Shroud for the Archbishop (33 page)

Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_NB_Fixed, #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Clerical Sleuth, #Fiction, #Historical, #Mystery, #tpl, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: Shroud for the Archbishop

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‘Kind? No, we owe you much, sister. Had it not been for your diligence … and Brother Eadulf’s help, of course … Rome might have witnessed the start of a terrible conflict between the Saxon kingdoms and Ireland.’

Fidelma shrugged her shoulders.

‘I need no thanks for doing what I have been trained to do, Gelasius,’ she said.

‘But if even a rumour of Wighard’s death at the hands of an Irish cenobite had reached the ears of the Saxons …’ Gelasius shrugged. He hesitated a moment and then looked quickly at Fidelma. ‘I trust that you will respect the wishes of the Holy Father on this matter?’

He seemed astonished when Fidelma chuckled dryly.

‘Perhaps that is the true reason for your coming, Gelasius? To ensure that I will not embarrass Rome?’

The bishop blinked, astounded by the effrontery of the woman and then grimaced when he realised that she spoke only the truth. His anxiety had constituted the cause for the greater part of his journey across Rome to see the Irish
religieuse before she left. Fidelma was still smiling and he gave her an answering smile.

‘Is there no truth that can be hidden from you, Fidelma of Kildare?’ he asked wryly.

‘There are some,’ she confessed, after a pause. Then Fidelma glanced quickly at Eadulf but the Saxon monk was intent on Gelasius.

‘Well, since the matter is raised, I think it is best that the official report to the Saxon kings and prelates will be to the effect that Wighard and some of his entourage, Puttoc, Eanred, Eafa … that they were stricken by the Yellow Plague. The plague is so viciously prevalent that no one will question the matter.’

‘We have already agreed this,’ Fidelma said. ‘I respect Rome’s wish to conceal the truth that churchmen and women are nothing more than men and women, even bishops and abbots can be as great sinners as the meanest of peasants.’

‘How else can we cause people to respect the Word of God if they have no respect for those who preach that Word?’ Gelasius demanded in justification.

‘You need not fear that anyone will learn the truth of Wighard’s death from my lips,’ affirmed Fidelma. ‘But there are others involved …’

Fidelma casually inclined to where Abbess Wulfrun was standing, still instructing the two acolytes. Gelasius followed the gesture.

‘Wulfrun? As you demonstrated, she is a vain woman. With vanity, Rome can always come to an accommodation. Likewise with ambition; and Sebbi has settled to fulfil that ambition now. Ine is of no account for he has security as servant to the new archbishop. And as for Eadulf …’

He swung round and looked thoughtfully at the Saxon monk.

‘Eadulf,’ interposed Fidelma, ‘is a man of intelligence and without ambition, so he can see the efficaciousness of your proposal and needs no bribe other than explanation.’

Gelasius bowed his head to her gravely.

‘As do you, Fidelma of Kildare. You have instructed me much about the women of your land. Perhaps we in Rome are wrong to deny our women a place in our public affairs. Such talents as yours are rare indeed.’

‘If I may change the subject, Gelasius,’ Fidelma said, to hide her embarrassment. ‘There was one thing I did need from you, and I would ask whether this has been undertaken?’

Gelasius smiled broadly and nodded.

‘You speak of the boy Antonio, son of Nereus, who works at the Christian cemetery selling candles to pilgrims with the old man?’

Fidelma inclined her head.

‘It is already done, sister. Young Antonio has been sent north to Lucca, to the monastery of the Blessed Fridian. Fridian is one of your countrymen.’

‘I have heard of Fridian,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘He was the son of an Ulster king who took up the religious life.’

‘We thought it a fitting tribute to you, sister, that young Antonio should receive his education in a house established by one of your countrymen.’

‘I am pleased for him,’ Fidelma said. ‘He will bring honour to the Faith. I am glad that I have been able to help that young boy.’

She was disturbed by a sudden shouting across the waters of the Tiber. A large boat was being rowed from its moorings
across the river, sweeping in a semicircle from bank to bank towards the quay on which they stood.

‘I believe this must be your transport, sister,’ Gelasius observed.

A sudden look of panic crossed her face. So soon? So soon, with so much left unsaid?

Gelasius saw the expression and correctly interpreted it. He held out his hand, even smiling when Fidelma took it and simply inclined her head. He had finally grown used to this custom of her church.

‘Our thanks go with you, sister, for all that you have done. May you have a safe journey home and a long healthy life.
Deus vobiscum.’

He turned with a curt nod to Eadulf and strode back down the quay to his waiting
lecticula,
ignoring Abbess Wulfrun entirely, much to her chagrin.

The large boat, rowed by a dozen burly oarsmen, swung closer to the quay.

Fidelma raised her sparkling green eyes to meet Eadulf’s warm brown ones.

‘Well,’ Eadulf said slowly, ‘it is time for you to go.’

Fidelma sighed trying to quell her sense of regret.

‘Vestigia … nulla retrorsum,’
she said softly, quoting a line from Horace.

Eadulf looked puzzled, not understanding. She did not bother to enlighten him.

She looked slowly at him instead, trying to read the expression in his face but there were no signs that she could interpret.

