Hemlock at Vespers

AT THE TENT OF BELOFERNES

Sister Fidelma halted her mare where the track curved round the shoulder of the hill and gazed down at the broad valley below. The placid light-blue strip of a river wound its way through the valley, among the green cultivated clan lands of the Uí Dróna. She saw the grey granite walls of the rath, which was her goal, and her dust-stained features formed into a tired smile of anticipation. She had been four days on the road from the monastery of Durrow. She was tired and uncomfortable with the dust of travel. Yet it was not simply the prospect of the comforts of a bath, fresh clothes, and a rest from being on horseback that caused her to smile. It was the thought of seeing Liadin again.

Fidelma had been an only daughter with elder brothers, and Liadin, her childhood friend, had been as a sister to her. The bonding had been strong. They had reached the “age of choice” together when they had, under law, become women. At that time Fidelma had become anamchara, the “soul-friend,” to Liadin: her spiritual guide according to the practice of the faith in Ireland.

Now, in her pocket, there reposed an urgent message from Liadin which had been delivered to Fidelma at Durrow a week ago. It read: “Come at once! I am greatly troubled. Liadin.” Now, as she reached her journey’s end, Fidelma felt both anticipation at the reunion and apprehension.

Fidelma had not seen her friend for several years. Their paths had eventually separated, for Fidelma had gone to Tara to continue her studies while Liadin had taken the path of marriage.

Fidelma remembered Liadin’s trepidation at marriage, for it had been Liadin’s father, a petty chieftain of Cashel, who had agreed to an arranged marriage as a matter of political expedience. Lia-din’s wish had been to become a teacher. She had a good knowledge of Greek and Latin and other studies. The marriage was to a foreign chieftain. He was a Gaul named Scoriath of the Fir Morc who had been driven into exile from his own lands. Scoriath had been granted sanctuary in the clan lands of the Uí Dróna in Laigin. It was the chieftain of the Uí Dróna who had interceded with Lia-din’s father and persuaded him of the political and financial advantage in marrying his daughter to the Gaulish warrior. He had made Scoriath captain of his bodyguard.

At the time, Fidelma’s heart had been heavy for her unfortunate soul-friend, forced into such a marriage. Their paths continued on separate courses as Fidelma pursued her studies, eventually being admitted as a dálaigh, an advocate, of the law courts of Ireland.

After Liadin’s marriage, Fidelma had met her friend only once, and she was replete with happiness for she had, in spite of expectations, fallen in love with her husband. Fidelma had been astonished at her friend’s transformation. Liadin and Scoriath’s joining, so far as Fidelma could assess from her friend’s enthusiasm, was that of a vine to a tree. Fidelma rejoiced in her friend’s happiness and in the subsequent birth of her son. Then their paths separated again.

The child must be three years old now, Fidelma reflected, guiding her mount toward the fortress of the Uí Dróna. What could ail Liadin to make her send such a message?

Fidelma had observed that the man had been watching her approach for an hour, ever since she had rounded the shoulder of the hill and ridden carefully down into the valley toward the dark, brooding walls of the fortress. He lounged by the gate of the rath with folded arms and made no attempt to change his position as she approached and halted her mount.

“What do you seek here?” he demanded gruffly.

Fidelma gazed down at him with irritation.

“Is this rath of the Uí Dróna?” she demanded.

The man motioned assertively with his head.

“Then I demand entrance.”

“On what business?”

“On my own business.” Her voice was soft but dangerous.

“I am Conn, Tanist of the Uí Dróna. My business is to know your business here,” was the implacable response. A Tanist was the heir-elect of a chieftain.

Fidelma was unperturbed. “I am come to see Liadin. I am Fidelma of Kildare.”

Fidelma was aware of a momentary change of expression on the man’s face. She had a curious feeling that it was a look of relief, but it was gone before she was sure. The Tanist shifted his weight upright.

“I regret, Sister, that Liadin is being heard before the Brehon Rathend even as we speak.”

Sister Fidelma’s features re-formed into an expression of surprise.

“Being heard? Do you mean that she pleads a case in law before the Brehon?”

The Tanist hesitated. “In a way. She pleads her innocence.”

“Innocence? Of what is she accused?”

“Liadin is accused of the murder of her husband, Scoriath of the Fir Morc, and of her own son.”

The Brehon Rathend was tall and thin, with pale, bloodless-looking skin. The learned judge had hooded dark eyes with shadowy pouches under them which seemed to suggest that he was a man unused to sleep. The lines of his face certainly denoted that he was a man who had little sense of humor. His entire expression was one of controlled irritation. The whole measured up to an expression of ill-health and ill-humor.

“By what authority do you interrupt this trial, Sister?” he demanded querulously as he came into the chamber where Fidelma had been conducted. Fidelma told him of her qualification as a dálaigh.

“Is Liadin of the Uí Dróna represented by an advocate?” she demanded.

“No,” he replied. “She refuses to plead.”

“Then I am here to plead her case for her. I would request a postponement of the hearing for twenty-four hours that I may consult with Liadin.”

Rathend grimaced diffidently.

“This will be difficult. Besides, how do you know she will accept your advocacy?”

Fidelma glared hard at the Brehon. Rathend tried to return her gaze but eventually dropped his eyes uncomfortably.

“Even if she accepts your advocacy, everyone has already gathered to hear the opening arguments,” he explained lamely.

“The purpose of the hearing is for justice to be done, not for the convenience of an audience. The opening of the hearing can be delayed under law.”

