Shroud for the Archbishop (28 page)

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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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‘So that was why you were so conveniently there?’
‘Yes. I was frantic to stop Ronan revealing anything which would incriminate Osimo and myself. I wanted the purchase of the books to go ahead. Imagine my horror when I reached the cemetery and encountered the Arab merchant and his companion hurrying from the catacombs. They told me that Ronan lay dead within.’
‘What were they doing there following Ronan, if you were dealing with them by yourself?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘The night before his death, Ronan had volunteered to go in my place to meet the Arabian merchant here in Marmorata, and make the first exchange for the books. The merchant had sent a note with instructions which I gave to Ronan. But after the meeting Ronan told Osimo that he felt that the Arabians were following him. He thought they were suspicious about him.
‘When I encountered them at the cemetery, I naturally thought it was they who had slain Ronan. Before I could question them, I was called upon for assistance for, I was told, someone had been injured in the catacombs.
‘I suspected it was Ronan. I believed the Arabians might have killed him. I hurried to the main entrance and descended. You can imagine my surprise when I saw you walking towards
me and, to my horror, saw that you were carrying one of the stolen chalices. Something took over in me. I drew back and, forgive me, sister, I struck you on the head and took the chalice. I searched your
marsupium
which was a lucky thing for I found the letter which the Arabian merchant had sent giving Ronan the instructions of how the exchanges were to be effected. I also took this but then I heard someone coming down into the catacombs behind me. I had to pretend that I had just discovered you in your unconscious condition. No one questioned that you had been the person reported injured.’
Fidelma was staring at him with bright eyes.
‘So it was you who attacked me?’
‘Forgive me,’ Cornelius repeated, but without contriteness.
‘I thought the figure that I saw before I was hit was a familiar one,’ murmured Fidelma reflectively.
‘You did not seem to be suspicious when you recovered consciousness.’
‘One thing worries me, then. The Arabians were behind me in the catacombs. How were they able to get out before me and tell you of Ronan’s death?’
Cornelius shrugged. ‘You do not know of the many entrances and exits. A few chambers beyond where Ronan was killed is an exit which leads upwards by the cemetery gates. Had you gone that way you would have been out of the catacombs within minutes. Hence, the unknown pilgrim who raised the alarm after leaving the catacombs by another route.’
Licinius nodded agreement. ‘That is so, sister. There are several passageways. Doubtless, as Cornelius says, the pilgrim who raised the alarm about Ronan also used a different passage and by-passed you on your way back to the main entrance.’
‘Why didn’t you go straight to Ronan?’ insisted Fidelma.
‘To go by the side entrance along the shorter route would immediately arouse suspicion. In fact, I had wanted to go straight to find Ronan’s body but there were too many people around and I could not leave you without first taking you back to the palace. By then, it was too late. Licinius here was dispatched to the catacombs in search of Ronan’s body.’
‘What did you do with the letter and chalice?’ Fidelma asked.
‘I took the incriminating material and put it in my medical bag. I raced back to tell Osimo the news. The Arabians were obviously responsible for Ronan’s death. But why did they kill him? Did they think that he was betraying them?
‘It was not the Arabians,’ Fidelma said firmly.
Cornelius’s eyes widened in surprise.
‘That is precisely what they claimed. But if not they, who, then, is responsible?’
‘That we must discover.’
‘Well, it was not I nor Osimo. That I can swear by the living God!’ declared Cornelius.
Fidelma sat back and gazed thoughtfully at the nervous features of the Greek physician.
‘One thing puzzles me …’ she began.
Eadulf guffawed softly in annoyance.
‘Only one thing?’ he jested. ‘This mystery gets no clearer at all to me.’
Furius Licinius was nodding in agreement. Fidelma ignored them.
‘You said that Brother Ronan had encountered Wighard before and did not like him. Can you expand on that?’
‘I can only give you hearsay, sister,’ Cornelius said, ‘I can
only repeat the story as Ronan told it to Osimo and then as Osimo told me.’
He paused a moment and gathered his thoughts before continuing: ‘Ronan Ragallach left his own country many years ago and travelled to preach the word among the Saxons, firstly in the kingdom of the West Saxons and then to the kingdom of Kent. For a time he preached at the church dedicated to the blessed Martin of Tours within the city walls of Canterbury. It is a tiny church, I am told.’
Eadulf inclined his head in agreement.
