Hemlock at Vespers

MURDER IN REPOSE

“There is no question of Brother Fergal’s guilt in this crime,” said the Brehon with assurance. “He clearly murdered the girl.”

He was a stocky man, this chief judge of the clan of the Eógha-nacht of Cashel. His round, lugubrious face was betrayed by a pair of bright, sharp eyes. His slow-speaking meticulous manner disguised a mind that was sharp and decisive. Here was a man who, as his profession demanded, looked at life carefully and weighed the evidence before making a decision. And he was no one’s fool.

Sister Fidelma, tall, green-eyed, stood before the Brehon with hands folded demurely in front of her. Her robes and hood, from under which wisps of rebellious red hair stuck out, scarcely disguised her youthfulness nor her feminine attractiveness. The Bre-hon had placed her age in her mid-twenties. He noticed that her stance was one of controlled agitation, of someone used to movement and action in life. The habit of a religieuse did not suit her at all.

“The Abbess has assured me that Brother Fergal is no more capable of taking life than a rabbit is capable of flying through the air.”

The Brehon of the Eóghanacht of Cashel sighed. He made little effort to conceal his irritation at the young woman’s contradiction.

“Nevertheless, Sister, the evidence is plain. The man Fergal was found in his bothán, the cabin he had rebuilt, on the slopes of Cnocgorm. He was asleep. By his side was the body of the girl, Barrdub. She had been stabbed to death. There was blood on Fer-gal’s hands and on his robes. When he was awakened, he claimed that he had no knowledge of anything. That is a weak defense.”

Sister Fidelma bowed her head, as if acknowledging the logic of the Brehon’s statement.

“What were the circumstances of the finding of the body of the girl Barrdub?”

“Barrdub’s brother, Congal, had been worried. The girl, it seems, had been smitten with a passion for this Brother Fergal. He is a handsome young man, it must be admitted. That night, according to Congal, his sister went out and did not return. Early in the morning, Congal came to me and asked me to accompany him to Fergal’s bothán to confront them. Barrdub is not yet at the age of choice, you understand, and Congal stands as her guardian in law for they have no other relatives living. Together we found Fergal and the body of Barrdub as I have described.”

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips. The evidence was, indeed, damning.

“The hearing will be at noon tomorrow,” the Brehon went on. “Brother Fergal must give account to the law for no one can stand above the jurisdiction of the Brehons, either priest or druid.”

Sister Fidelma smiled thinly.

“Thanks be to the holy Patrick that it is two centuries since the druids of Ireland accepted the teachings of the Savior of this world.”

The Brehon returned her smile.

“Yet they say that many who live in the mountains or in remote fastnesses still practice the old ways; that there are many whom the teachings of Christ have not won from the worship of The Dagda and the ancient gods of Ireland. We have such a one even here, in our territory. Erca is a hermit who also lives on the slopes of Cnocgorm and claims to practice the old ways.”

Sister Fidelma shrugged indifferently.

“I am not here to proselytize.”

The Brehon was examining her carefully now.

“What precisely is your role in this affair, Sister? Do you simply represent the Abbey which, I understand, now stands in place of Brother Fergal’s fine or family? Remember, in law, the fine must ensure that the penalties are provided when judgment is given by the court.”

“I am aware of the law, Brehon of the Eóghanacht,” replied Sister Fidelma. “The Abbess has sent me to this place in the capacity of a dálaigh; an advocate to plead before the court on be-half of Brother Fergal.”

The Brehon raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised. When the girl had come to him, he had assumed that she was simply one of Brother Fergal’s religious community who had come to find out why he had been arrested and charged with murder.

“The law requires that all advocates must be qualified to plead before the Dál.”

Sister Fidelma drew herself up, a little annoyed at the patronage in the man’s voice, at his arrogant assumption.

“I am qualified. I studied law under the great Brehon Morann of Tara.”

Once again the Brehon barely concealed his surprise. That the young girl before him could be qualified in the law of Eireann was astonishing in his eyes. He was about to open his mouth when the girl pre-empted his question by reaching within her robes and passing him an inscribed vellum. The Brehon read quickly, eyes rounded, hesitated and passed it back. His glance was now respectful, his voice slightly awed.

“It states that you are a qualified Anruth.”

To have qualified to the level of Anruth one had to have studied at a monastic or bardic school for between seven to nine years. The Anruth was only one degree below the highest qualification, the Ollamh, or professor, who could sit as an equal with kings. The Anruth had to be knowledgeable in poetry, literature, law and medicine, speaking and writing with authority on all things and being eloquent in debate.

“I was with the Brehon Morann for eight years,” Fidelma re-plied.

“Your right to act as advocate before the court is recognized, Sister Fidelma.”

