Absolution by Murder

Chapter Four

The tolling of the abbey’s great bell announced the approach of the official opening of the synod. At least, Sister Fidelma mused, both sides seemed to accept the Greek term synodos to describe this assembly of Christian dignitaries. The synod of Streoneshalh promised to be one of the most important meetings for the churches of both Iona and Rome.

Sister Fidelma took her seat in the sacrarium of the abbey, for the chapel, the largest chamber, had been given over for the use of the assembly. There was a general hubbub of what seemed to be countless people all talking at once. The vast stone-walled sacrarium, with its high, vaulted roof. acted as a means of increasing the sound by providing an echo. Yet, in spite of the spaciousness, Fidelma had a momentary feeling of claustrophobia at the sight and smells of the numerous religious packed along the pews. On the left side of the sacrarium, seated in rows on dark oak benches, there had assembled all those who supported the rule of Columba. On the right side of the sacrarium were gathered those who argued for Rome.

Fidelma had never seen so large a concourse of leaders of the Church of Christ before. As well as religious in their distinctive dress, there were many whose rich apparel proclaimed them to be nobles from a variety of kingdoms.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’

Fidelma looked up and found Brother Taran slipping into the seat beside her. She groaned inwardly. She had been hoping to avoid the pretentious brother. His company was a little too exhausting after their long journey from Iona.

‘I have not seen such an impressive gathering since I sat at the Great Assembly of Tara last year,’ she replied coldly when he asked her what she thought of the gathering. Also impressive, she added silently to herself, was the putrescence of the body odours which were permeating the sacrarium in spite of the strategically placed censers in which incense had been lit to fumigate the proceedings. It was a sad reflection on the hygiene of the religious of Northumbria, she thought disapprovingly. Among the brethren of Ireland, bathing was a daily occurrence and every ninth day a visit was made to the communal tigh ’n alluis, the sweating house, where a turf fire caused people to sweat profusively before they plunged into cold water and were then rubbed warm.

She suddenly found herself thinking about the Saxon monk she had encountered on the previous evening. He had the odour of cleanliness and a faint fragrance of herbs about him. At least he, among the Saxons, knew how to keep clean. She wrinkled her nose disapprovingly as she peered around, wondering if she could spot the monk on the Roman benches.

Sister Gwid suddenly appeared, red-faced as always, as if she had been running, and slipped on to the bench on the other side of Fidelma.

‘You nearly missed the opening of the synod.’ Fidelma smiled as the awkward girl struggled to catch her breath. ‘But shouldn’t you be seated with Abbess Étain, among the benches of the advocates, to help her as her secretary?’

Sister Gwid grimaced negatively.

‘She said she will call me if I am needed today,’ she replied.

Fidelma turned her attention back to the head of the sacrarium. A dais had been raised at one end on which a regal chair had been set. It stood empty and obviously awaited the arrival of King Oswy himself. There were several smaller chairs clustered around, slightly behind it, and these were already filled with an assortment of men and women. Their clothing and jewellery bespoke riches and position.

Fidelma suddenly realised that Brother Taran, for all his failings, might prove useful to her by pointing out who people were. After all, it was his second mission to Northumbria and he was surely well informed:

‘Easy enough,’ replied the Pict when she indicated the people seated around the regal chair. ‘They are all members of Oswy’s immediate family. That is the queen just taking her seat now.’

Fidelma looked at the stern-faced woman who was seating herself next to the throne. This was Eanflaed. Taran was nothing loath to give details. Eanflaed’s father had been a previous king of Northumbria but her mother had been a Kentish princess and she had been taken to Kent to be brought up to follow Roman ways. Never far away was her private chaplain, a priest named Romanus from Kent, who kept strictly to the dictates of Rome. He was a short, dark man, with black curly hair and features that Fidelma would have described as mean. The eyes were somehow too close together and his lips too thin. In fact, so Taran said, in a knowing tone, rumour had it that it was pressure from Eanflaed, backed by Romanus, which had forced Oswy to initiate the debate at all.

Eanflaed was Oswy’s third wife and he had married her just after he had succeeded to the throne some twenty years before. His first wife had been a Briton, Rhiainfellt, a princess of Rheged, whose people followed the ways and rituals of the church of Iona. But Rhiainfellt had died. His second marriage had been to Fin, daughter of Colmán Rimid, the northern Ui Néill High King of Ireland.

