Absolution by Murder sf-1

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘You are ever perceptive, Fidelma. Yes. Tensions are growing.’ Oswy hesitated with a sigh. ‘There is civil war in the air. My son Alhfrith now plots against me. There are rumours that he is gathering warriors to drive out the Irish religious by force while my daughter Aelflaed is rumoured to be gathering those who support the church of Columba to defend the abbeys against Alhfrith. All it needs now is but a single spark and this whole kingdom will erupt in flames. Both sides accuse the other of the death of Étain of Kildare. What am I to tell them?’

  There was a desperation in the king’s voice. Fidelma felt almost sorry for him.

  ‘We can still tell you nothing, my lord,’ Eadulf insisted.

  ‘But you have questioned everyone who saw her just before her death.’

  Fidelma parted her lips in a mirthless smile.

  ‘Doubtless this has been reported to you from a good source. Perhaps Sister Athelswith?’

  Oswy made an uncomfortable gesture of affirmation.

  ‘Is it a secret then?’

  ‘No secret, Oswy,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But Sister Athelswith ought to be more cautious than to report our activities lest they come to the wrong ears. There is still one person whom we have not yet questioned.’

  ‘I asked Sister Athelswith specifically to let me know when you had finished your questioning,’ Oswy said defensively.

  ‘You said just now that your son Alhfrith plots against you,’ Fidelma said. ‘Did you mean that seriously?’

  Oswy raised his arms and let them fall in a motion indicating indecision.

  ‘A king has no friends in ambitious sons,’ he said heavily.

  ‘What ambition does a king’s son have but to be king?’

  ‘Alhfrith wishes to be king?’

  ‘I made him petty king of Deira to contain his ambition but he wishes the throne of the entire kingdom of Northumbria. I know it. He knows I know it. We play a game of dutiful son and father. But the day may well come …’

  He shrugged with eloquence.

  ‘An investigation like this takes time,’ Fidelma said soothingly. ‘There are many considerations to be taken into account.’

  Oswy stared at her for a moment and then grimaced.

  ‘You are correct, of course, sister. I have no right to put pressure on you. Your search is for truth. But mine is to keep a kingdom from being divided and destroying itself.’

  ‘Do you really think that the people are so firmly convinced by one faction or the other as to fight each other?’ queried Eadulf.

  Oswy shook his head.

  ‘It is the people manipulating religion not the religion itself that threatens to break the peace of this land. And Alhfrith is not above using religion to motivate people to help him in his search for power. The longer people speculate on who killed Étain of Kildare, the longer they will have to formulate preposterous theories to fuel their prejudices.’

  ‘All we can say, Oswy, is that as soon as we are near the solution, you will be the first to know,’ Fidelma said.

  ‘Very well. I will remain content with that assurance. But remember what I say – there are many rumours being voiced abroad. Much depends on this assembly and the decisions we reach here.’

  As they walked back through the cloisters from the Abbess Hilda’s chambers to the domus hospitale Eadulf suddenly said:

  ‘I think your suspicions are right, Fidelma. We should speak with this Taran.’

  Fidelma raised her brows with a mocking smile.

  ‘And you know what my suspicions are, Eadulf?’

  ‘You believe that there is a plot afoot, hatched by Alhfrith of Deira, to overthrow Oswy and use the tensions of this synod as the means to create civil war.’

  ‘I do believe that,’ Fidelma confirmed.

  ‘I think you believe that Alhfrith, working through Wulfric and perhaps Taran, had Étain of Kildare killed to create this tension.’

  ‘It is a possibility. And we must endeavour to discover if it is true or not.’

  Fidelma and Eadulf were entering the officium of Sister Athelswith, which they had made their centre, when the solemn toll of the midnight Angelus bell began to sound.

  Fidelma heaved a sigh as Eadulf immediately took out his prayer beads.

  ‘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 cust
oms 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.

  Sister Fidelma hurried through the domus hospitale to where she knew Deusdedit’s room was situated. It had been pointed out to her by Sister Athelswith when she was explaining the layout of the guests’ quarters.

  She paused at the door, which Sister Athelswith, in her haste, had left ajar. Reaching forward she pushed it open and glanced in.

  Deusdedit lay on his bed. At first glance, she saw the bedclothes were undisturbed. His hands were folded peacefully, the eyes shut, as if in sleep. The skin was a curious parchment texture, almost yellowing. She recalled that the archbishop had not looked very well during the times she had seen him in the sacrarium.

  She made to step forward into the room but a heavy hand seized her by the shoulder. She started, letting out an exclamation, and turned.

  The round cherubic features of the archbishop’s secretary, Wighard, were staring at her.

  ‘Do not enter, sister.’ His voice was sibilant. ‘Not for your life.’

  Fidelma stared at him in incomprehension.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Deusdedit is dead, of the Yellow Plague!’

  Fidelma’s lips parted in surprise.

  ‘The Yellow Plague? How do you know this?’

  Wighard sniffed, reached forward and drew the door closed.

