Hemlock at Vespers

HEMLOCK AT VESPERS

Sister Fidelma was late. The vesper-bell had already ceased proclaiming the arrival of the sixth canonical hour, the time set aside for prayers, long before she reached the dusk-shrouded gates of the grey stone abbey building. The services were over and the community had already filed into the refectory for the evening meal as she, having cursorily brushed the dust of travel from her, entered and hurried toward her place with arms folded into her habit, her head bent in submissive attitude.

While her head was lowered, the keen observer might have noticed that there was little else that was submissive about Sister Fidelma’s bearing. Her tall, well-proportioned figure, scarcely disguised by her flowing robe, carried the attitude of a joy in living, a worship of activity, rather than being cowed by the somber dignity associated with a religieuse. As if to add to this impression, rebellious strands of red hair broke from beneath her head-dress adding to the youthful coloring of her pale, fresh face and piercing green eyes which hardly concealed a bubbling vitality and sense of humor.

The refectory hall was lit by numerous spluttering oil lamps whose pungent smell mingled with the heavy aroma of the smoky turf fire which smoldered in the great hearth set at the head of the chamber. Lamps and fire combined to generate a poor heat against the cold early spring evening.

The Abbess had already started the Gratias as Sister Fidelma, ignoring the scandalized or amused glances from the lines of Sisters-each expression fitting their individual characters-slipped into her place at the end of one of the long tables and genuflected, slightly breathlessly, and with more than seemly haste.

“Benedic nobis, Domine Deus, et omnibus donis Tuis quae ex lorgia liberalitate Tua sumnus per-“

The sudden cry of agony was followed by several seconds of shocked silence. Then the cry, a harsh male howl, came again, followed by a crash of someone falling and the sound of breaking pottery. Sister Fidelma, eyes wide at the unexpectedness of the interruption, raised her head. Indeed, all those in the great refectory hall of the abbey had done so, peering around with excited whispers.

All eyes came to stare toward the end of the hall, to the table which was usually occupied by the visitors to the House of Blessed Brigid in Kildare. There was a commotion near the table and then Sister Fidelma saw one of the community hurry forward to where the Abbess, and the other leading members of the House of Brigid, stood behind their table which was placed on a slightly raised platform to dominate the hall.

She saw Sister Poitigéir, whom she recognized as the Sister-apothecary, lean forward and whisper excitedly into the Abbess’s ear. The Abbess’s placidity of features did not alter. She simply inclined her head in dismissal of her informant.

By this time a babble of sound had erupted from the hundred or so members of the community gathered to partake of their evening meal following the celebration of vespers.

The Abbess banged her earthenware mug on the table for silence, determined to finish the formula of the Gratias.

“… sumnus per Jesum Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”

Across the hall, Sister Fidelma could see two members of the community laboring to carry what appeared to be a man’s body from the refectory. She saw Follaman, a large, ruddy-faced man, who looked after the male guests at the community’s hostel, enter the refectory and help the Sisters with their burden.

“Amen.” The word echoed raggedly but there was scarcely another sound as the hundred members of the community slid into their seats. This was the moment when the meal usually began with the handing round of bread but the Abbess held her hand to prevent the monitors from commencing to dispense the meal.

There was an expectant silence. She cleared her throat.

“My children, we must delay our repast a moment. Our guest has been taken ill and we must await the report of our Sister-apothecary who believes that our guest may have eaten something which has disagreed with him.”

She stilled another eruption of excited murmuring with a sharp gesture of her thin white hand.

“While we wait, Sister Mugain shall lead you in the devotion…”

Without further explanation, the Abbess swept from the platform while Sister Mugain began intoning a mixture of Latin and Irish in her shrill voice:

Regem regum rogamus

In nostris sermonibus

anacht Nóe a luchtlach

diluui temporibus

King of Kings

We pray to you

Who protected Noah

In the day of the Flood

Sister Fidelma leant close to Sister Luan, a gawky girl, beside whom she sat.

“Who was the person who was carried out?” she asked softly.

Sister Fidelma had only just rejoined her community after a two week journey to Tara, the royal capital of the five kingdoms of Ireland, seat of the High King.

Sister Luan paused until the strident tones of Sister Mugain paused in her chant:

Regis regum rectissimi

prope est dies Domini…

“It was a guest lodging in the tech-óired. A man named Sillán from Kilmantan.”

Each religious house throughout the country had a quarter named the tech-óired, a hostel where travelers lodged, or where important guests were given hospitality.

“Who was this man, Sillán?” demanded Sister Fidelma.

An imperious hand fell on her shoulder. She started nervously and glanced up, firmly expecting a rebuke for talking during the devotions.

The hawklike features of Sister Ethne gazed disapprovingly down at her, her thin lips compressed. Sister Ethne, elderly and pinched-faced, was feared by the younger members of the community. Her pale, dead eyes seemed to gaze through anyone she looked upon. It was whispered that she was so old that she had been in the service of Christ when the Blessed Brigid had come to this spot a century before, to establish the first religious house for women in the country under the great oak tree from which her church took the name Kildare, the Church of the Oak. Sister Ethne was the bean-tigh, the house steward of the community whose job it was to oversee the internal affairs and running of the community.

“The Abbess requires your presence in her chamber immediately,” Sister Ethne sniffed. It was a habit with her. She could speak in no other way except to punctuate her sentences with disapproving sniffs.

Wondering, Sister Fidelma rose and followed the elderly reli-gieuse from the hall, knowing that the eyes of all the Sisters were following her in curiosity, in spite of their bent heads as they continued their pious chanting.

The Abbess Ita of Kildare sat before a long oak table in the chamber which she used as her study. Her face was set and determined. In her fifties, Ita was still a handsome, commanding woman, whose amber eyes usually shone with a quiet jocularity. Now it was hard to see their expression for they sparkled unnaturally in the flickering reflective light of the two tall beeswax candles which lit the shadowy room. The sweet scent of wild hyacinth and narcissus blended to give a pleasant aroma to the chamber. “Come in, Sister Fidelma. Was your trip to Tara successful?” “It was, Mother Abbess,” replied the girl as she moved into the chamber, aware that Sister Ethne had followed her in and closed the door, standing in front of it with arms folded into her habit.

Sister Fidelma waited quietly while the Abbess seemed to gather her thoughts. The Abbess’s gaze suddenly seemed to become preoccupied with a pile of half a dozen small rocks which lay on the table. She rose and, with an apologetic gesture, gathered them up, dropping them into a receptacle. She turned, reseating herself with a contrite smile.

