Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

‘It is late now. Tomorrow we will meet with Taran,’ she announced. ‘But don’t forget that you are to make enquiries about Athelnoth’s background. At the moment, I still have suspicions about Athelnoth.’

Brother Eadulf nodded his head in agreement while he began to recite the Hail Mary:

Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genetrix

Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God.

The bell announcing the serving of the first meal of the day, the jentaculum, had ceased to toll, and the grace had already been said, when Sister Fidelma slid into her place at the long wooden refectory tables. The sister chosen as the reciter of the day was a member of the Roman faction and had taken her place at the lectern at the head of the table, frowning disapprovingly as Fidelma joined them.

‘Benedicamus, Domino,’ she greeted frostily.

‘Deo gratias,’ responded Fidelma with the others.

The sister then intoned the Beati immaculati which preceded the reading and they began to eat.

Fidelma mentally shut her ears to the scratchy voice of the woman, and ate mechanically of the cereal and fruit placed before her. She raised her eyes from time to time to study those gathered in the refectory but she saw no sign of Eadulf. She did see Brother Taran seated at a table nearby. The Pictish monk’s dark features seemed animated. She was surprised when she saw that he was engaged in conversation with the young monk with corn-coloured hair, Seaxwulf. The young man was seated with his back to her but his hair, his slender shoulders and his effeminate gestures were unmistakable. Curiously, she watched the expression on Taran’s face as he spoke. It was intense, angry and insistent. She abruptly found the black eyes of Taran staring directly back at her. Their eyes held for a moment and then an unctuous smile slid across the swarthy features of the Pict and he nodded his head in her direction. Fidelma forced herself to incline her head in response before turning back to her meal.

As she left the rectory, she caught sight of Eadulf seated with a group of Saxon clerics in a far corner. They appeared in earnest conversation and so she made no effort to approach him, deciding to leave the abbey and take a walk down to the sea shore. It seemed a long time since she had breathed in the fresh air of the sea. Her attempt yesterday evening had been interrupted by Taran and his apparently clandestine meeting with Wulfric. She felt as if she had been enclosed in the abbey for ages. Yet that was not so, the tension merely made it seem like it.

What puzzled her was that Taran had suddenly become very friendly with Wulfric and now Seaxwulf. Did this mean something significant and linked to the death of Étain ?

She felt unsure of herself. She was in a strange, foreign country and the fact that it was her own friend, Étain, whose death she was investigating caused her uneasiness and depression.

She walked down the pathway to the harbour entrance and turned along the rocky shoreline. There were a few people about but none seemed to cast a second glance at her as she walked, head bowed, as if she were meditating.

She tried to cast her mind over the facts as she knew them.

The curious thing was that she now found herself thinking about the Saxon monk, Eadulf.

She had never worked with anyone else since she had qualified as a dálaigh of the Brehon courts. She had always been the sole arbiter of the truth. Never had she had to rely on a second judgment, much less have to work with a foreigner. Yet the intriguing part was that she did not feel that Eadulf was entirely a stranger, as her people referred to a foreigner. She put this down to the fact that he had spent so many years studying at Durrow and Tuaim Brecain. But that could not be the full answer to the odd feeling of companionship she was beginning to feel with Eadulf.

This land of Northumbria was a strange land, full of strange customs and attitudes so totally unlike the straightforward order of Ireland. She suddenly caught herself and laughed inwardly. She presumed that a Saxon would consider the system here straightforward compared to the laws and attitudes of Ireland. She found herself recalling the line from Homer’s Odyssey : ‘I, for one, know of no sweeter sight for a man or woman’s eyes than that of their own country.’

She had only come to this land because Étain of Kildare had asked her to. Now Étain was dead. She found herself disliking the land and its people, its pride and its arrogance, it martial attitudes and the savagery of its punishment for wrongdoers. Here was a land where punishment was all and the transgressor was given no hope of redeeming himself or compensating the victims. She wanted to return home, to her home of Kildare. She disliked all Saxons. But then Eadulf was a Saxon.

She found her mind racing forward again and caught herself with an angry muttered exclamation.

But was Eadulf typical of his breed? He had good qualities. She found herself liking him, amused by him, admiring his analytical mind. Yet she disliked Saxons.

But then she disliked many of her own nation. Pride and arrogance was not a sin particular to one group.

She heaved a deep sigh. Fidelma prided herself on the logic and method of her thinking. She was disturbed how this disorganised and jumbled series of thoughts could enter her mind when she was supposed to be analysing the murder of Étain. And every path her mind took, it seemed to end with the image of Eadulf. Why Eadulf? Perhaps because she had to work with him that he kept entering her thoughts? Somehow, at the back of her mind, Fidelma felt that there was some other reason.

By the time Fidelma returned to the abbey she could find no sign of Eadulf. She went to Sister Athelswith’s officium and waited for a while. She wondered whether she should ask Sister Athelswith to find Brother Taran and start questioning him herself. She was just coming to this decision when the door of the officium opened with a crash and Sister Athelswith burst in, her voice raised in distress.

‘Sister Fidelma! Sister Fidelna!’

Fidelma rose in surprise from her seat at the domina ’s agitation.

Sister Athelswith looked anxious, her face was flushed and she seemed to have been running.

‘Why, sister, what does this mean?’

Sister Athelswith gazed at Fidelma with wide, staring eyes. Her face became as white as a winter’s snow shower. It took a time before she could collect herself and articulate.

‘It is the Archbishop of Canterbury, Deusdedit. He lies dead in his cubiculum.’

Chapter Thirteen

‘What did you say?’ Fidelma asked in astonishment, unsure that she had heard correctly.

‘Deusdedit, the Archbishop of Canterbury, is dead in his cubiculum. Please come at once, Sister Fidelma.’

Fidelma swallowed hard.

Another murder? The archbishop himself? This was surely madness? She stared hard at Sister Athelswith’s panic-stricken face and reached forward to seize her arm.

‘Pull yourself together, sister. Have you told anyone else of this?’

‘No, no. I am so distracted that I only thought of you because … because …’

Sister Athelswith was obviously confused.

‘Have you sent for the physician?’ cut in Fidelma.

Sister Athelswith shook her head negatively.

‘Brother Edgar, our physician, has left for Witebia on an errand of mercy to the son of the thane. We have no other physician here.’

‘Then send for Brother Eadulf at once. He has some knowledge of physic. After that, find the Abbess Hilda and tell her what has happened. Tell them both to come to Deusdedit’s cubiculum immediately.’

Sister Athelswith nodded automatically and hurried off.