Hemlock at Vespers

A CANDLE FOR NULFSTAN

Abbot Laisran smiled broadly. He was a short, rotund, red-faced man. His face proclaimed a permanent state of jollity, for he had been born with that rare gift of humor and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. When he smiled, it was no fainthearted parting of the lips but an expression that welled from the depths of his being, bright and all-encompassing. And when he laughed it was as though the whole earth trembled in accompaniment.

“It is so good to see you again, Sister Fidelma,” Laisran boomed, and his voice implied it was no mere formula but a genuine expression of his joy in the meeting.

Sister Fidelma answered his smile with an almost urchin grin, quite at odds with her habit and calling. Indeed, those who examined the young woman closely, observing the rebellious strands of red hair thrusting from beneath her head-dress, seeing the bubbling laughter in her green eyes, and the natural expression of merriment on her fresh, attractive face, would wonder why such an alluring young woman had taken up the life of a religieuse. Her tall, yet well-proportioned figure seemed to express a desire for a more active and joyous role in life than that in the cloistered confines of a religious community.

“And it is good to see you again, Laisran. It is always a pleasure to come to Durrow.”

Abbot Laisran reached out both his hands to take Fidelma’s extended one, for they were old friends. Laisran had known Fi-delma since she had reached “the age of choice,” and he it was who had persuaded her to take up the study of law under the Brehon Morann of Tara. Further, he had persuaded her to continue her studies until she had reached the qualification of Anruth, one degree below that of Ollamh, the highest rank of learning. It had been Laisran who had advised her to join the community of Brigid at Kildare when she had become accepted as a dálaigh, an advocate of the Brehon Court. In the old days, before the Light of Christ reached the shores of Éireann, all those who held professional office were of the caste of Druids. When the Druids gave up their power to the priests and communities of Christ, the professional classes, in turn, enlisted in the new holy orders as they had done in the old.

“Shall you be long among us?” inquired Laisran.

Fidelma shook her head.

“I am on a journey to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Ard Macha.”

“Well, you must stay and dine with us this night. It is a long time since I have had a stimulating talk.”

Fidelma grimaced with humor.

“You are abbot of one of the great teaching monasteries of Ireland. Professors of all manner of subjects reside here with students from the four corners of Ireland. How can you be lacking stimulating discourse?”

Laisran chuckled.

“These professors tend to lecture; there is little dialogue. How boring monologues can be. Sometimes I find more intelligence among our students.”

The great monastery on the plain of the oaks, which gave it the name Durrow, was scarcely a century old but already its fame as a university had spread to many peoples of Europe. Students flocked to the scholastic island, in the middle of the bog of Aillín, from numerous lands. The Blessed Colmcille had founded the community at Durrow before he had been exiled by the High King and left the shores of Éireann to form his more famous community on Iona in the land of the Dàl Riada.

Sister Fidelma fell in step beside the Abbot as he led the way along the great vaulted corridors of the monastery toward his chamber. Brothers and laymen scurried quietly hither and thither through the corridors, heads bowed, intent on their respective classes or devotions. There were four faculties of learning at Dur-row: theology, medicine, law and the liberal arts.

It was midmorning, halfway between the first Angelus bell and the summons of the noonday Angelus. Fidelma had been up before dawn and had traveled fifteen miles to reach Durrow on horseback, the ownership of a horse being a privilege accorded only to her rank as a representative of the Brehon Court.

A solemn-faced monk strode across their path, hesitated and inclined his head. He was a thin, dark-eyed man of swarthy skin who wore a scowl with the same ease that Abbot Laisran wore a smile. Laisran made a curious gesture of acknowledgment with his hand, more as one of dismissal than recognition, and the man moved off into a side room.

“Brother Finan, our professor of law,” explained Laisran, almost apologetically. “A good man, but with no sense of humor at all. I often think he missed his vocation and that he was designed in life to be a professional mourner.”

He cast a mischievous grin at her.

“Finan of Durrow is well respected among the Brehons,” replied Fidelma, trying to keep her face solemn. It was hard to keep a straight face in the company of Laisran.

“Ah,” sighed Laisran, “it would lighten our world if you came to teach here, Fidelma. Finan teaches the letter of the law, whereas you would explain to our pupils that often the law can be for the guidance of the wise and the obedience of fools, that justice can sometimes transcend law.”

Sister Fidelma bit her lip.

“There is sometimes a moral question which has to be resolved above the law,” she agreed. “Indeed, I have had to face decisions between law and justice.”

“Exactly so. Finan’s students leave here with a good knowledge of the law but often little knowledge of justice. Perhaps you will think on this?”

Sister Fidelma hesitated.

“Perhaps,” she said guardedly.

Laisran smiled and nodded.

“Look around you, Fidelma. Our fame as a center of learning is even known in Rome. Do you know, no fewer than eighteen languages are spoken among our students? We resort to Latin and sometimes Greek as our lingua franca. Among the students that we have here are not just the children of the Gael. We have a young Prankish prince, Dagobert, and his entourage. There are Saxon princes, Wulfstan, Eadred and Raedwald. Indeed, we have a score of Saxons. There is Talorgen, a prince of Rheged in the land of Britain…”

“I hear that the Saxons are making war on Rheged and attempting to destroy it so they can expand their borders,” observed Fi-delma. “That cannot make for easy relationships among the students.”

“Ah, that is so. Our Irish monks in Northumbria attempt to teach these Saxons the ways of Christ, and of learning and piety, but they remain a fierce warrior race intent on conquest, plunder and land. Rheged may well fall like the other kingdoms of the Britons before them. Elmet fell when I was a child. Where the Britons of Elmet once dwelt, now there are Saxon farmers and Saxon thanes!”

They halted before Laisran’s chamber door. The Bishop opened it to usher Fidelma inside.

Fidelma frowned. “There has been perpetual warfare between the Britons and the Saxons for the last two and a half centuries. Surely it is hard to contain both Briton and Saxon within the same hall of learning?”

They moved into Laisran’s official chamber, which he used for administrating the affairs of the great monastery. He motioned Fidelma to be seated before a smoldering turf fire and went to pour wine from an earthenware jug on the table, handing a goblet to her and raising the other in salute.

“Agimus tibi gratias, Omnipotens Deus,” he intoned solemnly but with a sparkle of humor in his eyes.

“Amen,” echoed Sister Fidelma, raising the goblet to her lips and tasting the rich red wine of Gaul.

Abbot Laisran settled himself in a chair and stretched out his feet towards the fire.

“Difficult to contain Briton and Saxon?” he mused, after a while. In fact, Sister Fidelma had almost forgotten that she had asked the question. “Yes. We have had several fights among the Britons and the Saxons here. Only the prohibition of weapons on our sacred ground has so far prevented injury.”

“Why don’t you send one group or the other to another center of learning?”

Laisran sniffed.

“That has already been suggested by Finan, no less. A neat, practical and logical suggestion. The question is… which group? Both Britons and Saxons refuse to go, each group demanding that if anyone leave Durrow then it should be the other.”

“Then you have difficulties,” observed Fidelma.

“Yes. Each is quick to anger and slow to forget an insult, real or imaginary. One Saxon princeling, Wulfstan, is very arrogant. He has ten in his retinue. He comes from the land of the South Saxons, one of the smaller Saxon kingdoms, but to hear him speak you would think that his kingdom encompassed the world. The sin of pride greatly afflicts him. After his first clash with the Britons he demanded that he be given a chamber whose window was barred from ingress and whose door could be bolted from the inside.”

