. Fathan knew that the bó-aire had only just been appointed and knew, too, that the matter needed a more experienced judgment. “I have some expertise in inquiry into suspicious deaths,” Fidelma added.

The young man bit his lip sullenly.

“But there is nothing suspicious about this death. The woman simply slipped and fell down the cliff. It’s three hundred feet at that spot. She didn’t have a chance.”

“So? You are sure it was an accident?”

Sister Fidelma became aware that they had both been standing on the quay with the wind whipping at them and the salt sea spray dampening their clothing. She was wet in spite of the heavy wool cloak she had put on for the crossing from An Chuis on the mainland.

“Is there somewhere we can go for shelter? Somewhere more comfortable to talk this over?” She posed the second question before the young man could reply to her first.

The young bo-aire reddened at the implied rebuke.

“My bothan is up the road here, Sister. Come with me.”

He turned to lead the way.

There were one or two people about to acknowledge the bo-aire as he passed and to cast curious glances at Sister Fidelma. The news of her arrival would soon be all over the island, she thought. Fidelma sighed. Island life seemed all very romantic in the summer but even then she preferred life on the mainland, away from the continually howling winds and whipping sea spray.

In the snug, grey stone cabin of the bó-aire, a smoldering turf fire supplied a degree of warmth but the atmosphere was still damp. A young woman of the bo-aire’s household provided an earthenware vessel of mead, heated with a hot iron bar from the fire. The drink put warmth and vigor into Fidelma.