Absolution by Murder

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 withdrew. 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.

‘You are ever perceptive, Fidelma. Yes. Tensions are growing.’ Oswy hesitated with a sigh. ‘There is civil war in the air. My son Alhfrith now plots against me. There are rumours that he is gathering warriors to drive out the Irish religious by force while my daughter Aelflaed is rumoured to be gathering those who support the church of Columba to defend the abbeys against Alhfrith. All it needs now is but a single spark and this whole kingdom will erupt in flames. Both sides accuse the other of the death of Étain of Kildare. What am I to tell them?’

There was a desperation in the king’s voice. Fidelma felt almost sorry for him.

‘We can still tell you nothing, my lord,’ Eadulf insisted.

‘But you have questioned everyone who saw her just before her death.’

Fidelma parted her lips in a mirthless smile.

‘Doubtless this has been reported to you from a good source. Perhaps Sister Athelswith?’

Oswy made an uncomfortable gesture of affirmation.

‘Is it a secret then?’

‘No secret, Oswy,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But Sister Athelswith ought to be more cautious than to report our activities lest they come to the wrong ears. There is still one person whom we have not yet questioned.’

‘I asked Sister Athelswith specifically to let me know when you had finished your questioning,’ Oswy said defensively.

‘You said just now that your son Alhfrith plots against you,’ Fidelma said. ‘Did you mean that seriously?’

Oswy raised his arms and let them fall in a motion indicating indecision.

‘A king has no friends in ambitious sons,’ he said heavily.

‘What ambition does a king’s son have but to be king?’

‘Alhfrith wishes to be king?’

‘I made him petty king of Deira to contain his ambition but he wishes the throne of the entire kingdom of Northumbria. I know it. He knows I know it. We play a game of dutiful son and father. But the day may well come …’

He shrugged with eloquence.

‘An investigation like this takes time,’ Fidelma said soothingly. ‘There are many considerations to be taken into account.’

Oswy stared at her for a moment and then grimaced.

‘You are correct, of course, sister. I have no right to put pressure on you. Your search is for truth. But mine is to keep a kingdom from being divided and destroying itself.’

‘Do you really think that the people are so firmly convinced by one faction or the other as to fight each other?’ queried Eadulf.

Oswy shook his head.

‘It is the people manipulating religion not the religion itself that threatens to break the peace of this land. And Alhfrith is not above using religion to motivate people to help him in his search for power. The longer people speculate on who killed Étain of Kildare, the longer they will have to formulate preposterous theories to fuel their prejudices.’

‘All we can say, Oswy, is that as soon as we are near the solution, you will be the first to know,’ Fidelma said.

‘Very well. I will remain content with that assurance. But remember what I say – there are many rumours being voiced abroad. Much depends on this assembly and the decisions we reach here.’

As they walked back through the cloisters from the Abbess Hilda’s chambers to the domus hospitale Eadulf suddenly said:

‘I think your suspicions are right, Fidelma. We should speak with this Taran.’

Fidelma raised her brows with a mocking smile.

‘And you know what my suspicions are, Eadulf?’

‘You believe that there is a plot afoot, hatched by Alhfrith of Deira, to overthrow Oswy and use the tensions of this synod as the means to create civil war.’

‘I do believe that,’ Fidelma confirmed.

‘I think you believe that Alhfrith, working through Wulfric and perhaps Taran, had Étain of Kildare killed to create this tension.’

‘It is a possibility. And we must endeavour to discover if it is true or not.’

Fidelma and Eadulf were entering the officium of Sister Athelswith, which they had made their centre, when the solemn toll of the midnight Angelus bell began to sound.

Fidelma heaved a sigh as Eadulf immediately took out his prayer beads.

‘It is late now. Tomorrow we will meet with Taran,’ she announced. ‘But don’t forget that you are to make enquiries about Athelnoth’s background. At the moment, I still have suspicions about Athelnoth.’

Brother Eadulf nodded his head in agreement while he began to recite the Hail Mary:

Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genetrix

Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God.

The bell announcing the serving of the first meal of the day, the jentaculum, had ceased to toll, and the grace had already been said, when Sister Fidelma slid into her place at the long wooden refectory tables. The sister chosen as the reciter of the day was a member of the Roman faction and had taken her place at the lectern at the head of the table, frowning disapprovingly as Fidelma joined them.

‘Benedicamus, Domino,’ she greeted frostily.

‘Deo gratias,’ responded Fidelma with the others.

The sister then intoned the Beati immaculati which preceded the reading and they began to eat.

