Hemlock at Vespers

ABBEY SINISTER

The black guillemot, with its distinctive orange legs and mournful, warning cry, swooped and darted above the currach. It was an isolated traveler among a crowd of more hardy, sooty, white-rumped storm petrels and large, dark-colored cormorants, wheeling, diving and flitting against the soft blue May sky.

Sister Fidelma sat relaxed in the stern of the boat and let the tangy odor of the saltwater spray gently caress her senses as the two oarsmen, seated facing her, bent their backs to their task. Their oars, dipping in unison, caused the light craft to dance over the waves of the great bay which seemed so deceptively calm. The clawing waters of the hungry Atlantic were not usually so good-natured as now and often the islands, through which the currach was weaving, could be cut off for weeks or months at a time.

They had left the mainland, with its rocky terrain and scrawny vegetation, to cross the waters of the large estuary known as Roaring Water Bay, off the southwest coast of Ireland. Here the fabled Cairbre’s “hundred islands” had been randomly tossed like lumps of earth and rock into the sea as if by some giant’s hand. At the moment the day was soft, the waters passive and the sun producing some warmth, making the scene one of tranquil beauty.

As the oarsmen stroked the vessel through the numerous islands, the heads of inquisitive seals popped out of the water to stare briefly at them, surprised at their aquatic intrusion, before darting away.

Sister Fidelma was accompanied by a young novitiate, a frightened young girl, who huddled beside her in the stern seat of the currach. Fidelma had felt obliged to take the girl under her protection on the journey to the abbey of St. Ciaran of Saigher, which stood on the island of Chléire, the farthest island of this extensive group. But the escort of the novitiate was purely incidental for Fidelma’s main purpose was to carry letters from Ultan, the Archbishop of Armagh, to the Abbot at Chléire and also to the Abbot of Inis Chloichreán, a tiny religious house on one of the remoter rocky islands within the group.

The lead rower, a man made old before his time by a lifetime exposed to the coastal weather, eased his oar. He smiled a disjointed, gap-toothed smile at Fidelma. His sea-colored eyes, set deep in his leather-brown face, gazed appreciatively at the tall young woman with the rebellious strands of red hair escaping from her head-dress. He had seen few religieuses who had such feminine poise as this one; few who seemed to be so effortlessly in command.

“There’s Inis Cloichreán to our right, Sister.” He thrust out a gnarled hand to indicate the direction, realizing that, as he was facing the religieuse, the island actually lay to her left. “We are twenty minutes from it. Do you wish to land there first or go on to Chléire?”

“I have no need to be long on Chloichreán,” Fidelma replied after a moment of thought. “We’ll land there first as it is on our way.”

The rower grunted in acknowledgment and nodded to the second rower. As if at a signal, they dipped their oars together and the currach sped swiftly over the waves toward the island.

It was a hilly, rocky island. From the sea, it appeared that its shores were nothing more than steep, inaccessible cliffs whose grey granite was broken into colored relief by sea pinks and honeysuckle chambers which filled the rocky outcrops.

Lorcán, the chief rower, expertly directed the currach through offshore jagged peaks of rock, thrusting from the sea. The boat danced this way and that in the foam waters that hissed and gurgled around the jagged points of granite, creating tiny but dangerous whirlpools. He carefully maneuvered a zig-zag path into a small, sheltered cove where a natural harbor awaited them.

Fidelma was amazed at his skill.

“None but a person with knowledge could land in such a place,” she observed.

Lorcán grinned appreciatively.

“I am one of the few who know exactly where to land on this island, Sister.”

“But the members of the abbey, surely they must have some seamanship among them to be here?”

“Abbey is a grandiose name for Selbach’s settlement,” grunted the second oarsman, speaking for the first time since they had left the mainland.

“Maenach is right,” confirmed Lorcán. “Abbot Selbach came here two years ago with about twelve Brothers; he called them his apostles. But they are no more than young boys, the youngest fourteen and the eldest scarcely nineteen. They chose this island because it was inaccessible and few knew how to land on it. It is true that they have a currach but they never use it. It is only for emergencies. Four or five times a year I land here with any supplies that they might want from the mainland.”

“Ah, so it is a hermitage,” Fidelma said. There were many of the religious in Ireland who had become solitary hermits or, taking a few followers, had found some out of the way place to set up a community where they could live together in isolated contemplation of the faith. Fidelma did not really trusts hermits, or isolated communities. It was not, in her estimation, the way to serve God by shutting oneself off from His greatest Creation-the society of men and women.

“A hermitage, indeed,” agreed Maenach mournfully.

Fidelma gazed around curiously.

“It is not a large island. Surely one of the Brothers must have seen our landing yet no one has come to greet us.”

Lorcán had secured the currach to a rock by a rope and now bent forward to assist Fidelma out of the craft while Maenach used his balance to steady it.

“We’d better all get out,” Fidelma said, more for the attention of the frightened young novitiate, Sister Sárnat, than Maenach. The young girl, no more than sixteen, dutifully scrambled after Fidelma, keeping close like a chick to a mother hen.

Maenach followed, pausing to stretch languidly once he stood on dry land.

Lorcán was pointing up some steps carved in the granite slope which led from the small cove up to the top of the cliff.

“If you take those steps, Sister, you’ll come to Selbach’s community,” he said. “We’ll await you here.”

Fidelma nodded, turning to Sister Sárnat.

“Will you wait here or do you want to come with me?”

The young Sister shivered as if touched by a cold wind and looked unhappy.

“I’ll come with you, Sister,” she sniffed anxiously.

Fidelma sighed softly. The girl was long past “the age of choice” yet she was more like a ten year old, frightened with life and clutching at the nearest adult to protect her from potential lurking terrors. The girl intrigued Fidelma. She wondered what had possessed her to join a religious house while so young, without experience of life or people.

“Very well, follow me then,” she instructed.

Lorcán called softly after her.

“I’d advise you not to be long, Sister.” He pointed to the western sky. “There’s a backing wind coming and we’ll have a storm before nightfall. The sooner we reach Chléire, the sooner we shall be in shelter.”

“I’ll not be long,” Fidelma assured him and began to lead the way up the steps with Sárnat following quickly behind.

“How can he know that there’ll be a storm?” the young novitiate demanded breathlessly as she stumbled to keep up with Fidelma. “It’s such a lovely day.”

Fidelma grimaced.

“A seaman will know these things, Sárnat. The signs are there to be read in the sky. Did you observe the moon last night?”

Sárnat looked puzzled.

“The moon was bright,” she conceded.

“But if you had truly examined it then you would have seen a red glow to it. The air was still and comparatively dry. It is almost a guarantee of stormy winds from the west.”

Fidelma suddenly paused and pointed to some plants growing along the edge of the pathway.

