The Spider's Web

Chapter Eight

After Dubán had been sent to request a meeting with Cranat, the widow of Eber, word came that she would meet with Fidelma and Eadulf in the hall of assembly within half an hour.

Crón was already there when they entered, seated in her chair of office. Before her, just below the dais, were the same seats as before. This time Fidelma noticed that a second chair had been placed next to Crón’s chair of office. Fidelma and Eadulf had barely reached their places when a straight-backed woman entered, with a fixed, unsmiling expression. She did not glance in their direction, nor make any attempt to acknowledge them, but moved forward to the empty chair and seated herself beside her daughter.

For a woman approaching her fiftieth year, Cranat was still handsome. She had kept her figure well. There was something aristocratic about her oval face, her fair skin, white and delicate. Her golden hair had no grey in it but was worn long and flowed down below the shoulders. The hands were well formed with slender tapering fingers. Fidelma noticed that the nails were carefully cut and rounded and artificially coloured crimson. Berry juice dyed the eyebrows black and there was a hint of ruam, the juice of sprigs and berries of the elder tree, which highlighted the cheeks with the blush of red. Fidelma noticed that Cranat did not believe in stinting herself when it came to perfume. A heavy scent of roses permeated the air around her. Cranat seated herself in regal posture.

She wore a dress of red silk fringed with gold and bracelets of silver and white bronze adorned her arms while a circlet of gold encased her neck. Clearly Cranat was possessed of wealth andher bearing showed that she was also possessed of status not just the rank of the wife of chieftain of Araglin.

Fidelma stood for a few moments waiting for Cranat to even acknowledge her by raising her eyes.

Finally, it was Crón, the tanist, who ended the silence, speaking without rising from her own chair.

‘Mother, this is Fidelma, the advocate who is here to pronounce judgment on Móen.’

Only then did Cranat raise her head and Fidelma found herself staring into the same cold blue eyes of Cranat’s daughter, Crón.

‘My mother,’ went on Crón, ‘Cranat of the Déisi.’

Fidelma kept her face a mask. In the introduction, the reason for Cranat’s bearing had been explained. Legend had it that during the High Kingship of Cormac mac Airt, the sept of the Déisi had been banished from their ancestral lands around Tara. Some had fled abroad to the land of the Britons while others had settled in the kingdom of Muman where they had split into two further septs, the Déisi of the north and those of the south. That Crón had introduced her mother as ‘of the Déisi’ meant that Cranat was a daughter of a prince of her people. Even so, it did not excuse the manner in which she had refused to greet or acknowledge Fidelma. Irritation caused Fidelma’s face to redden. She had allowed this insult to her rank and position to pass unchallenged once. She could not do it a second time if she were to maintain control of this investigation.

Instead of seating herself, she calmly stepped up onto the raised platform on a level with Crón and Cranat.

‘Eadulf, place a chair here for me,’ she instructed coldly.

The look of shock on the faces of Cranat and her daughter indicated that they were not used to anyone challenging their authority.

Eadulf, trying to hide a smile of amusement, for he knew how Fidelma liked to make points of protocol when they had been forgotten, hastily seized a chair and placed it where she hadindicated. Eadulf knew that ordinarily, Fidelma did not care a jot about matters of privilege and ritual. Only if people used such matters of etiquette to wrongfully assert authority did Fidelma use her own position to put them firmly in their place.

‘Sister, you forget yourself!’

It was the first sentence Cranat had uttered, expressed in a scandalised tone.

Fidelma had taken her seat and regarded the widow of the chieftain with a bland expression.

‘What would you suggest that I have forgotten, Cranat of Araglin?’

She emphasised the choice of title softly, just enough to make a point.

Cranat swallowed noisily, unable to make any reply.

‘My mother is …’ began Crón but stopped as Fidelma turned to face her. ‘Ah …’ she suddenly realised the point of protocol Fidelma had made. She turned quickly to her mother. ‘I have neglected to tell you that Sister Fidelma is not only an advocate but is sister to Colgú of Cashel.’

Before Cranat could digest this information, Fidelma leant forward. She spoke pleasantly enough but her voice was firm.

‘The matter of my parentage aside and ignoring the kingship of my brother,’ she paused, for this was a direct demolition of Cranat’s own royal pretension, ‘I am qualified to the degree of anruth and may sit in the presence of the High King of the five kingdoms himself and speak with him on the same level.’

