‘We shall not reject our faith and beliefs for they are those approved by the Holy Father in Rome,’ declared Abbot Servillius firmly.
‘Nor shall we reject the Truth,’ replied Bishop Britmund with equal determination.
Radoald sighed impatiently. ‘No one is asking you to reject or embrace anything, except that you must find a course in which tolerance binds you and not hatred.’
‘Then let the members of this abbey begin,’ said BishopBritmund. ‘Let them cease to preach against us in Placentia. Let them cease travelling to the surrounding towns and churches and denouncing our beliefs as heresy.’
‘Then let those prelates and propounders of your heresy cease to tell people that they will receive the blessings of God if they rise up and destroy us and this abbey,’ retorted Abbot Servillius.
Bishop Britmund hesitated for a moment before demanding: ‘What accusation is this, Servillius?’
‘Do you deny the martial cry from your pulpits?’ sneered the abbot. ‘We hear them even from behind these ancient walls.’
Bishop Britmund turned to Lord Radoald, his face growing red. ‘I did not come here to be falsely accused.’
There was a silence and then Radoald looked towards Fidelma. A smile was on his lips.
‘And what do you make of this, lady? Were there ever such diametrically opposed opinions at that Council you attended at Streonshalh?’
Fidelma took a moment’s thought and then said, ‘The opinions were opposed, certainly, but perhaps presented with a little less emphatic resolve. I thought the purpose here was to find a via media aurea, the middle way, which is the golden path where both sides may meet.’
‘That was my intention,’ agreed Radoald solemnly. ‘But, so far, that path appears elusive.’
‘It seems that we are stuck in the via militaris,’ Fidelma acknowledged ‘Is it not said that in the middle way stands the truth?’
‘There is no middle way,’ snapped Bishop Britmund. ‘There is either truth or untruth. Truth has no compromise.’ He rose abruptly and his companion rose with him. ‘I came here atthe request of the Lord Radoald. I hoped to see in him the great lord that his father was. Instead I find him besotted by this abbey and its heretical philosophies.’
Wulfoald clapped a hand on his sword hilt and made a threatening movement, but Radoald quickly reached up and seized his warrior by the arm, causing him to halt. But Wulfoald was not to be stopped from speaking.
‘Have a care, Bishop, when you insult the Lord of Trebbia. Perctarit’s warriors have not yet crossed the mighty Padus to protect you.’
Fidelma noticed that Brother Godomar had also reached forward and was tugging at the sleeve of the bishop’s robe. Bishop Britmund’s eyes blazed. He seemed to consider for a moment the situation and then he shrugged.
‘No insult was meant, Lord Radoald. Forgive my clumsy way of expressing my displeasure. I can see no means for an amicable settlement of our differences here. We stand as firm for our faith as do those of this abbey stand for their heresy. We must accept that our middle path is this promise: if we are attacked, we shall retaliate. Oculum pro oculo, detem pro dente, manum pro manu, pedem pro pede.’
‘I thought,’ Fidelma observed softly but clearly, ‘that the Faith, by whatever interpretation you give it, was based on the words and teaching of the Christ?’
Bishop Britmund swung round with anger on his features. ‘Are you trying to teach me the Faith, woman of Hibernia?’
‘I am merely reminding you that Christ taught that it had, indeed, been said, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, but He told the faithful to ignore that teaching. Furthermore, He taught them that whoever strikes them on the right cheek, they should turn the other cheek to them.’
Abbot Servillius was smiling in approval as he added, ‘It isso stated in the Gospel of Matthew. Perhaps Bishop Britmund is not above denying the teaching of Christ as well as the Creed of Nicaea?’
Bishop Britmund did not conceal his anger. He turned to Lord Radoald. ‘I need your guarantee of safe passage back to Placentia.’
Radoald lifted an eyebrow. ‘Why so? Were you endangered coming here?’
‘It is plain that I stand here unharmed, so no danger came to me on my way here.’
‘Then you shall return unharmed. No one here wishes to do you or any member of the Faith physical harm, Britmund.’