Fidelma mentally shut her ears to the scratchy voice of the woman, and ate mechanically of the cereal and fruit placed before her. She raised her eyes from time to time to study those gathered in the refectory but she saw no sign of Eadulf. She did see Brother Taran seated at a table nearby. The Pictish monk’s dark features seemed animated. She was surprised when she saw that he was engaged in conversation with the young monk with corn-coloured hair, Seaxwulf. The young man was seated with his back to her but his hair, his slender shoulders and his effeminate gestures were unmistakable. Curiously, she watched the expression on Taran’s face as he spoke. It was intense, angry and insistent. She abruptly found the black eyes of Taran staring directly back at her. Their eyes held for a moment and then an unctuous smile slid across the swarthy features of the Pict and he nodded his head in her direction. Fidelma forced herself to incline her head in response before turning back to her meal.

As she left the rectory, she caught sight of Eadulf seated with a group of Saxon clerics in a far corner. They appeared in earnest conversation and so she made no effort to approach him, deciding to leave the abbey and take a walk down to the sea shore. It seemed a long time since she had breathed in the fresh air of the sea. Her attempt yesterday evening had been interrupted by Taran and his apparently clandestine meeting with Wulfric. She felt as if she had been enclosed in the abbey for ages. Yet that was not so, the tension merely made it seem like it.

What puzzled her was that Taran had suddenly become very friendly with Wulfric and now Seaxwulf. Did this mean something significant and linked to the death of Étain ?

She felt unsure of herself. She was in a strange, foreign country and the fact that it was her own friend, Étain, whose death she was investigating caused her uneasiness and depression.

She walked down the pathway to the harbour entrance and turned along the rocky shoreline. There were a few people about but none seemed to cast a second glance at her as she walked, head bowed, as if she were meditating.

She tried to cast her mind over the facts as she knew them.

The curious thing was that she now found herself thinking about the Saxon monk, Eadulf.

She had never worked with anyone else since she had qualified as a dálaigh of the Brehon courts. She had always been the sole arbiter of the truth. Never had she had to rely on a second judgment, much less have to work with a foreigner. Yet the intriguing part was that she did not feel that Eadulf was entirely a stranger, as her people referred to a foreigner. She put this down to the fact that he had spent so many years studying at Durrow and Tuaim Brecain. But that could not be the full answer to the odd feeling of companionship she was beginning to feel with Eadulf.

This land of Northumbria was a strange land, full of strange customs and attitudes so totally unlike the straightforward order of Ireland. She suddenly caught herself and laughed inwardly. She presumed that a Saxon would consider the system here straightforward compared to the laws and attitudes of Ireland. She found herself recalling the line from Homer’s Odyssey: ‘I, for one, know of no sweeter sight for a man or woman’s eyes than that of their own country.’

She had only come to this land because Étain of Kildare had asked her to. Now Étain was dead. She found herself disliking the land and its people, its pride and its arrogance, it martial attitudes and the savagery of its punishment for wrongdoers. Here was a land where punishment was all and the transgressor was given no hope of redeeming himself or compensating the victims. She wanted to return home, to her home of Kildare. She disliked all Saxons. But then Eadulf was a Saxon.

She found her mind racing forward again and caught herself with an angry muttered exclamation.

But was Eadulf typical of his breed? He had good qualities. She found herself liking him, amused by him, admiring his analytical mind. Yet she disliked Saxons.

But then she disliked many of her own nation. Pride and arrogance was not a sin particular to one group.

She heaved a deep sigh. Fidelma prided herself on the logic and method of her thinking. She was disturbed how this disorganised and jumbled series of thoughts could enter her mind when she was supposed to be analysing the murder of Étain. And every path her mind took, it seemed to end with the image of Eadulf. Why Eadulf? Perhaps because she had to work with him that he kept entering her thoughts? Somehow, at the back of her mind, Fidelma felt that there was some other reason.

By the time Fidelma returned to the abbey she could find no sign of Eadulf. She went to Sister Athelswith’s officium and waited for a while. She wondered whether she should ask Sister Athelswith to find Brother Taran and start questioning him herself. She was just coming to this decision when the door of the officium opened with a crash and Sister Athelswith burst in, her voice raised in distress.

‘Sister Fidelma! Sister Fidelna!’

Fidelma rose in surprise from her seat at the domina’s agitation.

Sister Athelswith looked anxious, her face was flushed and she seemed to have been running.

‘Why, sister, what does this mean?’

Sister Athelswith gazed at Fidelma with wide, staring eyes. Her face became as white as a winter’s snow shower. It took a time before she could collect herself and articulate.

‘It is the Archbishop of Canterbury, Deusdedit. He lies dead in his cubiculum.’