A slight color tinged the sallow cheeks of the thin Brehon. He was about to reply when the door of the room burst open abruptly and a young woman entered. Fidelma quickly appraised her and had to admit that she was attractive in spite of a prominent aquiline nose, sallow skin and dark hair which made her rather foreign in appearance. Her dark eyes flashed vivaciously. That she was a woman of rank was obvious.

“What does; this delay mean, Rathend?” The dark eyes fell on Fidelma and registered suspicion. “Who is this?”

“Sister Fidelma is an advocate come to plead Liadin’s case,” Rathend said obsequiously.

A flush of annoyance tinged the woman’s cheeks.

“Then you are late in coming here, Sister.”

Fidelma let her gaze move almost languidly over the shorter woman’s haughty features.

“And you are …?” she asked softly, reminding Rathend of his breach of etiquette and causing the woman’s flush of annoyance to intensify.

“This is Irnan; chieftainess of the Uí Dróna,” Rathend supplied quickly. “You stand in her ráth.”

Fidelma let a smile deepen the corners of her mouth and she inclined her head in acknowledgement of the woman’s rank rather than in deference.

“Whether I am late or early, Irnan of the Uí Dróna, the point is that I am here and justice must be served.” A dálaigh of Fidelma’s rank of Anruth could speak on equal terms with a provincial king and could even sit in the presence of the High King himself, though only at the latter’s invitation. Fidelma turned back to Rathend. “I shall need to consult with Liadin to arrange her defense. I need twenty-four hours’ delay before the opening arguments.”

“Defense?” Was there a bitter humor in Irnan’s interruption. “What defense can there be for this woman?”

Fidelma barely glanced at her.

“I shall be able to inform the court of my defense once I have had access to Liadin.”

“The case is clear,” Irnan snapped. “Liadin killed her husband and her son.”

“For what reason?” demanded Fidelma.

“It was an arranged marriage. Perhaps Liadin hated Scoriath?” the chieftainess sniffed. “Who knows?”

“A weak reason when she could have sought the redress of law. And why kill the child? What mother would kill her own child? Why, indeed kill after three and a half years of marriage if, as you say, it was in pique at an arranged marriage?”

Irnan’s eyes flashed with uncontrolled anger. Her tone told Fidelma that here was a woman used to being firmly in control of a situation and obeyed without question. Opposition was something that Iman was clearly unused to.

“I am not on trial here, Sister. I cannot answer your questions.”

“Someone will have to answer them,” replied Fidelma calmly. She turned to the Brehon again. “To that end, will you grant the postponement?”

Rathend seemed to glance at Irnan before responding. Fidelma saw, from the corner of her eye, the chieftainess shrug. Rathend sighed and inclined his head in affirmative.

“Very well, Sister. You have twenty-four hours before the court sits to hear the charges. Be warned that the charge is that of fingal, kin-slaying, and is so grave in this instance that we are not talking of compensation in terms of an eric fine. If Liadin is judged guilty, so heinous is this crime that she will be cast adrift on the high seas in an open boat without oars, sail, food or water. And if she survives, if she is cast ashore by the will of God, on whosoever’s shore she lands, that person has the right of life and death over her. That is the judgment prescribed by law.”

Sister Fidelma knew well the penalty for extreme cases of murder.

“Only if she is found guilty,” she added softly.

Irnan let out a sharp bray of laughter.

“There is little doubt of that.”

She turned and swept from the room, leaving Rathend gazing in unhappy confusion after her.

The two women broke apart from their embrace. Fidelma’s eyes were troubled as she gazed at the face of her friend. Liadin was shorter than Fidelma, with a shock of chestnut hair, pale skin and dark brown eyes that seemed almost black from a distance. Her face was strained, the flesh under the eyes was dark with worry, the skin almost bloodless and etched with lines.

“Fidelma! Praise the saints that you have come at last. I had given you up. I did not kill Scoriath, nor my son Cunobel.”

“No need to convince me,” Fidelma replied quickly. “I have succeeded in getting a postponement of your trial for twenty-four hours. You must now tell me everything so that I will know best how to defend you.”

Liadin let out a small sob.

“My mind has not worked since I heard the terrible news of Scoriath’s death. I have been numbed with shock and could not believe that I was being accused. Somehow I thought I would awake from all this… that…”

Fidelma squeezed her friend’s hand as her voice trailed off.

“I will do your thinking for you. Simply tell me the facts as you know them.”

Liadin wiped her tears and forced a smile.

“I feel such hope now. But I know so little.”

“When we last met, you told me you were very happy with Scoriath. Had anything changed since then?”

Liadin shook her head vehemently. “We were blest with contentment and a fine child.”

“Was Scoriath still commander of the bodyguard of the chief-tainess of the Uí Dróna?”

“Yes. Even, when Irnan succeeded her father Drón as chieftain-ess of the clan a month ago, Scoriath continued as her commander. But he was considering giving up war and simply working his own land.”

Fidelma pursed her lips. She could not help but recall the hostility which Irnan had displayed toward Liadin.

“Was there any conflict of personality? What of the Tanist? Was there enmity with the heir-elect?”

“Conn? No, there was no animosity between Scoriath and Conn.”

“Very well. So let us turn to the facts of the death of Scoriath and your son.” Time enough to commiserate with her friend later.

“It happened a week ago. I was not here at the time.”

“Explain. If you were not here, on what grounds are you accused of carrying out the dead? Start at the beginning.”

Liadin made a little gesture of helplessness.

