Absolution by Murder

Chapter Three

The Abbess Hilda stood looking down from her window at Streoneshalh to the small harbour at the mouth of the river below the cliffs. The harbour was a flurry of activity, with tiny figures scurrying here and there bent on the tasks of off-loading the several ships that rode at anchor within its shelter.

‘His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury and his party are safely landed,’ she observed slowly. ‘And I have news that my cousin, the king, is arriving at noon tomorrow. That means our deliberations can begin, as planned, tomorrow evening.’

Behind her, seated before the smouldering fire in her dark chamber, was a hawk-faced man with swarthy features and a slightly autocratic expression. He looked like a man used to command and, moreover, used to being obeyed. He was clad in the robes of an abbot and wore the crucifix and ring of a bishop. His tonsure, whereby the front of his head was shaved back to a line running from ear to ear, immediately proclaimed that he followed the ways of Iona rather than those of Rome.

‘That is good,’ he said. He spoke in Saxon, slow and accented. ‘It is auspicious to start our deliberations on the first day of a new month.’

Abbess Hilda turned from the window and smiled nervously at him.

‘There has never been a gathering of such importance, my lord Colman.’

There was a suppressed tone of excitement in her voice.

Colmán’s thin mouth twitched in a slight sneer.

‘I suppose that is true for Northumbria. Speaking for myself, I can recall many important synods and assemblies. Druim Ceatt, for example, where our saintly Colmcille presided, was an important assembly for our faith in Ireland.’

The abbess decided to ignore the slightly condescending tone of the Abbot of Lindisfarne. It had been three years since Colmán had arrived from Iona to succeed Finán as bishop of Northumbria. But the two men were totally dissimilar in attitudes. The saintly Finán, though considered by some a man of fierce temper, was sincere, courteous and eager to teach, treating everyone as equals. He it was who had succeeded in converting and baptizing the fierce pagan king Peada of the Middle Angles, a son of the scourge of all Christians, Penda of Mercia. But Colmán was a man of different temperament to Finán. He seemed to treat both Angles and Saxons patronisingly, his tone and words often sneering at the fact that they were but newly come to the teachings of Christ and implying that therefore they should accept everything he said without question. Nor did he disguise his pride in the fact that it was the monks of Iona who had had to teach the Angles of Northumbria the art of lettering and how to read and how to write. The new bishop of Northumbria was an authoritarian and made his dislike of anyone who questioned his authority immediately known.

‘Who will be making the opening arguments for the teachings of Colmcille?’ asked Hilda.

The abbess made no secret that she followed the teachings of Colmcille’s church and disagreed with the arguments of Rome. As a young girl, Hilda had been baptised by the Roman Paulinus, who had been sent from Canterbury to convert the Northumbrians to Christ and Rome when she was a babe in arms. But it had been Aidán, the first saintly missionary from Iona, who had succeeded in the conversion of Northumbria where Paulinus had failed and who had persuaded Hilda to enter the religious life. Such was her aptitude for piety and teaching that Aidán had ordained her abbess of a foundation at Heruteu. Her enthusiasm for the faith caused her to have built a new abbey called Streoneshalh, ‘the great hall by the seashore’, seven years before. During the seven years, a complex of magnificent buildings had grown up under her guidance. Northumbria had never seen such an impressive structure. And Streoneshalh was now regarded as one of the most important centres of learning in the kingdom. Because of its renown, the king, Oswy, had chosen it as the venue for his debate between the followers of Iona and those of Rome.

Colmán folded his hands complacently before him.

‘I have, as you know, gathered here many people of knowledge and talent to argue the case of our Church,’ he said. ‘Foremost among them is the Abbess Étain of Kildare. At times like these I find that I am but a plain-spoken man with little guile or scholarship. In such debates the plain-spoken advocate is at a disadvantage against those who use wit and humour to convince their audience. The Abbess Étain is a woman of much wisdom and she will open the proceedings on our behalf.’

Abbess Hilda nodded approvingly.