The young religieuse smiled.

“In that case, I call upon my right to speak with the accused and then with the witnesses.”

“Very well. But there can be only one plea before the court. The evidence is too damning to say other than that Brother Fergal is guilty of the murder of Barrdub.”

Brother Fergal was, as the Brehon said, a handsome young man no more than five and twenty years of age. He wore a bewildered expression on his pale features. The brown eyes were wide, the auburn hair was tousled. He looked like a young man awakened from sleep to find himself in a world he did not recognize. He rose awkwardly as Sister Fidelma entered the cell, coughing nervously.

The burly jailer closed the door behind her but stood outside.

“The grace of God to you, Brother Fergal,” she greeted.

“And of God and Mary to you, Sister,” responded the young religieux automatically. His voice was slightly breathless and wheezy.

“I am Fidelma sent from the Abbey to act as your advocate.”

A bitter expression passed over the face of the young man.

“What good will that do? The Brehon has already judged me guilty.”

“And are you?”

Fidelma seated herself on a stool which, apart from the rough straw pallaisse, was the only furniture in the cell, and gazed up at the young monk

“By the Holy Virgin, I am not!” The cry was immediate, angry and despairing at the same time. The young man punctuated his response with a paroxysm of coughing.

“Be seated, Brother,” said Fidelma solicitously. “The cell is cold and you must take care of your cough

The young man contrived to shrug indifferently.

“I have suffered from asthma for several years now, Sister. I ease it by inhaling the odors of the burning leaves of stramóiniam or taking a little herbal drink before I retire at night. Alas, such a luxury is denied me here.”

“I will speak to the Brehon about it,” Fidelma assured him. “He is not a harsh man. Perhaps we can find some leaves and seeds of the stramóiniam and have them sent into you.”

“I would be grateful.”

After a little while, Fidelma reminded the young man that she awaited his story.

Reluctantly, the young man squatted on the pallaisse and coughed again

“Little to tell. The Abbess sent me to the clan of Eoghanacht of Cashel, to preach and administer to them, four weeks ago. I came here and rebuilt a deserted cell on the blue hill of Cnoc-gorm. For a while all went well. True that in this part of Éireann, two hundred years after the blessed saint Patrick converted our people, I have found some whose hearts and souls have not been won over for Christ. That was a great sadness to me…”

“I have heard that there is one here who still follows the old ways of the druids,” Fidelma commented encouragingly when the young man paused and faltered in his thoughts.

“The hermit Erca? Yes. He dwells on Cnoc-gorm, too. He hates all Christians.”

“Does he now?” mused Fidelma. “But tell me, what of the events of the night of the murder?”

Brother Fergal grimaced expressively.

“All I remember is that I returned to my cell at dusk. I was exhausted for I had walked sixteen miles that day, taking the Word of Christ to the shepherds in the mountains. I felt a soreness on my chest and so I heated and drank my herbal potion. It did me good for I slept soundly. The next thing I knew was being shaken awake to find the Brehon standing over me and Congal with him. Congal was screaming that I had killed his sister. There was blood on my hands and clothes. Then I saw, in my cell, the poor, bloodied body of the girl, Barrdub.”

He started coughing again. Fidelma watched the face of the young religieux intently. There was no guile there. The eyes were puzzled yet honest.

“That is all?” she pressed when he had drawn breath.

“You asked me what I knew of the events of the night of the murder. That is all.”

Fidelma bit her lip. It sounded an implausible story.

“You were not disturbed at all? You heard nothing? You went to sleep and knew nothing until the Brehon and Congal woke you, when you saw blood on your clothes and the body of the dead girl in your cabin?

The young man moaned softly, placing his face in his hands.

“I know nothing else,” he insisted. “It is fantastic, I know, but it is the truth.’

“Do you admit that you knew the girl, Barrdub?”

“Of course. In the time I was here, I knew everyone of the clan of Eóghanacht.”

“And what of Barrdub? How well did you know her?”

“She came to religious service regularly and once or twice came to help me when I was rebuilding my bothán. But so did many others from the village here.”

“You had no special relationship with Barrdub?”

Priests, monks and nuns of the Celtic Church could enter into marriage provided such unions were blessed by a bishop or the congregation of the Abbey.

“I had no relationship with Barrdub other than as pastor to one of his flock. Besides, the girl is not yet of the age of choice.”

“You know that Congal is claiming that Barrdub was in love with you and that you had encouraged this? The argument of the prosecution will be that she came to you that night and for some reason you rejected her and when she would not leave you, you killed her. It will be argued that her love became an embarrassment to you.”

The young monk looked outraged.

