Read Absolution by Murder Online
Authors: Peter Tremayne
Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland
Absolution by Murder (3 page)
He turned, back against the wind, and spat over the side, raising his colourless yet bright eyes to the great sail above him. Now was the time to haul down the sail and set the thirty-eight slaves who manned the oars pulling towards the coast. He moved aft along the eighty-foot-long vessel, shouting orders as he went.
Brother Eadulf made his way to the stern to find his companions, a half-dozen men now stretched out on straw palliasses. He spoke to a rotund and jovial-looking man with greying hair.
‘We are within sight of Witebia, Brother Wighard,’ he said. ‘The captain says we should be landing within the hour. Should I tell His Grace?’
The rotund man shook his head.
‘His Grace continues to feel unwell,’ he replied mournfully.
Brother Eadulf looked concerned.
‘Better to get him to the bows where the air might restore him to health.’
Brother Wighard shook his head emphatically.
‘I know you have studied the art of the apothecary, Eadulf. But such cures can also kill, my brother. Let His Grace rest a while longer.’
Eadulf hesitated, torn between his own knowledge and belief
and the fact that Wighard was not someone to be disregarded. Wighard was secretary to Deusdedit, Archbishop of Canterbury. And it was Deusdedit who was the subject of their conversation.
and the fact that Wighard was not someone to be disregarded. Wighard was secretary to Deusdedit, Archbishop of Canterbury. And it was Deusdedit who was the subject of their conversation.
The archbishop was elderly and had been ordained by Eugenius I, Bishop of Rome and Father of the Universal Church, to be the head of Rome’s mission to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms in Britain.
But no one could converse with Deusdedit without first obtaining Wighard’s approval. Wighard’s cherubic-like features hid a coldly calculating mind and an ambition that was keen as a sharpened sword. Thus much had Eadulf discovered during the few days he had been in proximity with the Kentish monk. Wighard was extremely jealous of his position as secretary and confidant of the archbishop.
Deusdedit himself had the honour of being the first Saxon ever to hold the office that Augustine of Rome had inaugurated at Canterbury when he had arrived to convert the pagan Saxons to Christ scarcely seventy years before. Only missionaries from Rome had held the office of chief of Rome’s missionaries to the Anglo-Saxons. But Deusdedit, a West Saxon whose original name had been Frithuwine, had proved himself learned, patient and zealous for the teachings of Rome. Frithuwine had been baptized in the new faith as he who had been given,
deditus
, to God,
Deus
. The Holy Father had no qualms in appointing him as his spokesman to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and, for nine years now, Deusdedit had guided the fortunes of those Christians who looked to Rome for their spiritual authority.
deditus
, to God,
Deus
. The Holy Father had no qualms in appointing him as his spokesman to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and, for nine years now, Deusdedit had guided the fortunes of those Christians who looked to Rome for their spiritual authority.
But Deusdedit had not been in the best of health since the start of the voyage and had spent most of the time apart from the rest being attended only by his secretary Wighard.
Eadulf hesitated before Wighard, wondering whether he
should be more forceful in applying his knowledge of medicine. Then he shrugged.
should be more forceful in applying his knowledge of medicine. Then he shrugged.
‘Will you then warn His Grace that we will be landing soon?’ he asked.
Wighard nodded reassuringly.
‘It shall be done. Let me know, Eadulf, if there is any sign of a welcoming reception on the foreshore.’
Brother Eadulf inclined his head. The great sail was already down and stowed and now the groaning oarsmen were heaving on the large wooden oars that propelled the sleek ship. For a few moments, Eadulf stood soaking in the activity on board as the vessel seemed to fairly skim over the waters towards the shoreline. He found himself thinking that it was in just such ships that his ancestors, hardly any time ago, must have crossed the limitless seas to raid and finally settle on this fruitful island of Britain.