“Here’s another sign. See the trefoil? Look at the way its stem is swollen. And those dandelions nearby, their petals are contracting and closing. Both those signs mean it will be raining soon.”

“How do you know these things?” asked the girl wonderingly.

“By observation and listening to the old ones, those who are wise in the ancient knowledge.”

They had climbed above the rocky cliffs and stood overlooking a sheltered depression in the center of the island where a few gaunt, bent trees grew amidst several stone, beehive-shaped huts and a small oratory.

“So this is Abbot Selbach’s community?” Fidelma mused. She stood frowning at the collection of buildings. She could see no movement nor signs of life. She raised her voice. “Hello there!”

The only answer that came back was an angry chorus of disturbed seabirds; of newly arrived auks seeking their summer nesting places who suddenly rose, black and white or dark brown with brilliantly colored bills and webbed feet. The black guillemots, gulls and storm petrels followed, swirling around the island in an angry chiding crowd.

Fidelma was puzzled. Someone must have heard her yet there was no response.

She made her way slowly down the grassy path into the shallow depression in which the collection of stone buildings stood. Sárnat trotted dutifully at her side.

Fidelma paused before the buildings and called again. And again there was no reply.

She moved on through the complex of buildings, turning round a corner into a quadrangle. The shriek came from Sister Sárnat.

There was a tree in the center of the quadrangle; a small tree no more than twelve feet high, bent before the cold Atlantic winds, gaunt and gnarled. To the thin trunk of this tree, secured by the wrists with leather thongs, which prevented it from slumping to the ground, the body of a man was tied. Although the body was secured with its face toward the tree trunk, there was no need to ask if the man was dead.

Sister Sárnat stood shaking in terror at her side.

Fidelma ignored her and moved forward a pace to examine the body. It was clad in bloodstained robes, clearly the robes of a religieux. The head was shaven at the front, back to a line stretching from ear to ear. At the back of his head, the hair was worn long. It was the tonsure of the Irish church, the airbacc giunnae which had been an inheritance from the Druids. The dead man was in his sixties; a thin, sharp-featured individual with sallow skin and a pinched mouth. She noticed that, hanging from a thong round his neck, he wore a crucifix of some value; a carefully worked silver cross. The bloodstains covered the back of the robe which actually hung in ribbons from the body.

Fidelma saw that the shoulders of the robe were torn and bloodied and beneath it was lacerated flesh. There were several small stab wounds in the back but the numerous ripping wounds showed that the man had clearly been scourged by a whip before he had met his death.

Fidelma’s eyes widened in surprise as she noticed a piece of wood fixed to the tree. There was some writing on it. It was in Greek; “As the whirlwind passes, so is the wicked no more …” She tried to remember why it sounded so familiar. Then she realized that it was out of the “Book of Proverbs.”

It was obvious to her eye that the man had been beaten and killed while tied to the tree.

She became distracted by the moaning of the girl and turned, suppressing her annoyance.

“Sárnat, go back to the cove and fetch Lorcán here.” And when the girl hesitated, she snapped “Now!”

Sárnat turned and scurried away.

Fidelma took another step toward the hanged religieux and let her eyes wander over the body, seeking more information. She could gather nothing further other than that the man was elderly and a religieux of rank, if the wealth of the crucifix was anything to go by. Then she stepped back and gazed around her. There was a small oratory, no larger than to accommodate half-a-dozen people at most behind its dry stone walls. It was placed in the centre of the six stone cells which served as accommodation for the community.

Fidelma crossed to the oratory and peered inside.

She thought, at first in the gloom, that it was a bundle of rags lying on the small altar. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she saw that it was the body of a young religieux. It was a boy not even reached manhood. She noticed that his robes were dank and sodden. The fair brown hair dried flat against his temples. The features were not calm in death’s repose but contorted in an odd manner, as if the boy had died in pain. She was about to move forward to make a closer investigation, when she nearly tripped over what seemed to be another bundle.

Another religieux lay stretched face downward, arms outstretched, almost like a supplicant praying toward the altar. His hair was dark. He was clad in the robes of a Brother. This religieux was older than the youth.

She moved forward and knelt down, seeking a pulse in his neck with her two fingers. It was faint but it was there right enough; the body was unnaturally cold. She bent further to examine the face. The man was about forty. Even unconscious the features were placid and quite handsome. A pleasant face, Fidelma conceded. But dried blood caked one side of the broad forehead where it had congealed around a wound.

She shook the man by the shoulder but he was deeply unconscious.

Checking her exhalation of breath, Fidelma stood up and, moving swiftly, she went from stone cell to stone cell but each one told the same story. There was no one hiding from her within the buildings. The cells of the community were deserted.

Lorcán came running along the path from the cove.

“I left the girl behind with Maenach,” he grunted as he came up to Fidelma. “She was upset. She says that someone is dead and…”

He paused and stared around him. From this position, the tree with its gruesome corpse was hidden to him.

“Where is everyone?”

“There is a man still alive here,” Fidelma said, ignoring the question. “He needs our immediate attention.”

She led the way to the small oratory, stooping down to enter and then standing to one side so that Lorcán could follow.

Lorcán gasped and genuflected as he saw the young boy.

“I know this boy. His name is Sacán from Inis Beag. Why, I brought him here to join the community only six months ago.”

Fidelma pointed to the figure of the dark-haired man on the floor which Lorcán had not observed.

“Do you recognize that Brother?” she asked.

“The saints defend us!” exclaimed the boatman as he bent down. “This is Brother Spelán.”

Fidelma pursed her lips.

“Brother Spelán?” she repeated unnecessarily.

Lorcán nodded unhappily.

“He served as Abbot Selbach’s dominus, the administrator of this community. Who did this deed? Where is everyone?”

“Questions can be answered later. We need to take him to a more comfortable place and restore him to consciousness. The boy-Sacán, you called him? — well, he is certainly beyond our help.”

“Sister,” replied Lorcán, “my friend Maenach knows a little of the physician’s art. Let me summon him so that he might assist us with Spelán.”

“It will take too long.”

“It will take but a moment,” Lorcán assured her, taking a conch shell from a rough leather pouch at his side. He went to the door and blew on it long and loudly. It was echoed by a tremendous chorus of frightened birds. Lorcán paused a moment before turning with a smile to Fidelma. “I see Maenach on the cliff top with the young Sister. They are coming this way.”

“Then help me carry this Brother to one of the nearby cells so that we may put him on a better bed than this rough floor,” instructed Fidelma.

As she knelt down to help lift the man she suddenly noticed a small wooden cup lying nearby. She reached forward and placed it in her marsupium, her large purselike bag, slung from her waist. There would be time to examine it later.