“But I did not! I only knew the girl slightly and nothing passed between us. Why… why, the girl is also betrothed, as I recall, to someone in the village. I can’t remember his name. I can assure you that there was nothing between the girl and me.”

Fidelma nodded slowly and rose.

“Very well, Brother Fergal. If you have nothing else to tell me …?”

The young man looked up at her with large, pleading eyes.

“What will become of me?”

“I will plead for you,” she consented. “But I have little so far to present to the court in your defense.”

“Then if I am found guilty?”

“You know the law of the land. If you are adjudged guilty of homicide then you must pay the honor-price of the girl, the eric, to her next of kin. The girl, I understand, was a free person, the daughter of a member of the clan assembly. The eric fine stands at forty-five milk cows plus four milk cows as the fee to the Bre-hon.”

“But I have no wealth. It was given up when I decided to serve Christ and took a vow of poverty.”

“You will also know that your family becomes responsible for the fine.”

“But my only family is the Abbey, our order of Brothers and Sisters in Christ.”

Fidelma grimaced.

“Exactly so. The Abbess has to decide whether she will pay your eric fine on behalf of our order. And the greater trial for your immortal soul will be heard under her jurisdiction. If you are judged guilty of killing Barrdub then not only must you make atonement to the civil court but, as a member of the religieux, you must make atonement to Christ.”

“What if the Abbess refuses to pay the eric fine …?” whispered Fergal, his breath becoming laboured again.

“It would be unusual for her to refuse,” Fidelma assured him. “In some exceptional circumstances she can do so. It is the right of the Abbess to renounce you if your crime is so heinous. You can be expelled from the Abbey. If so, you can be handed over by the Brehon to the victim’s family to be disposed of, to treat as a slave or punish in any way thought fitting to compensate them. That is the law. But it will not come to that. The Abbess cannot believe that you killed this girl.”

“Before God, I am innocent!” sobbed the young man.

Fidelma strode with the Brehon up the winding path to the tree-sheltered nook on Cnoc-gorm where Fergal had refurbished an old bothán for use as his cell. The Brehon led the way to the building which was constructed of inter-laid stones without mortar.

“This is where you found Brother Fergal and the dead girl, Barr-dub?” asked Fidelma, as they paused outside the door.

“It is,” acknowledged the Brehon. “Though the girl’s body has been removed. I cannot see what use it will be to your advocacy to view this place.”

Fidelma simply smiled and went in under the lintel.

The room was small and dark, almost like the cell in which she had left Fergal, except that the bothán was dry whereas the cell was damp. There was a wooden cot, a table and chair, a crucifix and some other items of furnishing. Fidelma sniffed, catching a bittersweet aromatic smell which permeated from the small hearth. The smell was of burnt leaves of stramóiniam.

The Brehon had entered behind her.

“Has anything been removed apart from the girl’s body and the person of Brother Fergal?” Fidelma asked as her eye traveled to a wooden vessel on the table.

“As you see, nothing has been touched. Brother Fergal was in the bed, there, and the girl lay by the hearth. Only the girl’s body and the person of Brother Fergal have been removed. Nothing else has been removed as nothing else was of consequence.”

“No other objects?”

“None.”

Fidelma went to the table, took up the wooden vessel and sniffed at it. There was a trace of liquid left and she dipped her finger in it and placed it, sniffing as she did so, against her lips. She grimaced at the taste and frowned.

“As Brehon, how do you account for the fact that, if Brother Fergal is guilty, it would follow he killed Barrdub and then went to bed, leaving her body here, and slept peacefully until morning? Surely a person who killed killer would have first done their best to hide the body and remove all trace of the crime lest anyone arrive and discover it?”

The round-faced Brehon nodded and smiled.

“That had already occurred to me, Sister Fidelma. But I am a simple judge. I have to deal with the facts. My concern is the evidence. It is not in my training to consider why a man should behave in the way he does. My interest is only to know that he does behave in such a manner.”

Fidelma sighed, set down the vessel and looked round again before leaving the cell.

Outside she paused, noticing a dark smear on one of the upright stone pillars framing the doorway. It was a little over shoulder height.

“Barrdub’s blood, I presume?”

“Perhaps made as my men were carrying the body out,” agreed the Brehon uninterestedly.

Fidelma gazed at the smear a moment more before turning to examine the surroundings of the bothán which was protected by a bank of trees to one side, bending before the winds which whipped across the hill, while bracken grew thickly all around. The main path to the bothán, which led down to the village, was narrow and well trodden. An even narrower path ascended farther up the hill behind the building while a third track meandered away to the right across the hillside. The paths were certainly used more than occasionally.

“Where do they lead?”

The Brehon frowned, slightly surprised at her question.

