THE SISTER FIDELMA 20th ANNIVERSARY COLLECTION

ABSOLUTION BY MURDER

SHROUD FOR THE ARCHBISHOP

SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN

Peter Tremayne

Absolution by Murder Copyright © 1994 Peter Tremayne

Shroud for the Archbishop Copyright © 1995 Peter Tremayne

Suffer Little Children Copyright © 1995 Peter Tremayne

The right of Peter Tremayne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in this omnibus ebook edition

by Headline Publishing Group in 2014

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious – apart from the obvious historical figures – and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

Cover credit © to follow

eISBN 978 1 4722 2537 5

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About the Author

Peter Tremayne is the fiction pseudonym of Peter Beresford Ellis, a well-known authority on the ancient Celts, who has utilised his knowledge of the Brehon law system and seventh-century Irish society to create a new concept in detective fiction. The Sister Fidelma series has now been published for over twenty years to great acclaim.

An international Sister Fidelma Society has been established, with a journal entitled The Brehon appearing three times yearly.

Details can be obtained either by writing to the Society at: PMB 312, 1818 North Taylor Street, Suite B, Little Rock, AR 72207, USA or by logging on to the Society website at: www.sisterfidelma.com.

Praise for the widely acclaimed Sister Fidelma mysteries:

‘The Sister Fidelma books give the readers a rattling good yarn. But more than that, they bring vividly and viscerally to life the fascinating lost world of the Celtic Irish’ Ronan Bennett

‘The background detail is brilliantly defined . . . wonderfully evocative’ The Times

‘Definitely an Ellis Peter competitor . . . the background detail is marvellous’ Evening Standard

‘Tremayne’s super-sleuth is a vibrant creation, a woman of wit and courage who would stand out in any era, but brings a special sparkle to the wild beauty of medieval Ireland’ Morgan Llywelyn

‘This is masterly storytelling from an author who breathes fascinating life into the world he is writing about’ Belfast Telegraph

‘Rich helpings of evil and tension with lively and varied characters’ Historical Novels Review

‘The detail of the books is fascinating, giving us a vivid picture of everyday life at this time . . . the most detailed and vivid recreations of ancient Ireland’ Irish Examiner

‘A brilliant and beguiling heroine. Immensely appealing’ Publishers Weekly

By Peter Tremayne

The Sister Fidelma series
Absolution by Murder
Shroud for the Archbishop
Suffer Little Children
The Subtle Serpent
The Spider’s Web
Valley of the Shadow
The Monk who Vanished
Act of Mercy
Hemlock at Vespers
Our Lady of Darkness
Smoke in the Wind
The Haunted Abbot
Badger’s Moon
Whispers of the Dead
The Leper’s Bell
Master of Souls
A Prayer for the Damned
Dancing with Demons
The Council of the Cursed
The Dove of Death
The Chalice of Blood
Behold a Pale Horse
The Seventh Trumpet
Atonement of Blood
The Devil’s Seal
The Second Death

About the Book

THE SISTER FIDELMA 20th ANNIVERSARY COLLECTION brings together the stunning first three novels in the widely acclaimed Sister Fieldma series. Escape into the evocative world of seventh-century Ireland and the time of the Celts, and join Sister Fidelma on the suspenseful trail of three murder mysteries.

ABSOLUTION BY MURDER: It’s 664AD and the tension between the Celtic and Roman Churches is at boiling point. There are whispers of assassinations and a string of gruesome deaths. When Abbess Étain, a leading speaker for the Celtic Church, is found murdered, Sister Fidelma is called in to investigate.  With the threat of a civil war just around the corner, can the mysteries be solved in time?

SHROUD FOR THE ARCHBISHOP: The archbishop designate of Canterbury is found garrotted in Rome’s Lateran Palace. With Brother Ronan Ragallach spotted fleeing the scene of the crime, the person responsible appears to have been found. There are rumours, though, that the crime is political and precious treasure has been stolen. It is up to Sister Fidelma to determine whether Brother Ronan is innocent, and prevent a perilous war between the Saxon and Irish kingdoms.

SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN: The Venerable Dacán, beloved scholar of the Celtic Church, is brutally slain on his visit to the Irish Kingdom of Muman. When a neighbouring kingdom demands reparation for Dacán’s foul death, bloody war seems imminent. There are sinister forces at work and Sister Fidelma is summoned by Muman’s dying king to investigate. Can she solve the mystery and prevent further turmoil?

ABSOLUTION BY MURDER

Peter Tremayne

To Dorothea

HISTORICAL NOTE

This tale is set in the year AD 664 during the famous Synod of Whitby. Many readers may find some customs and other matters somewhat unfamiliar in this ‘Dark Age’ period. Particularly worth noting is that, in both the Roman and what has become known as the Celtic church, the concept of celibacy among the religious was not universal. Both sexes inhabited abbeys and monastic foundations which were known as conhospitae, or double houses, where men and women lived raising their children in Christ’s service. St Hilda’s abbey of Whitby, or Streoneshalh, as it was then known, was one such double house. Even priests and bishops could and did marry. The concept of celibacy, originally confined to ascetics but approved of by Paul of Tarsus and many early Church leaders, was certainly spreading at this time. But it was not until the reforming papacy of Leo IX (1048-54) that a serious attempt was made to force the Western clergy to accept celibacy.

No wild beasts are so cruel as the Christians in their dealings with each other.

Ammianus Marcellinus

(c. AD 330-95)

Chapter One

The man had not been dead long. The blood and spittle around his twisted lips had not even dried. The body swung to and fro in the faint breeze, suspended at the end of a stout hemp rope from the branch of a squat oak tree. The head was twisted at an awkward angle where the neck had been broken. The clothes were torn and if the man had worn sandals then they had since been taken by scavengers for there was no sign of any footwear. The contorted hands, still sticky with blood, showed that the man had not died without a struggle.

It was not the fact that a man had been hanged on a crossroad tree that caused the small party of travellers to halt. The travellers had become used to witnessing ritual executions and punishments since they had crossed from the land of Rheged into the kingdom of Northumbria. The Angles and Saxons who dwelt there seemed to live by a harsh code of penalties for those who transgressed their laws, from an assortment of mutilations of the body to execution by the most painful means devised, the most common and humane being by hanging. The sight of one more unfortunate suspended on a tree no longer troubled them. What had caused the party to draw rein on their mounts, an assortment of horses and mules, was something else.

The party of travellers consisted of four men and two women. Each was clad in the undyed wool tunica of the religious, and the hair of the men was shaven at the front, their tonsure marking them as brothers of the church of Columba from the Holy Island of Iona. Almost as one they had halted to sit staring up at the body of the man hanging in gruesome wide-eyed death, the tongue blackened and stretched between the lips in what must have been one last frantic gasp for air. The face of everyone in the party was grim with apprehension as it examined the body.

The reason was not hard to discern. The head of the body was also shaven with the tonsure of Columba. What remained of his clothing proclaimed it to have once consisted of the habit of a religieux, though there was no sign of the crucifix, leather belt and satchel that a peregrinus pro Christo would have carried.

The leading traveller had drawn near on his mule and gazed up with a terrified expression on his white features.

Another of the party, one of the two women, urged her mount nearer and gazed up at the corpse with a steady eye. She rode a horse, a fact that signified that she was no ordinary religieuse but a woman of rank. There was no fear on her pale features, just a slight expression of repulsion and curiosity. She was a young woman, tall but well proportioned, a fact scarcely concealed by her sombre dress. Rebellious strands of red hair streaked from beneath her headdress. Her pale-skinned features were attractive and her eyes were bright and it was difficult to discern whether they were blue or green, so changeable with emotion were they.

‘Come away, Sister Fidelma,’ muttered her male companion in agitation. ‘This is not a sight for your eyes.’

The woman addressed as Sister Fidelma grimaced in vexation at his anxious tone.

