The monk frowned ominously. ‘That sounds like heresy, Fidelma of Cashel.’
Eadulf grew suddenly nervous at his tone.
‘The churches of Éireann and of the Britons have different ways of looking at things, Brother. You must know that,’ he intervened, trying to mollify the Roman. ‘It does not mean to say that they hold beliefs that are opposed to the orthodox doctrines of the Faith, or beliefs which have been specifically denounced by the Church.’
‘Our Lord told Peter that he would be the one to found the Church. Peter came to Rome and was martyred there. So the Christian Church was founded in Rome. Rome is the centre of the Church and must be obeyed,’ replied Brother Metellus stubbornly.
‘That is not the way the churches of the east see things,’ observed Fidelma quietly. ‘Nor how the churches of the western islands see things. The Bishop of Rome is regarded as having a primacy of honour among the bishops of the faith, but not a primacy of power.’
Brother Metellus reddened in annoyance.
Eadulf glanced quickly at Fidelma and tried to indicate a warning. He knew that she loved discussion, intellectual argument, but if Brother Metellus was taking this as an insult to his beliefs, then Eadulf envisaged that they might be stuck on this island for a long while. However, Fidelma was oblivious to his attempt to calm matters. She was merely pleased to concentrate her mind away from the events of the last day.
‘What I mean is that the Church of Constantinopolis claims the same apostolic succession, celebrates the same sacrament and follows almost the same theology. Its own Chief Bishop is called the Patriarch whose title is from the Greek pater-archon — the “father leader”. That is almost the same title as given to the Bishop of Rome. He takes the name from the Greek pápas, or father, as well. Other places like Alexandria also have their Patriarchs who do not consider themselves under obligation to obey Rome. They believe in their independence. Are all the eastern churches in heresy?’
Brother Metellus thrust out his jaw pugnaciously. ‘During the last hundred years, the Bishops of Rome excommunicated the patriarchs of Constantinopolis from the Faith,’ he ground out. ‘Indeed, they have excommunicated the patriarchs of Alexandria and Jerusalem.’
‘And doubtless the patriarchs have done the same to the Bishop of Rome,’ countered Fidelma in good humour. ‘What does that mean? It shows they are all, sadly, too human. Instead of sitting down to debate their differences and come to a resolution, they resort to rituals of the supernatural as a means of exerting their will.’
Brother Metellus stared at her in disbelief for a moment and then, to the surprise of both of them, he burst out laughing.
‘I swear that I have not had a good discourse with a woman on the Faith in many years,’ he finally said, wiping his eyes. ‘You are truly learned, Fidelma of Cashel. I am glad I decided to fish you out of the sea…both of you, that is. I don’t agree with you, but I enjoy discussion. May we have many more arguments.’
‘Rather exchanges of ideas,’ corrected Fidelma solemnly, ‘for without exchanging ideas, how can there be any learning or progression?’
Brother Metellus glanced at the cloudy sky outside.
‘It will soon be time for the evening meal,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll see how the weather shapes for tomorrow. In the meantime, there are services to perform in my poor chapel. I would invite you to join me, unless your rituals would prevent you?’
Fidelma gave a small mischievous smile. ‘There is little difference in intent, and while we prefer to conduct our services in the language of the sacred texts — which is Greek — when we were in Rome, I observed little for me to object to.’
‘Then you are welcome to participate in the service with me.’
By evening, the wind was beginning to die away and the sea was changing colour once again, losing its white billows and becoming calmer.
When they gathered for the meal later, Brother Metellus greeted them with a warm smile as if the intensity of their discussion that afternoon had not existed.
‘I think we will be able to set sail in the morning,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘We’ll leave at first light as we originally intended to do this morning.’
This time the weather grew tranquil during the night.
The day dawned calm and warm, with the sun beating down from an almost cloudless sky. The few clouds that did drift high above were fluffy white balls, like the fruiting puffs of groundsel. What was more, there was a soft morning breeze blowing from the south.
With the single sail hoisted, it quickly filled and the small boat, with Brother Metellus at the tiller, was gliding swiftly out from the bay, leaving a small knot of islanders waving their goodbyes on the foreshore. The journey across the water to the mainland seemed swift, and so calm was the sea that even Eadulf did not have time to feel queasy. Brother Metellus was an excellent sailor, manoeuvring his sailing boat with consummate skill, shifting every time there was a subtle change in the wind to re-catch the force of it in his sail. Fidelma observed that the monk knew the waters well, for there was a series of rocky shoals through which he navigated with ease. They did not speak much during the short voyage over the distance that separated the island of the Little Duck from the low-lying stretch of land that Brother Metellus identified as the Rhuis peninsula.
Fidelma was aware of the sheer numbers of seabirds as they approached the coastline. The ringed plover, with their distinctive black ring and bright orange bill and legs, were heading along the shoreline in search of shellfish in the mudflats. High up, marked by their white crowns and underparts, but dark brown upper feathers, two osprey wheeled, alternatively flapping and gliding, as they hunted for fish swimming near the surface. A sudden pause, as if they were hovering, and then with partly closed wings, the birds dived on their kill. Fidelma had seen osprey before, but it was always a spectacular sight, watching them make their kill. Even the gulls, emitting cries like souls in torment, seemed to avoid these hunters.
‘The abbey is around that headland,’ called Brother Metellus, pointing to a rocky headland with a large green mound. The area was covered with thickly growing woodland. There seemed no place to effect a landing.
‘Don’t worry, we shall come into the west of that, where there is an open sandy beach,’ Brother Metellus said, correctly guessing the thoughts that were passing through their minds.
Indeed, Fidelma had already spotted the sandy strip stretching to the north-west towards another rising headland, which she estimated must be five kilometres away.
‘They call this the Great Mount and the one over there the Little Mount,’ explained Brother Metellus.
There was a tide with them now as well as the wind, and they came swiftly onto the sandy beach among several other craft that were pulled up there. Fishermen and some women sat in little groups, some mending nets, while others were simply talking and cooking fish over open fires. Two of the fishermen came trotting down into the surf to help draw the small craft up onto the dry sand, and one courteously helped Fidelma out. Greetings were exchanged in the local language and then Brother Metellus led the couple from the beach and up a winding path through a very green and fertile area, most of which appeared thickly forested. Fidelma noticed it was filled with broadleaf trees, mainly thick oaks and beeches, with a few conifers sprinkled here and there when a thinning of the woodland provided space.