‘I have already conversed with Étain of Kildare. Her wit is as quick and sharp as she is attractive.’

Colmán sniffed disapprovingly. The Abbess Hilda raised a delicate hand to hide her smile. She knew that Colmán had little time for women. He was one of the ascetics who argued that marriage was incompatible with spiritual life. Among most of the Christian clergy of Ireland, and among the Britons, marriage and procreation was not regarded as a sin. Indeed, many of the religious houses were communities of brothers and sisters in Christ who cohabited, working together for the furtherance of the faith. Hilda’s own foundation of Streoneshalh itself was a ‘double house’ in that both men and women lived and dedicated their lives and children to the work of God. But while Rome accepted that even their chief apostle Peter had married, and that Philip the apostle not only married but begat four daughters, it was known that the bishops of Rome favoured Paul’s preference for celibacy for all their religious. Had not Paul written to the Corinthians that while marriage and procreation was no sin, it was not as good as celibacy among the brethren? Yet most Roman clergy, even bishops, presbyters, abbots and deacons, continued to be married in the traditional manner. Only ascetics sought to deny themselves all the temptations of the flesh and Colmán was such a man.

‘I suppose, even with Deusdedit of Canterbury here, that Wilfrid of Ripon will open for the Roman faction? I am told that Deusdedit is no great orator.’ Colmán was changing the subject.

Abbess Hilda hesitated and shook her head.

‘I have heard that Agilbert, the Frankish bishop of Wessex, will head their council.’

Colmán raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘I thought that Agilbert had taken offence with the king of Wessex and left for Frankia?’

‘No. He has been staying with Wilfrid at Ripon for several months. After all, it was Agilbert who converted and baptised Wilfrid to the faith. They are close friends.’

‘I know of Agilbert. A Frankish aristocrat. His cousin Audo is the Frankish prince who founded a religious house at Jouarre with his sister Telchilde as its abbess. Agilbert is well connected and powerful. A man to have a care of.’

Colmán seemed about to amplify his warning when there came a knock at the door.

In answer to Abbess Hilda’s response, the door swung open.

A young religieuse stood there, hands demurely folded before her. She was tall, with a well-proportioned figure which, the keen eyes of the abbess saw, vibrated youthful exuberance. Rebellious strands of red hair streaked from beneath her headdress. She had an attractive face – not beautiful, thought Hilda, but attractive. The abbess suddenly realised that her scrutiny was being returned by a pair of watchful bright eyes. She could not make out whether they were blue or green in the changing light that seemed to emanate from them.

‘What is it, child?’ inquired the abbess.

The young woman’s chin came up a trifle pugnaciously and she introduced herself in Irish.

‘I have just arrived at the abbey, Mother Abbess, and have been asked to report my presence to you and the Bishop Colmán. My name is Fidelma of Kildare.’

Before Abbess Hilda had time to respond, questioning why a young Irish religieuse should be worthy to be asked to make her presence known to them, the Bishop Colmán had risen from his chair and had taken a stride towards the girl with an outstretched hand of welcome. Hilda stared at him, her mouth opening slightly in her astonishment. It was curiously unlike the haughty misogynism of Colmán to rise up to greet a young sister of the order.

‘Sister Fidelma!’ Colmán’s voice was animated. ‘Your reputation precedes you. I am Colmán.’

The young religieuse took his hand and inclined her head slightly in deference to his rank. Hilda had long since become accustomed to the lack of servility that the Irish displayed towards their superiors, unlike the deep reverence Saxons displayed towards their betters.

‘You do me honour, your grace. I was not aware that I was possessed of a reputation.’

The keen eyes of Abbess Hilda saw an amused smile play around the mouth of the younger woman. It was hard to tell whether the girl was being modest or merely mocking. Again the bright eyes – Hilda was sure they were green now – turned inquiringly in her direction.

Colmán turned in some embarrassment at his neglect of the Mother Abbess.

‘This is the Abbess Hilda of Streoneshalh.’

Sister Fidelma moved forward and reached to incline her head over the abbess’s ring.