At that information, Sister Fidelma expressed surprise, for she had not known of Oswy’s relationship to the High King.

‘What happened to that wife? Another death?’ she asked.

It was Sister Gwid who had the answer.

‘A divorce,’ she said, as if approvingly. ‘Fín realised how much she hated Northumbria and Oswy. She had a son by Oswy, named Aldfrith, but took the child back to Ireland with her. Her son has been educated at the foundation of the blessed Comgall, the friend of Colmcille, at Bangor. He is now quite a renowned poet in the Irish tongue under the name Flann Fína. Aldfrith has renounced all rights to be considered for the kingship of Northumbria.’

Sister Fidelma shook her head.

‘The Saxons have a law called primogeniture, that the first born inherits. Was this Aldfrith, then, the first born?’

Sister Gwid shrugged indifferently, but Taran pointed to the dais.

‘See the young man seated directly behind Eanflaed, the one with the blond hair and the scar on his face?’

Fidelma glanced in the direction Taran indicated. She wondered why she felt an instant dislike of the young man whom he had pointed out.

‘Well, that is Alhfrith, Oswy’s son by Rhiainfellt, his first wife, who is now the petty king of the southern province of Deira. We spoke of him yesterday. The talk is that he is pro-Roman and in rebellion against his father’s adherence to Iona. He has already expelled the monks faithful to the rule of Colmcille from the monastery of Ripon and given it to his friend, Wilfrid.’

‘And Wulfric of Frihop is his right hand,’ muttered Fidelma. The young man looked surly and aggressive. Perhaps that was cause enough to dislike the arrogant manner in which he sprawled in his chair.

The grim-faced woman next to Alhfrith was apparently his wife Cyneburh, the still-embittered daughter of the slain Penda of Mercia, who had been killed in battle by Oswy. Next to her, of an equally sour disposition, sat Alhflaed, the sister of Alhfrith, who had married Peada, the son of Penda of Mercia. Here Taran grew quite animated in his explanations. Alhfrith, according to him, had been responsible for the murder of Peada a year after Peada had agreed to become petty king of Mercia giving his allegiance to Oswy. Rumour had it that Alhfrith also had his ambitious eye on the kingship of Mercia.

Next to Oswy’s current wife, Eanflaed, sat their first-born son, Ecgfrith. At eighteen years of age he was a sullen, brooding young man. His dark eyes were restless and he kept shifting in his seat. Taran said that it was his ambition to fill the throne of Oswy before he was much older and he was filled with envy for his elder half-brother Alhfrith, who was heir to the throne under law. The only other child of Oswy in attendance was Aelflaed. She had been born in the year when Oswy had achieved his great victory over Penda and, as a thank-offering, had been dedicated to God and entrusted to the Abbess Hilda to bring up at Streoneshalh as a virgin devoted to Christ.

Brother Taran informed Fidelma that Oswy had two more children – a daughter, Osthryth, now five years old, and a son, Aelfwine, aged three. These were too young to attend in the sacrarium.

Finally Sister Fidelma interrupted the enthusiastic brother’s monologue on the personalities.

‘All this knowledge is too much for me to take in at one sitting. I shall get to know who is who as the debate continues. But there are so many people.’

Brother Taran nodded complacently.

‘It is an important debate, sister. Not only is the royal house of Northumbria represented but, see, there is Domangart of Dál Riada together with Drust, the king of Picts, and there are princes and representatives of Cenwealh of Wessex, Eorcenberht of Kent, Wulfhere of Mercia and—’

‘Enough!’ protested Fidelma. ‘I will never master all these outlandish Saxon names. I will call on you when I need your knowledge.’

As Fidelma sat studying the sea of faces the doors of the hall opened and a man entered carrying a banner. This, Taran promptly informed her, was the thuff, the standard that always preceded the king to announce his presence. Then came a tall handsome man, well muscled, with flaxen hair and long moustaches, dressed in rich and elaborate clothing with a circle of gold on his head.

So Fidelma, for the first time, caught sight of the king of Northumbria, Oswy. Oswy had become king when his brother Oswald had been slain by Penda and his British allies at Maserfeld and, within a few years, had taken his revenge on Penda, slaughtering him and his followers. And now Oswy was acclaimed Bretwalda, a title, Taran told her, that proclaimed him overlord of all the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons.