“On the day it happened I had left Scoriath and the child here and had ridden to visit a sick relative, my aunt Flidais. The illness was minor and when I reached her dwelling I found her past any danger and almost entirely well. It had been nothing but a slight chill. So I returned here, reaching the fortress in the late evening, about an hour after sunset. As I made my way to our chambers, Conn came out of our apartments and seized me.”

“Seized you? Why?”

“It is all so hazy now. He was shouting that Scoriath was slain along with my son. I could not believe it. He seemed to be accusing me.

“For what reason?”

“He had found a bloodstained knife and clothing, my clothes, hidden in my private chamber. Scoriath and my son had been found in our chambers-stabbed to death.”

“You immediately denied responsibility?”

Liadin nodded fiercely. “How could anyone think a mother could slaughter her own child?”

Fidelma pursed her lips and shrugged. “Alas, it has been known, Liadin. We have to look at things as logically as we can. Did they have any other grounds to accuse you?”

Liadin hesitated a moment.

“There came another witness against me. A house servant, Branar, came forward and said she had witnessed Scoriath and me in argument that very day.”

“Witnessed? And had she?”

“Of course not. I had not seen Branar that day.”

“So she lied? How could she claim to have seen this argument then?”

“She said that she had heard it,” corrected Liadin after a moment’s thought. “She said that she was passing our bedchamber door and she heard our voices raised in angry exchanges. She then thought it prudent to depart. I denied it but no one would believe me.”

“Who brought you the news of your aunt’s illness?”

“A monk from the monastery of the Blessed Moling, which is not far from here. A Brother named Suathar.”

“And who saw you leave the rath to visit your aunt?”

“Many people. It was midday when I left.”

“So it was well known that you had left the rath to visit your aunt?”

“I suppose so.”

“And who saw you arrive back that night?”

“Conn, of course, when he seized me.”

Fldelma frowned slightly.

“He saw you arrive through the gate, you mean? And then seized you later?”

Liadin shook her head in bewilderment.

“No. I meant that he saw me at the time he seized me at the door of my chambers.”

“So no one saw you actually arrive back? So far as people were concerned, you could have come back much earlier that evening. You traveled on horse. How about the stable boys?”

Liadin looked worried.

“Ah, I see what you mean. No one was about in the stable at the time. I unsaddled my own horse. I am afraid that no one saw me arrive back.”

“But your aunt will witness the time that you left her?”

“My aunt has come here already to testify but Rathend says this matters little. No one disputes that I went to see my aunt, nor that I returned that evening. They say, however, that I could have arrived back earlier, that I went straight to Scoriath, slew him, and then my child, and was going to sneak back out into the night to feign a later arrival hoping that the bodies would have been found before my return.”

Fidelma chewed her lower lip in thought.

“It seems, indeed, that Branar is then central to the argument of your guilt, for she presents us with a motive: the motive being that your relationship with Scoriath was not what you claimed it to be. If the quarrel was not between Scoriath and yourself then either Branar is mistaken, or lying. Was Scoriath seen by anyone after this alleged quarrel?”

“Of course,” Liadin said at once. “Cunobel was with Branar all afternoon while Scoriath was attending Irnan at the assembly of the clan and while I was away from the rath. The assembly rose at sunset. But what of the knife and bloodied clothes in my chamber?”

“Anyone can plant such evidence. And there is an obvious contradiction there. You would hardly leave such evidence in your chamber and be sneaking back out into the night to gain an alibi, would you?”

Liadin paused to reflect on the logic and then she nodded with a faint smile.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Fidelma gave her an encouraging grin.

“You see? Already we find a lack of logic in the arguments against you. The case against you seems so circumstantial. Has anyone put forward an argument as to why you should want to slay your own husband and your child? Have they ascribed a motive, a reason why you argued with Scoriath and why you would have killed him and your son?”

“Rathend believes I did it in some uncontrolled fit of jealousy.”

Fidelma looked hard at her friend.

“And did you have reason for jealousy?” she asked softly.

Liadin raised her chin defiantly, a hot color on her cheeks.

“With Scoriath? Never!”

“So did he have enemies? As commander of the bodyguard, and as a foreigner in this land, he was surely bound to have created animosities. But was there anyone in particular that you know of?”

Liadin was frowning reflectively.

“None that I can name. But Scoriath became morose a few weeks ago and would not tell me what ailed him. All that Scoriath said was something I found very strange. We were talking about his giving up command of Irnan’s bodyguard. As I said, he had decided to give up the profession of warfare and farm his own land. But he was brooding and depressed. As we were talking he suddenly said, ‘I will become a farmer unless the Jewess has plans to destroy our peace.’ “

Fidelma’s eyes widened.

“The Jewess? Who did he mean?”

Liadin shrugged.

“I have no idea. I know of no Jewess in the kingdom.”

“You asked him to explain, of course?”

“I did, but he laughed it away and said it was nothing but a bad joke.”

“Can you repeat exactly what he said, and the manner in which he said it?”

Liadin did so. It did not make matters clearer.

Sister Fidelma rose to her feet, her brows drawn together. Then she focused on her friend’s worried features and smiled to reassure her.

“There is a mystery here, Liadin. Something curious that itches my mind like a bug bite. I cannot yet scratch. I must investigate further. Do not worry. All will be well.”

Conn, the Tanist of the Uí Dróna, stood awkwardly in front of Sister Fidelma, occasionally shifting his weight from one leg to another, trying to maintain an expressionless countenance. He was a fair-haired and handsome man.

Seated to one side was the Brehon Rathend, who, as the law ordained, had to attend any questioning of witnesses, excepting the questioning of the accused person, before the trial. His job was to observe and not to question nor even participate unless the dálaigh did not abide by the rules set forth for pretrial interrogations.

