There was a silence when the applause died away. Eadulf suddenly nudged Fidelma and gestured to the dais. The Abbess Abbe had risen and was making her way hurriedly out of the sacrarium.
Their attention was immediately drawn back to the Abbess Hilda, who had risen to her feet once again.
‘Brethren of Christ, the final submissions have been made. It is now up to our sovereign lord, the king, Oswy, by the grace of God, Bretwalda of all the kingdoms, to deliver his judgment; the decision as to which church, Columban or Roman, has precedence in our kingdom. The judgment is now yours to make.’
She turned to Oswy, her features expectant as were those of all the participants of the synod.
Fidelma saw that the tall fair-haired king of Northumbria remained seated. He looked nervous and preoccupied. For several long moments he hesitated, biting at his lip as he stared around at the expectant faces in the sacrarium. Then he slowly rose. His voice was unnaturally sharp, hiding his anxiety.
‘I shall give my judgment tomorrow at noon,’ he said abruptly.
Against a chorus of protests, the king turned and left the sacrarium hurriedly. Alhfrith, the king’s son, was on his feet, his face a mask of barely controlled anger. He turned and rushed from the chapel. Eanflaed, Oswy’s wife, seemed better able to control her feelings, but her smile was bitter as she turned to her chaplain, Romanus, and engaged him in conversation. Ecgfrith, Oswy’s other son, was also smiling as he gathered his retinue and left the sacrarium.
The benches of both factions erupted into argument, voices raised against one another.
Fidelma exchanged a swift glance with Eadulf and motioned towards the doors.
Outside, Eadulf muttered: ‘Well, our brethren seemed to have been expecting an immediate decision. Did you notice that the Abbess Abbe left before the decision and that Brother Taran was not in attendance at all?’
Fidelma made little comment as she led the way back to the Abbess Hilda’s chamber.
Oswy was already there. His face was white and his features taut.
‘There you are!’ he snapped. ‘I was waiting most of the morning to see you. Where have you been? No matter. I wanted to speak with you before the final session of the synod.’
Fidelma was unabashed at his irritation.
‘Have you been told that there has been another murder?’
Oswy frowned.
‘Another? Do you mean Athelnoth?’
‘No – Seaxwulf, the secretary of Wilfrid of Ripon.’
Oswy shook his head slowly.
‘I do not understand. Last night Athelnoth was killed. Now, you tell me, Seaxwulf. For what purpose? Hilda says that you had at first thought Athelnoth had taken his own life in remorse at killing Étain.’
Eadulf coloured a little.
‘I leapt to a wrong conclusion. I soon realised I was in error,’ he said.
Oswy sniffed in annoyance.
‘I could have told you that you were in error,’ he said flatly. ‘Athelnoth was a man to be trusted.’
‘How so?’ demanded Fidelma sharply.
‘Because Athelnoth was my confidant. I have told you that these are dangerous times, that certain factions wish to oust me as king and are using this synod to create civil war in the kingdom.’
Oswy paused, as if seeking confirmation, but Fidelma motioned him to continue.
‘I have had to have eyes in the back of my head. Athelnoth was one of my best informants and advisers. Yesterday I sent him to my army, which waits encamped at Ecga’s Tun.’
Eadulf’s eyes lightened.
‘So that was where Athelnoth was all day yesterday and why he did not return until late last night.’
Oswy compressed his lips a moment, frowning at Eadulf’s aside.
‘He returned with important news for me, news of a plot to assassinate me and seize control of the kingdom. My army has had to march to counter an attack by the rebel army.’
Fidelma’s eyes were sparkling.
‘Some things now become clearer.’
‘Even clearer than you think, sister.’ Oswy was grim. ‘This morning my guards killed the thane Wulfric along with twenty of his warriors. They were attempting to enter the abbey secretly from the tunnel on the cliff top. As you know, at midnight all the gates are locked until the morning Angelus, which is rung at six o’clock. During that time all warriors bearing arms are excluded from the abbey. Athelnoth was sure that Wulfric had an accomplice among the brethren, waiting to assist him and his assassins and conduct them to my chambers.’
