The Council of the Cursed sf-19

by Peter Tremayne

  The abbots and bishops now rose in their seats and received the blessing from Bishop Leodegar almost reluctantly-and with not a little resentment from the chief antagonists.

  As the gathering began to disperse, Abbot Ségdae moved across to Abbot Dabhóc.

  ‘It is a long journey just to listen to the Briton arguing with the Saxon,’ he said heavily.

  Abbot Dabhóc shrugged. ‘I have sympathy with the Britons. What Cadfan says is the truth. Both Angles and Saxons are constantly attacking the kingdoms of the Britons.’

  ‘But I would have thought that Cadfan and Ordgar, as men of the Church, would employ diplomacy and turn their minds to what we came here to discuss.’

  The two men had moved out of the chapel and into a courtyard with its central gushing fountain surrounded by scented gardens and tall buildings with Roman columns.

  Abbot Dabhóc paused and looked upon the scene appreciatively.

  ‘The long journey is worth it when we see wonders like this, Ségdae,’ he observed. ‘The cities built by the Romans are so unlike those of Éireann.’

  It was true that outside the abbey, the city of Autun was a sprawl of Romanesque buildings which had originally been built many centuries before, when the Romans had marched into Gaul and defeated the Gaulish armies of Vercingetorix. They had built the city by a river and called it Augustodunum, but as the Gauls and the Romans had receded and merged with the invading Burgunds, it had become known as Autun, one of the earliest Christian centres in the part of Gaul now called Burgundia. The abbey retained many of its ancient Roman buildings, palaces and temples now re-dedicated to the Christian Faith. To Abbot Ségdae it seemed like a miniature Rome with its towering manmade constructions, a totally alien place to the small urban complexes of his native land.

  There was a sudden shouting in the courtyard.

  Abbot Ségdae started from his contemplation and glanced in astonishment across to where several of the prelates were engaged in a scuffle. Among them was Ordgar, who was grasping another cleric by the neck. It was Cadfan. The two men were shouting and hitting each other like a pair of quarrelling children. The others began dragging them apart. Cadfan’s robe was torn while there was blood on Ordgar’s face. It took no great linguist to understand the profanities they hurled at one another.

  Bishop Leodegar hurried across, Nuntius Peregrinus at his side.

  The other clerics were holding each man back, for if set loose they would doubtless have physically engaged with one another again.

  ‘Brethren! Are you brothers in Christ or wild animals that you behave so?’ came Bishop Leodegar’s thunderous tone.

  Abbot Cadfan blinked and seemed to come to his senses.

  ‘The Saxon attacked me,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘The Welisc insulted me,’ snapped Bishop Ordgar but he, too, was beginning to regain control of himself.

  Bishop Leodegar was shaking his head with sadness.

  ‘Shame on you both. Return to your quarters and pray forgiveness for your transgressions against the teachings of Our Lord. Shame is your portion until you have made atonement for your actions. I will give both of you a last chance to participate in our deliberations, not because of who you are but because of who you represent. Messengers will be sent to Theodore of Canterbury and to Drostó of Gwynedd informing them of how you carry out your sacred duties. If, when we next foregather, there is still enmity between you, then I shall dismiss you both from this council and will proceed without your representation. Do I make myself clear?’

  There was a silence and then, like sullen children, first Abbot Cadfan and then Bishop Ordgar muttered agreement.

  Bishop Leodegar gave a deep sigh. ‘Now disperse,’ he ordered. He glanced around at everyone. ‘All of you, disperse.’

  In ones and twos the men began to leave the luxurious courtyard, moving towards the main buildings of the abbey.

  Abbot Dabhóc grinned at his companion. ‘I tell you, Ségdae, this is the most hotblooded council that I have attended. I thought the arguments among our people, debating matters of the Faith, were fierce enough, but I have never seen clerics come to physical blows before.’

