The Dove of Death Page 5

‘I grant you, it is a very long journey. I was five years studying in Subiaco before accepting the mission to bring the Rule of Benedict to the west, where I was told that the people had strange rituals and philosophies that were in conflict with those of Rome.’

  ‘And you came here to enlighten us?’ Fidelma’s tone was ironical.

  ‘I have spent ten years now in this land called Bro-Waroch, among the Bretons. I have succeeded in teaching little, I am afraid,’ admitted Brother Metellus.

  ‘But why come here, on this tiny island?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘I wandered the countryside, teaching and learning the language of the Bretons and the Franks. But a year ago I went to serve in the abbey of the Blessed Gildas. At first, all was well, for the Abbot Maelcar said he supported the Rule of Benedict. Then I dared question an interpretation of scripture and the Abbot suggested that I come to serve the isolated community here to reflect and learn humbleness.’

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Why would you need to reflect and be humble, for questioning an interpretation of scripture?’

  ‘For questioning the interpretation of Abbot Maelcar,’ corrected Brother Metellus. ‘He is old-fashioned, the son of a noble family from the Brekilien Forest.’

  ‘I would venture that it was the Abbot who needed to learn humility,’ she commented. ‘One learns by asking questions, and both the questioner and the questioned can profit by the exchange.’

  ‘That is not how the Abbot thinks. Anyway, it is a pleasant enough place to be…for a while.’ Brother Metellus turned and pointed. ‘We have reminders, too, that people have been living here from the time beyond time.’

  They found themselves staring at a strange standing stone, a tall menhir that stood almost three times Fidelma’s height.

  ‘Local people call it the Virgin’s Menhir, and a little way from here is a large cairn which marks the last resting-place of an important chieftain who died long before the Romans came to these lands. The islanders tell great tales of this champion.’

  But even with these fascinating sights and stories, it was not long before the couple realised they had traversed the complete island and seen everything.

  Fidelma was confirmed in her frustration that she was a prisoner on this small rock of an island. However, the keening wind, the gusting little white billows on the sea, with the heavy grey clouds and a mist that seemed to hang like a shroud above the waters, were evidence that there was nothing else to do. So they walked slowly back to the shelter of the homesteads.

  A few people were outside tending the small patches where fruit and vegetables grew, but not many. Most people were inside, for this was a fishing community and in such weather, no one could put out to sea. The boats were bobbing up and down, tied together, in the comparative shelter of the harbour.

  Fidelma looked longingly towards the shrouded mainland.

  ‘So who was this founder of the abbey to which you belong?’ asked Eadulf of Brother Metellus by way of distraction.

  ‘Gildas was his name. He was one of the Britons who fled from the Saxon invasions of his land, as did many of the ancestors of these people here,’ replied Brother Metellus.

  ‘I am aware that the ancestors of my people are but recently settled on that island,’ Eadulf acknowledged.

  ‘Let us go out of the wind and have a cider to keep the chill at bay,’ Brother Metellus suggested tactfully.

  Seated before the smouldering fire inside of Brother Metellus’ cabin, with cider to drink, Eadulf prompted him: ‘You were telling us of this man Gildas who founded the abbey you served in.’

  ‘His story is set against the settlement of your ancestors on the island of Britain, and I would not wish to say anything you might take amiss,’ Brother Metellus replied frankly.

  ‘How can one take history amiss, unless it is contrary to truth?’ queried Eadulf. ‘You are a Roman. Surely, in your wandering through the lands that were once conquered and ruled by Roman armies, you have met with all sorts of stories. You will know that to shut your ears to people’s views of the history of your ancestors is to blind yourself to truth and progress.’

  Often, Fidelma reflected to herself, Eadulf would surprise her by his deep insight into the nature of people. She glanced at Brother Metellus. ‘Tell us about this Gildas,’ she invited. ‘I think I might know of the man.’

  Brother Metellus sat back, taking a sip of his drink first.

  ‘He was born in the year when the great general of the Britons called Arthur defeated the Saxons at Badon Hill, on whose slopes nearly a thousand Saxon princes were said to have been slaughtered.’

