Behold a Pale Horse

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I have just been to see Brother Ruadán.’ She could only explain the obvious. ‘He was my teacher when I was little.’

  ‘I did try to prepare you.’ The abbot was slightly defensive.

  ‘Poor Brother Ruadán will not be with us long, according to Brother Hnikar,’ the Venerable Ionas sighed. ‘How bad was he when you saw him?’

  ‘Bad enough,’ she replied as she lowered herself into the chair indicated by the abbot.

  ‘I shall call in on him later,’ Magister Ado said. ‘I would like to see him before it is too late.’

  Fidelma felt an annoyance at what appeared to be their casual acceptance of Brother Ruadán’s imminent death. ‘Perhaps we should not consign him to the grave just yet,’ she protested.

  ‘I am sure that is not our intention,’ the abbot replied hurriedly. ‘But we must face reality.’

  ‘And the reality is … ?’ queried Fidelma.

  ‘Outside these walls there is a harsh world at the moment,’ replied the abbot. ‘That is why young Prince Romuald is our guest at the moment.’

  Magister Ado looked concerned. ‘You were about to tell us the reason for his coming here,’ he said.

  ‘He was sent here for protection. The rumours that Perctarit has returned from exile, taking advantage of the King’s absence in the south, are growing daily.’ Abbot Servillius glanced at Fidelma and smiled apologetically. ‘Our King Grimoald sent Perctarit into exile and—’

  ‘I have been told of your change of kingship,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Grimoald is in the south. Duke Lupus of Friuli has been left as Regent here in the north during his absence. The King’s son, Romuald, was left in the charge of a nurse and the protection of Lupus.’

  ‘So why is he here?’ pressed Magister Ado.

  ‘It seemed that the boy’s nurse, Lady Gunora, began to entertain suspicions as to where Lupus’ loyalties really lay. She took the boy and they left Lupus’ fortress in the dead of night to make their journey here, where she knew the brethren would provide Prince Romuald with sanctuary. The boy has a heavy burden on his young shoulders.’

  ‘I presume that the absence of the King in the south of the country is the reason why Perctarit is rumoured to have returned from exile?’ mused Magister Ado.

  ‘I would also presume that is so,’ agreed Abbot Servillius.

  Magister Ado was frowning. ‘If this is the case, Father Abbot, do you not think there is a danger to the abbey? If the boy is in danger, then surely the abbey is too?’

  The Venerable Ionas leaned forward in his chair. His features were serious as he looked towards the abbot. ‘Magister Ado makes a good observation, my old friend. Who knows outside these walls that Prince Romuald is here?’

  The abbot took a moment before responding. ‘Apart from Lord Radoald, no one outside the abbey, for he and his escort arrived under cover of darkness only two nights ago. As the Lord of Trebbia is our friend and protector, he had to be informed.’

  ‘It is a secret that can scarcely be kept,’ Magister Ado pointed out. ‘Have you given any thought to what we should do if Lupus of Friuli makes a descent against the abbey?’

  Abbot Servillius shook his head. ‘We are a house of God, not a military fortress,’ he responded. Suddenly realising that Fidelma had been sitting listening with quiet interest to the conversation, he rose to his feet. ‘But where are my manners? I have not afforded our friend, Fidelma of Hibernia, the hospitality that is the custom of our people. I shall instruct Brother Wulfila, our steward, to have a chamber prepared for you in the guest-house and water for washing as is your custom. The guest-house is a separate section of chambers above the apothecary and the cubicula for the sick. Indeed, it is situated on the floor above where you went to visit Brother Ruadán. It overlooks our herbarium, our herb garden of which we are justly proud and where you may wander freely on your own.

  ‘As you are a special guest, I am making a dispensation of certain of our rules so that you may stay here and not go to the house of the religieuses in the township. The same dispensation I have given to the Lady Gunora, for she must reside close by Prince Romuald. But I must ask you to abide by our rules that segregate the brethren from our guests. Never venture far without permission or the attendance of one of the brethren appointed to guide you. I am sure that you will respect this rule.’

