Absolution by Murder Page 4

  Sister Gwid confided to Fidelma that she had been on her return journey to Iona when she, too, had been sent a message from the Abbess Étain to join her in Northumbria to act as her secretary during the debate that was to take place. No one objected, therefore, to Gwid and Fidelma joining the party led by Taran on the hazardous journey south from Iona to the kingdom of Oswy.

  The journey with Brother Taran had simply confirmed Fidelma’s dislike of the Pictish religieux. He was a vain man, darkly handsome according to some notions, but with looks which made Fidelma regard him as a pompous bantam cock, strutting and preening. Yet, as a man with knowledge of the ways of the Angles and Saxons, she would not argue with his ability in easing their path through the hostile land. But as a man she found him weak and vacillating, one minute attempting to impress, another hopelessly inadequate – as at their confrontation with Wulfric.

  Fidelma gave a mental shake of her head. So much for Taran. There were other things to think of now. New sights, new sounds and new people.

  She gave a startled ‘oh’ as she walked around a corner and collided with a thickset monk.

  Only the fact that he reached out strong hands and caught her saved her from stumbling backwards and falling.

  For a moment the young man and woman stared at each other. It was a moment of pure chemistry. Some empathy passed from the dark brown eyes of the man into Fidelma’s green ones. Then Fidelma noticed the tonsure of Rome on the young man’s crown and realised that he must be one of the Roman delegation and probably a Saxon.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said stiffly, choosing Latin to address him. Realising that he still grasped her forearms, she gently pulled away.

  The young monk let go immediately and took a step back, fighting the confusion on his face. He succeeded.

  ‘Mea culpa,’ he replied gravely, striking his left breast with his right clenched fist, yet with a smile flickering behind his eyes.

  Fidelma hesitated and then bowed her head in acknowledgment before moving on, wondering why the face of the young Saxon intrigued her. Perhaps it was the quiet humour that lurked in his gaze. Her experience with Saxons was limited but she had not credited them with being a humorous people. To meet one who was not dour and brooding and took insult at the slightest thing, which, in her experience, all Saxons did, fascinated her. In general, she had found them morose and quick-tempered; they were a people who lived by the sword and, with few exceptions, believed in their gods of war rather than the God of Peace.

  She suddenly became annoyed with her thoughts. Odd that a brief encounter could stir such silly notions.

  She turned into the part of the abbey made over for the accommodation of those visitors attending the debate, the domus hospitale. Most of the religious were accommodated in several large dormitoria, but for the many abbots, abbesses, bishops and other dignitaries a special series of cubicula had been set aside as individual quarters. Sister Fidelma herself had been lucky to have been allocated one of these cubicula, no more than a tiny cell eight feet by six with a simple wooden cot, a table and chair. Fidelma supposed that she had the intercession of Bishop Colmán to thank for such hospitality. She opened the door of her cubiculum and paused in surprise on the threshold.

  A slightly built, good-looking woman rose from the chair with extended hands.

  ‘Étain!’ exclaimed Sister Fidelma, recognising the abbess of Kildare.

  The Abbess Étain was an attractive woman in her early thirties; the daughter of an Eoghanacht king of Cashel, she had given up a world of indolence and pleasure after her husband had been killed in battle. Her star had risen rapidly, for she was soon acknowledged to be possessed of such skill and oratorical knowledge that she had been able to argue theology on the same footing with the archbishop of Armagh and all the bishops and abbots of Ireland. It was in tribute to her reputation that she had been appointed as abbess of St Brigit’s great foundation at Kildare.

  Fidelma moved forward and bowed her head, but Étain took both her hands in a warm embrace. They had been friends for several years before Étain had been elevated to her present position, since when neither had seen the other, for Fidelma had been travelling through Ireland.

  ‘It is good to see you again, even in this outlandish country.’ Étain spoke with a soft, rich soprano voice. Fidelma had often thought it was like a musical instrument which could sharpen in anger, become vibrant with indignation or be used sweetly, as it was now. ‘I am glad your journey here was safe, Fidelma.’

