Read Absolution by Murder Online
Authors: Peter Tremayne
Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland
Absolution by Murder (2 page)
‘Yet you are a brother of Christ devoted to peace. You should have no hate in your heart.’
Taran sighed. ‘You are right, sister. Sometimes our creed is a hard taskmaster.’
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I thought Oswy was educated at Iona and that he favoured the liturgy of the church of Colmcille? Why then would his son be a follower of Rome and an enemy to our cause?’
‘These Northumbrians call the Blessed Colmcille by the name Columba,’ intervened Sister Gwid pedantically. ‘It is easier for them to pronounce.’
It was Brother Taran who answered Fidelma’s question.
‘I believe that Alhfrith is at enmity with his father, who has married again. Alhfrith fears that his father means to disinherit him in favour of Ecgfrith, his son by his current wife.’
Fidelma sighed deeply.
‘I cannot understand this Saxon law of inheritance. I am told that they accept the first-born son as the heir rather than, as we do, allow the most worthy of the family to be elected by free choice.’
Sister Gwid suddenly gave a shout and pointed to the distant horizon.
‘The sea! I can see the sea! And that black building on the horizon there – that must be the abbey of Streoneshalh.’
Sister Fidelma halted her horse and gazed into the distance with narrowed eyes.
‘What say you, Brother Taran? You know this part of the country. Are we near the end of our journey?’
Taran’s face expressed relief.
‘Sister Gwid is right. That is our destination – Streoneshalh, the abbey of the Blessed Hilda, cousin to King Oswy.’
The raucous voice, raised in apparent distress, caused the abbess to lift her eyes from the table, where she had been studying a page of illustrated vellum, and frown in annoyance at being disturbed.
She sat in a dark, stone-flagged chamber, lit by several tallow candles placed in bronze holders around the high walls. It was day, but the single, high window admitted little light. And the room was cold and austere in spite of several colourful tapestries covering the bleaker aspects of its masonry. Nor did the smouldering fire set in a large hearth at one end of the room give much warmth.
The abbess sat still for a moment. Her broad forehead and thin, angular features set in deep lines as her brows drew together. Her dark eyes, in which it was almost impossible to discern the pupils, held an angry glint as she positioned her head slightly to one side, listening to the shouting. Then she eased her richly woven woollen cloak around her shoulders, letting her hand slip momentarily to the ornately wrought gold crucifix hung on a string of tiny ivory beads around her neck. It was obvious from her clothing and adornments that she was a woman of wealth and position in her own right.
The shouting continued outside the wooden door of the chamber and so, suppressing a sigh of annoyance, she rose. Although she was of average height, there was something about
her carriage that gave her a commanding appearance. Anger now intensified her features.
her carriage that gave her a commanding appearance. Anger now intensified her features.
There came an abrupt banging on the oak door and it swung open almost immediately, before she had time to respond.
A woman in the brown homespun of a sister of the order stood nervously on the threshold.
Behind her a man in beggar’s clothes struggled in the grip of two muscular brothers. The sister’s posture and flushed face betrayed her nervousness and she seemed at a loss to frame the words that she so obviously sought.
‘What does this mean?’
The abbess spoke softly, yet there was steel in her tone.
‘Mother Abbess,’ began the sister apprehensively but before she had time to finish her sentence the beggar shouted again, incoherently.
‘Speak!’ demanded the abbess impatiently. ‘What is the meaning of this outrageous disturbance?’
‘Mother Abbess, this beggar demanded to see you, and when we tried to turn him away from the abbey he started to shout and attack the brethren.’ The words came out in a breathless gallop.
The abbess compressed her lips grimly.
‘Bring him forward,’ she ordered.
The sister turned and gestured to the brothers to bring the beggar forward. The man had ceased to struggle.
He was a thin man, so thin he looked more like a skeleton than a man of flesh. His eyes were grey, almost colourless, and his head was a thatch of dirty brown hair. The skin stretched tautly over his emaciated form was yellow and parchment-like. He was dressed in tattered clothing. It was obvious that the man was a foreigner in the kingdom of Northumbria.
‘What do you want?’ demanded the abbess, regarding him in distaste. ‘Why do you cause such a commotion in this house of contemplation?’
‘Want?’ The beggar repeated the word slowly. Then he broke into another language, a staccato of sound so fast that the abbess bent her head slightly forward as she tried to follow him.
‘Do you speak my language, the language of the children of Éireann?’
