‘What are these links, Fidelma?’ Eadulf demanded as they began their meal after Brother Rhodri had departed.
Fidelma was nothing loath to explain the history and folklore of her people.
‘According to the old scribes, it was over two centuries ago that a chieftain of the Déisi, Aonghus of the Terrible Spear, made a cast in temper and knocked out the eye of the High King, Cormac Mac Art. Because the cast was an accident, the punishment was not as severe as it might have been. The punishment was that Aonghus and his entire clan were to be banished from their rich lands in the kingdom of Midhe. Part of the clan was settled in my brother’s own kingdom.’
Eadulf nodded, remembering that a tribe called the Déisi did, indeed, dwell in the southern area of Muman. ‘And the others?’
‘Another section of the clan went across the sea. One was led by Eochaid. He settled his people here in this area, which was the lands of the Demetae. He became the ruler here, though it is said that he achieved it by peaceful means and not by war. Since then there have been ten kings of his line and many of the nobles of this place are the actual descendants of the Déisi. That is why you will find many of this kingdom still able to converse in the language of Éireann and why many of our religious come to study here.’
Eadulf had not heard the story before. He considered the history before returning to the main point.
‘If this Abbot Tryffin seeks your help, why do you think he did not say so when you went to see him this afternoon?’
Fidelma paused, a spoon halfway to her mouth. ‘I don’t know. He was cordial and concerned that you were well treated. He asked about our journey and then asked me, and you if you were well enough, to attend him tomorrow at noon.’
‘Why would he seek your help? Indeed, how would he know who you were? I presume he knew that you were a dálaigh?’
‘A good point to spot, Eadulf,’ she observed appreciatively. ‘He knew precisely who I was and of my qualifications as a dálaigh of the courts. The Britons share a fairly similar legal system with us. Apparently news of who I was reached him soon after our landing. I have told you that many religious from my country come to study at the abbey of Muine.’
‘Muine?’
‘It is what we call Menevia in our language. It is called Moniu in the local language.’
‘Oh yes, Brother Rhodri told me,’ Eadulf remembered.
Fidelma smiled mischievously. ‘You might not like to be reminded of Fearna, Eadulf, but the Blessed Máedóc, who founded that abbey, was also a disciple of Dewi Sant and studied here.’
Eadulf shivered slightly, remembering how he had recently come close to meeting his death at the abbey of Fearna.
‘Anyway,’ Fidelma was continuing, ‘Abbot Tryffin had been told of the reputation that we have achieved in solving mysteries. .’
Eadulf felt an inward pleasure at the way she had naturally included him. ‘So you believe he wants to consult us about some problem which confronts him?’ he asked quickly.
‘I believe that is his intention.’
‘It seems very strange.’
‘We will know soon enough. It is no use speculating without knowledge.’ She reached forward impulsively and took his hand in both her own. ‘It is good to see you recovered, Eadulf. I was worried.’
Chapter Three
The following day was bright and clear. Eadulf took a few tentative steps out of the hospice building and found, as Brother Rhodri had warned him, that he felt slightly weak and a little dizzy. In spite of that, he felt the better for the sharpness of the fresh air and soon the giddiness vanished.
The harbour of Porth Clais was situated where a river made its way to meet a long narrow inlet of the sea, with hills rising on either side. A few small fishing craft rode at anchor there, rocking gently on the waters, and there were isolated buildings dotted amidst gorse- and heather-covered hills.
Almost at once, Eadulf became aware of the seabirds for whom the inlet seemed a natural haven. Their noise and constant swooping, darting and soaring was all-pervasive. He was also aware of seals splashing in the sheltered waters just below the spot where he was standing. The place seemed almost idyllic. He could see a seal pup scrabbling about on a muddy flat on the opposite side of the inlet. Then, even as he watched, the dark shadow of a bird came, dropping down by curious stages like a falling stone. There came a combination of cries, and the seal pup’s grey head became bloodied where the bird’s talons had raked it. Yet the bird had not succeeded in carrying it off. There was a splashing as the mother seal came anxiously from the waves, crying to the pup to join her. Eadulf saw the russet and brown bird, which he recognised as a kestrel, climbing and turning for a second dive. The pup, encouraged by the mother, had made it into the water. Eadulf was sharply reminded that life was never idyllic.