The bishop hesitated, as if about to say something more, and then swept from the room, followed by his silent companion, Brother Godomar. Brother Wulfila, as steward, went scurrying after them for it was his task to see them safely from the confines of the abbey.
After they had gone, Abbot Servillius slumped back in his chair and gave a long, deep sigh.
‘When the Creator handed out charity, He must have missed giving Britmund a share of it.’
Radoald was rueful. ‘I am afraid that this is my fault. I tried to play the peacemaker, having been conscious of what happened to poor Brother Ruadán. I want these attacks to cease.’
Fidelma stirred uncomfortably, remembering how she had seen poor Brother Ruadán lying in his bed, an old man attacked and injured because of the arrogance of Bishop Britmund, a so-called man of God.
‘What is more worrying, Radoald, is that such prelates as Britmund may well be placed in a position of power if the stories of Perctarit’s return are true,’ pointed out Abbot Servillius.
‘But we have heard nothing more tangible than rumours of his returning. No details, no hard news,’ Wulfoald intervened. It seemed the warrior was comfortable speaking his mind before his lord and the prelates of the abbey. ‘There is no need to panic until we have news.’
The abbot seemed irritated as he replied, ‘We of Bobium are not panicking but we should be prepared for the worst.’
‘We do not accuse you of panic, Abbot Servillius,’ Radoald calmed him. ‘But we can do nothing until we receive definite news.’
‘And how can we obtain that?’ replied the abbot petulantly. ‘By the sight of Perctarit’s army marching up the Trebbia Valley?’
Radoald responded with conviction. ‘It is my intention to position some of my men strategically to listen to such rumours, to hear the news and to report back to me of any impending dangers. After all, if Perctarit comes here, he will be seeking revenge. I must remind you that it was my father, when he was Lord of Trebbia, who supported Grimoald in the assassination of Godepert and in forcing his brother, Perctarit, to flee into exile. And was I not fighting at my father’s side?’
The abbot looked uncomfortable. ‘You are right to rebuke me. I was thinking only of the welfare of this abbey and the brethren.’
‘And rightly so, Father Abbot,’ replied Radoald. ‘A father must think of the welfare of his children.’
There was a brief pause and then Magister Ado intervened. ‘Lord Radoald is correct. But we are well protected here in this valley by virtue of it not being on any major route which Perctarit must occupy if he does mean to return to overthrow the King. This valley is of no strategic value.’
‘I must take up Magister Ado on his observation that this Valley of the Trebbia is a byway which Perctarit would ignore,’ corrected Wulfoald. ‘As an historian he has forgotten how strategic this valley was in ancient times.’
‘I do not pretend to be an historian,’ the elderly religieux said immediately. ‘I have only written of the lives of the great founders of the Faith, that is all.’
‘Then I crave pardon.’ Wulfoald smiled. ‘But I have read the Greek Polybius and the Latin of Livy, who came from this very territory. They both gave us their descriptions of the Battle of Trebbia.’
Venerable Ionas spoke for the first time in the exchange. ‘Most of us know to what you are alluding, my young warrior friend.’ He turned to Fidelma. ‘This little peaceful valley was once Gaulish territory, and in the distant days of the Roman Republic, the Romans knew that they had to conquer this land to expand their empire. But it was a long and painful business. Many Roman consuls lost the
ir lives here as well as their legions while trying to subdue the Boii, who were the main people that dwelled here. A former consul, Flaminius, managed to reach Genua along the coast and establish a garrison there, which allowed legionaries to march through this valley on their quest to conquer. Later, it was at the mouth of this very valley that the Carthaginians of Hannibal achieved their first major victory against the Romans — it is still called the Battle of Trebbia.’
Venerable Ionas’ voice had risen in enthusiasm and suddenly, realising their eyes were upon him, he hesitated and shrugged with a smile. ‘Your pardon again. Sometimes I let my fascination for history, especially of this place, carry me away.’
‘May I ask a question?’
They turned to look at Fidelma with interest as she spoke.
‘Proceed,’ invited Abbot Servillius.
