The Spider's Web

by Peter Tremayne

  His eyes seemed to soften as he caught sight of Eadulf’s own Roman tonsure.

  ‘Greetings, brother,’ he boomed. ‘So we have one among us who follows the path of real wisdom?’

  Eadulf was embarrassed at the welcome.

  ‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. I would never have expected to find so rich a chapel here among these mountains.’

  Father Gormán laughed warmly.

  ‘The earth provides, my brother. The earth provides for those with true faith.’

  ‘Father Gormán?’ Fidelma interposed before the conversation continued on the course the priest had sent it. ‘I am Fidelma of Kildare.’

  The dark eyes flashed to her appraisingly.

  ‘Ah yes. I have been hearing from Dubán about you, sister. You are welcome in my little chapel. Cill Uird, I call it, the church of the ritual, for it is by ritual we live the true Christian life. God bless your coming, sanctify your staying and give peace to your departure.’

  Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment of the greeting.

  ‘We would appreciate a few minutes of your time, father. You have doubtless learnt the purpose of our visit here?’

  ‘I have so,’ agreed the priest. He gestured for them to follow him and led them across the chapel to a small side room which appeared to be the sacristy where there was a bench on which was draped a parti-coloured cloak. In front of it was a chair. Wordlessly, he removed the cloak and indicated that they should be seated on the bench while he himself took the chair, removing his gloves as he did so.

  ‘You will forgive me?’ he said, catching her inquisitive expression. ‘I have only just returned to the rath. I always wear leather to protect my hands when riding.’

  ‘A priest with a horse to ride is unusual,’ pointed out Eadulf.

  Father Gormán chuckled.

  ‘I have rich supporters who have donated a horse for my convenience for it would take many days to administer to my flock if I had to do it all on foot. And now, no more talk of me. I saw you both at Hilda’s abbey during the council there.’

  ‘Were you at Witebia?’ Eadulf was astounded.

  Father Gormán nodded affirmatively.

  ‘Indeed. I saw you both there but you will not remember me. I was finishing a missionary tour with Colmán when I came to Streoneshalh. I was there not as a delegate but merely to listen to my betters arguing the merits of the churches of Colmcille and Rome.’

  Eadulf did not disguise his feeling of smugness.

  ‘So you were there when we solved the murder of the Abbess Etain and …’

  ‘I was there,’ interrupted Father Gormán heavily, ‘when Oswy, in his wisdom, decided that Rome was the true church and that those who followed Colmcille were in error.’

  ‘It is already obvious that you follow the dictates of Rome,’ Fidelma conceded dryly.

  ‘And who could argue against Oswy’s decision once the arguments were made?’ replied the priest. ‘I returned to this, my parish, and have tried to guide my people, the people of Araglin, along the true path ever since.’

  ‘Surely there are many paths which lead to God?’ interrupted Fidelma.

  ‘Not so!’ snapped Father Gormán. ‘Only those who follow the one path can hope to find God.’

  ‘You have no doubt of that?’

  ‘I have no doubt for I am firm in my belief.’

  ‘Then you are to be envied, Father Gormán. To believe with such certainty you must surely have begun with doubt. ’

  ‘You are not free until you have ceased to doubt.’

  ‘I thought even Christ doubted at the end,’ Fidelma pointed out with a benign look that belied her sharp retort.

  Father Gormán looked scandalised.

  ‘Only to demonstrate to us that we must remain true to our conviction.’

  ‘Is that so? My mentor, Morann of Tara, used to say that convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than outright lies.’

  Father Gormán swallowed and was about to reply when she raised a hand to still him.

  ‘I did not come to debate theology with you, Gormán of Cill Uird, though I shall be happy to do so once my business is ended. I came in my role as advocate of the courts.’

  ‘About the killing of Eber,’ added Eadulf quickly, for he judged that Father Gormán would not be so easily deflected from his course.

  Father Gormán looked reluctant for a moment to give up the argument about religion but then bowed his head.