He turned, walking along the pathway until he found a tree stump and sat down. The sun, though weak compared to summer sunshine, was warm and pleasant. One or two people passed by and greeted him in their own language and he replied, regaining his meagre knowledge of it. During his time studying at Tuam Brecain, two of the brethren there had come from the kingdom of Powys and he had spent time trying to learn their language. He was keenly aware of the antagonism that existed between the Britons and his own people. In moments of calm reflection, Eadulf could clearly understand the roots of the enmity between them.
In his father’s day, the British kingdom of Elmet had been destroyed when Ceretic, its king, had been slain and the population driven westward by a Saxon war chieftain named Snot who had built his township or ham on the west bank of the river that had marked the tiny kingdom’s border. Now Snotingaham was a thriving Saxon town where once Britons had flourished. Of course, he could understand why Britons hated Saxons. And did not most Saxons return that hatred? The conversion of the Saxons to Christianity had, if anything, pushed Briton and Saxon even further apart instead of joining them together.
Eadulf had heard the stories from the old ones of how, just over sixty years before, the Roman cleric Augustine, with forty monks from that city, had settled in the kingdom of Kent to help in the Christianising of it. He found only Irish missionaries, mainly in the north, trying to bring the Faith to the pagan Saxons, teaching them how to read and write. At Canterbury he found a church dedicated to St Martin of Tours, originally built by the Britons before the Jutes drove them out. The Frankish Christian wife of the king of Kent and her chaplain were worshipping there. Knowing that the Britons had been Christian from the time of the Roman occupation, Augustine demanded a meeting with their bishops on the borders between their remaining territories and the Saxons.
By all the accounts which Eadulf had heard, Augustine was a Roman who was still full of the old Roman arrogance. He viewed the Britons in the same manner as had the generals of the Roman legions in the old days of the empire. To him they were worthless barbarians. He had demanded of Deniol, the bishop of Bangor, why the clergy of the Britons had failed in their duty to the Faith by not bothering to convert the Saxons. Deniol had sarcastically pointed out that it was hard to preach love and forgiveness to a man when he was in the process of slaughtering one’s wife and children. Augustine had gone further in his arrogance and blustered that if the Britons did not accept his authority and that of Rome, then he would bless the Saxon arms and they would suffer vengeance. It was a fact that some years later, Bishop Deniol was one of the thousand clerics who died during the wholesale slaughter of monks at Bangor.
Eadulf stirred uncomfortably from his reflections as a tall Briton, clad in the robes of a religious, walked by and greeted him with a smile and some unintelligible word. Eadulf automatically returned the smile and gave such greeting as he could remember in the language. Eadulf had no wish to be an enemy to anyone, but what was the proverb of his people which came to mind? There is no safety in trying to make a friend of one’s enemy. Surely that could not be right? There were the teachings of the Faith to take account of. What was it that the Blessed James had wr
itten? ‘What causes conflicts and quarrels among you? Do they not spring from the aggressiveness of your bodily desires? You want something which you cannot have, and so you are bent on murder; you are envious, and cannot attain your ambition, and so you quarrel and fight.’ Was that the main reason behind the last two centuries of war and bloodshed since the Saxons had landed in Britain? He shuddered. What was it that Christ had said? ‘I give you a new commandment; love one another.’ Well, so far as the decision rested with him, that is what he was prepared to do. However, it did not calm his mind; calm his fears of being in a strange land surrounded by a people whom he mistrusted.
Some hours later, when Fidelma came to find him and ask him if he thought himself fit to accompany her on the walk to the abbey of Dewi Sant, he found that the few hours in the fresh air had renewed his vigour. He answered in the affirmative. The giddiness had vanished and apart from a tenderness around the bruising on his forehead, which was still painful to touch, he felt revived.