‘Whose eyes is it a sight for, Brother Taran?’ she responded. Then, edging her horse even closer to the corpse, she observed, ‘Our brother is not long dead. Who can have done this terrible deed? Robbers?’

Brother Taran shook his head.

‘This is a strange country, sister. This is only my second mission to it. Thirty years have passed since we first began to bring the word of Christ to this Godforsaken land. There still be many pagans about with scant respect for our cloth. Let us move on – quickly. Whoever did this deed may have remained in the vicinity. The abbey of Streoneshalh cannot be too far distant and we want to reach it before the sun drops below those hills.’

He shivered slightly.

The young woman continued to frown, displaying her irritation.

‘You would continue on and leave one of our brethren in this manner? Unblessed and unburied?’ Her voice was sharp and angry.

Brother Taran shrugged, his obvious fear making him a sorry spectacle. She turned to her companions.

‘I have need of a knife to cut our brother down,’ she explained. ‘We must pray for his soul and accord him a Christian burial.’

The others cast uneasy glances at each other.

‘Perhaps Brother Taran is right,’ replied her female companion, apologetically. She was a large-boned girl, sitting heavy and awkward on her mount. ‘After all, he knows this country – as do I. Was I not a prisoner here for several years, taken as a hostage from the land of the Cruthin? Best to press on to seek the shelter of the abbey of Streoneshalh. We can report this atrocity to the abbess there. She will know how to deal with the matter.’

Sister Fidelma pursed her lips and exhaled in annoyance.

‘We can at least deal with our departed brother’s spiritual needs, Sister Gwid,’ she replied shortly. She paused a moment. ‘Has no one a knife?’

Hesitantly, one of her male companions moved forward and handed over a small knife.

Sister Fidelma took it and dismounted, moving across to where the rope that held the body was tied to a lower branch to keep it in place. She had raised the knife to cut it when a sharp cry caused her to turn sharply round in the direction of the sound.

Half-a-dozen men had emerged on foot from the woods on the far side of the road. They were led by a man mounted on a horse – a burly man with long unkempt hair curling from underneath a polished bronze helmet and merging into a great bushy black beard. He wore a burnished breastplate and carried himself with some authority. His companions, clustered behind him, carried an assortment of weaponry, mostly staffs and bows with arrows strung but not drawn.

Sister Fidelma had no knowledge of what the man shouted, but it was clearly an order, and it took little guessing that it was an order for her to desist in her task.

She glanced at Brother Taran, who was patently apprehensive.

‘Who are these people?’

‘They are Saxons, sister.’

Sister Fidelma gestured with impatience.

‘That I can deduce for myself. But my knowledge of Saxon is imperfect. You must speak with them and ask who they are and what they know of this murder.’

Brother Taran turned his mule and, in stumbling fashion, called out to the leader of the men.

The burly man with the helmet grinned and spat before letting forth a volley of sounds.

‘He says his name is Wulfric of Frihop, thane to Alhfrith of Deira, and that this is his land. His hall lies beyond the trees.’

Brother Taran’s voice was nervous and he translated in a worried staccato.

‘Ask him what this means?’ Sister Fidelma’s voice was cold and commanding as she gestured towards the hanging body.

The Saxon warrior rode closer, examining Brother Taran with a curious frown. Then his bearded face broke into an evil grin. His close-set eyes and furtive look reminded Fidelma of a cunning fox. He nodded his head as if amused as Taran spoke hesitantly and replied, spitting on the ground again in emphasis as he did so.

‘It means that the brother was executed,’ translated Taran.

‘Executed?’ Fidelma’s brows drew together. ‘By what law does this man dare execute a monk of Iona?’

‘Not of Iona. The monk was a Northumbrian from the monastery on the Farne Islands,’ came the reply.

Sister Fidelma bit her lip. She knew that the bishop of Northumbria, Colmán, was also abbot of Lindisfarne and that the abbey was the centre of the church in this kingdom.

‘His name? What was the name of this brother?’ demanded Fidelma. ‘And what was his crime?’

Wulfric shrugged eloquently.

‘His mother probably knew his name – and his God. I did not know it.’

‘Under what law was he executed?’ she pressed again, trying to control the anger she felt.

The warrior, Wulfric, had moved so that his mount was close to the young religieuse. He leant forward in his saddle towards her. Her nose wrinkled as she smelt his foul breath and saw his blackened teeth grinning at her. He was clearly impressed that, young as she was, and woman that she was, she did not seem afraid of him or of his companions. His dark eyes were speculative as he rested both hands on the pommel of his saddle and smirked towards the swinging body.

‘The law that says a man who insults his betters must pay the price.’

‘Insults his betters?’

Wulfric nodded.

‘The monk,’ Taran continued to translate in nervous fashion, ‘arrived at Wulfric’s village at noon seeking rest and hospitality on his journey. Wulfric, being a good Christian,’ – had Wulfric emphasised this point or was it merely Taran’s translation? – ‘granted him rest and a meal. The mead was flowing in the feasting hall when the argument broke out.’

‘An argument?’

‘It seems that Wulfric’s king, Alhfrith . . .’

‘Alhfrith?’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘I thought Oswy was the king of Northumbria?’

‘Alhfrith is Oswy’s son and petty king of Deira, which is the southern province of Northumbria in which we are now.’

Fidelma motioned Taran to continue his translation.

‘This Alhfrith has become a follower of Rome and has expelled many monks from the monastery of Ripon for not following the teachings and liturgy of Rome. Apparently, one of Wulfric’s men engaged this monk in discourse on the rival merits of the liturgy of Columba and the teachings of Rome. The discussion turned to argument and argument to anger and the monk said heated words. The words were considered insulting.’

Sister Fidelma stared at the thane in disbelief.

‘And for this the man was killed? Killed for mere words?’

Wulfric had been stroking his beard impassively and now he smiled, nodding again as Taran put the question to him.

‘This man insulted the thane of Frihop. For that he was executed. Common man may not insult one of noble birth. It is the law. And it is the law that the man must remain hanging here for one full moon from this day.’

Anger now clearly formed on the features of the young sister. She knew little of Saxon law and in her opinion it was blatantly unjust, but she was wise enough to know how far to exhibit her indignation. She turned and swung herself easily back on to her horse and stared at the warrior.

‘Know this, Wulfric, I am on my way to Streoneshalh, where I shall meet with Oswy, king of this land of Northumbria. And there I shall inform Oswy of how you have treated this servant of God and one who is under his protection as Christian king of this land.’

If the words were meant to give Wulfric any apprehension, they did not.

The man simply threw back his head and roared with laughter as her speech was translated.

Sister Fidelma’s keen eyes had not ceased to keep watch not only on Wulfric but on his companions, who stood fingering their bows while the exchange was taking place, glancing now and then at their leader as if to anticipate his orders. Now she felt it time for discretion. She nudged her horse forward, followed by a relieved Brother Taran and her companions. She purposefully kept her mount to a walking gait. Haste would betray fear and fear was the last thing to show such a bully as Wulfric obviously was.

To her surprise, no attempt was made to stop them. Wulfric and his men simply remained looking after them, some laughing amongst themselves. After a while, when enough distance had been placed between them and Wulfric’s band at the crossroads, Fidelma turned with a shake of her head to Taran.

‘This is, indeed, a strange pagan country. I thought that this Northumbria was ruled in peace and contentment by Oswy?’

It was Sister Gwid, who like Brother Taran was of the Cruthin of the north, those whom many called the Picts, who answered Fidelma. Sister Gwid knew something of the ways and the language of Northumbria, having been for several years a captive within its borders.

‘You have much to learn of this savage place, Sister Fidelma,’ she began.

The condescension in her voice died as Fidelma turned her fiery eyes on her. ‘Then tell me.’ Her voice was cold and clear like the crystal waters of a racing mountain stream.