  Eadulf stirred uncomfortably but he had often heard the stories from his own people of how they wrested control of the lands from the Britons and slaughtered them. He could not protest at hearing the story as seen from another viewpoint.

  ‘That was about a century and a half ago. Then there were two decades of peace between the two peoples before that black day at Camlann when Arthur was slain. After that, the Saxons began to move westward again and Gildas and many other refugees fled here. He took sanctuary on the sister island to this.’

  ‘The sister island?’ queried Fidelma, stirring herself from her thoughts about the sea raiders that had been occupying her all day. She tried to concentrate on the conversation.

  ‘The island of Houad. It means “the duck” and this island is called “little duck”. Houad is a slightly larger island than this, just to the north-west. Gildas lived and worked there until the Prince of Bro-Waroch invited him to cross to the mainland, to the Rhuis peninsula, and establish a community there. It was there he wrote his famous work on the ruin and conquest of Britain.’

  ‘De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae,’ muttered Fidelma, surprising both Eadulf and Brother Metellus. ‘I have read it. There is a copy in the great scriptorium in the abbey at Menevia in Dyfed. I read it when I was there.’ Then, glancing at Eadulf, she added: ‘As I recall, he blamed several of the kings of the Britons and clergy for their squabbling which allowed the Saxons to conquer the country. Didn’t Gildas believe that the Angles and Saxons were sent to Britain as instruments of God’s wrath?’

  ‘I also took the opportunity of reading that book while I was in the abbey,’ Brother Metellus responded. ‘It is obvious that you know the work, Fidelma of Cashel. It is true that after this general called Arthur was killed, there was no one strong enough to unite the Britons against the Saxons,’ he conceded. ‘They quarrelled among themselves. Gildas likened the Britons to the Israelites, God’s chosen people, who lost their faith and so were to be punished by God. He called on the prophecies of Jeremiah to foretell a bleak outlook for his people unless the Britons turned aside from their immoral course. He was a man of asceticism and fervour. Of course, there are other great works of Gildas, which they have at the abbey – like his letters on pastoral questions and the reform of the Church and his work on penance…Your own Columbanus admired his work and spoke of him as Gildas Sapiens – Gildas the Wise.’

  ‘So this Gildas founded an abbey here?’ prompted Eadulf.

  ‘On the peninsula called Rhuis.’

  ‘And that is where he died?’

  ‘No, he did not die there but decided, after a while, to return to Houad. It is there that he died about a century ago. His body was taken back to the abbey and he is buried behind the high altar.’

  ‘Is it a large abbey?’

  ‘There are about fifty souls in the community.’

  ‘Is it a conhospitae, a mixed house?’

  Brother Metellus shook his head, slightly scandalised. ‘I am told it used to be, but when Abbot Maelcar took over, he introduced the Rule of Benedict. When I joined the abbey, the community was all committed to a life of celibacy.’

  ‘And this Abbot…Abbot Maelcar, you said?’

  ‘Abbot Maelcar, indeed. He is a man of Bro-Waroch.’

  ‘I know little of this land of Bro-Waroch,’ Eadulf said, ‘yet I am confused. Some seem to call it Bro-Erech
and some Bro-Waroch. Which is the correct name, and is it a large kingdom?’

  ‘From the time of King Alain’s father it has been called Bro-Waroch and it is, indeed, a large kingdom. I heard its history from people as I travelled through it. The earliest settlers from Britain had to regain some of the territory to drive the Frankish incursions back to the east. They say it was Caradog Freichfras of Gwent who founded the kingdom.’ Brother Metellus sniffed in disapproval before continuing. ‘The people, being frontiersmen continually fighting for their existence against the Franks, became a tough and vicious lot. Harsh lives make harsh morals. So it was for the first century of its existence as a kingdom. That left its mark on the lines of the kings. Canao, for example, killed three of his brothers to claim the kingdom. I am told that he died sixty years ago.’

  ‘What or who is this Waroch, then?’