“The way up the hill will eventually bring you to the dwelling of the hermit, Erca. The path across the hillside is one of many that goes wherever you will. It is even an alternative route to the village.”

“I would see this Erca,” Fidelma decided.

The Brehon frowned, went to say something and then shrugged.

Erca was everything Fidelma had expected.

A thin, dirty man, clad in a single threadbare woollen cloak; he had wild, matted hair and staring eyes, and he showered abuse on them as they approached his smoking fire.

“Christians!” he spat. “Out of my sight with your foreign god. Would you profane the sacred territory of The Dagda, father of all gods?”

The Brehon frowned angrily but Fidelma smiled gently and continued to approach.

“Peace to you, brother.”

“I am not your brother!” snarled the man.

“We are all brothers and sisters, Erca, under the one God who is above us all, whichever name we call Him by. I mean you no harm.”

“Harm, is it? I would see the gods of the Dé Danaan rise up from the sidhe and drive all followers of the foreign god out of this land as they did with the evil Fomorii in the times of the great mists.”

“So you hate Christians?”

“I hate Christians.”

“You hate Brother Fergal?”

“This land could not set boundaries to my hatred of all Christians.”

“You would harm Brother Fergal, if you could?”

The man cracked his thumb at her.

“That to Fergal and all his kind!”

Fidelma seemed unperturbed. She nodded toward the cooking pot which sat atop the man’s smoking fire.

“You are boiling herbs. You must be knowledgeable of the local herbs.”

Erca sneered.

“I am trained in the ancient ways. When your mad Patrick drove our priests from the Hill of Slane and forced our people to turn to his Christ, he could not destroy our knowledge.”

“I see you have a pile of pale brown roots, there. What herb is that?”

Erca frowned curiously at her a moment.

“That is lus mór na coille.”

“Ah, deadly nightshade,” Fidelma acknowledged. “And those leaves with the white points next to them?”

“Those of the leaves of the muing, or poison hemlock.”

“And they grow on this hill?”

Erca made an impatient gesture of affirmation.

“Peace to you, then, brother Erca,” Fidelma ended the conversation abruptly, and she turned away down the hill leaving the bewildered Erca behind. The perplexed Brehon trotted after her.

“No peace to you, Christian,” came Erca’s wild call behind them as the hermit collected his thoughts. “No peace until all worshippers of foreign gods are driven from the land of Éireann!”

Fidelma said nothing as she made her way down the hillside back to Fergal’s bothán. As she reached it, she darted inside and then reemerged a moment or two later carrying the wooden vessel.

“I shall need this in my presentation. Will you take it into your custody?”

“What line are you following, Sister?” frowned the Brehon as he accepted the vessel and they continued on to the village. “For a moment I thought you might be suggesting that Erca is somehow involved in this matter.”

Fidelma smiled but did not answer the question.

“I would now like to see the brother of Barrdub. What was his name? Congal?”

They found the brother of Barrdub in a poor dwelling by the river bank, a bothán of rotting wood. The Brehon had made some preparation as they walked to Congal’s cabin.

“Congal’s father was once the hostel keeper for the Eóghanacht of Cashel, a man held in high honor, and a spokesman at the clan assembly. Congal was not the man his father was. Congal was always a dreamer. When his father died, he squandered away what could have been his so that he and his sister were reduced to living in this bothán and Congal forced to hire himself to work for other members of the clan rather than run his own cattle.”

Congal was a dark, brooding person with fathomless grey eyes as deep and angry as the sea on a stormy winter’s day.

“If you have come to defend the murderer of my sister, I will answer no questions!” he told Fidelma belligerently, his thin, bloodless lips set firm.

The Brehon sighed in annoyance.

“Congal, you will obey the law. It is the right of the dálaigh, the advocate, to ask you questions and your duty to reply truthfully.”

Sister Fidelma motioned the man to be seated but he would not.

“Did you ever take stramóiniam to Brother Fergae?” she opened.

Congal blinked at the unexpectedness of her question.

“No,” he replied. “He purchased his asthma medication from Hand the herbalist.”

“Good. Now I have heard how you discovered the body of your sister. Before you confirm the Brehon’s account of that discovery, I want you to tell me what made you seek your sister in Brother Fergal’s bothán when you knew her to be missing?”

Congal grimaced.

“Because Barrdub was enamored of the man. He mesmerized her and used her.”

“Mesmerized? Why do you say this?”

Congal’s voice was harsh.

“I knew my sister, did I not? Since Fergal came to this village, Barrdub mooned after the man like a sick cow after a farmer, always making excuses to go to visit him and help him rebuild the priest’s bothán. It was disgusting.”