  ‘I have suspected that Deusdedit was suffering from the scourge for some days now. The yellowing of the eyes, the texture of the skin. He was constantly complaining of weakness, of lack of appetite and of constipation. I have seen too many victims this year not to know these symptoms.’

  Fidelma felt suddenly cold as she began to realise the implication of what the man was saying.

  ‘How long have you known?’ Fidelma demanded of the lugubrious Wighard.

  The secretary to the archbishop grimaced unhappily.

  ‘Several days. I think I first knew on our voyage here.’

  ‘And you allowed Deusdedit to come here and remain among the brethren?’ demanded Fidelma, outraged. ‘What of the risk of contagion? Why was he not placed somewhere to be treated and nursed?’

  ‘It was necessary that Deusdedit, as the heir of the Blessed Augustine of Rome, who came to bring our people into Rome’s fold, should attend this synod,’ replied Wighard stubbornly.

  ‘At whatever cost?’ Fidelma snapped.

  ‘The most important thing was the synod, not whether a man was ill or not.’

  Abbess Hilda came hurrying up.

  ‘Another death?’ she greeted, her eyes going wonderingly from Fidelma to Wighard. ‘What terrible news is this that Sister Athelswith has brought me?’

  ‘Yes, another death; but not from murder,’ Fidelma said. ‘It seems that Deusdedit was suffering from the Yellow Plague.’

  Hilda stared at her a moment, a look caught between incredulity and panic.

  ‘The Yellow Plague brought here to Streoneshalh?’

  Hilda genuflected swiftly.

  ‘God preserve us. Is this true, Wighard?’

  ‘I wish it were not, Mother Abbess.’ Wighard was uncomfortable. ‘Yes, it is true.’

  ‘It seems that our Roman brethren felt it more important to have their spiritual head at the synod than to consider the risk of contagion,’ Fidelma remarked bitterly. ‘Who knows how this disease will spread now?’

  Wighard was opening his mouth to reply when Sister Athelswith came hurrying up.

  ‘Where is Brother Eadulf?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘He will be here in a moment,’ panted Sister Athelswith. ‘He has gone to collect some things to help him make an examination of the body.’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ Wighard said, frowning. ‘I speak truly.’

  ‘Even so, we must be sure of the cause of death and we must find a way to save any contagion from spreading,’ Fidelma replied.

  Almost as she ceased speaking Eadulf came hurrying along the corridor.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Sister Athelswith says someone else is dead? The throat cut?’

  Wighard began to speak but Fidelma cut him short.

  ‘Deusdedit is dead.’ As Eadulf’s eyes widened, she went on quickly, ‘Wighard believes the cause to be the Yellow Plague. There is no physician in the abbey at the moment. Can you co
nfirm the manner of his death?’

  Eadulf hesitated, apprehension growing in his eyes. Then he compressed his lips firmly and nodded, although somewhat reluctantly. He seemed to brace himself before he pushed open the door of the cubiculum and disappeared inside.

  After a few moments, he re-emerged.

  ‘The Yellow Plague,’ he confirmed flatly. ‘The symptoms are well known to me.’

  ‘What do you advise?’ demanded Abbess Hilda at once, her anxiety obvious. ‘We have hundreds crowded into this place. How can we stop the contagion?’

  ‘The body should be removed at once and burnt on the sea shore. The cubiculum must be disinfected and not used for a while until the contagion is dispersed. Several days at least.’

  Wighard was eager to make amends now.

  ‘The news of this should not be spread beyond us four people. It would create too much alarm before the synod is ended. Let us say Deusdedit had a heart attack. We can tell the truth after the decision of the synod. I will find slaves to perform the necessary tasks. Better that they, rather than we of the brethren, should be contaminated.’

  ‘I doubt it matters now,’ replied Eadulf flatly. ‘If anyone is to suffer contagion then they will have suffered it already. Why, if you suspected that Deusdedit was suffering such illness, did you not warn us?’

  Wighard lowered his head but did not reply.

  ‘It is a bad omen, Wighard,’ Hilda observed fearfully.

  ‘Not so,’ replied the rotund cleric. ‘I have no use for omens. I will get the slaves to take out the body of the archbishop.’

  He turned and left to fulfil his task.

  Eadulf turned to the abbess.

  ‘Let no one else in this cubiculum until it has been cleansed, as I have said. And make sure that anyone who has had dealings with the archbishop drinks of herbal teas made from borage or sorrel or tansy and continues to drink them thrice daily for a week or more. Do you have such preparations in your abbey?’

  Hilda confirmed that they did.

  Eadulf took Fidelma by the arm and hurried her along the corridor.

  ‘The trouble is,’ he whispered, ‘that the plants that best counter this dreadful disease grow only in the months of June and July or through the summer. I have taken to travelling with some preparations in my pera and I have a mixture of golden rod and toadflax which mixed with hot water, cooled and taken as a drink will help to keep this Yellow Plague at bay. Also, I advise you to eat as much parsley as you can, raw if you can take it.’