Cranat’s mouth became a tight thin line. She turned her ice cold eyes to focus elsewhere in the hall.

‘Now,’ Fidelma sat back and smiled broadly. There was a brisk tone in her voice. ‘Now let us leave aside the tedious matters of custom and propriety for there is more important work to do.’

Once again, there was no doubt that Fidelma was rebuking Cranat and Crón for their pretensions and they knew it. They sat in silence for there was no response that they could adequately make.

‘I need to ask you some questions, Cranat.’

The woman, sitting stiffly, sniffed. She did not bring herself to look directly at Fidelma.

‘Then I am sure that you will ask them,’ she replied without humour.

‘I am told that it was you who sent to my brother at Cashel to request a Brehon to attend here. I am told that you undertook to send to Cashel without the knowledge and approval of your daughter who is the tanist. Why was this?’

‘My daughter is young,’ Cranat said. ‘She is inexperienced in law and politics. I believe that this matter has to be properly conducted so that no stigma is allowed to attach itself to the family of Araglin.’

‘Why might that happen?’

‘The nature of the creature who committed the crimes, and the fact he was the adopted son of the lady Teafa, might incline people to speak ill of the house of Araglin.’

Fidelma thought it was a reasonable explanation.

‘Then let us return to the morning six nights ago when you heard of the death of your husband, Eber.’

‘I have already explained what happened,’ interrupted Crón hastily.

Fidelma clicked her tongue in annoyance.

‘You have told me of the events as you saw them. Now I am asking your mother.’

‘There is little to tell,’ Cranat said. ‘I was awakened by my daughter.’

‘At what time?’

‘Just as the sun was rising, I think.’

‘And what happened?’

‘She told me that Eber had been slain and that Móen had done the terrible deed. I dressed and joined her here, in the hall of assembly. As I did so, Dubán came in to say that Teafa had also been found dead from stabbing.’

‘Did you go to see Eber’s body?’

Cranat shook her head.

‘Not go to pay your last respects to your dead husband?’ Fidelma allowed a note of surprise to enter her voice.

‘My mother was upset,’ Crón intervened defensively.

Fidelma’s eyes still held those cold blue eyes of Cranat.

‘You were upset?’

‘I was upset,’ echoed Cranat.

Instinctively, Fidelma knew that Cranat was seizing the easy excuse given by her daughter.

‘Tell me why you did not share your husband’s sleeping chamber?’

There was a gasp of indignation from Crón.

‘How dare you ask such an impertinent …?’ she began.

Fidelma swung her head round and regarded Crón with narrowed eyes.

‘I dare,’ she replied impassively, ‘because I am an advocate of the courts and no question that seeks to get to the truth is impertinent. I think, Crón of Araglin, you still have much to learn of the wisdom and duties of a chieftain. Your mother was right to send to Cashel for a Brehon.’

Crón swallowed, her face reddening. Before she could think of a suitable response, Fidelma had already turned back to Cranat.

‘Well, lady?’ she prompted sharply.

Cranat’s icy expression challenged her for a moment but Fidelma’s fiery green eyes accepted the challenge and were not cowed. Cranat’s shoulders eventually slumped in resignation.

‘It has been many years since I shared my husband’s bed,’ she replied quietly.

‘Why so?’

Cranat’s hands fluttered in her lap.

‘We have grown apart in … in that way.’

‘And this did not bother you?’

‘No.’

‘Nor, presumably, did it bother Eber?’

‘I am not sure what you mean?’

‘You know the laws of marriage as well as I do. If there were sexual failings between you then either party could have sought divorce.’

Cranat’s face reddened.

Crón glanced to where Eadulf was sitting impassively.

‘Must the Saxon stay and hear this?’ she demanded.

Eadulf, with some embarrassment, began to rise.

Fidelma motioned him to be reseated.

‘He is here to observe the working of our legal process. There is nothing to be ashamed at before the law.’

‘We had an amicable arrangement,’ Cranat continued, realising that she and her daughter had met someone with a stronger will than either of them. ‘There was no need for divorce or separation.’

‘None? If either of you had become incapable of intercourse, then you could legally divorce with ease. The problems of infertility or impotence are equally covered.’