‘You are most welcome here, Fidelma of Kildare,’ Hilda acknowledged, ‘though I confess that my lord the Bishop of Lindisfarne has placed me at a disadvantage. I stand in ignorance of your reputation.’

Hilda glanced at the hawk-faced Colmán as if seeking comment.

‘Sister Fidelma is a dálaigh of the Brehon courts of Ireland,’ explained Colman.

Abbess Hilda frowned.

‘I am not acquainted with this expression – daw-lee.’ She rendered the term as closely as she could in her own phonetics. She stared at the girl as if challenging her to an explanation.

Sister Fidelma’s cheeks reddened slightly and her voice was slightly breathless as she sought to explain.

‘I am an advocate, qualified to plead before the law courts of my country, to prosecute or defend those summoned to answer to the law before our judges, the Brehons.’

Colman nodded. ‘Sister Fidelma is qualified to the degree of anruth, only one degree below the highest qualification in our land. Already, even among the brethren in Lindisfarne, we have heard tales of how she was able to solve a mystery oppressing the High King at Tara.’

Fidelma gave a deprecating shrug of her shoulders.

‘My lord bishop does me too much honour,’ she said. ‘Anyone could have resolved the mystery given time.’

There was no false modesty in her voice, just a plain statement of her opinion.

‘So?’ Abbess Hilda stared curiously at her. ‘A qualified advocate, so young and a woman? Alas, in our culture women could not aspire to such a position, which is reserved only for men.’

Sister Fidelma nodded slowly.

‘I have heard, Mother Abbess, that women among the Angles and Saxons suffer many disadvantages compared with their sisters in Ireland.’

‘That may be so, Fidelma,’ Colmán interrupted with an air of condescension. ‘But remember what the Good Book says: “What went you into the wilderness to see, a man clothed in fine garments?” ’

Hilda cast a glance of annoyance at Colmán. His comparison of Northumbria to a wilderness was another demonstration of his superior attitudes, which had increasingly annoyed her over the last three years. She nearly made a rejoinder, but hesitated and turned back to Fidelma. She was disconcerted to find the bright green eyes fixed penetratingly on her as if the girl could read her thoughts.

Their eyes locked for some time, as if challenging each other. It was Bishop Colmán who broke the silence.

‘And was your journey without incident, sister?’

Sister Fidelma turned, memory suddenly coming back.

‘Alas, no. Not many miles from here, where a man called Wulfric claims that he is lord—’

Abbess Hilda frowned.

‘I know the man and the place. Wulfric of Frihop, whose hall lies some fifteen miles to the east. What of it, sister?’

‘We found a brother hanging from a tree at the crossroads. Wulfric claimed the monk had been executed for insulting him. Our brother wore the tonsure of our Church, my lord bishop, and Wulfric did not conceal that he came from your own house of Lindisfarne.’

Colmán bit his lip and suppressed an intake of breath.

‘It must be Brother Aelfric. He was returning from a mission to Mercia and expected to join us here any day now.’

‘But why would Aelfric insult the thane of Frihop?’ demanded Abbess Hilda.

‘By your leave, Mother Abbess,’ interrupted Sister Fidelma. ‘I had the impression that this was merely an excuse. The argument was about the differences between Iona and Rome and it would seem that Wulfric and his friends favour Rome. This Brother Aelfric was apparently manoeuvred into the insult and then hanged for it.’

Hilda examined the girl sharply.

‘You do have a legal, inquiring mind, Fidelma of Kildare. But, as you well know, to hypothesise is one thing. To prove your contention is quite another.’

Sister Fidelma smiled softly.

‘I did not mean to present my impression as a legal argument, Mother Abbess. Merely that I think you would do well to have a care of Wulfric of Frihop. If he can get away with the judicial murder of a religious simply because he supports the liturgy of Colmcille then every one of us who comes to this abbey to argue in that cause may be in danger.’