  ‘He was an earlier King than Canao. After Canao died, his one surviving brother, Macliau, became King – and when he died, his son, another Canao, became King. Then he died and Judicael of Domnonia claimed the kingdom. In fact, Judicael claimed kingship of all the Bretons and also descent from Waroch. So he named the kingdom as Bro-Waroch, the country of Waroch.’

  ‘I thought Alain Hir was King of the Bretons?’ Fidelma said.

  ‘He is the son of Judicael,’ Brother Metellus confirmed. ‘Judicael died about ten years ago, but it was he who merged the two kingdoms of Domnonia and Bro-Warwoch into one.’

  ‘You sound disapproving?’

  ‘I am a Roman. It matters not to me the machinations of these kings. I care only for the souls of the people. Meanwhile I am content with the simple life I lead. Alain Hir is a good King, so far as kings go.’

  Fidelma smiled slightly. ‘If you have so little time for kings, perhaps you have little time for authority – hence your problem with your Abbot?’

  ‘Not so.’ Brother Metellus grimaced sourly. ‘Kings are, perhaps, a necessary evil. Before my own people sank into the stupidity of emperors, they had a good system – res publica, “affairs of the public”. Every year the people elected consuls from the Senate to rule them.’

  ‘And who were the people who comprised the comitia centuriata who elected the consuls, my Roman friend?’ Fidelma asked sweetly.

  Brother Metellus stared at her in surprise. ‘Why, the citizens of Rome.’

  ‘But wealth governed a man’s ability to be part of this Roman democracy,’ countered Fidelma. ‘As the vote had to be made in Rome itself, the rural people never had a chance to participate. What’s more, the rich always voted first and separately – and as the declaration of the result was made on a simple majority as soon as the first section voted, the poor hardly ever voted at all. And consuls could only be chosen from the Senate, whose membership for life was already made from those patrician families. No citizen was free to address that assembly without the consent of the magistrates and tribunes, and they alone had the right to debate matters.’

  Brother Metellus’ surprise turned into an expression of amazement. Fidelma felt moved to explain.

  ‘I spent a period in Rome and occupied my time – well, some of it, that is – in studying some of your legal texts, ancient as well as modern.’

  ‘You are saying that you believe our imperial system was better?’ queried the Roman.

  ‘Not at all. In fact, there were faults with both systems. Who your father was and what wealth he had acquired should be no gauge of your own ability.’

  ‘Yet you are the sister of a king,’ Brother Metellus pointed out, meaningfully.

  Fidelma shrugged as if it were of no consequence.

  ‘Presumably you were the daughter of a king as well?’ he pressed.

  ‘It so happened that my father, Failbe Flann, was indeed a king. He died when I was a small child.’

  ‘So your brother succeeded him? Where is the merit in that?’

  She tried to explain. ‘That is not how kings are chosen in my land. Our system also relies on who is most able in the family – man or woman – to be head of the family and assume the role of King. During a king’s lifetime, the derbhfine of the family have to meet and elect from their number the successor. They could be sons, brothers or cousins. My brother was the fourth ruler since the death of our father, chosen only after thirty years had passed and he had grown to manhood. No one who is not of mature age and reason can be a king.’

  ‘What happened to the others? Were they murdered by their successors?’ There was almost a sneer in Brother Metellus’ voice. ‘That was usually how it happened among our emperors. That is why I believe in the old res publica system.’

  ‘Death overtook them. The Yellow Plague caused much death in our lands.’

  Brother Metellus was not convinced, scoffing, ‘And you claim that even a woman could succeed to be head of the family in your land?’

  ‘It is so.’

  ‘It would not be allowed in Rome.’

  ‘So I learned,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘In your republic, a man had complete control over his wife and family, like property. A woman could not conduct business but a man had to be guardian over her, although married women did not have to live in seclusion and could take meals with their families inside their houses.’

  ‘And your ways are better?’ challenged the Brother.

  ‘Our ways are different,’ conceded Fidelma, ‘but, on balance, I would argue that life for our people is, in many ways, better. But each society has to develop according to their beliefs and conscience. My argument with Rome is that what is good for Rome is not good for the rest of the world, whether imposed by the military legions that dominate the world or by the Church in Rome that tries to tell people how to behave even in lands far distant, with different customs and ways of looking at the world.’