She nodded as she translated his words in her mind. For thirty years now the kingdom of Northumbria had been taught Christianity, learning and literacy by the Irish monks from the Holy Island of Iona.
‘I speak your language well enough,’ she conceded.
The beggar paused and bobbed his head several times in quick succession as if nodding agreement.
‘Are you the Abbess Hilda of Streoneshalh?’
The abbess sniffed impatiently.
‘I am Hilda.’
‘Then hear me, Hilda of Streoneshalh! There is doom in the air. Blood will flow at Streoneshalh before this week is over.’
Abbess Hilda stared at the beggar in surprise. It took her a moment or two to recover from the shock of his statement, delivered in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. His agitation had departed from him. He stood calmly, staring at her with eyes like the opaque grey of a muggy winter’s sky.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, recovering herself. ‘And how do you dare prophesy in this house of God?’
The beggar’s thin lips cracked into a smile.
‘I am Canna, the son of Canna, and I have read these things in the skies at night. There will soon descend on this abbey
many of the great and learned, from Ireland in the west, Dál Riada in the north, Canterbury to the south and Rome in the east. Each will come to debate on the merits of their respective paths to an understanding of the One True God.’
many of the great and learned, from Ireland in the west, Dál Riada in the north, Canterbury to the south and Rome in the east. Each will come to debate on the merits of their respective paths to an understanding of the One True God.’
Abbess Hilda made an impatient gesture with a thin hand.
‘This much even a house-churl would know, soothsayer,’ she responded in annoyance. ‘Everyone knows that Oswy, the king, has summoned the leading scholars of the Church to debate whether the teachings of Rome or those of Columba of Iona should be followed in this kingdom. Why bother us with this kitchen prattle?’
The begger grinned viciously. ‘But what they do not know is that there is death in the air. Mark me, Abbess Hilda, before the week is out blood will flow under the roof of this great abbey. Blood will stain the cold stone of its floor.’
Abbess Hilda allowed herself to sneer.
‘And I suppose, for a price, you will avert the course of this evil?’
To her surprise, the beggar shook his head.
‘You must know, daughter of Hereri of Deira, that there is no averting the course of the stars in the sky. There is no way, once their path is discerned, that the path can be altered. On the day the sun is blotted from the sky, blood will flow! I came to warn you, that is all. I have fulfilled my obligation to the Son of God. Take heed of my warning.’
Abbess Hilda stared at the beggar as he closed his mouth firmly and thrust his chin out in defiance. She bit her lip for a moment, disturbed by the man’s manner as much as by his message, but then her features re-formed in an expression of annoyance. She glanced towards the sister who had disturbed her.
‘Take this insolent churl and have him whipped,’ she said curtly.
The two brothers tightened their hold on the beggar’s arms and dragged him, struggling, from the chamber.
As the sister turned to leave, Abbess Hilda raised a hand as if to stay her. The sister turned expectantly. The abbess bent forward and lowered her voice.
‘Tell them not to whip him too hard and, when they have done, give him a piece of bread from the kitchens, then let him depart in peace.’
The sister raised her eyebrows, hesitated as if to dispute her orders and then nodded hurriedly and withdrew without another word.
From behind the closed doors, the Abbess Hilda could hear the strident voice of the son of Canna still crying:
‘Beware, Abbess! On the day the sun is blotted from the sky, blood shall flow in your abbey!’
The man strained forward into the cutting wind, leaning against the dark oak of the ship’s high prow, his narrowed eyes searching the distant coastline. The wind moaned softly as it ruffled his dark hair, causing his cheeks to redden and tugging at his brown, homespun woollen habit. The man clutched at the rail with both hands, even though the rise and fall of the deck beneath his feet was gentle over waves made restless by the wailing coastal wind. The seas were choppy, with little white feathers seeming to dance across the grey seascape.
‘Is that it, captain?’
He raised his voice to call to the muscular and elderly seaman who stood just behind him.
The man, bright eyed with gnarled features, his skin tanned
almost mahogany by a lifetime of exposure to the sea winds, grimaced.
almost mahogany by a lifetime of exposure to the sea winds, grimaced.
‘That it is, Brother Eadulf. That is your destination. The coast of the kingdom of Oswy.’
The young man addressed as Brother Eadulf turned back to examine the coastline with enthusiasm animating his features.