‘Indeed, it does become clear,’ Fidelma said.
Eadulf was frowning as he tried to reason what Fidelma was thinking.
‘I do not understand.’
‘Simple,’ Fidelma replied. ‘I think you will find that the person willing to let your assassins into the abbey this morning, Oswy of Northumbria, was the Pictish monk Taran.’
‘What makes you say this?’ demanded Oswy. ‘Why would a Pict concern himself with the ambitions of Northumbrian rebels to overthrow their king?’
‘Firstly because I know that Taran was friendly with Wulfric and that Taran lied about that friendship. Even on the journey here when I first met Wulfric, after he had killed Brother Aelfric, I had the impression that Wulfric recognised Taran, which indicates this plot was long in the hatching. And later I saw Taran meeting Wulfric in friendship. Taran denied this. I believe that Taran was willing to see Northumbria destroyed or at the best divided and at war with itself.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Oswy curiously.
‘Because the Picts, as you call the Cruthin, are a people who nurse old grudges and their hate is as long as it is fierce. Taran once told me that his father, a chieftain of the Gododdin, and his mother were both killed by your brother Oswald. Taran believed in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. That was why he was prepared to help those who would assassinate you.’
‘Where is this Brother Taran now?’
‘We last saw him hurrying down to the harbour,’ interposed Eadulf. ‘Do you think that he was seeking a ship, Fidelma? He did not attend the final session of the synod.’
‘Should I send warriors after Taran?’ asked Oswy. ‘Will they be able to catch up with him?’
‘He is harmless now,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘He is, indeed, on the high sea and doubtless fleeing back to the land of the Cruthin. I doubt that Taran will ever trouble your kingdom again. All that can be gained by pursuit and punishment is revenge.’
‘So,’ Eadulf mused slowly, ‘are we saying that all this was some plot to overthrow Oswy and that Étain was killed as part of the plot? But why? I don’t see how.’
‘One question, Oswy.’ Fidelma ignored Eadulf for the moment. ‘Your sister, the Abbess Abbe, did not stay for your pronouncement. Do you know why?’
Oswy shrugged.
‘She knew that I would not make my decision immediately. I told her.’
‘But your sons, Alhfrith, for example, and your wife, did not know.’
‘No. I did not have time to explain to them.’
‘What of this plot?’ demanded Eadulf again. ‘How does Etain’s murder fit in?’
‘The reason—’ Fidelma was halted in mid-sentence as the door burst open and Alhfrith entered, followed by an anxious-faced Hilda and a grim-looking Colman. It was clear that Alhfrith was in a resentful and hostile mood.
‘What is this delay, Father?’ demanded Alhfrith without preamble. ‘All Northumbria waits for your decision.’
Oswy smiled sourly.
‘And you were sure that I would decide for Columba so that you could raise the country against me in the name of Rome.’
Alhfrith started in surprise and then his face hardened.
‘So you prevaricate and delay?’ he sneered. ‘But you cannot put off a decision forever. You are weak, but even you have to declare yourself!’
Oswy’s face reddened in anger, but he kept his voice even.
‘Don’t you wonder why I am stil
l alive?’ he demanded coldly.
Alhfrith hesitated and a cautious look came into his eye.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ His voice was filled with bluster.
‘Don’t look for Wulfric again, he is dead and his assassins with him. And your army of rebels now marching from Helm’s Leah will not appear outside the walls of this abbey. They will be met by my army instead.’
Alhfrith’s face was a grey mask.
‘You are still weak, old man,’ he said bitterly. Abbess Hilda cried out in protest, but Oswy motioned her to silence.
‘Even though you are my son, flesh of my flesh, you forget that I am your king,’ he said, eyes coldly on his son.
The petty king of Deira thrust out his jaw pugnaciously. He had little to lose now.
‘I fought by your side at Winwaed stream ten years ago. You were strong then, Father. But you have weakened since. I know you would rather bow to Iona than to Rome. And Wilfrid and others know it.’
‘They’ll know my strength soon enough,’ returned Oswy quietly. ‘And they will also know your treachery to your father and your king.’