  ‘I fear that our host is much too sanguine in hoping those two will declare a truce between them during the rest of this council,’ Ségdae replied. ‘And it will not just be the wars between Briton and Saxon but these ideas coming from Rome that will fuel the arguments. The Franks and Saxons support them-and we now have to argue against them. Such debate is bound to give rise to new animosities.’

  ‘It is of no concern to us what the Franks and Saxons do in their own land.’ Abbot Dabhóc grimaced sourly. ‘We have our Faith and our own liturgy. Whatever decisions are made at this council cannot affect us any more than the decision made at Whitby.’

  Abbot Ségdae shook his head in disagreement. ‘First Whitby and now this council here in Autun. Where next? This erosion of our beliefs and cultures emanates from the new thinking at Rome, and I have no liking for it. Over the years, councils such as this have changed or amended the original concepts of the Faith until we can no longer be sure of the original teachings of the Founding Fathers.’

  Abbot Dabhóc looked shocked but Ségdae continued, ‘It is true, I tell you so. This is not the first time we have had to argue with Rome over the way they have altered even the very date on which Our Lord was martyred. Did not our own Columbanus argue with the Bishop of Rome over the date?’

  ‘True enough, although at Ard Macha we begin to think it would be better for all Christendom to worship on the same day.’

  ‘Better to worship in truth than in myth,’ muttered Abbot Ségdae.

  ‘Well, at least this council is not concerned with calendars and dates of ceremonies but in what we believe and how we should conduct ourselves in the religious houses,’ Abbot Dabhóc concluded. ‘I, for one, am looking forward to the debates.’

  For the first time Abbot Ségdae allowed a brief smile to flit across his sombre features.

  ‘At least, judging by the action of our brothers, those debates will be lively,’ he joked.

  They had halted in the corridor of the hospitia or guest quarters where individual chambers had been set aside for the accommodation of the senior delegates during the course of the council.

  ‘I hear that your advisers have not arrived as yet?’ Abbot Dabhóc suddenly remarked.

  A worried expression returned to Abbot Ségdae’s features. ‘They were travelling separately and should have been here some days ago.’

  ‘The seas can be tempestuous and it is a long voyage, even before coming to this land. Then there is a long river journey. Who are they? You have many good scholars in Muman.’

  ‘Fidelma of Cashel has agreed to come to advise on the legal aspects of what we may agree-as it applies to the laws of the Fénechus, that is.’

  Abbot Dabhóc’s eyes widened. ‘Fidelma? Her name is a by-word anywhere in the five kingdoms, especially since her investigation into the murder of the High King earlier this year. But murder is one thing; advising on how the decisions of this council may affect the laws and practices in the five kingdoms is another entirely.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Perhaps, if our Briton and Saxon friends continue as they have done so far, we may be able to provide her with a new murder to investigate.’

  Abbot Ségdae was disapproving.

  ‘One should not be flippant about such matters, my brother. I simply wish, having found the circumstances that prevail in this abbey, that I had never asked her to come here in the first place. Anyway, the hour grows late. There is barely time to bathe before the evening meal.’

  Someone was shaking him. He was aware of a voice calling urgently. Abbot Ségdae awoke, blinking against the light of the candle enclosed in a lantern that was held above him.

  ‘Bishop Leodegar says you must come at once!’

  Abbot Ségdae focused on the shadowy figure of the religieux who had been trying to rouse him from a deep slumber. He realised it was still dark and the ro
om felt cold.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Bishop Leodegar says-’ began the other.

  ‘I heard you,’ replied the abbot, struggling to sit up. ‘What has happened?’

  The religieux seemed agitated. ‘I cannot say…you must come.’

  With a sigh, Abbot Ségdae swung from the bed and began pulling on his robe. Within a few minutes he was following the religieux along the darken corridor.

  ‘Where are we going, or can’t you tell me that, Brother…Brother…?’

  ‘I am Brother Sigeric.’

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘To the quarters of the Saxon bishop. Bishop Ordgar.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am told only to bring you there at the urgent request of Bishop Leodegar.’

  Abbot Ségdae sighed irritably. It was clear that he would get no further information.