‘I know the place.’
‘One night, seven years ago, there came a dying man to that little church. The man was broken in body and spirit, dying of a sickness which took the breath from him. He knew that he was dying and wanted to confess his sins.
‘By chance there was only one person at the church that night available to administer to him. It was a visiting monk from Ireland.’
‘Ronan Ragallach!’ The
tesserarius
Licinius blurted, impatiently following the story.
‘Just so,’ Cornelius confirmed evenly. ‘Brother Ronan. He took the man’s confession and great were the sins. The worst was that the man had been a hired assassin. What troubled him was a great sin, greater than any other, which lay on a prominent member of the church. He told the story of his crime in great detail to Ronan. How he was paid by a deacon of the church to kill his family because the deacon had no use for them. Further, the killer confessed that he took the deacon’s money, slew his wife, but, seeing a way to increase his store, he took the children into a neighbouring kingdom and sold them to a farmer as slaves. The man was dying. And
even as he died he named the deacon who had hired him to slaughter his family. At that time the man was then secretary to Deusdedit, the archbishop …’
‘Wighard?’ Eadulf exclaimed in horror. ‘Are you saying that Ronan Ragallach claimed Wighard to have hired an assassin to kill his wife and children?’
Cornelius ignored the question and went on: ‘Bound by the rule of confession, Brother Ronan blessed the dead man, for he was not able to absolve such a heinous crime, and later that evening he buried him without the confines of the church. The confession troubled him but he felt unable to confront Wighard nor tell the tale to anyone else. After a few weeks, Ronan decided to leave Canterbury and journey here to Rome and commence a new life. When he saw Wighard in Rome and found he was about to be ordained by His Holiness as archbishop of Canterbury, Ronan was so outraged that he poured out his tale to Osimo and then Osimo later told me.’
‘Could Ronan have been so outraged that he killed Wighard?’ demanded Licinius.
‘And then killed himself by the same method?’ replied Fidelma, with a frown. ‘That is hardly credible. When did Osimo repeat this story to you, Cornelius?’
‘On the day we had discussed the matter of raising the money for the Arabian merchant. The day when Ronan suggested that it would not be a sin to take the valuables from Wighard. I was puzzled by this remark and later, in private, Osimo told me this story by way of explanation as to why Ronan thought that Wighard deserved to be relieved of the treasure.’
There was a silence while Fidelma reflected on the matter.
‘I believe you, Cornelius of Alexandria. The story you tell
is too fantastic to be other than the truth for you have admitted much criminal culpability.’
As she gazed thoughtfully at him it occurred to her to ask a question which had nothing to do with what had been discussed.
‘You are a knowledgeable man, Cornelius. Do you know anything about the customs concerning the feast of Saturnalia?’
‘The feast of Saturnalia?’ queried the Alexandrian in surprise. His surprise was mirrored in the faces of Eadulf and Licinius.
Fidelma calmly nodded.
‘In the old days it was a religious festival celebrated in late December,’ Cornelius explained. ‘It was a time of enjoyment, goodwill and present giving. All business ceased and everyone dressed up and had a good time.’
‘Were there any special events during that feast?’ pressed Fidelma.
Cornelius let the corners of his mouth turn down as if to suggest he had little knowledge.
‘The feast began with a sacrifice at the temple and a public banquet was open to everyone. People were even allowed to gamble in public. Oh, and the slaves would don their masters’ clothes, being freed from their duties, while the masters would wait upon the slaves.’
Fidelma’s eyes shone with green fire and a smile split her face.
‘Thank you, Cornelius,’ she said, the solemnity of her tone betrayed by the mask of delight at the information. She stood up abruptly.
‘What will happen to me?’ demanded Cornelius, also rising wearily to his feet.
‘That I do not know,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘I will make my report to the
Superista
and he, undoubtedly, will present the matter to the city magistrates for consideration. I am not skilled in the laws of Rome.’
‘In the meantime,’ grunted Furius Licinius with satisfaction, ‘you will be placed in the cells of the
custodes
and you will not find it so easy to escape from them now as your confederate Ronan Ragallach did. Of that I can assure you.’
Cornelius shrugged. It was a defiant gesture.
‘At least I have rescued several great works for posterity when they would otherwise have been lost. That is my compensation.’
Licinius motioned him to the door.
As Cornelius moved a new thought crossed Fidelma’s mind.
‘One moment!’