“Why disgusting?” the Brehon chimed in, suddenly interested. “If she would have Fergal, or he would have her, there was nothing to prevent her save she have your consent or had reached the age of choice. You know as well as I do that all servants of Christ have the ancient right to marry the partner of their choice, even to an abbot or abbess?”

“It was disgusting because she was betrothed to Rimid,” Congal insisted.

“Yet before Fergal arrived here,” the Brehon observed wryly, “you objected to Rimid as husband for Barrdub.”

Congal flushed.

“Why did you object to Rimid?” interposed Fidelma.

“Because…”

“Because he could not afford the full bride-price,” offered the Brehon before the man could reply. “Isn’t that so?”

“The tinnscra is as old as Eireann. No one marries without an offering of dowry to compensate the family of the bride,” Congal said stubbornly.

“And you were Barrdub’s only family?” asked Fidelma.

“She kept my house. With her gone, I have no one else. It is right that I be compensated according to our ancient law.”

“Presumably, you raised this same objection over her liaison with Fergal? As a religieux he was not able to supply a tinnscra.”

Congal said sullenly: “There was no question of that. He had no thought of marriage. He was using my sister and when she went to him seeking marriage, he killed her.”

“That remains to be proved,” Fidelma responded. “Who else knew about the affair between your sister and Fergal?”

“No one,” Congal said promptly. “My sister only admitted it to me with great unwillingness.”

“So you kept it to yourself? Are you sure no one else knew? What of Rimid?”

Congal hesitated, his eyes downcast.

“Yes,” he answered reluctantly. “Rimid knew.”

“I will see this Rimid next,” Fidelma told the Brehon. She turned to leave and then hesitated, pausing to examine bunches of dried flowers and plants hung on the wall by the fireplace.

“What herb is this?”

Congal frowned at her for a moment.

“I have no knowledge of such things. Barrdub gathered all our herbs for cooking.”

Outside the Brehon cast a long puzzled look at Fidelma.

“You are greatly interested in herbs, Sister,” he observed.

Fidelma nodded.

“Did you know that Brother Fergal suffers from asthma and that he is in the habit of inhaling the fumes of the burning leaves of stramoiniam or drinking an infusion of similar herbs each night to ease his chest?”

The Brehon shrugged.

“Some people are so afflicted,” he conceded, perplexed at her comment. “Is it important?”

“Where will we find Rimid?”

“He may be at his work at this hour,” the Brehon sighed.

Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

“I was under the impression that Rimid did not work because Congal intimated that he was in no position to pay the tinnscra.”

The Brehon smiled broadly.

“Congal objected to the fact that Rimid could not pay the full bride-price. Rimid is not a man of wealth but he is a freeman of the clan and, unlike Congal, can sit in the clan assembly.”

“Congal cannot? He is so poor?”

“As you saw. A self-inflicted poverty. He has great schemes but they all come to nothing for he dreams of marvelous ways to gain respect and advancement in the clan but his expectations always exceed his means. He often has to rely on the generosity of the clan to feed himself. It makes him bitter.”

“And Barrdub? Was she bitter also?”

“No. Her hope was to escape her brother’s poverty through marriage.”

“She must have been disappointed when Congal refused Rimid’s offer of marriage.”

“This was so. I thought she might wait until she reached the aimsir togu, the age of consent, when she would be a woman and with full right of choice. Then I thought she would marry with Rimid. When she reached the age where she could decide, there would be no question of Congal being able to demand a bride-price. I think Rimid shared that belief. He was bitter when he learnt that Barrdub was throwing herself at Brother Fergal.”

“Was he now?” mused Fidelma. “Well, let us go and speak with this Rimid. You say he might be at his work? Where would that be?”

The Brehon sighed.

“He might be at the bothán of Iland, the herbalist.”

Fidelma halted and stared at the Brehon in astonishment.

“Is Rimid a herbalist?”

The Brehon shook his head.

“No, no. He is not a professional man. He is employed by the herbalist to go abroad each day and gather the herbs and flowers wanted for the preparations.”

Rimid’s face was full of bitter hatred. He was a flushed-faced, excitable youth, scarcely beyond the age of choice.

“Yes. I loved Barrdub. I loved her and she betrayed me. I might have won her back, but for this man, Fergal. I will kill him.”

The Brehon sniffed disdainfully.

“It is not your right, Rimid. The law will punish and seek compensation.”

“Yet if I meet him on the highway, I will slay him with as little compunction as I will a vermin.”

“Your hatred is great, Rimid, because you feel that he stole Barr-dub from you,” interposed Fidelma. “That is understandable. Did you also hate Barrdub?”

Rimid’s eyes widened.

“Hate? No! I loved her.”

“Yet you say that she betrayed you, deserted your love for Brother Fergal. You must have been angry with her… angry enough…”

Fidelma let her voice trail off purposely.

