‘Aye,’ cried the gaunt Abbess Abbe of Coldingham vehemently, Oswy’s sister. ‘And were not more amendments proposed by Dionysius Exigius during the pontificate of Felix III? The original rules governing the dating of Easter, which were all agreed at Aries, have been distorted by Rome several times during the last three hundred years. We maintain the original computation agreed at Aries.’
‘That is a falsehood before God!’ snapped Agilbert, the Frankish bishop, irritably.
There was uproar until the venerable Cedd indicated that he wished to speak again.
‘Brethren, we should show charity to one another in this place. Those who argue against the Columban church do so surely from ignorance. Even after the Council of Aries the Christian world agreed that our calendar for the commemorative feast days must be based on the calendar of the land in which the Christ was born and grew to manhood. Thus we agreed that they should be based on the Jewish lunar calendar and thus did the Passover, at which time our Saviour was crucified, fall in the month of Nisan. This was the seventh and Spring month of the Jewish calendar, the period we now designate as March and April.
‘Thus do we call our festival the Pasca from the Hebrew Pesach or Passover. Did not Paul, in writing to the Corinthians, refer to Christ as their Passover Lamb – their sacrifice – because it was well known that he was executed at that festival, under the old computations that Passover fell on the fourteenth day of Nisan. Using this calculation we celebrate the festival on whatever Sunday falls between the fourteenth and twentieth days after the first full moon following the spring equinox.’
‘But Rome has made it unlawful for Christians to celebrate a Christian festival on the same day as a Jewish one,’ Wilfrid interrupted.
‘Exactly so,’ replied Cedd calmly. ‘And that was nonsensical when the Council of Nicaea, debating after the Council of Aries, declared such a thing to be unlawful. Christ was, in the flesh, a Jew—’
There was a gasp of horror among the assembly.
Cedd looked round at the assembly complacently.
‘Was he not?’ he queried cynically. ‘Or was he a Nubian? Or a Saxon even? Perhaps he was a Frank? In what land was he born and grew to manhood if it was not the land of the Jews?’
‘He was the Son of God!’ Wilfrid’s voice was enraged.
‘And the Son of God chose to be born into the land of Israel, with his earthly parents Jewish, bringing the Word first to those who were Chosen of God. Only in killing their Messiah did the Jews reject the Word leaving it to be taken up by the Gentiles. Is it not odd, then, to reject the fact that Christ was executed during a particular feast of the Jews and then to designate an arbitrary date for the Christian world to commemorate that execution which bears no relationship to the actual date it happened?’
Abbess Abbe was nodding her head in agreement.
‘I hear that those who argue for Rome are seeking to change our day of repose as well because it falls on the same day as the Hebrew sabbath,’ she observed bitingly.
Wilfrid pursed his lips in anger.
‘Sunday, the first day of the week, is rightly the day of repose for it is symbolic of the Resurrection.’
‘Yet Saturday is the traditional day of repose, it being the last day of the week,’ argued another brother, whom the sister at Fidelma’s side identified as Chad, the abbot of Lastingham.
‘These amendments made by Rome take us further and further away from the original dates and render our commemorative ceremonies and anniversaries arbitrary and without meaning,’ Abbe called out. ‘Why not accept that Rome is in error?’
Wilfrid had to wait for the applause from the Columban benches to die away.
He was clearly flustered by the ageing Cedd’s erudition and so resorted to ridicule.
‘So Rome is in error?’ sneered Wilfrid. ‘If Rome is in error then Jerusalem is in error, Alexandria is in error, Antioch is in error, the whole world is in error; only the Irish and the Britons know what is right—’
The young abbot Chad was on his feet immediately.
‘I would point out to the noble Wilfrid of Ripon’ – the taunting tone of his voice was unmistakable – ‘that the churches of the East have already rejected Rome’s new computations about Easter. They follow the same computations that we do. They do not jeer at the name Anatolius of Laodicea. Neither the church of the Irish and Britons nor the churches of the East have turned away from the original dates given at Arles. Only Rome seeks to revise its practices.’