‘Well.’ Gwid was more contrite now. ‘Northumbria was once settled by Angles. They are no different to the Saxons in the south of this country; that is, their language is the same and they used to worship the same outlandish gods until our missionaries began to preach the word of the true God. Two kingdoms were set up here, Bernicia to the north and Deira to the south. Sixty years ago, the two kingdoms were joined as one and this is now ruled by Oswy. But Oswy allows his son, Alhfrith, to be petty king of his southern province, Deira. Is this not so, Brother Taran?’

Brother Taran nodded sourly.

‘A curse on Oswy and his house,’ he muttered. ‘Oswy’s brother, Oswald, when he was king, led the Northumbrians to invade our country when I was but new born. My father, who was a chieftain of the Gododdin, was slain by them and my mother cut down before him as he lay dying. I hate them all!’

Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

‘Yet you are a brother of Christ devoted to peace. You should have no hate in your heart.’

Taran sighed. ‘You are right, sister. Sometimes our creed is a hard taskmaster.’

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I thought Oswy was educated at Iona and that he favoured the liturgy of the church of Colmcille? Why then would his son be a follower of Rome and an enemy to our cause?’

‘These Northumbrians call the Blessed Colmcille by the name Columba,’ intervened Sister Gwid pedantically. ‘It is easier for them to pronounce.’

It was Brother Taran who answered Fidelma’s question.

‘I believe that Alhfrith is at enmity with his father, who has married again. Alhfrith fears that his father means to disinherit him in favour of Ecgfrith, his son by his current wife.’

Fidelma sighed deeply.

‘I cannot understand this Saxon law of inheritance. I am told that they accept the first-born son as the heir rather than, as we do, allow the most worthy of the family to be elected by free choice.’

Sister Gwid suddenly gave a shout and pointed to the distant horizon.

‘The sea! I can see the sea! And that black building on the horizon there – that must be the abbey of Streoneshalh.’

Sister Fidelma halted her horse and gazed into the distance with narrowed eyes.

‘What say you, Brother Taran? You know this part of the country. Are we near the end of our journey?’

Taran’s face expressed relief.

‘Sister Gwid is right. That is our destination – Streoneshalh, the abbey of the Blessed Hilda, cousin to King Oswy.’

Chapter Two

The raucous voice, raised in apparent distress, caused the abbess to lift her eyes from the table, where she had been studying a page of illustrated vellum, and frown in annoyance at being disturbed.

She sat in a dark, stone-flagged chamber, lit by several tallow candles placed in bronze holders around the high walls. It was day, but the single, high window admitted little light. And the room was cold and austere in spite of several colourful tapestries covering the bleaker aspects of its masonry. Nor did the smouldering fire set in a large hearth at one end of the room give much warmth.

The abbess sat still for a moment. Her broad forehead and thin, angular features set in deep lines as her brows drew together. Her dark eyes, in which it was almost impossible to discern the pupils, held an angry glint as she positioned her head slightly to one side, listening to the shouting. Then she eased her richly woven woollen cloak around her shoulders, letting her hand slip momentarily to the ornately wrought gold crucifix hung on a string of tiny ivory beads around her neck. It was obvious from her clothing and adornments that she was a woman of wealth and position in her own right.

The shouting continued outside the wooden door of the chamber and so, suppressing a sigh of annoyance, she rose. Although she was of average height, there was something about her carriage that gave her a commanding appearance. Anger now intensified her features.

There came an abrupt banging on the oak door and it swung open almost immediately, before she had time to respond.

A woman in the brown homespun of a sister of the order stood nervously on the threshold.

Behind her a man in beggar’s clothes struggled in the grip of two muscular brothers. The sister’s posture and flushed face betrayed her nervousness and she seemed at a loss to frame the words that she so obviously sought.

‘What does this mean?’

The abbess spoke softly, yet there was steel in her tone.

‘Mother Abbess,’ began the sister apprehensively but before she had time to finish her sentence the beggar shouted again, incoherently.

‘Speak!’ demanded the abbess impatiently. ‘What is the meaning of this outrageous disturbance?’

‘Mother Abbess, this beggar demanded to see you, and when we tried to turn him away from the abbey he started to shout and attack the brethren.’ The words came out in a breathless gallop.

The abbess compressed her lips grimly.

‘Bring him forward,’ she ordered.

The sister turned and gestured to the brothers to bring the beggar forward. The man had ceased to struggle.

He was a thin man, so thin he looked more like a skeleton than a man of flesh. His eyes were grey, almost colourless, and his head was a thatch of dirty brown hair. The skin stretched tautly over his emaciated form was yellow and parchment-like. He was dressed in tattered clothing. It was obvious that the man was a foreigner in the kingdom of Northumbria.

‘What do you want?’ demanded the abbess, regarding him in distaste. ‘Why do you cause such a commotion in this house of contemplation?’

‘Want?’ The beggar repeated the word slowly. Then he broke into another language, a staccato of sound so fast that the abbess bent her head slightly forward as she tried to follow him.

‘Do you speak my language, the language of the children of Éireann?’

She nodded as she translated his words in her mind. For thirty years now the kingdom of Northumbria had been taught Christianity, learning and literacy by the Irish monks from the Holy Island of Iona.

‘I speak your language well enough,’ she conceded.

The beggar paused and bobbed his head several times in quick succession as if nodding agreement.

‘Are you the Abbess Hilda of Streoneshalh?’

The abbess sniffed impatiently.

‘I am Hilda.’

‘Then hear me, Hilda of Streoneshalh! There is doom in the air. Blood will flow at Streoneshalh before this week is over.’

Abbess Hilda stared at the beggar in surprise. It took her a moment or two to recover from the shock of his statement, delivered in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. His agitation had departed from him. He stood calmly, staring at her with eyes like the opaque grey of a muggy winter’s sky.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, recovering herself. ‘And how do you dare prophesy in this house of God?’

The beggar’s thin lips cracked into a smile.

‘I am Canna, the son of Canna, and I have read these things in the skies at night. There will soon descend on this abbey many of the great and learned, from Ireland in the west, Dál Riada in the north, Canterbury to the south and Rome in the east. Each will come to debate on the merits of their respective paths to an understanding of the One True God.’

Abbess Hilda made an impatient gesture with a thin hand.

‘This much even a house-churl would know, soothsayer,’ she responded in annoyance. ‘Everyone knows that Oswy, the king, has summoned the leading scholars of the Church to debate whether the teachings of Rome or those of Columba of Iona should be followed in this kingdom. Why bother us with this kitchen prattle?’

The begger grinned viciously. ‘But what they do not know is that there is death in the air. Mark me, Abbess Hilda, before the week is out blood will flow under the roof of this great abbey. Blood will stain the cold stone of its floor.’

Abbess Hilda allowed herself to sneer.

‘And I suppose, for a price, you will avert the course of this evil?’

To her surprise, the beggar shook his head.

‘You must know, daughter of Hereri of Deira, that there is no averting the course of the stars in the sky. There is no way, once their path is discerned, that the path can be altered. On the day the sun is blotted from the sky, blood will flow! I came to warn you, that is all. I have fulfilled my obligation to the Son of God. Take heed of my warning.’

Abbess Hilda stared at the beggar as he closed his mouth firmly and thrust his chin out in defiance. She bit her lip for a moment, disturbed by the man’s manner as much as by his message, but then her features re-formed in an expression of annoyance. She glanced towards the sister who had disturbed her.

‘Take this insolent churl and have him whipped,’ she said curtly.

The two brothers tightened their hold on the beggar’s arms and dragged him, struggling, from the chamber.

As the sister turned to leave, Abbess Hilda raised a hand as if to stay her. The sister turned expectantly. The abbess bent forward and lowered her voice.

‘Tell them not to whip him too hard and, when they have done, give him a piece of bread from the kitchens, then let him depart in peace.’

The sister raised her eyebrows, hesitated as if to dispute her orders and then nodded hurriedly and withdrew without another word.

From behind the closed doors, the Abbess Hilda could hear the strident voice of the son of Canna still crying:

‘Beware, Abbess! On the day the sun is blotted from the sky, blood shall flow in your abbey!’

