Mystery Peter Tremayne Council of the Cursed

ISBN 13: 9780755328406

Council of the Cursed

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9780755328406: Council of the Cursed

In AD 670 Fidelma of Cashel is asked to act as an advisor to the Irish delegation to a church council hostile to the Celtic Church. In an abbey in Burgundy, Bishop Leodegar of Autun has assembled church leaders from all over Western Europe—an assembly that soon descends into chaos. That night one of the delegates is found murdered, his skull crushed, and Fidelma and her companion, Brother Eadulf, are suddenly in the midst of a murder investigation involving some of the most power religious leaders.

Between the autocratic Bishop Leodegar and the malignant abbess Mother Audofleda, a web of sinister intrigue soon spreads. The theft of a priceless reliquary box, the disappearance of women and children, and rumors of a slave trade make this one of the most sinister and deadly puzzles Fidelma and Eadulf have ever faced.

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About the Author:

PETER TREMAYNE is best known for his stories and novels featuring Fidelma of Cashel. He lives in London.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

The two cowled figures were barely discernible in the dark shadows of the mausoleum. They stood silently by the large sarcophagus that occupied the centre of this small section of the musty catacombs, which seemed to stretch in every direction under the abbey. This was the ancient necropolis; old even before the abbey had been built. Since the site was sanctified, after the coming of the New Faith, it was where generations of abbots had been laid to rest.

There was silence here apart from the distant dripping of water. The atmosphere was dank and almost suffocating. A faint light permeated the underground caverns, giving a certain relief to the darkness, by which objects could be distinguished by their various differences in light and shade but without detail. The two figures stood without movement, almost as if they themselves were part of the stonework.

Then, in contrast to the faint dripping of water, there was a sudden soft shuffling noise, as leather came into contact with stone. One of the figures stiffened perceptibly as a glimmering light appeared across the cavern and caused shadows to dance this way and that in the gloom. A third figure, holding a candle, emerged between the tombs.

The figure also wore a hooded robe. It halted before the mausoleum.

‘I come in the name of the Blessed Benignus,’ its rasping voice intoned.

The waiting couple in the darkness visibly relaxed.

‘You are welcome in the name of Benignus of sanctified name and thought,’ said one, in a soft, female voice. The words were exchanged in Latin.

The newcomer hurried forward into the mausoleum and placed the candle on the side of the marble tomb.

‘Well?’ asked the second of the waiting figures. ‘Does he still have it?’

The newcomer nodded quickly. ‘He has placed it in his chamber.’

‘Then we might easily take it. It will be a sign that God has blessed our endeavour,’ replied the other.

‘But we must act swiftly. The envoy from Rome has already spoken with him about it. If we are to use it as our symbol when the time comes, we must remove it now.’

‘If this is to work in our favour and the people to be aroused, he must be prevented from spreading the truth of this great symbol. The people must believe in it without question.’

‘Are we prepared for what we must do?’ It was the woman’s voice again.

‘It is for the greater good,’ intoned her companion.

Deus vult!’ the newcomer added solemnly. God wills it.

‘It is agreed, then?’ asked the woman with a catch of breath, as if caught by a cold air.

‘The deed must be done tonight,’ the newcomer said firmly.

The three looked at one another in the crepuscular light, and then with one voice they murmured: ‘Virtutis fortuna comes!’ Good luck is the companion of courage.

Without another word, the three shadowy figures departed in different directions through the dark vaults of the catacombs.

‘I will no longer tolerate the arrogance of that man!’

There was an astonished silence in the chapel as the voice echoed in the stone vaulted building. The abbots and bishops, who sat in the dark oak carved seats arranged before the high altar, turned almost as one to regard their grim-faced colleague. He was still seated but pointed an accusing finger towards the religieux seated further along the row.

‘Calm yourself, Abbot Cadfan,’ admonished Bishop Leodegar, who was presiding over the meeting. The chapel had been so arranged to serve the function of a council chamber. ‘We are here to debate the future of our Churches, which are currently separated by language and rituals. Remember that blunt words may be spoken in seeking paths along which we might converge so that unity may be achieved. Such words should not be taken as personal insults.’

He spoke firmly in the Latin language that was common to them all.

Abbot Cadfan’s scowl merely deepened.

‘Forgive my bluntness, Leodegar of Autun,’ he said, ‘but I have the ability to recognise an insult from an opinion expressed in genuine debate. I will tolerate no insults from the enemies of my blood and my people.’

The elderly, grey-haired cleric seated at Abbot Cadfan’s right side laid a gentle hand on his companion’s arm. He was Abbot Dabhóc of Tulach Óc, who represented Bishop Ségéne of Ard Macha; the latter claimed episcopal primacy over all the five kingdoms of Éireann.

‘I am sure Bishop Ordgar did not mean to sound arrogant,’ he said diplomatically. ‘While we speak in Latin, it is not the language of our mothers and thus we often lack the dexterity of expression with which we are comfortable. It may simply have been a matter of clumsy usage, or possibly different interpretation of emphasis?’