Cornelius turned back to her in expectation.
‘Did Ronan or Osimo tell anyone else about this strange tale of the alleged murder of Wighard’s wife and the selling of his children; of Wighard’s responsibility for that terrible deed?’
Cornelius frowned and shook his head slowly.
‘No. According to Osimo, Ronan told only him and he in secret. But Osimo told me for the reasons that I have already recounted.’
His expression abruptly changed as a memory stirred. Fidelma was quick to spot it.
‘But you passed on that knowledge?’ she prompted. Cornelius was troubled.
‘I thought it so ungodly an act, so heinous a crime, if it were true, that I worried over it for several days. Here was a man about to made archbishop, ordained by His Holiness, and yet it had been told by the confession of a dying man that he had
paid for his wife and children to be slain. I could not leave it … even though I broke the confidence of my friend Osimo. But I told only a churchman of rank and honour.’
Fidelma felt a tingle at the back of her neck.
‘You could not remain quiet. That I can understand,’ she agreed impatiently. ‘So whom did you tell?’
‘I thought I should see if one of Wighard’s entourage knew anything about the matter and could advise whether the matter could be investigated … I sought the advice of someone in authority who could bring the matter to the ear of His Holiness before the ceremony of ordination. In fact, it was the day before Wighard’s death that I brought the matter to the attention of one of the Saxons prelates.’
Fidelma closed her eyes and sought for a moment to control her impatience. Eadulf, now realising the importance of what Cornelius was saying, stood white-faced, waiting.
‘So who did you tell?’ Fidelma repeated sharply.
‘Why, the Saxon abbot, of course. The Abbot Puttoc.’
‘Puttoc,’ muttered Brother Eadulf, as they hurried through the grounds of the Lateran Palace towards Abbot Puttoc’s chamber in the
domus hospitale.
‘It was that lying, lecherous son of a whore the whole time.’
Fidelma gave a critical sideways glance at the vehement expression on her companion’s features.
‘Your language does not become you, Eadulf,’ she reproved softly.
‘I am sorry. It is just that my blood runs hot when I think of that lascivious priest who is supposed to instruct others on morality. That he was the murderer … ah, but I see that it fits now as I think back.’
‘You think so?’ she asked.
‘In retrospect, of course,’ affirmed Eadulf, worried at the slightly amused tone in her voice. Was she mocking him now they had the answer, whereas he had been so blind before? Even at the start of this investigation he would have condemned Ronan Ragallach and not bothered to proceed further. ‘Yes, it was obviously Puttoc all along. Although, having learnt the dark secret of Wighard, with his burning ambition to ascend the throne of Augustine of Canterbury,
Puttoc decided to kill Wighard and claim that prize instead. Ambition, naked ambition, is the key to this entire mystery.’
Fidelma gave an inward sigh. Eadulf had a fine mind but, as a fault, he tended to pursue only one path at a time and forget that all the minor detours needed to be checked.
She found herself wondering about Eadulf. Since she had met him at Witebia she had often felt an almost chemical reaction between them. She enjoyed being in his company, enjoyed the banter and the half-serious arguments. Moreover, she was not indifferent to Eadulf’s masculinity.
At twenty-eight years old, Fidelma had reached the age when she considered herself long past the age for matrimony in a society where most marriages took place between sixteen and twenty years of age for girls. It was not that Fidelma had ever consciously rejected the idea of marriage, of forsaking the temporal world for the spiritual life. It had simply happened this way. And it was not that she was without experience.
When she was in her second year of studying law at the school of Morann, the Chief Brehon at Tara, she had met a young man. He was a young chieftain of the Fianna, the bodyguard of the High King. The attraction, in retrospect, was no more than physical and the affair was passionate and intense. It ended without drama when the young man, Cian, had left Tara with another young girl; a girl who simply wanted a home and who would not pose any intellectual threat to him. For Fidelma was deep into her studies, always poring over the ancient texts. Cian was purely a physical person whose life was measured in actions and not thoughts.
As Fidelma had reflected, even the
Book of Amos
said: ‘Can two walk together, except they be agreed?’ Yet in spite
of her rationalisation at the ending of the affair, it had left its mark on Fidelma. When she had met Cian, she had been young and carefree. Cian’s rejection of her had left her disillusioned and, although she did her best to hide it, she also felt some bitterness at the experience. She had never really recovered from it. She had never forgotten it nor, perhaps, had she ever allowed herself to.
