Eadulf shook his head, wondering what she meant.
‘Nunc scripsi totum pro Christo, da mihi potum!’
Eadulf found himself smiling in response as he translated. ‘Now I have written so much for Christ, give me a drink!’
Fidelma nodded slowly. ‘Or as I would translate, now that I have worked so much for my brother, and the kingdom of Cashel, give me some rest,’ she averred.
Eadulf shook his head. ‘Rest? You?’ He sounded dubious.
‘Oh yes. Do you remember when we arrived at Imleach there was a band of pilgrims there?’
‘I remember; they were journeying to the coast to set out to sea on some pilgrimage.’
‘That’s right. To the tomb of St James of the Field of the Stars.’
‘Where is that?’
‘In one of the northern Iberian kingdoms. I would like to go on that pilgrimage. Many here in the five kingdoms do so. Such pilgrimages set off from the abbey of St Declan at Ard Mór, which is not far to the south of us. I have a mind to set out soon for Ard Mór.’
Eadulf was suddenly miserable at the thought of her leaving. It reminded him abruptly that he had delayed too long in Muman for he had been sent there only as a special envoy of Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury. What Fidelma was actually saying was that the time had come to say farewell.
‘Do you feel that it is right to leave Cashel at this moment in time?’ he asked hesitantly.
She had made up her mind. For some time now Fidelma had felt a dissatisfaction with her life. When she been away from Eadulf, when she had left him in Rome to return to Eireann, she had experienced feelings of loneliness and longing, as if of a home-sickness even though she was home among her own people. She had missed the arguments with Eadulf, the way she could tease him over their conflicting opinions and philosophies; the way he would always rise good-naturedly to her bait. The arguments would rage but there was no enmity between them.
Eadulf had been the only man of her own age in whose company she had felt really at ease and able to express herself without hiding behind her rank and role in life, without being forced to adopt a persona, like an actor playing a part.
She had missed his company with an acuteness she could not explain. It had now been ten months since Eadulf had come to her brother’s kingdom as an emissary of Theodore, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Ten months during which they had shared several dangers and had been close. Close like a brother and sister.
That was just it. Eadulf was always impeccably behaved towards her. She found herself wondering whether she wanted him to behave in any other way. Religious did cohabit, did marry and most lived in the conhospitae or mixed houses. Did she want that? Her old mentor, the Brehon Morann, had once told his young pupils that marriage was a feast where the gratias was better than the food.
Unable to really come to a decision herself, she had almost been relying on Eadulf to make the decision himself. To suggest something to her. He did not. Yet if he wanted marriage, he would surely have spoken of it long since. What was it that was written in the Book of Amos? Can two walk together, except that they be agreed? It was obvious that Eadulf was not interested in such a partnership. He had never raised the prospect of such a relationship nor did she feel she should if he did not. The closest she had come to the subject was when she had asked him if he had heard the old proverb that a blanket was the warmer for being doubled. He had not understood.
‘Do you feel that it is right to leave Cashel at this time?’ he asked again.
She roused herself from her thoughts. ‘Yes; just for the rest, as I say. There is an old saying that to rest the eyes and the mind, it is sometimes best to change the silhouette of the distant mountains.’ She looked at him seriously. ‘You have been away a long time from your home in Seaxmund’s Ham, Eadulf. Don’t you ever feel the need to get back to your people and change the silhouette of these mountains? You have a duty to Archbishop Theodore.’
Eadulf immediately shook his head. ‘I can never be tired in this land and with …’ He flushed and did not finish what he was going to say. He was confused. There was a saying among his own people. Do not bring a reaping hook into someone else’s field. It was clear that Fidelma did not feel the same way as he did otherwise she would not have suggested his return to Canterbury. She had not apparently even noticed that he had left his sentence hanging in mid-air.
‘Your Archbishop must need you back. You cannot delay your return much longer. What better time for both of us to leave Cashel - you to your homeland and I to seek out those new mountains?’
‘Is it right, at this time?’ Eadulf pressed yet again.
‘Someone once said that there is always a time to depart from a place even if one is unsure where one is going.’
‘But there is a permanence here, Fidelma,’ protested Eadulf. ‘I have come to feel at home. I would find a means to stay in spite of the demands of Canterbury. These are the mountains I wish to continue to see. The river down there is the water I want to rest beside, to daily bathe my feet in.’