“A curious request in a house of God,” agreed Sister Fidelma.

“That is what I told him. But he told me that he feared for his life. In fact, so apprehensive was his manner, so genuine did his fear appear, that I decided to appease his anxiety and provide him with such a chamber. I gave him a room with a barred window in which we used to keep transgressors but had our carpenter fix the lock so that the door could be barred from the inside. Wulfstan is a strange young man. He never moves without a guard of five of his retinue. And after Vespers he retires to his room but has his retinue search it before he enters and only then will he enter alone and bar the door. There he remains until the morning Angelus.”

Sister Fidelma pursed her lips and shook her head in wonder.

“Truly one would think him greatly oppressed and frightened. Have you spoken to the Britons?”

“I have, indeed. Talorgen, for example, openly admits that all Saxons are enemies of his blood but that he would not deign to spill Saxon blood in a house of God. In fact, the young Briton rebuked me, saying that his people had been Christian for centuries and had made no war on sacred ground, unlike the Saxons. He reminded me that within the memory of living man, scarcely half a century ago, the Saxon warriors of Aethelfrith of North-umbria had defeated Selyf map Cynan of Powys in battle at a place called Caer Legion, but then profaned their victory by slaughtering a thousand British monks from Bangor-is-Coed. He averred that the Saxons were scarcely Christian in thought and barely so in word and deed.”

“In other words …?” prompted Fidelma when Laisran paused to sip his wine.

“In other words, Talorgen would not harm a Saxon protected by the sacred soil of a Christian house, but he left no doubt that he would not hesitate to slay Wulfstan outside these walls.”

“So much for Christian charity, love and forgiveness,” sighed Fidelma.

Laisran grimaced. “One must remember that the Britons have suffered greatly at the hands of the Saxons during these last centuries. After all, the Saxons have invaded and conquered much of their land. Ireland has received great communities of refugees fleeing from the Saxon conquests in Britain.”

Fidelma smiled whimsically. “Do I detect that you approve of Talorgen’s attitude?”

Laisran grinned.

“If you ask me as a Christian, no; no, of course not. If you ask me as a member of a race who once shared a common origin, belief and law with our cousins, the Britons, then I must say to you that I have a sneaking sympathy for Talorgen’s anger.”

There came a sudden banging at the door of the chamber, so loud and abrupt that both Laisran and Fidelma started in surprise. Before the Abbot had time to call out, the door burst open and a middle-aged monk, his face red, his clothes awry from running, burst breathlessly into the room.

He halted a few paces inside the door, his shoulders heaving, his breath panting from exertion.

Laisran rose, his brows drawing together in an unnatural expression of annoyance.

“What does this mean, Brother Ultan? Have you lost your senses?”

The man shook his head, eyes wide. He gulped air, trying to recover his breath.

“God between us and all evil,” he got out at last. “There has been a murder committed.”

Laisran’s composure was severely shaken.

“Murder, you say?”

“Wulfstan, the Saxon, your Grace! He has been stabbed to death in his chamber.”

The blood drained from Laisran’s face and he cast a startled glance toward Sister Fidelma. Then he turned back to Brother Ultan, his face now set in stem lines.

“Compose yourself, Brother,” he said kindly, “and tell me slowly and carefully. What has occurred?”

Brother Ultan swallowed nervously and sought to collect his thoughts.

“Eadred, the companion of Wulfstan, came to me during the midmorning hour. He was troubled. Wulfstan had not attended the morning prayers nor had he been at his classes. No one has seen him since he retired into his chamber following Vespers last night. Eadred had gone to his chamber and found the door closed. There was no response to his summons at the door. So, as I am master of the household, he came to see me. I accompanied him to Wulf-stan’s chamber. Sure enough, the door was closed and clearly barred on the inside.”

He paused a moment and then continued.

“Having knocked awhile, I then, with Eadred’s help, forced the door. It took a while to do, and I had to summon the aid of two other Brothers to eventually smash the wooden bars that secured it. Inside the chamber…” He bit his Up, his face white with the memory.

“Go on,” ordered Laisran.

“Inside the chamber was the body of Wulfstan. He lay back on the bed. He was in his night attire, which was stained red with congealed blood. There were many wounds in his chest and stomach. He had been stabbed several times. It was clear that he had been slain.”

“What then?”

Brother Ultan was now more firmly in control. He contrived to shrug at Laisran’s question.

“I left the two Brothers to guard the chamber. I told Eadred to return to his room and not to tell anyone until I sent for him. Then I came immediately to inform you, your Grace.”

“Wulfstan killed?” Laisran whispered as he considered the implications. “Then God protect us, indeed. The land of the South Saxons may be a small kingdom, but these Saxons band together against all foreigners. This could lead to some incident between the Saxons and the land of Éireann.”

Sister Fidelma came forward from her seat, frowning at the master of the household.

“Let me get this clear, Brother Ultan, did you say that the chamber door was locked from the inside?”

Brother Ultan examined her with a frown of annoyance, turning back to Abbot Laisran as though to ignore her.

“Sister Fidelma is a dálaigh of the Brehon Court, Brother,” Laisran rebuked softly.

The Brother’s eyes widened and he turned hurriedly back to Sister Fidelma with a look of respect.

“Yes, the door of Wulfstan’s chamber was barred from the inside.”

“And the window was barred?”

A look of understanding crossed Ultan’s face.

“No one could have entered or left the chamber through the window, Sister,” he said slowly, swallowing hard, as the thought crystallized in his mind.

“And yet no one could have left by the door?” pressed Sister Fidelma relentlessly.

Ultan shook his head.

“Are you sure that the wounds of Wulfstan were not self-inflicted?”

“No!” whispered Ultan, swiftly genuflecting.

“Then how could someone have entered his chamber slaughtered him, and left it, ensuring that the door was bolted from the inside?”

“God help us, Sister!” cried Ultan. “Whoever did this deed was a sorcerer! An evil demon able to move through walls of stone!”

Abbot Laisran halted uneasily at the end of the corridor in which two of his brethren stood to bar the way against any inquisitive members of the brethren or students. Already, in spite of Brother Ultan’s attempt to stop the spread of the news, word of Wulfstan’s death was being whispered among the cloisters. Laisran turned to Sister Fidelma, who had followed at his heels, calm and composed, her hands now folded demurely in the folds of her gown.

“Are you sure that you wish to undertake this task, Sister?”

Sister Fidelma wrinkled her nose.

“Am I not an advocate of the Brehon Court? Who else should conduct this investigation if not I, Laisran?”

“But the manner of his death…”

She grimaced and cut him short.

“I have seen many bodies and only few have died peacefully. This is the task that I was trained for.”

Laisran sighed and motioned the two Brothers to stand aside.

“This is Sister Fidelma, a dálaigh of the Brehon Court who is investigating the death of Wulfstan on my behalf. Make sure that she has every assistance.”

Laisran hesitated, raised his shoulder almost in a gesture of bewilderment, then turned and left.

The two Brothers stood aside respectfully as Sister Fidelma hesitated at the door.

The chamber of Wulfstan was one which led off a corridor of dark granite stone on the ground floor of the monastery. The door, which now hung splintered on its hinges, was thick-perhaps about two inches thick-and had been attached to the door frame with heavy iron hinges. Unlike most doors she was accustomed to, there was no iron handle on the outside. She paused awhile, her keen green eyes searching the timber of the door which showed the scuffing of Ultan’s attempts to force it.

