Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

Abbess Abbe was nodding her head in agreement.

‘I hear that those who argue for Rome are seeking to change our day of repose as well because it falls on the same day as the Hebrew sabbath,’ she observed bitingly.

Wilfrid pursed his lips in anger.

‘Sunday, the first day of the week, is rightly the day of repose for it is symbolic of the Resurrection.’

‘Yet Saturday is the traditional day of repose, it being the last day of the week,’ argued another brother, whom the sister at Fidelma’s side identified as Chad, the abbot of Lastingham.

‘These amendments made by Rome take us further and further away from the original dates and render our commemorative ceremonies and anniversaries arbitrary and without meaning,’ Abbe called out. ‘Why not accept that Rome is in error?’

Wilfrid had to wait for the applause from the Columban benches to die away.

He was clearly flustered by the ageing Cedd’s erudition and so resorted to ridicule.

‘So Rome is in error?’ sneered Wilfrid. ‘If Rome is in error then Jerusalem is in error, Alexandria is in error, Antioch is in error, the whole world is in error; only the Irish and the Britons know what is right—’

The young abbot Chad was on his feet immediately.

‘I would point out to the noble Wilfrid of Ripon’ – the taunting tone of his voice was unmistakable – ‘that the churches of the East have already rejected Rome’s new computations about Easter. They follow the same computations that we do. They do not jeer at the name Anatolius of Laodicea. Neither the church of the Irish and Britons nor the churches of the East have turned away from the original dates given at Arles. Only Rome seeks to revise its practices.’

‘The Roman faction speak as if Rome is the centre of everything.’ Bishop Colman now spoke, sensing his advantage. ‘They speak as if we are out of step with the rest of Christendom. Yet the churches of Egypt and Syria and the East refused to accept Roman dictation at their council of Chalcedon by—’

He was forced to stop by the rise of protesting shouting from the Roman benches.

Finally, Oswy rose and held up his hand.

Gradually those gathered in the great hall fell silent.

‘Brethren, our debate this morning has been long and arduous and doubtless we have exchanged much food for thought. This is a good time to call a recess, so that we may take nourishment for the flesh as well as for the spirit. We can spend this afternoon in meditation. We shall reconvene here this evening.’

The assembly rose and began gradually to disperse, voices still raised in argument among themselves.

‘Which is Athelnoth?’ asked Fidelma of her informant.

The sister turned, frowning slightly, as she surveyed the groups of religious.

‘That man there, sister, across the far side of the hall. Next to the young man with the corn-coloured hair.’

With a glance at Eadulf, Sister Fidelma turned and pushed her way through the arguing throng towards the figure her informant had indicated, a man who stood slightly behind the small pugnacious figure of Wilfrid of Ripon, as though waiting to speak with him. He stood by a blond-haired monk who stood holding several books and documents at Wilfrid’s elbow.

‘Brother Athelnoth?’ she asked, coming up behind his shoulder.

The man started slightly. She saw the sudden tensing of the muscles in the back of his neck. Then he turned slightly with a frown.

He was not a tall man, perhaps five feet five inches in height, but he seemed to dominate his companions. A man with a broad face, the forehead high and sloping, and with an aquiline nose and dark eyes. Fidelma supposed that many women would find him attractive, but he was too saturnine and brooding for her taste.

‘You wanted me, sister?’ he asked, his voice low, resonant and pleasant.

She was conscious of Eadulf arriving, slightly breathless at forcing his way through the crowd, at her shoulder.

‘We did.’

‘It is not a convenient time.’ Athelnoth’s tone was one of distant superiority and now, observing Eadulf, he addressed his remarks to the Saxon monk. Fidelma found it an irritating mannerism of all Saxons that if a man were present he always took precedence over a woman. ‘I am waiting to speak with Abbot Wilfrid here.’

Brother Eadulf spoke before Fidelma could answer. Perhaps he saw the anger boiling in her.

‘It will take but a short amount of time, brother. It concerns the death of the Abbess Etain.’

Athelnoth could not quite keep control of his facial features. There was a momentary change in his expression – gone before Sister Fidelma was sure of its meaning.

‘What has the matter to do with you?’ countered the man a little belligerently.

‘We are charged with the investigation of the matter under the authority of Oswy the king, also Colmán, bishop of Northumbria, and Hilda, Abbess of Streoneshalh.’

Sister Fidelma replied quietly but clearly enough for Athelnoth’s mouth to set firmly. With such authority he could not argue.

‘What do you wish of me?’ he demanded. She could accept the tone of defensiveness which now crept into his voice.

‘Let us walk where we may hear ourselves speak,’ Eadulf said, indicating the side door of the sacrarium, away from the still-argumentative religious, many of whom had not yet dispersed to the refectory for the midday meal.

Athelnoth hesitated, glancing at Wilfrid, who was deep in conversation with Agilbert and the rotund figure of Wighard, who was supporting the frail-looking Archbishop of Canterbury, Deusdedit, on his arm. They were too animated by their exchange to notice anyone else and, with a suppressed sigh, Athelnoth turned and walked with Eadulf and Fidelma towards the door. They turned across the hortus olitorius, the abbey’s extensive kitchen gardens, beyond the sacrarium.

The warm May sun was casting a brilliant light on the vegetation and causing the scent of a myriad herbs and plants to lie fragrantly on the air.

‘Let us walk awhile and breathe God’s fresh air after the closeness of the assembly hall,’ suggested Eadulf almost unctuously.

Fidelma took one side of Athelnoth while Eadulf walked upon the other side.

‘Did you know the Abbess Étain?’ asked Eadulf, almost casually.

Athelnoth cast a quick glance in his direction.

‘It depends on what you mean,’ he countered.

‘Shall I rephrase the question, perhaps?’ Eadulf said quickly. ‘How well did you know Étain of Kildare?’

Athelnoth frowned. His face coloured and he hesitated. Then he replied shortly, ‘Not well at all.’

‘But how well?’ pressed Fidelma, pleased with the way the Saxon monk had begun the interrogation.

‘I met her only four days ago.’

When neither replied, Athelnoth plunged on hurriedly.

‘Bishop Colmán called me to him a week ago and told me that he had heard that the Abbess Étain of Kildare was arriving to take part in the great synod. Her ship had landed at the port of Ravenglass in the kingdom of Rheged. Her route would take her across the high hills to Catraeth. Colmán asked me to take some brothers and go to Catraeth to meet the abbess to escort her safely to Witebia. This I did.’

‘This was your first meeting with the abbess?’ Fidelma pressed for confirmation.

Athelnoth frowned briefly.

‘What makes you ask these questions?’ he replied guardedly.

‘We wish to have a clear picture of Étain’s last days,’ explained Eadulf.

‘Then, yes. This was my first meeting with her.’

Fidelma and Eadulf exchanged a glance. Both felt sure that Athelnoth was lying. But why?

‘And nothing untoward happened on your journey here to Streoneshalh?’ Eadulf asked, after a while.