Fidelma waited, finding herself hoping to hear him say that which she wanted him to say. When he did not, she smiled sadly.
‘Heraclitus said that you cannot step twice into the same river for other waters are continually flowing into it. The only thing that is permanent, Eadulf, is change.’
She stretched her arms and yawned, her face turned towards the setting sun. It stood poised for a moment or two, an oval glow on the horizon before abruptly vanishing and sending a flood of dark shadows across the land. She shivered slightly at the sudden chill that swept over the great Rock of Cashel.
‘Incidis in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdim,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘You fall into the Scylla in trying to avoid Charybdis.’
Fidelma raised an eyebrow. ‘You think that I am trying to escape from something I consider bad and will fall into something that is worse? No. I just need a change, that is all, Eadulf. There is boredom in permanence.’
A bell began to toll solemnly in the background.
‘The evening meal, Eadulf. Let us go in and change this evening chill for the warmth of a good fire.’
Principal Characters
Sister Fidelma of Cashel, a dálaigh or advocate of the law courts of seventh-century Ireland
Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, a Saxon monk from the land of the South Folk
At Cashel
Colgú of Cashel, King of Muman and Fidelma’s brother
Donndubhain, tanist or heir-elect to Colgú
Donennach mac Oengus, Prince of the Uí Fidgente
Gionga, commander of Donennach’s bodyguard
Conchobar, an astrologer and apothecary
Capa, captain of the bodyguard to Colgú
Brehon Rumann of Fearna
Brehon Dathal of Cashel
Brehon Fachtna of Uí Fidgente
Oslóir, a groom
Della, a recluse
At Ara’s Well
Aona, the innkeeper
Adag, his grandson
At Imleach
Ségdae, abbot and bishop of Imleach, Comarb of Ailbe
Brother Mochta, Keeper of the Holy Relics
Brother Madagan, the rechtaire or steward
Brother Tomar, the stableman
Sister Scothnat, domina of the guests’ hostel
Finguine mac Cathal, Prince of Cnoc Aine
Brother Daig
Brother Bardán, the apothecary
Nion, bó-aire (petty-chief) and smith
Suibne, his assistant
Cred, a tavern keeper
Samradan, a visiting merchant of Cashel
Solam, dálaigh of the Uí Fidgente
HISTORICAL NOTE
The Sister Fidelma mysteries are set during the mid-seventh century A.D.
Sister Fidelma is not simply a religieuse, formerly a member of the community of St Brigid of Kildare. She is also a qualified dálaigh, or advocate of the ancient law courts of Ireland. As this background will not b
e familiar to many readers, this foreword provides a few essential points of reference designed to make the stories more readily appreciated.
Ireland, in the seventh century A.D., consisted of five main provincial kingdoms: indeed, the modern Irish word for a province is still cúige, literally ‘a fifth’. Four provincial kings – of Ulaidh (Ulster), of Connacht, of Muman (Munster) and of Laigin (Leinster) – gave their qualified allegiance to the Ard Rí or High King, who ruled from Tara, in the ‘royal’ fifth province of Midhe (Meath), which means the ‘middle province’. Even among these provincial kingdoms, there was a decentralisation of power to petty-kingdoms and clan territories.
The law of primogeniture, the inheritance by the eldest son or daughter, was an alien concept in Ireland. Kingship, from the lowliest clan chieftain to the High King, was only partially hereditary and mainly electoral. Each ruler had to prove himself or herself worthy of office and was elected by the derbfhine of their family – a minimum of three generations gathered in conclave. If a ruler did not pursue the commonwealth of the people, they were impeached and removed from office. Therefore the monarchial system of ancient Ireland had more in common with a modern-day republic than with the feudal monarchies of medieval Europe.
Ireland, in the seventh century A.D., was governed by a system of sophisticated laws called the Laws of the Fénechas, or land-tillers, which became more popularly known as the Brehon Laws, deriving from the word breitheamh – a judge. Tradition has it that these laws were first gathered in 714 B.C. by the order of the High King, Ollamh Fódhla. But it was in A.D. 438 that the High King, Laoghaire, appointed a commission of nine learned people to study, revise, and commit the laws to the new writing in Latin characters. One of those serving on the commission was Patrick, eventually to become patron saint of Ireland. After three years, the commission produced a written text of the laws, the first known codification.