Then she took a step forward but stayed at the threshold, letting her keen eyes travel over the room beyond.

Beyond was a bed, a body laid sprawled on its back, arms flung out, head with wild staring eyes directed toward the ceiling in a last painful gape preceding death. The body was clad in a white shirt which was splattered with blood. The wounds were certainly not self-inflicted.

From her position, she saw a small wooden chair, on which was flung a pile of clothes. There was also a small table with an oil lamp and some writing materials on it. There was little else in the room.

The light entered the gloomy chamber from a small window which stood at a height of eight feet from the floor and was criss-crossed with iron bars through which one might thrust an arm to shoulder length, but certainly no more than that could pass beyond. All four walls of the chamber were of stone blocks, while the floor was well was flagged in great granite slabs. The ceiling of the room was of dark oak beams. There was little light to observe detail in the chamber, even though it was approaching the noonday. The only light that entered was from the tiny, barred window.

“Bring me a strong lamp, Brothers,” Fidelma called to the two monks in the corridor.

“There is a lamp already in the room, Sister,” replied one of them.

Sister Fidelma hid her annoyance.

“I want nothing in this room touched until I have examined it carefully. Now fetch me the lamp.”

She waited, without moving, until one of the Brothers hurried away and returned with an oil lamp.

“Light it,” instructed Fidelma.

The monk did so.

Fidelma took it from his hand with a nod of thanks.

“Wait outside and let no one into the room until I say so.”

Holding the lamp, she stepped forward into the curious chamber of death.

Wulfstan’s throat had been slashed with a knife or sword and there were several great stab wounds in his chest around the heart. His night attire was torn by the weapon and bloodied, as were the sheets around him.

On the floor beside the bed was a piece of fine cloth which was bloodstained. The blood had dried. She picked it up and examined it. It was an elegantly woven piece of linen which was embroidered. It carried a Latin motto. She examined the bloodstains on it. It appeared as if whoever had killed Wulfstan had taken the kerchief from his pocket and wiped his weapon clean, letting the kerchief drop to the floor beside the body in a fit of absentmindedness. Sister Fidelma placed the kerchief in the pocket within the folds of her robe.

She examined the window next. Although it was too high to reach up to it, the bars seemed secure enough. Then she gazed up at the heavy wooden planking and beams which formed the ceiling. It was a high chamber, some eleven feet from floor to ceiling. The floor too, seemed solid enough.

Near the bed she suddenly noticed a pile of ashes. She dropped to one knee beside the ashes and examined them, trying not to disperse them with her breath, for they appeared to be the remnants of some piece of paper, or vellum, perhaps. Not a very big piece either, but it was burnt beyond recognition.

She rose and examined the door next.

There were two wooden bars which had secured it. Each bar, when in place, slotted into iron rests. The first was at a height of three feet from the bottom of the door while the second was five feet from the bottom. She saw that one of the iron rests had been splintered from the wooden doorjamb, obviously when Ultan had broken in. The pressure against the bar had wrenched the rest from its fastenings. But the bottom set of rests were in place and there was no sign of damage to the second bar, which was lying just behind the door. Both bars were solid enough. The ends were wrapped with twine, she presumed to stop the wood wearing against the iron rests in which they lodged. On one of the bars the pieces of twine had become unwound, blackened and frayed at the end.

Sister Fidelma gave a deep sigh.

Here, indeed, was a problem to be solved, unless the owner of the kerchief could supply an answer.

She moved to the door and suddenly found herself slipping. She reached out a hand to steady herself. There was a small pool of blackened grease just inside the door. Her sharp eyes caught sight of a similar pool on the other side of the door. Bending to examine them, she frowned as she noticed two nails attached on the door frame, on either side of the door. A short length of twine, blackened and frayed at the end, was attached to each nail.

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully and stood staring at the door for a long while before turning to leave the death chamber.

In Abbot Laisran’s chamber, Sister Fidelma seated herself at the long table. She had arranged with the Abbot to interview any she felt able to hel

p her in arriving at a solution to the problem. Laisran himself offered to sit in on her encounters but she had felt it unnecessary. Laisran had taken himself to a side room, having presented her with a bell to summon him if she needed any help.

Brother Ultan was recruited to fetch those whom she wanted to see and was straightaway dispatched to bring Wulfstan’s fellow Saxon prince, Eadred, who had helped Ultan discover the body, as well as his cousin Raedwald.

Eadred was a haughty youth with flaxen hair and cold blue eyes that seemed to have little expression. His features seemed fixed with a mixture of disdain and boredom. He entered the chamber, eyes narrowing as he beheld Sister Fidelma. A tall, muscular young man in his late twenties accompanied Eadred. Although he carried no arms, he acted as if he were the prince’s bodyguard.

“Are you Eadred?” Fidelma asked the youth.

The young man scowled.

“I do not answer questions from a woman.” His voice was harsh, and that combined with his guttural accent made his stilted Irish sound raucous.

Sister Fidelma sighed. She had heard that Saxons could be arrogant and that they treated their womenfolk more as chattels than as human beings.

“I am investigating the death of your countryman, Wulfstan. I need my questions to be answered,” she replied firmly.

Eadred merely ignored her.

“Lady.” It was the tall muscular Saxon who spoke and his knowledge of Irish was better than that of his prince. “I am Raed-wald, thane of Staeningum, cousin to the thane of Andredswald. It is not the custom of princes of our race to discourse with women if they be not of equal royal rank.”

“Then I am obliged for your courtesy in explaining your customs, Raedwald. Eadred, your cousin, seems to lack a knowledge of the law and customs of the country in which he is now a guest.”

Ignoring the angry frown on Eadred’s features, she reached forward and rang the silver bell on the table before her. The Abbot Laisran entered from a side room.

“As you warned me, your Grace, the Saxons seem to think that they are above the law of this land. Perhaps they will accept the explanation from your lips.”

Laisran nodded and turned to the young men. He bluntly told them of Fldelma’s rank and position in law, that even the High King had to take note of her wisdom and learning. Eadred continued to scowl but he inclined his head stiffly when I Laisran told him that he was under legal obligation to answer Fidelma’s questions. Raedwald seemed to accept the explanation as a matter of course.

“As your countryman considers you of royal rank, I will deign to answer your questions,” Eadred said, moving forward and seating himself without waiting for Fidelma’s permission. Raedwald continued to stand.

Fidelma exchanged a glance with Laisran, who shrugged.

“The customs of the Saxons are not our customs, Sister Fi-delma,” Laisran said apologetically. “You will ignore their tendency to boorish behavior.”

Eadred flushed angrily.

“I am a prince of the blood royal of the South Saxons, descended through the blood of Aelle from the great god Woden!”

Raedwald, who stood silently with arms folded behind him, looking unhappy, opened his mouth and then closed it firmly.

Abbot Laisran genuflected. Sister Fidelma merely stared at the young man in amusement.

“So you are not yet truly Christian, believing only in the One True God?”

Eadred bit his lip.

“All Saxon royal houses trace their bloodline to Woden, whether god, man or hero,” he responded, with a slightly defensive tone.

“Tell me something of yourself then. I understand that you were cousin to Wulfstan? If you find speaking in our language difficult, you may speak in Latin or Greek. I am fluent in their usage.”

“I am not,” rasped Eadred. “I speak your language from my study here but I speak no other tongue fluently, though I have some knowledge of Latin.”