“Tell me about the events which led to your arresting Liadin.”

The young warrior cleared his throat and spoke woodenly, as if having learnt a lesson by rote.

“I found the weapon that killed Scoriath in the bed chamber of…”

“From the beginning,” Fidelma interrupted with annoyance. “When did you last see Scoriath? See him alive, that is?”

Conn considered for a moment.

“On the evening of the day on which he was killed. It was the day of the clan assembly, the feast day of the blessed Mochta, the disciple of Patrick. That afternoon Scoriath, myself and some other warriors were in attendance to our chieftainess, Irnan, at the assembly hall. An hour before sunset, the assembly dispersed so that each could return home before the hour of darkness.”

“Was that the last time you saw Scoriath alive?”

“It was, Sister. Everyone returned to their homes. Later Iman’s messenger came to me and said that he was looking for Scoriath, for Scoriath had been summoned by the chieftainess. The messenger said that he had gone to his chambers but could find no one.” The fair-haired young man paused and frowned, massaging his forehead with his fingers as if the act would conjure memory. “I knew this to be strange, for Scoriath had a child, and if he were not in his house then his wife and child or servant would be there.”

He paused as if seeking approval from Fidelma. She simply motioned him to continue.

“I went to the house with the messenger. No one answered in response to our knocking. I opened the door and went in. I cannot describe it; I felt something was wrong. A small oil lamp, whose light I could see through a crack in the door, burnt in the bedchamber. I went to the door and pushed it open.” He genuflected hastily. “There I found Scoriath face downward on the floor. Blood still gushed from a terrible wound in his neck…

“Still gushed?” Fidelma interrupted quickly.

Conn nodded.

“Obviously he had not long been dead. I turned the body slightly and saw that his throat had been cut. Then, by the door of a small side chamber, was the body of Scoriath’s child, Cunobel. He, too, was dead from several wounds in the chest. Blood stained the entire room.”

The Tanist paused to swallow nervously.

“I saw that the side chamber door, a chamber where the child slept, and which Scoriath’s wife used for her personal toilet, stood ajar. I noticed a trail of blood leading into the chamber. I followed this trail of droplets and it led me to a chest. Inside the chest was a knife, still sticky with blood, and a bloodstained outer garment which belonged to Liadin.”

He was silent for so long that Fidelma felt she had to prompt him.

“And then?”

“I sent the messenger back to Irnan to tell her what had been discovered. There was no doubt in my mind that Liadin was answerable for this foul deed.”

“Why?”

The fair-haired man blinked.

“Why?” he repeated as if surprised at the question being asked. “Because, Sister, I found the knife and the garment. They were hidden in a chest in Liadin’s room. The garment belonged to Lia-din. I had often seen her wearing it.”

“’Hidden’ is hardly an exact description Conn,” Fidelma observed. “A trail of blood led you to the chest.”

He shrugged. “The bloodstains probably went unnoticed in Lia-din’s panic to hide the objects of her guilt.”

“Perhaps. But that is supposition. If you had done this deed, would you have gone into your personal chamber to hide the weapon and bloodstained garment? Even without the bloody trail someone would surely be bound to examine that room later?”

Conn looked confused.

“Perhaps you are right, Sister. But surely no one else could have done the deed, and that for a very good reason.”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“What is that reason?”

“Scoriath was a warrior. A man of strength as well as full of a warrior’s guile. Yet he turned his back on his murderer, allowed them to reach around his neck and slit his throat. The incision was made in the left side of the neck and the blade drawn along the throat to the right side. No one could have been placed in such a position to perform the deed unless Scoriath trusted them very well. Only a woman with whom Scoriath was intimate could be so trusted.”

For a few minutes Fidelma sat considering.

“Could the wound not have been made by a left-handed person, facing Scoriath?” mused Fidelma.

Conn blinked again. It was obviously a habit which signaled reflection on a question.

“But Liadin is right-handed.”

“Just so,” Fidelma remarked softly.

“And,” Conn continued, ignoring her point, “if the murderer stood in front of Scoriath, he surely would have defended himself from the attack with ease.”

Fidelma mentally conceded the point.

“Continue, Conn. You say that you sent the messenger back to Irnan. What then?”

“I was surveying the scene when I heard a noise outside the building. I moved to the door, wrenched it open, and found Liadin attempting to sneak back into the building, presumably in an attempt to retrieve the knife and garment from her chamber.”

“That is surmise on your part,” Fidelma admonished.

Conn shrugged indifferently.

“Very well, I found Liadin outside the door and I arrested her. Irnan came soon afterward with Rathend, the Brehon. Liadin was taken away. That is all I know.”

“Did you know Scoriath well?”

“Not well, save that he was captain of the guard.”

“Were you jealous of him?”

Conn appeared bewildered by the abrupt question.

“Jealous?”

“Scoriath was a foreigner,” Fidelma explained. “A Gaul. Yet he had achieved high office among the Uí Dróna. Did it not annoy you to see a foreigner so well treated?”

“He was a good man, an excellent champion. It is not my place to question the decisions reached by the councils of the king nor those of my chief. He was a good warrior. As for high office … I am the heir-elect to the chieftainship, so why should I be jealous of him?”

“And what was your relationship with Liadin?”

Did a faint color suffuse his cheeks?

“I have no relationship,” he said gruffly. “She was Scoriath’s wife.”

“A good wife, to your knowledge?”

“I suppose so.”

“A good mother?”

“I have no knowledge of such things. I am unmarried.”

“If she had murdered Scoriath as you suggest, do you not question the fact that she also murdered her own child… a three-year-old boy?”