“Some stones I was gathering to create a small rock garden,” she felt urged to explain. “I dislike clutter.” Abbess Ita bit her lip, hesitated and then shrugged, coming abruptly to the point.

“Were you in the refectory?”

“I was. I had just arrived at Kildare.”

“A problem has arisen which is of great concern to our community. Our guest, Sillán of Kilmantan, is dead. Our Sister-apothecary says he was poisoned.”

Sister Fidelma tried to conceal her astonishment.

“Poisoned? By accident?”

“That we do not know. The Sister-apothecary is now examining the food in the refectory hall. That was why I forbade our community to eat.”

Sister Fidelma frowned.

“Do I take it that this Sillán began to eat before you had finished the Gratias, Mother Abbess?” she asked. “You will recall that he cried in agony and collapsed while you were not yet finished.”

The Abbess’s eyes widened a little and then she nodded, agreeing with the point.

“Your perception justifies your reputation as a solver of mysteries, Fidelma. It is good that our community is served by one skilled in such matters and in the laws of the Brehons. Indeed, this is why I asked Sister Ethne to bring you here. I know you have just returned from your journey and that you are fatigued. But this is a matter of importance. I would like you to undertake the immediate inquiry into Sillán’s death. It is imperative that the matter be cleared up as quickly as possible.”

“Why so quickly, Mother Abbess?”

“Sillán was an important man. He was in this territory at the request of the Uí Failgi of Ráith Imgain.”

Sister Fidelma realized what this meant.

Kildare stood in the territory of the petty kingdom of the Uí Failgi. The royal residence of the kings of the Uí Failgi was situated at the fortress of Ráith Imgain, to the northwest of Kildare on the edge of the wasteland known as the Bog of Aillín. Several questions sprung into her mind but she bit her lip. They could be asked later. It was clear that the Abbess had no wish to incur the enmity of Congall, the petty king of the territory, who was known simply as the Uí Failgi, for, under the Brehon Law, the petty king and his assembly granted the land to the community of Kildare and they could just as easily drive the community out if displeased. All ecclesiastical lands were granted by the clan assemblies for there was no such thing as private property within the kingdom of Ireland. Land was apportioned and allotted at the decision of the assemblies which governed the tribes and kingdoms.

“Who was this man Sillán, Mother Abbess?” asked Sister Fi-delma. “Was he a representative of the Uí Failgi?”

It was Sister Ethne who volunteered the information, punctuating the sentences with sniffs.

“He was an uchadan, an artificer who worked in the mines of Kilmantan; so Follaman, who looks after our hostel, told me.”

“But what was he doing here?”

Did the Abbess cast a warning glance at Sister Ethne? Sister Fidelma caught only an involuntary movement of Sister Ethne’s eyes toward the Abbess and by the time Fidelma glanced in her direction the Abbess’s features were calm and without expression. Fidelma exhaled softly.

“Very well, Mother Abbess. I will undertake the inquiry. Do I have your complete authority to question all whom I would wish to?”

“My child, you are a dálaigh of the Brehon Court.” The Abbess smiled thinly. “You are an advocate qualified to the level of An-ruth. You do not need my authority under law. You have the authority of the Brehons.”

“But I need your permission and blessing as head of my community.”

“Then you have it. You may use the tech-screpta, the library chamber, to work in. Let me know when you have something to report. Go with God. Benedictus sit Deus in Donis Suis.”

Sister Fidelma genuflected.

“Et sanctus in omnis operibus Suis,” she responded automatically.

Sister Ethne had placed two rough, unglazed earthenware lamps, their snouts fashioned to support a wick, to light the dark shadowy vault which was the tech-screpta, the great library of the community which housed all the books and treasures of the House of the Blessed Brigid. Sister Fidelma sat at the library table, in the chair usually occupied by the leabhar-coimdaech, the librarian who guarded the great works contained in the chamber. The treasure trove of manuscript books hung in rows in the finely worked leather book satchels around the great chamber. The tech-screpta of Kildare even boasted many ancient “rods of the fili,” wands of hazel and aspen on which Ogham script was carved from an age long before the scribes of Ireland had decided to adopt the Latin alphabet with which to record their learning.

The tech-screpta was chilly in spite of the permanent fire which was maintained there to stop dampness corroding the rows of books.

Sister Ethne, as steward of the community, had volunteered to aid Sister Fidelma by finding and bringing to her anyone she wished to examine. She sniffed as she endeavored to adjust the lamps to stop abrasive smoke and reeking tallow odor from permeating the library chamber.

“We will start by confirming the cause of Sillán’s death,” Sister Fidelma announced, once she had noticed that Sister Ethne had finished her self-appointed task. After a moment’s reflection she went on: “Ask the Sister-apothecary to join me here.”

Sister Poitigéir was nervous and birdlike in her movements, reminding Sister Fidelma of a crane, moving with a waddling ap-prehensiveness, now and then thrusting her head forward on her long neck in an abrupt jerking motion which seemed to threaten to throw the head forward off the neck altogether. But Sister — idelma had known the Sister-apothecary since she had joined the community at Kildare and knew, too, that her anxious idiosyncrasy disguised a keen and analytical mind when it came to the science of botany and chemistry.

“What killed Sillán of Kilmantan?”

Sister Poitigéir pursed her lips a moment, thrusting her head forward quickly and then drawing it back.

“Conium maculatum,” she pronounced breathlessly.

“Poison hemlock?” Sister Fidelma drew her brows together.

“There was no questioning the convulsions and paralysis. He expired even as we carried him from the refectory hall. Also …” she hesitated.

“Also?” encouraged Sister Fidelma.

Sister Poitigéir bit her lower lip for a moment and then shrugged.

“I had noticed earlier this afternoon that a jar containing powdered leaves of the plant had been removed from my apothecary. They were there this morning but I noticed they were missing two hours before vespers. I meant to report the matter to the Mother Abbess after the service.”

“Why do you keep such a poison in your apothecary?”

“Properly administered, it can have good medicinal use as a sedative and anodyne. It serves all spasmodic affections. We not only have it in our apothecary but we grow it in our gardens which are tended by myself and Follaman. We grow many herbs. Hemlock can heal many ailments.”