‘My mother knows the law,’ interrupted Crón indignantly. ‘Can we leave it that my father and mother simply preferred to sleep apart?’

‘I will accept this,’ Fidelma agreed, ‘though it would have been easier to understand if I knew a reason.’

‘The reason was that we preferred to sleep alone,’ Cranat insisted heavily.

‘So you remained partners in everything else?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your husband made no attempt to obtain a wife of lower status, a concubine?’

‘That is forbidden,’ snapped Crón.

‘Forbidden?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘Our laws are quite specific that polygyny is still accepted under the Cáin Lánamna. A man may have a chief wife and his concubine who has, under law, half the status and entitlements of the chief wife.’

‘How can you approve of that?’ demanded Crón. ‘You are a sister of the Faith.’

Fidelma regarded her equably.

‘Who says that I approve it? I simply tell you of the law of the five kingdoms which operates today. And I am an advocate of that law. I am surprised that here, in such a rural community, there is disapproval of it. Usually, in rural areas, there is much support for the old laws and customs of our people.’

‘Father Gormán says that it is evil to have more than one wife.’

‘Ah, Father Gormán. Again, Father Gormán. It seems that the good father has a strong influence over this community. It is true that within the new Faith many oppose polygyny but with little success as yet. In fact, the scriptor of the law text, the Bretha Crólige, actually finds justification for polygyny in the texts of the Old Testament. It is argued that if the chosen people of God lived in a plurality of unions, how can we, gentiles, argue against it?’

Cranat make a curious sound of disapproval, clicking her tongue.

‘You may argue your theology with Father Gormán on his return. Eber had no need of other wives nor concubines. We dwell here in an amicable family. And our close relationship has nothing to do with his death for his killer has been clearly identified.’

‘Ah yes,’ Fidelma breathed, as if she had been distracted. ‘Let us return to this matter …’

‘I know no more than what I told you,’ snapped Cranat. ‘I learnt only of Eber’s death from others.’

‘And, as your daughter says, you were upset?’

‘I was.’

‘But clear-minded enough to instruct the young warrior, Critan, to ride to Cashel to request a Brehon be sent here?’

‘I was a chieftain’s wife. I had my duty to fulfil.’

‘Were you shocked when you heard it was Móen who killed your husband?’

‘Shocked? No. Sad, perhaps. It was inevitable that that wild beast would turn on someone sooner or later.’

‘You did not like Móen?’

The eyebrows of Eber’s widow arched in perplexity.

‘Like? How could anyone even know Móen?’ she demanded.

‘Perhaps not so far as “knowing”, in the sense of understanding his thoughts, his hopes and ambitions. But did you have any daily contact with him?’

‘You would give the creature the same sensitivities as a normal person?’ sneered Crón, interrupting.

‘Being deprived of sight, hearing and speech does not deprive one of other sensitivities,’ corrected Fidelma. ‘You, Cranat, must have seen Móen raised from childhood?’

Cranat pursed her lips sourly.

‘Yes. But I did not know that unfortunate creature. I have seen pigs grown into sows from little piglets. This does not mean that I know the sow.’

Fidelma smiled dryly.

‘What you mean is that you looked upon Móen as an animal rather than a human being? Therefore, he was nothing to do with your life?’

‘If you say so,’ she conceded.

‘I am merely trying to understand your attitude to Móen. Let us ask this, then, what was your attitude to Teafa? I am told that she, at least, seemed to communicate with him.’

‘Does the shepherd communicate with his sheep?’

‘I am also told that you did not get on well with Teafa.’

‘Who tells you such scandal?’

‘Are you denying that it is so?’

Cranat hesitated and shrugged.

‘We have had our differences in recent years.’

‘Why was this?’

‘She suggested that I should divorce Eber and lose my status as chieftain’s wife. I felt sorry for the woman. Though, of course,she brought misfortune upon her own head.’

‘Misfortune? Why?’

‘She was beyond marriageable age, frustrated with life and had, in her frustration, adopted the foundling, Móen, who could not return the emotions which she demanded from him.’

‘Yet she was your husband’s sister?’

‘Teafa preferred her own company. She sometimes attended religious feasts here but did not agree with Father Gormán’s interpretation of the Faith. She was almost a recluse even though her cabin is thirty yards from this very spot.’