So she had put her zest for life into her studies and the attainment of knowledge and its application. She had never allowed herself to get close to a man again. That was not to say that she had refused all passing affairs. Fidelma was of her culture and did not envy the ascetics of the Faith who denied themselves such natural pleasures. Denial of one’s body was unnatural to her. Celibacy was not a concept she believed in as a matter of rule; it was a matter of personal choice and not of religious dogma. But her amours were neither deep nor lasting. Each time she had hoped for more, had almost convinced herself of the sincerity of feeling between herself and her partner but each time the affair ended in disappointment.
She found herself speculatively regarding the Saxon cenobite; trying to work out the feelings of warmth, pleasure and comfort that she always felt in his presence which were strangely at odds with the clash of their personalities and cultures. She remembered that her friend, the Abbess Étain of Kildare, had attempted to explain to her once why she was giving up her office to marry. ‘Sometimes you know what is right, instinctively, Fidelma. It happens when a man and woman meet and know that they understand and can be understood. The act of meeting becomes the ultimate intimacy between them, for there is no need for a lengthy friendship and gradual discovery of one another. It is as if two parts have
suddenly become as one.’ Fidelma frowned. She wished she could be as sure as poor Étain had been.
She suddenly realised that Eadulf had finished speaking and seemed to be expecting an answer.
‘Puttoc’s ambition? Do you think so?’ she finally asked again. She shook her head and brought her mind back to the matter in hand. ‘Why didn’t Puttoc simply bring his accusations to the Holy Father? How would Wighard have become archbishop once his terrible secret was known?’
Eadulf smiled indulgently.
‘But where was Puttoc’s proof? He had the word only of Osimo who had it from Ronan, already a condemned thief. Without a credible witness, he would not have been able to prove such an accusation.’
Fidelma conceded the point.
‘Then,’ continued Eadulf, ‘Puttoc also had a dark secret which was certainly known to Brother Sebbi. His own lascivious character. If he made accusations against Wighard, then counter-accusations could easily have been made against himself.’
‘This is true,’ Fidelma accepted. ‘But would Puttoc’s ambition take him to the extent of garrotting the archbishop-designate? And why kill Ronan Ragallach, the very source of the story?’
Eadulf shrugged.
‘Brother Sebbi confirms that Puttoc was a ruthless man,’ he said, a little lamely.
They reached the
domus hospitale
and began to hasten up the stairs.
Eadulf paused abruptly at the head of the stairs with a restraining hand on Fidelma’s arm.
‘Don’t you think we should wait for Furius Licinius and his
custodes
to join us before we confront Puttoc?’
They had left Licinius taking Cornelius to the cells of the
custodes
before joining them at Puttoc’s chamber.
Fidelma shook her head impatiently.
‘If Puttoc is the guilty one, I doubt whether he will do anything to harm the two of us.’
Eadulf’s expression was one of perplexity.
‘Do you still doubt Puttoc’s involvement after what Cornelius had to say?’
‘I do not doubt Puttoc’s involvement,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘But to what extent he was involved has yet to be proven.’
Fidelma led the way along the corridor and paused outside the Abbot of Stanggrund’s room.
She leaned forward and tapped gently on the door.
It was only faint, but a sound of movement came from behind the door. Then there was silence.
‘Abbot Puttoc! It is I, Fidelma of Kildare.’
There was no reply to her call. Fidelma glanced with raised eyebrows at Eadulf and slowly moved her head in a gesture which Eadulf correctly interpreted.
The Saxon monk reached forward and, gently turning the handle, threw open the door abruptly.
As they crossed the threshold, Fidelma and Eadulf were halted in astonishment at the scene inside the room.
Across the bed lay the figure of the Abbot Puttoc stretched on his back, his ice-blue eyes staring towards the ceiling in the glazed unseeing stare of death. There was little reason to doubt the cause of his death. The prayer cord was still twisted around his sinewy neck, its noose tight, almost cutting through the flesh. A blackened tongue protruded between his lips,
adding to the grotesquely comic expression of surprise on his features. The hands were claw-like, grasping at the empty air and, though they had now fallen to rest by his sides, the tension in them had not abated. Abbot Puttoc of Stanggrund had been garrotted in the same manner as Wighard and Brother Ronan Ragallach.
The picture was impressed on the eyes of Fidelma and Eadulf in a fleeting moment of time.