  The monk frowned ominously. ‘That sounds like heresy, Fidelma of Cashel.’

  Eadulf grew suddenly nervous at his tone.

  ‘The churches of Éireann and of the Britons have different ways of looking at things, Brother. You must know that,’ he intervened, trying to mollify the Roman. ‘It does not mean to say that they hold beliefs that are opposed to the orthodox doctrines of the Faith, or beliefs which have been specifically denounced by the Church.’

  ‘Our Lord told Peter that he would be the one to found the Church. Peter came to Rome and was martyred there. So the Christian Church was founded in Rome. Rome is the centre of the Church and must be obeyed,’ replied Brother Metellus stubbornly.

  ‘That is not the way the churches of the east see things,’ observed Fidelma quietly. ‘Nor how the churches of the western islands see things. The Bishop of Rome is regarded as having a primacy of honour among the bishops of the faith, but not a primacy of power.’

  Brother Metellus reddened in annoyance.

  Eadulf glanced quickly at Fidelma and tried to indicate a warning. He knew that she loved discussion, intellectual argument, but if Brother Metellus was taking this as an insult to his beliefs, then Eadulf envisaged that they might be stuck on this island for a long while. However, Fidelma was oblivious to his attempt to calm matters. She was merely pleased to concentrate her mind away from the events of the last day.

  ‘What I mean is that the Church of Constantinopolis claims the same apostolic succession, celebrates the same sacrament and follows almost the same theology. Its own Chief Bishop is called the Patriarch whose title is from the Greek pater-archon – the “father leader”. That is almost the same title as given to the Bishop of Rome. He takes the name from the Greek pápas, or father, as well. Other places like Alexandria also have their Patriarchs who do not consider themselves under obligation to obey Rome. They believe in their independence. Are all the eastern churches in heresy?’

  Brother Metellus thrust out his jaw pugnaciously. ‘During the last hundred years, the Bishops of Rome excommunicated the patriarchs of Constantinopolis from the Faith,’ he ground out. ‘Indeed, they have excommunicated the patriarchs of Alexandria and Jerusalem.’

  ‘And d
oubtless the patriarchs have done the same to the Bishop of Rome,’ countered Fidelma in good humour. ‘What does that mean? It shows they are all, sadly, too human. Instead of sitting down to debate their differences and come to a resolution, they resort to rituals of the supernatural as a means of exerting their will.’

  Brother Metellus stared at her in disbelief for a moment and then, to the surprise of both of them, he burst out laughing.

  ‘I swear that I have not had a good discourse with a woman on the Faith in many years,’ he finally said, wiping his eyes. ‘You are truly learned, Fidelma of Cashel. I am glad I decided to fish you out of the sea…both of you, that is. I don’t agree with you, but I enjoy discussion. May we have many more arguments.’

  ‘Rather exchanges of ideas,’ corrected Fidelma solemnly, ‘for without exchanging ideas, how can there be any learning or progression?’

  Brother Metellus glanced at the cloudy sky outside.

  ‘It will soon be time for the evening meal,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll see how the weather shapes for tomorrow. In the meantime, there are services to perform in my poor chapel. I would invite you to join me, unless your rituals would prevent you?’

  Fidelma gave a small mischievous smile. ‘There is little difference in intent, and while we prefer to conduct our services in the language of the sacred texts – which is Greek – when we were in Rome, I observed little for me to object to.’

  ‘Then you are welcome to participate in the service with me.’

  By evening, the wind was beginning to die away and the sea was changing colour once again, losing its white billows and becoming calmer.

  When they gathered for the meal later, Brother Metellus greeted them with a warm smile as if the intensity of their discussion that afternoon had not existed.

  ‘I think we will be able to set sail in the morning,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘We’ll leave at first light as we originally intended to do this morning.’

  This time the weather grew tranquil during the night.

  The day dawned calm and warm, with the sun beating down from an almost cloudless sky. The few clouds that did drift high above were fluffy white balls, like the fruiting puffs of groundsel. What was more, there was a soft morning breeze blowing from the south.