Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 5. Whole No. 777, May 2006

Sanctuary by Peter Tremayne

Peter Tremayne is a pseudonym of renowned Celtic scholar Peter Berresford Ellis. Mr. Ellis began writing fiction in 1977 and established the Tremayne pseudonym for fantasy novels employing Celtic myths. Today it is associated primarily with the Sister Fidelma series. A new Tremayne story collection is out: Ensuing Evil and Other: Fourteen Historical Mysteries.

Fidelma! Do you have a moment?”

Fidelma had been crossing the quadrangle of the law school of the Brehon Morann when she was halted by the voice of the Ard-Ollamh, the chief professor, himself. She turned and smiled nervously as Brehon Morann approached. She had been studying at the famous law school for six years now and had recently passed her examination for the degree of Clí, which meant she was now able to practise law in most courts in the land but with limitations as to the cases that she could undertake. However, she was ambitious to become a fully qualified advocate, able to practise defence or prosecution in all fields of the law, and that would mean at least another two years of study.

Even with her present qualifications, she was still in awe of the distinguished figure of the chief professor of the school.

“I understand from the Ollamh Neit that you have recently been studying the laws relating to sanctuary with him?” Brehon Morann said as he halted before her.

“I have,” she acknowledged cautiously.

“Excellent. Then you will be interested in accompanying me to my chambers to hear some questions that a visitor has come to put to me. It seems he seeks advice on this subject.”

“He wishes to consult you on the law of sanctuary?” asked Fidelma, before she realised that her question had already been answered, and Brehon Morann hated repetition. The chief professor did not bother to answer her. Fidelma bowed her head slightly. It was something of an honour to be singled out by the chief professor and given such an invitation.

“I will be most interested,” she responded contritely.

A man was waiting in Brehon Morann’s chambers. A tall, pleasant-looking individual, with sandy-coloured hair, whose clothing and accoutrements pointed to the fact that he was a man of some rank.

“My steward, Adnaí, informs me that you are Faichen Glas, an aire-deise of the Uí Echach Cobo,” Brehon Morann greeted him.

Fidelma realised from this introduction that Faichen Glas was a noble of some wealth and his people dwelt in the northern kingdom of Ulaidh.

The chief professor then introduced Fidelma and indicated that they should all be seated.

“What is the matter that brings you hither, Faichen Glas?” he prompted.

“I need advice, Brehon Morann. For a week I have been chasing a killer. A man who killed my own cousin. I have sworn an oath to capture him and take him back to my own people for trial. He has eluded me until now. I tracked him to a place not more than a day’s ride from here. However, I have found that he has taken refuge in a chapel where the priest in charge claims that he has been granted sanctuary. I have come to ask you, what can I do?”

Brehon Morann sat back with a sigh.

“The Laws of the Fénechus, our own laws, have very strict rules about the concept of refuge, and these predate even those on sanctuary brought in by the New Faith of Christ.” He paused. “I think you should tell us your story first and then we will come to the law in a moment. Who exactly is this killer that you seek?”

The noble of the Uí Echach Cobo grimaced.

“He is a man called Ulam Fionn, a drover without fixed land, who has long been suspected of taking cows from the local farmers among my people. He was never caught. It was noticed that he made a good enough profit at markets but nothing could be proved about the provenance of the livestock he sold there. Nine days ago, my cousin, Nessán, and his wife were awoken by the lowing of their cattle herd. It was in the morning, about first light. My cousin went out to see what ailed the cattle. The thief was caught in the act but he turned on my cousin and slew him before escaping.”

Fidelma coughed nervously.

Brehon Morann glanced at her.

“You have a question?”

“How was this man, Ulam Fionn, identified if your cousin was slain and he escaped?”

“Easy enough to answer,” replied Faichen Glas. “My cousin’s wife was the witness to the evil deed.”

“She was the only witness?”

“Only she, apart from her husband, saw Ulam Fionn.”

“Then why was she not attacked?”

Faichen Glas frowned, trying to understand the question.

It was Brehon Morann who explained Fidelma’s thinking.