  However, it did not take long to reach a chamber where the door was open. Brother Sigeric motioned him inside. The sight that met his eyes caused Abbot Ségdae to pause on the threshold.

  The first thing he saw was a religieux bending over a figure on the floor. He recognised the body immediately as that of Abbot Cadfan. A groan came from the man and Abbot Ségdae realised that Cadfan was semi-conscious-alive, Thank God! Then he saw Bishop Leodegar standing by a second body that lay beyond Cadfan. That body was also clothed in religious robes.

  ‘Bishop Ordgar?’ he asked tersely. ‘Has Cadfan killed him then?’

  There was a groan from the bed behind the door.

  Abbot Ségdae swung round. Bishop Ordgar of Canterbury was lying on the bed barely conscious. Bewildered, the abbot turned back to Bishop Leodegar and the second body.

  ‘I am afraid that it is your colleague, Abbot Dabhóc of Tulach Óc,’ said Bishop Leodegar heavily. ‘That is why I sent for you, brother. Abbot Dabhóc has been murdered.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘There it is!’

  Clodio, the elderly but muscular boatman, took one hand from the tiller and pointed to the left bank as the craft swung round the bend of the broad river, among trees and short limestone reaches. The two religious seated in the well of the craft turned in their seats towards him and then followed his outstretched arm towards the embankment.

  ‘Is that Nebirnum?’ asked the female religieuse. Her robes identified her as being from the land of Hibernia. She was tall, well proportioned and her eyes were bright, though Clodio the boatman had difficulty discerning whether they were blue or green. They seemed to change with her moods. Rebellious strands of red hair escaped from her caille, or headdress. Not for the first time Clodio reflected that she was attractive. When she conversed with her companion, a Saxon religieux about the same age, a thickset man with dark brown eyes and hair, Clodio had been surprised at the easy intimacy of their relationship. Their names were Fidelma and Eadulf, and it was not long before the boatman realised that they were also man and wife, for he had overheard them speaking of a child they had left behind to come on this journey.

  Fidelma was gazing up at the high sloping hill on which the buildings straggled around an imposing structure that proclaimed, by its very features, that it was an abbey of some importance. The boatman nodded. His Latin, the only language that they had in common, was fairly poor but understandable.

  ‘That is the abbey of Nebirnum,’ Clodio confirmed. ‘There you may acquire horses for the last part of your journey.’

  Eadulf, sitting beside Fidelma, winced slightly.

  ‘A horse ride?’ he asked in a painful tone. ‘How far is it then to Autun from this place?’

  Clodio, who worked the boat with his two hardy sons, was regarding Eadulf’s lamentation with undisguised amusement.

  ‘From Nebirnum to the great city of Autun is but two to three days’ comfortable ride, no more. There is a good road due east.’

  They had been in the riverboat for seven days. It seemed an eternity since they had landed at the Armorican port of Naoned and then commenced their journey upriver, along this majestic green waterway called the Liger. It was cramped in the small craft for, although they were the only passengers, the boatman was a trader along the river and transported bulky bales of materials and sometimes even live animals which had to be shipped from town to town along the banks of the winding thoroughfare. All the time, the craft been making its way against the flow of the river which rose, so they were told, over a thousand kilometres away in the mountains. Sometimes its flow was imperceptible and the boatman could even use a sail to progress; sometimes oars were necessary, long poles by which the craft was pushed. And, more often than not, mules were harnessed and pulled the boat, especially where the clear green water ran faster over the shallows through stretches of golden gravel that lined the banks. Fidelma had been duly impressed with the knowledge and skill in which the journey, first east and then south, along the broad waterway, had been conducted by Clodio and his sons. The craft was always on the move, in spite of the mighty strength of the river which occasionally ran around islands in the centre of the water, places of wild desolation. One lasting memory was of the women washing clothes along the banks, sometimes appearing in groups and sometimes as solitary figures, beating the wet clothing on rocks.

  Now Fidelma sighed, but not at the prospect of exchanging the comfort of the boat for the saddle of a horse for she was a good horsewoman and had been at ease on a horse almost before she could walk.

