Taran shrugged.
‘Only a few of these Saxons are able to read and write. And they were not even capable of those accomplishments until the blessed Aidán arrived in this land. They could not even write down their own language, far less construe the languages of others.’
The Abbess Hilda was banging a staff on the stone floor for attention. Reluctantly, the members of the assembly were returning to their benches. The muttering of their voices began to die away.
‘Light has returned and so we may continue. Has the Abbess of Kildare joined the proceedings yet?’ Sister Fidelma turned her mind back to the matter in hand and found herself bewildered. The space assigned to the Abbess Étain still remained unfilled.
Wilfrid of Ripon had risen with a smirk.
‘If the chief speaker of the church of Columba is not willing to join us, perhaps we should proceed without her?’
‘There are plenty more who will speak on our behalf!’ shouted back Cuthbert, not bothering to rise this time.
Again the Abbess Hilda banged her staff of office.
Then for the second time the assembly was abruptly interrupted by the great doors swinging open. This time a young sister with white face and staring eyes entered the sacrarium. It was obvious that she had been running – her hair was in disarray, spilling beneath her headdress. She paused, her eyes searching the vast chamber. Then she hurried directly to where the Abbess Hilda stood in bewilderment, just below the king.
Wonderingly, Fidelma watched as the sister moved swiftly to the Abbess Hilda, who bent forward so that the woman might whisper into her ear. Fidelma could not see Hilda’s face, but she saw the abbess rise and move immediately towards the king, bending and repeating whatever message had been brought.
The sacrarium was now silent as the churchmen and delegates sat watching the new drama.
The king rose and left, followed a short while later by Hilda, Abbe, Colman, Deusdedit, Wighard and Jacobus.
There was sudden uproar in the chamber as those gathered turned excitedly to each other to see if any knew the meaning of this curious behaviour. Voices were raised in speculation.
Two Northumbrian religieuses from Coldingham who were seated behind Fidelma were of the opinion that an army of Britons had invaded the kingdom, taking advantage of the king’s preoccupation with the synod. They could remember the invasion of Cadwallon ap Cadfan, king of Gwynedd, which had ravaged the kingdom and caused the slaughter of many during one ill-fated year. But a brother of a house at Gilling, seated in front, interrupted with the opinion that it was more likely that the Mercians were invading, for had not Wulfhere, the son of Penda, sworn to re-establish Mercian independence from Northumbria and already begun to re-assert its dominance south of the Humber? The Mercians were always looking for a chance to avenge themselves on Oswy, who had slain Penda and, for three years, ruled Mercia. And even though Wulfhere had sent a royal representative to the synod it was just the sort of dirty trick the Mercians would play.
Fidelma was intrigued to hear the political speculation but for one not well acquainted with the position of the Saxon kingdoms it sounded very confusing. It was so unlike her native land, where there seemed a clear order under law and where the High King and his court were the final authority in the land. Even though some petty kings might dispute with the High King they at least acknowledged the nominal rule of Tara. The Saxons always seemed to be quarrelling among themselves and using the sword as the only arbiter in law.
A hand fell on her shoulder. A young sister leaned across her.
‘Sister Fidelma? The Mother Abbess requires your presence in her chambers immediately.’
Surprised and somewhat bewildered, ignoring the looks of open curiosity from Sister Gwid and Brother Taran, Sister Fidelma rose and followed the young religieuse away from the pandemonium and confusion of the sacrarium and along the quieter corridors until she found herself ushered into the chamber of the Abbess Hilda. The abbess was standing before her fire, hands clasped before her. Her face was grey and grave. Bishop Colmán was seated in the chair to one side of the fire as he had been seated on the previous evening. He, too, had an air of solemnity, as if weighed down by a heavy problem.
They both appeared almost too preoccupied to notice her entrance.
‘Mother Abbess, you sent for me?’
Hilda seemed to pull herself together with a sigh and glanced at Colmán who responded with a curious gesture of his hand as if motioning her to proceed.
‘My lord bishop reminds me that you are an advocate of the law in your own land, Fidelma.’