“If she was the only witness to this deed, then this Ulam Fionn might well have contemplated silencing her — the silence of the grave.”

“From what she told me, the killer did not see her,” the noble replied. “She observed the killing from the window of the farmhouse and was too horrified and fearful to emerge before he left.”

“There is no doubt of her identification? She had a clear view of this man, Ulam Fionn?”

“She did. There is no question,” Faichen Glas assured her. “And his flight confirms his guilt. I have pursued him for nine days now in order to bring him back to my chief for justice.”

Brehon Morann looked thoughtful.

“He has taken refuge in a church here, you say? How did you find him?”

“It was known that he had a cousin named Ulpach who dwelt in this area. I do not know the man, but I was told that they are each as bad as the other, in so far as their morals are concerned. I thought that he might seek refuge with Ulpach but I could not trace either of them. I found a shepherd that had heard a rumour that someone had sought refuge with a religieux in the chapel of St. Benignus...”

“That’s about half a day’s ride from here,” mused Brehon Morann. “I do not know the religieux who has charge of it. He is fairly new to the area, by all accounts.”

Faichen Glas nodded in agreement.

“I rode there and this man, Brother Mongan was his name, told me that he had given Ulam Fionn sanctuary. I came to you, learned Brehon, to ask whether there is any way that I can take this murderer from the sanctuary and return him to Ulaidh for trial?”

Brehon Morann sat back for a moment and then turned with a smile to Fidelma.

“My young colleague here will tell you of the rights of sanctuary.”

Fidelma coloured, feeling ridiculously proud to be called a colleague of the chief professor. “Well,” she began hesitantly, “our laws provide for a place of asylum for those fugitives who seek refuge. And the rules of the New Faith are fairly similar to our concepts. Those of our scholars who have travelled abroad find the same system common in many lands.”

Faichen Glas was obviously impatient at the preamble but a frown from Brehon Morann checked him as Fidelma continued.

“In our law we have an area called the maigen, a precinct in which a fugitive may claim sanctuary surrounding any chieftain’s home. Its extent ranges from that of a minor chieftain, where it is reckoned as the extent of one spear cast from the central house, to that of a chief of the entire clan, where it is reckoned as the extent of sixty-four spear casts from the house. In the maigen, a fugitive can claim safety from all who seek to harm him.

“With the coming of the New Faith, the abbeys, churches, and monasteries have assumed the same role as the chieftain’s maigen in our law. The place of the fugitive is confined to what they call Termonn Land.” She glanced at the Brehon Morann. “The word is borrowed from the Latin word terminus, the limit or extent of the church lands. In these areas, for a pursuer to kill or injure a fugitive is to commit the crime of díguin, the violation of protection. For that there are prescribed punishments. A fugitive cannot be captured or harmed in these areas...”

“Unless?” It was Brehon Morann who prompted her when she hesitated.

Fidelma thought for a moment. “There are three conditions that must be met. The owner of the maigen, whether secular or ecclesiastic, must have given the fugitive permission, having been given a truthful account by the fugitive of the need for asylum. Thus the owner of the maigen becomes legally entitled to act for the fugitive. The next condition is that any pursuer must be clearly informed by the owner that this place is regarded as a sanctuary. The last condition is that while the fugitive remains in the maigen he cannot use it to profit from his alleged crimes, going forth from the asylum area and attacking people and then returning to claim asylum.”

Brehon Morann nodded approval and turned to Faichen Glas.

“I presume that all three conditions have been fulfilled in the matter we are discussing?”

The northern noble looked troubled. “I know nothing of the law here. It is true that when I approached the church Brother Mongan came forward and forbade me to enter with hospitality, declaring that it was a sanctuary... what you said — a maigen dígona. That is why I came here to find out what I could do.”

Fidelma leaned quickly toward Brehon Morann. “Of course, it is not lawful for even a cleric to give protection to certain classes of fugitive, especially a murderer, indefinitely.”

Brehon Morann grimaced. “My young colleague speaks truly. But the snádud, that is, the legal protection, can be extended until guilt or innocence is made certain.”

Faichen Glas looked from one to the other with a frown.

