Behold a Pale Horse

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Fidelma of Hibernia is the daughter of a king of her country. We have heard that she now stands in high regard with the Holy Father himself, having recently been in Rome. One of the brethren of this abbey returned from Rome recently and has informed us that she is trained in the law of her land, played a role in the Council at Streonshalh, in the land of the Angles, when a debate of differences in the Faith was held. That experience alone stands her in good stead to sit and consider our discussion and perhaps offer advice. Is that not so, Father Abbot?’

  ‘It is so,’ agreed Abbot Servillius. ‘But, furthermore, Fidelma of Hibernia is a lawyer of her kingdom’s law system and one whose advice is based on logic.’

  ‘She is not a lawyer of our laws,’ snapped Bishop Britmund. ‘I object!’

  ‘Is that your only reason for objecting?’ inquired Radoald. ‘I have already conversed with the lady Fidelma and found her to have a most remarkable approach to controversial matters. I am content that she remain and if she can cast light upon our path to resolve these differences, then neither side shall lose.’

  Bishop Britmund saw that he was not going to have Fidelma removed and muttered sullenly, ‘My objection has been registered.’

  ‘And I have taken it under consideration and find it irrelevant,’ smiled Radoald. ‘Lady Fidelma, do you have any objection in sitting amongst us and offering opinion based on your experience of previous debates?’

  Fidelma considered her involvement for a moment and then said, ‘If I can be of any help, I am, of course, willing to be so.’

  She settled herself in her chair next to Brother Wulfila to watch the proceedings with interest. Thankfully, all the discussions were to be in Latin.

  ‘It grieves me,’ began Radoald, ‘as Lord of Trebbia, that there is conflict among the religious of this land. While the religious can resort to words with which to fight, often the people, stirred by those same words, use physical means which inflict pain and injury on others. We come together to see if we might find some resolution of these matters so that my people might live in harmony. That is the purpose of this meeting. Is it so agreed, Abbot Servillius?’

  The abbot inclined his head to Radoald. ‘It is so agreed.’

  ‘Is it so agreed, Bishop Britmund?’

  The stocky bishop emulated the abbot but not in the same words. ‘That is why I have agreed to come to this house of heresy,’ he replied belligerently.

  There was a hiss of outrage from the abbot but Venerable Ionas caught the abbot’s arm, as if to prevent him from rising to respond.

  ‘This discussion must be made in tones of conciliation,’ Radoald rebuked the bishop.

  ‘Yet before we can reach that point of discussion, the differences between us must be made clear,’ snapped the bishop. It soon became obvious that when Bishop Britmund spoke he had the frustrating habit of not allowing anyone to interrupt him, continuing to talk in deep stentorian tones over them until he had finished whatever point he was making.

  ‘I would have thought the differences are obvious,’ replied Abbot Servillius. ‘We accept the Holy Trinity, God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit. The teachings of Arius the Alexandrian have been declared a heresy.’

  ‘He was exonerate at the Council of Tyre,’ rejoined the bishop.

  ‘And condemned as a heretic yet again at the Council in Constantinople,’ argued the abbot.

  Radoald held up a hand. ‘My friends, I do not think a history of the decisions of councils in various parts of the world will add to our understanding of the current situation.’

  ‘We must be clear about this,’ Bishop Britmund continued.

  ‘There is only one God Who created all things. He was eternal, always existing. But Jesus was the incarnate Son of God, and could not have had existence eternally, not being born before time began and before God created all things. Being the Son of God he, too, must have been created by God. Does not the Blessed Paul say in his letter to the Corinthians that there is one God, the Father, from Whom comes all things? Does Blessed John not point out that Jesus Himself said that His Father was “greater than I”?’

  ‘We are not here to debate these matters of interpretation,’ replied the abbot sharply. ‘Our Faith was proclaimed at the Council of Nicaea, when the work of Arius was declared heretical. We believe in the divinity of the Holy Trinity. God as Three in One. It is from Nicaea that we take our creed, believing that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are of the same substance – homoousios —that is, of one being.’

  ‘There are enough proofs of our arguments in the Gospels, in the writings of Luke and in the Acts of the Apostles,’ replied the bishop with equal firmness. ‘We believe in one God. We believe Christ, being the Son of God, is subject and obedient in all things to God His Father. We believe the Holy Spirit is subject and obedient in all things to Jesus and to His Father. The Son and Holy Spirit were created by God. God is eternal and unbegotten, always existing.’