  Abbot Servillius reached forward and took up the handbell once again. At its jangle, the door opened and the steward entered. Brother Wulfila listened in silence to the abbot’s instructions, trying to hide his disapproval. Then the abbot turned to Fidelma.

  ‘Go, refresh yourself and rest. A bell will be sounded when it is time for the evening meal. Someone will be at the doorway of the guest-house to guide you to the refectorium.’

  Fidelma had no choice but to accept her dismissal. She could not help the thought that the concern for her rest, after the journey, was merely an excuse to be rid of her presence during the discussion of the political situation.

  She followed Brother Wulfila, who now took her on a different route along the darkened corridors before halting before a door. She could smell what was behind the door even before the steward pointed silently to the sign in Latin. It said: cloaca. She knew it came from the root cluo, ‘I cleanse’, so she could guess the intention of the room that lay beyond even had she been unable to smell it. Her companion felt he did not have to explain further and turned and led her up a flight of stone steps to an upper level where he halted before another door, which he bent to open. Then he stood aside and motioned her in. She stepped inside.

  There was a window which looked out on gardens rising up the hillside. There was a chair, a chest and hooks to hang clothing on. A tub for water – but empty – stood in one corner, with cloths of white linen to use as towels.

  ‘I shall have your baggage sent up immediately and also hot water for your ablutions,’ Brother Wulfila announced. Before she had time to reply, the door gave a soft thud as it closed behind him. She stood for a moment examining her surroundings before sitting on the edge of the cot. Brother Ruadán had cried out that there was evil in this abbey. Certainly, she had begun to feel uncomfortable ever since she had entered this Valley of the Trebbia and witnessed the attempt to kill Magister Ado. Religious tensions were not unknown to her. After all, she had attended the great Council of Streonshalh, at the Abbey of Hilda, when the Angles had decided to reject the concepts of the churches of her own land and opt for the new rules from Rome. But this conflict between the philosophy of Arius and the concepts made into dogma at the First Council of Nicaea seemed to be resulting in bloodshed, not merely argument. There seemed a dark cloud in the valley. But was that the evil that Brother Ruadán had warned her against – or was there something else?

  It was some time later, refreshed by her wash and with a change of clothing, that Fidelma heard the tolling of a bell which she presumed announced the evening meal. She waited a few moments and decided to follow some members of the brethren who passed her chamber. They, in turn, joined groups of hurrying silent members down a flight of stairs into the main courtyard. Here she found a group of a dozen Sisters of the Faith moving towards the doors of the main building. She saw Sister Gisa among the group and went to greet her.

  ‘Have you see Brother Faro?’ was Sister Gisa’s first question. ‘I hope he is resting his wound.’

  Fidelma felt sadness at the girl’s obvious feelings for the young man. She knew that the group of ascetics who were trying persuade Rome to issue an edict in favour of celibacy were a vocal minority but growing stronger. They had obviously made an impact with Abbot Servillius. While there was no overall proscription from the Holy Father, it seemed to depend on the individual abbot as to how they viewed the subject. However, Pope Sircius had abandoned his wife and children after he was elected to the throne of Peter in Rome. He tried to insist that priests and other clergy should no longer sleep with their wives. A century before, the same idea was proposed at the Council of Tours which reco
mmended that a rule be made that priests sleeping in the same bed as their wives could not perform religious services. The proposition was never agreed.

  ‘Are you and Brother Faro … ?’ Fidelma stopped when she saw the blush come to the girl’s cheeks.

  ‘We are friends,’ Sister Gisa replied, but the blush gave the lie to her statement. ‘This is not a mixed house, like those I have heard of elsewhere. Abbot Servillius favours those who argue for celibacy among the religious. However, both sexes gather for meals in the refectorium and also for services in the chapel.’

  They came to a pair of large double doors made of shiny chestnut wood through which the brethren were hurrying. At one side, the steward, Brother Wulfila, appeared to be waiting for Fidelma with a frown of annoyance.

