Abbe was a stocky woman, looking very much like her brother Oswy. She was in her mid-fifties, the lines etched deep on her face, the blue eyes bright but rather watery. Together with her three brothers, she had been taken into exile in Iona when her father, the king of Bernicia, had been killed by his rival Edwin of Deira who had then united the two kingdoms into the single kingdom ‘by the north of the River Humber’, Northumbria. When her brothers Eanfrith, Oswald and Oswy had returned to reclaim their kingdom on Edwin’s death, Abbe had come with them as a religieuse, baptised in the Columban church. She had established a monastery at Coldingham, a double house for men and women on a headland, and was confirmed as its abbess by her brother Oswald, who had become king on the death of their eldest brother Eanfrith.
Fidelma had heard much of Coldingham, for it had required a dubious reputation as being given over to the pursuit of hedonistic pleasures. It was said that the Abbess Abbe believed too literally in a God of Love. She had heard that the cubicula that were built for prayer and contemplation had been turned into rooms of feasting, drinking and the enjoyment of the flesh.
The abbess sat regarding Fidelma with an amused but approving stare.
‘My brother, Oswy, the king, has told me of your purpose.’ She spoke fluent and idiomatic Irish, that being the only language she had known during her childhood on Iona. She turned to Eadulf. ‘You, I believe, were trained in Ireland?’
Eadulf smiled briefly and nodded.
‘You may speak in Irish for I understand.’
‘Good,’ the abbess sighed. She gazed at Fidelma, again with a look of approval. ‘You are attractive, child. There is always a place in Coldingham for such as yourself.’
Fidelma felt herself colouring.
Abbe tilted her head to one side and chuckled.
‘You disapprove?’
‘I take no offence,’ replied Fidelma.
‘Neither should you, sister. Do not believe all you hear of our house. Our rule is dum vivimus, vivamus – while we live let us live. We are a house of men and women dedicated to life, which is the gift of God. God has made men and women to love one another. What better form of worship than to enact His Great Design, living, working and worshipping together. Does not the Gospel of the Blessed John say, “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear”?’
Fidelma shifted uneasily.
‘Mother Abbess, it is not my place to call into question how your house is governed and by what rule. I am here to enquire into the death of Étain of Kildare.’
Abbe sighed.
‘Étain! There was a woman. A woman who knew how to live.’
‘Yet she is now dead, Mother Abbess,’ interposed Eadulf.
‘I know.’ The eyes were kept on Fidelma. ‘And I await to know what this has to do with me?’
‘You quarrelled with Étain,’ Fidelma said simply.
The abbess blinked but showed no other sign of the barb going home. She made no reply.
‘Perhaps you will tell us why you argued with the abbess of Kildare?’ prompted Eadulf.
‘If you have learnt that I argued with Étain, you will doubtless have discovered the reason why,’ replied Abbe, her voice stiff and uncompromising. ‘I grew up in the shadow of the walls of the abbey of Colmcille on Iona. I was educated there among the brethren of Christ from Ireland. It was at my instigation, rather than that of my brother Oswald, that this kingdom first entreated Ségéne, the abbot of Iona, to send missionaries to convert our pagan subjects and reveal to them the path of Christ. Even when the first missionary from Iona, another named Colmán, returned to Iona saying our kingdom was beyond Christ’s redemption, I pleaded again with Ségéne and so the saintly Aidán came here and began to preach.
‘I have witnessed the conversion of the land and the gradual spread of the word of God, first under Aidán and then under Finán and lastly under Colmán. Now all that work stands in jeopardy because of the likes of Wilfrid and others. I adhere to the true church of Columba and will continue to do so whatever prevails here at Streoneshalh.’
‘So what was the reason for the conflict with Etain of Kildare?’ prompted Eadulf, returning to the question.
‘That slimy man Seaxwulf, a man who is no man at all, has probably told you that I realised that Étain was striking a bargain with Wilfrid of Ripon. Bargains! Devices ad captandum vulgus!’