Rimid blinked.

“Never! I would never harm her.”

“In spite of your hate? And did you also hate Congal?”

“Why hate Congal?” Rimid seemed puzzled.

“But he also denied you Barrdub by refusing your offer of a tinnscra which he thought was not sufficient.”

Rimid shrugged.

“I disliked Congal, yes. But Barrdub was only six months away from the aimsir togu, the age of choice, and she promised that when that time came we would marry without her brother’s approval.”

“Did Congal know this?”

Rimid shrugged. “I do not know. It is likely that Barrdub told him.”

“How did he accept it?”

“There was nothing he could do… but then Brother Fergal came along.”

“But Fergal did not have a tinnscra to offer. He is one of our order and took a vow of poverty.”

“Congal says there was no question of marriage. Fergal just mesmerized and played with the affections of Barrdub until she became too troublesome to him.”

“Mesmerized?” Fidelma frowned. “An interesting choice of word, Rimid.”

“It is true.”

“Did you rebuke Barrdub about her relationship?”

Rimid hesitated and shook his head.

“I was blind. I did not know what was going on behind my back until the day before the murder.”

“How did you find out?”

“Congal told me. I met him on the road that evening with anger in his face. Barrdub had told him that day.”

“And when did you know about her death?”

“I was going to Fergal’s bothán that morning to have it out with him when I met the Brehon and Congal on the path and they told me of Barrdub’s death. Two men were carrying Barrdub’s body on a litter and Fergal had been arrested for the crime.”

Fidelma glanced quickly to the Brehon for confirmation and he nodded.

“How long have you been a herb gatherer, Rimid?” Fidelma suddenly asked.

“Since I was a boy,” the man replied, hestitating slightly at her abrupt turn of tack.

“Did you, or Iland the herbalist, supply herbs to Brother Fer-gal?”

“I did not, but I knew that Iland did. I gather herbs for Iland. Fergal suffered from want of breath and took herbs for the condition.”

“Was that well known?”

“Many knew,” replied Rimid.

“Barrdub knew?”

“Yes. She mentioned it to me once when we were at religious service.”

“Congal? Did he know?”

Rimid shrugged. “Many knew. I do not know who specifically did or who did not.”

Fidelma paused and then smiled.

“I am finished.” She turned to the Brehon. “I am now prepared to plead before the court tomorrow.”

Most of the clan of the Eóghanacht of Cashel were assembled in the great hall of the chieftain. The chieftain, Eóghan himself, sat on the right-hand side of the Brehon, who would sit in judgment. It was law and courtesy to consult with the chieftain of the clan when judgment was made.

Brother Fergal stood before the Brehon and the chieftain, a thickset and muscular clansman at his shoulder, with sword and shield, to keep order. Fergal was placed before a small waist-high wooden bar which was known as the cos-na-dála, the foot of the court, from which all accused before the Dál, or court, had to plead.

To the right of this was a small platform which had been erected for the prosecution’s advocate or dálaigh; a thin, sharp-faced man. To the left, on a similar platform, sat Sister Fidelma, hands demurely folded in her lap, yet her clear green eyes missing nothing. The witnesses had been summoned and the Dál was crowded with the men and women of the clan, for never in the memory of the village had a member of the religieux been charged with the heinous crime of murder.

The Brehon, calling for silence, asked Brother Fergal if he accepted Sister Fidelma as his advocate for it was, according to ancient law, Fergal’s right to conduct his own defense. Brother Fergal shook his head and indicated that Sister Fidelma would speak for him.

The prosecution then delivered his case in the manner which the Brehon had already advised Sister Fidelma.

There was a murmur of expectation as Sister Fidelma finally rose to address the Brehon.

“Brother Fergal is innocent of this crime,” she began in a loud compelling tone.

There was silence among the people.

“Do you dispute the evidence?” asked the Brehon, smiling slightly now. “Remember, I went with Congal and discovered Barr-dub’s body lying in Brother Fergal’s bothán with Fergal asleep on his bed. I saw the blood on his clothes.”

“I do not dispute that,” Fidelma assured him. “But that in itself is no proof of the act of murder. The events as the prosecution describes them are not in contention, only the manner of their interpretation.”

Rimid let out an angry protest from the well of the court.

“Fergal is a murderer! She only seeks to protect one of her own!”

The Brehon gestured him to silence.

“Continue with your defense, Sister Fidelma.”

“Brother Fergal suffers from asthma. He is known to take herbal remedies to relieve his condition. This was known to several people. That night he returned to his bothan exhausted. He usually lit a fire of stramóiniam leaves and inhaled them before bed. But sometimes, when he was too exhausted, took a drink of an infusion of similar herbs.”