“And yet it can kill. In ancient Greece we are told that it was given to criminals as a means of execution and among the Jews it was given to deaden the pain of those being stoned to death. I have heard it argued that when Our Lord hung upon the Cross He was given vinegar, myrrh and hemlock to ease His pain.”

Sister Poitigéir nodded several times in swift, jerky motions.

Sister Fidelma paused a moment or two.

“Was the poison administered in the food served in the refectory?”

“No.”

“You seem positive,” Sister Fidelma observed with some interest.

“I am. The effect of the poison is not instantaneous. Additionally, I have checked the food taken to the refectory for the evening meal. There is no sign of it having been contaminated.”

“So are you saying that the poison was administered before Sillán entered the refectory?”

“I am.”

“And was it self-administered?”

Sister Poitigéir contrived to shrug.

“Of that, I have no knowledge. Though I would say it is most unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Because taking poison hemlock results in an agonizing death. Why drink hemlock and then enter into the refectory for an evening meal if one knows one is about to die in convulsions?”

It was a point that seemed reasonable to Sister Fidelma.

“Have you searched Sillán’s chamber and the guest quarters for the missing jar of powdered hemlock leaves?”

Sister Poitigéir gave a quick, nervous shake of her head.

“Then I suggest that is your next and immediate task. Let me know if you find it.”

Sister Fidelma asked to see Follaman next. He was a big burly man, not a religieux but a layman hired by the community to take care of the guest quarters. Each community employed a timthirig, or servant, to look after its tech-óired. It was Follaman’s job to look after the wants of the male guests and to undertake the work that was too heavy for the female members of the community and assist the Sisters in the harder chores of the community’s gardens.

Follaman was a broad-shouldered, foxy-haired man, with ruddy complexion and watery blue eyes. His face was dashed with freckles as if a passing cart had sprayed mud upon him. He was in his mid-forties, a man without guile rather like a large boy, still with the innocent wonder of youth. In all, a simple man.

“Have you been told what has transpired here, Follaman?”

Follaman opened his mouth, showing blackened teeth. Sister Fidelma noticed, with some distaste, that he obviously did not regard his personal cleanliness as a priority.

He nodded silently.

“Tell me what you know about Sillán.”

Follaman scratched his head in a bemused fashion.

“He was a guest here.”

“Yes?” she encouraged. “When did he arrive at Kildare?”

Follaman’s face lightened with relief. Sister Fidelma realized that she had best put direct questions to the man for he was not the quickest wit she had encountered. She assessed him as slow in thought, without perceptive subtleness.

“He came here eight nights ago, Cailech.” Follaman addressed all the Sisters formally by the title “Cailech,” the term given by the lay people to all religieuses meaning “one who has taken the veil” from the term caille, signifying a veil.

“Do you know who he was? What brought him here?”

“Everyone knows that, Cailech.”

“Tell me. For I have been away from Kildare these last two weeks.”

“Ah, yes. That is so,” agreed the big man, having paused a moment to examine what Sister Fidelma said. “Well, Cailech, Sillán told me that he was a bruithneóir, a smelter, from the mines in the Kilmantan mountains.”

“What mines would those be, Follaman?”

“Why, the gold mines, Cailech. He worked in the gold mines.”

Sister Fidelma successfully prevented her eyes from widening.

“So why was he in Kildare? Surely, there are no gold mines here?”

“It is said that the Uí Failgi asked him to come here.”

“Indeed? But do you know why?”

Follaman shook his head of ruddy hair.

“No, Cailech, that I do not. He spent but little time in the guest house, sleeping there and then leaving at daybreak only to return for the evening meal.”

“To your knowledge, where was Sillán during this afternoon?”

The big man scratched his chin thoughtfully.

“It was today that he came back early and stayed in his chamber in the guest house.”

“Was he there all afternoon?”

Follaman hesitated. “He went to see the Abbess soon after he returned. He was with her a while and then he emerged from her chamber with anger on his face. Then he returned to his own chamber.”

“Did he say what had angered him?”

“No, Cailech. I asked him whether he required anything. That being my duty.”

“And did he call for refreshment?”

“Only for water… no, he asked for mead. Nothing else.”

“Did you take the mead to him?”

“I did. In a stone jar from the kitchens.”

“Where is it now?”

“I have not tidied the guest house. I think it must still be there.”

“Do you know what poison hemlock is?”

“It is a bad thing. That I know.”

“Do you know what it looks like? The shape and color of the plant?”

“I am only a poor servant, Cailech. I would not know. Sister Poitigéir would know such things.”

“So Sillán called for mead. And you took it to him. Did he drink straightaway, or did you leave the jar with him?”

“I left it with him.”

“Could anyone have tampered with the jar?”

Follaman’s brow creased with a concentration of effort.

“I would not know, Cailech. They could, I suppose.”

Sister Fidelma smiled. “Never mind, Follaman. Tell me, are you sure that Sillán stayed in the tech-óired all afternoon until vespers?”

Follaman frowned and then shook his head slowly.

“That I would not be sure of. It seemed so to me. And he began preparing to leave the abbey at first light. He packed his bags and told me to ensure that I had saddled his chestnut mare in readiness.” Follaman hesitated and continued sheepishly. “That was when he had to accompany me to the stables, Cailech. So, yes, he did leave the hostel after all.”

“For what purpose did he go to the stables with you?” frowned Sister Fidelma, puzzled.

“Why, to show me his horse. We have several whose shades are the same to me. You see, I lack the ability to tell one color from another.”

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips. Of course, she had forgotten that Follaman was color-blind. She nodded and smiled encouragingly at the big man.

“I see. But Sillán made no mention of what had angered him, or why he had decided to depart?”

“No, Cailech. He just said that he was bound for Ráith Imgain, that is all.”

The door opened and Sister Poitigéir returned. Sister Fidelma glanced toward her and the Sister-apothecary nodded swiftly in her birdlike manner.

Follaman looked from one to the other, puzzled.

“Is that all, Cailech?”

Sister Fidelma smiled reasuringly.

“For the time being, Follaman.”

The big man left the library room. Sister Fidelma sat back and studied the closed oak door with a frown. There was a discordant bell ringing distantly in her mind. She rubbed the bridge of her nose for a moment, exhaling in annoyance as her thoughts became no clearer. Then she turned to the anxious Sister Poitigéir with an inquiring gaze.