‘I shall miss you, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham,’ Fidelma said softly.

‘And I you, Fidelma of Kildare.’

Then she realised that there was little else to say between them.

She smiled, perhaps her smile was a little forced, and reached forward impulsively to take his hands in both of hers.

‘Instruct your new archbishop well in the ways of your land, Eadulf.’

‘I will miss our debates, Fidelma. But perhaps we have learnt a little from each other?’

The boat was alongside now. Wulfrun and her two anchoresses had already stored their baggage on board and taken their places in the for’ard seats. One of the boatmen had deposited Fidelma’s bags in the boat and now stood waiting impatiently to hand her down.

For a moment or two Fidelma and Eadulf stood face to face and then it was Fidelma who broke the spell with her mischievous, urchin grin. She turned and stepped lightly into the stern of the boat and took a seat, half turning to where Eadulf still stood on the quay.

With a hoarse cry, the oarsmen pushed away from the quay and for a moment the boat drifted with the water and then, with another cry of instruction, the oars dipped into its brown wavelets and the vessel began to be propelled forward downstream at a rapid rate.

Fidelma raised a hand and let it fall as she stared back towards the shrinking figure of Eadulf, standing alone now on the quay. She watched until he disappeared around the bend of the river.

The oarsmen were setting up a chant to help them in their task, made uncomfortable by the hot noon day sun.

Clouds melt away and the harsh tempest stills,
effort tames all, great toil is conquered –
Heia ulri! Nostrum reboans echo sonet heia!
Heave men! And let resounding echo sound our heave!

Fidelma sighed gently and sat back in her seat, her eyes watching the passing banks of the great river as they sped southwards. They travelled beyond the hills of Rome and her crowded buildings, beyond the city quays lining the river, and out into the country between banks that were flat and bare, unshaded by wood and ungraced by cultivation. The river was deep and its winding course spoke of none of the beauty Fidelma had once been taught to associate with the great Tiber.

Now and then she saw a height crowned in pines but more often than not the hills were bare. There were only a few scanty patches of corn and these were thinly spread. She had to remind herself that the army of Emperor Constans had recently passed this way and the waste that surrounded the turbidly rolling Tiber was made by man and not by nature.

As she recalled, the river would eventually burst out into the Mediterranean between the twin ports of Ostia and Porto, where the river divided with its reed-veined waters around a central island, the Isola Sacra. It was not a pretty entrance to Rome, surrounded by the low-lying
stagni
or salt marshes. But Ostia and Porto were the twin ancient ports of Rome from which ships came and went to all four corners of the Earth.

The scenery changed a little and now she found herself gazing at the silver-green of the olive trees spreading over the hills as the wasted fields of once cultivated corn gave way to numerous olive groves that had survived Constans’ ravages. She noticed that the silver-greens were not the deep greens that she was used to in her own land; not the luxuriant growths
and shady trees which grew amidst the temperate climate of Ireland. Ireland with its fuschia-edged lanes leading down to saffron-spotted, grey granite boulders on the stony seaboard. Ireland with its broad green hills and deep, dark marshes, skirted by brambles and heathers and nettle-protected forests replete with yews, hazels and woodbine.

With an abrupt feeling of surprise, Fidelma found that she was homesick. She realised how eager she was to return, to hear her own language being spoken again, to be at ease, to be at home. What was it Homer had written? ‘I know of no sweeter sight for the eyes than that of one’s own country.’ Ah, perhaps he was right.

She stared at the passing scenery and her thoughts went back to Brother Eadulf. She felt uncomfortable at being so sad at the parting. Was she trying to make more of her friendship with Eadulf than there had been or, indeed, than there could be? Was Aristotle right that a friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies? Was that why she felt something was lacking in her? She compressed her lips, angry with herself. She often tried to intellectualise her attitudes and thus avoided dealing with emotions. Sometimes she could no longer discern between emotion and rationalisation. It seemed so much easier to analyse other people’s attitudes than to sort out her own. Who was it said – physician, heal thyself? She could not recall. There was an old proverb in her own language – every invalid is a physician. That was a truism.

She turned her gaze back to the passing banks of the river and their pallid green vegetation. Again she thought of the sharp contrast with the rich verdure of Ireland. She gazed back to where Rome had disappeared beyond the river’s bend and thought briefly of Eadulf again.

She smiled sadly to herself. That which Horace had written was true:
Vestigia … nulla retrorsum
– no footsteps back. No, there would be no going back now. She was going home.

The ‘Sister Fidelma’ mysteries by Peter Tremayne

Absolution by Murder
Shroud for the Archbishop
Suffer Little Children

SHROUD FOR THE ARCHBISHOP.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever without written permission
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s
Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing

eISBN 9781466814028

First eBook Edition : March 2012

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Tremayne, Peter.
Shroud for the archbishop : a Sister Fidelma mystery /
Peter Tremayne.
p. cm.

ISBN 0-312-14734-1

1. Italy—History—476-774—Fiction. 2. Celtic
Church—History—
Fiction. I. Title.
PR6070.R366S57 1996
823’.914—dc20
96-8481
CIP

First U.S. Edition: September 1995