‘What reason would Móen have to kill her or Eber?’

Cranat spread her arms.

‘As I said earlier, I cannot put my mind into the thoughts of a wild animal.’

‘And is that how you saw Móen? Simply as a wild animal?’

‘How else could you view the creature?’

‘I see. Was this the manner in which he was treated by Teafa’s family during all these years that he lived in this community? As a wild animal?’ Fidelma asked, ignoring Cranat’s question. crón decided to answer for her mother.

‘He was treated like any other of the animals in this rath. Perhaps better. He was treated well, not harshly, but how could one treat him otherwise?’

‘And, if I have interpreted you correctly, you ascribe his actions, after all these years, to some sudden fit of animal instinct?’

‘What else?’

‘It requires a cunning animal to take a knife, kill the woman who has been looking after him all his life and find his way to Eber’s apartments and similarly kill him.’

‘Who said animals were not cunning?’ Crón riposted.

Cranat grimaced sourly in agreement.

‘It seems to me, young woman, that you are trying to find some way to exonerate Móen. Why is this?’

Fidelma suddenly stood up.

‘I am merely seeking the truth. I am not responsible for how you see things, Cranat of Araglin. I have a job to do, according to my oath as an advocate of the courts of the five kingdoms. That task is not merely to establish who is guilty of breaking the law but why the law was broken, in order that the assessment of culpability and compensation are adequately made. And now, I have finished for the time being.’

Eadulf noted the expressions of outrage on the faces of mother and daughter. If looks could have killed, then Fidelma would have been dead before she rose and stepped off the dais. Obliviously, she preceded Eadulf, who had also risen, to the doors of the assembly hall.

Once outside the doors, Fidelma paused. They stood in silence for a while.

‘You do not appear to have much liking for Cranat and her daughter,’ observed Eadulf dryly.

Fidelma’s eyes flashed as she turned to him but then she gave him a mischievous grin.

‘I have a grievous fault, Eadulf. Of that I freely admit. I am intolerant of certain attitudes. Haughtiness is one thing that prejudices me against people. I respond in kind. I am afraid I cannot obey the teaching of “turning the other cheek”. I find that such a teaching is merely an invitation to further injury.’

‘Well, at least you recognise your fault,’ replied Eadulf. ‘The greatest of faults is to be conscious of none.’

Fidelma chuckled softly.

‘You are becoming a philosopher, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. But one important factor we have learnt from this clash of temperaments. Cranat is not to be trusted.’

‘Why not?’

‘She was too upset to pay her last respects to the body of her husband, to even see the body, but strong enough and devoted to duty to send a messenger to Cashel because she did not trust her inexperienced daughter’s knowledge of the law. I find that strange.’

She glanced towards the chapel. Eadulf followed her gaze. The door of the chapel stood open.

‘I wonder if the redoubtable Father Gormán has returned?’ she mused. Then making up her mind she moved towards it calling over her shoulder: ‘Come, let us see.’

Eadulf groaned a little under his breath as he hurried after her for he knew, by the picture he had already built up, the priest was someone who would be a dog to Fidelma’s cat.

There were candles lit in the dusk shrouded chapel. The fragrance of incense struck them immediately, permeating throughout the polished deal panelled building. The perfume of it was exceedingly strong. Fidelma glanced quickly around at the opulence of the interior. There were gold-framed icons on the walls and an exquisite silver bejewelled cross stood upon the altar with a plain silver chalice before it. There were no seats within the church as it was the custom for congregations to stand throughout the services. Lighted candles impregnated with perfumes and spices caused the aroma which made them catch at their breath. Certainly Father Gormán boasted an opulent church and congregation.

A man was kneeling at his devotions. Fidelma paused at the back of the chapel, Eadulf at her shoulder. The man seemed to sense their presence for he glanced over his shoulder, turned back to end his prayers and genuflected to the altar. Then he rose to his feet and came to greet them.

Father Gormán was tall, with a slight almost feminine figure but with a dark, swarthy complexion, a fleshy face, thick red lips and receding greying hair that had once matched the blackness of his flashing eyes. There were traces of the handsome youth although Fidelma now had the impression of a dissolute middle-age which seemed at odds with the positive impression she had gathered of a fiery Roman priest. He greeted them in a deep, thunderous voice which still held the promise of hellfire and damnation in it. She noted, though not with surprise, that he worethe corona spina on his pate, the mark of a cleric of Roman adherence and not the tonsure of a follower of the Irish church. Curiously, Fidelma noticed that he was wearing gloves of rough leather.