Anger was bubbling up in Alhfrith as he realised that his carefully laid plans had been thwarted. Fidelma saw that he could no longer give check to his feelings. She gave a warning cry to Eadulf, who was standing near him.
The knife was in Alhfrith’s hand before anyone realised it and the young man had launched himself at his father in a murderous attack.
Eadulf sprang for the knife arm but even as he did so Oswy drew his sword to defend himself. Alhfrith in his forward momentum dragged Eadulf with him and, in so doing, he fell forward with Eadulf’s weight on his back.
Alhfrith gave a strangled cry, something like a sob, and the knife dropped from his hand.
There was a silence in the room. Everyone seemed frozen.
Oswy stood staring at the bloodied tip of his sword as if not believing it was there.
Slowly the giant frame of Alhfrith, petty ruler of Deira, crumpled to the floor. Blood was staining his tunic just above the heart.
It was Eadulf who moved first, bending and reaching for the young man’s neck, feeling for the pulse. He looked up at Oswy, who had not moved, and then to the Abbess Hilda before shaking his head.
Abbess Hilda crossed to Oswy and laid a hand on his arm. Her voice was now quiet.
‘There is no blame in this. He brought his death on himself.’
Oswy moved slowly, shaking himself like a man awakening from a dream.
‘Yet he was my son,’ he said softly.
Colmán shook his head.
‘He was Wilfrid’s man. When Wilfrid hears of this he will seek to arm the Roman faction.’
At that Oswy sheathed his bloody sword and turned to Colmán, his old assertiveness re-established.
‘I had no choice. He has been waiting to kill me for some time to seize the throne. I have long known that he has conspired to oust me. He had no allegiance for Rome or Iona but was just using the factions to weaken me. However, his temper got the better of him.’
‘Even so,’ Colmán replied, ‘it is now Wilfrid and Ecgfrith that you must have a care of.’
Oswy shook his head.
‘My army will deal with Alhfrith’s rebels before this day is out and then will march back here.’ He paused and then turned with sorrowing eyes on his bishop. ‘My heart is with Columba, Colmán. but if I declare for Columba, Wilfrid and Ecgfrith will attempt to raise Northumbria against me. They will claim that I am selling out the kingdom to the Irish, Picts and Britons and turning my back on my own race. What am I to do?’
Colmán sighed sadly.
‘Alas, that is the one decision that you must make on your own, Oswy. None can make it for you.’
Oswy laughed bitterly.
‘I was manoeuvred into this synod. Now I am bound to it as it turns like a wheel propelled by water. I may drown as the wheel turns.’
Fidelma suddenly gave a gasp.
‘Drowning. We have forgotten Seaxwulf. Before we know whose hand lay behind the slaughter of Étain, Athelnoth and Seaxwulf we still have some work to do.’
She turned, motioning Eadulf to follow her, and leaving the rest of the room astonished at her abrupt departure.
Outside the abbess’s chamber she turned quickly to Eadulf.
‘I want you to find a local fisherman among the people of Witebia. Ask them how long it usually takes for a corpse to be washed down the coast from the spot where Seaxwulf was thrown in to a point from where it might be recovered. It is essential that we examine that corpse. And let us pray that it is retrieved within hours rather than days.’
‘But why?’ protested Eadulf. ‘I am confused. Were not Alhfrith, Taran and Wulfric behind the murder?’
Fidelma smiled briefly.
‘I am hoping that the final piece of this riddle will be on Seaxwulf’s body.’
Chapter Eighteen
The grey light of dawn was touching the window of Fidelma’s cubiculum. Fidelma was already dressed. This was to be the final day of the great synod, the day when Oswy would have to make his final choice. Unless she could resolve the mystery of the slaughter of Etain, Athelnoth and Seaxwulf, the rumourmongers would take over and a war that might go beyond the borders of Northumbria might commence. She had risen with tension stiffening her body, her mind aching as she tried to resolve the mystery.
The sound of someone hurrying along the corridor caused her heart to beat faster. Some sixth sense recognised the hurried footfalls and she opened the door of the cubiculum, almost colliding with a breathless Eadulf.