Sister Fidelma frowned.
‘That is so,’ she confirmed, wondering what was coming.
‘He reminds me that you have acquired a reputation for unravelling mysteries, for solving crimes.’
Fidelma waited expectantly.
‘Sister Fidelma,’ went on the abbess after a pause, ‘I have great need of the talents of one such as you.’
‘I am willing to place my poor abilities at your disposal,’ Fidelma replied slowly, wondering what problem had arisen.
Abbess Hilda bit her lip as she struggled to frame the sentences.
‘I have bad news, sister. The Abbess Étain of Kildare was found in her cell this morning. Her throat was cut – cut in such a manner that one is left with but one interpretation. The Abbess Étain was most foully murdered.’
Chapter Six
The door opened unceremoniously while Sister Fidelma was still in a state of shock at the news. She dimly became aware that Colmán was struggling to rise from his chair and turned to see who could bring the bishop to his feet.
Oswy of Northumbria entered the room.
Events had moved quickly, too quickly for Fidelma to accept that her friend, her colleague for several years, and more recently her abbess, had been cruelly slain. She made a conscious effort to suppress the grief she felt, for the news had grieved her considerably. Yet grief would not help Étain now. Her mind was working rapidly. Fidelma’s training and talents were being called upon and grief would only cloud her ability. Grief could be given way to later.
She tried to concentrate her thoughts on the new entrant into the chamber.
Close up, the king of Northumbria did not seem as handsome as he had appeared from a distance. He was tall and muscular but his fair hair was a dirty yellowing grey and he was obviously approaching his three score years. His skin was yellowing and across his nose and cheeks the breaking of small blood vessels had caused bright red lines to weave across the skin. His eyes were sunken, his brow heavily creased. Fidelma had heard it said that every Northumbrian king had died a violent death in battle. It was an unfavourable heritage to look forward to.
Oswy glanced around, almost with a haunted look, and let his eyes settle on Sister Fidelma.
‘I have heard that you are a dálaigh of the Brehon courts of Ireland?’
To Fidelma’s surprise he spoke the language of Ireland almost as a native. Then she remembered that he had been brought up in exile in Iona. She realised that she should not be surprised at his command of her language.
‘I am qualified to the level of anruth.’
Colmán shuffled forward to explain.
‘That means—’
Oswy turned on him with an impatient gesture.
‘I know exactly what it means, lord bishop. One qualified to the level of anruth is representative of the noble stream of knowledge and can discourse on equal footing with kings, even with the High King himself.’ He smiled in self-satisfaction at the embarrassed bishop before turning back to Sister Fidelma. ‘Nevertheless, even I am surprised to find such a learned head on such young shoulders.’
Fidelma suppressed a sigh.
‘I studied for eight years with the Brehon Morann of Tara, one of the great judges of my country.’
Oswy nodded absently.
‘I do not question your qualifications and my lord Colmán has informed me of your reputation. You know that we have need of you?’
Sister Fidelma inclined her head.
‘I am told that the Abbess Étain has been murdered. She was not only my abbess but she was my friend. I am ready to help.’
‘The abbess was due to open the debate of our assembly on behalf of the church of Iona, as you know. There is much dissension within my land, Sister Fidelma. This matter is delicate. Already rumours are whispered abroad and speculation runs riot. If the abbess was murdered by one of the pro-Roman faction, as seems likely, then there will be such a breach among the people that the truth of Christ may suffer a death blow in the land. Civil war seems likely to rip the people apart. Do you understand?’
‘I understand,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Yet there is something much more serious to be considered.’
Oswy raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘More serious than political repercussions that will reach from Iona, perhaps even the primacy of Armagh, to Rome itself?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, more serious even than that,’ Fidelma quietly assured him. ‘Whoever killed Étain of Kildare must be brought to justice. That is the greater right and moral. What others make of it is their concern. The seeking of truth is more serious than any other consideration.’
For a moment or two Oswy looked blank. Then he smiled ruefully.