Conn was stubborn.

“I can only state what I know.”

“Did Scoriath ever say anything about a Jewess to you?”

Conn was again apparently bewildered by this abrupt change of tack.

“Never. I have never heard of a woman of that religion in these parts, though it is said that many Jewish traders frequent the port of Síl. Maíluidir on our southern coast. Iman spent some of her youth there and may have an answer for you about such things.”

The servant, Branar, was a raw-boned, fresh-faced girl with wide, guileless-looking blue eyes, and a permanent expression of confusion. She was no more than a year or two beyond the age of choice. Sister Fidelma smiled encouragingly at her and bade her be seated. Rathend sat in place, looking a trifle irritated. Branar had been escorted to the chamber by her mother but Fidelma had refused to allow the old woman to remain with her daughter during the interrogation, showing her to a side chamber. Rathend thought that Fidelma might have showed some compassion for the young girl and allowed the mother to remain. Branar was nervous and awed by the proceedings.

“How long have you been a servant to Liadin and Scoriath?” Fidelma opened.

“Why, not even a year, Sister.” The girl bobbed her head nervously as she sat. Her confused, somewhat frightened gaze traveled from Fidelma to the stony-faced Brehon and then back to Fidelma.

“A year? Did you enjoy working for them?”

“Oh yes. They were kind to me.”

“And you liked your work?” inquired Fidelma.

“Oh yes.”

“And you had no problems with either Liadin or Scoriath? Were there no arguments between them and you?”

“No. I was quite happy.”

“Was Liadin a caring wife and mother?”

“Oh yes.”

Fidelma decided to attempt another tack.

“Do you know anything about a Jewess? Did Scoriath know such a woman?”

For the first time Rathend raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced at Fidelma. But he kept silent.

“A Jewess? No.”

“What happened on the day Scoriath was killed?”

The girl looked troubled for a moment and then her face lightened.

“You mean about the argument I heard? I went that morning to clean the house of Liadin and Scoriath as I usually did. They were in the bedchamber with the door closed, but their voices were raised in a most terrifying argument.”

“What were they saying?”

“I could not make out what was being said. The door was closed.”

“Yet you could clearly identify their voices and knew that they were engaged in a violent quarrel, is that it?”

“It is. I could hear only the tones of their voices raised in anger.”

Fidelma gazed at the ingenuous face of the house servant.

“You only heard Liadin’s voice through a closed door but can identify her voice clearly?”

The girl’s nod was emphatic.

“Very well. Do you think that you know my voice by now?”

The girl hesitated suspiciously but then nodded.

“And you would know your own mother’s voice?”

The girl laughed nervously at the apparent stupidity of the question.

Sister Fidelma rose abruptly.

“I am going into the other room. I will close the door and will speak at the top of my voice. I want you to see if you can hear what I say.”

Rathend sighed. He clearly felt that Fidelma was pursuing too theatrical an approach.

Fidelma went into the next room and closed the door behind her. Branar’s mother rose uncertainly as she entered.

“Is your questioning over, Sister?” she asked in a puzzled tone.

Fidelma smiled softly and shook her head.

“I want you to say anything that comes into your head, but say it as loud as you can. It is an experiment.”

The woman stared at Sister Fidelma as if she were mad but, at a nod from Fidelma, began talking a mixture of sense and gibberish as loud as she could until Fidelma signaled her to silence. Fidelma then opened the door and called to Branar. The girl rose uncertainly.

“Well,” smiled Fidelma, “what did you hear?”

“Oh, I heard you speaking loudly, Sister, but I could not understand all you said.”

Fidelma smiled broadly now.

“But you did hear my voice?”

“Oh yes.”

“Clearly my voice?”

“Oh yes.”

Fidelma turned and pushed the door open. Branar’s mother shuffled nervously forward, as perplexed as her daughter.

“The voice you heard was your own mother’s voice, Branar. Are you still sure you wish to swear that it was Liadin who was arguing with Scoriath behind the closed door?”

The chambers where Liadin and Scoriath had dwelt were a set of rooms in the fortress not far from the stable buildings beyond the central gate. Three chambers constituted the dwelling: a living room, a bedchamber leading off it and, with access from the bedchamber, a smaller chamber in which Liadin’s young son had his bed and in which Liadin apparently stored her clothes.

The rooms now seemed cold and bleak although they were filled with items which once spelt homeliness and comfort. Perhaps it was the lack of a fire in the hearth and the gloom of the day that enhanced the chill.

Rathend led the way, crossing the floor of the room in which meals were cooked and eaten, where an iron cauldron hung on a spit over the dead grey ashes.

“Scoriath was slain in this room,” Rathend explained, showing the way into the large bedchamber.

The granite blocks of the walls were covered with tapestries. There were no windows, and the room was dark. Rathend bent and lit a tallow candle. There was a large, ornately carved bed. The bedclothes, a jumbled mess of linen and blankets, were stained with what was obviously dried blood.

“Scoriath was lying there. The child, Cunobel, was found just by the door of the smaller chamber,” Rathend explained.

Fidelma noted the dark stains crossing the floor to the small arched door which led off the chamber. She saw, by the doorway, that there was a slightly larger pool of dried blood. But the stains also led beyond the chamber door.

She walked into the smaller chamber with Rathend, who held aloft the tallow candle, following her. The trail of dried blood led to a large wooden trunk as Conn had said it had. She noticed some footprints in the dried blood. They were large and must have been made by Conn during his investigation, obscuring the original footprints of the killer.