Sister Fidelma hid her surprise and gestured for him to continue. Most Irish princes and chieftains she knew spoke several languages fluently besides their own, especially Latin and some Greek.

“Very well. Wulfstan was your cousin, wasn’t he?”

“Wulfstan’s father Cissa, king of the South Saxons, was brother to my father, Cymen. I am thane of Andredswald, as my father was before me.”

“Tell me how Wulfstan and yourself came to be here, in Dur-row.”

Eadred sniffed. “Some years ago, one of your race, a man called Diciul, arrived in our country and began to preach of his god, a god with no name who had a son named Christ. Cissa, the king, was converted to this new god and turned away from Woden. The man of Éireann was allowed to form a community, a monastery, at Bosa’s Ham, in our land, and many went to hear him teach. Cissa decided that Wulfstan, who was heir apparent to the king-ship, should come to the land of Éireann for education.”

Sister Fidelma nodded, wondering whether it was the young man’s poor usage of Irish that made him seem so disapproving of Cissa’s conversation to Christ.

“Then Wulfstan is the Tanist in your land?”

Abbot Laisran intervened with a smile.

“The Saxons have a different system of law from us, Sister Fi-delma,” he interrupted. “They hold that the eldest son inherits all. There is no election by the derbhfine such as we have.”

“I see,” nodded Fidelma. “Go on, Eadred. Cissa decided to send Wulfstan here.”

The young man grimaced sourly.

“I was ordered to accompany him and learn with him. We came together with our cousin Raedwald, thane of Staeningum, and ten churls and five slaves to attend our needs, and here we have been now for six moons.”

“And not the best of our students,” muttered Laisran.

“That’s as may be,” snapped Eadred. “We did not ask to come, but were ordered by Cissa. I shall be pleased to depart now and take the body of my kinsman back to my country.”

“Does the Latin inscription cave quid dicis mean anything to you?”

Eadred sniffed. “It is the motto of the young Frankish prince, Dagobert.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at the young man before turning to Raedwald. The muscular young man’s face was flushed and confused.

“And you, Raedwald? Does it mean anything to you?”

“Alas, I have no Latin, lady,” he mumbled.

“So? And when did you last see Wulfstan?”

“Just after Vespers.”

“What happened exactly?”

“As usual, Wulfstan was accompanied by myself and Eadred, with two of our churls and two slaves, to his chamber for the night. We searched the chamber as usual and then Wulfstan entered and dismissed us.”

Eadred nodded in agreement. “I talked awhile with Raedwald in the corridor. We both heard Wulfstan secure the wooden bars. Then I went off to my chamber.”

Sister Fidelma glanced again toward Raedwald.

“And you can confirm this, Raedwald?”

Eadred flushed. “You doubt my word?” His voice was brittle.

“This investigation will be conducted under our law, Eadred,” retorted Fidelma in annoyance.

Raedwald looked awkward.

“I can confirm what Eadred says, lady,” he replied. “The thane of Andredswald speaks the truth. As soon as we heard the bars slide shut we both knew that the prince, Wulfstan, had secured himself in for the night and so we both departed for our sleeping chambers.”

Sister Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.

“You can also confirm, Eadred, that Wulfstan was afraid of being attacked? Why was that?”

Eadred sniffed. “There are too many mad welisc in this place and one in particular had made several threats against him… that barbarian Talorgen!”

“Welisc? Who are they?” frowned Fidelma, puzzled.

Laisran gave a tired smile.

“The Saxons call all Britons welisc. It is a name which signifies that they are foreigners.”

“I see. So you left Wulfstan safely secured in his room? You did not seem to be as afraid of the Britons as your cousin. Why was that?”

Eadred laughed bitterly.

“I would not be thane of Andredswald if I could not defend myself against a pack of welisc cowards. No, I fear no barbarian’s whelp nor his sire, either.”

“And the rest of your Saxon entourage? Did they fear the Britons?”

“Whether they feared or not, it is of no significance. I command them and they will do as I tell them.”

Sister Fidelma exhaled in exasperation. It would be difficult to live in a Saxon country if one was not a king or a thane, she thought.

“When did you realize that Wulfstan was missing?” she prompted.

“At prayers following the first bell“

“He means the Angelus,” explained Laisran.

“He did not come to prayers and, thinking he had slept late, I went to classes.”

“What classes were these?”

“That weasel-faced Finan’s class on the conduct of law between kingdoms.”

“Go on.”

“During the midmorning break, having realized that Wulfstan was missing, I went to his room. The door was shut, signifying he was still inside. I banged upon the door. There was no response. I then went to look for Brother Ultan, the house-churl…”

“The steward of our community,” corrected Laisran softly.

“We went to Wulfstan’s chamber and Ultan had to call upon two other brothers to help us break in the door. Wulfstan had been feloniously slain. One doesn’t have to search far for the culprit.”

“And who might that be?” invited Sister Fidelma.

“Why, it is obvious. The welisc-man, Talorgan, who calls himself a prince of Rheged. He had threatened Wulfstan’s life. And it is well known the welisc practice sorcery…”

“What do you mean?” Fidelma asked sharply.

“Why, the fact that Wulfstan had been slaughtered in his bed-chamber while the window was barred and the door shut and secured from the inside. Who else but a welisc would be able to shape-change and perpetrate such a monstrous deed?”

Sister Fidelma hid her cynical smile.

“Eadred, I think you have much to learn, for you seem to be wallowing in the superstition of your old religion.”

Eadred sprang up, his hand going to his belt where a knife might be worn.

“I am thane of Andredswald! I consented to be questioned by a mere woman because it is the custom of this land. However, I will not be insulted by one.”

“I am sorry that you think, that I insult you,” Sister Fidelma replied, with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “You may go.”

Eadred’s face was working in a rage but Laisran moved forward and opened the door.

The young Saxon prince turned and stormed out. Raedwald hesitated a moment, made a gesture almost of apology, and then followed the prince out of the room.

“Did I not tell you that these Saxons are strange, haughty people, Fidelma?” smiled Laisran almost sadly.

Sister Fidelma shook her head.

“They probably have their good and bad like all people. Raed-wald seems filled more with the courtesy of princes than his cousin Eadred.”

“Well, if Eadred and his followers are to be judged, then we have had their bad. As for Raedwald, although a thane and older than either Wulfstan or Eadred, he seems quiet and was dominated by them both. He is more of a servant than a master. I gather this is because his cousins both stand in closer relationship to their king than he does.” Laisran paused and cast her a curious glance. “Why did you ask them about the Latin motto-cave quid dices?”

“It was a motto found on a piece of linen which wiped the weapon that killed Wulfstan. It could have been dropped by the killer or it could have been Wulfstan’s.”

Laisran shook his head.

“No. Eadred was right. That belligerent motto, Fidelma, ‘beware what you say,’ is the motto of the Frankish prince-Dagobert. I have recently remarked on its pugnacity to the young man.”

Sister Fidelma stretched reflectively. “It seems things do not look good for Dagobert of the Franks. He now stands as the most likely suspect.”

“Not necessarily. Anyone could have taken and dropped the cloth, and there are many here who have come to hate the arrogance of the Saxons. Why, I have even heard the dour Finan declare that he would like to drown the lot of them!”

Fidelma raised her eyebrows.

“Are you telling me that we must suspect Finan, the professor of your law faculty?”

Abbot Laisran suddenly laughed.

