‘Cian slept with her one night and, in his arrogance, did not even remember it until the last moment. Like Aoife, the wife of Lir, Gormán was unbalanced. That fact, her undisguised hatred, was so obvious that I had initially discounted her as a suspect.’
‘It was a pity that Sister Gormán escaped justice, then,’ reflected Murchad.
Fidelma considered the comment before replying.
‘Not so. She was demented. Taken by an illness that is just as debilitating as any other fever. I believe I can understand the depths of jealousy that are aroused in a woman if she feels that she has been betrayed by a man she has come to believe loves her.’
Fidelma flushed a little as she said it, remembering her own feelings.
‘Yet she killed. Should she not be punished?’
‘Ah, punishment. I fear that there is a new morality coming into our culture, Murchad. It’s the one thing that worries me about the Faith. The Penitentials of the Church are preaching punishment instead of compensation and rehabilitation as our native law states.’
‘Yet it is the teaching of the Faith.’ Murchad was bewildered. ‘How can you be a Sister of the Faith and not accept that teaching?’
‘Because it is a teaching of vengeance and not an act of justice. Our laws call for justice, not revenge. Juvenal said that vengeance is merely a joy to narrow, sick and petty minds. Blood cannot be washed out by blood. We must seek compensation for the victims and rehabilitation of the wrong-doer. Unless we do so we may enter into a continuing cycle of vengeance for vengeance and blood will continually flow. Those who make their laws a curse shall surely suffer from those same laws.’
‘Would you have preferred, then, to have the girl escape?’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘She would never have been able to escape from herself. Her mind was too far twisted by her madness so that I think, in this instance, she suffered an act of mercy.’
Gurvan came up and looked apologetically at them.
‘Tide’s on the turn, Captain,’ he told Murchad.
Murchad acknowledged him.
‘We must sail, lady,’ he said respectfully.
‘I hope your return to Ardmore will not be so adventurous as the journey here has been.’
‘I would not have become a sailor had I been afraid of storms and pirates,’ grinned Murchad. ‘However, it is not often that I have experienced murder on board ship. Will you be long in this land, Sister? Maybe, on your return, you will come back on my ship? I am frequently coming to and fro to this port.’
‘It would be a pleasure. Yet I am not sure what my fate will be. Perhaps our paths will cross again. If not, may Christ sail with you. And look after that boy, Wenbrit. He may yet grow to be a fine captain of his own vessel one day.’
She went down to the main deck and bade farewell to Gurvan, Wenbrit, Drogan and the others members of the crew before climbing down onto the quay. Murchad raised his hand in salute.
She watched as the gangplank was hauled back onto the quay and the ropes were untied to allow The Barnacle Goose to ease away. She waved energetically at them all, and was then overcome with homesickness so that she began to walk slowly back to the tavern where she was staying. In spite of her sadness, she also felt relief. She had set out on this pilgrimage with two major intentions and she realised that she had resolved one of them. There was no longer any conflict between her place as a religieuse and her role as a dálaigh. Her passion for law left her with no other choice: she would always put law before any contemplative life. By the time she had reached the tavern, the sail of The Barnacle Goose had been set and she was drifting out of the harbour.
Fidelma sat down on a wooden bench under the shade of a vine tree and stared out thoughtfully across the blue waters of the bay, watching the disappearing vessel.
The tavern-owner came out to her, bearing a glass filled with a drink made from freshly squeezed lemon and cold water which, in the short time she had been there, Fidelma had learnt was the best way to quench her thirst and stay cool in the heat. Then, to her surprise, he handed her a piece of folded vellum. She could not quite understand what he said but he pointed to a sleek-looking vessel which had only entered the harbour within the last hour.
‘Gratias tibi ego.’ She thanked him in Latin, the only language in which they could share a few words in common.
She held back her curiosity for she wanted to watch Murchad’s s ship leaving harbour. She stayed for some time sipping her drink and watching The Barnacle Goose sailing along the estuary, which was locally called the ria, until it disappeared beyond the headland. It was comfortable sitting in the warmth of the sunshine. But, again, she suddenly felt enveloped by a tremendous sense of loneliness. She paused to consider her feelings. Was loneliness the right word to describe her emotion? It was better to be alone than in bad company – she certainly had no wish to be in Cian’s presence ever again. Yet there was a positive side; she was glad that she had met him again.