“That was the trunk in which Liadin’s bloodstained garment was found together with the knife,” the Brehon said. Next to the trunk was a small cot in which the boy, Cunobel, must have slept. “There are no bloodstains there so we can conclude that the child was slain where he was found.”

Fidelma did not reply but returned to the main bedchamber and examined it again.

“What are you looking for, Sister?” ventured Rathend.

“I do not know… yet.” Fidelma frowned suddenly, noticing a book satchel hanging from a peg. She reached into it and drew out a moderate-sized volume. She gazed with interest at the patterned binding, frowning slightly as she noted a few dark stains which spoilt the careful artistry of the leatherwork.

Reverently, she placed it on a nearby table and motioned for Rathend to hold the candle higher.

“Why,” she said softly, opening the first page, “it is a copy of the Hexapla of Origenes. What would Scoriath or Liadin be doing with this?”

The Brehon sighed impatiently.

“There is no law against the ownership of books.”

“But it is unusual,” insisted Fidelma as she turned the pages. It was a collection of Hebrew religious texts which Origenes, head of the Christian school of Alexandria, had copied three centuries before. He had rendered the text in parallel columns, in Hebrew, Greek and then in Latin.

Fidelma suddenly frowned. Someone had marked a passage in a textual section entitled “Apokrupto.” Fidelma dredged her knowledge of Greek. It meant “hidden texts.” She read the passage with a frown. The story was of how the Assyrian king, Nebuchadnezzar, sent his army against the Israelites. The army was commanded by an invincible general named Holofernes. As the Assyrian army lay encamped around the Israelite city of Bethulia, a young Jewish maiden named Judith went to the Assyrian camp and was brought before Holofernes. She seduced him and then, afterward, as he lay in a drunken slumber, she cut off his head and returned to her own people, who took heart by this sign, rushed upon the invading army, and routed them.

Fidelma smiled to herself. It was a story worthy of the ancient Irish bards, for it was once believed that the soul reposed in the head and the greatest sign of respect was to sever the head of one’s enemy. Fidelma’s eyes suddenly widened. Judith. Her eye traveled from the Hebrew text to the Greek and then to the Latin. She caught her breath as she realized the meaning of the name Judith-it meant Jewess.

Why had the passage been marked? What had Scoriath meant when he told Liadin that he would give up his warrior’s role and become a farmer unless the “Jewess” prevented him? Scoriath was a foreigner and, in a way, commander of an army as Holofernes had been. Also, Scoriath’s head had nearly been severed. Was there some bizarre meaning to this?

Slowly she replaced the book under the puzzled gaze of the Brehon.

“Have you seen all you wish?”

“I wish,” Fidelma replied, raising her head, “to see the genealogist of the Uí Dróna.”

“You now say that you wish to question the chieftainess of the Uí Dróna? What has she to do with this matter?”

It was an hour later and Rathend and Fidelma were seated in the great hall of the fortress.

“That is for me to discover,” replied Fidelma. “I have the right to call Irnan for examination. Do you deny it?”

“Very well.” Rathend was clearly reluctant. “But I hope you know what you are doing, Fidelma of Kildare.”

Irnan came in after a short, uneasy period of waiting. Rathend leapt to his feet as the chieftainess entered.

“Why am I summoned, Rathend?” Irnan’s voice was irritable and she chose to ignore Fidelma. But it was Fidelma who replied to her.

“How long was Scoriath your lover, Irnan?”

A pin falling to the ground would have been heard for several seconds after Fidelma had spoken.

The face of the swarthy woman blanched, the lips thinned. An expression of shock etched her features.

Rathend was staring at Fidelma as if he could not believe what he had heard.

Suddenly, as if her bones and muscles would no longer support her, Irnan seemed to fold up on a nearby chair, her gaze, combining consternation and fear, not leaving Fidelma’s imperturbable features. As she did not reply, Fidelma continued.

“Before your birth, I am told that your father, Drón, traveled to the port of Síl Maíluidir. His aim was to encourage some merchants of the clan to open trade there. While at the port he met a Phoenician merchant who had a beautiful daughter. Drón married her and they had a child. The child was yourself. Your mother was named Judith-the Jewess. She survived your birth only by a few months. When she died your father then brought you back here, where you were raised.”

“That story is no secret,” replied Irnan sharply. “Molua, the genealogist, doubtless told it to you.”

“When did Scoriath tell you that he no longer loved you and wanted to resign his command and be a simple farmer?”

Irnan had apparently recovered her composure and chuckled drily.

“You do not know everything, dálaigh of the court. Scoriath did love me and told me as much on the day his wife slew him for jealousy.”

Fidelma found herself having to control her surprise at the sudden candor of Irnan’s response.

“Scoriath loved me, but he was a man of honor.” Irnan’s words were like acid. “He did not want to harm Iiadin nor his young son and so he told me that he would not divorce his wife. He would stay with them.”

“That provides you with a motive for killing him,” Fidelma pointed out.

“I loved Scoriath. I would never have harmed him.”

“So you would have us believe that you accepted the situation?”

“Scoriath and I were lovers from the first day that he arrived among us. My father, who was then chieftain, found out. While he admired Scoriath as a warrior, my father wanted me to marry an Irish prince of wealth. I think he was more determined that I should do so because of the fact that I was my mother’s daughter and he wanted to compensate for my foreign blood. He then forced Scoriath into an arranged marriage with Liadin. Scoriath did not love her.”

Irnan paused and stared reflectively at the fire for a moment before drawing her dark eyes back to the graven features of Fi-delma.

