Absolution by Murder by Peter Tremayne Page A

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