‘Wulfric of Frihop is known to us. He is Alhfrith’s right hand man and Alhfrith is king of Deira,’ Hilda replied sharply. Then she sighed and shrugged and added in a softer tone, ‘And are you here to contribute to the debate, Fidelma of Kildare?’

The young religieuse gave a modest chuckle.

‘That I should dare to raise my voice among so many eloquent orators who have gathered would be an impertinence. No, Mother Abbess. I am here merely to advise on law. Our church, whose teachings your people follow, is subject to the laws of our people and the Abbess Étain, who will be speaking for our church, asked me to attend in case there is need for some advice or explanation in this matter. That is all.’

‘Then you are truly well come to this place, for your counsel is to aid us in arriving at the one great truth,’ replied Hilda. ‘And your counsel concerning Wulfric will be noted, have no fear. I shall speak concerning the matter with my cousin, King Oswy, when he arrives tomorrow. Iona or Rome, both are under the protection of the royal house of Northumbria.’

Sister Fidelma grimaced wryly. Royal protection had not helped Brother Aelfric. She decided, however, to change the subject.

‘I am forgetting one of the purposes of my disturbing you.’

She reached within her habit and brought out two packages.

‘I have journeyed here from Ireland through Dál Riada and the Holy Island of Iona.’

Abbess Hilda’s eyes grew misty.

‘You have stayed on the Holy Island where the great Columba lived and worked?’

‘Well, tell us, did you meet with the abbot?’ asked Colmán, interested.

Fidelma nodded.

‘I saw Cumméne the Fair and he sends greetings to you both and these letters.’ She held out the packages. ‘He makes a strong plea for Northumbria to adhere to the liturgy practised by Colmcille. Further, as a gift to the abbey of Streoneshalh, Cumméne Finn has sent a gift by me. I have left it with your librarius. It is a copy of Cumméne’s own book on the miraculous powers of Colmcille, of saintly name.’

Abbess Hilda took her package from Fidelma’s hand.

‘The Abbot of Iona is wise and generous. How I envy you your visit to such a sanctified place. We owe so much to that miraculous little island. I shall look forward to studying the book later. But this letter draws my attention …’

Sister Fidelma inclined her head.

‘Then I will withdraw and leave you to study the letters from Cumméne Finn.’

Colmán was already deep into his letter and scarcely looked up as she bowed her head and withdrew.

Outside, in the sandstone-flagged cloisters, Sister Fidelma paused and smiled to herself. She found herself in a curiously exhilarated mood in spite of the length of her journey and her fatigue. She had never travelled beyond the confines of Ireland before and now she had not only crossed the grey, stormy sea to Iona, but travelled through the kingdom of the Dál Riada, through the country of Rheged to the land of the Northumbrians – three different cultures and countries. There was much to take in, much to be considered.

Pressing for her immediate attention was the fact of her arrival at Streoneshalh on the eve of the highly anticipated debate between the churchmen of Rome and those of her own culture and she would not only witness it but be a part of it. Sister Fidelma was possessed of a spirit of time and place, of history and mankind’s place in its unfolding tapestry. She often reflected that, had she not studied law under the great Brehon Morann of Tara, she would have studied history. But law she had studied. Had she not, perhaps the Abbess Etain of Kildare would not have invited her to join her delegation, which had left for Lindisfarne at the invitation of Bishop Colman.

The summons had come to Fidelma while she had been on a pilgrimage to Armagh. In fact, Fidelma had been surprised at it, for when she had left her own house of Kildare Étain had not been abbess. She had known Étain for many years and knew her reputation as a scholar and orator. Étain, in retrospect, had been the correct choice to take the office of abbess on the death of her predecessor. The word had come to Fidelma that Étain had already left for the kingdom of the Saxons and so Fidelma had decided to proceed firstly to the monastery of Bangor and then cross the stormy strait to Dál Riada. Then from Iona she had joined Brother Taran and his companions, who had been setting out on a mission to Northumbria.