“I found a jug of mead in the chamber occupied by Sillán. While the mead disguises the unpleasant odor of the hemlock, nevertheless I was able to discern its traces. A draught of such a mixture would be enough to kill a strong man. But there was no sign of the bowl of crushed leaves taken from the apothecary.”

“Thank you, Sister Poitigéir,” Fidelma nodded. She waited until the Sister-apothecary had left before she stretched back into her chair and sighed deeply.

Sister Ethne regarded her with perplexity.

“What now, Sister? Is your inquiry over?”

Sister Fidelma shook her head.

“No it is not over, yet, Sister Ethne. Far from it. There is, indeed, a mystery here. Sillán was murdered. I am sure of it. But why?”

There came a sudden sound of a commotion from the gates of the abbey which were usually shut just after vespers and not opened until dawn. Sister Ethne frowned and strode as rapidly as dignity allowed to the window of the tech-screpta.

“There are a dozen horsemen arriving,” she sniffed in disapproval. “But they bear a royal standard. I must go down to receive them.”

Sister Fidelma nodded in preoccupation. It was only when Sister Ethne went hurrying off to fulfill her duties as the steward of the community that a thought crossed her mind and she went to the window and gazed down at the courtyard below.

In the light of the flickering torches she saw that several riders had dismounted. Follaman had gone forward to help them. There was light enough for Fidelma to see that they were warriors and one carried the royal standard of the Uí Failgi of Ráith Imgain while another held the traditional ríchaindell, the royal light which, during the hours of darkness, was always carried to light the way of a great chieftain or his heir-elect. The new arrivals were no ordinary visitors. Sister Fidelma forgot her training, pursing her lips together in a soundless whistle.

It was only after the passing of a few minutes that the door of the tech-screpta flew unceremoniously open and a stocky young man entered, followed by another man, with a worried-looking Sister Ethne trailing behind. Sister Fidelma turned from the window and regarded the intruders calmly.

The stocky young man took a pace forward. His richly decorated clothes were still covered in the dust of travel. His eyes were steel-grey, piercing as if they missed nothing. He was handsome, haughty and his demeanor announced his rank.

“This is Sister Fidelma,” Sister Ethne’s voice almost quavered, even forgetting to sniff, as she nervously pushed her way through the door to stand to one side of the young man.

Sister Fidelma did not move but stood regarding the young man quizzically.

“I am told that Sillán of Kilmantan is dead. Poisoned. I am told that you are conducting an inquiry into this matter.” The phrases were statements and not questions.

Sister Fidelma felt no urge to reply to the young man’s brusque manner.

She let her restless green eyes travel over his features, which gathered into a frown at her lack of response. She paused a moment and then moved her gaze to the muscular warrior at his side, before allowing her eyes to move to the clearly nervous Sister Ethne. Fidelma’s raised eyebrows asked a question.

“This is Tírechán, Tanist of the Uí Failgi.” Sister Ethne’s voice was breathless.

The Tanist was the heir-elect to the kingship or chieftaincy; an heir was elected during the reign of a king or clan chieftain which prevented any successional squabbles after his death or abdication.

Sister Fidelma moved back to her chair and sat down, motioning Tírechán to be seated on the opposite side of the table to her.

The young prince’s face showed his astonishment at her behavior. Angry blood tinged his cheeks.

“I am Sister Fidelma,” she announced, quietly, before he spoke, for she saw the words forming to burst from his lips. “I am a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, qualified to the level of Anruth.”

Tírechán swallowed the words that had gathered on his lips and a look of understanding, mingled with respect, spread over his features. A dálaigh, an advocate of the Brehon Court, especially one qualified to the level of Anruth, could meet and be accorded equality with any provincial king or chieftain and could even speak at ease before the High King himself. An Anruth was only one degree below the highest professorship of Ollamh whose words even a High King would have to obey. He regarded Sister Fidelma with a slightly awed air of surprise at her attractive youth-fulness for one who held such authority. Then he moved forward and seated himself before her.

“I apologize, Sister. No one had informed me of your rank, only that you were investigating the death of Sillán.”

Sister Fidelma decided to ignore the apology. The Tanist’s bodyguard now drew the door shut and stood before it, arms folded. Sister Ethne, a worried expression still on her features, realizing that she had neglected to introduce Sister Fidelma in proper form, still stood where she had halted, her lips compressed.

“I presume that you knew the man Sillán?”

“I knew of him,” corrected the Tanist of the Uí Failgi.

“You came here to meet him?”

“I did.”

“For what purpose?”

The Tanist hesitated and dropped his eyes.

“On the business of my chieftain, the Uí Failgi.”

“The man is dead. Poisoned. Perhaps it might help in this inquiry if you were more specific.”

Tírechán exhaled in annoyance.

“Very well. The man Sillán was commissioned to come to this district by the Uí Failgi…”

Sister Fidelma smiled thinly as the man hesitated again. He obviously had difficulty speaking of the private business of his chieftain.

“Perhaps I can help?” Fidelma encouraged, as the thought suddenly took shape in her mind. Indeed, the logic of the idea was unquestionable. “Sillán was from Kilmantan whose hills are full of gold mines, for do we not speak of that area as Kilmantan of the gold? Sillán was a bruithneóir, a qualified artificer. Why would the king of Ráith Imgain ask such a man to come to Kildare?”

The Tanist stirred uncomfortably beneath her amused but penetrating gaze. Then he responded with almost surly defiance.

“I take it that what I say shall be treated in confidence?”

Sister Fidelma showed her annoyance at such a impudent question.

“I am a dálaigh of the Brehon Court.” She spoke quietly. The rebuke needed no further embellishment.

The cheeks of the young prince reddened. But he spoke again as though he had need to defend something.

“Since the twenty-sixth High King of Milesian descent, the noble Tigernmas, first had gold dug and smelted in Ireland, gold has been searched for throughout the country. From Derry and Antrim in the north, south to the mountains of Kilmantan and the shores of Carman, gold mines have been worked. Yet our need for gold to enhance our courts and to increase our trade is not diminished. We look for new mines.”

“So the Uí Failgi asked Sillán to come to Kildare to search for gold?” Fidelma interpreted.

“The production of gold has not kept pace with the demand, Sister Fidelma. We have to import it from Iberia and other far off places. Our need is keen. Are not the Eóganacht of Glendamnách at war with the Uí Fidgente over possession of the gold mines of Cuillen in the land of holly trees?”

“But why would the Uí Failgi think that there was gold at Kil-dare?” demanded Sister Fidelma abruptly.