The overseers moved down the rows of slaves as they grunted and strained against their oars, encouraging them to greater efforts with cracking whips and oath-filled screams. Now and then there came a sharp cry of pain, as the tongue of a whip made contact with unprotected flesh. Eadulf watched the sailors running hither and thither on their unaccountable tasks with an ill-concealed feeling of envy. He suddenly shook himself as he registered the thought.
He should envy no one, for he had turned his back on his inheritance as hereditary
gerefa,
or magistrate, of the lands of the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham when he had reached his twentieth birthday. He had forsworn the old gods of the South Folk, in the kingdom of the East Angles, and followed the new God whose teachings had been brought to them from Ireland. He had been young and enthusiastic when he had fallen in with an
Irishman who spoke terrible Saxon but had succeeded in making his purpose known. The Irishman, Fursa by name, had not only taught Eadulf how to read and write his native Saxon, a language which Eadulf had never seen written before, but Fursa imparted to him a knowledge of Irish and Latin in addition to converting him to the knowledge of Christ, the Son of the God with no name.
gerefa,
or magistrate, of the lands of the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham when he had reached his twentieth birthday. He had forsworn the old gods of the South Folk, in the kingdom of the East Angles, and followed the new God whose teachings had been brought to them from Ireland. He had been young and enthusiastic when he had fallen in with an
Irishman who spoke terrible Saxon but had succeeded in making his purpose known. The Irishman, Fursa by name, had not only taught Eadulf how to read and write his native Saxon, a language which Eadulf had never seen written before, but Fursa imparted to him a knowledge of Irish and Latin in addition to converting him to the knowledge of Christ, the Son of the God with no name.
So apt a pupil had Eadulf become that Fursa had sent him with letters of introduction to his own land of Ireland, firstly to a monastery at Durrow, where students from all four corners of the world were educated and trained. For a year Eadulf had studied in Durrow among the pious brethren there but, finding an interest in the cures and healing powers of the Irish apothecaries, he had gone on to study four years more at the famous college of medicine at Tuaim Brecain, where he had learnt of the legendary Midach, son of Diancecht, who had been slain and from whose three hundred and sixty-five joints and sinews and members of the body three hundred and sixty-five herbs had grown, each herb with the virtue to cure that part of the body from which it had grown.
That learning had awakened in him a thirst for knowledge and a discovery that he also had the ability to solve riddles; puzzles that were like an unknown language to some became an easy conundrum for solution to him. He supposed that the ability had something to do with his having acquired through his family, which held the position of hereditary
gerefa,
an oral knowledge of the law of the Saxons. Sometimes, though not very often, he would regret that, had he not forsworn Woden and Seaxnat, he too would have become
gerefa
to the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham.
gerefa,
an oral knowledge of the law of the Saxons. Sometimes, though not very often, he would regret that, had he not forsworn Woden and Seaxnat, he too would have become
gerefa
to the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham.
Like many another Saxon monk he had followed the
teachings of his Irish mentors on the liturgical usages of their church, the dating of the Easter celebration, so central to the Christian faith, and even the style of their tonsure, the shaving of the head to denote that their lives were dedicated unquestioningly to Christ. Only on his return from Ireland had Eadulf encountered those religious who looked to the Archbishop of Canterbury for authority which came from Rome. And he had discovered that Rome’s ways were not those of the Irish nor, indeed, of the Britons. Their liturgy was different, the dating of Easter and even the style of their tonsure differed sharply from Rome.
teachings of his Irish mentors on the liturgical usages of their church, the dating of the Easter celebration, so central to the Christian faith, and even the style of their tonsure, the shaving of the head to denote that their lives were dedicated unquestioningly to Christ. Only on his return from Ireland had Eadulf encountered those religious who looked to the Archbishop of Canterbury for authority which came from Rome. And he had discovered that Rome’s ways were not those of the Irish nor, indeed, of the Britons. Their liturgy was different, the dating of Easter and even the style of their tonsure differed sharply from Rome.