‘There speaks the representative of the law. I have long missed the discourses of the Brehons of your country, the judges who sit above the king and his court. Here, the king is the law and no one can sit in judgment on a king.’
Fidelma grimaced indifferently.
‘I have heard of the faults of your Saxon system.’
Abbess Hilda looked shocked.
‘My child, remember you speak to the king.’
But Oswy was grinning.
‘Cousin Hilda, do not rebuke her. She acts in accordance with her own culture. In Ireland, a king is not a law-maker, nor does he rule by the divine right. A king is only an administrator of a law passed down from generation to generation. Any advocate, such as an anruth or an ollamh, may argue law with the highest king in the land. Is that not so, Sister Fidelma?’
Fidelma smiled tightly.
‘You have a keen grasp of our system, Oswy of Northumbria.’
‘And you seem to have a sharp mind and do not appear in fear of any faction,’ observed Oswy. ‘That is good. My cousin Hilda has undoubtedly asked you to undertake the task of discovering who killed Étain of Kildare? What is your reply? Will you do it?’
The door was flung open abruptly.
Sister Gwid stood framed in the doorway, her large, awkward body strangely contorted. Her hair was askew under her headdress, her mouth was trembling, her eyes were red and bloodshot and the tears streamed down her flaccid white cheeks. For a moment she stood sobbing, staring wildly from one face to another.
‘What the—?’ began Oswy in surprise.
‘Is it true? Oh God, tell me it is not so!’ wailed the distressed sister, wringing her large red bony hands in acute distress. ‘Is the Abbess Étain dead?’
Sister Fidelma recovered from her surprise first and hurried across to Sister Gwid, taking the tall girl by the arm and withdrawing her from the room. Outside, in the corridor, she signalled to the worried-looking sister who attended the Abbess Hilda and who had apparently tried to prevent Sister Gwid from entering the chamber.
‘It is true, Gwid,’ Fidelma said softly, feeling sorry for the large girl. She motioned to the hovering anchoress. ‘Let this sister take you to your dormitorium. Go and lie down awhile and I will come to see you as soon as I can.’
The stocky Pictish sister allowed herself to be guided down the corridor, her great shoulders heaving in renewed anguish.
Sister Fidelma hesitated a moment before turning back into the room.
‘Sister Gwid was a student of the Abbess Étain at Emly,’ she explained, meeting the questioning eyes of the company. ‘She was attending here in the capacity of a secretary to the abbess. I think she had developed a sort of adulation for Étain. Her death is a deep shock. We all have our ways of dealing with grief.’
Abbess Hilda made a sympathetic noise.
‘I will go to comfort the poor girl shortly,’ Hilda said. ‘Let us first agree to this business.’
Oswy nodded. ‘What do you say to the proposition, Fidelma of Kildare?’
Fidelma bit her lip and nodded.
‘Abbess Hilda has already indicated that she wishes me to make inquiries. I will do this, not for politics but for the morality of law and the fact that Étain was my friend.’
‘That is well said,’ observed Oswy. ‘Nonetheless, politics do come into this matter. This slaughter, especially of one so eminent, may well be a ruse to disrupt our debate. The obvious interpretation is that Étain, as a chief representative of the faith of Colmcille, was feloniously killed by someone who is pro-Roman. On the other hand, perhaps the killer wishes us to think that so that those in the hall will, out of sympathy, support Iona against Rome.’
Sister Fidelma gazed thoughtfully at Oswy. Here was no simple mind. Here was a king who had ruled with an iron hand for over a score of years among the Northumbrians and turned back every attempt by the other Saxon kings to invade and conquer his land and oust him. Now most Saxon kings, nominally at least, regarded him as their overlord and even the Bishop of Rome addressed him as ‘king of the Saxons’. She could appreciate the sharpness of his intellect.
‘That will be for me to discover then,’ she observed quietly.
Oswy hesitated and shook his head.
‘Not entirely.’
Fidelma raised an eyebrow questioningly.
‘There is a condition.’
