‘That is a good argument. Yet we can afford to leave Athelnoth to his own devices for a while. Would you know anyone among the Saxon clergy who would give you some information on Athelnoth’s background? Perhaps someone who accompanied him when he went to meet Étain on the border of Rheged? I’d like to know more of this Athelnoth.’
‘A good idea. I will make some enquiries during the evening meal,’ agreed Eadulf. ‘In the meantime, shall we question the monk Seaxwulf next?’
Fidelma nodded her head.
‘Why not? Seaxwulf and Agatho were among the last to see Etain. Let us return to Sister Athelswith’s officium and have the good sister send for Seaxwulf.’ They were walking through the guests’ quarters when the sound of distant shouting came to their ears. Eadulf pursed his lips in perplexity.
‘What new problem is this?’
‘One we shall not identify by standing here,’ Fidelma said, turning towards the origin of the sound. They came on a group of brethren peering through the windows of the abbey building at something below. Eadulf made a space for himself and Fidelma at a window. For several moments Fidelma could not identify what was happening. A crowd was gathered around what seemed a bundle of rags on the ground. They were clearly angry, yelling and throwing stones at it, although, curiously, keeping a good distance from it. It was only when she caught sight of a slight movement of the rags that, with horror, she realised that it was a person. The crowd were stoning someone to death.
‘What is going on?’ she demanded.
Eadulf asked one of the brothers, who replied with an expression of fear.
‘A victim of the Yellow Plague,’ Eadulf translated, ‘the pestilence that is tearing this land apart, destroying men, women and children without deference to race, sex or rank. The person must have wandered here, seeking aid, and wandered too near the market set up by the traders below the abbey walls.’
Fidelma stared aghast.
‘You mean they are stoning a sick and dying person to death? Is no one going to put a stop to this outrage?’
Eadulf bit his lip, embarrassed.
‘Would you face that hysterical mob?’ He pointed down to where the crowd were still screaming their fear at the now still bundle of rags. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘it is all over.’
Fidelma compressed her lips. The stillness of the rags confirmed Eadulf’s assessment.
‘Soon, when the people realise the person is dead, they will disperse and someone will go to drag the body away to be burnt. Too many have died from this plague for us to be able to reason with these churls.’
The Yellow Plague, Fidelma knew, was an extreme form of jaundice, which had swept across Europe for several years and was now devastating both Britain and Ireland. It had reached Ireland, where it was known as the buidhe chonaill, eight years before, ushered in, claimed the scholars, by a total eclipse of the sun. It attacked mainly during the height of the summer and had eliminated half of the population of Ireland already. Two High Kings, the provincial kings of Ulster and Munster and many other persons of rank were among its victims. High-ranking churchmen such as Fechin of Fobhar, Ronan, Aileran the Wise, Cronan, Manchan and Ultan of Clonard had succumbed to its fury. So many parents had died leaving young children starving that Ultan of Ardbraccan had been moved to open an orphanage to feed and nurture these youthful victims of the plague.
Fidelma knew well the horrors of the pestilence.
‘Are your Saxon churls then animals?’ sniffed Fidelma. ‘How can they treat their fellow creatures so? And, worse still, how can the brethren of Christ stand by and watch it as if it were some side show at a fair?’
Already the brethren who had lined the windows and witnessed the tragedy were dispersing indifferently back to their tasks. If they understood her outspoken criticism they gave no sign.
‘Our ways are not your ways,’ Eadulf said patiently. ‘That I know. I have seen your sanctuaries for the sick and feeble in Ireland. Maybe one day we will learn from them. But you are in a country where the people fear sickness and death. The Yellow Plague is seen as a great evil, sweeping all before it. What people fear they will attempt to destroy. I have seen sons turning their own dying mothers out into the cold because they have the symptoms of this plague.’
Fidelma was about to argue with Eadulf, but what was the use? Eadulf was right. The ways of Northumbria were not those of her own land.
‘Let us find Seaxwulf,’ she said, turning from the window.
