‘We are not stranded, Eadulf. The kingdom of Dyfed has good links with other lands and kingdoms. Anyway, the captain refunded some of our passage fee.’
Eadulf followed her glance towards Brother Rhodri. It seemed that Brother Rhodri knew something of the language, for he seemed to be following their exchange.
‘I only meant that we are a long way from Canterbury,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘It is vexing that the captain did not have time to wait.’
‘The wood will renew the foliage it sheds,’ Fidelma reassured him, quoting an old proverb.
Eadulf shrugged reluctantly. ‘We are not so well endowed with money that we can afford to lose any,’ he admonished. ‘We have to find a new ship and will have to pay more for the journey to Canterbury.’
Fidelma made a dismissive gesture. ‘What we have to do now,’ she corrected him with emphasis, ‘is for you to rest and regain your strength, Eadulf. Remember the saying that there is always another tide in the sea.’ She made to rise.
‘Stay awhile,’ Eadulf urged. ‘I am not sleepy.’
Fidelma glanced at Brother Rhodri, who was lighting a lamp, for the dusk had crept up while they had been talking.
‘It is time for the evening meal,’ he said. ‘Shall I bring some food to you here on a tray, Sister?’
‘Thank you, Brother. It would be most kind of you.’
The monk smiled briefly and turned to Eadulf. ‘You seem well enough to take a little more broth, Brother. I shall see to it.’
When he had gone, Eadulf grinned sheepishly at Fidelma. ‘I am sorry that I have precipitated you into this predicament.’
‘Predicament?’ She paused and shook her head. ‘It is always fascinating to see a new land, even when it is done without intention.’
Eadulf’s features dissolved into a glum expression. ‘The land of the Britons may be fascinating for you but not for me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Saxons are not exactly welcome among Britons in spite of Brother Rhodri’s Christian charity.’
‘Do Britons have a reason to dislike Saxons?’
Eadulf glanced at her sharply. Was she mocking him? She was well acquainted with the recent history of these islands.
‘You know that nothing happens without reason, Fidelma. And you know your history as well as anyone I know. You will be aware that the Britons once lived all over this land but two centuries ago the ancestors of my people came from beyond the eastern sea to conquer and colonise - the Jutes, Angles and Saxons. They began to push the Britons westward and northwards and take over their lands. I can understand the feelings of the dispossessed. My people are a warrior people who have only just accepted Christian values. I think, behind their professed acceptance of the new faith, they continue to fear Woden, the old god of war. They still believe that the true way to immortality is to die with a sword in their hand and Woden’s name on their lips. Only along that path do they think they have a chance to pass into the Hall of Heroes, where all the immortals live.’
Fidelma was puzzled at the intensity in his voice. ‘You sound as if you also believe this, Eadulf?’
Eadulf regarded her with a sour expression. ‘I was a young man when I was converted to the new faith by missionaries from Éireann, Fidelma. I went to study it in your lands before I went on to Rome. You know that before my conversion I was the hereditary gerefa of Seaxmund’s Ham. It is hard to forget the culture in which one has been brought up. Within living memory did King Eadbald of Kent revert to the worship of Woden. People are alive today who can remember when the East Saxons killed or chased into exile all Christian missionaries there.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘But most of the Saxon kingdoms are now firmly converted to the Faith.’
Eadulf sighed and shook his head.
‘There are still many kingdoms where the Christian faith is only tolerated. Mercia, for example, is still not entirely Christian. Even with the acceptance of the Faith there has been a constant war between my people and the Britons. Since we carved out our kingdoms with the sword there has always been such warfare. Christian Briton against Christian Saxon. It is also within living memory how Athelfrith of the Saxons defeated the Briton, King Selyf son of Cynan. After that battle, Athelfrith went to the great abbey of the Britons at Bangor and slaughtered one thousand Christian monks to celebrate his victory. Do the Britons forgive us such slaughter, Fidelma? I think not. I cannot rest easy all the while that I am in the kingdom of the Britons.’