‘I am an advocate of the Brehon courts. I do not work under any condition excepting my duty to uncover the truth.’ Her eyes held a dangerous glint.
The Abbess Hilda’s face was scandalised.
‘Sister, you really do forget that you are no longer in your own country and that its laws do not extend here. You must treat the king with respect.’
Once again Oswy smiled, glancing at Hilda with a quick shake of his head.
‘Sister Fidelma and I understand one another, Hilda. And we respect one another, I am sure. Nevertheless, I must insist that condition be met for, as I have said, this is a matter of politics and the future of our kingdoms and the religion which they will follow depend on the solution to this matter.’
‘I fail to understand—’ began Fidelma slightly bewildered.
‘Let me make it clearer, then,’ Oswy broke in. ‘There are two rumours already circulating through the abbey. One is that the Roman faction have sought this appalling method to silence one of the most erudite advocates of the church of Colmcille. The other story is that this is a ruse by those who support the teachings of Iona to wreck the synod and ensure Iona and not Rome governs the liturgy of Northumbria.’
‘Yes, this I can follow.’
‘My daughter Aelflaed, who has trained under the sisters of Iona, has already spoken of raising warriors to strike at those who would drive them out. My son Alhfrith and his wife, Cyneburh, conspire to use military force to overthrow the supporters of Iona. And my young son’ – he paused and gave a bitter laugh – ‘my son Ecgfrith, who cares only for power, watches and waits for the main chance, for a weakness to be revealed so that he can use it and seize my throne. Do you see why this matter is of importance?’
Sister Fidelma raised a shoulder and let it fall.
‘But I do not understand what condition you have to make. I am capable of investigating this mystery.’
‘To demonstrate to both factions that I, Oswy of Northumbria, am being even-handed and unbiased in my dispensation of the law, I cannot allow the death of the Abbess Etain to be investigated by one of the church of Colmcille alone. No more could I allow the matter to be investigated just by one of the church of Rome.’
Fidelma looked puzzled.
‘Then what are you proposing?’
‘That you, sister, join forces
with one who favours the Roman faction. If you investigate jointly no one will be able to accuse us of partiality when the result is made known. Will you agree to this?’
Sister Fidelma stared at the king for a while.
‘It is the first time that I have heard it impugned that a dá/aigh of the Brehon courts would make a biased decision. The motto of our profession is “the truth against the world”. Whether the deed was done by one of my church or by that of Rome, the result would still be the same. I am sworn to uphold the truth, however unpalatable.’ She paused, then shrugged. ‘And yet … yet I do see a logic in your suggestion. I will agree. But who will I work with? I confess that my Saxon is almost non-existent and I know that few of the Saxons have any knowledge of Latin, Greek or Hebrew, tongues I have some fluency in.’
Oswy’s face had relaxed into a smile.
‘In that there is no problem. Among the party of the Archbishop of Canterbury is a young man who is ideally suited to this task.’
Abbess Hilda had turned to her cousin with a look of interest.
‘Who is this?’
‘A brother named Eadulf from Seaxmund’s Ham in Ealdwulf’s kingdom of East Anglia. Brother Eadulf has spent five years as a student in Ireland and a further two years studying in Rome itself. He therefore speaks Irish, Latin and Greek as well as his native Saxon. He has a knowledge of law. In fact, had he not become a religieux he would have been hereditary gerefa – that, Fidelma, is an officer of our laws. Archbishop Deusdedit informs me that he is an inveterate solver of puzzles. So, would you object to working with such a man, Sister Fidelma?’
Fidelma was indifferent.
‘So long as truth is the objective of us both. But how does he feel about working with me?’
‘We may ask him, for I sent a message for him to come here and wait outside. He should be here by now.’
Oswy strode to the door and threw it open.
Sister Fidelma’s lips parted in surprise as the young monk whom she had encountered in the cloisters of the abbey on the previous evening entered and bowed his head before the king. Then he raised his eyes and caught sight of Sister Fidelma. His own face momentarily mirrored the astonishment on Fidelma’s and then it became an impassive mask again.
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