Below the window the shouting had abated. The people were dropping their stones and turning back to the gaiety of the market which stretched below the walls of the abbey. The bundle of rags huddled immobile in the mud where it had fallen at the first cast of the stone.
When Seaxwulf entered the room, Fidelma recognised him at once as the young monk with corn-coloured hair who had stood at Wilfrid’s side in the sacrarium.
Seaxwulf was a slender, smooth-faced young man who giggled nervously every now and again when asked a direct question. He had light blue eyes and had a curious habit of fluttering his eyelids and speaking with a hissing lisp in a soprano voice. In all, Fidelma had to keep reminding herself that she was speaking to a male and not a flirtatious young girl. Nature seemed to have played the young man a cruel trick by a moment of sexual indecision. She found his age hard to guess but presumed he was in his early twenties, although there was hardly a sign of a razor touching the soft downy hair on his cheeks.
It was Brother Eadulf who questioned the young man in Saxon while Fidelma struggled hard to follow with her inadequate but growing knowledge of the language.
‘You visited the Abbess Étain on the day she died,’ Eadulf stated flatly.
Seaxwulf actually tittered slightly and placed a slender hand over his thin lips.
His bright eyes peered at them over the top of his palm, almost coquettishly.
‘Did I?’
The voice had an odd sensual quality.
Eadulf snorted disgustedly.
‘For what purpose did you visit the Abbess of Kildare in her cell?’
The eyelids fluttered again, accompanied by another nervous giggle.
‘That is my secret.’
‘It is not,’ contradicted Eadulf. ‘We have the authority of your king, bishop and the abbess of this house to discover the truth. You are oath bound to inform us.’
Eadulf’s voice was sharp and incisive.
Seaxwulf blinked and pouted in mock annoyance.
‘Oh, very well!’ The voice was now petulant, like a child’s. ‘I went at the behest of Wilfrid of Ripon. I am his secretary, you know, and confidant.’
‘For what purpose did you go there?’ demanded Eadulf again.
The young man paused and frowned, an almost peevish frown.
‘You should speak of this to Abbot Wilfrid.’
‘I am asking you,’ snapped Eadulf, his voice suddenly harsh. ‘And I expect an answer. Now!’
Seaxwulf stuck out his lower lip. Sister Fidelma cast her eyes to the ground to contain her amusement at the actions of the curious young monk.
‘I went to negotiate with the abbess on Wilfrid’s behalf.’
Here Fidelma broke in, not sure she had heard the word correctly.
‘Negotiate?’ She emphasised the word.
‘Yes. As chief counsels for Rome and Columba, Wilfrid and the Abbess Étain were intent on agreeing points before the public assembly started.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened.
‘The Abbess Étain was making agreements with Wilfrid of Ripon?’ She put the question swiftly through Eadulf.
Seaxwulf shrugged his slender shoulders.
‘To agree points before the debate saves much time and energy, sister.’
‘I am not sure what you mean. Are you saying that points of dissension were to be agreed before the public discussions?’
Again Eadulf had to translate this question into Saxon for the monk and the reply back into Irish.
Seaxwulf raised his eyebrows as if
the question need not have been asked.
‘Of course.’
‘And the Abbess Étain was a willing party to making such agreements?’
Fidelma was astonished at the revelation that negotiations were being carried out away from the public debate. It did not seem honest that the two factions could decide points without bringing them into the open before the synod.
Seaxwulf shrugged languorously.
‘I have been to Rome. It happens all the time. Why waste time squabbling in public when a private agreement will get you what you want?’
‘How far had these agreements gone?’ demanded Fidelma through Eadulf.
‘Not far,’ replied Seaxwulf confidently. ‘We had reached some agreement on the tonsure. As you know, Rome regards the tonsure of your church of Columba as barbaric. We adhere to the tonsure of the saintly Peter which he cut in commemoration of Christ’s crown of thorns. The Abbess Étain was considering accepting that the Columban church had been misled as to the nature of the tonsure.’
Fidelma swallowed hard.
‘But that is impossible,’ she whispered.