There had been only one other female in the band and that had been Brother Taran’s fellow Pict, Sister Gwid. She was a large raw-boned girl, giving an impression of clumsy awkwardness, her hands and feet seemingly too large. Yet she seemed always anxious to please and did not mind doing any work of drudgery no matter how heavy the task. Fidelma had been astonished to find that Sister Gwid, after her conversion to Christ, had studied at Iona before crossing to spend a year in Ireland, studying at the abbey of Emly during the time when Étain had been a simple instructress there. Fidelma was more than surprised to find that Gwid had specialized in Greek and a study of the meaning of the writings of the apostles.

Sister Gwid confided to Fidelma that she had been on her return journey to Iona when she, too, had been sent a message from the Abbess Étain to join her in Northumbria to act as her secretary during the debate that was to take place. No one objected, therefore, to Gwid and Fidelma joining the party led by Taran on the hazardous journey south from Iona to the kingdom of Oswy.

The journey with Brother Taran had simply confirmed Fidelma’s dislike of the Pictish religieux. He was a vain man, darkly handsome according to some notions, but with looks which made Fidelma regard him as a pompous bantam cock, strutting and preening. Yet, as a man with knowledge of the ways of the Angles and Saxons, she would not argue with his ability in easing their path through the hostile land. But as a man she found him weak and vacillating, one minute attempting to impress, another hopelessly inadequate – as at their confrontation with Wulfric.

Fidelma gave a mental shake of her head. So much for Taran. There were other things to think of now. New sights, new sounds and new people.

She gave a startled ‘oh’ as she walked around a corner and collided with a thickset monk.

Only the fact that he reached out strong hands and caught her saved her from stumbling backwards and falling.

For a moment the young man and woman stared at each other. It was a moment of pure chemistry. Some empathy passed from the dark brown eyes of the man into Fidelma’s green ones. Then Fidelma noticed the tonsure of Rome on the young man’s crown and realised that he must be one of the Roman delegation and probably a Saxon.

‘Forgive me,’ she said stiffly, choosing Latin to address him. Realising that he still grasped her forearms, she gently pulled away.

The young monk let go immediately and took a step back, fighting the confusion on his face. He succeeded.

‘Mea culpa,’ he replied gravely, striking his left breast with his right clenched fist, yet with a smile flickering behind his eyes.

Fidelma hesitated and then bowed her head in acknowledgment before moving on, wondering why the face of the young Saxon intrigued her. Perhaps it was the quiet humour that lurked in his gaze. Her experience with Saxons was limited but she had not credited them with being a humorous people. To meet one who was not dour and brooding and took insult at the slightest thing, which, in her experience, all Saxons did, fascinated her. In general, she had found them morose and quick-tempered; they were a people who lived by the sword and, with few exceptions, believed in their gods of war rather than the God of Peace.

She suddenly became annoyed with her thoughts. Odd that a brief encounter could stir such silly notions.

She turned into the part of the abbey made over for the accommodation of those visitors attending the debate, the domus hospitale. Most of the religious were accommodated in several large dormitoria, but for the many abbots, abbesses, bishops and other dignitaries a special series of cubicula had been set aside as individual quarters. Sister Fidelma herself had been lucky to have been allocated one of these cubicula, no more than a tiny cell eight feet by six with a simple wooden cot, a table and chair. Fidelma supposed that she had the intercession of Bishop Colmán to thank for such hospitality. She opened the door of her cubiculum and paused in surprise on the threshold.

A slightly built, good-looking woman rose from the chair with extended hands.

‘Étain!’ exclaimed Sister Fidelma, recognising the abbess of Kildare.

The Abbess Étain was an attractive woman in her early thirties; the daughter of an Eoghanacht king of Cashel, she had given up a world of indolence and pleasure after her husband had been killed in battle. Her star had risen rapidly, for she was soon acknowledged to be possessed of such skill and oratorical knowledge that she had been able to argue theology on the same footing with the archbishop of Armagh and all the bishops and abbots of Ireland. It was in tribute to her reputation that she had been appointed as abbess of St Brigit’s great foundation at Kildare.

