‘Christ is God’s son,’ she said firmly. ‘Therefore He would approve of the homage of reason, for if there is no doubt there can be no faith.’
‘You are a philosopher, Fidelma of Kildare. But I did not expect a religieuse to question her Faith.’
‘I have lived too long not to be a sceptic, Cass of Cashel. One should go through life being sceptical of all things and particularly of oneself. But now, we have exhausted the subject and should retire. We have much to do in the morning.’
She rose and Cass reluctantly followed her example.
After he had left her chamber, she lay back on her cot and this time she doused the lamp.
She tried hard to conjure what facts she had learnt about theVenerable Dacán’s death to her mind. However, she found other thoughts now dominating her senses. They concerned Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. As she thought of him, she had a curious feeling of loneliness again, as if of home-sickness.
She missed their debates. She missed the way she could tease Eadulf over their conflicting opinions and philosophies; the way he would always rise good-naturedly to the bait. Their arguments would rage but there was no enmity between them. They would learn together as they examined their interpretations and debated their ideas.
She missed Eadulf. She could not deny that.
Cass was a simple man. He was agreeable enough; congenial company; a man who held a good moral code. But, for her, he was without the sharp humour which she needed; without a broad perspective of knowledge with which her own knowledge could contest. Now that she considered it, Cass reminded her a little of someone responsible for an unpleasant episode in her early life. When she was seventeen she had fallen in love with a young warrior named Cian. He had been in the élite bodyguard of the High King, who was Cellach at that time. She had been young and carefree but in love. Cian had not cared for her intellectual pursuits and had eventually left her for another. His rejection of her had left her disillusioned. She felt bitter, although the years had tempered her attitude. But she had never forgotten her experience, nor really recovered from it. Perhaps she had never allowed herself to do so.
Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham had been the only man of her own age in whose company she had felt really at ease and able to express herself.
Perhaps she had started the argument on Faith as a means of testing Cass.
Then, why should she want to test Cass? For what purpose? Because she wanted Eadulf’s company and was looking for a surrogate?
She gave a hiss of breath in the darkness, scandalised by the idea. A ridiculous idea.
After all, she had spent several days in Cass’s company on the journey here and there had been no problem.
Perhaps the key to the situation lay in the fact that she was, indeed, trying to recreate Eadulf and that recreation had been prompted by the fact that she was investigating a murder with Cass as her companion whereas, before, it was Eadulf who had been her comrade, the sounding board against which she could bounce her ideas.
But why should she want to recreate Eadulf?
She exhaled again sharply as if to expel the very thoughts from her mind. Then she turned over and buried her face angrily into the pillow.
Chapter Seven
The weather had changed again with the bewildering rapidity that was common to the islands and peninsulas of the south-west of Muman. While the sky remained a clear, almost translucent blue, the sun shone with a warmth which made the day more akin to the dying summer than to late autumn. The high winds had been dispelled although a sea breeze remained, blustery but not strong. Therefore, the sea was not totally calm, more choppy and brooding, causing the ships, anchored in the inlet before Ros Ailithir, to jerk now and then at their moorings. Above, in the gull-dominated sky, large, dark-coloured cormorants also wheeled and dived, fighting for a place to fish among the plaintive, protesting shrieks of their companions. Here and there, sooty, white-rumped storm petrels, driven seaward by the previous stormy weather were now returning to the coastline.
Fidelma had perched herself on the top of the thick stone wall of the monastery, where a walkway ran around it as if it were a battlement. She gazed thoughtfully down into the inlet. There were a few local fishing boats, a couple of coastal vessels or barca and an ocean-going vessel which traded with Britain or Gaul. She had been told that it was a Frankish merchantman. But it was the warship of the Laigin king, lying menacingly near the entrance to the harbour, with its sleek, malevolent lines, which took her interest.
Fidelma had sat for a long while, arms folded, examining the vessel with curiosity. She wondered what Fianamail, theyoung king of Laigin, hoped to gain by such an intimidating display. She could understand that demanding the territory of Osraige as an honour price was merely a political move to regain the lost territory, but he was certainly being blatant about it. No one would surely believe that the death of the Venerable Dacán, even though he was a cousin to the Laigin king, merited the return of a land which had held allegiance to Cashel for over five hundred years. Why would Fianamail threaten war over such a matter?
She gazed down on the fluttering silk standard of the Laigin kings, proudly streaking in the sea breeze which caught at the mast head. There were several warriors on deck practising their weaponry arts, which she felt was rather ostentatious and more for the benefit of observers on the shore than for the Laigin warriors to keep in practise.
Fidelma wished that she had paid more attention to that section of the Book of Acaill, the great law code, which dwelt specifically with the muir-bretha or sea laws. The law should surely say whether such intimidation was allowed. She had a vague feeling that the writhe, placed at the gates of the abbey, meant something in this connection but she was not sure what. She wondered whether the Tech Screptra, the library of the abbey, might have copies of the law books which she could consult on the subject.
The single bell announcing the tierce rang out from the bell house.
Fidelma pulled herself away from the mesmerising scene, rose and proceeded to walk back, along the wooden walkway along the monastery wall, towards the steps which led to the interior grounds of Ros Ailithir. A familiar figure was standing looking out to sea a little farther along the wall. It was the plump Sister Eisten. She did not notice Fidelma, so intent was her gaze on the inlet.
Fidelma arrived at her side unnoticed.
‘A beautiful morning, sister,’ she greeted.
Sister Eisten started and turned, her mouth rounded in surprise. She blinked and carefully inclined her head.
‘Sister Fidelma. Yes. It is beautiful.’ There was no warmth in her reply.
‘How are you today?’
‘I am well.’
The terse, monosyllabic tones seemed forced.
‘That is good. You have come through a bad experience. And is the little boy well now?’
Sister Eisten looked confused.
‘Little boy?’
‘Yes. Has he recovered from his nightmare?’ When she saw that Sister Eisten still did not appear to understand, she added: ‘The boy whose name is Cosrach. You were nursing him yesterday afternoon.’
Sister Eisten blinked rapidly.
‘Oh … yes.’ She did not sound sure.
‘Sister Fidelma!’
Fidelma turned as she heard her name called. It was young Sister Necht, hurrying up the steps to the walkway. She seemed anxious and Fidelma had a curious feeling that her anxiety was at finding Sister Eisten with Fidelma.
‘Brother Rumann is ready to see you now, sister,’ Sister Necht announced. ‘He’s waiting impatiently at the hostel.’
Fidelma paused and glanced at Eisten. ‘Are you sure all is well with you?’