‘Seaxwulf has told us that he was being used as an intermediary between Étain and Wilfrid and that they were attempting to come to some agreement before the main debate.’
Abbe grunted in disgust.
‘Seaxwulf! That contemptible little thief and gossip!’
‘Thief?’ Eadulf’s voice was sharp. ‘Isn’t that a harsh word to describe a brother?’
Abbe shrugged.
‘A correct word. Two days ago, when we were gathering here, two of our brothers caught Seaxwulf going through the personal belongings of some cenobites in the dormitorium. They took him to Wilfrid, who is his abbot as well as his secretary. He admitted the breaking of the eighth commandment and so Wilfrid had him punished. They took him out and beat his back with a birch rod until it was red raw and bloody. Only the fact that he was Wilfrid’s secretary saved him from having his hand severed. Even then, Wilfrid refused to dismiss him as his secretary.’
Fidelma shivered slightly at the cruelty of the Saxon punishments.
Abbess Abbe went on without noticing Fidelma’s look of distaste.
‘There is gossip that Seaxwulf is like a magpie. He is tempted by the desire for bright and exotic objects that are not his own.’
Fidelma exchanged a glance with Eadulf.
‘So are you saying that Seaxwulf is not to be trusted? That he could be lying?’
‘Not so in this case of his being the go-between with Wilfrid and Étain. Wilfrid trusts Seaxwulf as he trusts no other; I presume because Wilfrid could have Seaxwulf killed or mutilated whenever he wanted. Fear makes for a sound contract of trust.
‘But Étain of Kildare had no authority to make such agreements on behalf of the Columban faction. When I saw that conniving worm Seaxwulf sneaking from Étain’s chamber, I realised what might be afoot. I went in to see Etain and demand that she be honest. She was betraying us.’
‘And how did Étain respond to your admonishment?’
‘She was angry. But candidly admitted what she was doing. She justified herself by saying that it was better to agree on unimportant matters in order to lull her opponents into a false sense of security than to be like cows with horns locked from the first moment.’
Abbess Abbe’s eyes suddenly narrowed.
‘I suddenly realise, do you think that this argument was a reason for murder? That, perhaps, I—?’
Fidelma found herself under her bright-eyed scrutiny as the abbess suddenly chuckled at the thought.
‘Murders often happen when a person loses control in argument,’ replied Fidelma quietly.
Abbess Abbe gave a low laugh. It sounded a genuine expression of mirth.
‘Deus avertat! God forbid! It is ridiculous. Life is too precious for me to waste it on trivialities.’
‘But, according to you, the defeat of the Columban church in Northumbria was no triviality,’ pressed Eadulf. ‘It was something intense and personal. In fact, you believed that Étain was betraying her church, indeed, all you have come to believe in.’
The glance Abbe cast at Eadulf was unguarded for a moment. A look of venomous hate. The features froze in a Medusa-like graven image. Then the look was gone and the abbess forced a cold smile.
‘It was not a matter to kill her over. Her punishment would be to see her church destroyed.’
‘At what time did you leave Étain?’ Fidelma demanded.
‘What?’
‘When, after this quarrel, did you leave Étain’s cubiculum?’
Abbe was quiet as she considered the question in order to make an accurate answer.
‘I can’t remember. I was with her only ten minutes or
a little more.’
‘Did anyone see you leave? Sister Athelswith, for example?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
Fidelma glanced with a silent question at Eadulf. Her companion nodded agreement.
‘Very well, Mother Abbess.’ Fidelma stood up, causing Abbe to follow suit. ‘We may wish to ask you a few more questions later.’
Abbe smiled at them.
‘I shall be here. Have no fear. Indeed, sister, you really should visit my house at Coldingham and see for yourself how much life can be enjoyed. You are far too beautiful, too youthful and exuberant to accept this Roman concept of celibacy all your life. Indeed, didn’t Augustine of Hippo write in his Confessiones: “Give me chastity and continence, but not just now”?’
Abbess Abbe gave a throaty laugh and left the room, leaving Fidelma blushing fiercely.
She turned to meet Eadulf’s amused gaze and her outraged virtue gave way to anger.