“What can I do, then? How can his guilt be proved before he is brought to trial? Ulam Fionn is hiding in this church and I am powerless to bring him to justice. I am minded to go with my men and take the man by force.”

“Do that,” Fidelma quickly commented, “and it will be you that will stand trial. The fugitive, whatever his alleged crimes, is under protection of the law.”

“We must act in accordance with the law, Faichen Glas,” added Brehon Morann firmly.

He paused for a moment and then rose with a smile.

“Faichen Glas, you will accept the hospitality of this college — you and your men will stay here while we investigate this matter further.” He picked up a handbell from a nearby table and rang it.

Adnaí, the elderly steward of the college, entered almost immediately, as if he had been waiting outside the door for the summons.

Brehon Morann instructed the man to see to the needs of the noble of the Uí Echach Cobo and his men and provide them with food and beds in the college hostel.

When they had gone, Fidelma stood nervously wondering whether she, too, should leave, but Brehon Morann gestured her to be seated again.

“This is a fairly simple case,” he began thoughtfully. “Provided the sanctuary has been granted in the legal form, then our friend Faichen Glas will have to return to the land of the Uí Echach Cobo. He must then bring his witness and his own Brehon before the abbot in whose jurisdiction the church of St. Benignus lies. I happen to know Abbot Sionna and he is a fair man. If Faichen Glas can present a just case as to why the sanctuary should be withdrawn, then the abbot can instruct that Ulam Fionn be handed over for trial.”

Fidelma waited politely. Her recent class on the law of sanctuary had taught her this much.

“Before I can inform Faichen Glas that this is the course of action he must take, we will have to ensure that the sanctuary has been properly given. I have no reason to suspect otherwise but, Fidelma, in law you can never assume anything. Assumption without verification can lead to great miscarriages of justice.”

“I understand,” Fidelma replied, not really understanding why he was emphasising what she had already learnt.

“It will be good experience for you to go to this church of St. Benignus and speak with Brother Mongan and ensure that all has been done in legal form,” went on Brehon Morann.

“Me?” Fidelma’s ejaculation was one of surprise.

“It is only a half-day’s ride there and a half-day back again. It doubtless means that you will have to stay overnight in a public hostel. There is no one from the college staff who can afford this time. You, on the other hand, are qualified to take this deposition and can be spared from your studies... rather this is part of your studies, for this matter of sanctuary may well occur in your future career when you begin to practise law.”

“Of course,” responded Fidelma nervously and then added weakly, “but I don’t know where this church of St. Benignus is.”

“I will give you instructions to the abbey of Sionna and he will instruct you further. You may take one of the college horses. Once you have returned, having ensured that all is satisfactory under the law, then we can instruct Faichen Glas on the appropriate action.” Brehon Morann glanced through the window at the darkening sky. “It is too late to begin today. You should leave at first light tomorrow.” He smiled in gentle rebuke as Fidelma rose slowly and reluctantly. “The practise of law is not all about solving puzzles or clearing up mysteries. Often it is very boring and pedestrian work, checking and rechecking simple facts and making tiring journeys to do so.”

Fidelma was contrite again.

“I apologise, Brehon Morann, if I seem to display a lack of enthusiasm for the task. I will, of course, carry it out.”

It was noon on the following day when Fidelma found herself sitting before Abbot Sionna. He was a chubby-featured man who was well past his middle years. His silver hair and wide blue eyes gave him an almost cherubic look.

“The chapel of St. Benignus?” he was saying thoughtfully, after she had explained her mission. “It is not far from here and it is only recently that Brother Mongan was sent to administer there. You will find him most helpful. He is a thoughtful man, a good scholar. He entered our abbey as the poor son of a farmer and achieved his scholarship by his own diligence. He worked in our library for a while, where he copied most of the Pauline texts from the scriptures. I was loath to see him go but he wanted experience in administering a small chapel. Don’t concern yourself, young lawyer. He will have obeyed all the laws governing the granting of sanctuary.”

“But he has not informed you of the matter yet?” Fidelma asked, picking up on the tense used by the abbot.

Abbot Sionna shook his head.