The vessel had been hugging the coastline now for two days, moving slowly northward and trying to avoid the more tempestuous waves of the North Sea plains. Its captain had been content to steer for the more sheltered bays and coves as he sought a safer haven in the calmer inshore waters. Now he had been forced to head seaward to circumvent a great headland whose long coastline faced out towards the north-east and the open blustery sea.
The captain of the vessel, Stuf by name, from the kingdom of the South Saxons, moved closer to the young monk and pointed.
‘Do you see those cliffs there?’
Brother Eadulf ran his curious eyes along the dark sandstone cliffs, which averaged three to four hundred feet in height and gave an impression of formidable steepness. They were guarded by a narrow belt of sand or a scar of rugged rock at their base.
‘I do.’
‘There now, do you see the black outline on the top of those cliffs? Well, that is the abbey of Hilda, the abbey called Streoneshalh.’
From this distance, Brother Eadulf could not make out much beyond the small black outline that the man had indicated. It stood just before what seemed a crevice in the cliff.
‘That is our harbour,’ the captain said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘That is the valley of a small river named the Esk
which empties into the sea just below the abbey. A small township has arisen there in the last ten years and, because of the proximity of Mother Hilda’s abbey, the people are already calling it Witebia, “the town of the pure”.’
which empties into the sea just below the abbey. A small township has arisen there in the last ten years and, because of the proximity of Mother Hilda’s abbey, the people are already calling it Witebia, “the town of the pure”.’
‘How soon before we reach it?’
The old captain shrugged. ‘Perhaps within the hour. It depends on this shoreward breeze and the running tide. There is a dangerous reef near the harbour entrance that cuts into the sea here for nearly a mile. Nothing dangerous – if one is a good sailor.’
He did not add ‘as I am’ but Eadulf interpreted the hidden meaning.
Brother Eadulf reluctantly drew his eyes away from the cliff-rimmed coastline.
‘I’d better inform His Grace.’
He staggered a little as he turned, then bit his lip to quell the curse that came unbidden to his tongue. He was coming to think of himself as a sailor. Had he not twice crossed the great sea between Britain and the land of Éireann and then only recently crossed the sea between Britain and Gaul, returning from a two-year pilgrimage to Rome itself? But he had discovered that he needed to adjust from land to sea on every voyage. During the three days they had now been sailing from the kingdom of Kent, Brother Eadulf had taken one full day to gain his sea legs. Indeed during the first day he had been sorely ill. He had lain on a straw palliasse, groaning and vomiting until he thought he would surely die of nausea and fatigue. Only on this the third day had he been able to stand without feeling bilious and let the pungent sea breezes clear his head and lungs, making him feel vaguely human again. But every now and then a capricious wave would still send him staggering, to the amusement of Stuf and his crew.
Stuf reached out a strong brown calloused hand to steady the young monk as he nearly lost his footing.
Brother Eadulf sheepishly smiled his thanks before turning away.
Stuf watched him go with a grin at his awkward gait. Another week and maybe the young religieux would make a passable sailor, he thought. He would soon have his muscles toned up again by active work. They had obviously been made flaccid by too many years at prayer in darkened cloisters away from the sun. The young monk had the build of a warrior. Stuf shook his head disapprovingly. Christianity was turning Saxon warriors into women.
The old captain had sailed with many cargoes along these shores but this was the first time he had sailed with a party of Christians. A curious group of passengers, by the breath of Woden. Stuf made no secret of the fact that he preferred to worship the old gods, the gods of his fathers. Indeed, his own country of the South Saxons was only now reluctantly allowing those who taught of the God with no name, whose Son was called Christ, to enter their kingdom and preach. Stuf would have preferred the king of the South Saxons to continue to forbid them to teach there. He had no time for Christians or their teachings.
When his time came, he wanted to go to the Hall of Heroes, sword in hand, shouting the sacred name of Woden, as countless generations of his ancestors had done before him, rather than whimper the name of some foreign god in the outlandish tongue of the Romans and expire peacefully in a bed. That was no way for a Saxon warrior to pass into the other life. Indeed, a Saxon was denied any form of afterlife unless he went sword in hand to the Heroes’ Hall.
So far as Stuf could make out, this Christ was supposed to be a God of peace, of slaves and old men and women.
Better a manly god, a warrior god, like Tiw or Woden, Thunor, Freyr and Seaxnat, who punished their enemies, welcomed warriors and slew the weak and feeble.
Yet he was a man of business. A ship’s master. And the gold of the Christians was as good as anyone’s, so it was none of his concern that his cargo was a group of Christian religious.
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