Seaxwulf smiled, as if pleased at her reaction.
‘Oh yes. Oh yes, the abbess could concede that point in return for the concession of the blessing, whereby we of Rome hold up the thumb and the first and second fingers to represent the Trinity when giving the blessing whereas you of the Columban church hold up the first, third and fourth fingers. Wilfrid was ready to concede that either form was valid.’
Fidelma pursed her lips in controlled surprise.
‘How long had such bargaining been going on?’
‘Oh, since as soon as the Abbess Étain arrived here. Two or three days. I forget exactly.’ The young man stared down at his extended hands in distaste as if observing his fingernails for the first time and disapproving of their manicure.
Fidelma glanced at Eadulf.
‘I think a new dimension has been cast on this matter,’ she said quietly, resorting to Irish, knowing that Seaxwulf did not understand.
Eadulf pulled a long face.
‘How so?’
‘What would be the reaction of many of the brethren if they knew that such negotiations were going on behind the scenes without their knowledge or approval? That, in return for a concession on this point, a concession on another point would be given by one or other of the two factions? Wouldn’t that inflame the enmity already felt by the brethren? If so, would someone not feel so enraged that they might attempt to put a stop to such negotiations?’
‘True – though the knowledge doesn’t help us.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because it means that we still have hundreds of suspects, both of the Columban and Roman factions.’
‘Then we have to find a way to narrow them down.’
Eadulf nodded slightly, turning back to the young blond monk.
‘Who knew of your negotiations with the abbess?’
Seaxwulf pouted again like a little child keeping a mystery.
‘They were secret.’
‘So only you and Wilfrid of Ripon knew?’
‘And Abbess Étain.’
‘What of her secretary, Gwid?’ interposed Fidelma through Eadulf.
Seaxwulf chuckled scornfully.
‘Gwid? The abbess did not regard her as being in her confidence. In fact, she told me to have no dealings with her over these secret matters, least of all to mention her communications with Wilfrid of Ripon.’
Fidelma hid her surprise.
‘What makes you say that Étain did not regard Sister Gwid as being in her confidence?’
‘If she did, then she would have been a party to the negotiations. The only time I saw her with Gwid, they were shouting at each other. I had no idea of what they were saying for they spoke in your own language of Ireland.’
‘So?’ Eadulf said. ‘Did no one else know of the negotiations then?’
Seaxwulf grimaced awkwardly.
‘I don’t think so – except, Abbess Abbe came upon me when I was leaving the cubiculum of Abbess Étain. She had the chamber next to Étain. She stared suspiciously at me. I did not say anything but went about my business. I saw that she had gone to speak with the Abbess Étain in her chamber. I heard voices raised in argument. I do not know whether she had guessed the purpose of my visit or not. I suspect that Abbe realised that Étain and Wilfrid were making agreements.’
Fidelma decided to press the point.
‘You say Abbe argued with Étain as you were leaving?’
‘So far as I know. I heard their voices raised that is all.’
‘And did you see the Abbess Étain again?’
Seaxwulf shook his head.
‘I went to report to Wilfrid about the abbess’s willingness to concede the greater authority of Peter on the matter of the tonsure. Then the call came for the assembly in the sacrarium and I went in with Wilfrid. It was shortly after that we heard that the abbess had been murdered.’
Fidelma sighed, a long-drawn-out breath. Finally she looked at Seaxwulf and gestured.
‘Very well. You may go.’
When the door shut on Seaxwulf, Eadulf turned to Fidelma, his brown eyes shining in excitement.
‘The Abbess Abbe! The sister of Oswy himself! She is one visitor to Étain’s cubiculum that Sister Athelswith’s perceptive eye missed. A natural mistake because her chamber was next to Étain’s.’
Sister Fidelma did not look satisfied.
‘We will have to speak with her. Certainly there is a motive here. Abbe is a powerful supporter of the Columban order. If she felt that Étain was making concessions without the prior knowledge of those supporting the rule of Columba then that could be a cause for anger and anger can beget a motive for murder.’