“Brother Mongan would probably have to wait until he could find someone to bring me a message. The chapel is two hours’ good riding from here and off the main highway. As he is alone at the chapel, he could not, in law, leave the fugitive there by himself. However, I will leave this matter in your hands. Report back to me as to the situation on your return.”

It was midafternoon when Fidelma spotted the oblong shape of the chapel of St. Benignus. The five kingdoms of Éirinn were abounding in vast forests, so it was usual for most of the small churches to be built of wood, although in the western parts, such as Fidelma’s own homeland of Muman, many abbeys and oratories were constructed of local stone. Here, in Midhe, the middle kingdom, it was unusual to see a limestone church building, strong like a fortress. Such, however, was the chapel of St. Benignus. It was strongly built, six metres wide and twenty-five metres in length. Its roof towered upwards, and the jambs of the main door — the only door so far as she could see — were inclined so that it was wider at the bottom than the top.

The grounds around it were planted with yew and ash. Fidelma knew that this was often called the fidnemed or sacred grove covering the area of the nemed or termonn, the sanctuary’s limits.

She approached on horseback, slowly and deliberately, but she was already some way from the gates to the sanctuary area when the door of the chapel swung inward and a thin figure in badly fitting religious robes stepped out.

“Halt, stranger!” the figure called in a harsh voice. “I have to warn you that you are approaching sanctuary land and may not enter if you seek harm to one who has claimed sanctuary here.”

Fidelma smiled inwardly. At least the religieux seemed to know the legal requirement of informing everyone approaching the church. She drew rein and sat for a moment regarding the man from her horse.

He seemed young, fair-haired with pale blue eyes. In spite of his slight build, he was pleasant-looking. He came slowly down the short path from the chapel to the gates into the fidnemed.

“What do you seek here, daughter?” he asked in a softer tone of voice.

Fidelma tried to control her smile. Daughter! The young religieux was hardly older than she was. But the New Faith was importing a lot of new phrases and concepts to their language. Priests of the New Faith were now being called Athair or Father, which was an affectation brought in from the Faith in Rome. A few even preferred the term Rúinid, confidant or counsellor.

“Are you Brother Mongan?” she asked.

A frown passed the young man’s brow.

“This is my chapel,” he acknowledged in reply.

“My name is Fidelma. I am...” she hesitated slightly, “I am a lawyer from the college of the Brehon Morann, which lies not far from here.”

“I know of it,” the young man replied, the frown deepening. “What do you seek here?”

“I would have thought that obvious.” Fidelma could not help her automatic retort. “I have been asked to come here to verify that the sanctuary you have given to the fugitive who now resides in your chapel has been accorded in strict adherence to the law.”

Brother Mongan sniffed slightly. “Had it not been, I would not have given it,” he replied with equal curtness.

“It is a legal requirement that this be checked,” Fidelma responded, trying not to make her voice sharp, as was her inclination. She did not wish to irritate Brother Mongan, realising that impatience was one of her faults.

“And I confirm it,” replied the religieux.

“I am glad to hear it,” smiled Fidelma, and swung down from her horse so that she could stand facing him. “However, there are still formalities to be gone through.”

Brother Mongan was clearly unhappy.

“Formalities?”

“Of course,” she replied, tethering her horse to a nearby bush and glancing around. There were two other horses grazing nearby among the trees. “I suppose one of those belongs to your fugitive?”

Brother Mongan glanced in the direction she was looking and nodded quickly. “But what formalities?” he pressed again.

“Sanctuary has to follow certain legal requirements,” she replied. “When the fugitive came here, did he properly identify himself?”

“He said he was Ulam Fionn of the territory of the Uí Echach Cobo. That he sought protection because he was being pursued and sought to escape impending harm.”

“That harm coming in what form?”

“He said that his life was in danger. He was falsely accused of murder. He told me that he had caused the death of someone but in self-defence. He said he was attacked by this person and had to defend himself. Those chasing him would not listen to reason and meant him harm.”

Fidelma regarded Brother Mongan thoughtfully. It was a different side of the story from that told by Faichen Glas.

“So you offered sanctuary to Ulam Fionn and accepted that you were legally entitled to act for him?”