‘The Roman faction speak as if Rome is the centre of everything.’ Bishop Colman now spoke, sensing his advantage. ‘They speak as if we are out of step with the rest of Christendom. Yet the churches of Egypt and Syria and the East refused to accept Roman dictation at their council of Chalcedon by—’
He was forced to stop by the rise of protesting shouting from the Roman benches.
Finally, Oswy rose and held up his hand.
Gradually those gathered in the great hall fell silent.
‘Brethren, our debate this morning has been long and arduous and doubtless we have exchanged much food for thought. This is a good time to call a recess, so that we may take nourishment for the flesh as well as for the spirit. We can spend this afternoon in meditation. We shall reconvene here this evening.’
The assembly rose and began gradually to disperse, voices still raised in argument among themselves.
‘Which is Athelnoth?’ asked Fidelma of her informant.
The sister turned, frowning slightly, as she surveyed the groups of religious.
‘That man there, sister, across the far side of the hall. Next to the young man with the corn-coloured hair.’
With a glance at Eadulf, Sister Fidelma turned and pushed her way through the arguing throng towards the figure her informant had indicated, a man who stood slightly behind the small pugnacious figure of Wilfrid of Ripon, as though waiting to speak with him. He stood by a blond-haired monk who stood holding several books and documents at Wilfrid’s elbow.
‘Brother Athelnoth?’ she asked, coming up behind his shoulder.
The man started slightly. She saw the sudden tensing of the muscles in the back of his neck. Then he turned slightly with a frown.
He was not a tall man, perhaps five feet five inches in height, but he seemed to dominate his companions. A man with a broad face, the forehead high and sloping, and with an aquiline nose and dark eyes. Fidelma supposed that many women would find him attractive, but he was too saturnine and brooding for her taste.
‘You wanted me, sister?’ he asked, his voice low, resonant and pleasant.
She was conscious of Eadulf arriving, slightly breathless at forcing his way through the crowd, at her shoulder.
‘We did.’
‘It is not a convenient time.’ Athelnoth’s tone was one of distant superiority and now, observing Eadulf, he addressed his remarks to the Saxon monk. Fidelma found it an irritating mannerism of all Saxons that if a man were present he always took precedence over a woman. ‘I am waiting to speak with Abbot Wilfrid here.’
Brother Eadulf spoke before Fidelma could answer. Perhaps he saw the anger boiling in her.
‘It will take but a short amount of time, brother. It concerns the death of the Abbess Etain.’
Athelnoth could not quite keep control of his facial features. There was a momentary change in his expression – gone before Sister Fidelma was sure of its meaning.
‘What has the matter to do with you?’ countered the man a little belligerently.
‘We are charged with the investigation of the matter under the authority of Oswy the king, also Colmán, bishop of Northumbria, and Hilda, Abbess of Streoneshalh.’
Sister Fidelma replied quietly but clearly enough for Athelnoth’s mouth to set firmly. With such authority he could not argue.
‘What do you wish of me?’ he demanded. She could accept the tone of defensiveness which now crept into his voice.
‘Let us walk where we may hear ourselves speak,’ Eadulf sa
id, indicating the side door of the sacrarium, away from the still-argumentative religious, many of whom had not yet dispersed to the refectory for the midday meal.
Athelnoth hesitated, glancing at Wilfrid, who was deep in conversation with Agilbert and the rotund figure of Wighard, who was supporting the frail-looking Archbishop of Canterbury, Deusdedit, on his arm. They were too animated by their exchange to notice anyone else and, with a suppressed sigh, Athelnoth turned and walked with Eadulf and Fidelma towards the door. They turned across the hortus olitorius, the abbey’s extensive kitchen gardens, beyond the sacrarium.
The warm May sun was casting a brilliant light on the vegetation and causing the scent of a myriad herbs and plants to lie fragrantly on the air.