Eadulf had decided to resolve this mystery and so undertook a pilgrimage to Rome where he had stayed two years studying under the masters in that Eternal City. He had returned to the kingdom of Kent bearing the
corona spinea,
a Roman tonsure, on his crown and eager to offer his services to Deusdedit, dedicated to the principles of the Roman teaching.
corona spinea,
a Roman tonsure, on his crown and eager to offer his services to Deusdedit, dedicated to the principles of the Roman teaching.
And now the years of argument between the teachings of the Irish monks and those of Rome were soon to be resolved.
Oswy, the powerful king of Northumbria, whose kingdom had been converted by the Irish monks from the monastery of Columba on the Holy Island of Iona, had decided to summon a great meeting at Streoneshalh abbey where advocates of both the Irish and Roman practices were to argue their cause and Oswy was to sit in judgment and decide, once and for all, whether his kingdom would follow the Irish or whether it would follow Rome. And everyone knew that where Northumbria led, the other Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, from Mercia and East Anglia to Wessex and Sussex, would follow.
Churchmen were gathering on Witebia from the four corners of the earth and soon they would be locked in debate in the hall
of the abbey of Streoneshalh, overlooking the tiny harbour.
of the abbey of Streoneshalh, overlooking the tiny harbour.
Eadulf gazed with excitement as the ship steered closer to the towering cliffs and the black outline of the impressive abbey of Hilda of Streoneshalh grew clearer in his vision.
The Abbess Hilda stood looking down from her window at Streoneshalh to the small harbour at the mouth of the river below the cliffs. The harbour was a flurry of activity, with tiny figures scurrying here and there bent on the tasks of off-loading the several ships that rode at anchor within its shelter.
‘His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury and his party are safely landed,’ she observed slowly. ‘And I have news that my cousin, the king, is arriving at noon tomorrow. That means our deliberations can begin, as planned, tomorrow evening.’
Behind her, seated before the smouldering fire in her dark chamber, was a hawk-faced man with swarthy features and a slightly autocratic expression. He looked like a man used to command and, moreover, used to being obeyed. He was clad in the robes of an abbot and wore the crucifix and ring of a bishop. His tonsure, whereby the front of his head was shaved back to a line running from ear to ear, immediately proclaimed that he followed the ways of Iona rather than those of Rome.
‘That is good,’ he said. He spoke in Saxon, slow and accented. ‘It is auspicious to start our deliberations on the first day of a new month.’
Abbess Hilda turned from the window and smiled nervously at him.
‘There has never been a gathering of such importance, my lord Colman.’
There was a suppressed tone of excitement in her voice.
Colmán’s thin mouth twitched in a slight sneer.
‘I suppose that is true for Northumbria. Speaking for myself, I can recall many important synods and assemblies. Druim Ceatt, for example, where our saintly Colmcille presided, was an important assembly for our faith in Ireland.’
The abbess decided to ignore the slightly condescending tone of the Abbot of Lindisfarne. It had been three years since Colmán had arrived from Iona to succeed Finán as bishop of Northumbria. But the two men were totally dissimilar in attitudes. The saintly Finán, though considered by some a man of fierce temper, was sincere, courteous and eager to teach, treating everyone as equals. He it was who had succeeded in converting and baptizing the fierce pagan king Peada of the Middle Angles, a son of the scourge of all Christians, Penda of Mercia. But Colmán was a man of different temperament to Finán. He seemed to treat both Angles and Saxons patronisingly, his tone and words often sneering at the fact that they were but newly come to the teachings of Christ and implying that therefore they should accept everything he said without question. Nor did he disguise his pride in the fact that it was the monks of Iona who had had to teach the Angles of Northumbria the art of lettering and how to read and how to write. The new bishop of Northumbria was an authoritarian and made his dislike of anyone who questioned his authority immediately known.