  ‘I sent someone to your chamber to escort you here,’ he greeted her in a tone of rebuke. ‘You should not wander the abbey without an escort.’ Without waiting for a reply, he requested her to follow him while Sister Gisa disappeared to one side of the hall with the other females, who seemed to share a single table in a corner discreetly sheltered from the brethren. Brother Wulfila led the way through rows of tables and benches. She passed Brother Faro at one table and recognised Brother Hnikar at another. She saw several of the brethren staring at her with varying expressions of surprise or interest. At the far end of the hall, facing these rows was a long table where she recognised Abbot Servillius with Magister Ado seated at his left side and Venerable Ionas on his right. To the left of Magister Ado sat a young boy, perhaps not more than ten or eleven years old, and next to him a woman of matronly appearance.

  The abbot rose as Brother Wulfila approached and waved Fidelma forward with a small gesture of his hand.

  ‘I would introduce you to our special guest. This is Prince Romuald of the Longobards, lady.’ Then he turned to the boy. ‘Highness, I would present Fidelma of Hibernia, who is the daughter of a king of her country.’

  The small boy rose and bowed solemnly from his waist. Fidelma found herself hiding a smile at his manner, which seemed so incongruous for his age.

  ‘I welcome you to this land, lady. My people and my own family have long held your countrymen in high esteem for their knowledge and teaching. Do you intend to remain in this abbey?’

  ‘I am here to see my old mentor, who has now made this abbey his home. Soon I must depart back to my own land,’ Fidelma replied politely.

  The abbot then introduced the woman at the boy’s side as the Lady Gunora, companion to the young prince. The woman smiled shyly and bowed her head in acknowledgement.

  The introductions being over, they resumed their seats while Brother Wulfila guided Fidelma to a seat on Venerable Ionas’ right hand before taking the seat next to her. At the sound of a single bell, the abbot stood up and intoned a prayer of thanks. he sat down and another single chime on a bell allowed the occupants of the refectorium to commence the evening meal. Fidelma was surprised as the noise of conversation permeated the great room. During the last weeks in Rome, when she had eaten in the religious refectories, she had noticed that most maintained the custom of consuming the meal in strict silence. In some abbeys, one of the brethren, a recitator, read aloud from the scriptures or the Psalms while the others ate.

  She turned as Venerable Ionas had been speaking to her. ‘I am sorry, you were saying?’

  ‘I was merely asking about Columbanus,’ the scholar said apologetically. ‘I always ask any newcomer from Hibernia in case they have some knowledge which I could add to my work on the life of our founder.’

  ‘I am afraid I know little. He was from the Kingdom of Laighin and went north to study,’ replied Fidelma. ‘My own kingdom is Muman which is in the south-west of Hibernia.’

  ‘Hibernia is not one kingdom then?’

  ‘There are five kingdoms but the fifth kingdom is called Midhe – the Middle Kingdom – and it is there that our High King lives. He has nominal jurisdiction over all the kingdoms. The High King is chosen from one of the main ruling families. These days it is the Uí Néill of the north who dominate the succession.’

  Venerable Ionas grimaced. ‘I have heard of this from other of your compatriots. I cannot understand it. But tell me, what little is it that you know of Columbanus?’

  ‘In our language his name is Colm Bán and it means “white dove”. All I know is that he became Abbot of Beannchar, a famous abbey in the north of Hibernia. It is told that he decided to leave the abbey to journey across the seas in order to set up centres of the Faith among the Franks and Burgundians. That is all. I had no knowledge of this place.’

  The Venerable Ionas was nodding slowly, with a faint smile on his lips.

  ‘Indeed, my daughter,’ he said. ‘He made enemies among the Frankish nobles and there came a time when they ordered Columbanus and all his Hibernian monks to be deported back to their own land. Instead of returning to Hibernia, however, Columbanus came south, crossing the great mountains, and eventually brought his followers to the land of the Longobards. The King at that time, Agilulf, gave Columbanus this land. And here, in Bobium, he set up our community. Soon the religious of many lands joined him. He stuck firm to his old Hibernian ways and even argued with the Holy Father, Gregory the Great, that it was the Hibernians who maintained the true date of the Pascal Festival. He was a great man, a great teacher.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘I came here as a young man three years after he had died,’ replied the old scholar, with a shake of his head. ‘But I knew many who had known him and they helped me with my work on his life. When the time came for me to take a religious name, I chose the Greek form of the Hebrew name Jonah, which also means a dove. And you say that was the meaning of Columbanus’ own name?’