‘From what I have been told, your King, Grimoald, is a follower of this Arian Creed. This former King, Perctarit, believes in the Nicene Creed. Am I correct in assuming this?’
‘You are correct,’ agreed Abbot Servillius.
‘Then I am confused. How is it that the Arians, such as Bishop Britmund, would support Perctarit, a Nicenine, should he try to wrest back the throne from which he was deposed? It is not logical.’
Abbot Servillius allowed Radoald to respond.
‘Religion plays no part in this struggle for kingship. What you say is true, except that Grimoald is a very liberal King and allows people to follow their own faith, whether it be one of the Christian sects or, indeed, whether they want to stick with their old gods and goddesses. Perctarit, on the other hand, will promise and do whatever it takes for him to reassert his power … even to permit Britmund to destory all those in his territories who support the Nicene Creed. We hear rumours that Perctarit is negotiating such an aim to secure support.’
Fidelma was sure she saw something in the glance that Wulfoald exchanged with Radoald. Then Wulfoald was speaking. ‘Anyway, if Perctarit crossed into the Valley of the Padus, he would have to march east and deal with Grimoald’s Regent, Lupus of Friuli, who commands a large army there. Perctarit could not leave that army unchallenged behind him if he intended to march south against Grimoald. He would have to bribe or destroy Lupus before unleashing his followers on Grimoald and the abbeys and churches that still follow the Creed of Nicaea.’
Fidelma remained quiet. The politics did seem entirelyconfusing. But it was not her place to intervene in foreign affairs.
Radoald rose abruptly, and they followed suit.
‘Well, we can do no more except watch and hope all our fears are in vain.’ He turned to Fidelma with an apologetic expression. ‘I am sorry that you witnessed this confrontation, lady. I only insisted that you attend in order to draw on your advice from the confrontation you witnessed at the Abbey of Streonshalh.’
Fidelma contrived to shrug. ‘I am only sorry that the positions were so entrenched that my advice would have been superfluous.’
‘Have you seen Brother Ruadán?’ continued the young lord. ‘How is he? I was hoping to speak with him myself but Brother Hnikar says he is too frail.’
‘I saw him last night,’ Fidelma answered truthfully, not mentioning her morning visit. ‘He is, indeed very frail.’
‘But still lucid?’ pressed Radoald, almost eagerly.
‘I find him so,’ countered Fidelma with a frown. ‘But then we spoke in our own language, which may not stress him as much as talking in another tongue. Anyway, I hope to speak with him later.’
‘Brother Hnikar, our physician, expects the worst,’ intervened Brother Wulfila, who had now returned to attend to the needs of the others, catching the last remark.
Radoald shook his head sadly. ‘You must let me know how his condition fares as I would like to speak with him also. A crime was committed and the culprit must be found and punished. Indeed, perhaps I could send my own apothecary Suidur to assist your Brother Hnikar …?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Abbot Servillius said, almost sharply. ‘We have faith in Brother Hnikar. I suggest we waitfor a while to see if there is an improvement. Brother Hnikar could not even sanction more than one fleeting visit from Sister Fidelma because of Brother Ruadán’s weakening condition.’
‘I did not mean to imply that your apothecary was lacking,’ Radoald replied. ‘Only that two heads are sometimes better than one. I will, however, abide by Brother Hnikar’s ruling.’
‘I do not mean to slight Suidur,’ the abbot said. ‘But from what I hear, Brother Ruadán is beyond the skill of even the best apothecary. All we can do is wait and pray.’
Although she wanted to comment, Fidelma was again silent, feeling that strange alienation from her surroundings, like someone in an unfamiliar bog land who fears that whatever step she might take would be the one that drags her into the mire.
‘We shall stay within the vicinity of Bobium today,’ Radoald replied. ‘If I hear anything definite about the advance of Perctarit, I shall send one of my men to inform you.’
The farewells were taken in the courtyard and Fidelma stood watching Radoald and Wulfoald join their two companions, mount their horses and ride out through the gates. Abbot Servillius had already turned back to his chamber with Magister Ado and Venerable Ionas. Fidelma was surprised to find Brother Faro once again at her side.