His eyes seemed to soften as he caught sight of Eadulf’s own Roman tonsure.

‘Greetings, brother,’ he boomed. ‘So we have one among us who follows the path of real wisdom?’

Eadulf was embarrassed at the welcome.

‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. I would never have expected to find so rich a chapel here among these mountains.’

Father Gormán laughed warmly.

‘The earth provides, my brother. The earth provides for those with true faith.’

‘Father Gormán?’ Fidelma interposed before the conversation continued on the course the priest had sent it. ‘I am Fidelma of Kildare.’

The dark eyes flashed to her appraisingly.

‘Ah yes. I have been hearing from Dubán about you, sister. You are welcome in my little chapel. Cill Uird, I call it, the church of the ritual, for it is by ritual we live the true Christian life. God bless your coming, sanctify your staying and give peace to your departure.’

Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment of the greeting.

‘We would appreciate a few minutes of your time, father. You have doubtless learnt the purpose of our visit here?’

‘I have so,’ agreed the priest. He gestured for them to follow him and led them across the chapel to a small side room which appeared to be the sacristy where there was a bench on which was draped a parti-coloured cloak. In front of it was a chair. Wordlessly, he removed the cloak and indicated that they should be seated on the bench while he himself took the chair, removing his gloves as he did so.

‘You will forgive me?’ he said, catching her inquisitiveexpression. ‘I have only just returned to the rath. I always wear leather to protect my hands when riding.’

‘A priest with a horse to ride is unusual,’ pointed out Eadulf.

Father Gormán chuckled.

‘I have rich supporters who have donated a horse for my convenience for it would take many days to administer to my flock if I had to do it all on foot. And now, no more talk of me. I saw you both at Hilda’s abbey during the council there.’

‘Were you at Witebia?’ Eadulf was astounded.

Father Gormán nodded affirmatively.

‘Indeed. I saw you both there but you will not remember me. I was finishing a missionary tour with Colmán when I came to Streoneshalh. I was there not as a delegate but merely to listen to my betters arguing the merits of the churches of Colmcille and Rome.’

Eadulf did not disguise his feeling of smugness.

‘So you were there when we solved the murder of the Abbess Etain and …’

‘I was there,’ interrupted Father Gormán heavily, ‘when Oswy, in his wisdom, decided that Rome was the true church and that those who followed Colmcille were in error.’

‘It is already obvious that you follow the dictates of Rome,’ Fidelma conceded dryly.

‘And who could argue against Oswy’s decision once the arguments were made?’ replied the priest. ‘I returned to this, my parish, and have tried to guide my people, the people of Araglin, along the true path ever since.’

‘Surely there are many paths which lead to God?’ interrupted Fidelma.

‘Not so!’ snapped Father Gormán. ‘Only those who follow the one path can hope to find God.’

‘You have no doubt of that?’

‘I have no doubt for I am firm in my belief.’

‘Then you are to be envied, Father Gormán. To believe withsuch certainty you must surely have begun with doubt. ’

‘You are not free until you have ceased to doubt.’

‘I thought even Christ doubted at the end,’ Fidelma pointed out with a benign look that belied her sharp retort.

Father Gormán looked scandalised.

‘Only to demonstrate to us that we must remain true to our conviction.’

‘Is that so? My mentor, Morann of Tara, used to say that convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than outright lies.’

Father Gormán swallowed and was about to reply when she raised a hand to still him.

‘I did not come to debate theology with you, Gormán of Cill Uird, though I shall be happy to do so once my business is ended. I came in my role as advocate of the courts.’

‘About the killing of Eber,’ added Eadulf quickly, for he judged that Father Gormán would not be so easily deflected from his course.

Father Gormán looked reluctant for a moment to give up the argument about religion but then bowed his head.

‘Then there is little I can help you with. I know nothing.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But your church stands a yard or so away from Eber’s apartments. I understand that you sleep in this church. Of all the people in the rath you were the closest to Eber’s apartments. It might be expected that you were best placed to have heard something.’