“Oh, the idea of Finan being able to shape-change to enter a locked room, commit murder and sneak out without disturbing the locks, is an idea I find amusing but hardly worthy of consideration.”

Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at Laisran.

“Do you believe that this murder could only be carried out by sorcery, then?”

Laisran’s rotund face clouded and he genuflected quickly.

“God between me and all evil, Fidelma, but is there any other explanation? We come from a culture which accepted shape-changing as a normal occurrence. Move among our people and they will tell you that Druids still exist and have such capabilities. Wasn’t Diarmuid’s foster brother changed into a boar, and wasn’t Caer, the beloved of Aengus Og, condemned to change her form every alternate year?”

“These are ancient legends, Laisran,” admonished Sister Fidelma. “We live in reality, in the here and now. And it is among the people of this community that we will find the person who slew Wulfstan. Before I question Dagobert, however, I would like to see Wulfstan’s chamber once more.”

Abbot Laisran pulled at his lower lip. His usually jovial face was creased in a frown of perplexity.

“I do not understand, Sister Fidelma. Everyone in our community here at Durrow had cause to kill Wulfstan and everyone is suspect. Is that what you are saying? At the same time that everyone is suspect, no one could have done the deed, for its implementation was beyond the hand of any human agency.”

“Now that I did not say,” Sister Fidelma admonished the Abbot firmly, as she led the way along the corridor to halt at the open door of what had been Wulfstan’s chamber.

The body of Wulfstan had been removed to the chapel of St. Benignus, where preparations were being made to transport its sarcophagus to the coast, from where Eadred and his entourage would accompany it, by sea, to the land of the South Saxons which lay on the southern shore of Britain.

Sister Fidelma stared once again at the grey stone-flagged floor. She walked over the slabs, pressing each with her foot. Then she stared upward toward the ceiling, which rose about eleven feet above the chamber floor. Her eyes eventually turned back to the bars on the window.

“Give me a hand,” she suddenly demanded.

Abbot Laisran stared at her in surprise as she began pushing the wooden table toward the window.

Hastily, he joined her in the effort, grinning sheepishly.

“If the young novitiates of my order could see their abbot heaving furniture about…” he began.

“They would realize that their abbot was merely human,” replied Fidelma, smiling.

They pushed the table under the barred window and, to Abbot Laisran’s astonishment, Sister Fidelma suddenly scrambled on top of the table. It rose three feet above the ground and by standing on it, Sister Fidelma, being tall, could reach easily to the bars of the solitary window whose bottom level was eight feet above the floor. She reached up with both her hands and tested each inch-thick iron bar carefully.

The lowering of her shoulders showed her disappointment.

Slowly she clambered down, helped by the arm of Laisran.

Her lips were compressed. “I thought the bars might have been loose.”

“It was a good idea,” smiled Laisran, encouragingly.

“Come, show me the floor above this,” Sister Fidelma said abruptly.

With a sigh, Laisran hastened after her as she strode swiftly away.

The floor above turned out to be equally disappointing. Over Wulfstan’s chamber stretched a long wooden floor which was the floor of one of the long dormitories for the novitiates of the community. There were over a dozen beds in the dormitory. Even had she not examined the boards of the floor carefully, to see whether any had been prized up in order that a person could be lowered into the chamber below, and realized that none of the floorboards had been moved in many years, Sister Fidelma would still have recognized the fact that such an exercise would have necessitated the participation of everyone in the dormitory.

She turned away with disappointment on her features.

“Tell me, Laisran, what lies below Wulfstan’s chamber?”

Laisran shook his head.

“I have had that thought also, Fidelma,” he confided. “Nothing but solid earth lies below. There is no cellar, nor tunnel. The stone flags are laid on solid ground, so no person could enter the chamber by removing one of the floor stones. Besides,” he smiled wryly, “what would Wulfstan have been doing during the commotion required to enter his chamber by the removing of the ceiling planks or floor slabs or the removal of the bars of the window?”

Sister Fidelma smiled.

“The pursuit of truth is paved by the consideration and rejection of all the alternatives, no matter how unlikely they may be, Lais-ran.”

“The truth,” replied the Abbot, looking troubled, “is that it was impossible for the hand of man to strike down Wulfstan while he was locked alone in his chamber.”

“Now that I can agree with.”

Abbot Laisran looked puzzled.

“I thought you said that no sorcery was employed. Do you mean that he was not killed by the hand of a man?”

“No,” grinned Sister Fidelma. “I mean that he was not alone in his chamber. It is a syllogism. “I mean that he has not alone in his chamber. It is a syllogism. Wulfstan was stabbed to death. Wulfstan was in his bedchamber. Therefore he was not alone in his bedchamber when he was killed.”

“But…”

“We have ruled out the argument that our murderer could have come through the window. Do you agree?”

Laisran frowned, trying hard to follow the logic.

“We have ruled out the possibility that our murderer could have entered the chamber through the roof.”

“Agreed.”

“We have concluded that it would be impossible for the murderer to enter via the stone-flagged floor.”

Abbot Laisran nodded emphatically.

“Then that leaves one obvious method of entry and exit.”

Now Laisran was truly bewildered.

“I do not see …” he began.

“The chamber door. That is how our murderer gained entry and how he left.”

“Impossible!” Laisran shook his head. “The door was secured from the inside.”

“Nevertheless, that was how it was done. And whoever did it hoped that we would be so bemused by this curiosity that we would not inquire too deeply of the motive, for he hoped the motive was one that was obvious to all: the hatred of Wulfstan and the Saxons. Ideas of sorcery, of evil spirits, of Wulfstan being slain by no human hand, might cloud our judgment, or so our killer desired it to do.”

“Then you know who the killer is?”

Fldelma shook her head.

“I have not questioned all the suspects. I think it is now time that we spoke with the Frankish prince, Dagobert.”

Dagobert was a young man who had been brought from the land of the Franks when he was a child. It was claimed that he was heir to the Frankish empire but his father had been deposed and the young prince had been taken into exile in Ireland until the time came when he could return. He was tall, dark, rather attractive and spoke Irish almost as fluently as a native prince. Laisran had warned Sister Fidelma that the young man was well connected and betrothed to a princess of the kings of Cashel. There would be repercussions if Dagobert was not accorded the full letter of the Brehon Law.

“You know why you are here?” began Sister Fidelma.

“That I do,” the young man smiled. The Saxon pig, Wulfstan, has been slain. Outside the band of Saxons who followed the young whelp, there is a smile on the face of every student in Dur-row. Does that surprise you, Sister Fidelma?”

“Perhaps not. I am told that you were known to have had an argument with him?”

Dagobert nodded.

“What about?”

“He was an arrogant pig. He insulted my ancestry and so I punched him on the nose.”

“Wasn’t that difficult to do, with his bodyguard? I am also told that Raedwald was never far away and he is a muscular young man.”

Dagobert chuckled.

“Raedwald knew when to defend his prince and when not. He diplomatically left the room when the argument started. A man with a sense of honor is Raedwald of the South Saxons. Wulfstan treated him like dirt beneath his feet even though he was a thane and blood cousin.”

Sister Fidelma reached into her robes and drew out the blood-stained embroidered linen kerchief and laid it on the table.

“Do you recognize this?”

Dagobert frowned and picked it up, turning it over in his hands with a puzzled expression.

“It is certainly mine. There is my motto. But the bloodstains …?”

“It was found by the side of Wulfstan’s body. I found it. It was obviously used to wipe the blood off the weapon that killed him.”