  There was a sudden commotion at the doors of the refectorium and they swung open. Heads turned and there came gasps of surprise. One of the brethren came running up the aisle to the table where Abbot Servillius had half-risen, anger on his face. The young red-faced Brother stopped and was gasping for breath.

  ‘Father Abbot … Father Abbot, I could not stop them …’

  ‘You forget yourself, Brother Bladulf,’ thundered the abbot. ‘Have you not been gatekeeper long enough to know your proprieties and rules of this abbey? During the evening meal—’

  But the young man was glancing over his shoulder. Two men had entered the refectorium and were striding almost arrogantly up the aisle between the now astonished and silent brethren towards the top table. Fidelma examined them with curiosity. There was no doubt that the leading figure was a bishop, his robes and crozier proclaimed it. The man a little behind him was also clad in religious robes, but not of rank.

  Abbot Servillius sat back in his chair in shock at the sight of the newcomers.

  ‘Pax vobiscum,’ said the bishop in greeting, halting before their table with his belligerent gaze sweeping their astonished faces.

  Abbot Servillius did not answer the traditional salutation. He simply breathed the name, ‘Britmund.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  The bishop was short and stocky, florid of feature with greying hair but dark eyebrows, and eyes that seemed like shiny black pebbles. His lips were thin and bloodless, and twisted in a cruel smile. His eyes narrowed as they glanced at Magister Ado at the abbot’s side and moved on to the young boy seated next to him.

  ‘So it is true.’ He gave a half-bow towards the prince. ‘My greetings and blessings on you, Prince Romuald. Your friends at the fortress of Friuli are missing you.’

  A soft breath hissed from the mouth of Lady Gunora, who seemed to draw the boy protectively towards her.

  ‘His friends are here,’ she said defensively.

  Bishop Britmund shook his head with an irritating smile on his features.

  ‘I fear that is not the case.’ His glance fell on Sister Fidelma. ‘It is interesting to see that this abbey of heretics now accepts females dining at the abbot’s side,’ he sneered. ‘Is it not enough you actually allow t
hem to dine in the same hall as the brethren?’

  Abbot Servillius now leaned forward, his voice one of scarcely controlled anger.

  ‘Sister Fidelma is our guest, a visitor from Hibernia, and daughter of a king of that country.’

  ‘It is a pity that you do not show respect to all your guests.’ The bishop was sardonic. ‘Brother Godomar and I have spent long days coming to this abbey. Our greeting scarcely merits the conventions of hospitality.’

  ‘A pity that you did not observe the conventions of entry,’ Abbot Servillius replied, ‘and allow the gatekeeper to escort you to my study where I could have greeted you as custom prescribes. If you prefer to march into this refectorium unannounced with belligerence in your voice, then you will find it takes a while for us to remember our manners.’

  ‘Why should I wait when I knew this was the hour of your evening meal and when my companion and I are famished?’

  ‘If it is hospitality that you are requesting, Britmund of Placentia, then we are not heretics enough to deny it to you. You will find space at that table,’ the abbot indicated a table on the right-hand side of the hall. ‘Sit yourselves there and one of the brethren will provide you and your companion with food and drink.’

  For a moment Bishop Britmund stood defiantly before the abbot, having expected to be invited to sit at his table by virtue of his rank. But the abbot had still not risen nor given the conventional greeting to a cleric of rank; a matter that intrigued as well as surprised Fidelma. Clearly, no love was lost between the abbot and the bishop.

  ‘You seek something else, Britmund?’ the abbot inquired mildly. ‘Perhaps you came to ask after the health of Brother Ruadán?’

  ‘That old fool!’ replied the bishop harshly. ‘Does he still live?’

  For a moment, Fidelma could not believe what the bishop had said. She found her hands clenching under the table, a flush coming to her cheeks.

  The abbot was speaking before her anger broke out. ‘Deo favente, he lives – no thanks to those whom you stirred up with your fanatical zeal to attack him.’ Abbot Servillius’ voice was studied and calm, but it was clear that there was hatred behind his words.