“Because an aged man recalled that once the lands of Kildare held such a mine, knowledge of which has long passed from the minds of men. Seizing on this old man’s recollection, the Uí Failgi sought out Sillán whose fame for seeking the veins of gold was legend among the mountain people of Kilmantan. He asked Sillán to come to Kildare and seek out this lost mine.”

“And did he find it?”

An angry spasm passed the face of the Tanist.

“That is what I came to discover. Now I am told that Sillán is dead. Dead from poison. How came this to be?”

Sister Fidelma wrinkled her nose.

“That is what my investigation shall discover, Tanist of the Uí Failgi.”

She sat back in her chair and gazed meditatively at the young chieftain.

“Who knows of Sillán’s mission here?”

“It was known only to Sillán; to the Uí Failgi; to myself as Tanist and to our chief Ollamh. No one else knew. A knowledge of the whereabouts of gold does harm to the minds of men and drives them mad. It was better not to tempt them by spreading such knowledge abroad.”

Fidelma nodded absently in agreement.

“So if gold had been discovered, it would have been of benefit to the Uí Failgi?”

“And to his people. It would bring prestige and prosperity to our trade with other kingdoms.”

“Sillán came from the territory of the Uí Máil, might he not have spoken of this enterprise to his own chieftain?”

“He was paid well enough,” frowned the Tanist of the Uí Failgi, his features showing that the thought had already occurred to him.

“But if the Uí Máil, or even the Uí Faeláin to the northeast, knew that there was gold in Kildare, surely this might lead to territorial dispute and warfare for possession of the gold? As you correctly state, there is a war between the Uí Fidgente and Eóganacht of Glendamnách over the mines of Cuillin.”

The Tanist sighed impatiently.

“Kildare is in the territory of the Uí Failgi. If the neighboring chieftains invaded Kildare then the wrong would be theirs and our duty to prevent them.”

“But that is not what I asked. Might this discovery not lead to enmity and warfare?”

“That was why the mission was so secret; why none but Sillán was to know the reason for his being in Kildare.”

“Now Sillán is dead,” mused Sister Fidelma. “Did you know he was leaving here to return to Ráith Imgain tomorrow?”

The Tanist’s face showed his surprise. Then a new look replaced the expression, one of scarcely concealed excitement.

“Which means that he must have found the gold mine!”

Sister Fidelma smiled a little as she sought to follow his reasoning.

“How do you arrive at that conclusion, Tírechán?”

“Because he had only been here eight days and no other reason would cause Sillán to return to the Uí Failgi other than to report his success.”

“That is a broad assumption. Perhaps he was returning because he realized that this search for a legendary gold mine in Kildare was a hopeless task.”

The Tanist ignored her observation.

“Are you sure that he was leaving Kildare tomorrow?”

“He told our timthirig, Follaman, that he would be leaving,” Fidelma assured him.

The Tanist snapped his fingers, his face agitated.

“No, no. The mine must have been found. Sillán would not have given up the search so soon. But where, where did he find it? Where is the mine?”

Sister Fidelma shook her head slowly.

“The more important question to be resolved is how Sillán came by his death.”

“By the grace of God, Sister Fidelma, that is not my task,” the young man replied in a thankful tone. “But my chieftain, the Uí Failgi, will need to know the location of the gold mine which Sillán must have discovered.”

She rose, inviting the Tanist to do so.

“You and your men are doubtless staying the night at our tech-óired. I suggest, Tírechán, that you now go and cleanse the dust of travel from yourself. I will keep you informed of anything that you should know.”

Reluctantly, the Tanist rose and motioned to his bodyguard to open the door of the tech-screpta. On the threshold he turned hesitantly as if he would press her further.

“Benedictus benedicat,” Sister Fidelma dismissed him firmly. He sighed, grimaced and withdrew.

When he had gone, she resumed her seat and spread her hands, palms downward, on the table. For a moment or so she was completely wrapped in her thoughts, forgetting the presence of Sister Ethne. Finally, the bean-tigh’s rasping cough, as the steward tried to attract her attention, stirred her from her contemplations.

“Is that all now, Sister?” asked the bean-tigh hopefully.

Sister Fidelma rose again with a shake of her head.

“Far from it, Sister Ethne. I should now like to see Sillán’s chamber in the tech-óired. Bring one of the lamps.”

The chamber in the tech-óired, or guest’s hostel, was not dissimilar to the cells occupied by the members of the community. It was a small, dark, grey stone room with a tiny slit of a window over which hung a heavy woven cloth to keep out the chill night air. A small cot of pine wood, with a straw palliasse and blankets, stood in one corner. A stool and a table were the only other furnishings. On the table stood a single candle. The hostel was provided with only poor lights. The candle was simply a single rush peeled and soaked in animal grease. It gave scant light and burned down very quickly which was why Fidelma had the foresight to bring one of the oil lamps with her.

Sister Fidelma paused on the threshold of the room and examined it very carefully as Sister Ethne set down the lamp on the table.

Sillán had apparently already packed for his journey, for a heavy satchel was dumped on the foot of the bed. It was placed next to a smaller work-bag of leather.

Sister Fidelma crossed to the bed and picked up the leather work-bag. It was heavy. She peered inside and saw a collection of tools which, she supposed, were the tools of Sillán’s profession. She laid the bag aside and peered into the satchel. These were Sillán’s personal effects.

Finally, she turned to Sister Ethne.

“I will not be long here. Would you go to the Mother Abbess and tell her that I would like to see her in her chamber within the hour? And I would like to see her alone.”

Sister Ethne sniffed, opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, bobbed her head and left the room.

Fidelma turned back to the satchel of personal belongings and took them out one by one, examining them minutely. When she had done so, she explored the interior of the satchel with her fingertips, raising the lamp in one hand and examining the dust on the tips of her fingers with a frown.

She then repeated her careful examination with the tools and implements in Sillán’s work-bag. Once again she ran her hand over the dust in the bottom of the bag and examined it carefully in the light.

Only after a careful examination did she replace everything as she had found it.

Then she lowered herself to her knees and began a microscopic examination of the floor, slowly, inch by inch.

It was when she was peering under the wooden cot that what seemed a small lump of rock came in contact with her hand. Her fingers closed around it and she scrambled backward into the room and held it up to the light of the lamp.