Fidelma considered his fears with some sympathy. ‘You are not to blame for the misdeeds of your people, Eadulf. I think that you should reflect on the fact that the Britons are not so narrow-minded that they would blame all Saxons for the events caused by previous generations. The Britons have adhered to the Faith for many centuries, even during the time when the Romans occupied their lands. They do not inflict harm without just cause. The massacre of the monks at Bangor took place in the kingdom of Gwynedd in the north and we are in the kingdom of Dyfed, which is in the south. Dyfed has close links to Éireann. And tomorrow Abbot Tryffin of Dewi Sant has invited us to break bread with him.’
Eadulf looked at her in surprise. ‘We have both been invited?’
Fidelma grimaced. ‘Well, the invitation was primarily to me but it was made clear that if you were sufficiently recovered then you would accompany me. I believe that something is worrying the abbot. He seems a kindly soul. I think that he wants to ask for help but did not feel comfortable about doing so at our meeting this afternoon.’
Eadulf was bewildered. ‘Why would the Britons ask for your aid?’
‘As I said, there are close links between Dyfed and Éireann.’
‘Such as?’ Eadulf, always keen to learn some new knowledge, asked her to explain.
Brother Rhodri entered at that moment bearing a tray with bowls of steaming broth and bread. He set it down on a table beside the bed.
Eadulf regarded the broth wryly. ‘I could eat a side of venison,’ he sighed, glancing at Fidelma, still speaking in their common tongue.
Brother Rhodri regarded him in disapproval. ‘You may try some cuts of cold meat and cheese on the morrow, Brother Saxon, but I would advise you not to fully indulge your appetite for a day or so.’
Eadulf grinned a little in embarrassment at the man, now realising just how fluent the Briton’s knowledge of the language of Éireann was. Perhaps he should have been more circumspect in his utterances.
‘I am grateful both for your nursing and for your advice, Brother Rhodri.’
The round-faced man smiled suddenly. It seemed his natural expression. ‘God never ordained a mouth to be without food,’ he quoted as he left the room. ‘So remember that advice is never the law.’
‘What are these links, Fidelma?’ Eadulf demanded as they began their meal after Brother Rhodri had departed.
Fidelma was nothing loath to explain the history and folklore of her people.
‘According to the old scribes, it was over two centuries ago that a chieftain of the Déisi, Aonghus of the Terrible Spear, made a cast in temper and knocked out the eye of the High King, Cormac Mac Art. Because the cast was an accident, the punishment was not as severe as it might have been. The punishment was that Aonghus and his entire clan were to be banished from their rich lands in the kingdom of Midhe. Part of the clan was settled in my brother’s own kingdom.’
Eadulf nodded, remembering that a tribe called the Déisi did, indeed, dwell in the southern area of Muman. ‘And the others?’
‘Another section of the clan went across the sea. One was led by Eochaid. He settled his people here in this area, which was the lands of the Demetae. He became the ruler here, though it is said that he achieved it by peaceful means and not by war. Since then there have been ten kings of his line and many of the nobles of this place are the actual descendants of the Déisi. That is why you will find many of this kingdom still able to converse in the language of Éireann and why many of our religious come to study here.
’
Eadulf had not heard the story before. He considered the history before returning to the main point.
‘If this Abbot Tryffin seeks your help, why do you think he did not say so when you went to see him this afternoon?’
Fidelma paused, a spoon halfway to her mouth. ‘I don’t know. He was cordial and concerned that you were well treated. He asked about our journey and then asked me, and you if you were well enough, to attend him tomorrow at noon.’
‘Why would he seek your help? Indeed, how would he know who you were? I presume he knew that you were a dálaigh?’
‘A good point to spot, Eadulf,’ she observed appreciatively. ‘He knew precisely who I was and of my qualifications as a dálaigh of the courts. The Britons share a fairly similar legal system with us. Apparently news of who I was reached him soon after our landing. I have told you that many religious from my country come to study at the abbey of Muine.’
‘Muine?’