The man strained forward into the cutting wind, leaning against the dark oak of the ship’s high prow, his narrowed eyes searching the distant coastline. The wind moaned softly as it ruffled his dark hair, causing his cheeks to redden and tugging at his brown, homespun woollen habit. The man clutched at the rail with both hands, even though the rise and fall of the deck beneath his feet was gentle over waves made restless by the wailing coastal wind. The seas were choppy, with little white feathers seeming to dance across the grey seascape.

‘Is that it, captain?’

He raised his voice to call to the muscular and elderly seaman who stood just behind him.

The man, bright eyed with gnarled features, his skin tanned almost mahogany by a lifetime of exposure to the sea winds, grimaced.

‘That it is, Brother Eadulf. That is your destination. The coast of the kingdom of Oswy.’

The young man addressed as Brother Eadulf turned back to examine the coastline with enthusiasm animating his features.

The vessel had been hugging the coastline now for two days, moving slowly northward and trying to avoid the more tempestuous waves of the North Sea plains. Its captain had been content to steer for the more sheltered bays and coves as he sought a safer haven in the calmer inshore waters. Now he had been forced to head seaward to circumvent a great headland whose long coastline faced out towards the north-east and the open blustery sea.

The captain of the vessel, Stuf by name, from the kingdom of the South Saxons, moved closer to the young monk and pointed.

‘Do you see those cliffs there?’

Brother Eadulf ran his curious eyes along the dark sandstone cliffs, which averaged three to four hundred feet in height and gave an impression of formidable steepness. They were guarded by a narrow belt of sand or a scar of rugged rock at their base.

‘I do.’

‘There now, do you see the black outline on the top of those cliffs? Well, that is the abbey of Hilda, the abbey called Streoneshalh.’

From this distance, Brother Eadulf could not make out much beyond the small black outline that the man had indicated. It stood just before what seemed a crevice in the cliff.

‘That is our harbour,’ the captain said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘That is the valley of a small river named the Esk which empties into the sea just below the abbey. A small township has arisen there in the last ten years and, because of the proximity of Mother Hilda’s abbey, the people are already calling it Witebia, “the town of the pure”.’

‘How soon before we reach it?’

The old captain shrugged. ‘Perhaps within the hour. It depends on this shoreward breeze and the running tide. There is a dangerous reef near the harbour entrance that cuts into the sea here for nearly a mile. Nothing dangerous – if one is a good sailor.’

He did not add ‘as I am’ but Eadulf interpreted the hidden meaning.

Brother Eadulf reluctantly drew his eyes away from the cliff-rimmed coastline.

‘I’d better inform His Grace.’

He staggered a little as he turned, then bit his lip to quell the curse that came unbidden to his tongue. He was coming to think of himself as a sailor. Had he not twice crossed the great sea between Britain and the land of Éireann and then only recently crossed the sea between Britain and Gaul, returning from a two-year pilgrimage to Rome itself? But he had discovered that he needed to adjust from land to sea on every voyage. During the three days they had now been sailing from the kingdom of Kent, Brother Eadulf had taken one full day to gain his sea legs. Indeed during the first day he had been sorely ill. He had lain on a straw palliasse, groaning and vomiting until he thought he would surely die of nausea and fatigue. Only on this the third day had he been able to stand without feeling bilious and let the pungent sea breezes clear his head and lungs, making him feel vaguely human again. But every now and then a capricious wave would still send him staggering, to the amusement of Stuf and his crew.

Stuf reached out a strong brown calloused hand to steady the young monk as he nearly lost his footing.

Brother Eadulf sheepishly smiled his thanks before turning away.

Stuf watched him go with a grin at his awkward gait. Another week and maybe the young religieux would make a passable sailor, he thought. He would soon have his muscles toned up again by active work. They had obviously been made flaccid by too many years at prayer in darkened cloisters away from the sun. The young monk had the build of a warrior. Stuf shook his head disapprovingly. Christianity was turning Saxon warriors into women.

The old captain had sailed with many cargoes along these shores but this was the first time he had sailed with a party of Christians. A curious group of passengers, by the breath of Woden. Stuf made no secret of the fact that he preferred to worship the old gods, the gods of his fathers. Indeed, his own country of the South Saxons was only now reluctantly allowing those who taught of the God with no name, whose Son was called Christ, to enter their kingdom and preach. Stuf would have preferred the king of the South Saxons to continue to forbid them to teach there. He had no time for Christians or their teachings.

When his time came, he wanted to go to the Hall of Heroes, sword in hand, shouting the sacred name of Woden, as countless generations of his ancestors had done before him, rather than whimper the name of some foreign god in the outlandish tongue of the Romans and expire peacefully in a bed. That was no way for a Saxon warrior to pass into the other life. Indeed, a Saxon was denied any form of afterlife unless he went sword in hand to the Heroes’ Hall.

So far as Stuf could make out, this Christ was supposed to be a God of peace, of slaves and old men and women.

Better a manly god, a warrior god, like Tiw or Woden, Thunor, Freyr and Seaxnat, who punished their enemies, welcomed warriors and slew the weak and feeble.

Yet he was a man of business. A ship’s master. And the gold of the Christians was as good as anyone’s, so it was none of his concern that his cargo was a group of Christian religious.

He turned, back against the wind, and spat over the side, raising his colourless yet bright eyes to the great sail above him. Now was the time to haul down the sail and set the thirty-eight slaves who manned the oars pulling towards the coast. He moved aft along the eighty-foot-long vessel, shouting orders as he went.

Brother Eadulf made his way to the stern to find his companions, a half-dozen men now stretched out on straw palliasses. He spoke to a rotund and jovial-looking man with greying hair.

‘We are within sight of Witebia, Brother Wighard,’ he said. ‘The captain says we should be landing within the hour. Should I tell His Grace?’

The rotund man shook his head.

‘His Grace continues to feel unwell,’ he replied mournfully.

Brother Eadulf looked concerned.

‘Better to get him to the bows where the air might restore him to health.’

Brother Wighard shook his head emphatically.

‘I know you have studied the art of the apothecary, Eadulf. But such cures can also kill, my brother. Let His Grace rest a while longer.’

Eadulf hesitated, torn between his own knowledge and belief and the fact that Wighard was not someone to be disregarded. Wighard was secretary to Deusdedit, Archbishop of Canterbury. And it was Deusdedit who was the subject of their conversation.

The archbishop was elderly and had been ordained by Eugenius I, Bishop of Rome and Father of the Universal Church, to be the head of Rome’s mission to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms in Britain.

But no one could converse with Deusdedit without first obtaining Wighard’s approval. Wighard’s cherubic-like features hid a coldly calculating mind and an ambition that was keen as a sharpened sword. Thus much had Eadulf discovered during the few days he had been in proximity with the Kentish monk. Wighard was extremely jealous of his position as secretary and confidant of the archbishop.

Deusdedit himself had the honour of being the first Saxon ever to hold the office that Augustine of Rome had inaugurated at Canterbury when he had arrived to convert the pagan Saxons to Christ scarcely seventy years before. Only missionaries from Rome had held the office of chief of Rome’s missionaries to the Anglo-Saxons. But Deusdedit, a West Saxon whose original name had been Frithuwine, had proved himself learned, patient and zealous for the teachings of Rome. Frithuwine had been baptized in the new faith as he who had been given, deditus, to God, Deus. The Holy Father had no qualms in appointing him as his spokesman to the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms and, for nine years now, Deusdedit had guided the fortunes of those Christians who looked to Rome for their spiritual authority.

But Deusdedit had not been in the best of health since the start of the voyage and had spent most of the time apart from the rest being attended only by his secretary Wighard.

Eadulf hesitated before Wighard, wondering whether he should be more forceful in applying his knowledge of medicine. Then he shrugged.

‘Will you then warn His Grace that we will be landing soon?’ he asked.

Wighard nodded reassuringly.

‘It shall be done. Let me know, Eadulf, if there is any sign of a welcoming reception on the foreshore.’