Brother Mongan nodded but did not speak.

“You are prepared to confirm and guarantee that Ulam Fionn will not take advantage while dwelling in this sanctuary, that he will engage in no unlawful activity? That he will not use this as a base to ride out to bring harm or loss to anyone?”

“Of course.”

“And, as in the manner you have already informed me, all who come here are informed that the chapel has become a sanctuary and they must abide by the laws appertaining to that provision?”

“Yes,” agreed Brother Mongan impatiently.

So far, Fidelma thought, it seemed straightforward enough.

“Then I simply need to see this Ulam Fionn and speak with him.”

Brother Mongan hesitated and seemed about to protest. Then he shrugged.

“Wait here. He is nervous, so it is best that I speak with him first.”

He turned and made his way into the church. Fidelma turned and absently patted her horse’s muzzle. With a thoughtful frown she turned to where the other two horses were grazing.

Brother Mongan’s voice called from the door of the chapel.

“You may come in, my daughter.”

She walked up the path and entered the doorway of the chapel, halting for a few moments to get used to the darkness of the interior. There were a few high windows and the place was lit with candles, but it was still gloomy; shadows danced everywhere in accordance with the dictates of the flickering flames.

“You want to see me?”

Ulam Fionn was a short, thin man with close-set eyes and a beak of a nose. His voice was sharp. Fidelma could not help disliking him and then she felt guilty. She was allowing her personal prejudices to form judgments. Brehon Morann had long taught that those practising law should be free of forming such ridiculous intolerant bias.

“Ulam Fionn, I am sent here to ensure that the proper laws relating to sanctuary have been observed. I understand from Brother Mongan that they have.”

The fugitive stood without movement. He did not reply.

Fidelma sighed. She glanced around quickly.

“You have come seeking sanctuary for yourself only?”

“I am alone here.”

“So what do you intend to do?”

“Intend to do?” a slight frown crossed the man’s face.

“Sanctuary cannot be granted indefinitely. Faichen Glas, who has pursued you here, can now appeal to the abbot in whose authority this chapel comes for permission to plead your case before him and his Brehon... You cannot stay here forever.”

“What...?” Ulam Fionn shot a startled look at Brother Mongan. Fidelma saw the religieux was looking bewildered.

“I thought the Faith guaranteed that no person could violate sanctuary,” he said stubbornly.

“Faichen Glas has to bring his witnesses and his own Brehon to argue his case in the presence of the abbot. Abbot Sionna,” explained Fidelma. “The abbot has to decide, together with Faichen Glas’s own judge, whether there is a case to be answered. He can set a time limit to the duration of the sanctuary or hand you over to Faichen Glas for trial immediately.”

“Then I am done for,” Ulam Fionn said with bitterness. “I have no witness to support me. I will be condemned on the word of the widow of Nessán, whom I killed in self-defence. And it is Nessán’s own cousin who pursues me.”

“You killed the man in self-defence? Tell me your story,” Fidelma said.

“I was taking a shortcut across Nessán’s lands, near his farmhouse, when he suddenly appeared and started to attack me. I sought to defend myself and in doing so Nessán was killed. I heard his wife start screaming ‘Murder!’ I hid, for I knew Nessán had many friends in the area and I did not. Then word came that Faichen Glas said he would cause me to pay for what I had done. He was a rich and powerful noble. I fled south.”

“But why would Nessán attack you?”

Ulam Fionn shrugged indifferently. “Give a dog a bad name. He and his kind have always disliked me. They accuse me of all sorts of things of which I am innocent. The whole world is against me.”

Fidelma had a slight feeling of guilt that she could dislike the man simply because of his looks. If she was going to be successful as a dálaigh, a pleader before the courts of the Brehons, when she left Brehon Morann’s law school, then she would have to curb any emotional prejudice such as judging on people’s looks. Looks were no measurement. What was it Brehon Morann often told his students? The tree that has handsome foliage often has a bitter fruit. The reverse was also true.

“The law is not there to take sides but to seek the truth,” she placated, feeling sorry for the man. “You should be able to find an experienced lawyer to represent you.”