‘It is what we call Menevia in our language. It is called Moniu in the local language.’
‘Oh yes, Brother Rhodri told me,’ Eadulf remembered.
Fidelma smiled mischievously. ‘You might not like to be reminded of Fearna, Eadulf, but the Blessed Máedóc, who founded that abbey, was also a disciple of Dewi Sant and studied here.’
Eadulf shivered slightly, remembering how he had recently come close to meeting his death at the abbey of Fearna.
‘Anyway,’ Fidelma was continuing, ‘Abbot Tryffin had been told of the reputation that we have achieved in solving mysteries . . .’
Eadulf felt an inward pleasure at the way she had naturally included him. ‘So you believe he wants to consult us about some problem which confronts him?’ he asked quickly.
‘I believe that is his intention.’
‘It seems very strange.’
‘We will know soon enough. It is no use speculating without knowledge.’ She reached forward impulsively and took his hand in both her own. ‘It is good to see you recovered, Eadulf. I was worried.’
Chapter Three
The following day was bright and clear. Eadulf took a few tentative steps out of the hospice building and found, as Brother Rhodri had warned him, that he felt slightly weak and a little dizzy. In spite of that, he felt the better for the sharpness of the fresh air and soon the giddiness vanished.
The harbour of Porth Clais was situated where a river made its way to meet a long narrow inlet of the sea, with hills rising on either side. A few small fishing craft rode at anchor there, rocking gently on the waters, and there were isolated buildings dotted amidst gorse- and heather-covered hills.
Almost at once, Eadulf became aware of the seabirds for whom the inlet seemed a natural haven. Their noise and constant swooping, darting and soaring was all-pervasive. He was also aware of seals splashing in the sheltered waters just below the spot where he was standing. The place seemed almost idyllic. He could see a seal pup scrabbling about on a muddy flat on the opposite side of the inlet. Then, even as he watched, the dark shadow of a bird came, dropping down by curious stages like a falling stone. There came a combination of cries, and the seal pup’s grey head became bloodied where the bird’s talons had raked it. Yet the bird had not succeeded in carrying it off. There was a splashing as the mother seal came anxiously from the waves, crying to the pup to join her. Eadulf saw the russet and brown bird, which he recognised as a kestrel, climbing and turning for a second dive. The pup, encouraged by the mother, had made it into the water. Eadulf was sharply reminded that life was never idyllic.
He turned, walking along the pathway until he found a tree stump and sat down. The sun, though weak compared to summer sunshine, was warm and pleasant. One or two people passed by and greeted him in their own language and he replied, regaining his meagre knowledge of it. During his time studying at Tuam Brecain, two of the brethren there had come from the kingdom of Powys and he had spent time trying to learn their language. He was keenly aware of the antagonism that existed between the Britons and his own people. In moments of calm reflection, Eadulf could clearly understand the roots of the enmity between them.
In his father’s day, the British kingdom of Elmet had been destroyed when Ceretic, its king, had been slain and the population driven westward by a Saxon war chieftain named Snot who had built his township or ham on the west bank of the river that had marked the tiny kingdom’s border. Now Snotingaham was a thriving Saxon town where once Britons had flourished. Of course, he could understand why Britons hated Saxons. And did not most Saxons return that hatred? The conversion of the Saxons to Christianity had, if anything, pushed Briton and Saxon even further apart instead of joining them together.
Eadulf had heard the stories from the old ones of how, just over sixty years before, the Roman cleric Augustine, with forty monks from that city, had settled in the kingdom of Kent to help in the Christianising of it. He found only Irish missionaries, mainly in the north, trying to bring the Faith to the pagan Saxons, teaching them how to read and write. At Canterbury he found a church dedicated to St Martin of Tours, originally built by the Britons before the Jutes drove them out. The Frankish Christian wife of the king of Kent and her chaplain were worshipping there. Knowing that the Britons had been Christian from the time of the Roman occupation, Augustine demanded a meeting with their bishops on the borders between their remaining territories and the Saxons.