At first sight it seemed, indeed, just a piece of rough-hewn rock. Then she rubbed it on the stone flagged floor and held it once again to the light.

Part of it, where she had abraded it, gleamed a bright yellow.

A satisfied smile spread over her features.

Abbess Ita sat upright in her chair, her calm, composed features just a little too set to be an entirely natural expression. It was as if she had not stirred from the chair since last Fidelma had seen her. Abbess Ita regarded Sister Fidelma with her amber eyes wary as a pine-marten might watch a circling hawk.

“You may be seated, Sister,” the Abbess said. It was an unusual invitation, one showing deference to Sister Fidelma’s legal status rather than her religious one.

“Thank you, Mother Abbess,” Fidelma replied, as she lowered herself into a chair facing Abbess Ita.

“The hour grows late. How does your inquiry progress?”

Sister Fidelma smiled gently.

“It draws towards its conclusion,” she answered. “But I am in need of further information.”

Abbess Ita gestured with one hand, a motion from the wrist only, as if in invitation.

“When Sillán came to see you this afternoon, what was said which caused him anger?”

Abbess Ita blinked; the only reaction which expressed her surprise at the directness of the question.

“Did he come to see me?” she asked slowly, parrying as if playing for time.

Sister Fidelma nodded firmly.

“He did, as you know.”

Abbess Ita let out a long sigh.

“It would be foolish to attempt to conceal the truth from you. I have known you too long, Fidelma. It always surprised me that you chose the life of a religieuse rather than pursue a more worldly existence. You have a perception and a reasoning that is not given to everyone.”

Sister Fidelma ignored the praise. She waited quietly for the Abbess to reply to her question.

“Sillán came to apprise me of certain things which he had discovered …”

“He had discovered the lost gold mine of Kildare.”

This time Abbess Ita could not conceal the faint ripple of muscle as she sought to control the astonishment on her face. She struggled to compose herself for some moments and then her lips became thin in an almost bitter smile.

“Yes. I suppose that you learnt this much from the Tanist of the Uí Failgi, whom I am told has just arrived seeking hospitality here. You doubtless know that Sillán was a man skilled in the profession of mining; that he had been sent here by the Uí Failgi to find an ancient gold mine and explore its potential.”

“I do. But his mission was a secret known only to Sillán, the Uí Failgi and his Tanist, Tírechán. How did you come to learn about it?”

“Sillán himself came to tell me about it this very afternoon.”

“Not before?”

“Not before,” agreed the Abbess with emphasis.

“Then tell me what transpired.”

“It was after noon, well after the noon Angelus, that Sillán came to see me. He told me what he was doing in Kildare. In truth, I had suspected it. He had arrived here eight days ago and carried credentials from the Uí Failgi. What could a man from Kilmantan be doing here with approval of the Uí Failgi? Oh, I had heard the ancient legends of the lost gold mine of Kildare. So I had suspected.”

She paused for a moment.

“And?” encouraged Sister Fidelma.

“He came to tell me that he had found it, had found the old gold mine which had been worked centuries ago and had explored some of its passageways. Furthermore, he declared that the gold seams were still in evidence and were still workable. He was leaving Kildare tomorrow to report his find to the Uí Failgi.”

“Why, then, Mother Abbess, did he break secrecy with the Uí Failgi and tell you this?”

Abbess Ita grimaced.

“Sillán of Kilmantan respected our community and wanted to warn us. It was as simple as that. You see, our abbey lies directly above the mine workings. Once this was known, then there is little doubt that the Uí Failgi would have ordered our eviction from this spot, this blessed spot where the Holy Brigid gathered her disciples and preached under the great oak, founding her community. Even should our community be simply ordered to move a short distance, we would have to give up the holy soil where Brigid and her descendants are buried, their clay mingling with the earth to make it sanctified.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the troubled face of the Abbess, listening to the suppressed emotion in her voice.

“So the only purpose he had in telling you this, Mother Abbess, was to warn the community?”

“Sillán, in his piety, thought it only fair to warn me what he had discovered. He merely wanted to give our community time to prepare for the inevitable.”

“Then what angered him?”

Abbess Ita compressed her lips a moment. When she spoke, her voice was firm and controlled.

“I tried to reason with him. I asked him to keep the secret of the lost mine. At first I appealed to him by virtue of our common faith, by the memory of the Blessed Brigid, by the faith and future of our community. He refused, politely but firmly, saying he was bound by honor to report his discovery to the Uí Failgi.

“Then I tried to point out the greater implications. Should news of the gold mine be broadcast, then war might follow as it has done at Cuillin.”

Sister Fidelma nodded slowly as Abbess Ita confirmed her own thoughts.

“I am aware of the conflict over the mines at Cuillin, Mother Abbess.”

“Then you will realize that Kildare, while in the territory of the Uí Failgi, is but a short distance from the territories of the Uí Faeláin to the northeast and the Uí Máil to the southeast with only the desolate plain of the Bog of Aillín to protect us. The word ‘gold’ will cause a fire to be lit in the hearts of chieftains avaricious for the power it will bring. This dear, green spot, now so peaceful and so pleasant, would be stained red with the blood of warriors, and of the people that once lived here in harmony with the green plains and hills of Kildare. Our community of Kildare will be swept away like chaff from the wheat.”

“Yet why did Sillán become angry?” pressed Sister Fidelma.

The Abbess Ita’s expression was painful.

“When I had told him this, and when he still insisted that his duty lay in telling the Uí Failgi, I told him that his would then be the responsibility for what followed. I told him that God’s curse would pursue him for destroying the peace of this land. That he would be damned in the next world as well as this one. The name Sillán would become the synonym for the destruction of the holy shrine of Brigid of Kildare.”

“What then?”

“His face reddened in anger and he flung himself from the room, averring that he would depart at first light.”

“When did you see him again?”

“Not until vespers.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully into the eyes of the Abbess Ita.

The amber orbs smoldered as they reflected back Sister Fi-delma’s scrutiny.

“You dare think…?” whispered the Abbess Ita, her face pale, reading the suspicion in the younger face before her.

Sister Fidelma did not drop her gaze.

“I am here as a dálaigh, Abbess Ita, not as a member of your community. My concern is truth, not etiquette. A man lies dead in this abbey. He was poisoned. From the circumstances, it was a poison that was not self-administered. Then by whom and for what reason? To keep Sillán from revealing the secret of the lost mine to the Uí Failgi? That seems a logical deduction. And who stands to gain by the suppression of that knowledge? Why, none but the community of this abbey, Mother Abbess.”