The first complete surviving texts of the ancient laws of Ireland are preserved in an eleventh-century manuscript book. It was not until the seventeenth century that the English colonial administration in Ireland finally suppressed the use of the Brehon Law system. To even possess a copy of the law books was punishable, often by death or transportation.
The law system was not static and every three years at the Feis Temhrach (Festival of Tara) the lawyers and administrators gathered to consider and revise the laws in the light of changing society and its needs.
Under these laws, women occupied a unique place. The Irish laws gave more rights and protection to women than any other western law code at that time or since. Women could, and did, aspire to all offices and professions as the co-equal with men. They could be political leaders, command their people in battle as warriors, be physicians, local magistrates, poets, artisans, lawyers, and judges. We know the name of many female judges of Fidelma’s period - Brig Briugaid, Aine Ingine Iugaire and Darí among many others. Darí, for example, was not only a judge but the author of a noted law text written in the sixth century A.D. Women were protected by the laws against sexual harassment; against discrimination; from rape; they had the right of divorce on equal terms from their husbands with equitable separation laws and could demand part of their husband’s property as a divorce settlement; they had the right of inheritance of personal property and the right of sickness benefits. Seen from today’s perspective, the Brehon Laws provided for an almost feminist paradise.
This background, and its strong contrast with Ireland’s neighbours, should be understood to appreciate Fidelma’s role in these stories.
Fidelma was born at Cashel, capital of the kingdom of Muman (Munster) in south-west Ireland, in A.D. 636. She was the youngest daughter of Faílbe Fland, the king, who died the year after her birth, and was raised under the guidance of a distant cousin, Abbot Laisran of Durrow. When she reached the ‘Age of Choice’ (fourteen years), she went to study at the bardic school of the Brehon Morann of Tara, as many other young Irish girls did. Eight years of study resulted in Fidelma obtaining the degree of anruth, only one degree below the highest offered at either bardic or ecclesiastical universities in ancient Ireland. The highest degree was ollamh, still the modern Irish word for a professor. Fidelma’s studies were in law, both in the criminal code of the Senchus Mór and the civil code of the Leabhar Acaill. She therefore became a dálaigh or advocate of the courts.
Her role could be likened to a modern Scottish sheriff-substitute, whose job is to gather and assess the evidence, independent of the police, to see if there is a case to be answered. The modern French juge d’instruction holds a similar role.
In those days, most of the professional or intellectual classes were members of the new Christian religious houses, just as, in previous centuries, all members of professions and intellectuals were Druids. Fidelma became a member of the religious community of Kildare founded in the late fifth century A.D. by St Brigid.
While the seventh century A.D. was considered part of the European ‘Dark Ages’, for Ireland it was a period of ‘Golden Enlightenment’. Students from every corner of Europe flocked to Irish universities to receive their education, including the sons of the Anglo-Saxon kings. At the great ecclesiastical university of Durrow, at this time, it is recorded that no less than eighteen different nations were represented among the students. At the same time, Irish male and female missionaries were setting out to reconvert a pagan Europe to Christianity, establishing churches, monasteries, and centres of learning throughout Europe as far east as Kiev, in the Ukraine; as far north as the Faroes, and as far south as Taranto in southern Italy. Ireland was a byword for literacy and learning.
However, the Celtic Church of Ireland was in constant dispute with Rome on matters of liturgy and ritual. Rome had begun to reform itself in the fourth century, changing its dating of Easter and aspects of its liturgy. The Celtic Church and the Eastern Orthodox Church refused to follow Rome, but the Celtic Church was gradually absorbed by Rome between the ninth and eleventh centuries while the Eastern Orthodox Churches have continued to remain independent of Rome. The Celtic Church of Ireland, during Fidelma’s time, was much concerned with this conflict.