By all the accounts which Eadulf had heard, Augustine was a Roman who was still full of the old Roman arrogance. He viewed the Britons in the same manner as had the generals of the Roman legions in the old days of the empire. To him they were worthless barbarians. He had demanded of Deniol, the bishop of Bangor, why the clergy of the Britons had failed in their duty to the Faith by not bothering to convert the Saxons. Deniol had sarcastically pointed out that it was hard to preach love and forgiveness to a man when he was in the process of slaughtering one’s wife and children. Augustine had gone further in his arrogance and blustered that if the Britons did not accept his authority and that of Rome, then he would bless the Saxon arms and they would suffer vengeance. It was a fact that some years later, Bishop Deniol was one of the thousand clerics who died during the wholesale slaughter of monks at Bangor.
Eadulf stirred uncomfortably from his reflections as a tall Briton, clad in the robes of a religious, walked by and greeted him with a smile and some unintelligible word. Eadulf automatically returned the smile and gave such greeting as he could remember in the language. Eadulf had no wish to be an enemy to anyone, but what was the proverb of his people which came to mind? There is no safety in trying to make a friend of one’s enemy. Surely that could not be right? There were the teachings of the Faith to take account of. What was it that the Blessed James had written? ‘What causes conflicts and quarrels among you? Do they not spring from the aggressiveness of your bodily desires? You want something which you cannot have, and so you are bent on murder; you are envious, and cannot attain your ambition, and so you quarrel and fight.’ Was that the main reason behind the last two centuries of war and bloodshed since the Saxons had landed in Britain? He shuddered. What was it that Christ had said? ‘I give you a new commandment; love one another.’ Well, so far as the decision rested with him, that is what he was prepared to do. However, it did not calm his mind; calm his fears of being in a strange land surrounded by a people whom he mistrusted.
Some hours later, when Fidelma came to find him and ask him if he thought himself fit to accompany her on the walk to the abbey of Dewi Sant, he found that the few hours in the fresh air had renewed his vigour. He answered in the affirmative. The giddiness had vanished and apart from a tenderness around the bruising on his forehead, which was still painful to touch, he felt revived.
The great abbey dedicated to Dewi Sant lay not more than a kilometre and a half to the north-east of the small port. They left Porth Clais walking at an easy pace, maintaining a steady gait, along the bracken-covered banks of the river. According to Fidelma, who had traversed the path the day
before, it was called the Alun. Along this track came cargoes of gold, mined in Ireland, landed by ship at the port. The gold was taken to the abbey to be constructed by the goldsmiths there into sacred objects for veneration. Further upriver, the track ran into moorland, but Fidelma was able to pick her way through the boggy ground with confident ease. The day was still generally bright and, although the wind was rising, not too chill for the time of year. The journey was an easy one.
In no time at all the great abbey complex came in sight. Eadulf had to admit that it was an impressive collection of buildings, equal to any he had seen anywhere except in Rome. The buildings were a combination of grey granite and local woods.
They were greeted at the gates by one of the brethren, who seemed to have been expecting their arrival for he led them, without delay, directly to the chambers of Abbot Tryffin himself.
The abbot rose from his chair and came forward to greet them warmly in Fidelma’s native tongue. He obviously spoke the language as fluently as Brother Rhodri did. His tonsure was in the fashion of St John, the manner adopted by the churches of the Britons as well as those of Éireann. The head was shaved from the front to a line running from ear to ear, which some said was but a continuation of the tonsure adopted by the Druids, the wise men and sages of old. In his late forties, he was gaunt of face, thin-lipped and with a large nose, crisscrossed by tiny red veins, like a spider’s web. He smiled readily and there seemed a genuine warmth in the greeting. Yet his dark eyes held an anxious expression.
They were seated before a fire and served with mulled wine which Eadulf found welcome and comforting.
‘Are you in good health now, Brother Eadulf?’ the abbot asked as he settled in his chair. ‘Are you none the worse for your accident on board ship?’
Smoke in the Wind Page 4