“And the people of the surrounding countryside!” snapped Abbess Ita, angrily. “Do not forget that in your equation, Sister Fidelma. Do not forget all the blood that will be saved during the forthcoming years.”

“Right cannot be served by wrong, it is the law. And I must judge what is lawful. Knowing that it was the law that I must serve as a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, separate from my role as a member of this community, why did you ask me to investigate this matter? You yourself could have conducted the inquiry. Why me?”

“In such a matter of importance, a report from a dálaigh of the Brehon Court would carry much weight with the Uí Failgi.”

“So you had hoped that I would not discover the existence of the gold mine?” frowned Sister Fidelma.

Abbess Ita had risen in agitation from her chair. Fidelma rose so that her eyes were on a level with the Abbess’s own agitated gaze.

“Tell me directly, Mother Abbess: did you poison, or arrange to have poisoned, Sillán to prevent him speaking with the Uí Failgi?”

For several moments there was an icy silence. The sort of silence which precedes an eruption of the earth. Then the Abbess Ita’s anger faded and a sad expression crossed her face. She dropped her gaze before the younger woman.

“Mine was not the hand that administered poison to Sillán though I confess that the heaviness of my heart lifted when I heard of the deed.”

In the quietude of her cell, Sister Fidelma lay on her cot, fully clothed, hands behind her head, staring into the darkness. She had extinguished the light of her candle and lay merely contemplating the shadows without really registering them as she turned over in her mind the facts of the mysterious death of Sillán.

There was something staring her in the face about this matter, a clue which was so obvious that she was missing it. She felt it in her being. It was there, in her mind, if only she could draw it out.

She had no doubt in her mind that Sillán had been killed because of the knowledge he possessed.

And Sister Fidelma found herself in sympathy with the suppression of that knowledge.

Yet that was not the law, the law that she was sworn to uphold as a dálaigh of the Brehon Court. Yet the law was simply a compact between men. Rigid law could be the greater injustice. While the law was blind, in an ideal world justice should be able to remove the bandage from its eyes long enough to distinguish between the unfortunate and the vicious.

Her mind spinning in moral dilemma, Sister Fidelma drifted unknowingly into a sleep.

Sister Fidelma became aware firstly of someone pulling at her arm and then of the dim tolling of the Angelus bell.

Sister Ethne’s pale, hawklike features cleared out of the blurred vision as Fidelma blinked and focused her eyes.

“Quickly, Sister, quickly. There has been another death.”

Fidelma sat up abruptly and stared at Sister Ethne in incredulity. It lacked an hour before dawn but the bean-tigh had already lit the candle in her cell.

“Another death? Who?”

“Follaman.”

“How?” demanded Fidelma, scrambling from her cot.

“In the same manner, Sister. By poison. Come quickly to the tech-óired.”

Follaman, the timthirig of the community, lay on his back, his face contorted in pain. One arm was flung out in a careless gesture and from the still fingers, Sister Fidelma followed the line to the broken pottery below. It had once been an earthenware goblet. There was a dark stain of liquid which had seeped into the flagstone below.

The Sister-apothecary was already in the room, having been summoned earlier, and had examined the corpse.

“The goblet contained hemlock, Sister Fidelma,” bobbed Sister Poitigéir quickly as Fidelma turned to her. “It was drunk in the same manner as Sillán drank his poison. But Follaman drank the liquid in the night and no one heard his final cries.”

Sister Fidelma surveyed the scene grimly then she turned to Sister Ethne.

“I will be with the Mother Abbess for a while. See that no one disturbs us.”

Abbess Ita stood at the window of her chamber, watching the reds, golds and oranges of the rising dawn.

She half-turned as Sister Fidelma entered, then, ascertaining who it was, she turned back to the open window. The sharp colors of dawn were flooding the room with a pleasant, golden aura.

“No, Fidelma,” she said before Fidelma spoke. “I did not poison Follaman.”

Fidelma’s lips thinned.

“I know that you did not, Mother Abbess.”

With a surprised frown, Abbess Ita turned and stared at Fidelma for a moment. Then she motioned her to be seated and slid herself into her chair. Her face was pale and strained. She seemed to have slept little.

“Then you already know who the culprit is? You know how Sillán and Follaman died?”

Sister Fidelma nodded.

“Last night, Mother Abbess, I was struggling to decide whether I, as a dálaigh, should serve the law or serve justice.”

“Is that not the same thing, Fidelma?”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly.

“Sometimes it is; sometimes not. This matter, for example, is a case where the two things diverge.”

“Yes?”

“It is obvious that Sillán was killed unlawfully. He was killed to prevent him revealing his knowledge that a gold mine is situated under these venerable buildings. Was the person who slaughtered him right or wrong to kill him? By what standards do we judge? The taking of a life is wrong by our laws. But if Sillán had disclosed his knowledge, and that knowledge had led to the driving forth of this community from its lands, or had led to warfare between those who would then covert these lands, would that have been justice? Perhaps there is a natural justice which rules above all things?”

“I understand what you are saying, Fidelma,” replied the Abbess. “The death of one innocent may prevent the deaths of countless others.”

“Yet do we have the right to make their choice? Is that not something which we should leave in the hands of God?”

“It can be argued that sometimes God places in our hands the tools by which His will is carried out.”

Sister Fidelma studied the Abbess’s face closely.

“Only two people now know of Sillán’s discovery.”

Abbess Ita raised an eyebrow.

“Two?”

“I know, Mother Abbess and you know.”

The Abbess frowned.

“But surely the poisoner of Follaman knows?”

“Knew,” corrected Sister Fidelma softly.

“Explain.”

“It was Follaman who administered the hemlock which killed Sillán.”

The Abbess bit her lip.

“But why would Follaman do that?”

“For the very reason that we have discussed, to prevent Sillán telling the Uí Failgi about the gold.”

“Yes, but Follaman…? He was a simple man.”

“Simple and loyal. Had he not worked here at the abbey as the keeper of the hostel since he was a boy? He loved this place as much as any of our community. He was not a religieux but he was as much a member of the community as anyone else.”

“How did Follaman know?”