“The nobles of the Uí Echach Cobo are powerful,” complained the fugitive. “They will not rest until they have taken vengeance on me.”

“The law says that a killing in self-defence is not murder,” Fidelma reminded him.

Ulam Fionn laughed sharply. “And I must prove self-defence?”

She shook her head. “Your accusers must prove murder,” she pointed out.

“Well, I prefer not to fall into their hands to argue the matter.”

Brother Mongan coughed sharply. “That is not the way to look at things, my son,” he intoned somewhat piously. “You are safe here for a while but you must heed the counsel of this learned lawyer. When you are in a more reflective mood, you may consider what course you must follow.”

Fidelma turned to the religieux. “Thank you, Brother Mongan. I am sure that you will add your voice in advising that the best course is for Ulam Fionn to resort to the law and put his case before Abbot Sionna and his Brehon.”

“I will advise him, my daughter,” agreed the religieux. “Is there anything else that I can assist you with?”

Fidelma thought for a moment.

She had carried out the legal requirements, but she had a strange feeling of dissatisfaction. She did not really want to leave. She wondered if it was because, should Ulam Fionn be truthful in his claim, and it was certainly a possibility, then she ought to help him resolve the matter. After all, she knew some powerful families could find ways to thwart justice, and if it was a case of self-defence then she did not wonder that the man was afraid to seek resolution in the law.

She glanced round the interior of the chapel.

“Are you comfortable here?” she suddenly asked. “It must be cold and draughty living in this old chapel.”

“I get by,” replied the fugitive, curious at her sudden concern.

“Do not bother yourself on that account, daughter,” began Brother Mongan. “There is a small cellar below the altar where there is warmth and comfort. We...”

He suddenly cut off and dropped his eyes.

“I am comfortable enough,” Ulam Fionn added quickly.

“Then I need hear no more,” Fidelma said, as if making up her mind. “Everything seems in order.”

Brother Mongan accompanied her to the door of the chapel.

“Is this the first time that you have had to offer sanctuary to a fugitive?” she asked at the door.

“It is,” replied the other, seeming relieved by her approval.

“It is difficult to know what to do, to make sure we follow the law,” she went on. “I suppose you have read the Cáin Snádud?”

Brother Mongan frowned slightly. “The what?”

“The law of legal protection.”

He shook his head. “I am no scholar, my daughter. I leave interpretation of the law in the hands of good people like yourself. I am merely concerned with issues of the Faith.”

“Of course,” Fidelma replied. “But you did seem to know and obey the legal requisites.”

“I knew the basic rules, of course,” replied the religieux. “What one of us in authority over a chapel or an abbey would not know those?”

“Indeed. And you are fortified by the fact that the Faith also offers such sanctuary so that it does not conflict with the civil law.”

“Just so, just so.” Brother Mongan smiled.

“What is it that Scripture quotes that gives the foundation for the bestowal of sanctuary? Nescitis quia templum Dei estis et Spiritus Dei habitat in vobis...?”

“Just so, just so,” agreed Brother Mongan again.

“From Paul’s letter to the Hebrews, I think.”

“You are very learned, my daughter,” Brother Mongan agreed gravely. “I wish you a safe journey back to the school of Brehon Morann.”

Fidelma raised a hand in farewell, then mounted her horse and rode away.

Two days later she was seated before the fire in the chamber of the Brehon Morann and sipping a glass of mulled wine, which the chief professor had offered her.

“I congratulate you, Fidelma. But how were you able to resolve this matter?”

Fidelma examined the fire pensively for a moment, as if the dancing flames would help her clarify her thoughts.

“It was not hard.” She spoke slowly. “Mostly, I suppose, it was merely a guess.”

Brehon Morann snorted sceptically.

“A guess? Do you realise what might have happened if your guess had been wrong? There should be no guesswork in law.”

“I did not think it was wrong at the time,” she said calmly.

“You have a legally trained mind. Take me through the process that produced the result.”

“I first went to see Abbot Sionna, as you told me. While speaking to me, he mentioned in passing that Brother Mongan was a scholar. A copyist of the Pauline letters, among other works.”