‘Let us walk awhile and breathe God’s fresh air after the closeness of the assembly hall,’ suggested Eadulf almost unctuously.
Fidelma took one side of Athelnoth while Eadulf walked upon the other side.
‘Did you know the Abbess Étain?’ asked Eadulf, almost casually.
Athelnoth cast a quick glance in his direction.
‘It depends on what you mean,’ he countered.
‘Shall I rephrase the question, perhaps?’ Eadulf said quickly. ‘How well did you know Étain of Kildare?’
Athelnoth frowned. His face coloured and he hesitated. Then he replied shortly, ‘Not well at all.’
‘But how well?’ pressed Fidelma, pleased with the way the Saxon monk had begun the interrogation.
‘I met her only four days ago.’
When neither replied, Athelnoth plunged on hurriedly.
‘Bishop Colmán called me to him a week ago and told me that he had heard that the Abbess Étain of Kildare was arriving to take part in the great synod. Her ship had landed at the port of Ravenglass in the kingdom of Rheged. Her route would take her across the high hills to Catraeth. Colmán asked me to take some brothers and go to Catraeth to meet the abbess to escort her safely to Witebia. This I did.’
‘This was your first meeting with the abbess?’ Fidelma pressed for confirmation.
Athelnoth frowned briefly.
‘What makes you ask these questions?’ he replied guardedly.
‘We wish to have a clear picture of Étain’s last days,’ explained Eadulf.
‘Then, yes. This was my first meeting with her.’
Fidelma and Eadulf exchanged a glance. Both felt sure that Athelnoth was lying. But why?
‘And nothing untoward happened on your journey here to Streoneshalh?’ Eadulf asked, after a while.
‘Nothing.’
‘You did not enter into any argument with the abbess or her followers?’
Athelnoth bit his lip.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said sullenly.
‘Oh come,’ Fidelma said cajolingly. ‘You are known to be ardent for Rome and the Abbess Étain was the chief spokesman for Columba’s rule. Surely some words were exchanged? After all, you were two or three days on the road with her and her entourage.’
Athelnoth shrugged.
‘Oh, that. Of course we had some discussion.’
‘Some discussion?’
Athelnoth’s sigh spoke of ill-concealed irritation.
‘We had one argument, that is all. I told her what I thought. No crime in that.’
‘Of course not. But did your arguments descend to any physical disagreement?’
Athelnoth flushed. ‘One young Columban monk had to be restrained. Being young, he had to be forgiven that he had no knowledge of wisdom to argue in any other form but violence. A. foolish young man. It was of no consequence.’
‘And when you arrived here, what then?’
‘Then I had discharged my duty to my bishop. Having brought the abbess and her party safely to the abbey here, that was all.’
‘All?’ Fidelma’s voice was sharp.
Athelnoth glanced at her and made no reply.
‘Did you see her afterwards, after you had brought her to the safety of these walls?’ prompted Eadulf.
Athelnoth shook his head, his lips compressed.
‘So.’ Fidelma let out a long breath. ‘You did not call upon her in her cell and wish to speak with her alone?’
Fidelma could almost see the man’s mind working furiously; she saw the slight widening of the eyes as he remembered the witness to his indiscretion.
‘Ah, yes …’
‘Yes?’
‘I did call upon her once.’
‘When and for what purpose?’
The man was clearly on his guard. Fidelma could feel a detached sympathy for the man as he attempted to conjure a suitable excuse.
‘Just after the prandium was finished, on the first day of the debate. The day of her death. I wanted to return something that belonged to the abbess. Something that she had dropped during our journey from Catraeth.’
‘Really?’ Eadulf scratched an ear. ‘Why was it not returned before?’
‘I … had only just discovered it.’
‘And did you return “it” – whatever it was?’
‘A brooch.’ Athelnoth sounded confident. ‘And I did not return it.’
‘Why?’
‘When I went to see the abbess she was not alone.’
‘So why not leave the brooch?’
‘I wished to speak with her.’ Athelnoth hesitated again and bit his lip. ‘I decided to return later.’
