There was a small area of woodland between the abbey buildings and the small hamlet beyond. They stood overlooking the same sandy bay in which they had landed. It was a practical village and not a picturesque one. The squat buildings were ugly, functional and no more.
‘Where are you taking us?’ asked Fidelma, curiously.
‘To the Widow Aourken,’ he replied.
‘And she is…?’ prompted Fidelma.
‘An elderly widow woman. Her husband, I am told, was a fisherman. Now she lives alone and so has room in her house.’
‘We would not like to give her trouble.’
‘You will not. She often offers the hospitality of her home to wayfarers. I think you will like her for she is also a woman of strong opinions.’
If it were merely physical strength that he was referring to, then Brother Metellus’ description seemed an accurate one. Aourken was almost as wide as she was tall. The broad arms were muscular and her shoulders could, in Eadulf’s imagination, take a heavy sack on them without effort. Her hands were twice as big as his own and he felt that one of them could squeeze an apple into a pulp. Yet her face was kindly, the eyes slightly melancholy and of an indiscernible colour. The hair, which reached beyond her shoulders in ragged tails, was white, streaked here and there with dark grey. Her teeth were bad but she maintained a twisted smile that seemed to disguise them. She stood at the door of one of the single-storey stone buildings, hands on hips, watching their approach.
‘Greetings, Brother Metellus.’
These were the only words that Fidelma understood as the woman spoke rapidly in her own language. The words were so accented that she lost track.
There was a quick exchange and then, to Fidelma’s surprise, the woman turned to her and began to speak in Latin — hesitantly, it was true, but in a form that was quite literate.
‘You are welcome here. You are both welcome here.’
‘Thank you,’ returned Fidelma at once. ‘We do not wish to cause you any problems.’
‘Brother Metellus has informed me of your situation. God be praised, that you have survived the ravages of those pirates.’
Fidelma looked interested. ‘You have heard of them?’
The woman spread her large hands. ‘On this coast, there are always tales of sea-raiders. But in recent times, some of the farms on this coast have been attacked by brigands landing from the sea.’
‘You speak good Latin,’ interposed Eadulf.
Aourken smiled her crooked smile. ‘I served the Faith for many years. Then I met my late husband and he convinced me a better life was serving him. Well, we had a good time while it lasted. God’s blessing was on us. Brother Metellus has told me your story and I will do my best to make you comfortable until Biscam, the merchant, arrives. My house is your house.’
‘We are very grateful for your hospitality,’ Fidelma said again.
‘It is nothing. Come inside and I will show you where you will sleep, and perhaps you would care for something to eat and cider to drink? I am sure that Abbot Maelcar would not have offered you anything.’
‘You seem to know the Abbot well?’ Fidelma smiled.
‘In our youth, we studied together. We had decided to join the community of Gildas together. It was then, as other religious houses still are, a community of men and women serving the Faith and raising their children to do so. I knew Maelcar when he first arrived here from Brekilien, before he started to read the works about Martin of Tours and hear the stories of the dedication of those religious out in the eastern deserts and other inaccessible places who became hermits and vowed celibacy. That was when he decided to follow their example.’
‘The abbey is not exactly in an eastern desert,’ pointed out Fidelma dryly. ‘But I have heard of this place Brekilian. Where is it?’
‘It is north of here and still within the kingdom. Brekilian is a great expanse of forest where Maelcar was raised and which he oft-times returns to. In fact, he is not long returned from some such a visit. Not that visits to his home do anything to sweeten his temper, but rather make his disposition worse. I understand he returned muttering about the loose morality of King Alain’s court where a provincial servant could fornicate with the King’s offspring.’
‘So Abbot Maelcar likes the secluded religious life?’
Aourken gave her a knowing smile and shook her head.
‘Not far from here is an island which is now called Enez ar Manac’h — the Island of Monks. Maelcar initially went there to live out the hermit’s life. He did not remain there long, however, but came back to the abbey. He lived a pious life and the old Abbot made him his steward. The community thought well of him, and when the Abbot died, he was elected to the post. No sooner was he settled in that office than he expelled all the females from the abbey and told the members that they must take vows of celibacy and agree to follow the rule of Benedict. And that is how it is in the Abbey of Gildas today.’
Brother Metellus coughed nervously at this recital.
‘I have some matters to attend to — items to be gathered for my eventual return to Houdig,’ he said apologetically. ‘My friends, I will leave you in the hands of Aourken and return here later.’
As Brother Metellus left them, Aourken said, ‘Poor Brother Metellus. He is a Roman, you know. Another of those who feels constrained to live an unnatural life as a statement of his Faith. Why did God make men and women if He wanted them to live as eunuchs?’ She laughed at her own humour.
Fidelma and Eadulf were ushered inside the dark but homely stone cottage and shown a room to sleep and where they might wash. Within a short while they were seated on a wooden bench outside, for the afternoon was now warm. Aourken provided them with a pitcher of cider and bowls to drink it from as well as fresh bread, goat’s cheese and some apples.
The woman came and sat with them on a stool by the door. She had placed a bag of wool before her and taken out a distaff and spindle. Helping herself to a handful of wool, she wound it loosely on the distaff; then, using her left hand, the material was gradually drawn onto the spindle, which was held in the right hand. She did it automatically, unconscious of her dexterity, and chatting all the while.
‘I take the thread to my cousin who lives at that cottage at the end there,’ she jerked her head to indicate the place. ‘She will weave the thread into garments for me.’
‘Do you keep your own sheep them?’ asked Eadulf.
‘Bless you, no. I keep goats. I exchange goat’s cheese and milk for the wool.’
‘It must be a hard life, without…without…’ Eadulf became embarrassed.
‘Without a man?’ she queried. ‘My husband was a good fisherman. He and two others were drowned in the entrance of the Morbihan, which means the Little Sea. The tide flows quickly there and sometimes it can be too quick for safety’s sake. One of the fishing boats got into trouble. My husband and his friends went to its aid and their own boat was swept onto the rocks, smashed to firewood and they drowned. The sea is a hard taskmaster. Anyway, the other fisherfolk here see that I get a portion of their catch so that I want for nothing. In turn I supply them with my goat’s cheese. That is our way.’
Fidelma nodded approval. ‘It is also the way of my own people,’ she said before adding: ‘You have a comfortable place here.’
‘We are sheltered here,’ Aourken agreed.
‘In my land, we keep many pets,’ Fidelma began.
‘My goats are my pets,’ replied the woman.
‘And cats?’ asked Fidelma.
‘Oh yes, there are several cats in the village.’
‘I thought I saw a black cat earlier.’
Eadulf suddenly realised where her question was leading.
Aourken looked baffled. ‘I have never seen a black cat here because our people think them a symbol of bad luck. To be honest, most people believe they carry demons and have special supernatural abilities. Black cats aren’t welcomed here. The old ones say that they are human beings, undergoing punishment for evil deeds.’