Brother Eadulf inclined his head. The great sail was already down and stowed and now the groaning oarsmen were heaving on the large wooden oars that propelled the sleek ship. For a few moments, Eadulf stood soaking in the activity on board as the vessel seemed to fairly skim over the waters towards the shoreline. He found himself thinking that it was in just such ships that his ancestors, hardly any time ago, must have crossed the limitless seas to raid and finally settle on this fruitful island of Britain.

The overseers moved down the rows of slaves as they grunted and strained against their oars, encouraging them to greater efforts with cracking whips and oath-filled screams. Now and then there came a sharp cry of pain, as the tongue of a whip made contact with unprotected flesh. Eadulf watched the sailors running hither and thither on their unaccountable tasks with an ill-concealed feeling of envy. He suddenly shook himself as he registered the thought.

He should envy no one, for he had turned his back on his inheritance as hereditary gerefa, or magistrate, of the lands of the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham when he had reached his twentieth birthday. He had forsworn the old gods of the South Folk, in the kingdom of the East Angles, and followed the new God whose teachings had been brought to them from Ireland. He had been young and enthusiastic when he had fallen in with an Irishman who spoke terrible Saxon but had succeeded in making his purpose known. The Irishman, Fursa by name, had not only taught Eadulf how to read and write his native Saxon, a language which Eadulf had never seen written before, but Fursa imparted to him a knowledge of Irish and Latin in addition to converting him to the knowledge of Christ, the Son of the God with no name.

So apt a pupil had Eadulf become that Fursa had sent him with letters of introduction to his own land of Ireland, firstly to a monastery at Durrow, where students from all four corners of the world were educated and trained. For a year Eadulf had studied in Durrow among the pious brethren there but, finding an interest in the cures and healing powers of the Irish apothecaries, he had gone on to study four years more at the famous college of medicine at Tuaim Brecain, where he had learnt of the legendary Midach, son of Diancecht, who had been slain and from whose three hundred and sixty-five joints and sinews and members of the body three hundred and sixty-five herbs had grown, each herb with the virtue to cure that part of the body from which it had grown.

That learning had awakened in him a thirst for knowledge and a discovery that he also had the ability to solve riddles; puzzles that were like an unknown language to some became an easy conundrum for solution to him. He supposed that the ability had something to do with his having acquired through his family, which held the position of hereditary gerefa, an oral knowledge of the law of the Saxons. Sometimes, though not very often, he would regret that, had he not forsworn Woden and Seaxnat, he too would have become gerefa to the thane of Seaxmund’s Ham.

Like many another Saxon monk he had followed the teachings of his Irish mentors on the liturgical usages of their church, the dating of the Easter celebration, so central to the Christian faith, and even the style of their tonsure, the shaving of the head to denote that their lives were dedicated unquestioningly to Christ. Only on his return from Ireland had Eadulf encountered those religious who looked to the Archbishop of Canterbury for authority which came from Rome. And he had discovered that Rome’s ways were not those of the Irish nor, indeed, of the Britons. Their liturgy was different, the dating of Easter and even the style of their tonsure differed sharply from Rome.

Eadulf had decided to resolve this mystery and so undertook a pilgrimage to Rome where he had stayed two years studying under the masters in that Eternal City. He had returned to the kingdom of Kent bearing the corona spinea, a Roman tonsure, on his crown and eager to offer his services to Deusdedit, dedicated to the principles of the Roman teaching.

And now the years of argument between the teachings of the Irish monks and those of Rome were soon to be resolved.

Oswy, the powerful king of Northumbria, whose kingdom had been converted by the Irish monks from the monastery of Columba on the Holy Island of Iona, had decided to summon a great meeting at Streoneshalh abbey where advocates of both the Irish and Roman practices were to argue their cause and Oswy was to sit in judgment and decide, once and for all, whether his kingdom would follow the Irish or whether it would follow Rome. And everyone knew that where Northumbria led, the other Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, from Mercia and East Anglia to Wessex and Sussex, would follow.

Churchmen were gathering on Witebia from the four corners of the earth and soon they would be locked in debate in the hall of the abbey of Streoneshalh, overlooking the tiny harbour.

Eadulf gazed with excitement as the ship steered closer to the towering cliffs and the black outline of the impressive abbey of Hilda of Streoneshalh grew clearer in his vision.

Chapter Three

The Abbess Hilda stood looking down from her window at Streoneshalh to the small harbour at the mouth of the river below the cliffs. The harbour was a flurry of activity, with tiny figures scurrying here and there bent on the tasks of off-loading the several ships that rode at anchor within its shelter.

‘His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury and his party are safely landed,’ she observed slowly. ‘And I have news that my cousin, the king, is arriving at noon tomorrow. That means our deliberations can begin, as planned, tomorrow evening.’

Behind her, seated before the smouldering fire in her dark chamber, was a hawk-faced man with swarthy features and a slightly autocratic expression. He looked like a man used to command and, moreover, used to being obeyed. He was clad in the robes of an abbot and wore the crucifix and ring of a bishop. His tonsure, whereby the front of his head was shaved back to a line running from ear to ear, immediately proclaimed that he followed the ways of Iona rather than those of Rome.

‘That is good,’ he said. He spoke in Saxon, slow and accented. ‘It is auspicious to start our deliberations on the first day of a new month.’

Abbess Hilda turned from the window and smiled nervously at him.

‘There has never been a gathering of such importance, my lord Colmán.’

There was a suppressed tone of excitement in her voice.

Colmán’s thin mouth twitched in a slight sneer.

‘I suppose that is true for Northumbria. Speaking for myself, I can recall many important synods and assemblies. Druim Ceatt, for example, where our saintly Colmcille presided, was an important assembly for our faith in Ireland.’

The abbess decided to ignore the slightly condescending tone of the Abbot of Lindisfarne. It had been three years since Colmán had arrived from Iona to succeed Finán as bishop of Northumbria. But the two men were totally dissimilar in attitudes. The saintly Finán, though considered by some a man of fierce temper, was sincere, courteous and eager to teach, treating everyone as equals. He it was who had succeeded in converting and baptizing the fierce pagan king Peada of the Middle Angles, a son of the scourge of all Christians, Penda of Mercia. But Colmán was a man of different temperament to Finán. He seemed to treat both Angles and Saxons patronisingly, his tone and words often sneering at the fact that they were but newly come to the teachings of Christ and implying that therefore they should accept everything he said without question. Nor did he disguise his pride in the fact that it was the monks of Iona who had had to teach the Angles of Northumbria the art of lettering and how to read and how to write. The new bishop of Northumbria was an authoritarian and made his dislike of anyone who questioned his authority immediately known.

‘Who will be making the opening arguments for the teachings of Colmcille?’ asked Hilda.

The abbess made no secret that she followed the teachings of Colmcille’s church and disagreed with the arguments of Rome. As a young girl, Hilda had been baptised by the Roman Paulinus, who had been sent from Canterbury to convert the Northumbrians to Christ and Rome when she was a babe in arms. But it had been Aidán, the first saintly missionary from Iona, who had succeeded in the conversion of Northumbria where Paulinus had failed and who had persuaded Hilda to enter the religious life. Such was her aptitude for piety and teaching that Aidán had ordained her abbess of a foundation at Heruteu. Her enthusiasm for the faith caused her to have built a new abbey called Streoneshalh, ‘the great hall by the seashore’, seven years before. During the seven years, a complex of magnificent buildings had grown up under her guidance. Northumbria had never seen such an impressive structure. And Streoneshalh was now regarded as one of the most important centres of learning in the kingdom. Because of its renown, the king, Oswy, had chosen it as the venue for his debate between the followers of Iona and those of Rome.

Colmán folded his hands complacently before him.

‘I have, as you know, gathered here many people of knowledge and talent to argue the case of our Church,’ he said. ‘Foremost among them is the Abbess Étain of Kildare. At times like these I find that I am but a plain-spoken man with little guile or scholarship. In such debates the plain-spoken advocate is at a disadvantage against those who use wit and humour to convince their audience. The Abbess Étain is a woman of much wisdom and she will open the proceedings on our behalf.’