  Fidelma grinned mischievously.

  ‘Should it have been otherwise, when we journey in the name and under the protection of the one true God?’

  Étain returned her smile.

  ‘At least I journeyed with temporal assistance. I came with some brothers from Durrow. We landed in Rheged and were joined by a group of brethren from that kingdom of Britons. Then, at the border of Rheged and Northumbria, we were officially met by Athelnoth and a band of Saxon warriors who escorted us here. Have you met Athelnoth?’

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘I have only arrived here within the last hour myself, Mother Abbess,’ she said.

  Étain pursed her lips and grimaced disapprovingly.

  ‘Athelnoth was sent to greet and escort me by King Oswy and the Bishop of Northumbria. He was outspoken against Irish teachings and our influence in Northumbria to the point of insulting us. He is an ordained priest but one who argues for Rome. Once I even had to prevent one of our brothers from physically assaulting Athelnoth, so blunt is his criticism of our liturgy.’

  Fidelma shrugged indifferently.

  ‘From what I hear, Mother Abbess, the debate over our respective liturgies is causing a great deal of tension and argument. I would not have thought it possible that such emotions would be aroused by a discussion on the correct date of the Paschal ceremony—’

  Étain grimaced.

  ‘You must learn to refer to it here as Easter.’

  Fidelma frowned.

  ‘Easter?’

  ‘The Saxons have accepted most of our teaching of Christian faith but as for the Paschal feast they insist on naming it after their pagan goddess of fertility, Eostre, whose rituals fall at the time of the Spring equinox. There is much that is still pagan in this land. You will find that many still follow the ways of their old gods and goddesses and that their hearts are still filled with hate and war.’

  The Abbess Étain suddenly shivered.

  ‘I feel there is much that is oppressive here, Fidelma. Oppressive and menacing.’

  Sister Fidelma smiled reassuringly.

  ‘Whenever there is a conflict of opinion, then human tensions rise and give way to fear. I do not think we need worry. There will be much posturing during the verbal conflict. But once we have reached a resolution then all will be forgotten and forgiven.’ She hesitated. ‘When does the debate begin?’

  ‘The King Oswy and his entourage will not arrive at the abbey until noon tomorrow. The Abbess Hilda has told me that, all being well, she will allow the opening arguments to commence in the late afternoon. Bishop Colmán has asked me to make the opening arguments for our church.’

  Fidelma thought she saw some anxiety on the Abbess Étain’s features.

  ‘Does that worry you, Mother Abbess?’

  Étain suddenly smiled and shook her head.

  ‘No. I revel in debate and argument. I have good companions to advise me, such as yourself.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ Fidelma replied, ‘I had Sister Gwid as my travelling companion. An intelligent girl whose looks give the wrong impression. She tells me that she is to act as your secretary and Greek translator.’

  An indefinable expression showed on Abbess Étain’s face for a split second. Fidelma could not make up her mind whether it was anger or a lesser emotion.

  ‘Young Gwid can be an annoying person. A little like a puppy dog, unassertive and too sycophantic at times. But she is an excellent Greek scholar, though I think she spends too much of her time adm
iring the poems of Sappho rather than construing the Gospels.’ She sounded disapproving, but then shrugged. ‘Yes, I do have good companions to advise me. But there is something else that makes me feel uneasy. I think it is the atmosphere of hostility and dislike I feel from those of the Roman faction. Agilbert the Frank, for example, who has trained many years in Ireland but has a deep devotion to Rome, and that man Wilfrid, who even refused to greet me when the Abbess Hilda introduced us—’

  ‘Who is Wilfrid? I find these Saxon names hard to understand.’

  Étain sighed.

  ‘He is a young man, but one who leads the Rome faction here in Northumbria. I believe he is the son of some noble. By all accounts he has a sharp temper. He has been to Rome and Canterbury and was taken into the faith by Agilbert, who ordained him as a priest. He was given the monastery of Ripon by the petty king of the area, who threw out two of our own brethren, Eata and Cuthbert, who were joint abbots there. This Wilfred seems to be our fiercest enemy, a passionate advocate of the Roman liturgy. Alas, I fear we have many enemies here.’