Dagobert’s face whitened.

“I did not kill Wulfstan. He was a pig but he was simply needed a sound thrashing to teach him manners.”

“Then how came this kerchief to be by his side in his chamber?”

“I… I loaned it to someone.”

“Who?”

Dagobert bit his lip, shrugging.

“Unless you wish to be blamed for this crime, Dagobert, you must tell me,” insisted Fidelma.

“Two days ago I loaned the kerchief to Talorgen, the prince of Rheged.”

Finan inclined his head to Sister Fidelma.

“Your reputation as an advocate of the Brehon Court precedes you, Sister,” the dark, lean man greeted her. “Already it is whispered from Tara how you solved a plot to overthrow the High King.”

Fidelma gestured Finan to be seated.

“People sometimes exaggerate another’s prowess, for they love to create heroes and heroines to worship. You are professor of law here?”

“That is so. I am qualified to the level of Sai, being a professor of law only.”

The Sai was a qualification of six years of study and the degree below that of Anruth held by Fidelma.

“And you taught Wulfstan?”

“Each of us has a cross to bear, as did Christ. Mine was the teaching of the Saxon thanes.”

“Not all the Saxons?”

Finan shook his head.

“No. Only the three thanes, as they refused to sit at lessons with churls, and only the express order of the Abbot Laisran made them attend class with the other students. They were not humble before the altar of Christ. In fact, I formed the opinion that they secretly mocked Christ and clung to the worship of their outlandish god Woden.”

“You disliked the Saxons?”

“I hated them!”

The vehemence in the man’s voice made Sister Fidelma raise her eyebrows.

“Isn’t hate an emotion unknown to a Brother of the order, especially one qualified as a Sai?”

“My sister and brother took up the robes of the religious and decided to accept a mission to preach the word of Christ in the lands of the East Saxons. A few years ago I encountered one of the missionaries who had gone in that band. They had arrived in the land of the East Saxons and sought to preach the word of Christ. The heathen Saxons stoned them to death, only two of the band escaping. Among those who met a martyr’s fate were my own sister and brother. I have hated all Saxons ever since.”

Sister Fidelma gazed into the dark eyes of Finan.

“Did you kill Wulfstan?”

Finan returned her scrutiny squarely.

“I could have done so at another time, in another place, I have the hatred in me. But no, Sister Fidelma, I did not kill him. Neither do I have the means to enter a barred room and leave it as though no one had entered.”

Fidelma nodded slowly.

“You may go, Finan.”

The professor of law rose reluctantly. He paused and said reflectively, “Wulfstan and Eadred were not liked by any in this monastery. Many young men with hot tempers have challenged them in combat since they have been here. Dagobert the Frank, for one. Only the fact that such challenges are forbidden on sacred soil has prevented bloodshed thus far.’’

Fidelma nodded absently.

“Is it true that the Saxons are leaving tomorrow?” Finan demanded.

She raised her head to look at him.

“They are returning with the body of Wulfstan to their own land,” she affirmed.

A contented smile crossed Finan’s face.

“I cannot pretend that I regret that, even if it cost one of their lives to prompt the move. I had hoped that they would have left Durrow yesterday.”

She glanced up at the law professor, interested.

“Why would they leave?”

“Some Saxon messenger arrived at the monastery yesterday afternoon seeking Wulfstan and Eadred. I half-hoped that it was a summons to return to their country. However, praise be that they are departing now.”

Fidelma frowned in annoyance.

“Let me remind you, Finan, that unless we find the culprit, not only this center of learning, but all the five kingdoms of Éireann will be at risk, for the Saxons will surely want to take compensation for the death of their prince.”

Talorgen of Rheged was a youth of average stature, fresh-faced and sandy of hair. He already wore a wispy moustache, but his cheeks and chin were clean-shaven.

“Yes. It is no secret that I challenged Wulfstan and Eadred to combat.”

His Irish, though accented, was fluent and he seemed at ease as he sat in the chair Sister Fidelma had indicated.

“Why?”

Talorgen grinned impishly.

“I hear that you have questioned Eadred. From his manner you may judge Wulfstan’s arrogance. It is not hard to be provoked by them, even if they were not Saxons.”

“You do not like Saxons?”

“They are not likable.”

“But you are a prince of Rheged, and it is reported that the Saxons are attacking your land.”

Talorgen nodded, his mouth pinched. “Oswy calls himself Christian king of Northumbria, but he still sends his barbaric hordes against the kingdoms of the Britons. For generations now the people of my land have fought to hold back the Saxons, for their thirst for land and power is great. Owain, my father, sent me here, but I would, by the living Christ, rather be at his side, wielding my sword against the Saxon foreman. My blade should drink the blood of the enemies of my blood.”

Sister Fidelma regarded the flushed-faced young man with curiosity.

“Has your blade already drunk of the blood of your people’s enemies?”

Talorgen frowned abruptly, hesitating, and then his face relaxed. He chuckled.

“You mean, did I kill Wulfstan? That I did not. I swear by the living God! But hear me, Sister Fidelma, it is not that I did not want to. Truly, sometimes the faith of Christ is a hard taskmaster. Wulfstan and his cousin Eadred were so dislikable that I scarcely believe there is anyone in this community who regrets the death of Wulfstan.”

She took out the bloodstained kerchief and laid it on the table.

“This was found by the body of Wulfstan. It was used to wipe the blood from the weapon that killed him. It belongs to Dago-bert.”

“You mean Dagobert…?” The prince of Rheged’s eyes opened wide as he stared from the kerchief to Sister Fidelma.

“Dagobert tells me that he gave you this kerchief in loan two days ago.”

Talorgen examined the kerchief carefully and then slowly nodded.

“He is right. It is the same one, I can tell from the embroidery.”

“How then did it get into Wulfstan’s chamber?”

Talorgen shrugged.

“That I do not know. I remember having it in my chamber yesterday morning. I saw it was gone and thought Dagobert, had collect it.”

Sister Fidelma regarded Talorgen steadily for a moment or two.

“I swear, Sister,” said the prince of Rheged earnestly, “I would not have hesitated to kill Wulfstan outside these walls, but I did not kill him within them.”

“You are forthright, Talorgen.”

The young man shrugged.

“I am sprung of the house of Urien of Rheged, whose praise was sung by our great bard Taliesin. Urien was the Golden King of the North, slain in stealth by a traitor. Our house is evenhanded, just and forthright. We believe in honesty. We meet, our enemies in daylight on the plain of battle, not at night in the darkened recesses of some bedchamber.”

“You say that there are many others in this community who held enmity against Wulfstan? Was there anyone in particular that you had in mind?”

Talorgen pursed his lips.

“Our teacher Finan often told us that he hated the Saxons.”

Sister Fidelma nodded.

“I have spoken with Finan.”

“As you already know, Dagobert quarreled with Wulfstan in the refectory and bloodied his mouth two nights ago. Then there was Riderch of Dumnonia, Fergna of Midhe and-“

Sister Fidelma held up her hand.

“I think that you have made your point, Talorgen. Everyone in Durrow is a suspect.”

Sister Fidelma found Raedwald in the stables making preparations for the journey back to the land of the South Saxons.

“There is a question I would ask you on your own, Raedwald. Need I remind you of my authority?”

The Saxon warrior shook his head.

“I have learnt much of your law and customs since I have been in your country, Sister. I am not as Eadred.”