‘Well,’ he grinned, ‘I hear that matters almost came to blows in there. You must find all this very curious.’
‘I have grown used to prelates arguing semantics,’ Fidelma replied, after a moment’s reflection. ‘Although, I confess, I have not found the intensity of hatred that I witnessed this morning. I begin to understand why Magister Ado thinks the attacks on him were due to the differences in theological opinion.’
Brother Faro grimaced indifferently. ‘At least you are among friends here,’ he replied. ‘But, if you will excuse me, I have to speak with the steward.’
‘Magister Ado had intended to show me the herb gardens when we were called to witness Bishop Britmund’s display of bad manners.’ Fidelma held him back for a moment. She wanted to take a breath of fresh air after the stuffy atmosphere. ‘He seems to have forgotten. Perhaps you can show me the way to it?’
‘If you proceed through that archway,’ he indicated across the courtyard, ‘and follow the path, it will bring you into the herb garden. One of your compatriots, Brother Lonán, tends the garden and will doubtless be better able to explain about it.’
Fidelma had almost forgotten that, as an Irish foundation, there would be others from the Five Kingdoms, apart from Brother Ruadán, in the abbey. As Brother Faro hurried off in search of Brother Wulfila, she crossed the courtyard with a feeling of relief at the idea of seeing and speaking to some of her countrymen again. She was so filled with the thought that she had entirely forgotten about the disappearance of Lady Gunora and her charge, Prince Romuald.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brother Lonán turned out to be a disappointment. He was an excitable little man whose sole interest appeared to be in the herbs that he grew in a walled garden at the back of the abbey complex. With careful questioning, Fidelma managed to extract the fact that he had originally studied at Cluain Eidnech, the Ivy Meadow, a territory whose chiefs gave nominal allegiance to the King of Muman but, because of its position on the eastern borders, next to the Kingdom of Laighin, that allegiance often vacillated depending on what gain was offered.
‘How many of the brethren here are from Hibernia?’ she asked as he turned his attention to some shrubs she did not recognise.
‘At the moment there are twelve of our compatriots among the brethren,’ he replied absently. ‘I suppose I have been here the longest now. Of course, all of the original founders have passed on.’
‘Do many of our people pass through here on their way to Rome or elsewhere in the south? I am told that many of our peregrinatio pro Christo have established themselves in this land.’
The question met with a shrug that indicated he was either uninterested o
r unconcerned. In fact, all of her questions about life at the abbey and personalities were met with similar indifference, while questions about herbs and other plants were greeted with little bursts of enthusiasm, albeit coupled with longwinded responses. Within half an hour, Fidelma had grown bored and decided to end her visit.
It was while she was making up her mind what excuse she could offer to cut the examination of the herb garden short that another member of the brethren passed by and greeted Brother Lonán in his own language. She turned to examine him. He was a young man with thin pale features, light blue eyes and flaming red hair, almost like her own.
‘I recognise your accent, Brother,’ she greeted him. ‘You are from Muman.’
The young man halted and then apparently recognised her.
‘I am Brother Eolann, lady,’ he replied. ‘I am the scriptor here. And you are Sister Fidelma. I saw you in the refectorium. It is said you are the daughter of the King at Cashel.’
‘My father was Failbe Flann who died when I was young. My brother is Colgú who is now the heir apparent to my cousin, Cathal.’
‘Do you bring recent news from my native Muman?’
‘Alas, I have been away from Muman for many months, Brother Eolann.’
He sighed. ‘I have been away from Muman many years and so whatever news you have, even though out of date, will be news to me. Come, join me in my daily walk and tell me what there is to know of home.’
Fidelma was thankful that the scriptor of the abbey might be a more interesting conversationalist than Brother Lonán. The gardener had already wandered off with trowel in hand,seemingly intent in the pursuit of his horticultural tasks. Fidelma turned to the young man. ‘Where do you come from, Brother Eolann?’
‘From Faithleann’s Island — do you know it?’ he replied as they fell in step.
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