‘I sleep in the room next to this,’ Father Gormán said, pointing to a small door behind them. ‘But I can assure you that I knew nothing of the killing until I was roused from my sleep by the noise of people outside Eber’s apartments.’

‘When was that?’

‘After sunrise. The people had word of Eber’s death and gathered outside his apartments. It was the hubbub of the people whichfirst woke me and I went out to find out what was amiss. I knew nothing before that.’

‘I thought Rome offered strict rules as to the time of rising,’ Eadulf put in slyly.

Father Gormán regarded him with disfavour.

‘You may know, brother, that what is good for Rome is often not good for us in the more northern climes. Rome can say that a religious must rise at a certain hour. That is fine in Rome for the day gets lighter there earlier and there is justification for rising early. But what is the point of a man rising in the darkness and cold of these latitudes because his brothers in Rome rise at that hour?’

Fidelma was smiling broadly.

‘So there is some good to be salvaged from the rules of the church of Colmcille?’

Father Gormán’s eyes narrowed as her thrust went home.

‘You may have your joke, sister. The fact remains that the rules of the church of Rome are the rules as consecrated by Christ … in the matter of theology and teaching. We can differ only when geography and climate make them impractical.’

‘Very well. I will not argue … for the present. You rose just after sunrise and it was only then that you discovered what had happened to Eber. You had been fast asleep all night?’

‘I had offered the midnight Angelus and retired to bed. Nothing had disturbed me.’

‘You heard no scream or cry for help?’

‘I have said as much.’

‘You see, when a man is attacked in such a manner as Eber obviously was, it seems to me that he might scream for help.’

‘I was told that Eber was stabbed as he lay sleeping. Hardly time for a cry for help.’

Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully.

‘Hardly time for a cry for help?’ she repeated slowly. ‘No time to cry out as someone who was blind, deaf and dumb was able toenter the room without disturbing anyone, take a knife and stab Eber savagely several times? All this while, Eber lay in a room with a lighted lamp?’

It seemed that she was speaking half to herself.

‘I heard nothing,’ Father Gormán insisted.

‘Did it surprise you when you learnt that it was Móen who had been found by Eber’s body and that he had, according to witnesses, been the killer?’

‘Surprise me?’ Father Gormán thought a moment. ‘No I cannot say surprise was my reaction. Allow a wild animal to run loose in your home and expect it to turn on you and bite you.’

‘Is that how you saw Móen?’

‘As a wild animal? Yes. I saw that child of incest as no more than a wild beast. I would not allow that child of incest within the walls of this chapel. He was God’s accursed.’

‘Would you say that was a Christian way of dealing with someone who was afflicted?’ interrupted Fidelma in indignation.

‘Should I argue with God against His punishment of this creature? Punishment it was, depriving him of that which makes us human. Didn’t the Christ tell us: “The Son of Man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity, and shall cast them into a furnace of fire; there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth”? God punishes us as much as He rewards us.’

‘You seem sure that God created Móen to punish him. Perhaps he created Móen in order to try the extent of our Christian faith?’

‘That is an impertinence.’

‘You think so? I am often accused of impertinence when people cannot answer, or are unwilling to answer, a question. Poor Móen. It seems that he was not well tolerated in this place after all.’

It was a statement that implied a question.

‘Do you rebuke my Christian ethics, sister?’ There was a dangerous edge to the priest’s voice.

‘It is not for me to do so, Father Gormán,’ replied Fidelma blandly.

‘Quite so!’ snapped Father Gormán, misunderstanding her slight emphasis.

‘Then you have no qualms in believing that Móen is responsible?’ interspersed Eadulf, trying to ease the growing tension.

Father Gormán shook his head.

‘What qualms should I have? There were witnesses.’

‘But have you never asked what reason Móen must have had to do this?’

‘Probably he had several reasons. The creature lives in his own private world, cut off from the rest of us. Who knows his logic, his reasoning? He does not have to have the same reasons and motives that we in this world do. He is of the other world. Who knows the bitterness and hate that he harbours in his world for those more blessed in this one?’

‘Then you do allow him some human feelings?’ Fidelma thrust quickly.

‘I would allow an animal those feelings. Ill-treat a dog, for example, and it may one day turn on you.’

Fidelma leant forward thoughtfully.