But it was the figure bending over the corpse which caused them both to cry out almost in unison.
As they came into the chamber, Brother Eanred whirled round, his face ghastly as he stared at them. Fidelma had a momentary sensation of facing a cornered animal.
The tableau seemed to remain locked in immobility for an eternity. It was but a split second of time. Then Eanred, with an inarticulate cry, leapt across the room towards the only exit; the window which looked out on the small courtyard three floors below. But, Fidelma realised, it was the small ledge that ran along the side of the building that Eanred was making for.
Eadulf sprang across the room but the tall, ex-slave turned and felled him with one blow. Eadulf went staggering back several paces, collided with a wall and slumped down with a groan of pain.
Fidelma impulsively moved forward.
Eanred, pausing astride the ledge of the window, noticed her movement, reached within the folds of his habit and drew a knife. Fidelma saw its glint and had only a split second to throw herself to one side before it flashed silver-like across the room to embed itself into the door jamb behind her.
While she was thus distracted, Eanred swung over the sill
of the window and balanced on the ledge.
With a grunt of disgust, Eadulf picked himself up, shook his head and realised that his quarry was escaping. He hurled himself across the room but Eanred was moving rapidly along the ledge.
Fidelma joined Eadulf at the window as he was attempting to climb out. She restrained him.
‘No. It is too narrow and not safe. I saw as much the other day,’ she commanded. ‘The plaster is old and insecure.’
‘But he’ll escape,’ protested Eadulf.
‘To where?’
Eadulf pointed at the broad ledge which Eanred was trying to reach.
‘That leads to the
Munera Peregrinitatis,’
Fidelma replied. ‘Eanred will not get far. No need to endanger yourself, Eadulf. We will alert the
custodes’
They were turning from the window when they heard the crumbling of masonry and a wild scream.
Eanred, finding the plaster of the ledge crumbling beneath his feet, had attempted to leap from his tiny perch across a space of four feet to the broader ledge. But he was too late, for the dry masonry disintegrated before he could make the jump.
With another piercing shriek the former Saxon slave plunged headlong into the stone courtyard three storeys below.
Fidelma and Eadulf peered downwards.
The head of Eanred was twisted at a peculiar angle. There was a dark stain spreading over the stones. There was no need to ask if he were dead.
Eadulf pushed himself back into the room with a deep exhalation of breath and shook his head in bewilderment.
‘Well, that seems to be that. You were right all along,
Fidelma. I did Puttoc an injustice. It was Eanred all the time. The solution seemed too obvious when Sebbi told us that Eanred had garrotted his former master.’
Fidelma said nothing in reply. She drew back into the room and examined it with narrowed eyes.
He paused and scratched his head.
‘But would Eanred have done this thing on his own account? He was a simple man. No, perhaps I was not wrong about Puttoc. Perhaps Eanred was acting on the orders of the abbot? That seems more likely,’ Eadulf said, with satisfaction. ‘And then Eanred, in disgust, turned and slew his master, Puttoc. Indeed, as he had slain his former master when he was a slave. What do you say?’
He turned to gaze at Fidelma but she was not listening. She was still standing seemingly lost in thought. Eadulf sighed audibly.
‘Perhaps I’d better go and inform Furius Licinius what has happened here?’ Eadulf voiced it as a suggestion.
Fidelma nodded absently. Eadulf could see that she was preoccupied with her own thoughts as she gazed down at the Abbot of Stanggrund’s body.
‘You’ll be all right?’ Eadulf asked anxiously. ‘I mean, waiting here until I return?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she replied vaguely, not looking up as she examined the corpse.
Eadulf hesitated and then shrugged, leaving her to go in search of Furius Licinius. Already he could hear the faint cries of concern from outside the building. People had begun to gather in the courtyard below around Eanred’s body.
Left alone, Fidelma continued her examination of the body of Puttoc. There was something which she had registered in
her first sight of the body which had been pushed to one side by the immediate excitement of Eanred’s attempted flight.
She closed her eyes and conjured back the memory. Eanred had been crouched over the body. Crouched over it, trying to prise something out of one of the dead claw-like hands of the abbot. Yes, that was it. She opened her eyes and bent down to examine the hand. Clutched in it was a piece of torn cloth. There was something else. Still pinned to the cloth was a bent piece of copper. It had once been part of a brooch, copper and some red glass.

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