Abbess Hilda nodded approvingly.

‘I have already conversed with Étain of Kildare. Her wit is as quick and sharp as she is attractive.’

Colmán sniffed disapprovingly. The Abbess Hilda raised a delicate hand to hide her smile. She knew that Colmán had little time for women. He was one of the ascetics who argued that marriage was incompatible with spiritual life. Among most of the Christian clergy of Ireland, and among the Britons, marriage and procreation was not regarded as a sin. Indeed, many of the religious houses were communities of brothers and sisters in Christ who cohabited, working together for the furtherance of the faith. Hilda’s own foundation of Streoneshalh itself was a ‘double house’ in that both men and women lived and dedicated their lives and children to the work of God. But while Rome accepted that even their chief apostle Peter had married, and that Philip the apostle not only married but begat four daughters, it was known that the bishops of Rome favoured Paul’s preference for celibacy for all their religious. Had not Paul written to the Corinthians that while marriage and procreation was no sin, it was not as good as celibacy among the brethren? Yet most Roman clergy, even bishops, presbyters, abbots and deacons, continued to be married in the traditional manner. Only ascetics sought to deny themselves all the temptations of the flesh and Colmán was such a man.

‘I suppose, even with Deusdedit of Canterbury here, that Wilfrid of Ripon will open for the Roman faction? I am told that Deusdedit is no great orator.’ Colmán was changing the subject.

Abbess Hilda hesitated and shook her head.

‘I have heard that Agilbert, the Frankish bishop of Wessex, will head their council.’

Colmán raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘I thought that Agilbert had taken offence with the king of Wessex and left for Frankia?’

‘No. He has been staying with Wilfrid at Ripon for several months. After all, it was Agilbert who converted and baptised Wilfrid to the faith. They are close friends.’

‘I know of Agilbert. A Frankish aristocrat. His cousin Audo is the Frankish prince who founded a religious house at Jouarre with his sister Telchilde as its abbess. Agilbert is well connected and powerful. A man to have a care of.’

Colmán seemed about to amplify his warning when there came a knock at the door.

In answer to Abbess Hilda’s response, the door swung open.

A young religieuse stood there, hands demurely folded before her. She was tall, with a well-proportioned figure which, the keen eyes of the abbess saw, vibrated youthful exuberance. Rebellious strands of red hair streaked from beneath her headdress. She had an attractive face – not beautiful, thought Hilda, but attractive. The abbess suddenly realised that her scrutiny was being returned by a pair of watchful bright eyes. She could not make out whether they were blue or green in the changing light that seemed to emanate from them.

‘What is it, child?’ inquired the abbess.

The young woman’s chin came up a trifle pugnaciously and she introduced herself in Irish.

‘I have just arrived at the abbey, Mother Abbess, and have been asked to report my presence to you and the Bishop Colmán. My name is Fidelma of Kildare.’

Before Abbess Hilda had time to respond, questioning why a young Irish religieuse should be worthy to be asked to make her presence known to them, the Bishop Colmán had risen from his chair and had taken a stride towards the girl with an outstretched hand of welcome. Hilda stared at him, her mouth opening slightly in her astonishment. It was curiously unlike the haughty misogynism of Colmán to rise up to greet a young sister of the order.

‘Sister Fidelma!’ Colmán’s voice was animated. ‘Your reputation precedes you. I am Colmán.’

The young religieuse took his hand and inclined her head slightly in deference to his rank. Hilda had long since become accustomed to the lack of servility that the Irish displayed towards their superiors, unlike the deep reverence Saxons displayed towards their betters.

‘You do me honour, your grace. I was not aware that I was possessed of a reputation.’

The keen eyes of Abbess Hilda saw an amused smile play around the mouth of the younger woman. It was hard to tell whether the girl was being modest or merely mocking. Again the bright eyes – Hilda was sure they were green now – turned inquiringly in her direction.

Colmán turned in some embarrassment at his neglect of the Mother Abbess.

‘This is the Abbess Hilda of Streoneshalh.’

Sister Fidelma moved forward and reached to incline her head over the abbess’s ring.

‘You are most welcome here, Fidelma of Kildare,’ Hilda acknowledged, ‘though I confess that my lord the Bishop of Lindisfarne has placed me at a disadvantage. I stand in ignorance of your reputation.’

Hilda glanced at the hawk-faced Colmán as if seeking comment.

‘Sister Fidelma is a dálaigh of the Brehon courts of Ireland,’ explained Colmán.

Abbess Hilda frowned.

‘I am not acquainted with this expression – daw-lee.’ She rendered the term as closely as she could in her own phonetics. She stared at the girl as if challenging her to an explanation.

Sister Fidelma’s cheeks reddened slightly and her voice was slightly breathless as she sought to explain.

‘I am an advocate, qualified to plead before the law courts of my country, to prosecute or defend those summoned to answer to the law before our judges, the Brehons.’

Colmán nodded. ‘Sister Fidelma is qualified to the degree of anruth, only one degree below the highest qualification in our land. Already, even among the brethren in Lindisfarne, we have heard tales of how she was able to solve a mystery oppressing the High King at Tara.’

Fidelma gave a deprecating shrug of her shoulders.

‘My lord bishop does me too much honour,’ she said. ‘Anyone could have resolved the mystery given time.’

There was no false modesty in her voice, just a plain statement of her opinion.

‘So?’ Abbess Hilda stared curiously at her. ‘A qualified advocate, so young and a woman? Alas, in our culture women could not aspire to such a position, which is reserved only for men.’

Sister Fidelma nodded slowly.

‘I have heard, Mother Abbess, that women among the Angles and Saxons suffer many disadvantages compared with their sisters in Ireland.’

‘That may be so, Fidelma,’ Colmán interrupted with an air of condescension. ‘But remember what the Good Book says: “What went you into the wilderness to see, a man clothed in fine garments?”’

Hilda cast a glance of annoyance at Colmán. His comparison of Northumbria to a wilderness was another demonstration of his superior attitudes, which had increasingly annoyed her over the last three years. She nearly made a rejoinder, but hesitated and turned back to Fidelma. She was disconcerted to find the bright green eyes fixed penetratingly on her as if the girl could read her thoughts.

Their eyes locked for some time, as if challenging each other. It was Bishop Colmán who broke the silence.

‘And was your journey without incident, sister?’

Sister Fidelma turned, memory suddenly coming back.

‘Alas, no. Not many miles from here, where a man called Wulfric claims that he is lord—’

Abbess Hilda frowned.

‘I know the man and the place: Wulfric of Frihop, whose hall lies some fifteen miles to the east. What of it, sister?’

‘We found a brother hanging from a tree at the crossroads. Wulfric claimed the monk had been executed for insulting him. Our brother wore the tonsure of our Church, my lord bishop, and Wulfric did not conceal that he came from your own house of Lindisfarne.’

Colmán bit his lip and suppressed an intake of breath.

‘It must be Brother Aelfric. He was returning from a mission to Mercia and expected to join us here any day now.’

‘But why would Aelfric insult the thane of Frihop?’ demanded Abbess Hilda.

‘By your leave, Mother Abbess,’ interrupted Sister Fidelma. ‘I had the impression that this was merely an excuse. The argument was about the differences between Iona and Rome and it would seem that Wulfric and his friends favour Rome. This Brother Aelfric was apparently manoeuvred into the insult and then hanged for it.’

Hilda examined the girl sharply.

‘You do have a legal, inquiring mind, Fidelma of Kildare. But, as you well know, to hypothesise is one thing. To prove your contention is quite another.’

Sister Fidelma smiled softly.

‘I did not mean to present my impression as a legal argument, Mother Abbess. Merely that I think you would do well to have a care of Wulfric of Frihop. If he can get away with the judicial murder of a religious simply because he supports the liturgy of Colmcille then every one of us who comes to this abbey to argue in that cause may be in danger.’