“When my father died, I became the Uí Dróna. I was then free to do as I willed. I urged Scoriath to divorce Liadin, making fair settlement on her and the child. He, however, was a man of honor and refused. He did not want to hurt Liadin. So we remained lovers.

“Then came the news of how Scoriath and his son were slain. It was so obvious who did it and why. Liadin must have found out and killed him in jealous passion.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at Iman.

“Perhaps it is too obvious a conclusion? We must take your word alone as to Scoriath’s attitudes. You could just as easily have slain Scoriath because he rejected your love.”

Irnan’s jaw came up pugnaciously.

“I do not he. This is all I have to say.” Irnan stood up. “Have you done with your questions?”

“All for the time being.”

The chieftainess turned and, without another glance at the unhappy Rathend or at Fidelma, strode from the room.

Fidelma sighed. There was something itching at the back of her memory.

Rathend was about to break the silence when the door of the hall opened and a nervous youth in the brown homespun robes of a religieux entered.

“Is the Brehon Rathend here?” he began nervously and then, catching sight of Fidelma, he bobbed his head nervously. “Bene vobis, Sister.”

“I am Rathend,” the Brehon said. “What do you wish?”

“I am Suathar of the monastery of the Blessed Moling. I came to seek the return of the book we loaned to Scoriath. I was told that before I can reclaim the book, I must have your permission.”

Fidelma looked up swiftly.

“Scoriath borrowed the copy of Origenes’s Hexapla from your monastery’s library?”

“Yes; a week ago, Sister,” agreed the young man.

“Did Scoriath request the loan of this book in person?”

Suathar shook his head, puzzled by the question.

“No. He sent a message and asked that the book be delivered the next time someone came to the ráth of the Uí Dróna. I had to come here six days ago because the aunt of the lady Liadin was ill and requested me to bring her to nurse her. I gave the book to Liadin.”

Rathend had handed the book satchel to the monk.

“You’d best check to see whether all is in order,” Fidelma invited as the young man began his thanks.

The monk hesitated, pulled out the leather-bound book, turning it over in his hands. Then he opened it.

“Has someone made a mark on the story of Holofemes?” prompted Fidelma

“The mark was not there when I left it,” agreed the young monk. “Also…” he hesitated. “The dark, brownish stains on the leather binding were not there before. They look like the imprint of the palm of hand.”

Fidelma exhaled sharply, rebuking herself for her blindness. She took the book and, after a moment’s examination, placed her hand palm down over the dark stain to assess the measurement of the imprint.

“I have been a fool!” she said softly, as if to herself. Then she drew herself up again. “Suathar, is the work of Origenes one that is popular?”

“Not popular. As you must know, Sister, it is only of passing interest to we of the Faith because the Hebrew texts, which the great Origenes put together, are of a questionable nature, being the stories which we now call “The Apocrypha,’ from the Greek word-“

Fidelma raised a hand impatiently to silence him.

“Just so. Nowhere else is the story of Judith and Holofernes to be found?”

“None that I know of Sister.”

“Has the lady Liadin ever visited your library at the monastery?”

Suathar pursed his lips in thought.

“Yes. Several weeks ago.”

Fidelma turned with a grave face to the Brehon.

“I have finished my inquires, Rathend. I need to only see Liadin once more. The case may be heard tomorrow.”

“Then you will be entering a ‘not guilty’ plea for the lady Liadin?” asked Rathend.

Fidelma shook her head at the startled Brehon.

“No. I shall be making a plea of ‘guilty.’ Liadin has been clever, but not clever enough.”

Before Sister Fidelma entered Liadin’s small cell, she turned to Conn, the commander of the guard, whom she had asked to accompany her, and told him to remain outside the door in case he was needed.

As Liadin rose with bright expectation on her face, Fidelma positioned herself just inside the door with folded arms.

“I will defend you, Liadin,” she began coldly without preamble, “but only to seek some mitigation for your guilt. It has been hard for me to believe that you would attempt to use me in this evil plot.”

When the horror of realization at what Fidelma had said began to spread across her features, Liadin opened her mouth to protest.

“I know it all,” Fidelma interrupted. “You appealed to my intellectual vanity with a number of false clues which you thought would lead me to suspect Irnan. Above all, you relied on my human weakness, that of my long friendship with you, to convince me that you could never have done this deed.”

Liadin’s face was suddenly drained of emotion and she sat back on the cot abruptly.

“You learnt that Scoriath had never loved you,” went on Fidelma relentlessly. “You learnt that he was having an affair with Irnan. The crime was well planned. If you could not have him, neither would Irnan. You hatched a cunning double plot, You decided to kill him and send for me, leaving me a false trail so that I would defend you by following that trail to Irnan.”

“How could I do that?” The girl was defiant.

“You had discovered the story of Irnan’s parentage and it put you in mind of the story of Holofernes. You were always a good Greek scholar and decided to use that as the intellectual bait which you knew would appeal to my imagination. You checked the story in the Hexapla by Origenes on a visit to the library of the monastery of Moling. When the time was right, you sent to ask Suathar, in Scoriath’s name, to bring the book which would provide me with the next clue after you had dropped into your conversation with me that Scoriath was afraid of someone called the ‘Jewess.’“

Fidelma paused and gazed sadly at her friend.

“You took the book and hung it in the chamber. One unexpected thing occurred. You were overheard by Branar having a row with Scoriath. But that turned out to be no problem because, having convinced myself so firmly of your innocence, I cleverly used a trick to dismiss Branar’s information to my own satisfaction. Cleverness when used with prejudice is a formidable thing.