  ‘Then there is little I can help you with. I know nothing.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But your church stands a yard or so away from Eber’s apartments. I understand that you sleep in this church. Of all the people in the rath you were the closest to Eber’s apartments. It might be expected that you were best placed to have heard something.’

  ‘I sleep in the room next to this,’ Father Gormán said, pointing to a small door behind them. ‘But I can assure you that I knew nothing of the killing until I was roused from my sleep by the noise of people outside Eber’s apartments.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘After sunrise. The people had word of Eber’s death and gathered outside his apartments. It was the hubbub of the people which first woke me and I went out to find out what was amiss. I knew nothing before that.’

  ‘I thought Rome offered strict rules as to the time of rising,’ Eadulf put in slyly.

  Father Gormán regarded him with disfavour.

  ‘You may know, brother, that what is good for Rome is often not good for us in the more northern climes. Rome can say that a religious must rise at a certain hour. That is fine in Rome for the day gets lighter there earlier and there is justification for rising early. But what is the point of a man rising in the darkness and cold of these latitudes because his brothers in Rome rise at that hour?’

  Fidelma was smiling broadly.

  ‘So there is some good to be salvaged from the rules of the church of Colmcille?’

  Father Gormán’s eyes narrowed as her thrust went home.

  ‘You may have your joke, sister. The fact remains that the rules of the church of Rome are the rules as consecrated by Christ … in the matter of theology and teaching. We can differ only when geography and climate make them impractical.’

  ‘Very well. I will not argue … for the present. You rose just after sunrise and it was only then that you discovered what had happened to Eber. You had been fast asleep all night?’

  ‘I had offered the midnight Angelus and retired to bed. Nothing had disturbed me.’

  ‘You heard no scream or cry for help?’

  ‘I have said as much.’

  ‘You see, when a man is attacked in such a manner as Eber obviously was, it seems to me that he might scream for help.’

  ‘I was told that Eber was stabbed as he lay sleeping. Hardly time for a cry for help.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully.

  ‘Hardly time for a cry for help?’ she repeated slowly. ‘No time to cry out as someone who was blind, deaf and dumb was able to enter the room without disturbing anyone, take a knife and stab Eber savagely several times? All this while, Eber lay in a room with a lighted lamp?’

  It seemed that she was speaking half to herself.

  ‘I heard nothing,’ Father Gormán insisted.

  ‘Did it surprise you when you learnt that it was Móen who had been found by Eber’s body and that he had, according to witnesses, been the killer?’

  ‘Surprise me?’ Father Gormán thought a moment. ‘No I cannot say surprise was my reaction. Allow a wild animal to run loose in your home and expect it to turn on you and bite you.’

  ‘Is that how you saw Móen?’

  ‘As a wild animal? Yes. I saw that child of incest as no more than a wild beast. I would not allow that child of incest within the walls of this chapel. He was God’s accursed.’

  ‘Would you say that was a Christian way of dealing with someone who was afflicted
?’ interrupted Fidelma in indignation.

  ‘Should I argue with God against His punishment of this creature? Punishment it was, depriving him of that which makes us human. Didn’t the Christ tell us: “The Son of Man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity, and shall cast them into a furnace of fire; there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth”? God punishes us as much as He rewards us.’

  ‘You seem sure that God created Móen to punish him. Perhaps he created Móen in order to try the extent of our Christian faith?’

  ‘That is an impertinence.’

  ‘You think so? I am often accused of impertinence when people cannot answer, or are unwilling to answer, a question. Poor Móen. It seems that he was not well tolerated in this place after all.’

  It was a statement that implied a question.

  ‘Do you rebuke my Christian ethics, sister?’ There was a dangerous edge to the priest’s voice.

  ‘It is not for me to do so, Father Gormán,’ replied Fidelma blandly.

  ‘Quite so!’ snapped Father Gormán, misunderstanding her slight emphasis.

  ‘Then you have no qualms in believing that Móen is responsible?’ interspersed Eadulf, trying to ease the growing tension.