Brother Fergal was staring at her.

“Fergal, did you inhale or drink the herbs that night?”

“I was too tired to sit up and prepare the inhalation. I always kept a kettle with an infusion of herbs ready. So I merely heated and drank a measure.”

“And you knew no more until the morning?”

“Nothing until I was awakened by the Brehon and Congal,” agreed the monk.

“You slept soundly. Is that usual?”

Brother Fergal hesitated, frowning as if he had not considered the matter before.

“Unusual. My chest often troubles me so that I wake in the early hours and must ease it with more of the infusion.”

“Quite so. You slept unusually soundly. So soundly that someone could enter your bothán without disturbing you? As, indeed, did the Brehon and Congal. You had to be shaken awake by both of them or you would not have known of their presence.”

The court was quiet and the Brehon was looking at her with curiosity.

“What are you suggesting, Sister Fidelma?”

“I suggest nothing. I present evidence. I took a wooden vessel from Brother Fergal’s bothan in your presence and gave it to you as evidence.”

The Brehon nodded and indicated the wooden vessel on the table before him.

“This is so. There is the bowl.”

“Is this the vessel from which you drank, Fergal?”

The monk examined the vessel and nodded.

“It is mine. There is my name scratched on its surface. It is the vessel from which I drank.”

“There remains some liquid at the bottom of the vessel and I tasted it. It was not an infusion of stramóiniam.”

“What then?” demanded the Brehon.

“To please the court, we could call Hand, the herbalist, to examine it and give his opinion. But the court knows that I am an Anruth and qualified in the knowledge of herbs.”

“The court accepts your knowledge, Sister Fidelma,” replied the Brehon impatiently.

Fidelma bowed her head.

“It contains the remains of an infusion of lus mor na coille together with muing.”

“For those not acquainted with herbs, explain what these are,” instructed the Brehon, frowning.

“Certainly. The lus mór na coille, which we call deadly nightshade, is a powerful sedative inducing sleep, while muing, or poison hemlock, if taken in large doses can produce paralysis. Any person knowledgeable about herbs will tell you this. By drinking this infusion, Brother Fergal was effectively drugged. He slept the sleep of one dead and was oblivious to everything. It was lucky that he was aroused at all. It may well be that whoever provided him with the potion did not expect him to ever awake. Brother Fergal would simply have been found dead, next to Barrdub. The conclusion would have been that he killed her and then took this poisonous mixture in an act of remorse.”

She paused at the disturbance which her words provoked. Brother Fergal stood staring at her with a shocked, pale face.

The Brehon, calling for silence, then addressed himself to Fidelma.

“Are you saying that Barrdub was killed in Fergal’s bothán while he slept and he did not know it?”

“No. I am saying that the person who drugged Fergal killed Barrdub elsewhere and carried her body to the bothán, leaving it inside. That person then rubbed some of her blood on Fergal’s hands and clothes while he lay in his drugged slumber. Having created the scene, that person then departed. The murderer made several errors. He left the tell-tale evidence of the drinking vessel in which were the remains of the drugs. And he left Barrdub’s blood smeared on the side of the door when he carried her body into the bothán.”

“I recall you showing me that stain,” the Brehon intervened. “At the time I pointed out that it was probably caused when we removed the body.”

“Not so. The stain was at shoulder height. When you removed the body, it is reported that your men placed it on a litter. Two men would have carried the litter.”

The Brehon nodded confirmation.

“The highest the litter, with the body, could be carried in comfort would be at waist height. But the stain was at shoulder height. Therefore, the stain was not caused when the body was removed from the bothán but when it was carried in. The murderer, being one person, had to carry the body on his own. The easiest method to carry such a dead weight is on the shoulders. The stain was made at shoulder height when the body was carried inside by the murderer.”

“Your argument is plausible,” conceded the Brehon. “But not conclusive.”

“Then let me put this before the court. Your argument is that Brother Fergal stabbed Barrdub to death in a mad frenzy. Then, exhausted, too exhausted to take the body out of his bothán to conceal the murder, he fell asleep on his bed and was found the next morning.”

“That is as the prosecution contends.”

“Where then is the weapon?”

“What?” The word came slowly from the mouth of the Brehon, a growing doubt appearing in his eyes.

“You made no mention of a weapon, the knife by which Barrdub was stabbed to death. If you did not take it when you found Fergal that morning, it must have still been there. I searched the bothán. I found no weapon. Brother Fergal carries no such knife.”

The Brehon bit his lip.

“It is true, no weapon was found.”

“Yet a weapon must exist with Barrdub’s blood upon it.”

“Fergal could have hidden it,” countered the Brehon, realizing his fault for not instigating the search before.