“And you have learnt some fluency in our tongue,” observed Fidelma “More fluency and understanding than your cousin.”

“It is not my place to criticize the heir-apparent to the kingship of the South Saxons.”

“But I think that you did not like your cousin Wulfstan?”

Raedwald blinked in surprise at her directness and then he shrugged.

“I am merely a thane in the house of Cissa. I cannot like or dislike my appointed king.”

“Why were you not on guard outside the chamber of Wulfstan last night?”

“It was not the custom. Once Wulfstan had secured himself inside, he was well guarded. You have seen the chamber he asked Abbot Laisran to devise for him. Once he was locked inside, there was, apparently, no danger to him. I slept in the next chamber and at his call should he need help.”

“But he did not call?”

“His killer slashed his throat with his first blow. That much was obvious from his body.”

“It becomes obvious that he willingly let the killer into his chamber. Therefore, he knew the killer and trusted him.”

Raedwald’s eyes narrowed.

Fidelma continued.

“Tell me, the messenger who arrived from your country yesterday, what message did he bring Wulfstan?”

Raedwald shook his head.

“That message was for Wulfstan only.”

“Is the messenger still here?”

“Yes.”

“Then I would question him.”

“You may question but he will not answer you.” Raedwald smiled grimly.

Sister Fidelma compressed her lips in annoyance.

“Another Saxon custom? Not even your messengers will speak with women?”

“Another Saxon custom, yes. But this is a custom of kings. The royal messenger has his tongue cut out so that he can never verbally betray the message that he carries from kings and princes to those who might be their enemies.”

Abbot Laisran gestured to those he had summoned to his study chamber, at Sister Fidelma’s request, to be seated. They had entered the room with expressions either of curiosity or defiance, according to their different personalities, as they saw Sister Fi-delma standing before the high-manteled hearth. She seemed absorbed in her own thoughts as she stood, hands folded demurely before her, not apparently noticing them as they seated themselves around. Brother Ultan, as steward of the community, took his stand before the door with hands folded into his habit.

Abbot Laisran gave Fidelma an anxious glance and then he, too, took his seat.

“Why are we here?” demanded Talorgen abruptly.

Fidelma raised her head to return his gaze.

“You are here to learn how Wulfstan died and by whose hand,” she replied sharply.

There was a brief pause before Eadred turned to her with a sneer.

“We already know how my kinsman Wulfstan died, woman. He died by the sorcery of a barbarian. Who that barbarian is, it is not hard to deduce. It was one of the welisc savages, Talorgen.”

Talorgen was on his feet, fists clenched.

“Repeat your charges outside the walls of this abbey and I will meet your steel with mine, Saxon cur!”

Dagobert came to his feet to intervene as Eadred launched forward from his chair toward Talorgen.

“Stop this!” The usually genial features of Laisran were dark with anger. His voice cut the air like a lash.

The students of the ecclesiastical school of Durrow seemed to freeze at the sound. Then Eadred relaxed and dropped back in his seat with a smile that was more a sneer than amusement. Dagobert tugged at Talorgen’s arm and the prince of Rheged sighed and reseated himself, as did the Frankish prince.

Abbot Laisran growled like an angry bear.

“Sister Fidelma is an official of the Brehon Court of Éireann. Whatever the customs in your own lands, in this land she has supreme authority in conducting this investigation and the full backing of the law of this kingdom. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a silence.

“I shall continue,” said Fidelma quietly. “Yet what Eadred says is partially true.”

Eadred stared at her with bewilderment clouding his eyes.

“Oh yes,” smiled Fidelma. “One of you at least knows how Wulf-stan died and who is responsible.”

She paused to let her words sink in.

“Let me first tell you how he died.”

“He was stabbed to death in his bed,” Finan, the dark-faced professor of law, pointed out.

“That is true,” agreed Sister Fidelma, “but without the aid of sorcery.”

“How else did the assassin enter a locked room and leave it, still locked from the inside?” demanded Eadred. “How else but sorcery?”

“The killer wanted us to think that it was sorcery. Indeed, the killer prepared an elaborate plan to confuse us and lay the blame away from him. In fact, so elaborate was the plan that it had several layers. One layer was merely to confuse and frighten us by causing us to think the murder was done by a supernatural agency; another was to indicate an obvious suspect, while a third object was to implicate another person.”

“Well,” Laisran sighed, “at the moment I have yet to see through the first layer.”

Sister Fidelma smiled briefly at the rotund Abbot.

“I will leave that to later. Let us firstly consider the method of the killing.”

She had their complete attention now.

“The assassin entered the room by the door. In fact, Wulfstan let his assassin into the bedchamber himself.”

There was an intake of breath from Dagobert.

Unperturbed, she continued.

“Wulfstan knew his killer. Indeed, he had no suspicions, no fear of this man.”

Abbot Laisran regarded her with open-mouthed astonishment.

“Wulfstan let the killer in,” she continued. “The assassin struck. He killed Wulfstan and left his body on the bed. It was an act of swiftness. To spread suspicion, the killer wiped his knife on a linen kerchief which he mistakenly thought belonged to Talorgen, prince of Rheged. As I said, if we managed to see beyond the charade of sorcery, then the assassin sought to put the blame for the murder on Talorgen. He failed to realize that the kerchief was borrowed two days ago from Dagobert. He did not realize that the kerchief prominently carried Dagobert’s motto on it. It was a Latin motto which exhorts ‘Beware what you say!’ “

She paused to let them digest this information.

“How then did the killer now leave the bedchamber and manage to bar the door from the inside?” asked Dagobert.

“The bedchamber door was barred with two wooden bars. They were usually placed on iron rests which are attached to the frame of the door. When I examined the first wooden bar I observed that at either end there were two pieces of twine wrapped around it as if to protect the wood when it is placed in the iron rests. Yet on the second wooden bar, the curiosity was that the twine had two lengths of four feet still loose. Each end of the twine had been frayed and charred.”

She grimaced and repeated herself.

“A curiosity. Then I noticed that there was a rail at the top of the door on which a heavy woollen curtain could be drawn across the door when closed in order to prevent a draught. It was, of course, impossible to see whether the curtain had been drawn or not once the room was broken into, for the inward movement of the door would have swept the curtain aside on its rail.”

Eadred made a gesture of impatience.

“Where is this explanation leading?”

“Patience, and I will tell you. I spotted two small spots of grease on the ground on either side of the door. As I bent to examine these spots of grease I saw two nails fixed into the wood about three inches from the ground. There were two short pieces of twine still tied on these nails and the ends were frayed and blackened. It was then I realized just how the assassin had left the room and left one of the bars in place.”

“One?” demanded Abbot Laisran, leaning forward on his seat, his face eager.

Fidelma nodded.

“Only one was really needed to secure the door from the inside. The first bar, that at three feet from the bottom of the door, had not been set in place. There were no marks on the bar and its twine protection was intact, nor had the iron rests been wrenched away from the doorjamb when Ultan forced the door. Therefore, the conclusion was that this bar was not in place. Only the second bar, that which rested across the top of the door, about two feet from the top, had been in place.”

“Go on,” instructed Laisran when she paused again.

“Having killed Wulfstan, the assassin was already prepared. He undid the twine on both ends of the wooden bar and threaded it around the wooden curtain rail across the top of the door. He set in place-or had already placed during the day, when the chamber was open-two nails. Then he raised the wooden bar to the level of the curtain rail. He secured it there by tying the ends of the twine to the nails at ground level. This construction allowed him to leave the room.”