Between them, they carried Brother Spelán, who was quite heavy, to the nearest cell and laid him on one of two wooden cots which were within.

Maenach came hurrying in with Sister Sárnat almost clutching at his sleeve. Lorcán pointed to the unconscious religieux.

“Can you revive him?” he asked.

Maenach bent over the man, raising the unconscious man’s eyelids and then testing his pulse.

“He is in a deep coma. Almost as if he is asleep.” He examined the wound. “It is curious that he has been rendered so deeply unconscious from the blow that made this wound. The wound seems superficial enough. The brother’s breathing is regular and untroubled. I am sure he will regain consciousness after a while.”

“Then do what you can, Maenach,” Fidelma said. “Sister Sárnat, you will help him,” she instructed the pale, shivering young girl who still hovered uncertainly at the door of the cell.

She then took the boatman, Lorcán, by the arm and led him from the cell, turning him toward the quadrangle, and pointing silently to the figure bound to the tree.

Lorcán took a step forward and then let out a startled exhalation of breath. It was the first time he had observed the body.

“God look down upon us!” he said slowly as he genuflected. “Now there are two deaths among the religious of Selbach!”

“Do you know this person?” Fidelma asked.

“Know him?” Lorcán sounded startled at the question. “Of course. It is the Abbot Selbach!”

“Abbot Selbach?”

Fidelma pursed her lips with astonishment as she reexamined the body of the dead abbot. Then she gazed around her toward the empty landscape.

“And did you not say that Selbach had a community of twelve Brothers here with him?”

Lorcán followed her gaze uncertainly.

“Yes. Yet the island seems deserted,” he muttered. “What terrible mystery is here?”

“That is something we must discover,” Fidelma replied confidently.

“We must leave for the mainland at once,” Lorcán advised. “We must get back to Dún na Séad and inform the Ó hEidersceoil.”

The Ó hEidersceoil was the chieftain of the territory.

Fidelma raised a hand to stay the man even as he was turning back to the cell where they had left Brother Spelán.

“Wait, Lorcán. I am a dálaigh, an advocate of the Law of the Fenechus, holding the degree of Anruth. It is my task to stay and discover how Abbot Selbach and little Sacán met their deaths and why Brother Spelán was wounded. Also we must discover where the rest of the community has disappeared to.”

Lorcán gazed at the young religieuse in surprise.

“That same danger may yet attend us,” he protested. “What manner of magic is it that makes a community disappear and leaves their abbot dead like a common criminal bound to a tree, the boy dead and their dominus assaulted and unconscious?”

“Human magic, if magic you want to call it,” Fidelma replied irritably. “As an advocate of the law courts of the five kingdoms of Ireland, I call upon you for assistance. I have this right by the laws of the Fenechus, under the authority of the Chief Brehon. Do you deny my right?”

Lorcán gazed at the religieuse a moment in surprise and then slowly shook his head.

“You have that right, Sister. But, look, Abbot Selbach is not long dead. What if his killers are hiding nearby?”

Fidelma ignored his question and turned back to regard the hanging body, her head to one side in reflection.

“What makes you say that he is not long dead, Lorcán?”

The sailor shrugged impatiently.

“The body is cold but not very stiff. Also it is untouched by the scavengers…”

He gestured toward the wheeling birds. She followed his gaze and could see among the seabirds, the large forms of black-backed gulls, one of the most vicious of coastal scavengers. And here and there she saw the jet black of carrion crows. It was the season when the eggs of these harsh-voiced predators would be hatching along the cliff-top nests and the young birds would be demanding to be fed by the omnivorous parents, feeding off eggs of other birds, even small mammals and often rotting carcasses. She realized that the wheeling gulls and crows would sooner or later descend on a corpse but there was no sign that they had done so already.

“Excellently observed, Lorcán,” she commented. “And presumably Brother Spelán could not have been unconscious long. But do you observe any other peculiar thing about the Abbot’s body?”

The boatman frowned at her and glanced at the slumped corpse. He stared a moment and shook his head.

“Selbach was flogged and then stabbed three times in the back. I would imagine that the thrust of the knife was upward, between the ribs, so that he died instantly. What strange ritual would so punish a man before killing him?”

Lorcán stared more closely and sighed deeply.

“I don’t understand.”

“Just observe for the moment,” Fidelma replied. “I may need you later to be a witness to these facts. I think we may cut down the body and place it out of reach of the birds within the oratory.”

Lorcán took his sharp sailor’s knife and quickly severed the ropes. Then he dragged the body into the oratory at Fidelma’s direction.

Fidelma now had time to make a more careful examination of the young boy’s body.

“He has clearly been immersed for a while in the sea. Not very long but several hours at least,” she observed. “There are no immediate causes of death. He has not been stabbed nor has he been hit by any blunt instrument.”

She turned the body and gave a quick sudden intake of breath.

“But he has been scourged. See, Lorcán?”

The boatman saw that the upper part of the boy’s robe had been torn revealing that his back was covered in old and new welts and scars made by a whip.

“I knew the boy’s family well on Inis Beag,” he whispered. “He was a happy, dutiful boy. His body was without blemish when I brought him here.”

Fidelma made a search of the boy’s sodden clothing, the salt water drying out was already making white lines and patches on it. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the prayer cord which fastened the habit. A small metal hook was hanging from it on which a tiny leather sheath was fastened containing a small knife, a knife typical of those used by some rural orders to cut their meat or help them in their daily tasks. Caught on the projecting metal hook was a torn piece of woollen cloth. Carefully, Fidelma removed it and held it up.

“What is it, Sister?” asked Lorcán.

“I don’t know. A piece of cloth caught on the hook.” She made a quick examination. “It is not from the boy’s clothing.” She placed it in her marsupium, along with the wooden cup. Then she cast one final look at the youthful body before covering it. “Come, let us see what else we can find.”

“But what, Sister?” Lorcán asked. “What can we do? There is a storm coming soon and if it catches us here then here we shall have to remain until it passes.”

“I am aware of the coming storm,” she replied imperturbably. “But first we must be sure of one thing. You say there were twelve brothers here as well as Selbach? Then we have accounted for only two of them, Spelán and Sacán. Our next step is clear-we must search the island to assure ourselves that they are not hidden from us.”

Lorcán bit his lip nervously.

“What if it were pirates who did this deed? I have heard tales of Saxon raiders with their longboats, devastating villages further along the coast.”

“A possibility,” agreed Fidelma. “But it is not a likely one.”

“Why so?” demanded Lorcán. “The Saxons have raided along the coasts of Gaul, Britain and Ireland for many years, looting and killing…”

“Just so,” Fidelma smiled grimly. “Looting and burning communities; driving off livestock and taking the people to be slaves.”