‘Are you saying that Eber may have ill-treated Móen?’

‘I am giving you general reasons not specific ones,’ the priest replied defensively.

‘Did Teafa ill-treat Móen?’

Father Gormán shook his head.

‘No. She doted on the creature. All the family of the chieftains of Araglin are perverse.’

Fidelma quickly took the bait that he had unwittingly offered.

‘Are you including Eber in that statement?’

‘Him especially. Let us pray that Crón takes after her mother and not her father.’

Fidelma’s eyes narrowed.

‘Yet many have told me that Eber was kindliness and generosity itself; that he was well respected everywhere in Araglin. Was I told falsely?’

Father Gormán allowed a bitter smile to twist his mouth out of shape.

‘Eber had one blessing — he was a generous man. There he departed from the virtues and his life was one long trail of vices. Why do you think that his wife left his bed chamber?’

‘I have asked her and she would only say that it was mutually agreed.’

Father Gormán sniffed sceptically.

‘I tried to persuade her to divorce him under the law. But she is a proud woman as befits her station as a princess of her people.’

‘Why would you want to persuade her to divorce Eber?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Because he was a man not fitted to marriage.’

‘Cranat did not think so, or so she told me. Can you be more explicit?’

‘All I can tell you was that Eber was …’ he shuddered and genuflected, ‘forgive me, he was sexually perverse.’

‘In what way?’ Fidelma pressed.

‘Do you mean that he preferred to lie with boys or young men rather than women?’ hazarded Eadulf, suddenly seeing a reason why Móen might have killed him. ‘Was Eber sexually abusing Móen?’

Father Gormán held up both his hands and his face showed his horror.

‘No, not that! No, Eber liked the opposite gender well enough … perhaps too well.’

‘Ah, I see. And Cranat knew of this?’

‘Everyone knew of it. Cranat was the last to know. He had always been like it since he came to the age of puberty. His sisters knew well enough and it was Teafa who finally had to tell Cranat. Cranat told me so. That was when she decided to vacate the marital bed.’

‘Why didn’t Cranat leave him?’

‘Because of her daughter, Crón. Because of the shame it wouldbring. And there was the fact that Cranat, while a princess of her people, had no money or land to call her own. She married Eber for his money. He married her for her lineage and family connections. Perhaps that is not a good basis on which to form a marriage.’

‘I see. But surely, under the law, Cranat was entitled to be rid of him? If Cranat had divorced Eber on the grounds you state then she was entitled to take out of her marriage all that she had brought into it. If this was nothing, then, further, she was automatically entitled, at separation, to one-ninth of the increase of her husband’s wealth during marriage. Even if she had no property at the time of her marriage, surely one-ninth of the wealth generated by Eber during the twenty or so years of Cranat’s marriage to him would be enough to allow her to live well.’

Father Gormán had a slightly bitter note in his voice.

‘That it would. That it would. I could have helped her. But she chose to remain.’

Fidelma regarded him thoughtfully.

‘You obviously have great feeling for Cranat,’ she observed quietly.

Father Gormán flushed abruptly.

‘There is nothing amiss in wishing to correct a grievous wrong.’

‘Nothing at all,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘But this matter would not have endeared you to Eber. I hear, however, that you believe that Móen should be punished to the point whereby his own life is taken in forfeit.’

‘Isn’t the word of God explicit? If a man destroys the eye of another, they shall destroy his eye. I believe in the full measure of retribution as it is taught by our Faith and Rome.’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘Extreme justice is often unjust.’

Father Gormán’s eyes narrowed.

‘That smacks of the wisdom of Pelagius.’

‘Is it wrong to quote the words of a wise man?’

‘The churches of Ireland are filled with Pelagian heresy,’ sneered the priest.

‘Was Pelagius such a heretic?’ questioned Fidelma mildly.

Father Gormán nearly choked with indignation.

‘You doubt it? Do you not know your history?’

‘I know that Pope Zosimus pronounced him innocent of heresy in spite of pressure from Augustine of Hippo who persuaded the Emperor Honorius to issue an imperial decree condemning him.’

‘But Pope Zosimus did eventually declare him guilty of heresy.’

‘After coming under pressure from the emperor. I hardly call that a theological decision. Ironic he should be condemned for his treatise De Libero Arbitrio — On Free Will.’