  Sister Fidelma found herself suddenly visualising the face of the young Saxon monk whom she had just bumped into.

  ‘Yet surely not all those who support Rome are our enemies?’

  The abbess smiled meditatively.

  ‘Maybe you are right, Fidelma. And maybe I am simply nervous after all.’

  ‘A lot depends on your opening arguments tomorrow,’ agreed Fidelma.

  ‘There is something more, though—’ Étain was hesitant.

  Fidelma waited patiently, watching the expression on the abbess’s face. It seemed that Étain found it difficult to formulate what she had in mind.

  ‘Fidelma,’ she said with a sudden rush, ‘I am disposed to take a husband.’

  Fidelma’s eyes widened but she said nothing. Clergy, even bishops, took spouses; even the religious of houses, whether mixed or not, could have wives and husbands, under Brehon law and custom. But the position of an abbot and abbess was in a different category for they were usually bound to celibacy. Such was the rule at Kildare. It was the Irish custom that the coarb, or successor to the founder of an abbey, should always be chosen in the kindred of the founder. Since abbots and abbesses were not expected to have direct issue, the successor was chosen from a collateral branch. But if, in the collateral branches, no religious was found fit to be elected to such a position, then a secular member of the family of the coarb was elected as lay abbot or abbess. Étain claimed relation to the family of Brigit of Kildare.

  ‘It would mean giving up Kildare and returning to being an ordinary religieuse,’ Fidelma pointed out eventually when Étain made no further comment.

  Étain nodded. ‘I have thought of this long and hard on my journey here. To cohabit with a stranger will be difficult, especially after one has been alone for so long. Yet when I arrived here, I realised that my mind was made up. I have exchanged the traditional betrothal gifts. The matter is now decided.’

  Instinctively Fidelma reached out a hand, caught Étain’s slim one and squeezed it.

  ‘Then I am happy for you, Étain; happy in your certainty. Who is your stranger?’

  Étain smiled shyly.

  ‘If I felt able to tell only one person, it would be you, Fidelma. But I feel that it should be my secret, and his, until after this debate. When this great assembly is over, then you shall know, for I will announce my resignation from Kildare.’

  They were distracted by a growing noise of shouting from beyond the window of the cubiculum.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ demanded Sister Fidelma, frowning at the raucous tones. ‘There seems some sort of scuffle taking place beneath the abbey wall.’

  Abbess Étain sighed.

  ‘I have seen so many scuffles between our religious and the brethren of Rome since I came here. I presume it is another such. Grown men resorting to personal insults and punches simply because they disagree with each other over the interpretation of the Word of God. It is sad that men, and women, of the cloth become as spiteful children when they cannot agree.’

  Sister Fidelma went to the window and leant forward.

  A little way off a beggar was surrounded by a crowd of people, mostly peasants so far as she could tell from their dress, although a few wore the brown habit of the brethren. They seemed to be taunting and deriding a poorly dressed man, presumably a beggar from his clothes, whose voice was raised in raucous tones which seemed to drown out their jibes.

  Sister Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The beggar seems to be one of our countrymen, Mother Abbess,’ she said.

  The Abbess Étain moved forward to join her.

  ‘A beggar. They suffer greatly from the arrogance of a crowd.’

  ‘But listen to what he says.’

  The two women strained to catch the rasping tones of the beggar. The voice was raised loudly.

  ‘I tell you, tomorrow the sun shall be blotted from the heavens and when that time comes there shall be blood staining the floor of this abbey. Beware! Beware, I tell you! I see blood in this place!’

  Chapter Four

  The tolling of the abbey’s great bell announced the approach of the official opening of the synod. At least, Sister Fidelma mused, both sides seemed to accept the Greek term synodos to describe this assembly of Christian dignitaries. The synod of Streoneshalh promised to be one of the most important meetings for the churches of both Iona and Rome.

