Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

Wulfric shrugged eloquently.

‘His mother probably knew his name – and his God. I did not know it.’

‘Under what law was he executed?’ she pressed again, trying to control the anger she felt.

The warrior, Wulfric, had moved so that his mount was close to the young religieuse. He leant forward in his saddle towards her. Her nose wrinkled as she smelt his foul breath and saw his blackened teeth grinning at her. He was clearly impressed that, young as she was, and woman that she was, she did not seem afraid of him or of his companions. His dark eyes were speculative as he rested both hands on the pommel of his saddle and smirked towards the swinging body.

‘The law that says a man who insults his betters must pay the price.’

‘Insults his betters?’

Wulfric nodded.

‘The monk,’ Taran continued to translate in nervous fashion, ‘arrived at Wulfric’s village at noon seeking rest and hospitality on his journey. Wulfric, being a good Christian,’ – had Wulfric emphasised this point or was it merely Taran’s translation? – ‘granted him rest and a meal. The mead was flowing in the feasting hall when the argument broke out.’

‘An argument?’

‘It seems that Wulfric’s king, Alhfrith …’

‘Alhfrith?’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘I thought Oswy was the king of Northumbria?’

‘Alhfrith is Oswy’s son and petty king of Deira, which is the southern province of Northumbria in which we are now.’

Fidelma motioned Taran to continue his translation.

‘This Alhfrith has become a follower of Rome and has expelled many monks from the monastery of Ripon for not following the teachings and liturgy of Rome. Apparently, one of Wulfric’s men engaged this monk in discourse on the rival merits of the liturgy of Columba and the teachings of Rome. The discussion turned to argument and argument to anger and the monk said heated words. The words were considered insulting.’

Sister Fidelma stared at the thane in disbelief.

‘And for this the man was killed? Killed for mere words?’

Wulfric had been stroking his beard impassively and now he smiled, nodding again as Taran put the question to him.

‘This man insulted the thane of Frihop. For that he was executed. Common man may not insult one of noble birth. It is the law. And it is the law that the man must remain hanging here for one full moon from this day.’

Anger now clearly formed on the features of the young sister. She knew little of Saxon law and in her opinion it was blatantly unjust, but she was wise enough to know how far to exhibit her indignation. She turned and swung herself easily back on to her horse and stared at the warrior.

‘Know this, Wulfric, I am on my way to Streoneshalh, where I shall meet with Oswy, king of this land of Northumbria. And there I shall inform Oswy of how you have treated this servant of God and one who is under his protection as Christian king of this land.’

If the words were meant to give Wulfric any apprehension, they did not.

The man simply threw back his head and roared with laughter as her speech was translated.

Sister Fidelma’s keen eyes had not ceased to keep watch not only on Wulfric but on his companions, who stood fingering their bows while the exchange was taking place, glancing now and then at their leader as if to anticipate his orders. Now she felt it time for discretion. She nudged her horse forward, followed by a relieved Brother Taran and her companions. She purposefully kept her mount to a walking gait. Haste would betray fear and fear was the last thing to show such a bully as Wulfric obviously was.

To her surprise, no attempt was made to stop them. Wulfric and his men simply remained looking after them, some laughing amongst themselves. After a while, when enough distance had been placed between them and Wulfric’s band at the crossroads, Fidelma turned with a shake of her head to Taran.

‘This is, indeed, a strange pagan country. I thought that this Northumbria was ruled in peace and contentment by Oswy?’

It was Sister Gwid, who like Brother Taran was of the Cruthin of the north, those whom many called the Picts, who answered Fidelma. Sister Gwid knew something of the ways and the language of Northumbria, having been for several years a captive within its borders.

‘You have much to learn of this savage place, Sister Fidelma,’ she began.

The condescension in her voice died as Fidelma turned her fiery eyes on her. ‘Then tell me.’ Her voice was cold and clear like the crystal waters of a racing mountain stream.

‘Well.’ Gwid was more contrite now. ‘Northumbria was once settled by Angles. They are no different to the Saxons in the south of this country; that is, their language is the same and they used to worship the same outlandish gods until our missionaries began to preach the word of the true God. Two kingdoms were set up here, Bernicia to the north and Deira to the south. Sixty years ago, the two kingdoms were joined as one and this is now ruled by Oswy. But Oswy allows his son, Alhfrith, to be petty king of his southern province, Deira. Is this not so, Brother Taran?’

Brother Taran nodded sourly.

‘A curse on Oswy and his house,’ he muttered. ‘Oswy’s brother, Oswald, when he was king, led the Northumbrians to invade our country when I was but new born. My father, who was a chieftain of the Gododdin, was slain by them and my mother cut down before him as he lay dying. I hate them all!’

Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

‘Yet you are a brother of Christ devoted to peace. You should have no hate in your heart.’

Taran sighed. ‘You are right, sister. Sometimes our creed is a hard taskmaster.’

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I thought Oswy was educated at Iona and that he favoured the liturgy of the church of Colmcille? Why then would his son be a follower of Rome and an enemy to our cause?’

‘These Northumbrians call the Blessed Colmcille by the name Columba,’ intervened Sister Gwid pedantically. ‘It is easier for them to pronounce.’

It was Brother Taran who answered Fidelma’s question.

‘I believe that Alhfrith is at enmity with his father, who has married again. Alhfrith fears that his father means to disinherit him in favour of Ecgfrith, his son by his current wife.’

Fidelma sighed deeply.

‘I cannot understand this Saxon law of inheritance. I am told that they accept the first-born son as the heir rather than, as we do, allow the most worthy of the family to be elected by free choice.’

Sister Gwid suddenly gave a shout and pointed to the distant horizon.

‘The sea! I can see the sea! And that black building on the horizon there – that must be the abbey of Streoneshalh.’

Sister Fidelma halted her horse and gazed into the distance with narrowed eyes.

‘What say you, Brother Taran? You know this part of the country. Are we near the end of our journey?’

Taran’s face expressed relief.

‘Sister Gwid is right. That is our destination – Streoneshalh, the abbey of the Blessed Hilda, cousin to King Oswy.’

Chapter Two

The raucous voice, raised in apparent distress, caused the abbess to lift her eyes from the table, where she had been studying a page of illustrated vellum, and frown in annoyance at being disturbed.

She sat in a dark, stone-flagged chamber, lit by several tallow candles placed in bronze holders around the high walls. It was day, but the single, high window admitted little light. And the room was cold and austere in spite of several colourful tapestries covering the bleaker aspects of its masonry. Nor did the smouldering fire set in a large hearth at one end of the room give much warmth.

The abbess sat still for a moment. Her broad forehead and thin, angular features set in deep lines as her brows drew together. Her dark eyes, in which it was almost impossible to discern the pupils, held an angry glint as she positioned her head slightly to one side, listening to the shouting. Then she eased her richly woven woollen cloak around her shoulders, letting her hand slip momentarily to the ornately wrought gold crucifix hung on a string of tiny ivory beads around her neck. It was obvious from her clothing and adornments that she was a woman of wealth and position in her own right.