‘Wulfric of Frihop is known to us. He is Alhfrith’s right hand man and Alhfrith is king of Deira,’ Hilda replied sharply. Then she sighed and shrugged and added in a softer tone, ‘And are you here to contribute to the debate, Fidelma of Kildare?’

The young religieuse gave a modest chuckle.

‘That I should dare to raise my voice among so many eloquent orators who have gathered would be an impertinence. No, Mother Abbess. I am here merely to advise on law. Our church, whose teachings your people follow, is subject to the laws of our people and the Abbess Étain, who will be speaking for our church, asked me to attend in case there is need for some advice or explanation in this matter. That is all.’

‘Then you are truly well come to this place, for your counsel is to aid us in arriving at the one great truth,’ replied Hilda. ‘And your counsel concerning Wulfric will be noted, have no fear. I shall speak concerning the matter with my cousin, King Oswy, when he arrives tomorrow. Iona or Rome, both are under the protection of the royal house of Northumbria.’

Sister Fidelma grimaced wryly. Royal protection had not helped Brother Aelfric. She decided, however, to change the subject.

‘I am forgetting one of the purposes of my disturbing you.’

She reached within her habit and brought out two packages.

‘I have journeyed here from Ireland through Dál Riada and the Holy Island of Iona.’

Abbess Hilda’s eyes grew misty.

‘You have stayed on the Holy Island where the great Columba lived and worked?’

‘Well, tell us, did you meet with the abbot?’ asked Colmán, interested.

Fidelma nodded.

‘I saw Cumméne the Fair and he sends greetings to you both and these letters.’ She held out the packages. ‘He makes a strong plea for Northumbria to adhere to the liturgy practised by Colmcille. Further, as a gift to the abbey of Streoneshalh, Cumméne Finn has sent a gift by me. I have left it with your librarius. It is a copy of Cumméne’s own book on the miraculous powers of Colmcille, of saintly name.’

Abbess Hilda took her package from Fidelma’s hand.

‘The Abbot of Iona is wise and generous. How I envy you your visit to such a sanctified place. We owe so much to that miraculous little island. I shall look forward to studying the book later. But this letter draws my attention . . .’

Sister Fidelma inclined her head.

‘Then I will withdraw and leave you to study the letters from Cumméne Finn.’

Colmán was already deep into his letter and scarcely looked up as she bowed her head and withdrew.

Outside, in the sandstone-flagged cloisters, Sister Fidelma paused and smiled to herself. She found herself in a curiously exhilarated mood in spite of the length of her journey and her fatigue. She had never travelled beyond the confines of Ireland before and now she had not only crossed the grey, stormy sea to Iona, but travelled through the kingdom of the Dál Riada, through the country of Rheged to the land of the Northumbrians – three different cultures and countries. There was much to take in, much to be considered.

Pressing for her immediate attention was the fact of her arrival at Streoneshalh on the eve of the highly anticipated debate between the churchmen of Rome and those of her own culture and she would not only witness it but be a part of it. Sister Fidelma was possessed of a spirit of time and place, of history and mankind’s place in its unfolding tapestry. She often reflected that, had she not studied law under the great Brehon Morann of Tara, she would have studied history. But law she had studied. Had she not, perhaps the Abbess Étain of Kildare would not have invited her to join her delegation, which had left for Lindisfarne at the invitation of Bishop Colmán.

The summons had come to Fidelma while she had been on a pilgrimage to Armagh. In fact, Fidelma had been surprised at it, for when she had left her own house of Kildare Étain had not been abbess. She had known Étain for many years and knew her reputation as a scholar and orator. Étain, in retrospect, had been the correct choice to take the office of abbess on the death of her predecessor. The word had come to Fidelma that Étain had already left for the kingdom of the Saxons and so Fidelma had decided to proceed firstly to the monastery of Bangor and then cross the stormy strait to Dál Riada. Then from Iona she had joined Brother Taran and his companions, who had been setting out on a mission to Northumbria.

There had been only one other female in the band and that had been Brother Taran’s fellow Pict, Sister Gwid. She was a large raw-boned girl, giving an impression of clumsy awkwardness, her hands and feet seemingly too large. Yet she seemed always anxious to please and did not mind doing any work of drudgery no matter how heavy the task. Fidelma had been astonished to find that Sister Gwid, after her conversion to Christ, had studied at Iona before crossing to spend a year in Ireland, studying at the abbey of Ernly during the time when Étain had been a simple instructress there. Fidelma was more than surprised to find that Gwid had specialized in Greek and a study of the meaning of the writings of the apostles.

Sister Gwid confided to Fidelma that she had been on her return journey to Iona when she, too, had been sent a message from the Abbess Étain to join her in Northumbria to act as her secretary during the debate that was to take place. No one objected, therefore, to Gwid and Fidelma joining the party led by Taran on the hazardous journey south from Iona to the kingdom of Oswy.

The journey with Brother Taran had simply confirmed Fidelma’s dislike of the Pictish religieux. He was a vain man, darkly handsome according to some notions, but with looks which made Fidelma regard him as a pompous bantam cock, strutting and preening. Yet, as a man with knowledge of the ways of the Angles and Saxons, she would not argue with his ability in easing their path through the hostile land. But as a man she found him weak and vacillating, one minute attempting to impress, another hopelessly inadequate – as at their confrontation with Wulfric.

Fidelma gave a mental shake of her head. So much for Taran. There were other things to think of now. New sights, new sounds and new people.

She gave a startled ‘oh’ as she walked around a corner and collided with a thickset monk.

Only the fact that he reached out strong hands and caught her saved her from stumbling backwards and falling.

For a moment the young man and woman stared at each other. It was a moment of pure chemistry. Some empathy passed from the dark brown eyes of the man into Fidelma’s green ones. Then Fidelma noticed the tonsure of Rome on the young man’s crown and realised that he must be one of the Roman delegation and probably a Saxon.

‘Forgive me,’ she said stiffly, choosing Latin to address him. Realising that he still grasped her forearms, she gently pulled away.

The young monk let go immediately and took a step back, fighting the confusion on his face. He succeeded.

‘Mea culpa,’ he replied gravely, striking his left breast with his right clenched fist, yet with a smile flickering behind his eyes.

Fidelma hesitated and then bowed her head in acknowledgment before moving on, wondering why the face of the young Saxon intrigued her. Perhaps it was the quiet humour that lurked in his gaze. Her experience with Saxons was limited but she had not credited them with being a humorous people. To meet one who was not dour and brooding and took insult at the slightest thing, which, in her experience, all Saxons did, fascinated her. In general, she had found them morose and quick-tempered; they were a people who lived by the sword and, with few exceptions, believed in their gods of war rather than the God of Peace.

She suddenly became annoyed with her thoughts. Odd that a brief encounter could stir such silly notions.

She turned into the part of the abbey made over for the accommodation of those visitors attending the debate, the domus hospitale. Most of the religious were accommodated in several large dormitoria, but for the many abbots, abbesses, bishops and other dignitaries a special series of cubicula had been set aside as individual quarters. Sister Fidelma herself had been lucky to have been allocated one of these cubicula, no more than a tiny cell eight feet by six with a simple wooden cot, a table and chair. Fidelma supposed that she had the intercession of Bishop Colmán to thank for such hospitality. She opened the door of her cubiculum and paused in surprise on the threshold.

A slightly built, good-looking woman rose from the chair with extended hands.

‘Étain!’ exclaimed Sister Fidelma, recognising the abbess of Kildare.

The Abbess Étain was an attractive woman in her early thirties; the daughter of an Eoghanacht king of Cashel, she had given up a world of indolence and pleasure after her husband had been killed in battle. Her star had risen rapidly, for she was soon acknowledged to be possessed of such skill and oratorical knowledge that she had been able to argue theology on the same footing with the archbishop of Armagh and all the bishops and abbots of Ireland. It was in tribute to her reputation that she had been appointed as abbess of St Brigit’s great foundation at Kildare.