“And so?”

“When I arrived at the chapel, I saw that there were two horses tethered outside. As you know, a religieux does not own or ride a horse unless he’s of special rank or privilege. Brother Mongan had no such rank. The abbot told me Brother Mongan was the son of a poor farmer. So I wondered why two horses were there. Ulam Fionn said he was there alone. Then I recalled Faichen Glas saying he suspected Ulam Fionn had fled in this direction to join his cousin, Ulpach. I began to suspect that the other horse was that belonging to Ulpach.

“Having cleared up the matter of the legality of the sanctuary, I thought I would take the matter a step further and ask to see Ulam Fionn, to see if Ulpach was also sheltering in the chapel. He was not. Only Ulam Fionn and Brother Mongan were there. They swore that Ulam Fionn was the only one seeking sanctuary there. But what made me even more suspicious was when I asked about the comfort of residing in the chapel. Brother Mongan was about to talk about the cellar under the chapel and how comfortable it was. He caught himself in time, and Ulam Fionn tried to pass over his mistake quickly enough. I went along with it. My guess was that there was something in the cellar that they did not want me to see.”

Brehon Morann looked at her carefully.

“Suspicions only? Guesswork only? You needed more than that to do what you did.”

Fidelma smiled softly.

“I needed only the confidence of my interpretation of what my ears heard and my eyes saw. Abbot Sionna said that Brother Mongan was a scholar. When I congratulated him on his knowledge of the law and said he must have read the Cáin Snádud he replied that he did not know it and that he was no scholar at all. So I quoted a line that is to be found in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians — the line that says...Know you not that you are in the temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?” I quoted the line in Latin. It is the scripture that is often used to support the concept of sanctuary, for one cannot use violence in the temple of God. But I said it was from the letter to the Hebrews. Brother Mongan congratulated me on my knowledge.”

“Ah, and were he a scholar and copyist of the letters of Paul, he would have known better.”

“Exactly so.”

“So you rode back to Abbot Sionna?”

“And he sent the abbey’s Brehon and half a dozen stout members of the abbey. They went into the chapel, took hold of Ulam Fionn and his companion, and found in the cellar below the trussed-up form of the real Brother Mongan.”

“With the fake Brother Mongan turning out to be...?”

“Ulam Fionn’s cousin, Ulpach,” she ended triumphantly.

“A sad tale. Had Ulam Fionn and Ulpach sought genuine sanctuary, it probably would have been granted and they would have been safe.”

“Unfortunately, they trusted no one other than themselves. They were liars and thieves and could not conceive of having confidence in the good intentions of others, let alone depending on them. They did not even bother to ask Brother Mongan to grant them sanctuary.”

“I presume that Brother Mongan told Ulpach the rudiments of sanctuary law.”

“Ulpach forced Brother Mongan to confirm the basic requirements, but it was obvious to me that Ulpach did not know those things he should have known. He did not know that there is a limitation on sanctuary that applies to those accused of taking a person’s life, nor that the abbot has eventually to resolve the granting of sanctuary given by one of his clerics. That surprised the fake Brother Mongan and confirmed to me that it was Ulpach.”

Brehon Morann was thoughtful.

“So Faichen Glas will be taking Ulam Fionn and his cousin Ulpach back north to the lands of the Uí Echach Cobo?”

Fidelma grimaced. “There is, of course, the attack and imprisonment of Brother Mongan to be dealt with, and the New Faith will doubtless have something to say on that before they hand the culprits over to Faichen Glas.”

Brehon Morann smiled indulgently at his young pupil.

“You have much promise, Fidelma. Indeed, you have promise of becoming a fine lawyer. But you relied on guesswork. Consider this... you might have been wrong in your interpretation of these events.”

Fidelma shrugged. “Yet as it turned out, I was not. I was confident in my own ability. I have heard it said, ‘The confident person may succeed, but the person who hesitates may lose all.’”

Brehon Morann knew that he had often quoted the proverb to his students. He smiled sadly.

“Proverb for proverb, Fidelma. ‘The end of the day is always a good prophet.’”

Copyright © 2006 Peter Tremayne