Father Gormán flushed abruptly.
‘There is nothing amiss in wishing to correct a grievous wrong.’
‘Nothing at all,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘But this matter would not have endeared you to Eber. I hear, however, that you believe that Móen should be punished to the point whereby his own life is taken in forfeit.’
‘Isn’t the word of God explicit? If a man destroys the eye of another, they shall destroy his eye. I believe in the full measure of retribution as it is taught by our Faith and Rome.’
Fidelma shook her head.
‘Extreme justice is often unjust.’
Father Gormán’s eyes narrowed.
‘That smacks of the wisdom of Pelagius.’
‘Is it wrong to quote the words of a wise man?’
‘The churches of Ireland are filled with Pelagian heresy,’ sneered the priest.
‘Was Pelagius such a heretic?’ questioned Fidelma mildly.
Father Gormán nearly choked with indignation.
‘You doubt it? Do you not know your history?’
‘I know that Pope Zosimus pronounced him innocent of heresy in spite of pressure from Augustine of Hippo who persuaded the Emperor Honorius to issue an imperial decree condemning him.’
‘But Pope Zosimus did eventually declare him guilty of heresy.’
‘After coming under pressure from the emperor. I hardly call that a theological decision. Ironic he should be condemned for his treatise De Libero Arbitrio — On Free Will.’
‘So you support a heretic, like most of your Columban breed?’ Father Gormán was openly offensive.
‘We do not shut our minds to reason, as Rome commands of its adherents,’ Fidelma snapped back. ‘After all, what does heresy really mean? It is simply the Greek word for making a choice. It is in our nature to make a free choice therefore we are all heretics.’
‘Pelagius was full of Irish porridge! He was rightly condemned for refusing to see the truth of Augustine’s doctrine on the Fall of Man and Original Sin!’
‘Should not Augustine have been condemned for refusing to see the truth of Pelagius’ doctrine on free will?’ returned Fidelma hotly.
‘You are not only impertinent but in peril of your soul.’ Father Gormán was red in the face and angry.
Fidelma was not flustered.
‘Let us consider the facts,’ she rejoined quietly. ‘The original sin was Adam’s and Adam and his descendants were punished by God for that sin. Is that correct?’
‘It was a curse that had been passed on to all mankind until the sacrifice of the Christ redeemed the world,’ agreed the priest, his temper simmering.
‘But Adam disobeyed God?’
‘That is so.’
‘Yet, it is taught, God is omnipotent and He created Adam.’
‘Man was given free will and Adam, in defying God, fell from grace.’
‘This is where Pelagius asked the question: before Adam’s fall, could he choose between good and evil?’
‘We are told that he had God’s commands to guide him. God told him what he should do. But the woman tempted him.’
‘Ah yes. The woman.’ The emphasis was softly made. Brother Eadulf stirred uncomfortably. He wished Fidelma would not chance the Fates by her arguments. He glanced towards her but she was leaning forward, enjoying the confrontation of intellects. ‘God was omnipotent and created Adam and Eve. Surely God’s will was enough to guide them?’
‘Man had free will.’
‘So Adam’s will, the will of the woman,’ again the gentle emphasis, ‘was more powerful than God’s will?’
Father Gormán was outraged.
‘No, of course not. God was omnipotent … But He had allowed man to be free.’
‘Then the logical course of thought is that God, being omnipotent, and thus able to prevent sin, refused to do so. Being omnipotent, He knew what Adam would do. Under our law, God was then an accessary before the fact!’
‘That is blasphemy,’ gasped Father Gormán.
‘There is more, Gormán,’ continued Fidelma ruthlessly, ‘for if we are to be logical, we can argue that God acquiesced in Adam’s sin.’
‘Sacrilege!’ gasped the priest in horror.
‘Come, be logical.’ Fidelma was quite unperturbed at his reaction. ‘God was omniscient and He created Adam. If He was omniscient then He knew Adam would sin. And if the human race was cursed because of Adam’s sin, then God knew theywould be cursed. He then created people to suffer by unnumbered millions.’
‘You and your finite mind, you cannot understand the great mystery of the universe,’ snapped Father Gormán.
‘We will not be able to understand it if we choose to obscure the path to that universe by creating myths. This is where I stand with the teachings of Pelagius who was a man of our people, and why Rome has always attacked our churches not only here but among the Britons and the Gauls who share our philosophies. We are a people who question all things and only through our questions can we hope to arrive at the Great Truth and we must stand by the Truth even if we stand against the world.’
She rose abruptly.
‘I thank you for your time, Father Gormán.’
Once outside she exchanged a glance with Eadulf.
‘So a tiny bit of the mist begins to clear away,’ she said with satisfaction.
Eadulf pulled a face. He was bemused.
‘About Pelagius?’ he hazarded.
Fidelma chuckled.
‘About Father Gormán,’ she reproved.
‘You suspect Father Gormán of some involvement?’
‘I suspect everyone of something. But you are right. It is clear that Gormán was, or is, passionately devoted to Cranat.’
‘At their age?’ Eadulf was indignant.
Fidelma turned to her companion in surprise.
‘Love between people can be felt at any age, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’
‘But a woman of her years and a priest …?’
‘There are no laws forbidding priests from marrying, not even Rome prohibits it, though I admit that Rome disapproves of it.’
‘Are you saying that Father Gormán might have had reason for wishing Eber dead?’
Fidelma’s expression was almost impassive.
‘Oh, he had a reason right enough. But did he have the means of fulfilling his wish or arranging for its fulfilment?’
Chapter Nine
That evening they bathed and ate their meal alone. Crón had not invited them to dine in the hall of assembly, as protocol would naturally dictate. Eadulf was not particularly surprised at their isolation. When he considered the day’s events he realised that if Fidelma had made a friend of anyone in the rath of Araglin it was only the poor creature Móen. She had certainly not endeared herself to any of the others. That Crón and her mother, Cranat, did not want to associate themselves with her company was hardly a matter for wonder.
It was a nervous young girl who brought the trays of food to the guests’ hostel. She was dark-haired, about sixteen years old, almost unnaturally pale and seemed afraid of them. Fidelma did her best to reassure her by making friendly overtures.
‘What is your name?’
‘I am Grella, sister. I work for Dignait in the kitchens.’ Fidelma smiled encouragingly.
‘Are you happy in your work, Grella?’
The young girl frowned slightly.
‘It is the work I do,’ she said simply. ‘I was raised in the kitchens of the chieftain. I have no parents,’ she added, as if this would explain everything.
‘I see. You must have been saddened by the death of your chieftain, then, having been raised in his house.’
To Fidelma’s surprise the girl shook her head vehemently.
‘No … no, but I was saddened by the lady Teafa’s death. She was a kind lady.’
‘But Eber was not kind?’
‘Teafa was kind to me,’ the girl replied anxiously, apparently not wishing to speak ill of the dead chieftain. ‘The lady Teafa was kind to everyone.’
‘And Móen? Do you like Móen?’