Fidelma moved forward and bowed her head, but Étain took both her hands in a warm embrace. They had been friends for several years before Étain had been elevated to her present position, since when neither had seen the other, for Fidelma had been travelling through Ireland.

‘It is good to see you again, even in this oudandish country.’ Étain spoke with a soft, rich soprano voice. Fidelma had often thought it was like a musical instrument which could sharpen in anger, become vibrant with indignation or be used sweetly, as it was now. ‘I am glad your journey here was safe, Fidelma.’

Fidelma grinned mischievously.

‘Should it have been otherwise, when we journey in the name and under the protection of the one true God?’

Étain returned her smile.

‘At least I journeyed with temporal assistance. I came with some brothers from Durrow. We landed in Rheged and were joined by a group of brethren from that kingdom of Britons. Then, at the border of Rheged and Northumbria, we were officially met by Athelnoth and a band of Saxon warriors who escorted us here. Have you met Athelnoth?’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘I have only arrived here within the last hour myself, Mother Abbess,’ she said.

Étain pursed her lips and grimaced disapprovingly.

‘Athelnoth was sent to greet and escort me by King Oswy and the Bishop of Northumbria. He was outspoken against Irish teachings and our influence in Northumbria to the point of insulting us. He is an ordained priest but one who argues for Rome. Once I even had to prevent one of our brothers from physically assaulting Athelnoth, so blunt is his criticism of our liturgy.’

Fidelma shrugged indifferently.

‘From what I hear, Mother Abbess, the debate over our respective liturgies is causing a great deal of tension and argument. I would not have thought it possible that such emotions would be aroused by a discussion on the correct date of the Paschal ceremony—’

Étain grimaced.

‘You must learn to refer to it here as Easter.’

Fidelma frowned.

‘Easter?’

‘The Saxons have accepted most of our teaching of Christian faith but as for the Paschal feast they insist on naming it after their pagan goddess of fertility, Eostre, whose rituals fall at the time of the Spring equinox. There is much that is still pagan in this land. You will find that many still follow the ways of their old gods and goddesses and that their hearts are still filled with hate and war.’

The Abbess Étain suddenly shivered.

‘I feel there is much that is oppressive here, Fidelma. Oppressive and menacing.’

Sister Fidelma smiled reassuringly.

‘Whenever there is a conflict of opinion, then human tensions rise and give way to fear. I do not think we need worry. There will be much posturing during the verbal conflict. But once we have reached a resolution then all will be forgotten and forgiven.’ She hesitated. ‘When does the debate begin?’

‘The King Oswy and his entourage will not arrive at the abbey until noon tomorrow. The Abbess Hilda has told me that, all being well, she will allow the opening arguments to commence in the late afternoon. Bishop Colmán has asked me to make the opening arguments for our church.’

Fidelma thought she saw some anxiety on the Abbess Étain’s features.

‘Does that worry you, Mother Abbess?’

Étain suddenly smiled and shook her head.

‘No. I revel in debate and argument. I have good companions to advise me, such as yourself.’

‘That reminds me,’ Fidelma replied, ‘I had Sister Gwid as my travelling companion. An intelligent girl whose looks give the wrong impression. She tells me that she is to act as your secretary and Greek translator.’

An indefinable expression showed on Abbess Étain’s face for a split second. Fidelma could not make up her mind whether it was anger or a lesser emotion.

‘Young Gwid can be an annoying person. A little like a puppy dog, unassertive and too sycophantic at times. But she is an excellent Greek scholar, though I think she spends too much of her time admiring the poems of Sappho rather than construing the Gospels.’ She sounded disapproving, but then shrugged. ‘Yes, I do have good companions to advise me. But there is something else that makes me feel uneasy. I think it is the atmosphere of hostility and dislike I feel from those of the Roman faction. Agilbert the Frank, for example, who has trained many years in Ireland but has a deep devotion to Rome, and that man Wilfrid, who even refused to greet me when the Abbess Hilda introduced us—’

‘Who is Wilfrid? I find these Saxon names hard to understand.’

Étain sighed.

‘He is a young man, but one who leads the Rome faction here in Northumbria. I believe he is the son of some noble. By all accounts he has a sharp temper. He has been to Rome and Canterbury and was taken into the faith by Agilbert, who ordained him as a priest. He was given the monastery of Ripon by the petty king of the area, who threw out two of our own brethren, Eata and Cuthbert, who were joint abbots there. This Wilfred seems to be our fiercest enemy, a passionate advocate of the Roman liturgy. Alas, I fear we have many enemies here.’

Sister Fidelma found herself suddenly visualising the face of the young Saxon monk whom she had just bumped into.

‘Yet surely not all those who support Rome are our enemies?’

The abbess smiled meditatively.

‘Maybe you are right, Fidelma. And maybe I am simply nervous after all.’

‘A lot depends on your opening arguments tomorrow,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘There is something more, though—’ Étain was hesitant.

Fidelma waited patiently, watching the expression on the abbess’s face. It seemed that Étain found it difficult to formulate what she had in mind.

‘Fidelma,’ she said with a sudden rush, ‘I am disposed to take a husband.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened but she said nothing. Clergy, even bishops, took spouses; even the religious of houses, whether mixed or not, could have wives and husbands, under Brehon law and custom. But the position of an abbot and abbess was in a different category for they were usually bound to celibacy. Such was the rule at Kildare. It was the Irish custom that the coarb, or successor to the founder of an abbey, should always be chosen in the kindred of the founder. Since abbots and abbesses were not expected to have direct issue, the successor was chosen from a collateral branch. But if, in the collateral branches, no religious was found fit to be elected to such a position, then a secular member of the family of the coarb was elected as lay abbot or abbess. Étain claimed relation to the family of Brigit of Kildare.

‘It would mean giving up Kildare and returning to being an ordinary religieuse,’ Fidelma pointed out eventually when Étain made no further comment.

Étain nodded. ‘I have thought of this long and hard on my journey here. To cohabit with a stranger will be difficult, especially after one has been alone for so long. Yet when I arrived here, I realised that my mind was made up. I have exchanged the traditional betrothal gifts. The matter is now decided.’

Instinctively Fidelma reached out a hand, caught Étain’s slim one and squeezed it.

‘Then I am happy for you, Étain; happy in your certainty. Who is your stranger?’

Étain smiled shyly.

‘If I felt able to tell only one person, it would be you, Fidelma. But I feel that it should be my secret, and his, until after this debate. When this great assembly is over, then you shall know, for I will announce my resignation from Kildare.’

They were distracted by a growing noise of shouting from beyond the window of the cubiculum.

‘What on earth is that?’ demanded Sister Fidelma, frowning at the raucous tones. ‘There seems some sort of scuffle taking place beneath the abbey wall.’

Abbess Étain sighed.

‘I have seen so many scuffles between our religious and the brethren of Rome since I came here. I presume it is another such. Grown men resorting to personal insults and punches simply because they disagree with each other over the interpretation of the Word of God. It is sad that men, and women, of the cloth become as spiteful children when they cannot agree.’

Sister Fidelma went to the window and leant forward.

A little way off a beggar was surrounded by a crowd of people, mostly peasants so far as she could tell from their dress, although a few wore the brown habit of the brethren. They seemed to be taunting and deriding a poorly dressed man, presumably a beggar from his clothes, whose voice was raised in raucous tones which seemed to drown out their jibes.

Sister Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

‘The beggar seems to be one of our countrymen, Mother Abbess,’ she said.

The Abbess Étain moved forward to join her.

‘A beggar. They suffer greatly from the arrogance of a crowd.’

‘But listen to what he says.’

The two women strained to catch the rasping tones of the beggar. The voice was raised loudly.

‘I tell you, tomorrow the sun shall be blotted from the heavens and when that time comes there shall be blood staining the floor of this abbey. Beware! Beware, I tell you! I see blood in this place!’