“He overheard you and Sillán arguing. I suspect that he purposely eavesdropped on you. Follaman knew, or surmised, what profession Sillán practiced. He might well have followed Sillán on his explorations. Whether he did or not is beside the point. When Sillán came back yesterday afternoon, Follaman certainly deduced that he had made some find, for Sillán told Follaman that he would be leaving for Ráith Imgain the next morning. He probably followed Sillán to your room and overheard what passed between you.

“Since you could not act against the laws of man and God, he would serve a natural justice in his own way. He took the jar of poison hemlock from the apothecary and when Sillán asked for a drink, he supplied it. Follaman did not know the precise quantity needed and so Sillán did not suffer the full effects until after the bell called the community into the refectory for the evening meal following vespers.”

Abbess Ita was following Sister Fidelma closely.

“And then?”

“Then I began my investigation, then the Tanist of the Uí Failgi arrived seeking Sillán or an explanation for his death.”

“But who killed Follaman?”

“Follaman knew that sooner or later he would be discovered. But more importantly in his guileless mind there was also the guilt of having taken a man’s life to be considered. Follaman was a simple man. He decided that he should accept punishment. The honor-price of a life. What greater honor-price for the life of Sillán could he offer than his own? He also took a draught of the poison hemlock.”

There was a pause.

“It is a plausible story, Sister Fidelma. But how do you substantiate it?”

“Firstly, when I questioned Follaman, he knew all about Sillán’s profession. Secondly, he made two slips. He told me that he had seen Sillán coming from your chamber with anger on his face. Your chamber is on the far side of the abbey to the hostel. Therefore Follaman must have been near your chamber door. But, most importantly, when I asked Follaman if he knew what hemlock looked like, he denied any knowledge.”

“Why is that damning?”

“Because one of Follaman’s duties is to help in the herb garden of the community and Sister Poitigéir had just informed me that she grew hemlock in the garden for medicinal purposes; the very plant used in the apothecary came from the garden. And Sister Poitigéir said she was helped in this task by Follaman. He knew what hemlock looked like. So why did he lie to me?”

Abbess Ita sighed deeply.

“I see. What you are saying is that Follaman tried to protect us, protect our community here at Kildare?”

“I am. He was a simple man and saw no other way.”

The Abbess smiled painfully.

“In truth, Sister, with all my knowledge, I saw no other path that would have led to the same result. So what do you propose?”

“There are times when the law brings injustice with it and the triumph of justice is mankind’s only peace. So the question is between justice or the stricture of the law.” Fidelma hesitated and grimaced. “Let it be natural justice. I shall officially report that the result of my inquiry is that Sillán met his death by accident, so did Follaman. A contaminated jug of water, which had been made up by Follaman to destroy the vermin in the abbey vaults, became inadvertently used to mix with the mead in the hostel. The contaminated jug was not discovered until Follaman had also died.”

Abbess Ita gazed speculatively at Sister Fidelma.

“And what do we tell the Tanist of the Uí Failgi about the gold mine?”

“That Sillán had decided to return to Ráith Imgain because the legend of the gold mine of Kildare was simply a legend and nothing more.”

“Very well.” The Abbess had a smile of contentment on her face. “If this is what you are prepared to report then I endorse your report with my authority as the head of this community. In such a manner may our community be saved for future generations. For the falsehood of the report, I absolve you from all responsibility and sin.”

It was the smile of the Abbess which troubled Fidelma in her decision. She would, for the sake of natural justice, have held her tongue. But the relieved complacency of Abbess Ita suddenly irritated her. And, if she carefully analyzed herself, was it not that her pride in her reputation as a solver of mysteries had been pricked?

Sister Fidelma slowly reached into her robe and pulled out the small piece of rock which she had picked up in the chamber that Sillán had occupied. She tossed it on the table. The Abbess gazed down at it.

“It was part of Sillán’s proof of his discovery. You’d better keep that safe with the other pieces of gold which Follaman gave you after he had poisoned Sillán… at your instruction.”

Abbess Ita’s face was suddenly ashen and the whites showed around her amber eyes.

“How…?” she stuttered.

Sister Fidelma smiled bitterly.

“Do not fear, Mother Abbess. All will be as I have said it was. Your secret is safe with me. What I do is for the good of our community, for the future of the House of the Blessed Brigid of Kildare, and those people who live within the peace of the shadows of these walls. It is not for me to judge you. For that you will have to answer to God and the shades of Sillán and Follaman.”

Abbess Ita’s lips trembled.

“But how…” she whispered again.

“I have stressed that Follaman was a simple man. Even if he had the wit to understand the implications of Sillan’s find for the abbey and the community around it, could he really have taken the poison hemlock and administered it?”

“But you, yourself, have demonstrated he could. Sister Poitigéir told you that Follaman helped her attend the plants in the herb garden and would know what hemlock looked like.”

“Follaman knew what the plant looked like; yes. But he would have to be told what the crushed leaves of hemlock were. You need to discern colors for that. Follaman could not pick out a bowl of crushed hemlock leaves by their purple spots and white tips once the distinctive shape had been destroyed. You see, what was staring me in the face the whole while was a simple fact. Follaman was color-blind. He could not discern colors. Someone would have had to have given Follaman the poison to administer.”

Abbess Ita’s lips were compressed into a thin, hard line.

“But I did not kill Follaman,” she said fiercely. “Even if I admit that I suggested to Follaman that our community would best be served by the demise of Sillán, even if I admit I showed Follaman a method to do that deed, who killed Follaman? I did not do it!”

“No,” replied Fidelma. “It was as I have said. At your suggestion, Follaman administered the poison to Sillán because you told him it was God’s will. You used him as a tool. But he, being a simple man, could not live with the guilt he felt in taking a life. He took his own life in self-retribution, as I have said. He had not given all the hemlock to Sillán but kept some aside in his room. Last night he drank it as a penance for the deed. His was the penance, Mother Abbess, but yours is the guilt.”

Abbess Ita stared at her blankly.

“What am I to do?” she demanded but her voice broke a little.

Sister Fidelma gave a slight smile of cynicism.

“With your permission, Mother Abbess, I shall be leaving Kil-dare this morning. I will make my report to the Tanist of the Uí Failgi first. Do not worry. The good of the community is uppermost in my mind. That good outweighs the law. But I shall make a pilgrimage to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Armagh to pay penance for the falsehood of my report.”

Sister Fidelma paused and gazed into the troubled amber eyes of the Abbess Ita.

“I cannot help relieve your guilt. I suggest, Mother Abbess, that you acquire the services of a sympathetic confessor.”