‘Well?’ she snapped.
The smile came off Eadulf’s face.
‘I do not think Abbe would have killed Étain,’ he said hurriedly.
‘Why not?’ she rejoined curtly.
‘She is a woman, for one thing.’
‘And a woman is incapable of committing a crime?’ sneered Fidelma.
Eadulf shook his head.
‘No; but as I said when we first saw the body of Etain, I do not think a woman had the strength to have held the abbess and cut her throat in the manner that it happened.’
Fidelma bit her lip and calmed down. After all, she thought to herself, why was she growing angry? Abbe was surely complimenting her and stating a fact. Yet it was not Abbe’s attitude that annoyed her. It was something deep within her that she was unable to fathom. She stared at Eadulf for a moment.
The Saxon monk returned her gaze bemused.
Fidelma found that she dropped her eyes first.
‘What would you say if I told you that I saw Brother Taran, a Columban monk, meeting with Wulfric by the side gate of the abbey this evening and engaging in what looked like a conspiratorial conversation?’
Eadulf raised an eyebrow.
‘And are you telling me this as fact?’
Fidelma confirmed it with a nod.
‘There could be many reasons for such a meeting, I suppose.’
‘There could,’ agreed Fidelma, ‘but none that I am content with.’
‘Brother Taran was one of Abbess Étain’s visitors, wasn’t he?’
‘One we have not questioned yet.’
‘It was not a priority,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘Taran was seen to have gone to Étain’s cubiculum early in the morning. She was seen alive long after his visit. It was Agatho who was the last known visitor.’
Fidelma hesitated a moment.
‘I think we should have a word with Taran next,’ she said.
‘And I think now we should first ask Agatho to come and speak with us,’ he replied. ‘He is by far the more important suspect.’
No one was more surprised than Eadulf when Fidelma acquiesced without argument.
Chapter Twelve
Agatho was a lean, wiry man with a thin, narrow face. His skin was swarthy and his face was not smooth-shaven. His black eyes matched the blackness of his thatch of hair. The lips were thin but red, almost as if he had enhanced their redness by the application of berry juice. Fidelma was fascinated by the way his eyelids were prominent, half closed like the hooded lids of a bird of prey.
The priest scowled as he entered the room.
‘I am here under protest,’ he said, speaking in the lingua franca of Latin.
‘I shall note your protest, Agatho,’ Fidelma replied in the same language. ‘With whom shall I raise the matter? With the king, Bishop Colman or the Abbess Hilda?’
Agatho raised his face in a disdainful gesture as if it were beneath him to reply and proceeded to seat himself.
‘You wish to question me?’
‘You would seem to be the last person to see the Abbess Étain alive in her cubiculum,’ Eadulf bluntly pointed out.
Agatho chuckled mirthlessly.
‘Not so.’
Fidelma frowned.
‘Oh?’ she prompted eagerly.
‘The last person to see the abbess would be the person who killed her.’
Fidelma stared at his hooded eyes. They were cold and expressionless. She could not tell whether he was challenging her or making fun of her.
‘That is true,’ Eadulf was saying. ‘And we are here to discover just who did kill her. At what time did you go to her cell?’
‘At four o’clock precisely.’
‘Precisely?’
Again the mirthless smile on the thin red lips.
‘So the clepsydra of the redoubtable Sister Athelswith had informed me.’
‘Just so,’ conceded Eadulf. ‘Why did you go there?’
‘To see the abbess, naturally.’
‘Naturally. But for what purpose did you wish to see her?’
‘I create no deception. I am of the Roman faction. It was my belief that the Abbess Étain was being misled in allowing herself to speak for the heresies of the Columban church. I went with her to plead my case.’
Fidelma stared at the man.
‘That is all’?’
‘That is all.’
‘How would you achieve this rapid change of mind in the abbess?’
Agatho looked round conspiratorially and then smiled.
‘I showed her this …’ He reached into the crumena, a leather pouch carried on a strap around his neck, and spilt the contents into his hand.
Eadulf leant forward, frowning.