  Father Gormán shook his head.

  ‘What qualms should I have? There were witnesses.’

  ‘But have you never asked what reason Móen must have had to do this?’

  ‘Probably he had several reasons. The creature lives in his own private world, cut off from the rest of us. Who knows his logic, his reasoning? He does not have to have the same reasons and motives that we in this world do. He is of the other world. Who knows the bitterness and hate that he harbours in his world for those more blessed in this one?’

  ‘Then you do allow him some human feelings?’ Fidelma thrust quickly.

  ‘I would allow an animal those feelings. Ill-treat a dog, for example, and it may one day turn on you.’

  Fidelma leant forward thoughtfully.

  ‘Are you saying that Eber may have ill-treated Móen?’

  ‘I am giving you general reasons not specific ones,’ the priest replied defensively.

  ‘Did Teafa ill-treat Móen?’

  Father Gormán shook his head.

  ‘No. She doted on the creature. All the family of the chieftains of Araglin are perverse.’

  Fidelma quickly took the bait that he had unwittingly offered.

  ‘Are you including Eber in that statement?’

  ‘Him especially. Let us pray that Crón takes after her mother and not her father.’

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yet many have told me that Eber was kindliness and generosity itself; that he was well respected everywhere in Araglin. Was I told falsely?’

  Father Gormán allowed a bitter smile to twist his mouth out of shape.

  ‘Eber had one blessing – he was a generous man. There he departed from the virtues and his life was one long trail of vices. Why do you think that his wife left his bed chamber?’

  ‘I have asked her and she would only say that it was mutually agreed.’

  Father Gormán sniffed sceptically.

  ‘I tried to persuade her to divorce him under the law. But she is a proud woman as befits her station as a princess of her people.’

  ‘Why would you want to persuade her to divorce Eber?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘Because he was a man not fitted to marriage.’

  ‘Cranat did not think so, or so she told me. Can you be more explicit?’

  ‘All I can tell you was that Eber was …’ he shuddered and genuflected, ‘forgive me, he was sexually perverse.’

  ‘In what way?’ Fidelma pressed.

  ‘Do you mean that he preferred to lie with boys or young men rather than women?’ hazarded Eadulf, suddenly seeing a reason why Móen might have killed him. ‘Was Eber sexually abusing Móen?’

  Father Gormán held up both his hands and his face showed his horror.

  ‘No, not that! No, Eber liked the opposite gender well enough … perhaps too well.’

  ‘Ah, I see. And Cranat knew of this?’

  ‘Everyone knew of it. Cranat was the last to know. He had always been like it since he came to the age of puberty. His sisters knew well enough and it was Teafa who finally had to tell Cranat. Cranat told me so. That was when she decided to vacate the marital bed.’

  ‘Why didn’t Cranat leave him?’

  ‘Because of her daughter, Crón. Because of the shame it would bring. And there was the fact that Cranat, while a princess of her people, had no money or land to call her own. She married Eber for his money. He married her for her lineage and family connections. Perhaps that is not a good basis on which to form a marriage.’

  ‘I see. But surely, under the law, Cranat was entitled to be rid of him? If Cranat had divorced Eber on the grounds you state then she was entitled to take out of her marriage all that she had brought into it. If this was nothing, then, further, she was automatically entitled, at separation, to one-ninth of the increase of her husband’s wealth during marriage. Even if she had no property at the time of her marriage, surely one-ninth of the wealth generated by Eber during the twenty or so years of Cranat’s marriage to him would be enough to allow her to live well.’

  Father Gormán had a slightly bitter note in his voice.

  ‘That it would. That it would. I could have helped her. But she chose to remain.’

  Fidelma regarded him thoughtfully.

  ‘You obviously have great feeling for Cranat,’ she observed quietly.

  Father Gormán flushed abruptly.

  ‘There is nothing amiss in wishing to correct a grievous wrong.’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘But this matter would not have endeared you to Eber. I hear, however, that you believe that Móen should be punished to the point whereby his own life is taken in forfeit.’