Fidelma examined the tall man intently. She knew his previous history well. Oswy and his brothers had been driven from Northumbria when they were children, and their father, the king, had been slain by Edwin, who had usurped the throne. The exiled royal children had been brought up in the kingdom of Dál Riada, converting from paganism to Christianity in the Holy Island of Iona. When Oswy’s elder brother, Oswald, regained the throne and brought them out of exile, he had sent to Iona and asked for missionaries to teach his people, bringing them forth from paganism and teaching them how to form letters and read and write. It seemed, to Fidelma, that Oswy would naturally side with the church of Iona.

But, she recalled, in this debate, while Oswy was chief judge, he would probably be under pressure from his heirs and the royal representatives of all the lesser kings who would sit as a jury during the debates.

Behind Oswy, in the procession which made its way from the main doors around the hall to the seats on the dais, first came Colmán , as Oswy’s bishop as well as chief abbot; next came Hilda and another woman whose features seemed similar to Oswy’s.

‘That is Oswy’s eldest sister, Abbe,’ whispered Gwid, against the quiet that had descended in the hall. ‘She was in exile in Iona and is a firm adherent of the liturgy of Colmcille. She is abbess at Coldingham, which is north from here. It is a double house where men and women can dedicate their lives and families to the path of Christ.

‘It has a dubious reputation, I hear tell,’ Sister Gwid said. Her voice dropped even lower than usual in disapproval. ‘There is talk that the abbey is given over to feasting, drinking and other entertainments.’

Sister Fidelma made no response. There were many conhospitae or double houses. There was little wrong in that. She disliked the way Sister Gwid seemed to imply that there was something wicked about such a way of life. She knew some ascetics disapproved and argued that all who dedicated their lives to the service of Christ should remain celibate. She had even heard that some groups of ascetics cohabited without sexual contact as a demonstration of the strength of their faith and the supernatural character of chastity, a practice that John Chrysostom of Antioch had declaimed against.

Fidelma was not against religious cohabiting. She shared her belief that the religious should marry and procreate with the majority of those who followed Rome, the churches of the Britons and the Irish and even the eastern churches. Only ascetics believed in celibacy and demanded segregation of the sexes among the religious. She had not suspected Sister Gwid of being an ascetic or supporting their cause. She herself accepted that the time would come when she would find someone to share her work with. But there was plenty of time and she had, as yet, met no man who had attracted her enough to cause her to contemplate making a decision. Perhaps such a decision might never need be made. Life was like that. In a way, she envied the certainty of her friend Étain in making her decision to resign from Kildare and marry again.

She turned to concentrate on the procession.

An elderly man came next, his face yellow and glistening with sweat. He leant heavily on the arm of a younger man whose face immediately put Fidelma in mind of the cunning of a wolf, in spite of its cherubic, chubby roundness. The eyes were too close together and forever searching as if seeking out enemies. The old man was clearly ill. She turned to Taran.

‘Deusdedit, Archbishop of Canterbury, and his secretary, Wighard,’ he said before she had even articulated the question. ‘They walk there as the chief representatives of those who oppose us.’

‘And the very old man who brings up the rear of the procession?’

She had caught sight of the last member of the group, who seemed as if he were a hundred, with bent back and a body that looked more like a walking skeleton than a living man.

‘That is the man who can sway the Saxons against us,’ observed Taran.

Fidelma raised an eyebrow.

‘Is that Wilfrid? I thought he was a younger man?’

Taran shook his head.

‘Not Wilfrid. That is Jacobus, whom the Saxons call James. Over sixty years ago, when Rome sought to reinforce the mission of Augustine in Kent, they sent a group of missionaries led by one called Paulinus. This Jacobus came with them – which makes him more than four score years in age. When Edwin of Northumbria married Aethelburh of Kent, the mother of Queen Eanflaed there, Paulinus came with her as her chaplain and made an unsuccessful attempt to convert the Northumbrians to the Roman path to Christ. He fled with Aethelburh and the baby Eanflaed back to Kent, where he died twenty years ago when the pagans rose up against them.’

‘And this Jacobus? This man James?’ pressed Fidelma. ‘Did he flee also?’