She gestured to the deserted but tranquil buildings.

Lorcán suddenly realized what she was driving at. There was no sign of any destruction nor of any looting or violence enacted against the property. On the slope behind the oratory, three or four goats munched at the heather while a fat sow snorted and grunted among her piglets. And if that were not enough, he recalled that the silver crucifix still hung around the neck of the dead abbot. There had been no theft here. Clearly, then, there had been no pirate raid on the defenseless community. Lorcán was even more puzzled.

“Come with me, Lorcán, and we will examine the cells of the Brothers,” instructed Fidelma.

The stone cell next to the one in which they had left Spelán had words inscribed on the lintel.

Ora et labora. Work and pray. A laudable exhortation, thought Fidelma as she passed underneath. The cell was almost bare and its few items of furniture were simple. On a beaten earthen floor, covered with rushes strewn as a mat, there were two wooden cots, a cupboard, a few leather tiag leabhair or book satchels, hung from hooks, containing several small gosepl books. A large ornately carved wooden cross hung on a wall.

There was another maxim inscribed on a wall to one side of this cell.

Animi indices sunt oculi.

The eyes are the betrayer of the mind.

Fidelma found it a curious adage to exhort a Christian community to faith. Then her eyes fell on a piece of written vellum by the side of one of the cots. She picked it up. It was a verse from one of the Psalms. “Break thou the arm of the wicked and the evil man; seek out his wickedness till thou find none…” She shivered slightly for this was not a dictum of a God of love.

Her eyes fell on a box at the foot of the bed. On the top of the box was an inscription in Greek.

Pathémata mathémata. Sufferings are lessons.

She bent forward and opened the box. Her eyes rounded in astonishment. Contained in the box were a set of scourges, of whips and canes. There were some words carved on the underside of the lid. They were in plain Irish.

God give me a wall of tears

my sins to hide;

for I remain, while no tears fall,

unsanctified.

She looked across to Lorcán in surprise.

“Do you know whose cell this was?” she demanded.

“Assuredly,” came the prompt reply. “Selbach shared this cell with his dominus-Spelán. The cell we placed Spelán in, the one nearest the oratory, belongs to two other members of the community.”

“Do you know what sort of man Selbach was? Was he a man who was authoritarian, who liked to inflict punishment? Was the Rule of his community a harsh one?”

Lorcán shrugged.

“That I would not know. I did not know the community that well.”

“There is evidence of pain and punishment in this place.” Fi-delma sensed a cold tingle against her spine. “I do not understand it.”

She paused, noticing a shelf on which stood several jars and bottles. She moved to them and began to examine the contents of each jar, sniffing its odors or wetting the tip of her finger from the concoctions before cautiously tasting it. Then she reached into her marsupium and took the wooden cup she had retrieved from the floor of the oratory. It had recently been used for the wood still showed the dampness of its contents. She sniffed at it. A curious mixture of pungent odors came to her nostrils. Then she turned back to the shelf and examined the jars and bottles of herbs again. She could identify the dried heads of red clover, dried horse-chestnut leaves and mullein among the jars of herbs.

Lorcán stood watching her impatiently.

“Spelán uses this as the community’s apothecary,” he said. “On one of my trips here I cut my hand and it was Spelán who gave me a poultice of herbs to heal it.”

Fidelma sighed a little as she gave a final look around.

Finally she left the cell, followed by an unhappy Lorcán, and began to examine the other cells again but this time more carefully. There was evidence in one or two of them that some personal items and articles of clothing had been hurriedly removed but not enough to support the idea of the community being attacked and robbed by an outside force.

Fidelma emerged into the quadrangle feeling confused.

Lorcán, at her side, was gazing up at the sky, a worried expression on his face.

Fidelma knew that he was still concerned about the approaching weather but it was no time to retreat from this mystery. Someone had killed the Abbot of the community and a young Brother, knocked the dominus unconscious and made ten further members of the brotherhood disappear.

“Didn’t you say that the community had their own boat?” she asked abruptly.

Lorcán nodded unhappily.

“It was not in the cove when we landed,” Fidelma pointed out.

“No, it wouldn’t be,” replied the boatman. “They kept their boat further along the shore in a sheltered spot. There is a small shingled strand around the headland where a boat can be beached.”

“Show me,” Fidelma instructed. “There is nothing else to do until Spelán recovers consciousness and we may learn his story.”

Somewhat reluctantly, with another glance at the western sky, Lorcán led the way along the pathway towards the cove but then broke away along another path which led down on the other side of a great rocky outcrop which served as a headland separating them from the cove in which they had landed.

Fidelma knew something was wrong when they reached a knoll before the path twisted and turned through granite pillars toward the distant pounding sea. Her eyes caught the flash of black in the sky circling over something on the shore below.

They were black-backed gulls. Of all gulls, these were birds to be respected. They frequently nested on rocky islands such as Inis Chloichreán. It was a carrion-eater, a fierce predator given to taking mammals even as large as cats. They had obviously found something down on the beach. Fidelma could see that even the crows could not compete with their larger brethren. There were several pairs of crows above the melee, circling and waiting their chance.

Fidelma compressed her lips firmly.

Lorcán continued to lead the way down between the rocks. The area was full of nesting birds. May was a month in which the black-backed gulls, along with many another species, laid their eggs. The rocky cliffs of the island were ideal sites for birds. The females screamed furiously as they entered the area but Lorcán ignored their threatening displays. Fidelma did not pretend that she was unconcerned.

“The Brothers kept their boat just here…” began Lorcán, reaching a large platform of rocky land about twelve feet above a short pebbly beach. He halted and stared.

Fidelma saw the wooden trestles, on which the boat had apparently been set. There was no vessel resting on them now.

“They used to store the boat here,” explained Lorcán, “placed upside down to protect it against the weather.”

It was the gathering further down on the pebbly strand, an area of beach no more than three yards in width and perhaps ten yards long, that caused Fidelma to exclaim sharply. She realized what the confusion of birds was about. A dozen or more large gulls were gathered, screaming and fighting each other, while forming an outer circle were several other birds who seemed to be interested spectators to the affair. Here and there a jet-black carrion crow perched, black eyes watching intently for its chance, while others circled overhead. They were clustering around something which lay on the pebbles. Fidelma suspected what it was.

“Come on!” she cried, and climbed hastily down to the pebbly strand. Then she halted and picked up several large pebbles and began to hurl them at the host of carrion-eaters. The scavengers let forth screaming cries of anger and flapped their great wings. Lorcán joined her, picking up stones and throwing them with all his strength.

It was not long before the wheeling mass of birds had dispersed from the object over which they had been fighting. But Fidelma saw that they had not retreated far. They swirled high in the air above them or strutted nearby, beady eyes watching and waiting.