The great abbey dedicated to Dewi Sant lay not more than a kilometre and a half to the north-east of the small port. They left Porth Clais walking at an easy pace, maintaining a steady gait, along the bracken-covered banks of the river. According to Fidelma, who had traversed the path the day before, it was called the Alun. Along this track came cargoes of gold, mined in Ireland, landed by ship at the port. The gold was taken to the abbey to be constructed by the goldsmiths there into sacred objects for veneration. Further upriver, the track ran into moorland, but Fidelma was able to pick her way through the boggy ground with confident ease. The day was still generally bright and, although the wind was rising, not too chill for the time of year. The journey was an easy one.
In no time at all the great abbey complex came in sight. Eadulf had to admit that it was an impressive collection of buildings, equal to any he had seen anywhere except in Rome. The buildings were a combination of grey granite and local woods.
They were greeted at the gates by one of the brethren, who seemed to have been expecting their arrival for he led them, without delay, directly to the chambers of Abbot Tryffin himself.
The abbot rose from his chair and came forward to greet them warmly in Fidelma’s native tongue. He obviously spoke the language as fluently as Brother Rhodri did. His tonsure was in the fashion of St John, the manner adopted by the churches of the Britons as well as those of Éireann. The head was shaved from the front to a line running from ear to ear, which some said was but a continuation of the tonsure adopted by the Druids, the wise men and sages of old. In his late forties, he was gaunt of face, thin-lipped and with a large nose, crisscrossed by tiny red veins, like a spider’s web. He smiled readily and there seemed a genuine warmth in the greeting. Yet his dark eyes held an anxious expression.
They were seated before a fire and served with mulled wine which Eadulf found welcome and comforting.
‘Are you in good health now, Brother Eadulf?’ the abbot asked as he settled in his chair. ‘Are you none the worse for your accident on board ship?’
‘None the worse,’ affirmed Eadulf solemnly.
‘And I suppose, as you informed me yesterday, Sister, that you are still both anxious to continue your journey to Canterbury? Is that so?’
‘We are,’ replied Fidelma. ‘As soon as we can find a ship sailing there, of course.’
The abbot nodded absently, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair without apparently being aware of his action. It was obvious that some matter of importance was distracting him and he was having difficulty in articulating it.
‘However. .’ he began.
‘However,’ interposed Fidelma, ‘there is some problem which you require our help with.’
The abbot glanced at her in surprise. His eyes quickly narrowed. ‘How did you know? Has someone told you?’
‘Your concern is quite obvious,’ replied Fidelma.
Abbot Tryffin gave the answer some thought, relaxed and shrugged. ‘I suppose it is. It is true that we are confronted by a mystery which needs the advice of such an expert as yourself to explain it.’
Irritated, Eadulf looked up from contemplating the goblet of mulled wine.
‘Before I say more about this matter, may I ask you a question, Sister?’ asked the abbot.
Fidelma glanced towards Eadulf and replied with solemn humour: ‘Not every question deserves an answer.’
The abbot shifted uncomfortably. ‘That is truly said, Sister. I will ask, anyway. If I were to show you a mystery which intrigued you, would you remain a few days in this kingdom seeking an explanation of it?’
Fidelma indicated Eadulf, making it clear that the answer lay with him. ‘I am here merely accompanying the emissary of Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury. Your question is best put to him.’
Eadulf set down his wine, considering the matter. It was true that he had delayed in Muman for nearly a year before finally deciding to return to Canterbury. What difference would a delay of a few more days in the kingdom of Dyfed make on this return journey? It would probably take a few days before they could find a ship anyway. But what mystery was there to so distract the abbot that he would invite strangers to solve it, and a Saxon at that? Eadulf was still acutely mindful that he was in the land of the Britons. He became aware of the abbot’s close scrutiny as the latter waited with barely concealed impatience for the answer.
‘There would be a remuneration for your services,’ the abbot said quickly, as if payment were Eadulf’s concern.
‘Why would you seek our help? Surely there are enough wise heads in the kingdom of Dyfed to resolve the problem without calling in strangers?’ Eadulf’s tone indicated his vexation.