One thing that marked both the Celtic Church and Rome in the seventh century was that the concept of celibacy was not universal. While there were always ascetics in both Churches who sublimated physical love in a dedication to the deity, it was not until the Council of Nicea in A.D. 325 that clerical marriages were condemned but not banned. The concept of celibacy in the Roman Church arose from the customs practised by the pagan priestesses of Vesta and the priests of Diana. By the fifth century Rome had forbidden clerics from the rank of abbot and bishop to sleep with their wives and, shortly after, even to marry at all. The general clergy were discouraged from marrying by Rome but not forbidden to do so. Indeed, it was not until the reforming papacy of Leo IX (A.D. 1049-1054) that a serious attempt was made to force the western clergy to accept universal celibacy. In the Eastern Orthodox Church, priests below the rank of abbot and bishop have retained their right to marry until this day.
The condemnation of the ‘sin of the flesh’ remained alien to the Celtic Church for a long time after Rome’s attitude became a dogma. In Fidelma’s world, both sexes inhabited abbeys and monastic foundations which were known as conhospitae, or double houses, where men and women lived raising their children in Christ’s service.
Fidelma’s own house of St Brigid of Kildare was one such community of both sexes in Fidelma’s time. When Brigid established her community at Kildare (Cill-Dara = the church of oaks) she invited a bishop named Conlaed to join her. Her first biography, written in A.D. 650, in Fidelma’s time, was written by a monk of Kildare named Cogitosus, who makes it clear that it was a mixed community.
It should also be pointed out that, showing women’s co-equal role with men, women were priests of the Celtic Church at this time. Brigid herself was ordained a bishop by Patrick’s nephew, Mel, and her case was not unique. Rome actually wrote a protest in the sixth century at the Celt
ic practice of allowing women to celebrate the divine sacrifice of Mass.
To help readers locate themselves in Fidelma’s Ireland of the seventh century, where its geo-political divisions will be mainly unfamiliar, I have provided a sketch map and, to help them more readily identify personal names, a list of principal characters is also given.
I have generally refused to use anachronistic place names for obvious reasons although I have bowed to a few modern usages, eg: Tara, rather than Teamhair; and Cashel, rather than Caiseal Muman; and Armagh in place of Ard Macha. However, I have cleaved to the name of Muman rather than the prolepsis form ‘Munster’, formed when the Norse stadr (place) was added to the Irish name Muman in the ninth century A.D. and eventually anglicised. Similarly, I have maintained the original Laigin, rather than the anglicised form of Laigin-stadr which is now Leinster.
Armed with this background knowledge, we may now enter Fidelma’s world. The events of this story occur in September, the month known to the Irish of the seventh century as the middle month (Meadhon) of the harvest (Fogamar), which is still known in Modern Irish as Meán Fhómhair. The year is Anno Domini 666.
The story of the Uí Fidgente plot and rebellion are told in The Subtle Serpent.
Readers might like to known that hardly anything remains of the great abbey and cathedral of St Ailbe at Imleach Iubhair - ‘The Borderland of Yew-Trees’, or Emly (Co Tipperary) as it is now anglicised. Today it is just a little village lying just over eight miles west of the county town of Tipperary (the ‘Well of Ara’). A church still stands on the site. Emly stayed a ‘Cathedral City’ until 1587, remaining the principal ecclesiastical See of Munster until it was combined with the See of Cashel. Catholic and Protestant bishops of the See take their titles from both Emly and Cashel.
The ancient abbey buildings were replaced by a thirteenth-century cathedral which was destroyed during the wars of 1607. The church was rebuilt by the end of that century, consecrated as an Anglican cathedral, but it soon fell into disrepair. In 1827 it was rebuilt again but pulled down within forty years mainly due to the disestablishment of the Anglican Church in Ireland. An offer to buy it by the Catholic Church was refused and many of its stones were taken to build the new Anglican Church of Ireland at Monard. The modern Catholic church was built in 1882 which is worthy of a visit if only for its fine stained-glass windows, one of which commemorates the famous King-Bishop of Cashel, Cormac Mac Cuileannain (A.D. 836-908), poet, writer and lexicographer. Within the churchyard, which still has a Yew Tree growing in its centre, is St Ailbe’s Well and the remains of an ancient weathered stone cross which, it is said, marks the saint’s grave. You may still find worshippers, faithful to the memory of the patron saint of the great Eóghanacht kingdom, visiting the well on Ailbe’s feastday of September 12 to ask for his holy intercession.
The Monk Who Vanished Page 35