Nonetheless, she strode purposefully across the shingle.

The religieux had been young, very young with fair hair.

He lay on his back, his robes in an unseemly mess of torn and frayed wool covered in blood.

Fidelma swallowed hard. The gulls had been allowed an hour or so of uninterrupted work. The face was pitted and bloody, an eye was missing. Part of the skull had been smashed, a pulpy mess of blood and bone. It was obvious that no bird had perpetrated that damage.

“Can you tell who this was, Lorcán?” Fidelma asked softly.

The boatman came over, one wary eye on the gulls. They were standing well back but with their eyes malignantly on the humans who had dared drive them from their unholy feastmg. Lorcán glanced down. He pulled a face at the sight.

“I have seen him here in the community, Sister. Alas, I do not know his name. Sister, I am fearful. This is the third dead member of the community.”

Fidelma did not reply but steeled herself to bend beside the corpse. The leather crumena or purse was still fastened at his belt. She forced herself to avoid the lacerated features of the youth and his one remaining bright, accusing eye, and put her hand into the purse. It was empty.

She drew back and shook her head.

Then a thought occurred to her.

“Help me push the body over face down,” she instructed.

Keeping his curiosity to himself, Lorcán did so.

The robe was almost torn from the youth’s back by the ravages of the birds. Fidelma did not have to remove the material further to see a patch of scars, some old, some new, some which showed signs of recent bleeding, criss-cross over his back.

“What do you make of that, Lorcán?” Fidelma invited.

The boatman thrust out his lower lip and raised one shoulder before letting it fall in an exaggerated shrug.

“Only that the boy has been whipped. Not once either but many times over a long period.”

Fidelma nodded in agreement.

“That’s another fact I want you to witness, Lorcán.”

She stood up, picking up a few stones as she did so and shying them at two or three large gulls who were slowly closing the distance between them. They screamed in annoyance but removed themselves to a safer position.

“How big was the community’s currach?” she asked abruptly.

Lorcán understood what she meant.

“It was big enough to carry the rest of the brethren,” he replied. “They must be long gone, by now. They could be anywhere on the islands or have even reached the mainland.” He paused and looked at her. “But did they go willingly or were they forced to go? Who could have done this?”

Fidelma did not reply. She motioned Lorcán to help her return the body to its original position and stared at the crushed skull.

“That was done with heavy and deliberate blow,” she observed. “This young religieux was murdered and left here on the strand.”

Lorcán shook his head in utter bewilderment.

“There is much evil here, Sister.”

“With that I can agree,” Fidelma replied. “Come, let us build a cairn over his body with stones so that the gulls do not feast further on him-whoever he was. We cannot carry him back to the settlement.”

When they arrived back at the community, having completed their task, Maenach greeted them in the quadrangle with a look of relief.

“Brother Spelán is coming round. The young Sister is nursing him.”

Fidelma answered with a grim smile.

“Now perhaps we may learn some answers to this mystery.”

Inside the cell, the brother was lying against a pillow. He looked very drowsy and blinked several times as his dark, black eyes tried to focus on Fidelma.

She motioned Sister Sárnat to move aside and sat on the edge of the cot by Spelán.

“I have given him water only, Sister,” the girl said eagerly, as if expecting her approval. “The boatman,” she gestured toward Maenach, who stood at the doorway with Lorcán, “bathed and dressed the wound.”

Fidelma smiled encouragingly at the Brother.

“Are you Brother Spelan?”

The man closed his eyes for a moment, his voice sounded weak.

“I am Spelán. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I am Fidelma of Kildare. I am come here to bring the Abbot Selbach a letter from Ultan of Armagh.”

Spelán stared at her.

“A letter from Ultan?” He sounded confused.

“Yes. That is why we landed on the island. What has happened here? Who hit you on the head?”

Spelán groaned and raised a hand to his forehead.

“I recall.” His voice grew strong and commanding. “The abbot is dead, Sister. Return to Dún na Séad and ask that a Brehon be sent here for there has been a great crime committed.”

“I will take charge of the matter, Spelán,” Fidelma said confi-dently.

“You?” Spelán stared at her in bewilderment. “You don’t understand. It is a Brehon that is needed.”

“I am a dálaigh of the court qualified to the level of Anruth.”

Spelán’s eyes widened a fraction for he realized that the qualification of Anruth allowed the young religieuse to sit in judgment with kings and even with the High King himself.

“Tell me what took place here,” Fidelma prompted.

Spelán’s dark eyes found Sister Sárnat and motioned for her to hand him the cup of water from which he took several swallows.

“There was evil here, Sister. An evil which grew unnoticed by me until it burst forth and enveloped us all in its maw.”

Fidelma waited without saying anything.

Spelán seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment or two.

“I will start from the beginning.”

“Always a good place for starting a tale,” Fidelma affirmed solemnly.

“Two years ago I met Selbach who persuaded me to join him here in order to build a community which would be dedicated to isolation and meditative contemplation of the works of the Creator. I was the apothecary at an abbey on the mainland which was a sinful place-pride, gluttony and other vices were freely practiced there. In Selbach I believed that I had found a kindred spirit who shared my own views. We searched together for a while and eventually came across eleven young souls who wanted to devote themselves to our purpose.”

“Why so young?” demanded Fidelma.

Spelán blinked.

“We needed youth to help our community flourish for in youth lies strength against the hardships of this place.”

“Go on,” pressed Fidelma when the man paused.

“With the blessing of Ultan of Armagh and the permission of the local chieftain, The Ó hEidersceoil, we came to this isolated place.”

He paused to take another sip of water.

“And what of this evil that grew in your midst?” encouraged Fidelma.

“I am coining to that. There is a philosophy among some of the ascetics of the faith that physical pain, even as the Son of the Living God had to endure, pain such as the tortures of the flesh, is the way to man’s redemption, a way to salvation. Mortification and suffering are seen as the paths to spiritual salvation.”

Fidelma sniffed in disapproval.

“I have heard that there are such misguided fools among us.”

Spelán blinked.

“Not fools, Sister, not fools,” he corrected softly. “Many of our blessed saints believed in the efficacy of mortification. They held genuine belief that they must emulate the pain of Christ if they, too, would seek eternal paradise. There are many who will still wear crowns of thorns, who flagellate themselves, drive nails into their hands or pierce their sides so that they might share the suffering of Christ. No, you are too harsh, sister. They are not fools; visionaries-yes; and, perhaps, misguided in their path.”

“Very well. We will not argue the matter at this stage, Spelán.

What is this to do with what has happened here?”