‘And did you?’
‘I am sorry?’
‘Did you return later?’
‘Later, the abbess was found dead.’
‘So you still have her brooch?’
‘Yes.’
Sister Fidelma held out her hand silently.
‘I do not have it with me.’
‘Very well,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘We will accompany you to your cubiculum. I presume it is there?’
Athelnoth hesitated and nodded slowly.
‘Lead on,’ Eadulf invited.
Together they turned, Athelnoth moving awkwardly.
‘What is so important about the brooch?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘We cannot tell you until we have seen it,’ Fidelma replied calmly. ‘At the moment, we have to pursue all matters relating to the abbess.’
Athelnoth sniffed in irritation.
‘Well, if it is suspects that you are searching for, I can name one. When I went to see the abbess, to bring her the brooch, that strange-looking sister was with her.’
Fidelma raised an eyebrow sardonically.
‘Are you referring to Sister Gwid?’
‘Gwid!’ Athelnoth nodded. ‘The Pictish girl who is so resentful and jealous of petty things. The Picts are always the enemies of our blood. My father was slain in the Pictish wars. She was always with the abbess.’
‘Why not?’ Eadulf replied. ‘She was secretary to the abbess.’
Athelnoth grimaced as if in surprise.
‘I did know that the Abbess Étain had appointed the girl her secretary. Out of pity, I presume? The girl followed the abbess about like a dog after a sheep. You would imagine that she thought the abbess was a reincarnation of some great saint.’
‘But Étain had sent an invitation to Gwid to come here from Iona to be her secretary,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Why would she do that out of pity?’
Athelnoth shrugged. He turned to lead the way silently through the shadow-strewn cloisters to his cubiculum.
It was a small functional cell, like all the other cubicula in the abbey but that Athelnoth was assigned a separate chamber rather than merely a bed in the dormitorium was indicative of his status in the church of Northumbria. Fidelma quietly registered this fact.
Athelnoth stood hesitating on the threshold, gazing around the bare sandstone room.
‘The brooch … ?’ prompted Fidelma.
Atholnoth nodded, crossing to the wooden pegs from which his clothes hung. He took down a epera, a leather satchel in which many travelling brethren carried their possessions.
He thrust his hand in.
Then his frown deepened and he proceeded to search carefully.
He turned to them with an expression of bewilderment.
‘It is not here. I cannot find it.’
Chapter Eleven
Fidelma raised a quizzical eyebrow as she returned the bewildered gaze of Athelnoth.
‘You placed the brooch in your bag?’
‘Yes. I placed it in there yesterday afternoon.’
‘Who would take it?’
‘I have no idea. No one knew I had it.’
Eadulf was about to make a pointed remark when Fidelma stopped him.
‘Very well, Athelnoth. Have a careful search and if you find the brooch contact us and let us know.’ Outside Athelnoth’s cell, Eadulf turned to her with a frown.
‘You surely don’t believe him?’
Fidelma shrugged.
‘Did you think he was speaking the truth?’
‘By the living God, no! Of course not!’
‘Then Gwid would seem to be right. Athelnoth was visiting Étain for some reason other than the return of a mere brooch.’
‘Yes, of course. Athelnoth is lying.’
‘But does that prove that Athelnoth killed Étain?’
‘No,’ admitted Eadulf. ‘But it gives us a motive for the killing, doesn’t it?’
‘This is true, though something is not quite in order. I was sure that Athelnoth invented the story of the brooch until he claimed it was still in his possession in his cubiculum. If it was a lie, it would be so easy to discover it.’
‘He was under pressure to come up with a story quickly. He thought of it on the spur of the moment, not realising its weakness.’
‘That is a good argument. Yet we can afford to leave Athelnoth to his own devices for a while. Would you know anyone among the Saxon clergy who would give you some information on Athelnoth’s background? Perhaps someone who accompanied him when he went to meet Étain on the border of Rheged? I’d like to know more of this Athelnoth.’
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