Peter Tremayne - Absolution by Murder

‘Who is Wilfrid? I find these Saxon names hard to understand.’

Étain sighed.

‘He is a young man, but one who leads the Rome faction here in Northumbria. I believe he is the son of some noble. By all accounts he has a sharp temper. He has been to Rome and Canterbury and was taken into the faith by Agilbert, who ordained him as a priest. He was given the monastery of Ripon by the petty king of the area, who threw out two of our own brethren, Eata and Cuthbert, who were joint abbots there. This Wilfred seems to be our fiercest enemy, a passionate advocate of the Roman liturgy. Alas, I fear we have many enemies here.’

Sister Fidelma found herself suddenly visualising the face of the young Saxon monk whom she had just bumped into.

‘Yet surely not all those who support Rome are our enemies?’

The abbess smiled meditatively.

‘Maybe you are right, Fidelma. And maybe I am simply nervous after all.’

‘A lot depends on your opening arguments tomorrow,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘There is something more, though—’ Étain was hesitant.

Fidelma waited patiently, watching the expression on the abbess’s face. It seemed that Étain found it difficult to formulate what she had in mind.

‘Fidelma,’ she said with a sudden rush, ‘I am disposed to take a husband.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened but she said nothing. Clergy, even bishops, took spouses; even the religious of houses, whether mixed or not, could have wives and husbands, under Brehon law and custom. But the position of an abbot and abbess was in a different category for they were usually bound to celibacy. Such was the rule at Kildare. It was the Irish custom that the coarb, or successor to the founder of an abbey, should always be chosen in the kindred of the founder. Since abbots and abbesses were not expected to have direct issue, the successor was chosen from a collateral branch. But if, in the collateral branches, no religious was found fit to be elected to such a position, then a secular member of the family of the coarb was elected as lay abbot or abbess. Étain claimed relation to the family of Brigit of Kildare.

‘It would mean giving up Kildare and returning to being an ordinary religieuse,’ Fidelma pointed out eventually when Étain made no further comment.

Étain nodded. ‘I have thought of this long and hard on my journey here. To cohabit with a stranger will be difficult, especially after one has been alone for so long. Yet when I arrived here, I realised that my mind was made up. I have exchanged the traditional betrothal gifts. The matter is now decided.’

Instinctively Fidelma reached out a hand, caught Étain’s slim one and squeezed it.

‘Then I am happy for you, Étain; happy in your certainty. Who is your stranger?’

Étain smiled shyly.

‘If I felt able to tell only one person, it would be you, Fidelma. But I feel that it should be my secret, and his, until after this debate. When this great assembly is over, then you shall know, for I will announce my resignation from Kildare.’

They were distracted by a growing noise of shouting from beyond the window of the cubiculum.

‘What on earth is that?’ demanded Sister Fidelma, frowning at the raucous tones. ‘There seems some sort of scuffle taking place beneath the abbey wall.’

Abbess Étain sighed.

‘I have seen so many scuffles between our religious and the brethren of Rome since I came here. I presume it is another such. Grown men resorting to personal insults and punches simply because they disagree with each other over the interpretation of the Word of God. It is sad that men, and women, of the cloth become as spiteful children when they cannot agree.’

Sister Fidelma went to the window and leant forward.

A little way off a beggar was surrounded by a crowd of people, mostly peasants so far as she could tell from their dress, although a few wore the brown habit of the brethren. They seemed to be taunting and deriding a poorly dressed man, presumably a beggar from his clothes, whose voice was raised in raucous tones which seemed to drown out their jibes.

Sister Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

‘The beggar seems to be one of our countrymen, Mother Abbess,’ she said.

The Abbess Étain moved forward to join her.

‘A beggar. They suffer greatly from the arrogance of a crowd.’

‘But listen to what he says.’

The two women strained to catch the rasping tones of the beggar. The voice was raised loudly.

‘I tell you, tomorrow the sun shall be blotted from the heavens and when that time comes there shall be blood staining the floor of this abbey. Beware! Beware, I tell you! I see blood in this place!’

Chapter Four

The tolling of the abbey’s great bell announced the approach of the official opening of the synod. At least, Sister Fidelma mused, both sides seemed to accept the Greek term synodos to describe this assembly of Christian dignitaries. The synod of Streoneshalh promised to be one of the most important meetings for the churches of both Iona and Rome.

Sister Fidelma took her seat in the sacrarium of the abbey, for the chapel, the largest chamber, had been given over for the use of the assembly. There was a general hubbub of what seemed to be countless people all talking at once. The vast stone-walled sacrarium, with its high, vaulted roof. acted as a means of increasing the sound by providing an echo. Yet, in spite of the spaciousness, Fidelma had a momentary feeling of claustrophobia at the sight and smells of the numerous religious packed along the pews. On the left side of the sacrarium, seated in rows on dark oak benches, there had assembled all those who supported the rule of Columba. On the right side of the sacrarium were gathered those who argued for Rome.

Fidelma had never seen so large a concourse of leaders of the Church of Christ before. As well as religious in their distinctive dress, there were many whose rich apparel proclaimed them to be nobles from a variety of kingdoms.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

Fidelma looked up and found Brother Taran slipping into the seat beside her. She groaned inwardly. She had been hoping to avoid the pretentious brother. His company was a little too exhausting after their long journey from Iona.

‘I have not seen such an impressive gathering since I sat at the Great Assembly of Tara last year,’ she replied coldly when he asked her what she thought of the gathering. Also impressive, she added silently to herself, was the putrescence of the body odours which were permeating the sacrarium in spite of the strategically placed censers in which incense had been lit to fumigate the proceedings. It was a sad reflection on the hygiene of the religious of Northumbria, she thought disapprovingly. Among the brethren of Ireland, bathing was a daily occurrence and every ninth day a visit was made to the communal tigh ’n alluis, the sweating house, where a turf fire caused people to sweat profusively before they plunged into cold water and were then rubbed warm.

She suddenly found herself thinking about the Saxon monk she had encountered on the previous evening. He had the odour of cleanliness and a faint fragrance of herbs about him. At least he, among the Saxons, knew how to keep clean. She wrinkled her nose disapprovingly as she peered around, wondering if she could spot the monk on the Roman benches.

Sister Gwid suddenly appeared, red-faced as always, as if she had been running, and slipped on to the bench on the other side of Fidelma.

‘You nearly missed the opening of the synod.’ Fidelma smiled as the awkward girl struggled to catch her breath. ‘But shouldn’t you be seated with Abbess Étain, among the benches of the advocates, to help her as her secretary?’