‘There is no time to apologise for my manners,’ he said brusquely. ‘The fisherman was right. The body of our late lamented friend, Seaxwulf, has been found. The body has been brought ashore in the harbour.’
Without a word, Fidelma followed the Saxon brother as he hastily led the way from the domus hospitale through the cloisters and out of the abbey gates to the winding path beyond. They traversed the precipitous cliff path to the sea shore, where the river entered into the bay around which the harbour of Witebia had been constructed.
There was no need to ask the way to where the body of the Saxon monk had been brought ashore.
In spite of the early hour, a group of people were gathered inquisitively on the foreshore around something that resembled a sodden sack. They parted to let the two religious through, enquiring eyes particularly following Sister Fidelma.
The body of Seaxwulf lay on its back, eyes glazed and staring upwards. Fidelma flinched. The body had received a battering from the rocks and sea since she had last seen it in the wine cask. The clothes of the monk were almost shredded and weed clung to them.
Brother Eadulf was having a swift exchange with several of the bystanders who, by their looks, appeared to be fishermen.
‘One of them saw the body floating some way out to sea while he was coming in after fishing in his boat. He pulled it alongside and dragged it ashore.’
Fidelma nodded slowly in satisfaction.
‘Well, the fisherman you asked last night said it could come from that spot within six to twelve hours. He was right. And you can see that Seaxwulf did not drown in the sea but in the wine cask of the abbey, look at his mouth.’
She leant over and forced open the mouth of the corpse.
Eadulf let out a sharp exhalation.
‘It is stained reddish – only faintly, but you can see the colour around the lips and in the mouth itself. But then I never doubted your word.’
‘Red wine,’ Fidelma said, ignoring his compliment. ‘He was drowned in red wine, as I said.’
She began to remove the clothing around Seaxwulf’s neck. Then she paused.
‘Look at this. What do you make of it?’ she asked.
Eadulf’s eyes narrowed as he bent forward.
‘Abrasions, some faint bruising fading rapidly, probably due to the immersion in the water. Powerful fingers. A strong man held him down by the shoulders.’
> ‘Strong hands, indeed. He was held down in the wine cask until he drowned in the wine. I must have come along at that moment. Not until I slipped from the stool and was unconscious, or perhaps until you removed me to my cubiculum, did the murderer drag the body from the cask and then pull it along the tunnel and cast him into the sea. The poor devil.’
‘If only we knew what it was that he had wanted to tell you,’ muttered Eadulf.
‘I think I know,’ Fidelma said softly. ‘Look to see if he has a purse.’
Eadulf was fumbling with the monk’s clothing, which was a mangled mess of sea-sodden wool. There was no sign of the traditional pera or crumena that monks usually carried. But Eadulf gave a grunt of astonishment. Inside the clothing he found a small linen sacculus which was sewn to the inner side of the garment. In old times the religious of both sexes would carry only a crumena, a small sack or purse which hung over their shoulders in which they carried coin or personal items. Some, like Athelnoth, carried a pera. But a new fashion was emerging and that was for religious to have a sacculus of linen sewn into the folds of their garments as a means of greater protection for their private belongings. The fashion originated in Frankia where they called it a little pouch or pocket.
‘What do you make of this, Fidelma?’ asked Eadulf wonderingly.
Pinned in a fold of the cloth was a piece of torn vellum, fixed by a small round brooch, worked in bronze with red enamel and curious designs.
She stared at it for a moment and uttered an exclamation of elation.
‘That was exactly what I was seeking.’
Eadulf shrugged. ‘I don’t see how it helps us. Seaxwulf was a Saxon. And I can tell you that the work is Saxon. The motif is ancient, pre-Christian, a symbol representing the ancient goddess Frig—’
Fidelma interrupted. ‘I think it helps a great deal. And I mean the vellum as well as the brooch.’
Eadulf stared in disgust.
‘Another piece of Greek.’
Fidelma nodded contentedly.
‘It reads: “Love the loosener of limbs shakes me again, an inescapable bittersweet creature”.’
Eadulf pursed his lips in annoyance.
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