Eadulf nodded eagerly.
‘Then perhaps our original thought that this was a murder motivated by the anger of the debate is right. Except that Étain of Kildare was killed by her fellow churchmen and not by the pro-Roman faction.’
Fidelma pulled a face.
‘We are not here to get the Roman faction absolved of blame but to discover the truth.’
‘The truth is what I am after,’ Eadulf felt stung to reply. ‘But Abbe seems a likely suspect—’
‘So far we have only Brother Seaxwulf’s word for her presence in Étain’s cell after he had left. And you may remember that Sister Athelswith named the priest Agatho as having visited Étain after Seaxwulf? If this is so, then Abbe left Étain alive. For if she visited Étain directly Seaxwulf left, then Agatho must have visited after Abbe left.’
The bell began tolling for the commencement of cena, the chief meal of the day.
Eadulf’s face had fallen.
‘I had forgotten about Agatho,’ he muttered contritely.
‘I had not,’ replied Fidelma firmly. ‘We will talk with Abbe after the evening meal.’
Fidelma had not been hungry. Her mind was too full of thoughts. She had merely eaten some fruit and a piece of paximatium, the heavy bread, and then gone immediately to her cubiculum to rest for a while. With the main body of the brethren in the refectory, it was quiet in the domus hospitale and therefore a place conducive to being alone with one’s thoughts. She tried to explore what information she had to work some order and sense into it. Yet the thoughts would not make sense. Her instructor, the Brehon Morann of Tara, had always used to impress on his pupils that one should wait until one had heard all the evidence before attempting a solution. Yet Fidelma felt an impatience that was hard to control.
Finally she rose from her cot, deciding to take a walk along the cliff tops in the hope that the fresh early-evening air would clear her mind.
She left the domus hospitale and crossed a quadrangle towards the monasteriolum, the abbey buildings in which the brethren laboured in their studies and teaching. Someone had scratched a piece of graffiti on the wall: ‘docendo discimus’. Fidelma smiled. It was apt. People did learn by teaching.
Within the monasteri
olum was the librarium of the abbey to which Fidelma had already paid a visit when she had delivered the book that Abbot Cumméne of Iona had sent as a gift. It was an impressive collection, for Hilda had made it her task to develop the library and collect as many books as possible in her determination to spread literacy among her people.
The sun was very low behind the hills now and long shadows cast dark fingers among the buildings. The structure would soon be shrouded in gloom. Time enough, though, to take a walk and be back in Sister Athelswith’s officium to meet with the Abbess Abbe.
She turned through the outer cloisters which led to the side gate of the abbey wall from which a path led to the cliff tops.
She became aware of a monk walking before her, head enshrouded in his cucullus, or cowl.
Some instinct made Fidelma pause in her stride. It struck her as curious that a brother was wearing his cowl within the confines of the abbey. And now a second figure appeared by the gate ahead. Fidelma drew back into the shadows of the arched cloisters, her heart beating a little faster for no logical reason except that she recognised the second figure as the foxy-faced thane of Frihop, Wulfric.
A greeting was called in Saxon.
She strained forward, wishing her Saxon consisted of a greater vocabulary than it did.
The brother halted. The two men appeared to be laughing. Why not? What was so sinister about a Saxon thane and a Saxon monk exchanging pleasantries? It was only some sixth sense that caused Fidelma disquiet. Her eyes narrowed. Both men, during their conversation, were casting glances about them as if wary of eavesdroppers. Their voices lowered conspiratorially. Then they grasped each other’s hands and Wulfric turned out of the gate while the becowled brother turned back.
Fidelma pressed further into the shadow of the cloisters, behind a pillared arch.
The brother strode purposefully at right angles to where Fidelma stood, crossing the quadrangle towards the monasteriolum. As he did so he threw back his cowl, presumably as it had served its purpose and wearing it in the confines of the abbey would seem strange. Fidelma could not restrain the sharp breath of astonishment that came as she recognised the man with his Columban tonsure.
It was Brother Taran.
Absolution by Murder sf-1 Page 13
