Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

Fidelma stared directly at Alhfrith of Deira.

‘You have already condemned the man before he has been heard.’

‘I have heard him and I have condemned him to death by fire!’ snapped Alhfrith.

Sister Fidelma opened her mouth to protest but Eadulf cut her short.

‘This is in accord with our custom and law, Fidelma,’ he said hurriedly.

Fidelma’s eyes were cold.

‘But Wulfric,’ she breathed slowly. ‘I have already met this Wulfric of Frihop on the road here. Wulfric, the thane of Frihop, who hanged a brother of Columba on a roadside tree for no other reason than that of pleasure. He would make a good witness against any of our nation and faith.’

Alhfrith’s eyes rounded and his mouth opened but no sound would come as he struggled with his shock at her audacity.

Abbess Hilda had risen nervously from her chair. Even Brother Eadulf looked astounded.

‘Sister Fidelma!’ Hilda was the first to recover from the surprise of her implication and spoke sharply. ‘I know of your distress at witnessing the dead body of Brother Aelfric of Lindisfarne but, as I informed you, the matter is under investigation.’

‘Just so,’ Fidelma was abrupt. ‘And the investigation bears on the credibility of Wulfric as a witness. The thane of Frihop is hardly a creditable witness in this matter. You mention three others. Are they independent or does this thane hold them under threat or bribe by payment?’

The meaning of the question registered with Alhfrith, whose features tightened in a scowl of anger.

‘I shall not remain here to be insulted by a … woman, no matter of what rank,’ he snapped. ‘Were she not under the protection of my father I would have her whipped for such insolence. And so far as I am concerned, the beggar will burn at the stake at dawn tomorrow.’

‘Whether guilty or not?’ Fidelma replied heatedly.

‘He is guilty.’

‘Highness,’ Brother Eadulf’s quiet voice halted the petty king of Deira in mid-stride to the door. ‘Highness, it may be as you say – that the beggar is guilty. But we should be allowed to carry on our investigation for much hangs in the balance here. Our commission comes directly from the king, your father. The eyes of Christendom are on this small abbey at Witebia and much is at stake. Guilt must be established beyond any question or it may well be that war will ravage the kingdom and not just Northumbria will be darkened under the raven’s bloody wing. We have an oath and duty to obey the king, your father.’

The last sentence was heavy with emphasis.

Alhfrith paused and glanced from Brother Eadulf to the Abbess Hilda, now purposefully ignoring Sister Fidelma.

‘You have until tomorrow at dawn to prove the beggar entirely innocent … or he bums at the stake. And have a care of that woman,’ he gestured to Fidelma without looking at her. ‘There is a limit beyond which I will not be pushed.’

The door slammed behind the tall form of the son of Oswy.

Abbess Hilda looked at Fidelma reproachfully.

‘Sister, you seem to forget that you are no longer in your own land and our customs and laws are different.’

Sister Fidelma bowed her head.

‘I shall do my best to remember and hope that Brother Eadulf here will advise me when I am wrong. However, my primary aim is to get to the truth of this matter and truth should be served more than princes.’

The abbess sighed deeply.

‘I will inform Oswy the king of this development and, in the meantime, you may carry on the investigation. But remember that Alhfrith is king of Deira, the province in which this abbey stands and a king’s word is law.’

In the corridor outside Brother Eadulf halted and smiled with some degree of admiration at Fidelma.

‘Abbess Hilda is right, sister. You make little headway with our Saxon princes if you do not acknowledge their status. I know it is different in Ireland but you are in Northumbria now. Nevertheless, you have given young Alhfrith something to think over. He seems a vindictive young man, so I would have a care of yourself.’

Fidelma found herself answering his smile.

‘You must remind me when I do something wrong, Brother Eadulf. But it is hard to like someone like Alhfrith.’

‘Kings and princes are not placed on thrones to be liked,’ replied Eadulf. ‘What is your next step?’

‘To see the beggar,’ she replied promptly. ‘Do you want to see the physician, Edgar, for his report on the autopsy or to come with me?’

‘I think that you may need me.’ Eadulf was serious. ‘I would not trust Alhfrith.’

In fact they met with Sister Athelswith, who informed them that Brother Edgar had already conducted an examination of the body, found nothing other than the obvious, and that the body had been taken to the catacombs of the abbey for entombment.

It was Sister Athelswith who conducted them down into the abbey’s hypogeum, which term she used for the vast underground cellars of the buildings. A circular stone stairwell led twenty feet below the main abbey floor into a stone-flagged area with passageways spreading in all directions leading into cavernous chambers with high vaulted roofs. At the top of the stairs she had paused to light an oil lamp and by its light she guided them through a complex of musty passageways until they reached the catacombs, where the dead of the abbey were entombed in rows of stone sarcophagi. The smell had that curious quality of death which is inexplicable.

Sister Athelswith was leading the way through these damp catacombs, somewhat hurriedly, when an echoing wail rooted her to the spot. The hand in which she held up the lamp trembled violently and she genuflected with undue haste.

Sister Fidelma laid a hand on the nervous domina’s arm. ‘It is only someone sobbing,’ she reassured her.

Holding the lamp high, Sister Athelswith continued to lead onwards.

The source of the sobbing was evident almost immediately. Towards the end of the catacombs there was a small alcove in which two candles burned. The body of Abbess Étain had been removed to it for interment. It lay in funeral garb on a stone slab, the candles burning by its head. At the foot of the bier the figure of a sister lay in the flecto position, prostrating herself before the corpse. It was Sister Gwid. The girl raised herself, still sobbing, and hit the ground, crying out: ‘Domine miserere peccatrice!’

Sister Athelswith started forward, but Fidelma stayed her.

‘Let’s leave her alone with her grief for a while.’

The domina bowed her head in submission and resumed the path forward.

‘The poor sister is distraught. She seems to have had a great attachment to the abbess,’ she observed as she continued onward.

‘We all have different ways of dealing with our grief,’ replied Fidelma.

Beyond the catacombs was a series of storerooms and beyond those was the apotheca or wine cellar, in which stood great casks containing wines imported from Frankia, Gaul and Iberia. Here Fidelma paused, sniffing. The scent of the wines was powerful but some other bitter-sweet odour seemed to permeate the underground chambers, a curious aroma which made her face pucker in distaste.

‘We are below the abbey kitchens, sister,’ Athelswith said, as if in apology. ‘Smells permeate along this area.’

Fidelma made no comment but motioned the domina to continue onwards. A little way further they came on a series of cells, usually kept for the storing of provisions, so Sister Athelswith told them, but also used in extreme circumstances for the imprisonment of miscreants. Brand torches lit the grey, cold subterranean chambers.

Two men sat playing dice in the gloomy light.

It was Sister Athelswith who announced their presence in sharp authoritative Saxon.