‘Who will be making the opening arguments for the teachings of Colmcille?’ asked Hilda.
The abbess made no secret that she followed the teachings of Colmcille’s church and disagreed with the arguments of Rome. As a young girl, Hilda had been baptised by the Roman Paulinus, who had been sent from Canterbury to convert the
Northumbrians to Christ and Rome when she was a babe in arms. But it had been Aidán, the first saintly missionary from Iona, who had succeeded in the conversion of Northumbria where Paulinus had failed and who had persuaded Hilda to enter the religious life. Such was her aptitude for piety and teaching that Aidán had ordained her abbess of a foundation at Heruteu. Her enthusiasm for the faith caused her to have built a new abbey called Streoneshalh, ‘the great hall by the seashore’, seven years before. During the seven years, a complex of magnificent buildings had grown up under her guidance. Northumbria had never seen such an impressive structure. And Streoneshalh was now regarded as one of the most important centres of learning in the kingdom. Because of its renown, the king, Oswy, had chosen it as the venue for his debate between the followers of Iona and those of Rome.
Northumbrians to Christ and Rome when she was a babe in arms. But it had been Aidán, the first saintly missionary from Iona, who had succeeded in the conversion of Northumbria where Paulinus had failed and who had persuaded Hilda to enter the religious life. Such was her aptitude for piety and teaching that Aidán had ordained her abbess of a foundation at Heruteu. Her enthusiasm for the faith caused her to have built a new abbey called Streoneshalh, ‘the great hall by the seashore’, seven years before. During the seven years, a complex of magnificent buildings had grown up under her guidance. Northumbria had never seen such an impressive structure. And Streoneshalh was now regarded as one of the most important centres of learning in the kingdom. Because of its renown, the king, Oswy, had chosen it as the venue for his debate between the followers of Iona and those of Rome.
Colmán folded his hands complacently before him.
‘I have, as you know, gathered here many people of knowledge and talent to argue the case of our Church,’ he said. ‘Foremost among them is the Abbess Étain of Kildare. At times like these I find that I am but a plain-spoken man with little guile or scholarship. In such debates the plain-spoken advocate is at a disadvantage against those who use wit and humour to convince their audience. The Abbess Étain is a woman of much wisdom and she will open the proceedings on our behalf.’
Abbess Hilda nodded approvingly.
‘I have already conversed with Étain of Kildare. Her wit is as quick and sharp as she is attractive.’
Colmán sniffed disapprovingly. The Abbess Hilda raised a delicate hand to hide her smile. She knew that Colmán had little time for women. He was one of the ascetics who argued that marriage was incompatible with spiritual life. Among most of
the Christian clergy of Ireland, and among the Britons, marriage and procreation was not regarded as a sin. Indeed, many of the religious houses were communities of brothers and sisters in Christ who cohabited, working together for the furtherance of the faith. Hilda’s own foundation of Streoneshalh itself was a ‘double house’ in that both men and women lived and dedicated their lives and children to the work of God. But while Rome accepted that even their chief apostle Peter had married, and that Philip the apostle not only married but begat four daughters, it was known that the bishops of Rome favoured Paul’s preference for celibacy for all their religious. Had not Paul written to the Corinthians that while marriage and procreation was no sin, it was not as good as celibacy among the brethren? Yet most Roman clergy, even bishops, presbyters, abbots and deacons, continued to be married in the traditional manner. Only ascetics sought to deny themselves all the temptations of the flesh and Colmán was such a man.
the Christian clergy of Ireland, and among the Britons, marriage and procreation was not regarded as a sin. Indeed, many of the religious houses were communities of brothers and sisters in Christ who cohabited, working together for the furtherance of the faith. Hilda’s own foundation of Streoneshalh itself was a ‘double house’ in that both men and women lived and dedicated their lives and children to the work of God. But while Rome accepted that even their chief apostle Peter had married, and that Philip the apostle not only married but begat four daughters, it was known that the bishops of Rome favoured Paul’s preference for celibacy for all their religious. Had not Paul written to the Corinthians that while marriage and procreation was no sin, it was not as good as celibacy among the brethren? Yet most Roman clergy, even bishops, presbyters, abbots and deacons, continued to be married in the traditional manner. Only ascetics sought to deny themselves all the temptations of the flesh and Colmán was such a man.