Bishop Ordgar, the subject of the initial angry outburst, had remained staring at Abbot Cadfan with sullen features. A sharp-featured, dark-haired individual with an unfortunate cast of the mouth that seemed to present a permanent sneer, he now turned his belligerent gaze on Abbot Dabhóc.

‘Are you accusing me of not knowing good Latin?’ he growled. ‘What would you, a barbaric outlander, know of the refinements of the tongue?’

Abbot Dabhóc flushed. Before he had a chance to respond, Abbot Cadfan gave a short bark of laughter.

‘Arrogance again–and from one whose people have not yet emerged from pagan savagery. Did we Britons not warn our neighbours of Hibernia that they should not attempt to convert these Saxons from their pagan ways, to teach them the ways of Christ and of literacy and learning? They are not yet sufficiently civilised to know what to do with it.’

Abbot Cadfan used the Latin name of Hibernia to refer to the five kingdoms of Éireann.

Bishop Ordgar thumped his fist on the armrest of his wooden seat. ‘I am an Angle, you Welisc barbarian!’

Abbot Cadfan shrugged indifferently. ‘Angle or Saxon, it is both the same, the same rasping language and the same ignorance. At least I call you by a proper name, but you, in your arrogance, call me Welisc. I am told this means “foreigner”. Yet it is you who are foreigners in the land of Britain. I am a Briton, whose people were in that land at the beginning of time, while your barbaric hordes came but two centuries ago. You entered our land by stealth and guile, and then by invasions, bringing slaughter and death to my people. You seek no more than the wholesale eradication of the Britons. I tell you this, barbarian, you will not succeed. We Welisc–as you sneeringly call us–will survive and may one day drive you from the land you are now calling Angle-land that was once our peaceful land of Britain.’

Brows drawn together, Bishop Ordgar had sprung to his feet, knocking his seat over backwards, one hand apparently searching for a non-existent sword at his side.

Abbot Cadfan sat back and gave another bark of laughter and glanced round at the serious-faced prelates at the table.

‘You see how the barbarian reacts? He would resort to primitive violence, if he had a weapon. He is not fit to call himself a man of peace, a representative of the Christ, and sit in discussion with those of civilised degree. He is just as savage as the rest of the petty chieftains of his people who, when they do not make war on us Britons, are at war with each other.’

A sudden noise interrupted the scene. A tall, swarthy-skinned man, seated beside Bishop Leodegar and wearing rich robes and a silver cross on a chain around his neck–which denoted he was of high rank among them–had risen to his feet and rapped loudly on the floor with a staff of office.

Tacet! Be silent!’ he thundered. ‘Brethren, you both forget yourselves. You are gathered in council under the eye of God and the bishop of this place. As the envoy from the Holy Father in Rome, I am ashamed to witness such an outburst among the chosen of the Faith.’

That the envoy of Rome, Nuntius Peregrinus, had felt forced to intervene was a rebuke to the lack of authority displayed by Bishop Leodegar in controlling the delegates to the council.

Bishop Leodegar now raised a hand and gestured to the envoy to reseat himself. Then he said firmly: ‘Brethren, you do, indeed, shame yourself before our distinguished envoy. This is a council of the senior abbots and bishops of the western churches, here to decide the fundamental ways of promoting our unity. It is true that this is supposed to be an informal opening, without the attendance of all our scribes and advisers, so that we could come to know one another before our main debates, but it is not a marketplace where we brethren can brawl and fight among ourselves.’

There was a muttering from the twenty or so men who were seated around the table.

Bishop Leodegar now turned to Bishop Ordgar.

‘Ordgar, you are here as the personal representative of Theodore, who has been newly appointed by our Holy Father Vitalian in Rome as Archbishop at Canterbury. Would Theodore truly utter the words that you have used to a prelate of the church of the Britons?’

Ordgar was about to respond when Bishop Leodegar’s stern look caused him to sink back in his chair with a sour expression.

‘Cadfan,’ continued Bishop Leodegar, ‘you have come here representing the churches of your people, the Britons. Do you truly represent your people when you preach war and the elimination of the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons?’

Abbot Cadfan refused to accept this censure silently.

‘We did not ask the Angles and Saxons to invade our lands and seek our eradication,’ he snapped. ‘Is there a man among you who has not read the Blessed Gildas’ De Excidio et Conquesta BritanniaeThe Ruin and Conquest of Britain? Have you not heard how my people were massacred or forced to flee from their homes to other lands when the Angles and Saxons arrived? We are still being pushed to the west; others have fled to Armorica, to Galicia, to Hibernia and even to the land of the Franks, to seek respite from the ravening hordes.’

‘That surely was in the past,’ replied Bishop Leodegar. ‘We have to live in the present.’

‘Was Benchoer in the past?’ demanded Abbot Cadfan.