There was a movement beyond a screen at the far end of the room, and a tall, elderly man emerged from behind it. He had the build of a warrior, despite his age, and his features still retained the handsome mould of his youth. His white hair was tightly curled and beset by a gold circlet. His eyes were a striking, vivid blue, almost violet, with, at first glance, no discernible pupils. He wore clothes of rich satin and woven linen and wool. It was clear that he was a man of rank.
Eadulf noticed that Fidelma was rising from her seat and so he rose reluctantly as well.
The abbot coughed nervously. ‘You stand in the presence of-’
‘Of Gwlyddien, king of Dyfed,’ interrupted Fidelma, bowing her head in acknowledgment.
The elderly king came forward, smiling broadly, his hand held out in greeting. ‘You have a discerning eye, Fidelma of Cashel, and a quick wit, for I am sure that we have not met before.’
‘We have not, but the son of Nowy has been spoken of with respect among the religious of these islands. Was not your father also famed for the support he gave to the Church?’
Gwlyddien inclined his head. ‘Yet such as my reputation is, it provides little enough information by which to recognise me.’
‘True enough.’ Fidelma’s eyes held a twinkle. ‘It was by the royal symbol of Dyfed which you have embroidered on your cloak and by the gold signet on your finger that I inferred your identity. It was an elementary deduction.’
Gwlyddien slapped his thigh in appreciation and chuckled. ‘All I have heard of you seems true, Fidelma of Cashel.’ He turned with outstretched hand to Eadulf, who stood slightly alienated by this exchange. ‘And, of course, where Fidelma goes, one hears of her companion, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Our bards tell us that two centuries ago the land of the South Folk, the very place from where you come, was once the kingdom of those Britons called the Trinovantes. From that tribe came one of the greatest of our kings — Cunobelinos, the Hound of Belinos, against whom not even the Roman emperors would dare to wage war.’
Eadulf shifted his weight nervously. ‘Tempus edax rerum,’ he muttered, remembering the line from Ovid.
Gwlyddien stared disapprovingly at him for a moment. Then he sighed and bowed his head as though accepting the inevitable.
‘Indeed, time does devour all things. Yet does not Virgil say that the Fates w
ill find a way? What was once may yet be again.’
Eadulf restrained a shiver. He had heard that the Britons had not lost hope that one day they would drive the Saxons back again into the sea. He wondered how to respond but the moment had passed. Gwlyddien had seated himself in the chair vacated by the abbot, who took another.
‘Sit down,’ the king instructed with an impatient gesture. Fidelma and Eadulf resumed their seats. ‘The answer to our Saxon friend’s previous question is simple. Among the stories that we hear from travellers passing through this kingdom from Éireann, and the many brothers and sisters from your country who come to study here at this abbey, are tales of how Fidelma of Cashel has solved this riddle or unravelled that mystery. Having discussed the matter with Abbot Tryffin, I believe that God himself put you on a course to this place so that you may help us.’
Eadulf tried to suppress his feeling of annoyance that the king did not include him. It was clear that it was only Fidelma’s reputation that had prompted this summons to the abbey of Dewi Sant. The Britons barely tolerated him. He tried to keep his features impassive.
Fidelma was sitting back, regarding Gwlyddien with a studied expression. ‘My mentor, the Brehon Morann, used to say that compliments cost nothing, yet many pay dear for them. What cost follows these compliments you now bestow on me and on Brother Eadulf?’ The slight emphasis on Eadulf’s name implied a rebuke at their exclusion of him.
Gwlyddien was obviously not accustomed to being questioned so directly and the abbot was looking anxious. However, Gwlyddien kept his humour.
‘Believe me, Fidelma of Cashel, I am not an idle flatterer.’
‘Of that I am sure,’ Fidelma replied quickly. ‘So let us get down to what it is that you want of us rather than proceed with the inconsequential matters.’
At a gesture from the king, Abbot Tryffin took charge of the narrative.
‘Some twenty or more kilometres to the north of here is one of our sub-houses, the abbey of Llanpadern. Abbey is, perhaps, too important a title to give the little community that dwells there.’
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