‘So you support a heretic, like most of your Columban breed?’ Father Gormán was openly offensive.

‘We do not shut our minds to reason, as Rome commands of its adherents,’ Fidelma snapped back. ‘After all, what does heresy really mean? It is simply the Greek word for making a choice. It is in our nature to make a free choice therefore we are all heretics.’

‘Pelagius was full of Irish porridge! He was rightly condemned for refusing to see the truth of Augustine’s doctrine on the Fall of Man and Original Sin!’

‘Should not Augustine have been condemned for refusing to see the truth of Pelagius’ doctrine on free will?’ returned Fidelma hotly.

‘You are not only impertinent but in peril of your soul.’ Father Gormán was red in the face and angry.

Fidelma was not flustered.

‘Let us consider the facts,’ she rejoined quietly. ‘The original sin was Adam’s and Adam and his descendants were punished by God for that sin. Is that correct?’

‘It was a curse that had been passed on to all mankind until the sacrifice of the Christ redeemed the world,’ agreed the priest, his temper simmering.

‘But Adam disobeyed God?’

‘That is so.’

‘Yet, it is taught, God is omnipotent and He created Adam.’

‘Man was given free will and Adam, in defying God, fell from grace.’

‘This is where Pelagius asked the question: before Adam’s fall, could he choose between good and evil?’

‘We are told that he had God’s commands to guide him. God told him what he should do. But the woman tempted him.’

‘Ah yes. The woman.’ The emphasis was softly made. Brother Eadulf stirred uncomfortably. He wished Fidelma would not chance the Fates by her arguments. He glanced towards her but she was leaning forward, enjoying the confrontation of intellects. ‘God was omnipotent and created Adam and Eve. Surely God’s will was enough to guide them?’

‘Man had free will.’

‘So Adam’s will, the will of the woman,’ again the gentle emphasis, ‘was more powerful than God’s will?’

Father Gormán was outraged.

‘No, of course not. God was omnipotent … But He had allowed man to be free.’

‘Then the logical course of thought is that God, being omnipotent, and thus able to prevent sin, refused to do so. Being omnipotent, He knew what Adam would do. Under our law, God was then an accessary before the fact!’

‘That is blasphemy,’ gasped Father Gormán.

‘There is more, Gormán,’ continued Fidelma ruthlessly, ‘for if we are to be logical, we can argue that God acquiesced in Adam’s sin.’

‘Sacrilege!’ gasped the priest in horror.

‘Come, be logical.’ Fidelma was quite unperturbed at his reaction. ‘God was omniscient and He created Adam. If He was omniscient then He knew Adam would sin. And if the human race was cursed because of Adam’s sin, then God knew theywould be cursed. He then created people to suffer by unnumbered millions.’

‘You and your finite mind, you cannot understand the great mystery of the universe,’ snapped Father Gormán.

‘We will not be able to understand it if we choose to obscure the path to that universe by creating myths. This is where I stand with the teachings of Pelagius who was a man of our people, and why Rome has always attacked our churches not only here but among the Britons and the Gauls who share our philosophies. We are a people who question all things and only through our questions can we hope to arrive at the Great Truth and we must stand by the Truth even if we stand against the world.’

She rose abruptly.

‘I thank you for your time, Father Gormán.’

Once outside she exchanged a glance with Eadulf.

‘So a tiny bit of the mist begins to clear away,’ she said with satisfaction.

Eadulf pulled a face. He was bemused.

‘About Pelagius?’ he hazarded.

Fidelma chuckled.

‘About Father Gormán,’ she reproved.

‘You suspect Father Gormán of some involvement?’

‘I suspect everyone of something. But you are right. It is clear that Gormán was, or is, passionately devoted to Cranat.’

‘At their age?’ Eadulf was indignant.

Fidelma turned to her companion in surprise.

‘Love between people can be felt at any age, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’

‘But a woman of her years and a priest …?’

‘There are no laws forbidding priests from marrying, not even Rome prohibits it, though I admit that Rome disapproves of it.’

‘Are you saying that Father Gormán might have had reason for wishing Eber dead?’

Fidelma’s expression was almost impassive.

‘Oh, he had a reason right enough. But did he have the means of fulfilling his wish or arranging for its fulfilment?’