  ‘Where would we find horses? Horses cost money,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Is there anything in this world that is free?’ Clodio replied philosophically. ‘Ah, but wandering religious expect all things to be given freely to them, in exchange for a muttered blessing. It would be an ideal life if all were so simple, my friends, but I have a wife and sons to keep.’

  Fidelma frowned at the implication that he feared they might not pay for the journey.

  ‘Boatman,’ she said sternly, ‘did we not negotiate a fee for you to bring us from the port of Naoned to this place? Was it not a fair fee? If so, as we approach this place, now is the time for the fee to be paid.’

  ‘I did not mean…’ Clodio began, abashed, but Fidelma had already reached into her marsupium and counted out the coins that she thrust towards him.

  ‘Remember, boatman, that a wandering religious may not always be a beggar; she said stiffly.

  Eadulf looked nervously at his companion and hoped that she would not boast of her relationship to the Kings of Muman.

  ‘Redime te captium quam minimo,’ he muttered, using the ancient Latin prescription for soldiers who were captured: if taken prisoner, pay as little as possible to buy your freedom. In other words, make sure you give the enemy as little information as you can. If Clodio thought that they were rich, greed might entice him to consider holding them for ransom. Eadulf had heard plenty of stories of pilgrims travelling in distant lands who were captured and held for ransom and sometimes never heard of again.

  Fidelma gave him a look of understanding before turning back to the boatman.

  ‘We promised to pay you and, even though it makes the rest of our journey difficult, for we cannot afford horses, we will do so,’ she said quietly.

  Clodio, who had not understood the Latin saying, merely nodded as his hands closed over the coins and dropped them into the leather purse at his belt.

  ‘Bishop Arigius, at the abbey, will take care of you,’ he told them. ‘He is a man of good reputation.’

  Turning to his two sons, he ordered them to take out the oars while he cried a warning and jerked on a rope to lower the single sail of the craft. Then he moved quickly back to the tiller and, with dextrous smoothness, drew the craft alongside one of the several wooden piers that jutted into the river at this point. In a few moments they were tied up and the sons of the boatmen helped first Fidelma and Eadulf ashore.

  Clodio nodded to them both. ‘Good luck on your travels, my friends,’ he said. ‘Follow that road up to the town and it will bring you to the doors
of the abbey. Remember, it is the Bishop Arigius whom you wish to see.’

  They said farewell to the man and his sons who now began to offload their goods. Merchants and onlookers were already moving down to the pier to examine what cargo they had brought as Fidelma and Eadulf set off up the road towards the main town. Eadulf had felt the heat of the early summer sun while he was in the boat but now on land it struck on his face and shoulders with a force that caused sweat to form on his brow.

  ‘I swear, Fidelma,’ began Eadulf, but his sandal struck a stone that stood prouder than the rest and caused him to trip, almost sending him headlong. He just recovered himself at the last moment with a muttered oath. ‘I swear, Fidelma, that I am sick of travelling.’

  Fidelma glanced at him without humour. ‘Do you think I am not?’ she said shortly. ‘Since the birth of little Alchú, how much time have I spent with our son? Too little, that is for certain. When we returned from Tara a few months ago, I fully expected that we would be able to remain at Cashel for…well, for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘We could have refused this journey,’ Eadulf pointed out.

  ‘Duty must come first,’ Fidelma replied in a heavy tone. ‘If my brother, the King, requests me to come here as aide and adviser to his bishop, Ségdae of Imleach, then this is where I must come. But you were not obliged to accompany me.’

  ‘My place is wherever you are,’ replied Eadulf simply.

  Fidelma laid a free hand on his arm. ‘I make no demands on you, Eadulf,’ she said softly.

  ‘Did you not say that duty must come first?’ he replied with a raised eyebrow. ‘And what greater duty is there than the moral code of the bonds that are between us? So do not question where my duty lies. It is just that I cannot see why some council of church leaders held in Gaul…’