‘I suppose, even with Deusdedit of Canterbury here, that Wilfrid of Ripon will open for the Roman faction? I am told that Deusdedit is no great orator.’ Colmán was changing the subject.
Abbess Hilda hesitated and shook her head.
‘I have heard that Agilbert, the Frankish bishop of Wessex, will head their council.’
Colmán raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘I thought that Agilbert had taken offence with the king of Wessex and left for Frankia?’
‘No. He has been staying with Wilfrid at Ripon for several months. After all, it was Agilbert who converted and baptised Wilfrid to the faith. They are close friends.’
‘I know of Agilbert. A Frankish aristocrat. His cousin Audo
is the Frankish prince who founded a religious house at Jouarre with his sister Telchilde as its abbess. Agilbert is well connected and powerful. A man to have a care of.’
is the Frankish prince who founded a religious house at Jouarre with his sister Telchilde as its abbess. Agilbert is well connected and powerful. A man to have a care of.’
Colmán seemed about to amplify his warning when there came a knock at the door.
In answer to Abbess Hilda’s response, the door swung open.
A young religieuse stood there, hands demurely folded before her. She was tall, with a well-proportioned figure which, the keen eyes of the abbess saw, vibrated youthful exuberance. Rebellious strands of red hair streaked from beneath her headdress. She had an attractive face – not beautiful, thought Hilda, but attractive. The abbess suddenly realised that her scrutiny was being returned by a pair of watchful bright eyes. She could not make out whether they were blue or green in the changing light that seemed to emanate from them.
‘What is it, child?’ inquired the abbess.
The young woman’s chin came up a trifle pugnaciously and she introduced herself in Irish.
‘I have just arrived at the abbey, Mother Abbess, and have been asked to report my presence to you and the Bishop Colmán. My name is Fidelma of Kildare.’
Before Abbess Hilda had time to respond, questioning why a young Irish religieuse should be worthy to be asked to make her presence known to them, the Bishop Colmán had risen from his chair and had taken a stride towards the girl with an outstretched hand of welcome. Hilda stared at him, her mouth opening slightly in her astonishment. It was curiously unlike the haughty misogynism of Colmán to rise up to greet a young sister of the order.
‘Sister Fidelma!’ Colmán’s voice was animated. ‘Your reputation precedes you. I am Colmán.’
The young religieuse took his hand and inclined her head slightly in deference to his rank. Hilda had long since become accustomed to the lack of servility that the Irish displayed towards their superiors, unlike the deep reverence Saxons displayed towards their betters.
‘You do me honour, your grace. I was not aware that I was possessed of a reputation.’
The keen eyes of Abbess Hilda saw an amused smile play around the mouth of the younger woman. It was hard to tell whether the girl was being modest or merely mocking. Again the bright eyes – Hilda was sure they were green now – turned inquiringly in her direction.
Colmán turned in some embarrassment at his neglect of the Mother Abbess.
‘This is the Abbess Hilda of Streoneshalh.’
Sister Fidelma moved forward and reached to incline her head over the abbess’s ring.
‘You are most welcome here, Fidelma of Kildare,’ Hilda acknowledged, ‘though I confess that my lord the Bishop of Lindisfarne has placed me at a disadvantage. I stand in ignorance of your reputation.’
Hilda glanced at the hawk-faced Colmán as if seeking comment.
‘Sister Fidelma is a
dálaigh
of the Brehon courts of Ireland,’ explained Colman.
dálaigh
of the Brehon courts of Ireland,’ explained Colman.