“Do not mistake my meaning, Sister,” replied Selbach contritely. “I am not an advocate for the gortaigid, those who seek the infliction of such pain. I, too, condemn them as you do. But I accept that their desire to experience pain is a genuine desire to share the pain of the Messiah through which he sought man’s redemption. I would not call them fools. However, let me continue. For a while we were a happy community. It did not cross my mind that one among us felt that pain was his path to salvation.”

“There was a gortaigid among you?”

The dominus nodded.

“I will spare the events that led to it but will simply reveal that it was none other than the venerable Abbot Selbach himself. But Selbach was not of those who simply inflicted pain and punishment upon himself. He persuaded the youthful brothers we had gathered here to submit to scourgings and whippings in order to satiate his desire to inflict pain and injury so that, he argued, they might approach a sharing of Christ’s great suffering. He practiced these abominations in secret and swore others to keep that secret on pain of their immortal souls.”

“When was this discovered?” demanded Fidelma, slightly horrified.

Spelán bit his Up a moment.

“For certain? Only this morning. I knew nothing. I swear it. It was early this morning that the body of our youngest neophyte, Sacán, was found. He was fourteen years old. The Brothers found him and it was known that Selbach had taken him to a special place at the far end of the island last night to ritually scourge the boy. So fierce did he lash the youth that he died of shock and pain.”

The dominus genuflected.

Fidelma’s mouth tightened.

“Go on. How were you, the dominus of this community, unaware of the abbot’s actions before this morning?”

“He was cunning,” replied Spelán immediately. “He made the young brothers take oath each time not to reveal the ritual scourg-ings to anyone else. He took one young brother at a time to the far end of the island. A shroud of silence enveloped the community. I dwelt in blissful ignorance.”

“Go on.”

“Selbach had tried to hide his guilt by throwing the poor boy’s body over the cliffs last night but the tide washed the body along the rocky barrier that is our shore. It washed ashore early this morning at a point where two of our brethren were fishing for our daily meal.”

He paused and sought another sip of water.

Behind her Lorcán said quietly: “Indeed, the tide from the head-land would wash the body along to the pebble beach.”

“I was asleep when I heard the noise. When I left my cell the Brothers’ anger had erupted and they had seized Selbach and lashed him to the quadrangle tree. One of the Brothers was flogging him with his own whip, tearing at his flesh…”

The dominus paused again before continuing.

“And did you attempt to stop them?” inquired Fidelma.

“Of course I tried to stop them,” Spelán replied indignantly. “I tried to remonstrate, as did another young Brother, Snagaide, who told them they could not take the law into their own hands nor punish Selbach. They must take their complaint to Dún na Séad and place it before the Brehon of the Ó hEidersceoil. But the young Brothers were so enraged that they would not listen. Instead, they seized Snagaide and myself and held us, ignoring our pleas, while they flogged Selbach. Their rage was great. And then, before I knew it, someone had thrust his knife into the back of Selbach. I did not see who it was.

“I cried to them that not only a crime had been done but now great sacrilege. I demanded that they surrender themselves to me and to Brother Snagaide. I promised that I would take them to Dún na Séad where they must answer for their deed but I would speak on their behalf.”

Spelán paused and touched the wound on the side of his head once more with a grimace of pain.

“They argued among themselves then but, God forgive them, they found a determined spokesman in a Brother named Fogach who said that they should not be punished for doing what was right and just in the eyes of God. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, they argued. It was right for Selbach to have met his death in compensation for the death of young Brother Sacán. He demanded that I should swear an oath not to betray the events on the island, recording the deaths as accidents. If I protested then they would take the currach and seek a place where they could live in peace and freedom, leaving me and Snagaide on the island until visited by Lorcán or some other boatman from the mainland.”

“Then what happened?” urged Fidelma after the dominus paused.

“Then? As you might expect, I could not make such an oath. Their anger spilt over while I remonstrated with them. More for the fear of the consequences than anger, I would say. One of their number knocked me on the head. I knew nothing else until I came to with the young Sister and the boatman bending over me.”

Fidelma was quiet for a while.

“Tell me, Spelán, what happened to your companion, Brother Snagaide?”

Spelán frowned, looking around as if he expected to find the Brother in a coiner of the cell.

“Snagaide? I do not know, Sister. There was a great deal of shouting and arguing. Then everything went black for me.”

“Was Brother Snagaide young?”

“Most of the brethren, apart from myself and Selbach, were but youths.”

“Did he have fair hair?”

Spelán shook his head to her surprise. Then it was not Snagaide who lay dead on the strand.

“No,” Spelán repeated. “He had black hair.”

“One thing that still puzzles me, Spelán. This is a small island, with a small community. For two years you have lived here in close confines. Yet you say that you did not know about the sadistic tendencies of Abbot Selbach; that each night he took young members of the community to some remote part of the island and inflicted pain on them, yet you did not know? I find this strange.”

Spelán grimaced dourly.

“Strange though it is, Sister, it is the truth. The rest of the community were young. Selbach dominated them. They thought that pain brought them nearer salvation. Being sworn by the Holy Cross never to speak of the whipping given them by the abbot, they remained in silence. Probably they thought that I approved of the whippings. Ah, those poor boys, they suffered in silence until the death of gentle, little Sacán… poor boy, poor boy.”

Tears welled in the dominus’s eyes.

Sister Sárnat reached forward and handed him the cup of water.

Fidelma rose silently and left the cell.

Lorcán followed after her as she went to the quadrangle and stood for a moment in silent reflection.

“A terrible tale, and no mistake,” he commented, his eyes raised absently to the sky. “The Brother is better now, however, and we can leave as soon as you like.”

Fidelma ignored him. Her hands were clasped before her and she was gazing at the ground without focusing on it.

“Sister?” prompted Lorcán.

Fidelma raised her head, suddenly becoming aware of him.

“Sorry, you were saying something?”

The boatman shrugged.

“Only that we should be on our way soon. The poor Brother needs to be taken to Chléire as soon as we can do so.”

Fidelma breathed out slowly.

“I think that the poor Brother…” she paused and grimaced. “I think there is still a mystery here which needs to be resolved.”

Lorcán stared at her.

“But the explanation of Brother Spelán…?”

Fidelma returned his gaze calmly.

“I will walk awhile in contemplation.”

The boatman spread his hands in despair.

“But, Sister, the coming weather…”

“If the storm comes then we will remain here until it passes.” And, as Lorcán opened his mouth to protest, she added: “I state this as a dálaigh of the court and you will observe that authority.”

Lorcán’s mouth drooped and, with a shrug of resignation, he turned away.

Fidelma began to follow the path behind the community, among the rocks to the more remote area of the island. She realized that this would have been the path which, according to Spelán, Abbot Selbach took his victims. She felt a revulsion at what had been revealed by Spelán, although she had expected some such explanation from the evidence of the lacerated backs of the two young Brothers she had seen. She felt loathing for the ascetics who called themselves gortaigid, those who sought salvation by bestowing pain on themselves and others. Abbots and bishops condemned them and they were usually driven out into isolated communities.

