Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

A hand fell on her shoulder. A young sister leaned across her.

‘Sister Fidelma? The Mother Abbess requires your presence in her chambers immediately.’

Surprised and somewhat bewildered, ignoring the looks of open curiosity from Sister Gwid and Brother Taran, Sister Fidelma rose and followed the young religieuse away from the pandemonium and confusion of the sacrarium and along the quieter corridors until she found herself ushered into the chamber of the Abbess Hilda. The abbess was standing before her fire, hands clasped before her. Her face was grey and grave. Bishop Colmán was seated in the chair to one side of the fire as he had been seated on the previous evening. He, too, had an air of solemnity, as if weighed down by a heavy problem.

They both appeared almost too preoccupied to notice her entrance.

‘Mother Abbess, you sent for me?’

Hilda seemed to pull herself together with a sigh and glanced at Colmán who responded with a curious gesture of his hand as if motioning her to proceed.

‘My lord bishop reminds me that you are an advocate of the law in your own land, Fidelma.’

Sister Fidelma frowned.

‘That is so,’ she confirmed, wondering what was coming.

‘He reminds me that you have acquired a reputation for unravelling mysteries, for solving crimes.’

Fidelma waited expectantly.

‘Sister Fidelma,’ went on the abbess after a pause, ‘I have great need of the talents of one such as you.’

‘I am willing to place my poor abilities at your disposal,’ Fidelma replied slowly, wondering what problem had arisen.

Abbess Hilda bit her lip as she struggled to frame the sentences.

‘I have bad news, sister. The Abbess Étain of Kildare was found in her cell this morning. Her throat was cut – cut in such a manner that one is left with but one interpretation. The Abbess Étain was most foully murdered.’

Chapter Six

The door opened unceremoniously while Sister Fidelma was still in a state of shock at the news. She dimly became aware that Colmán was struggling to rise from his chair and turned to see who could bring the bishop to his feet.

Oswy of Northumbria entered the room.

Events had moved quickly, too quickly for Fidelma to accept that her friend, her colleague for several years, and more recently her abbess, had been cruelly slain. She made a conscious effort to suppress the grief she felt, for the news had grieved her considerably. Yet grief would not help Étain now. Her mind was working rapidly. Fidelma’s training and talents were being called upon and grief would only cloud her ability. Grief could be given way to later.

She tried to concentrate her thoughts on the new entrant into the chamber.

Close up, the king of Northumbria did not seem as handsome as he had appeared from a distance. He was tall and muscular but his fair hair was a dirty yellowing grey and he was obviously approaching his three score years. His skin was yellowing and across his nose and cheeks the breaking of small blood vessels had caused bright red lines to weave across the skin. His eyes were sunken, his brow heavily creased. Fidelma had heard it said that every Northumbrian king had died a violent death in battle. It was an unfavourable heritage to look forward to.

Oswy glanced around, almost with a haunted look, and let his eyes settle on Sister Fidelma.

‘I have heard that you are a dálaigh of the Brehon courts of Ireland?’

To Fidelma’s surprise he spoke the language of Ireland almost as a native. Then she remembered that he had been brought up in exile in Iona. She realised that she should not be surprised at his command of her language.

‘I am qualified to the level of anruth.’

Colmán shuffled forward to explain.

‘That means—’

Oswy turned on him with an impatient gesture.

‘I know exactly what it means, lord bishop. One qualified to the level of anruth is representative of the noble stream of knowledge and can discourse on equal footing with kings, even with the High King himself.’ He smiled in self-satisfaction at the embarrassed bishop before turning back to Sister Fidelma. ‘Nevertheless, even I am surprised to find such a learned head on such young shoulders.’

Fidelma suppressed a sigh.

‘I studied for eight years with the Brehon Morann of Tara, one of the great judges of my country.’

Oswy nodded absently.

‘I do not question your qualifications and my lord Colmán has informed me of your reputation. You know that we have need of you?’

Sister Fidelma inclined her head.

‘I am told that the Abbess Étain has been murdered. She was not only my abbess but she was my friend. I am ready to help.’

‘The abbess was due to open the debate of our assembly on behalf of the church of Iona, as you know. There is much dissension within my land, Sister Fidelma. This matter is delicate. Already rumours are whispered abroad and speculation runs riot. If the abbess was murdered by one of the pro-Roman faction, as seems likely, then there will be such a breach among the people that the truth of Christ may suffer a death blow in the land. Civil war seems likely to rip the people apart. Do you understand?’

‘I understand,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Yet there is something much more serious to be considered.’

Oswy raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘More serious than political repercussions that will reach from Iona, perhaps even the primacy of Armagh, to Rome itself?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, more serious even than that,’ Fidelma quietly assured him. ‘Whoever killed Étain of Kildare must be brought to justice. That is the greater right and moral. What others make of it is their concern. The seeking of truth is more serious than any other consideration.’

For a moment or two Oswy looked blank. Then he smiled ruefully.

‘There speaks the representative of the law. I have long missed the discourses of the Brehons of your country, the judges who sit above the king and his court. Here, the king is the law and no one can sit in judgment on a king.’

Fidelma grimaced indifferently.

‘I have heard of the faults of your Saxon system.’

Abbess Hilda looked shocked.

‘My child, remember you speak to the king.’

But Oswy was grinning.

‘Cousin Hilda, do not rebuke her. She acts in accordance with her own culture. In Ireland, a king is not a law-maker, nor does he rule by the divine right. A king is only an administrator of a law passed down from generation to generation. Any advocate, such as an anruth or an ollamh, may argue law with the highest king in the land. Is that not so, Sister Fidelma?’

Fidelma smiled tightly.

‘You have a keen grasp of our system, Oswy of Northumbria.’

‘And you seem to have a sharp mind and do not appear in fear of any faction,’ observed Oswy. ‘That is good. My cousin Hilda has undoubtedly asked you to undertake the task of discovering who killed Étain of Kildare? What is your reply? Will you do it?’

The door was flung open abruptly.

Sister Gwid stood framed in the doorway, her large, awkward body strangely contorted. Her hair was askew under her headdress, her mouth was trembling, her eyes were red and bloodshot and the tears streamed down her flaccid white cheeks. For a moment she stood sobbing, staring wildly from one face to another.

‘What the—?’ began Oswy in surprise.

‘Is it true? Oh God, tell me it is not so!’ wailed the distressed sister, wringing her large red bony hands in acute distress. ‘Is the Abbess Étain dead?’

Sister Fidelma recovered from her surprise first and hurried across to Sister Gwid, taking the tall girl by the arm and withdrawing her from the room. Outside, in the corridor, she signalled to the worried-looking sister who attended the Abbess Hilda and who had apparently tried to prevent Sister Gwid from entering the chamber.