Abbess Hilda frowned.
‘I am not acquainted with this expression –
daw-lee
.’ She rendered the term as closely as she could in her own phonetics. She stared at the girl as if challenging her to an explanation.
daw-lee
.’ She rendered the term as closely as she could in her own phonetics. She stared at the girl as if challenging her to an explanation.
Sister Fidelma’s cheeks reddened slightly and her voice was slightly breathless as she sought to explain.
‘I am an advocate, qualified to plead before the law courts of my country, to prosecute or defend those summoned to answer to the law before our judges, the Brehons.’
Colman nodded. ‘Sister Fidelma is qualified to the degree of
anruth,
only one degree below the highest qualification in our land. Already, even among the brethren in Lindisfarne, we have heard tales of how she was able to solve a mystery oppressing the High King at Tara.’
anruth,
only one degree below the highest qualification in our land. Already, even among the brethren in Lindisfarne, we have heard tales of how she was able to solve a mystery oppressing the High King at Tara.’
Fidelma gave a deprecating shrug of her shoulders.
‘My lord bishop does me too much honour,’ she said. ‘Anyone could have resolved the mystery given time.’
There was no false modesty in her voice, just a plain statement of her opinion.
‘So?’ Abbess Hilda stared curiously at her. ‘A qualified advocate, so young and a woman? Alas, in our culture women could not aspire to such a position, which is reserved only for men.’
Sister Fidelma nodded slowly.
‘I have heard, Mother Abbess, that women among the Angles and Saxons suffer many disadvantages compared with their sisters in Ireland.’
‘That may be so, Fidelma,’ Colmán interrupted with an air of condescension. ‘But remember what the Good Book says: “What went you into the wilderness to see, a man clothed in fine garments?” ’
Hilda cast a glance of annoyance at Colmán. His comparison of Northumbria to a wilderness was another demonstration of his superior attitudes, which had increasingly annoyed her over the last three years. She nearly made a rejoinder, but hesitated and turned back to Fidelma. She was disconcerted to find the bright green eyes fixed
penetratingly on her as if the girl could read her thoughts.
penetratingly on her as if the girl could read her thoughts.
Their eyes locked for some time, as if challenging each other. It was Bishop Colmán who broke the silence.
‘And was your journey without incident, sister?’
Sister Fidelma turned, memory suddenly coming back.
‘Alas, no. Not many miles from here, where a man called Wulfric claims that he is lord—’
Abbess Hilda frowned.
‘I know the man and the place. Wulfric of Frihop, whose hall lies some fifteen miles to the east. What of it, sister?’
‘We found a brother hanging from a tree at the crossroads. Wulfric claimed the monk had been executed for insulting him. Our brother wore the tonsure of our Church, my lord bishop, and Wulfric did not conceal that he came from your own house of Lindisfarne.’
Colmán bit his lip and suppressed an intake of breath.
‘It must be Brother Aelfric. He was returning from a mission to Mercia and expected to join us here any day now.’
‘But why would Aelfric insult the thane of Frihop?’ demanded Abbess Hilda.
‘By your leave, Mother Abbess,’ interrupted Sister Fidelma. ‘I had the impression that this was merely an excuse. The argument was about the differences between Iona and Rome and it would seem that Wulfric and his friends favour Rome. This Brother Aelfric was apparently manoeuvred into the insult and then hanged for it.’
Hilda examined the girl sharply.
‘You do have a legal, inquiring mind, Fidelma of Kildare. But, as you well know, to hypothesise is one thing. To prove your contention is quite another.’
Sister Fidelma smiled softly.
‘I did not mean to present my impression as a legal argument, Mother Abbess. Merely that I think you would do well to have a care of Wulfric of Frihop. If he can get away with the judicial murder of a religious simply because he supports the liturgy of Colmcille then every one of us who comes to this abbey to argue in that cause may be in danger.’
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