Fidelma moved forward and bowed her head, but Étain took both her hands in a warm embrace. They had been friends for several years before Étain had been elevated to her present position, since when neither had seen the other, for Fidelma had been travelling through Ireland.

‘It is good to see you again, even in this outlandish country.’ Étain spoke with a soft, rich soprano voice. Fidelma had often thought it was like a musical instrument which could sharpen in anger, become vibrant with indignation or be used sweetly, as it was now. ‘I am glad your journey here was safe, Fidelma.’

Fidelma grinned mischievously.

‘Should it have been otherwise, when we journey in the name and under the protection of the one true God?’

Étain returned her smile.

‘At least I journeyed with temporal assistance. I came with some brothers from Durrow. We landed in Rheged and were joined by a group of brethren from that kingdom of Britons. Then, at the border of Rheged and Northumbria, we were officially met by Athelnoth and a band of Saxon warriors who escorted us here. Have you met Athelnoth?’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘I have only arrived here within the last hour myself, Mother Abbess,’ she said.

Étain pursed her lips and grimaced disapprovingly.

‘Athelnoth was sent to greet and escort me by King Oswy and the Bishop of Northumbria. He was outspoken against Irish teachings and our influence in Northumbria to the point of insulting us. He is an ordained priest but one who argues for Rome. Once I even had to prevent one of our brothers from physically assaulting Athelnoth, so blunt is his criticism of our liturgy.’

Fidelma shrugged indifferently.

‘From what I hear, Mother Abbess, the debate over our respective liturgies is causing a great deal of tension and argument. I would not have thought it possible that such emotions would be aroused by a discussion on the correct date of the Paschal ceremony—’

Étain grimaced.

‘You must learn to refer to it here as Easter.’

Fidelma frowned.

‘Easter?’

‘The Saxons have accepted most of our teaching of Christian faith but as for the Paschal feast they insist on naming it after their pagan goddess of fertility, Eostre, whose rituals fall at the time of the Spring equinox. There is much that is still pagan in this land. You will find that many still follow the ways of their old gods and goddesses and that their hearts are still filled with hate and war.’

The Abbess Étain suddenly shivered.

‘I feel there is much that is oppressive here, Fidelma. Oppressive and menacing.’

Sister Fidelma smiled reassuringly.

‘Whenever there is a conflict of opinion, then human tensions rise and give way to fear. I do not think we need worry. There will be much posturing during the verbal conflict. But once we have reached a resolution then all will be forgotten and forgiven.’ She hesitated. ‘When does the debate begin?’

‘The King Oswy and his entourage will not arrive at the abbey until noon tomorrow. The Abbess Hilda has told me that, all being well, she will allow the opening arguments to commence in the late afternoon. Bishop Colmán has asked me to make the opening arguments for our church.’

Fidelma thought she saw some anxiety on the Abbess Étain’s features.

‘Does that worry you, Mother Abbess?’

Étain suddenly smiled and shook her head.

‘No. I revel in debate and argument. I have good companions to advise me, such as yourself.’

‘That reminds me,’ Fidelma replied, ‘I had Sister Gwid as my travelling companion. An intelligent girl whose looks give the wrong impression. She tells me that she is to act as your secretary and Greek translator.’

An indefinable expression showed on Abbess Étain’s face for a split second. Fidelma could not make up her mind whether it was anger or a lesser emotion.

‘Young Gwid can be an annoying person. A little like a puppy dog, unassertive and too sycophantic at times. But she is an excellent Greek scholar, though I think she spends too much of her time admiring the poems of Sappho rather than construing the Gospels.’ She sounded disapproving, but then shrugged. ‘Yes, I do have good companions to advise me. But there is something else that makes me feel uneasy. I think it is the atmosphere of hostility and dislike I feel from those of the Roman faction. Agilbert the Frank, for example, who has trained many years in Ireland but has a deep devotion to Rome, and that man Wilfrid, who even refused to greet me when the Abbess Hilda introduced us—’

‘Who is Wilfrid? I find these Saxon names hard to understand.’