  Sister Fidelma took her seat in the sacrarium of the abbey, for the chapel, the largest chamber, had been given over for the use of the assembly. There was a general hubbub of what seemed to be countless people all talking at once. The vast stone-walled sacrarium, with its high, vaulted roof. acted as a means of increasing the sound by providing an echo. Yet, in spite of the spaciousness, Fidelma had a momentary feeling of claustrophobia at the sight and smells of the numerous religious packed along the pews. On the left side of the sacrarium, seated in rows on dark oak benches, there had assembled all those who supported the rule of Columba. On the right side of the sacrarium were gathered those who argued for Rome.

  Fidelma had never seen so large a concourse of leaders of the Church of Christ before. As well as religious in their distinctive dress, there were many whose rich apparel proclaimed them to be nobles from a variety of kingdoms.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

  Fidelma looked up and found Brother Taran slipping into the seat beside her. She groaned inwardly. She had been hoping to avoid the pretentious brother. His company was a little too exhausting after their long journey from Iona.

  ‘I have not seen such an impressive gathering since I sat at the Great Assembly of Tara last year,’ she replied coldly when he asked her what she thought of the gathering. Also impressive, she added silently to herself, was the putrescence of the body odours which were permeating the sacrarium in spite of the strategically placed censers in which incense had been lit to fumigate the proceedings. It was a sad reflection on the hygiene of the religious of Northumbria, she thought disapprovingly. Among the brethren of Ireland, bathing was a daily occurrence and every ninth day a visit was made to the communal tigh ’n alluis, the sweating house, where a turf fire caused people to sweat profusively before they plunged into cold water and were then rubbed warm.

  She suddenly found herself thinking about the Saxon monk she had encountered on the previous evening. He had the odour of cleanliness and a faint fragrance of herbs about him. At least he, among the Saxons, knew how to keep clean. She wrinkled her nose disapprovingly as she peered around, wondering if she could spot the monk on the Roman benches.

  Sister Gwid suddenly appeared, red-faced as always, as if she had been running, and slipped on to the bench on the other side of Fidelma.

  ‘You nearly missed the opening of the synod.’ Fidelma smiled as the awkward girl struggled to catch her breath. ‘But shouldn’t you be seated with Abbess Étain, among the benches of the advocates, to help her as her secretary?’


  Sister Gwid grimaced negatively.

  ‘She said she will call me if I am needed today,’ she replied.

  Fidelma turned her attention back to the head of the sacrarium. A dais had been raised at one end on which a regal chair had been set. It stood empty and obviously awaited the arrival of King Oswy himself. There were several smaller chairs clustered around, slightly behind it, and these were already filled with an assortment of men and women. Their clothing and jewellery bespoke riches and position.

  Fidelma suddenly realised that Brother Taran, for all his failings, might prove useful to her by pointing out who people were. After all, it was his second mission to Northumbria and he was surely well informed:

  ‘Easy enough,’ replied the Pict when she indicated the people seated around the regal chair. ‘They are all members of Oswy’s immediate family. That is the queen just taking her seat now.’

  Fidelma looked at the stern-faced woman who was seating herself next to the throne. This was Eanflaed. Taran was nothing loath to give details. Eanflaed’s father had been a previous king of Northumbria but her mother had been a Kentish princess and she had been taken to Kent to be brought up to follow Roman ways. Never far away was her private chaplain, a priest named Romanus from Kent, who kept strictly to the dictates of Rome. He was a short, dark man, with black curly hair and features that Fidelma would have described as mean. The eyes were somehow too close together and his lips too thin. In fact, so Taran said, in a knowing tone, rumour had it that it was pressure from Eanflaed, backed by Romanus, which had forced Oswy to initiate the debate at all.

  Eanflaed was Oswy’s third wife and he had married her just after he had succeeded to the throne some twenty years before. His first wife had been a Briton, Rhiainfellt, a princess of Rheged, whose people followed the ways and rituals of the church of Iona. But Rhiainfellt had died. His second marriage had been to Fin, daughter of Colmán Rimid, the northern Ui Néill High King of Ireland.