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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Absolution by Murder
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‘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!’
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.
At that information, Sister Fidelma expressed surprise, for she had not known of Oswy’s relationship to the High King.
‘What happened to that wife? Another death?’ she asked.
It was Sister Gwid who had the answer.
‘A divorce,’ she said, as if approvingly. ‘Fín realised how much she hated Northumbria and Oswy. She had a son by Oswy, named Aldfrith, but took the child back to Ireland with her. Her son has been educated at the foundation of the blessed Comgall, the friend of Colmcille, at Bangor. He is now quite a renowned poet in the Irish tongue under the name Flann Fína. Aldfrith has renounced all rights to be considered for the kingship of Northumbria.’
Sister Fidelma shook her head.
‘The Saxons have a law called primogeniture, that the first born inherits. Was this Aldfrith, then, the first born?’
Sister Gwid shrugged indifferently, but Taran pointed to the dais.
‘See the young man seated directly behind Eanflaed, the one with the blond hair and the scar on his face?’
Fidelma glanced in the direction Taran indicated. She wondered why she felt an instant dislike of the young man whom he had pointed out.
‘Well, that is Alhfrith, Oswy’s son by Rhiainfellt, his first wife, who is now the petty king of the southern province of Deira. We spoke of him yesterday. The talk is that he is pro-Roman and in rebellion against his father’s adherence to Iona. He has already expelled the monks faithful to the rule of
Colmcille from the monastery of Ripon and given it to his friend, Wilfrid.’
‘And Wulfric of Frihop is his right hand,’ muttered Fidelma. The young man looked surly and aggressive. Perhaps that was cause enough to dislike the arrogant manner in which he sprawled in his chair.
The grim-faced woman next to Alhfrith was apparently his wife Cyneburh, the still-embittered daughter of the slain Penda of Mercia, who had been killed in battle by Oswy. Next to her, of an equally sour disposition, sat Alhflaed, the sister of Alhfrith, who had married Peada, the son of Penda of Mercia. Here Taran grew quite animated in his explanations. Alhfrith, according to him, had been responsible for the murder of Peada a year after Peada had agreed to become petty king of Mercia giving his allegiance to Oswy. Rumour had it that Alhfrith also had his ambitious eye on the kingship of Mercia.
Next to Oswy’s current wife, Eanflaed, sat their first-born son, Ecgfrith. At eighteen years of age he was a sullen, brooding young man. His dark eyes were restless and he kept shifting in his seat. Taran said that it was his ambition to fill the throne of Oswy before he was much older and he was filled with envy for his elder half-brother Alhfrith, who was heir to the throne under law. The only other child of Oswy in attendance was Aelflaed. She had been born in the year when Oswy had achieved his great victory over Penda and, as a thank-offering, had been dedicated to God and entrusted to the Abbess Hilda to bring up at Streoneshalh as a virgin devoted to Christ.
Brother Taran informed Fidelma that Oswy had two more children – a daughter, Osthryth, now five years old, and a son, Aelfwine, aged three. These were too young to attend in the
sacrarium.
Finally Sister Fidelma interrupted the enthusiastic brother’s monologue on the personalities.
‘All this knowledge is too much for me to take in at one sitting. I shall get to know who is who as the debate continues. But there are so many people.’
Brother Taran nodded complacently.
‘It is an important debate, sister. Not only is the royal house of Northumbria represented but, see, there is Domangart of Dál Riada together with Drust, the king of Picts, and there are princes and representatives of Cenwealh of Wessex, Eorcenberht of Kent, Wulfhere of Mercia and—’
‘Enough!’ protested Fidelma. ‘I will never master all these outlandish Saxon names. I will call on you when I need your knowledge.’
As Fidelma sat studying the sea of faces the doors of the hall opened and a man entered carrying a banner. This, Taran promptly informed her, was the
thuff,
the standard that always preceded the king to announce his presence. Then came a tall handsome man, well muscled, with flaxen hair and long moustaches, dressed in rich and elaborate clothing with a circle of gold on his head.
So Fidelma, for the first time, caught sight of the king of Northumbria, Oswy. Oswy had become king when his brother Oswald had been slain by Penda and his British allies at Maserfeld and, within a few years, had taken his revenge on Penda, slaughtering him and his followers. And now Oswy was acclaimed
Bretwalda,
a title, Taran told her, that proclaimed him overlord of all the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons.
Fidelma examined the tall man intently. She knew his previous history well. Oswy and his brothers had been driven from Northumbria when they were children, and their father,
the king, had been slain by Edwin, who had usurped the throne. The exiled royal children had been brought up in the kingdom of Dál Riada, converting from paganism to Christianity in the Holy Island of Iona. When Oswy’s elder brother, Oswald, regained the throne and brought them out of exile, he had sent to Iona and asked for missionaries to teach his people, bringing them forth from paganism and teaching them how to form letters and read and write. It seemed, to Fidelma, that Oswy would naturally side with the church of Iona.
But, she recalled, in this debate, while Oswy was chief judge, he would probably be under pressure from his heirs and the royal representatives of all the lesser kings who would sit as a jury during the debates.
Behind Oswy, in the procession which made its way from the main doors around the hall to the seats on the dais, first came Colmán , as Oswy’s bishop as well as chief abbot; next came Hilda and another woman whose features seemed similar to Oswy’s.
‘That is Oswy’s eldest sister, Abbe,’ whispered Gwid, against the quiet that had descended in the hall. ‘She was in exile in Iona and is a firm adherent of the liturgy of Colmcille. She is abbess at Coldingham, which is north from here. It is a double house where men and women can dedicate their lives and families to the path of Christ.
‘It has a dubious reputation, I hear tell,’ Sister Gwid said. Her voice dropped even lower than usual in disapproval. ‘There is talk that the abbey is given over to feasting, drinking and other entertainments.’
Sister Fidelma made no response. There were many
conhospitae
or double houses. There was little wrong in that. She disliked the way Sister Gwid seemed to imply that there
was something wicked about such a way of life. She knew some ascetics disapproved and argued that all who dedicated their lives to the service of Christ should remain celibate. She had even heard that some groups of ascetics cohabited without sexual contact as a demonstration of the strength of their faith and the supernatural character of chastity, a practice that John Chrysostom of Antioch had declaimed against.
Fidelma was not against religious cohabiting. She shared her belief that the religious should marry and procreate with the majority of those who followed Rome, the churches of the Britons and the Irish and even the eastern churches. Only ascetics believed in celibacy and demanded segregation of the sexes among the religious. She had not suspected Sister Gwid of being an ascetic or supporting their cause. She herself accepted that the time would come when she would find someone to share her work with. But there was plenty of time and she had, as yet, met no man who had attracted her enough to cause her to contemplate making a decision. Perhaps such a decision might never need be made. Life was like that. In a way, she envied the certainty of her friend Étain in making her decision to resign from Kildare and marry again.
She turned to concentrate on the procession.
An elderly man came next, his face yellow and glistening with sweat. He leant heavily on the arm of a younger man whose face immediately put Fidelma in mind of the cunning of a wolf, in spite of its cherubic, chubby roundness. The eyes were too close together and forever searching as if seeking out enemies. The old man was clearly ill. She turned to Taran.
‘Deusdedit, Archbishop of Canterbury, and his secretary, Wighard,’ he said before she had even articulated the question.
‘They walk there as the chief representatives of those who oppose us.’

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