‘He remained behind in Catraeth, which the Saxons call Catterick, living sometimes as a hermit and sometimes attempting to convert the natives to Christ. I have no doubt that he will be called upon as proof that it was Rome who attempted to convert Northumbria before Iona and the argument put forward that Northumbria should be Roman. His venerability and the fact that he is a Roman who knew both Paulinus and Augustine stands against us.’

Sister Fidelma was impressed, in spite of herself, with Brother Taran’s knowledge.

The procession had reached its appointed place now and the Abbess Hilda made a motion for all to rise.

Bishop Colman took a step forward and traced the sign of the Cross in the air. Then he held up his hand and gave the blessing in the style of the church of Iona, using the first, third and fourth fingers to denote the Trinity as opposed to the Roman use of the thumb and the first and second fingers. There was some murmuring from the ranks of the pro-Romans at this but Colman ignored it, asking a blessing in Greek, in which language the services of the church of Iona were usually said.

Then Deusdedit was helped forward and, in a soft whispering tone that underscored his apparent illness, he gave a blessing in the Roman style and in Latin.

Everyone became seated except Abbess Hilda.

‘Brothers and sisters in Christ, the debate is now begun. Is our church of Northumbria to follow the teachings of Iona, from where this land was raised from the darkness into the light of Christ, or is it to follow those of Rome, from where that light originally spread to this, the outer reaches of the world? The decision will be yours.’

She glanced to the benches on her right.

‘The opening arguments will now be made. Agilbert of Wessex, are you prepared to make your preliminary statement?’

‘No!’ came a rasping voice. There was a silence and then a swelling murmur.

Abbess Hilda raised her hand.

A lean dark-skinned man, with thin haughty-looking features and an aquiline nose, rose to his feet.

‘Agilbert is a Frank,’ whispered Taran. ‘He studied many years in Ireland.’

‘Many years ago,’ Agilbert began – in a hesitant, thickly accented Saxon, which Fidelma had to ask Taran to translate – ‘Cenwealh of Wessex invited me to be bishop in his kingdom. For ten years I fulfilled the office but Cenwealh became dissatisfied, claiming I did not speak his Saxon dialect well enough. And he appointed Wine as bishop above me. I left the land of the West Saxons. Now I am asked to argue for Roman observance. If I am not able to speak to the satisfaction of Cenwealh and the West Saxons, I am not capable of speaking in this place. Therefore, my pupil Wilfrid of Ripon shall open this debate for Rome.’

Fidelma frowned.

‘The Frank seems very touchy.’

‘I hear he is on his way back to Frankia because he has taken against all the Saxons.’

A small, stocky, younger man, with a red face and a brusque, pugnacious manner, had risen.

‘I, Wilfrid of Ripon, am prepared to put forward my preliminary arguments.’

Abbess Hilda inclined her head in acknowledgment.

‘And for the cause of Iona, is Abbess Étain of Kildare prepared with her preliminary remarks?’

The abbess had turned to the benches where those who supported the church of Iona were seated.

There was no reply.

Fidelma craned forward and for the first time she suddenly realised that she could not see Étain in the sacrarium. The murmuring became a roar.

Abbess Abbe’s voice sounded hollowly: ‘It seems the Abbess of Kildare is not in attendance.’

There was a commotion around one of the doors of the sacrarium and Fidelma caught sight of the figure of one of the brothers. He stood, ashen-faced, chest heaving, as he paused on the threshold.

‘Catastrophe!’ His voice was high pitched. ‘Oh brethren, catastrophe!’

Abbess Hilda gazed at the man with anger on her features.

‘Brother Agatho! You forget yourself!’

The monk hurried forward. Even from a distance Fidelma could see panic on his face.

‘Not I! Go to the windows and gaze at the sun! The hand of God is blotting it from the sky … the sky grows dark. Domine dirige nos! Surely this is a portent of evil on this assembly?’

The words were translated hurriedly to Sister Fidelma by Taran, for she could not understand the rapid tongue of the Saxon.

There was a stirring in the sacrarium and many of those gathered hurried towards the windows and stared out.

It was the austere Agilbert who turned to those who had still kept their places.

‘It is even as Brother Agatho has said. The sun is blotted from the sky. It is a harbinger of evil on these proceedings.’