“Why? Why hide the weapon when he was too exhausted to hide the body?”

“Your arguments are possible explanations. Yet if Fergal did not murder Barrdub, who did?” Before she could answer, the Bre-hon’s eyes lit up. “Ah, so that is why you were interested in the hermit Erca’s herbs? Do you contend that he did this? That he did it to harm Fergal? We all know that he hates every Christian.”

Fidelma shook her head emphatically.

“Erca hates all Christians, but he did not do this. He simply confirmed my suspicion that I had tasted two powerful drugs which could be easily obtained in the vicinity. A deeper motive lies behind this murder than simply a hatred of Christians.”

She turned and caught Rimid’s pale face. The man’s lips were trembling.

“She is trying to lay the blame on me!” he cried.

The Brehon also was looking at Rimid with deep suspicion. He demanded: “Was not your hatred of Fergal great? You said as much to us yesterday.”

“I did not do it. I loved Barrdub … I…” Rimid sprang to his feet and began to fight his way out of the great hall.

“Seize him!” cried the Brehon. Two clansmen moved forward.

But Fidelma had turned to the Brehon with shaking head.

“No, let him go. It was not Rimid.”

The Brehon frowned. Rimid, caught between the two clansmen, halted his struggles and glanced back in bewilderment.

“Who then?” the Brehon demanded in exasperation.

“Barrdub was murdered by Congal.”

There was a gasp.

“A lie! The bitch lies!” Congal had leapt to his feet in the great hall, his face pale, his hands clasped into fists.

“Congal murdered his own sister?” The Brehon was incredulous. “But why?”

“For one of the oldest motives of all. For gain.”

“But, Barrdub had no property. What gain is in this deed?”

Sister Fidelma sighed sadly.

“Congal was an impecunious man. His father had held a good position within the clan and Congal, if all went well, could have expected no less. But things were never well for Congal. He was capricious, undependable. He preferred to dream and make great plans which always went awry. He was reduced, with his sister, to living in a poor wood and mud bothán, hiring out his labor to his neighbors who were better off than he was. They pitied him. That made him bitter. All this was common knowledge. You, Bre-hon, told me as much.

“Rimid and Barrdub were in love with each other. Rimid was not possessed of great wealth. He survived as most of us do, content to earn his living. But when Rimid went to ask Congal’s ap-proval to marry Barrdub, who was not yet at the age of consent, Congal refused. Why? Because Congal did not care for his sister’s happiness. He cared for wealth. He demanded the full bride-price or tinnscra due for the daughter of a free hostel keeper of the tribe, even though both his sister and he had long fallen from that social position.”

“Yet that was his right in law,” interposed the Brehon.

“A right, truly. But sometimes rights can be a form of injustice,” replied Fidelma.

“Carry on.”

“Rimid could not afford the full tinnscra. Barrdub was indignant and made it clear to her brother that when she reached the age of consent, when she had free and equal choice, she would go with Rimid anyway. Her brother would not profit from any tinns-cra then.”

Sister Fidelma paused a moment to gather her thoughts.

“Congal had conceived the idea that his only hope to alleviate his poverty and become respectable in the tribe was to get his hands on twenty milk cows which a prospective husband would pay for the full tinnscra or bride-price. Then a new idea came into his mind. A fantastic idea. Why settle for twenty milk cows for the bride-price? If his sister was slain, the murderer or his family would have to pay compensation and that compensation was set in law at no less than forty-five milk cows, the foundation of a respectable herd and one which would make him a person of position in the tribe. But he would have to ensure that the person charged with the crime could pay such a sum.

“Then Brother Fergal appears. It is true that an individual monk is not wealthy. However, it is the law that members of the fine or family of a person unable to pay the eric or compensation become responsible for the payment to the victim’s family. It is well known that the Abbey stands in place of a family. If a member of the Abbey is found guilty of a crime, then the Abbey would be expected to pay the eric. Congal reasoned that the Abbey could well afford the forty-five milk cows that would be the compensation. Poor Barrdub’s fate was then sealed.

“Congal knew of Fergal’s ailment and means of medication. He prepared the potion, threw out Fergal’s usual mixture and substituted his own drugged brew. He reasoned that Fergal would not check the contents of his kettle before he heated the herbal drink. Then Congal saw Rimid and prepared the way further by telling him that Barrdub was smitten by Fergal, that they were in love. Finally, Congal went to find Barrdub and the rest we already know.

“He killed her, carried her into Fergal’s bothán as soon as the monk had dropped into his deep sleep, and left her there, smearing Fergal’s hands and clothes with her blood. His two major mistakes were not leaving the murder weapon at the scene and not destroying the traces of the herbs in Fergal’s bowl.”

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.