Here, it seemed that one evil man had exerted his will on a bunch of youths scarcely out of boyhood who had sought the religious life and knew no better than submit to his will until one of their number died. Now those youths had fled the island, frightened, demoralized and probably lost to the truth of Christ’s message of love and peace.

In spite of general condemnation she knew that in many abbeys and monasteries some abbots and abbesses ordered strict rules of intolerable numbers of genuflections, prostrations and fasts. She knew that Erc, the bishop of Slane, who had been patron of the blessed Brendan of Clonfert, would take his acolytes to cold mountain streams, summer and winter, to immerse themselves in the icy waters four times a day to say their prayers and psalms. There was the ascetic, Mac Tulchan, who bred fleas on his body and, so that his pain might be the greater, he never scratched himself. Didn’t Finnian of Clonard purposely set out to catch a virulent disease from a dying child that he might obtain salvation through suffering?

Mortification and suffering. Ultan of Armagh was one of the school preaching moderation to those who were becoming indulgently masochistic, ascetics who were becoming fanatical torturers of the body, wrenching salvation through unnatural wants, strain or physical suffering.

She paused in her striding and sat down on a rock, her hands demurely folded in front of her, as she let her mind dwell on the evidence. It certainly appeared that everything fitted in with Spe-lán’s explanation. Why did she feel that there was something wrong? She opened her marsupium and drew out the piece of cloth she had found ensnared on the belt hook of the youthful Sacán. It had obviously been torn away from something and not from the boy’s habit. And there was the wooden cup, which had dried out now, which she had found on the floor of the oratory. It had obviously been used for an infusion of herbs.

She suddenly saw a movement out of the corner of her eye, among the rocks. She swung round very fast. For a moment her eyes locked into the dark eyes of a startled youth, the cowl of his habit drawn over his head. Then the youth darted away among the rocks.

“Stop!” Fidelma came to her feet, thrusting the cup and cloth into her marsupium. “Stop, Brother, I mean you no harm.”

But the youth was gone, bounding away through the rocky terrain.

With an exasperated sigh, Fidelma began to follow, when the sound of her name being called halted her.

Sister Sárnat came panting along the path.

“I have been sent by Brother Spelán and Lorcán,” she said. “Lor-cán entreats you to have a care of the approaching storm, Sister.”

Fidelma was about to say something sarcastic about Lorcán’s concern but Sárnat continued.

“Brother Spelán agrees we should leave the island immediately and report the events here to the Abbot of Chléire. The Brother is fully recovered now and he is taking charge of things. He says that he recalls your purpose here was to bring a letter from Ultan to the Abbot Selbach. Since Selbach is dead and he is dominus he asks that you give him the letter in case anything is required to be done about it before we leave the island.”

Fidelma forgot about the youth she was about to pursue.

She stared hard at Sister Sárnat.

The young novitiate waited nervously, wondering what Fidelma was staring at.

“Sister…” she began nervously.

Fidelma sat down on the nearest rock abruptly.

“I have been a fool,” she muttered, reaching into her marsu-pium and bringing out the letters she was carrying. She thrust back the letter addressed to the Abbot of Chléire and tore open Ultan’s letter to Selbach, to the astonished gaze of Sister Sárnat. Her eyes rapidly read the letter and her features broke into a grim smile.

“Go, Sister,” she said, arising and thrusting the letter back into the marsupium. “Return to Brother Spelán. Tell him and Lorcán that I will be along in a moment. I think we will be able to leave here before the storm develops.”

Sárnat stared at her uncertainly.

“Very well, Sister. But why not return with me?”

Fidelma smiled.

“I have to talk to someone first.”

A short while later Fidelma strode into the cell where Spelán was sitting on the cot, with Lorcán and Maenach lounging nearby. Sister Sárnat was seated on a wooden bench by one wall. As Fidelma entered, Lorcán looked up in relief.

“Are you ready now, Sister? We do not have long.”

“A moment or two, if you please, Lorcán,” she said, smiling gently.

Spelán was rising.

“I think we should leave immediately, Sister. I have much to report to the Abbot of Chléire. Also …”

“How did you come to tear your robe, Spelán?”

Fidelma asked the question with an innocent expression. Beneath that expression, her mind was racing for she had made her opening arrow-shot into the darkness. Spelán stared at her and then stared at his clothing. It was clear that he did not know whether his clothing was torn or not. But his eyes lighted upon a jagged tear in his right sleeve. He shrugged.

“I did not notice,” he replied.

Fidelma took the piece of torn cloth from her marsupium and laid it on the table.

“Would you say that this cloth fitted the tear, Lorcán.”

The boatman, frowning, picked it up and took it to place against Spelán’s sleeve.

“It does, Sister,” he said quietly.

“Do you recall where I found it?”

“I do. It was snagged on the hook of the belt of the young boy, Sacán.”

The color drained from Spelán’s face.

“It must have been caught there when I carried the body from the strand…” he began.

“You carried the body from the strand?” asked Fidelma with emphasis. “You told us that some of the young Brothers fishing there saw it and brought it back and all this happened before you were awakened after they had tied Selbach to the tree and killed him.”

Spelán’s mouth worked for a moment without words coming.

“I will tell you what happened on this island,” Fidelma said. “Indeed, you did have a gortaigid here. One who dedicated his life to the enjoyment of mortification and suffering but not from any pious ideal of religious attainment… merely from personal perversion. Where better to practice his disgusting sadism than a hermitage of youths whom he could dominate and devise tortures for by persuading them that only by that pain could they obtain true spirituality?”

Spelán was staring malignantly at her.

“In several essentials, your story was correct, Spelán. There was a conspiracy of secrecy among the youths. Their tormentor would take them one at a time, the youngest and most vulnerable, to a remote part of the island and inflict his punishment, assuring the boy it was the route to eternal glory. Then one day one of the youths, poor little Sacán, was beaten so severely that he died. In a panic the tormentor tried to dispose of his evil deed by throwing the body over the cliffs. As he did so, the hook on the boy’s belt tore a piece of cloth from the man’s robe. Then the next morning the body washed ashore.”

“Utter nonsense. It was Selbach who …”

“It was Selbach who began to suspect that he had a gortaigid in his community.”

Spelán frowned.

“All this is supposition,” he sneered but there was a fear lurking in his dark eyes.

