Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

‘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.’

‘And the very old man who brings up the rear of the procession?’

She had caught sight of the last member of the group, who seemed as if he were a hundred, with bent back and a body that looked more like a walking skeleton than a living man.

‘That is the man who can sway the Saxons against us,’ observed Taran.

Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

‘Is that Wilfrid? I thought he was a younger man?’

Taran shook his head.

‘Not Wilfrid. That is Jacobus, whom the Saxons call James. Over sixty years ago, when Rome sought to reinforce the mission of Augustine in Kent, they sent a group of missionaries led by one called Paulinus. This Jacobus came with them – which makes him more than four score years in age. When Edwin of Northumbria married Aethelburh of Kent, the mother of Queen Eanflaed there, Paulinus came with her as her chaplain and made an unsuccessful attempt to convert the Northumbrians to the Roman path to Christ. He fled with Aethelburh and the baby Eanflaed back to Kent, where he died twenty years ago when the pagans rose up against them.’

‘And this Jacobus? This man James?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘Did he flee also?’

‘He remained behind in Catraeth, which the Saxons call Catterick, living sometimes as a hermit and sometimes attempting to convert the natives to Christ. I have no doubt that he will be called upon as proof that it was Rome who attempted to convert Northumbria before Iona and the argument put forward that Northumbria should be Roman. His venerability and the fact that he is a Roman who knew both Paulinus and Augustine stands against us.’

Sister Fidelma was impressed, in spite of herself, with Brother Taran’s knowledge.

The procession had reached its appointed place now and the Abbess Hilda made a motion for all to rise.

Bishop Colman took a step forward and traced the sign of the Cross in the air. Then he held up his hand and gave the blessing in the style of the church of Iona, using the first, third and fourth fingers to denote the Trinity as opposed to the Roman use of the thumb and the first and second fingers. There was some murmuring from the ranks of the pro-Romans at this but Colman ignored it, asking a blessing in Greek, in which language the services of the church of Iona were usually said.

Then Deusdedit was helped forward and, in a soft whispering tone that underscored his apparent illness, he gave a blessing in the Roman style and in Latin.

Everyone became seated except Abbess Hilda.

‘Brothers and sisters in Christ, the debate is now begun. Is our church of Northumbria to follow the teachings of Iona, from where this land was raised from the darkness into the light of Christ, or is it to follow those of Rome, from where that light originally spread to this, the outer reaches of the world? The decision will be yours.’

She glanced to the benches on her right.

‘The opening arguments will now be made. Agilbert of Wessex, are you prepared to make your preliminary statement?’

‘No!’ came a rasping voice. There was a silence and then a swelling murmur.

Abbess Hilda raised her hand.

A lean dark-skinned man, with thin haughty-looking features and an aquiline nose, rose to his feet.

‘Agilbert is a Frank,’ whispered Taran. ‘He studied many years in Ireland.’

‘Many years ago,’ Agilbert began – in a hesitant, thickly accented Saxon, which Fidelma had to ask Taran to translate – ‘Cenwealh of Wessex invited me to be bishop in his kingdom. For ten years I fulfilled the office but Cenwealh became dissatisfied, claiming I did not speak his Saxon dialect well enough. And he appointed Wine as bishop above me. I left the land of the West Saxons. Now I am asked to argue for Roman observance. If I am not able to speak to the satisfaction of Cenwealh and the West Saxons, I am not capable of speaking in this place. Therefore, my pupil Wilfrid of Ripon shall open this debate for Rome.’

Fidelma frowned.

‘The Frank seems very touchy.’

‘I hear he is on his way back to Frankia because he has taken against all the Saxons.’

A small, stocky, younger man, with a red face and a brusque, pugnacious manner, had risen.

‘I, Wilfrid of Ripon, am prepared to put forward my preliminary arguments.’

Abbess Hilda inclined her head in acknowledgment.

‘And for the cause of Iona, is Abbess Étain of Kildare prepared with her preliminary remarks?’

The abbess had turned to the benches where those who supported the church of Iona were seated.

There was no reply.

Fidelma craned forward and for the first time she suddenly realised that she could not see Étain in the sacrarium. The murmuring became a roar.

Abbess Abbe’s voice sounded hollowly: ‘It seems the Abbess of Kildare is not in attendance.’

There was a commotion around one of the doors of the sacrarium and Fidelma caught sight of the figure of one of the brothers. He stood, ashen-faced, chest heaving, as he paused on the threshold.

‘Catastrophe!’ His voice was high pitched. ‘Oh brethren, catastrophe!’

Abbess Hilda gazed at the man with anger on her features.

‘Brother Agatho! You forget yourself!’

The monk hurried forward. Even from a distance Fidelma could see panic on his face.