For all these years, Cian had been a thorn in her flesh, for she had still recalled all the anguished emotions and passions of her youth. Now she had been granted a meeting with Cian in the maturity of her experiences, and had seen him from the perspective of that maturity; had examined him and realised the folly of the bittersweet intensity of her young love. She had no qualms at all about bidding farewell to Cian and acknowledging that what was past was past. It was to be seen as a growing experience instead of a heavy burden of regret to be carried on her shoulders for ever. No; Cian had no hold on her any longer and she felt no sense of loss in that respect – just an enormous weight falling from her shoulders.
Somehow her mind came back to Eadulf with an abruptness that made her start momentarily, so that her drink shook in her trembling hand.
Eadulf! She realised that he had been a dim shadow during the entire voyage. An ethereal wisp haunting her path.
Why did the words of Publilius Syrus, one of her favourite writers of maxims, come to her mind?
Amare et sepere vix deo conceditur.
Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time.
She suddenly remembered the folded vellum and reached forward to pick it up. Her eyes widened in astonishment. It was a note written by her brother, Colgú, at Cashel, the day after she had set sail. As she absorbed the few words it contained, a cold feeling of shock hit her, to be replaced by a panic that she had never experienced before. The message was terse: Return at once! Eadulf has been charged with murder!
Principal Characters
Sister Fidelma of Cashel, a dálaigh or advocate of the law courts of seventh-century Ireland
At Ardmore (Aird Mhór)
Colla, tavernkeeper and trader
Menma his young assistant
The Pilgrims
Sister Canair of Moville (Magh Bile), leader of the pilgrims
Brother Cian, a former member of the High King’s bodyguard, now of the Abbey of Bangor (Beannchar)
Sister Muirgel, of the Abbey of Moville
Sister Crella of Moville
Sister Ainder of Moville
Sister Gormán of Moville
Brother Guss of Moville
Brother Bairne of Moville
Brother Dathal of Bangor
Brother Adamrae of Bangor
Brother Tola of Bangor
The Crew of The Barnacle Goose.
Murchad, the captain
Gurvan, the mate
Wenbrit, cabin boy
Drogan, a crewman
Hoel, a crewman
Others
Toca Nia, a shipwreck survivor
Father Pol of Ushant
Brehon Morann, Fidelma’s mentor
Grian, Fidelma’s friend at Tara
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 advo
cate of the ancient law courts of Ireland. As this background will not be familiar to many readers, my Historical Note is designed to provide a few essential points of reference 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 derbhfine of their family – a minimum of three generations from a common ancestor gathered in conclave. If a ruler did not pursue the commonwealth of the people, they were impeached and removed from office. Therefore the monarchical system of ancient Ireland had more in common with a modern-day republic than with the feudal monarchies which had developed in medieval Europe.
Ireland, in the seventh century A.D., was governed by a system of sophisticated laws called the Laws of the Fénechus, 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 Féis 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 names of many female judges of Fidelma’s period – Brig Briugaid, Aine Ingine Iugaire and Darí among 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 when ill or hospitalised. Ancient Ireland had Europe’s oldest recorded system of hospitals. 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. Fidelma 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 did many other young Irish girls. 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, which is 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 had been 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 fewer 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 the 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.
An understanding of these facts concerning the liberal attitudes towards sexual relationships in the Celtic Church is essential towards understanding the background to this novel.
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 during her time. When Brigid established her community at Kildare (Cill-Dara = the church of the oaks) she invited a bishop named Conlaed to join her. Her first biography, completed f
ifty years after her death, in A.D. 650 during Fidelma’s lifetime, was written by a monk of Kildare named Cogitosus, who makes it clear that it continued to be a mixed community.
It should also be pointed out that, demonstrating women’s co-equal role with men, women were priests of the Celtic Church in this period. 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 Celtic practice of allowing women to celebrate the divine sacrifice of the 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 e.g. 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 name Laigin, rather than the anglicized form of Ladghin-stadr which is now Leinster, and Ulaidh rather than Ulaidh-stadr (Ulster). I have decided to use the anglicised versions of Ardmore (Aird Mhór – the high point); Moville (Magh Bhíle – the plain of Bíle, an ancient god) and Bangor (Beannchar – a peaked hill).
In this following tale, set in A.D. 666, Sister Fidelma embarks on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, to the Holy Shrine of St James. Some readers might point out that it was not until A.D. 800 that a Galician monk named Pelayo, guided by the light of the stars (campus stella = field of stars), was believed to have discovered a site called Arcis Marmoricis where the marble tomb of the saint was found.
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