“Not quite,” Fldelma replied without emotion. “You are a very clever man, Spelán. When Sacán’s body was discovered, the youths who found him gathered on the shore around it. They did not realize that their abbot, Selbach, was really a kindly man who had only recently realized what was going on in his community and certainly did not condone it. As you said yourself, the conspiracy of silence was such that the youthful brothers thought that you were acting with Selbach’s approval. They thought that mortification was a silent rule of the community. They decided to flee from the island there and then. Eight of them launched the currach and rowed away, escaping from what had become for them an accursed place…”

Lorcán, who had been following Fidelma’s explanation with some astonishment, whistled softly.

“Where would they have gone, Sister?”

“It depends. If they had sense they would have gone to report the matter to Chléire or even to Dún na Séad. But, perhaps, they thought their word would be of no weight against the abbot and dominus of this house. Perhaps these innocents still think that mortification is an accepted rule of the Faith.”

“May I remind you that I was knocked unconscious by these same innocents?” sneered Spelán.

Maenach nodded emphatically.

“Indeed, Sister, that is so. How do you explain that?”

“I will come to that in a moment. Let me tell you firstly what happened here. The eight young Brothers left the island because they believed everyone else supported the rule of mortification. It was then that Brother Fogach came across the body and carried it to the oratory and alerted you, Spelán.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because Brother Fogach was not your enemy, nor was Brother Snagaide. They were your chosen acolytes who had actually helped you carry out your acts of sadism in the past. They were young and gullible enough to believe your instructions were the orders of the Faith and the Word of God. But inflicting punishment on their fellows was one thing, murder was another.”

“You’ll have a job to prove this,” sneered Spelán.

“Perhaps,” replied Fidelma. “At this stage Fogach and Snagaide were willing to help you. You realized that your time was running out. If those brothers reported matters then an official of the church, a dálaigh, would be sent to the island. You had to prepare your defense. An evil scheme came into your mind. It was still early. Selbach was still asleep. You persuaded Snagaide and Fo-gach that Selbach was responsible in the same way that you had persuaded their fellows that Selbach approved of this mortification. You told them that Selbach had flogged Sacán that night- not you-and now he must be ritually scourged in turn. Together you awoke Selbach and took him and tied him to that tree. You knew exactly what you were going to do but first you whipped that venerable old man.

“In his pain, the old man cried out and told your companions the truth. They listened, horrified at how they had been misled. Seeing this, you stabbed the abbot to stop him speaking. But the abbot’s life would have been forfeit anyway. It was all part of your plan to hide all the evidence against you, to show that you were simply the dupe of Selbach.

“Snagaide and Fogach ran off. You now had to silence them. You caught up with Fogach and killed him, smashing his skull with a stone. But when you turned in search of Snagaide you suddenly observed a currach approaching. It was Lorcán’s currach. But you thought it was coining in answer to the report of the eight Brothers.

“You admitted that you were a trained apothecary. You hurried to your cell and mixed a potion of herbs, a powerful sleeping draught which would render you unconscious within a short time. First you picked up a stone and smote your temple hard enough to cause a nasty-looking wound. But Maenach, who knows something of a physician’s art, told us that he would not have expected you to be unconscious from it. In fact, after you had delivered that blow, you drank your potion and stretched yourself in the oratory where I found you. You were not unconscious from the blow but merely in a deep sleep from your potion. You had already worked out the story that you would tell us. It would be your word against the poor, pitiful and confused youths.”

Fidelma slowly took out the cup and placed it on the table.

“That was the cup I found lying near you in the oratory. It still smells of the herbs, like mullein and red clover tops, which would make up the powerful sleeping draught. You have jars of such ingredients in your cell.”

“You still can’t prove this absurd story,” replied Spelán.

“I think I can. You see, not only did Abbot Selbach begin to suspect that there was a gortaigid at work within his community but he wrote to Ultan of Armagh outlining his suspicions.”

She took out the letter from Ultan of Armagh.

Spelán’s eyes narrowed. She noticed that tiny beads of sweat had begun to gather on his brow for the first time since she had begun to call his bluff. She held the letter tantalizingly in front of her.

“You see, Spelán, when you showed yourself anxious to get your hands on this letter, I realized that it was the piece of evidence I was looking for; indeed, that I was overlooking. The letter is remarkably informative, a reply to all Selbach’s concerns about you.”

Spelán’s face was white. He stared aghast at the letter as she placed it on the table.

“Selbach named me to Ultan?”

Fidelma pointed to the letter.

“You may see for yourself.”

With a cry of rage that stunned everyone into immobility, Spe-lán suddenly launched himself across the room towards Fidelma with his hands outstretched.

He had gone but a few paces when he was abruptly halted as if by a gigantic hand against his chest. He stood for a moment, his eyes bulging in astonishment, and then he slid to the ground without another word.

It was only then that they saw the hilt of the knife buried in Spelán’s heart and the blood staining his robes.

There was a movement at the door. A young, dark-haired youth in the robes of a religieux took a hesitant step in. Lorcán, the first to recover his senses, knelt by the side of Spelán and reached for a pulse. Then he raised his eyes and shook his head.

Fidelma turned to the trembling youth who had thrown the knife. She reached out a hand and laid it on his shaking arm.

“I had to do it,” muttered the youth. “I had to.”

“I know,” she pacified.

“I do not care. I am ready to be punished.” The youth drew himself up.

“In your suffering of mind, you have already punished your self enough, Brother Snagaide. These here,” she gestured toward Lor-cán, Maenach and Sárnat, “are witnesses to Spelán’s action which admitted of his guilt. Your case will be heard before the Brehon in Chléire and I shall be your advocate. Does not the ancient law say every person who places themselves beyond the law is without the protection of the law? You slew a violator of the law and therefore this killing is justified under the Law of the Fenechus.”

She drew the youth outside. He was scarcely the age of credulous and unworldly Sister Sárnat. Fidelma sighed deeply. If she could one day present a law to the council of judges of Ireland she would make it a law that no one under the age of twenty-five could be thrust into the life of the religieux. Youth needed to grow to adulthood and savor life and understand something of the world before they isolated themselves on islands or in cloisters away from it. Only in such sequestered states of innocence and fear of authority could evil men like Spelán thrive. She placed a comforting arm around the youth’s shoulder as he fell to heart-wrenching sobbing.

“Come, Lorcán,” Fidelma called across her shoulder. “Let’s get down to the currach and reach Inis Chléire before your storm arrives.”

Sister Sárnat emerged from the cell, holding the letter which Fidelma had laid on the table.

“Sister…” She seemed to find difficulty in speaking. “This letter from Ultan to Selbach… it does not refer to Spelán. Selbach didn’t suspect Spelán at all. He thought that mortification was just a fashion among the youthful Brothers.”

Fidelma’s face remained unchanged.

“Selbach could not bring himself to suspect his companion. It was a lucky thing that Spelán didn’t realize that, wasn’t it?”