“You went off to your aunt. Later you returned unnoticed to the rath and entered your chambers. There was Scoriath. He had no cause to suspect you, and you struck him from behind. Perhaps it was then that you remembered… in the row that morning you had neglected to plant the main piece of evidence needed for me to follow the trail. You had neglected to mark the passage about Judith and Holofernes. You did so then, for there was blood which stained the leather binding and went unnoticed.

“Then,” Fidelma went on remorselessly, “then you went to hide in the stables and wait until Conn discovered the bodies. You appeared, pretending to have just returned from your aunt. You knew that you would be accused, but you had already sent for me and laid your false trail. The thing that was irritating my mind was the fact that you must have sent for me before the murder to allow me to reach here on time.”

“It is not true,” Liadin’s voice was broken now. “Even if I did kill Scoriath for jealousy, there is a flaw in your arguments and one I think you know in your heart.”

Fidelma raised her head and returned her friend’s gaze. Did she detect a triumph in that gaze?

“And what is that?” she asked softly.

“You know that I would not be capable of killing my own son. While you have that doubt you will do all you can to argue my case and clear me of this crime.”

“You are right,” Fidelma admitted. “I know that you could not have killed your son.”

Fidelma heard a movement outside the cell but did not take her eyes from Liadin’s triumphant gaze.

“Come in, Conn,” she called quietly and without turning her head. “Tell me why you had to kill Liadin’s little son.”

The fair haired young Tanist entered the cell with his sword drawn.

“For the same reason that I must now kill you,” he replied coldly. “The plot was more or less as you have described it. There was a slight difference. I was the leading spirit. Liadin and I were lovers.”

Liadin had begun crying softly, realizing the truth was finally out.

“I wanted my freedom from Scoriath to go with Conn. I knew Scoriath would not divorce me, for he was a man of principles. So there was no alternative. I had to make you believe that he was having an affair with Irnan….”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow in cynicism.

“Are you telling me that you did not know that Scoriath and Irnan were really lovers?”

Liadin’s look of startled surprise told Fidelma that she did not.

“Then you did not know that Scoriath would have divorced you had you simply asked him? Or that he remained with you only because of what he considered was his duty to you and his son?”

Liadin stood frozen in horror. Then she stammered: “But Conn… Conn said… Oh God! If only I had known… then all this could have been avoided. Conn and I could have been together without guilt.”

“That would not be so, would it, Conn, Tanist of the Uí Dróna?”

The young man’s expression was sullenly defiant.

“You see,” Fidelma went on, speaking to Liadin, “Conn was using you, Liadin. He persuaded you to work out the plan to implicate Irnan because if I followed your false trail and could demonstrate that Irnan was implicated, or at least was a suspect in Scoriath’s death, then she would have had to relinquish the chieftaincy of the Uí Dróna. A chieftain must be without blemish or suspicion. Who would benefit from that but the Tanist-the elected heir?”

Liadin had turned to Conn in disbelief.

“Deny it!” she cried. “Say it is not so!”

Conn shrugged arrogantly.

“Why gamble just for love when one can take power as well? We laid out the plot as you have deduced it, Fidelma of Kildare. Except for one thing: I also slew Scoriath. And when the child stumbled into the room and saw me, I had to kill him as I must now kill you….”

Conn raised his sword.

Fidelma flinched, closing her eyes. She heard Liadin scream. The blow was not delivered. She opened her eyes to find that Liadin was clinging to Conn’s sword arm while Rathend and two warriors crowded the cell to disarm and drag the struggling young man away.

Liadin collapsed into a sobbing heap on the cot.

Rathend was standing gazing at Fidelma with a look of admiration in his eyes.

“So you were right, Fidelma of Kildare. How could you have been so sure?”

“I was not sure. Only my instinct was sure. I was certain that Liadin could not have killed her son but that weighed against my certainty that it was Liadin who set the elaborate series of false clues for me to follow, knowing how they would appeal to my vanity for solving mysteries. I was faced with two conflicting certainties. That meant Liadin had an accomplice, and in that accomplice one could look for motive. I began to suspect Conn when he willingly provided me with the next link about Irnan and the Jewess connection.

“Poor Liadin, even when she knew that Conn had slain her child, she continued to go through with this plot for love of him. A strong thing, this blindness of love.”

She glanced compassionately at her friend.

“Only when I realized the width of the palm print on the book satchel was that of a male hand did things make sense. Conn, in setting the murder scene, had to make sure that Liadin had left the clue in its proper place and, in doing so, he left his own clue there. The plan needed my participation to follow the false clues. I was late in arriving here and found that Conn was looking for my coming. At the time I wondered why he was relieved when I arrived.”

Rathend sighed softly.

“So Conn persuaded his lover to participate in the crime, making her believe it was all for love while all the time he merely sought power?”

“liadin is guilty, but not so guilty as Conn, for he played on her emotions as a fiddler plays upon his instrument. Ah, Liadin, Lia-din!” Fldelma shook her head. “No matter how well one thinks one knows someone, there is always some dark recess of the mind that even the closest of friends may never reach.”

“She saved your life, though. That will stand in mitigation when she is judged.”

“If only Scoriath had been honest with her,” Fldelma sighed. “If Scoriath had confessed his affair with Irnan and told Liadin that he wanted a divorce, she would not have been led into this fearful plot.”

“It seems that Scoriath brought his own fate upon himself,” ventured Rathend.

“He was probably a coward to emotion,” agreed Fldelma as they turned from the cell, leaving the sobbing Liadin alone. “Men often are. Dew vult!”

“God wills all things,” echoed Rathend hollowly.