Bishop Leodegar looked puzzled. ‘Benchoer? I have noted that Drostó, the abbot of Benchoer, had not arrived here. What is it that you say about Benchoer?’

‘Well may you ask why Drostó of Benchoer is not here,’ went on Abbot Cadfan. ‘Benchoer is one of our oldest abbeys that housed three thousand brethren dedicated to Christ. I know that Drostó was meant to be the senior representative of our churches here, not I. Is the Saxon who sits before me afraid to tell you why Drostó does not sit in this place?’

Bishop Ordgar scowled. ‘The Welisc are always causing trouble,’ he replied tartly. ‘Their leader, whose outlandish name I can’t pronounce, has been particularly boastful of what he intends to do to my people.’

‘The King of Gwynedd is Cadwaladar ap Cadwallon,’ replied Abbot Cadfan angrily. ‘He descends from a line of great kings, great when your ancestors were scrabbling about in the mud!’

This time it was Bishop Leodegar who rapped on the floor for order.

‘We will disband this council immediately if this continues,’ he threatened.

Abbot Goelo of Bro Waroc’h, which lay in Armorica, cleared his throat. ‘With respect, Leodegar, I think the council needs to hear the answer to the question posed by our distinguished brother from Gwynedd.’

‘It is true that we had expected that the Venerable Drostó would represent your church at this council, Abbot Cadfan,’ Bishop Leodegar said. ‘What is it you imply about Benchoer?’

Abbot Cadfan turned his hard blue eyes directly on the tightlipped Bishop Ordgar.

‘The Abbey of Benchoer is no more and Drostó sleeps with the few survivors in the woods of Gwynedd, moving each night in fear of their lives. A months ago, the leader of the Saxons of Mercia...’

‘Angles,’ corrected Bishop Ordgar loudly.

‘...a barbarian called Wulfhere, led his hordes into Gwynedd and burned and destroyed our abbey at Benchoer, putting to the sword over a thousand of our religious. Is this the act of a Christian ruler?’

‘A thousand brethren?’ gasped one of the Gaulish delegates, in a shocked tone.

Abbot Ségdae of Imleach had been sitting listening to the argument in silence. He was chief bishop of the kingdom of Muman, the largest of the five kingdoms of Éireann. Now he stirred and gazed thoughtfully at Bishop Ordgar.

‘Is this true, Bishop Ordgar?’ he asked softly.

‘Wulfhere is Bretwalda and—’

‘Bretwalda? What is that?’ queried Abbot Ségdae.

‘It is a title which acknowledges that Wulfhere is overlord of the Welisc just as much as the kingdoms of the Angles and Saxons.’

‘Acknowledged by whom?’ Abbot Cadfan laughed sardonically. ‘Not by the Britons. It is a title without meaning. We would have no “lord of the Britons”, for that is what the title means, unless it be a Briton. We acknowledge no Saxon...’ he paused ‘...nor Angle,’ he added with emphasis, ‘as lord over us. Certainly, we would not accept that a barbarian has such a right. Anyway, we are told that Wulfhere is not even acknowledged as lord by the other Saxon kings.’

Bishop Ordgar glowered across the table. ‘Eorcenbehrt of Kent, the kingdom in which the primacy of Canterbury is placed, recognises him as such and gave him his daughter’s hand in marriage.’

‘Are you implying that Theodore, your archbishop at Canterbury, approves of that office?’ demanded Abbot Goelo.

‘Theodore has come to us from Rome and Vitalian has placed him as chief bishop of all the western islands.’

‘He has no right to claim that position in any of the five kingdoms of Éireann,’ Abbot Dabhóc immediately said.

Abbot Ségdae nodded in agreement and then looked at Bishop Leodegar, but addressed them all.

‘I have come here to this ancient town of Autun in order to speak on the propositions that Rome has asked us to debate. It was a long and arduous trip with many dangers attending it. I represent the churches of Muman while my colleague, the Abbot Dabhóc, is here on behalf of Bishop Ségéne of Ard Macha. This argument is not germane to the propositions we have come here to discuss. The matters that are being argued, while horrendous and needing arbitration among the Britons and the Saxons, are not relevant to those matters which we have to decide.’

Abbot Dabhóc was shaking his head. ‘I disagree. Are these not matters that reflect on the suitability of Bishop Ordgar to sit among us at this council? Does he approve of the massacre of religious by his people? He appears to give that approval. I think we should discuss this further. Let us hear from the representatives of the churches of the Franks, of the Gauls, of the land of Kernow and the kingdoms of Armorica.’

‘It is right that we should have a say,’ agreed an elderly bishop. ‘I am Herenal of Bro Erech in the land of Armorica. I say that what I have heard from Bishop Ordgar does not reflect well on his calling as a man of peace.’

‘Pah!’ The sound was almost a spitting noise and it came from Bishop Ordgar. ‘These Armoricans, Gauls, Kern-welisc, they are all the same people! They stick together. Let us waste no time in listening to them. I am he...

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