Laisran gestured with impatience.

“Yes, but how could he have manipulated the twine to lower the bar in place?”

“Simply. He took two reed candles and as he went to leave, he placed a candle under either piece of the string near the ground. He took a piece of paper and lit it from his tinder box-I found the ashes of the paper on the floor of the chamber, where he had to drop it. He lit the two reed candles, on either side of the door under the twine. Then he left quickly. The twine eventually burned through, releasing the bar, which dropped neatly into place in the iron rests. It had, remember, only two feet to drop. The candles continued to bum until they became mere spots of grease, almost unnoticeable, except I slipped on one. But the result was that we were left with a mystery. A room locked on the inside with a corpse. Sorcery? No. Planning by a devious mind.”

“So what happened then?” Talorgen encouraged, breaking the spellbound silence.

“The assassin left the room, as I have described. He wanted to create this illusion of mystery because the person he wished to implicate was one he felt his countrymen would believe to be a barbaric sorcerer. As I indicated, he wished to place suspicion on you, Talorgen. He left the room and talked to someone outside Wulfstan’s bedchamber for a while. Then they heard the bar drop into place and that was the assassin’s alibi, because it was clear that they had heard Wulfstan, still alive, slide the bar to lock his chamber door.”

Raedwald was frowning as it seemed he struggled to follow her reasoning.

“You have given an excellent reconstruction,” he said slowly. “But it is only a hypothesis. It remains only a hypothesis unless you name the assassin and his motive.”

Sister Fidelma smiled softly.

“Very well. I was, of course, coming to that.”

She turned and let her gaze pass over their upraised faces as they watched her. Then she let her gaze rest on the haughty features of the thane of Andredswald.

Eadred interpreted her gaze as accusation and was on his feet before she had said a word, his face scowling in anger.

Ultan, the steward, moved swiftly across the room to stand before Sister Fidelma, in anticipation lest Eadred let his emotions, which were clearly visible on his angry features, overcome him.

“You haven’t told us the motive,” Dagobert the Frank said softly. “Why would the thane of Andredswald murder his own cousin and prince?”

Sister Fidelma continued to stare at the arrogant Saxon.

“I have not yet said that the thane of Andredswald is the assassin,” she said softly. “But as for motive, the motive is the very laws of the Saxon society, which, thanks be to God, are not our laws.”

Abbot Laisran was frowning.

“Explain, Fidelma. I do not understand.”

“A Saxon prince succeeds to the kingship by primogeniture. The eldest son inherits.”

Dagobert nodded impatiently. “That is also so with our Frankish succession. But how does this provide the motive for Wulfstan’s murder?”

“Two days ago a messenger from the kingdom of the South Saxons arrived here. His message was for Wulfstan. I discovered what his message was.”

“How?” demanded Raedwald. “Royal messengers have their tongues cut out to prevent them revealing such secrets.”

Fidelma grinned.

“So you told me. Fortunately this poor man was taught to write by Diciul, the missionary of Éireann who brought Christianity and learning to your country of the South Saxons.”

“What was the message?” asked Laisran.

“Wulfstan’s father had died, another victim of the yellow plague. Wulfstan was now king of the South Saxons and urged to return home at once.”

She glanced at Raedwald.

The big Saxon nodded silently in agreement.

“You admitted that much to me when I questioned you, Raedwald,” went on Fidelma. “When I asked you if you liked Wulfstan you answered that it was not up to you to like or dislike your appointed king. A slip of the tongue, but it alerted me to the possible motive.”

Raedwald said nothing.

“In such a barbaric system of succession, where the order of birth is the only criterion for claiming an inheritance or kingdom, there are no safeguards. In Éireann, as among our cousins in Britain, a chieftain or king not only has to be of a bloodline but has to be elected by the derbhfine of his family. Without such a safeguard it becomes obvious to me that only the death of a predecessor removes the obstacles of the aspirant to the throne.”

Raedwald pursed his lips and said softly: “This is so.”

“And, with Wulfstan’s death, Eadred will now succeed to the kingship?”

“Yes.”

Eadred’s face was livid with anger.

“I did not kill Wulfstan!”

Sister Fidelma turned and stared deeply into his eyes.

“I believe you, for Raedwald is the assassin,” she said calmly.

Finan made a grab at Raedwald as the muscular Saxon thane sought desperately to escape from the room. Dagobert leapt forward together with Ultan, the steward, to help restrain the struggling man. When the thane of Staeningum had been overpowered, Sister Fidelma turned to the others.

“I said that the assassin had a devious mind. Yet in the attempt to lead false trails, Raedwald overexcelled himself and brought suspicion down on him. In trying to implicate Talorgen, Raedwald made a mistake and caused confusion by thinking the kerchief to be Talorgen’s. It bore Dagobert’s motto in Latin. Raedwald has no Latin and so did not spot his mistake. This also ruled out Eadred from suspicion, as Eadred knew Latin to the degree that he could recognize Dagobert’s motto.”

She settled her gaze on Eadred.

“If you had also been slain, then Raedwald was next in line to the kingship, was he not?”

Eadred made an affirmative gesture.

“But…”

“Raedwald was going to implicate you as the assassin and then show how you tried to put the blame on Talorgen. He would have either had you tried for murder under our law or, if all else failed… I doubt whether you would have returned safely to the land of the South Saxons. Perhaps you might have fallen over-board on the sea voyage. Whichever way, both Wulfstan and you would have been removed from the succession, leaving it clear for Raedwald to claim the throne.”

Eadred shook his head wonderingly. His voice was tinged with reluctant admiration.

“Never would I have suspected that a woman possessed such a meticulous mind to unravel the deviousness of this treachery in the way that you have done. I shall look upon your office with a new perspective.”

Eadred turned abruptly to the Abbot Laisran.

“I and my men will depart now for we must return to my country. With your permission, Abbot, I shall take Raedwald with me as my prisoner. He will stand trial according to our laws and his punishment will be prescribed by them.”

Abbot Laisran inclined his head in agreement.

Eadred moved to the door, and as he did so, his eyes caught sight of Talorgen of Rheged.

“Well, welisc. It seems I owe you an apology for wrongly accusing you of the murder of Wulfstan. I so apologize.”

Talorgen slowly stood up, his face trying to control his surprise.

“Your apology is accepted, Saxon.”

Eadred paused and then he frowned.

“The apology notwithstanding, there can never be peace between us, welisc!”

Talorgen sniffed. “The day such a peace will come is when you and your Saxon hordes depart from the shores of Britain and return to the land whence you came.”

Eadred stiffened, his hand going to his waist, then he paused and relaxed and almost smiled.

“Well said, welisc. It will never be peace!”

He strode from the room with Ultan and Dagobert leading Raed-wald after him.

Talorgen turned and smiled briefly toward Sister Fidelma.

“Truly, there are wise judges among the Brehons of Ireland.”

Then he, too, was gone. Finan, the professor of law, hesitated a moment.

“Truly, now I know why your reputation is great, Fidelma of Kildare.”

Sister Fidelma gave a small sigh as he left.

“Well, Fidelma,” Abbot Laisran smiled in satisfaction, reaching for a jug of wine, “it seems that I have provided you with some diversion on your pilgrimage to the shrine of the Blessed Patrick at Ard Macha.”

Sister Fidelma responded to the rotund Abbot’s wry expression.

“A diversion, yes. Though I would have preferred something of a more pleasant nature to have occupied my time.”