  ‘Isn’t the word of God explicit? If a man destroys the eye of another, they shall destroy his eye. I believe in the full measure of retribution as it is taught by our Faith and Rome.’

  Fidelma shook her head.

  ‘Extreme justice is often unjust.’

  Father Gormán’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘That smacks of the wisdom of Pelagius.’

  ‘Is it wrong to quote the words of a wise man?’

  ‘The churches of Ireland are filled with Pelagian heresy,’ sneered the priest.

  ‘Was Pelagius such a heretic?’ questioned Fidelma mildly.

  Father Gormán nearly choked with indignation.

  ‘You doubt it? Do you not know your history?’

  ‘I know that Pope Zosimus pronounced him innocent of heresy in spite of pressure from Augustine of Hippo who persuaded the Emperor Honorius to issue an imperial decree condemning him.’

  ‘But Pope Zosimus did eventually declare him guilty of heresy.’

  ‘After coming under pressure from the emperor. I hardly call that a theological decision. Ironic he should be condemned for his treatise De Libero Arbitrio – On Free Will.’

  ‘So you support a heretic, like most of your Columban breed?’ Father Gormán was openly offensive.

  ‘We do not shut our minds to reason, as Rome commands of its adherents,’ Fidelma snapped back. ‘After all, what does heresy really mean? It is simply the Greek word for making a choice. It is in our nature to make a free choice therefore we are all heretics.’

  ‘Pelagius was full of Irish porridge! He was rightly condemned for refusing to see the truth of Augustine’s doctrine on the Fall of Man and Original Sin!’

  ‘Should not Augustine have been condemned for refusing to see the truth of Pelagius’ doctrine on free will?’ returned Fidelma hotly.

  ‘You are not only impertinent but in peril of your soul.’ Father Gormán was red in the face and angry.

  Fidelma was not flustered.

  ‘Let us consider the facts,’ she rejoined quietly.
‘The original sin was Adam’s and Adam and his descendants were punished by God for that sin. Is that correct?’

  ‘It was a curse that had been passed on to all mankind until the sacrifice of the Christ redeemed the world,’ agreed the priest, his temper simmering.

  ‘But Adam disobeyed God?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Yet, it is taught, God is omnipotent and He created Adam.’

  ‘Man was given free will and Adam, in defying God, fell from grace.’

  ‘This is where Pelagius asked the question: before Adam’s fall, could he choose between good and evil?’

  ‘We are told that he had God’s commands to guide him. God told him what he should do. But the woman tempted him.’

  ‘Ah yes. The woman.’ The emphasis was softly made. Brother Eadulf stirred uncomfortably. He wished Fidelma would not chance the Fates by her arguments. He glanced towards her but she was leaning forward, enjoying the confrontation of intellects. ‘God was omnipotent and created Adam and Eve. Surely God’s will was enough to guide them?’

  ‘Man had free will.’

  ‘So Adam’s will, the will of the woman,’ again the gentle emphasis, ‘was more powerful than God’s will?’

  Father Gormán was outraged.

  ‘No, of course not. God was omnipotent … But He had allowed man to be free.’

  ‘Then the logical course of thought is that God, being omnipotent, and thus able to prevent sin, refused to do so. Being omnipotent, He knew what Adam would do. Under our law, God was then an accessary before the fact!’

  ‘That is blasphemy,’ gasped Father Gormán.

  ‘There is more, Gormán,’ continued Fidelma ruthlessly, ‘for if we are to be logical, we can argue that God acquiesced in Adam’s sin.’

  ‘Sacrilege!’ gasped the priest in horror.

  ‘Come, be logical.’ Fidelma was quite unperturbed at his reaction. ‘God was omniscient and He created Adam. If He was omniscient then He knew Adam would sin. And if the human race was cursed because of Adam’s sin, then God knew they would be cursed. He then created people to suffer by unnumbered millions.’