Étain sighed.

‘He is a young man, but one who leads the Rome faction here in Northumbria. I believe he is the son of some noble. By all accounts he has a sharp temper. He has been to Rome and Canterbury and was taken into the faith by Agilbert, who ordained him as a priest. He was given the monastery of Ripon by the petty king of the area, who threw out two of our own brethren, Eata and Cuthbert, who were joint abbots there. This Wilfred seems to be our fiercest enemy, a passionate advocate of the Roman liturgy. Alas, I fear we have many enemies here.’

Sister Fidelma found herself suddenly visualising the face of the young Saxon monk whom she had just bumped into.

‘Yet surely not all those who support Rome are our enemies?’

The abbess smiled meditatively.

‘Maybe you are right, Fidelma. And maybe I am simply nervous after all.’

‘A lot depends on your opening arguments tomorrow,’ agreed Fidelma.

‘There is something more, though—’ Étain was hesitant.

Fidelma waited patiently, watching the expression on the abbess’s face. It seemed that Étain found it difficult to formulate what she had in mind.

‘Fidelma,’ she said with a sudden rush, ‘I am disposed to take a husband.’

Fidelma’s eyes widened but she said nothing. Clergy, even bishops, took spouses; even the religious of houses, whether mixed or not, could have wives and husbands, under Brehon law and custom. But the position of an abbot and abbess was in a different category for they were usually bound to celibacy. Such was the rule at Kildare. It was the Irish custom that the coarb, or successor to the founder of an abbey, should always be chosen in the kindred of the founder. Since abbots and abbesses were not expected to have direct issue, the successor was chosen from a collateral branch. But if, in the collateral branches, no religious was found fit to be elected to such a position, then a secular member of the family of the coarb was elected as lay abbot or abbess. Étain claimed relation to the family of Brigit of Kildare.

‘It would mean giving up Kildare and returning to being an ordinary religieuse,’ Fidelma pointed out eventually when Étain made no further comment.

Étain nodded. ‘I have thought of this long and hard on my journey here. To cohabit with a stranger will be difficult, especially after one has been alone for so long. Yet when I arrived here, I realised that my mind was made up. I have exchanged the traditional betrothal gifts. The matter is now decided.’

Instinctively Fidelma reached out a hand, caught Étain’s slim one and squeezed it.

‘Then I am happy for you, Étain; happy in your certainty. Who is your stranger?’

Étain smiled shyly.

‘If I felt able to tell only one person, it would be you, Fidelma. But I feel that it should be my secret, and his, until after this debate. When this great assembly is over, then you shall know, for I will announce my resignation from Kildare.’

They were distracted by a growing noise of shouting from beyond the window of the cubiculum.

‘What on earth is that?’ demanded Sister Fidelma, frowning at the raucous tones. ‘There seems some sort of scuffle taking place beneath the abbey wall.’

Abbess Étain sighed.

‘I have seen so many scuffles between our religious and the brethren of Rome since I came here. I presume it is another such. Grown men resorting to personal insults and punches simply because they disagree with each other over the interpretation of the Word of God. It is sad that men, and women, of the cloth become as spiteful children when they cannot agree.’

Sister Fidelma went to the window and leant forward.

A little way off a beggar was surrounded by a crowd of people, mostly peasants so far as she could tell from their dress, although a few wore the brown habit of the brethren. They seemed to be taunting and deriding a poorly dressed man, presumably a beggar from his clothes, whose voice was raised in raucous tones which seemed to drown out their jibes.

Sister Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

‘The beggar seems to be one of our countrymen, Mother Abbess,’ she said.

The Abbess Étain moved forward to join her.

‘A beggar. They suffer greatly from the arrogance of a crowd.’

‘But listen to what he says.’

The two women strained to catch the rasping tones of the beggar. The voice was raised loudly.

‘I tell you, tomorrow the sun shall be blotted from the heavens and when that time comes there shall be blood staining the floor of this abbey. Beware! Beware, I tell you! I see blood in this place!’