‘It is just a splinter of wood.’
Agatho looked at him contemptuously.
‘It is the lignum Sanctae Crucis,’ he pronounced, his voice hushed in awe and genuflecting as he did so.
‘Truly, this is the wood of the true cross?’ whispered Eadulf, reverence overcoming him.
‘I have said as much,’ replied Agatho distantly.
Fidelma’s eyes brightened and for a moment or two there was a trembling around her lips.
‘How would the presentation of this, supposing you are right, have convinced the abbess to support Rome rather than Iona?’ she asked solemnly.
‘That is obvious. By recognising the true cross in my hands she would realise that I was the chosen one, that Christ spoke through me, as he spoke through Paul of Tarsus.’
The voice was quiet and complacent.
Eadulf shot a bewildered glance at Fidelma.
‘Christ chose you? How do you mean?’ he asked.
Agatho sniffed as if the monk were a fool.
‘I speak only what is true. Have faith. I was instructed to go to the woods beyond Witebia and in a clearing a voice told me to pick up a splinter from the ground for it was the lignum Sanctae Crucis. Then the voice told me to go and preach to those misled and confused. Have faith and all will be revealed!’
‘Did Étain have faith?’ queried Fidelma gently.
Agatho turned towards her, his eyes still hooded.
‘Alas, she did not. She was still bound for she could not see the truth.’
‘Bound?’ Eadulf sounded more than confused.
‘Did not the blessed apostle John say “the truth shall make you free”? She was confined. She had not the faith. The great Augustine wrote that faith is to believe what you do not yet see; the reward for that faith is to see what you believe.’
‘What did you do when the Abbess Étain rejected your argument?’ Eadulf said hurriedly.
Agatho drew himself up in outraged dignity.
‘I withdrew, what else should I do? I did not want to contaminate myself with an unbeliever.’
‘How long were you with Étain of Kildare?’
The man shrugged.
‘No more than ten minutes or less. I showed her the true cross and told her that Christ spoke through me and that she must accept Rome. When she treated me as a child, I w
ithdrew. I knew she was beyond all hope of salvation. That is all.’
Eadulf exchanged another glance with Fidelma and smiled at Agatho.
‘Very well. We have no more questions. You may go now.’
Agatho slipped the sliver of wood back into his crumena.
‘You both believe now – now that you have seen the true cross?’
Eadulf kept his smile fixed, perhaps a little too fixed.
‘Of course. We will speak with you about this later, Agatho.’
When the priest left the room, Eadulf turned with a worried glance to Fidelma.
‘Mad! The man is absolutely mad.’
‘If we remember that we are all born mad,’ replied Fidelma phlegmatically, ‘then many of the mysteries of the world are explained.’
‘But with such attitudes this Agatho might well have killed the abbess when she refused to accept his faith.’
‘Perhaps. Somehow I am not convinced. But out of all this there is one firm conclusion we can make.’
Eadulf stared at her.
‘It is obvious.’ Fidelma smiled. ‘Sister Athelswith, in observing all the visitors to Étain’s cubiculum, did not see every visitor. And I doubt whether she saw the visitor who killed Étain.’
There was a soft knock at the door and Sister Athelswith put her head into the chamber.
‘Oswy the king asks that you join him in Mother Hilda’s chambers immediately,’ she said apprehensively.
Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf stood silently before the king. Oswy was alone in the room and turned from the window, where he had been gazing down at the harbour below. The frown of anxiety that he wore lightened a little.
‘I sent to ask you whether you have any news for me yet? Are you any closer to discovering the culprit?’
Fidelma heard the stress in his voice.
‘We have nothing concrete to report as yet, Oswy of Northumbria,’ she replied.
The king bit his lip. The lines on his face deepened.
‘Have you nothing to tell me at all?’ There was almost a pleading tone in his voice.
‘Nothing of use.’ Fidelma remained calm. ‘We must proceed cautiously. Is time suddenly pressing that you wish the matter to be resolved more quickly than you did before?’
The king heaved his great shoulders in an indeterminable gesture.
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