  Fidelma was intrigued. As one who prided herself on her logic, she found the argument of Bishop Britmund curiously rational.

  Radoald once again held up his hand for silence. ‘You have stated the irreconcilable differences of interpretation between you. And we are well aware of them. But the matter at this meeting is how we may come to a practical tolerance in this valley between these two views so that no one walks in fear from those with whom they disagree.’

  ‘We shall not reject our faith and beliefs for they are those approved by the Holy Father in Rome,’ declared Abbot Servillius firmly.

  ‘Nor shall we reject the Truth,’ replied Bishop Britmund with equal determination.

  Radoald sighed impatiently. ‘No one is asking you to reject or embrace anything, except that you must find a course in which tolerance binds you and not hatred.’

  ‘Then let the members of this abbey begin,’ said Bishop Britmund. ‘Let them cease to preach against us in Placentia. Let them cease travelling to the surrounding towns and churches and denouncing our beliefs as heresy.’

  ‘Then let those prelates and propounders of your heresy cease to tell people that they will receive the blessings of God if they rise up and destroy us and this abbey,’ retorted Abbot Servillius.

  Bishop Britmund hesitated for a moment before demanding: ‘What accusation is this, Servillius?’

  ‘Do you deny the martial cry from your pulpits?’ sneered the abbot. ‘We hear them even from behind these ancient walls.’

  Bishop Britmund turned to Lord Radoald, his face growing red. ‘I did not come here to be falsely accused.’

  There was a silence and then Radoald looked towards Fidelma. A smile was on his lips.

  ‘And what do you make of this, lady? Were there ever such diametrically opposed opinions at that Council you attended at Streonshalh?’

  Fidelma took a moment’s thought and then said, ‘The opinions were opposed, certainly, but perhaps presented with a little less emphatic resolve. I thought the purpose here was to find a via media aurea, the middle way, which is the golden path where both sides may meet.’

  ‘That was my intention,’ agreed Radoald solemnly. ‘But, so far, that path appears elusive.’

  ‘It seems that we are stuck in the via militaris,’ Fidelma acknowledged ‘Is it not said that in the middle way stands the truth?’

  ‘There is no middle way,’ snapped Bishop Britmund. ‘There is either truth or untruth. Truth has no compromise.’ He rose abruptly and his companion rose with him. ‘I came here at the request of the Lord Radoald. I hoped to see in him the great lord that his father was. Instead I find him besotted by this abbey and its heretical philosophies.’

  Wulfoald clapped a hand on his sword hilt and made a threatening movement, but Radoald quickly reached up and seized his warrior by the arm, causing him to halt. But Wulfoald was not to be stopped from speaking.

  ‘Have a care, Bishop, when you insult the Lord of Trebbia. Perctarit’s warriors have not yet crossed the mighty Padus to protect you.’


  Fidelma noticed that Brother Godomar had also reached forward and was tugging at the sleeve of the bishop’s robe. Bishop Britmund’s eyes blazed. He seemed to consider for a moment the situation and then he shrugged.

  ‘No insult was meant, Lord Radoald. Forgive my clumsy way of expressing my displeasure. I can see no means for an amicable settlement of our differences here. We stand as firm for our faith as do those of this abbey stand for their heresy. We must accept that our middle path is this promise: if we are attacked, we shall retaliate. Oculum pro oculo, detem pro dente, manum pro manu, pedem pro pede.’

  ‘I thought,’ Fidelma observed softly but clearly, ‘that the Faith, by whatever interpretation you give it, was based on the words and teaching of the Christ?’

  Bishop Britmund swung round with anger on his features. ‘Are you trying to teach me the Faith, woman of Hibernia?’

  ‘I am merely reminding you that Christ taught that it had, indeed, been said, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, but He told the faithful to ignore that teaching. Furthermore, He taught them that whoever strikes them on the right cheek, they should turn the other cheek to them.’

  Abbot Servillius was smiling in approval as he added, ‘It is so stated in the Gospel of Matthew. Perhaps Bishop Britmund is not above denying the teaching of Christ as well as the Creed of Nicaea?’

  Bishop Britmund did not conceal his anger. He turned to Lord Radoald. ‘I need your guarantee of safe passage back to Placentia.’

  Radoald lifted an eyebrow. ‘Why so? Were you endangered coming here?’

  ‘It is plain that I stand here unharmed, so no danger came to me on my way here.’

  ‘Then you shall return unharmed. No one here wishes to do you or any member of the Faith physical harm, Britmund.’

  The bishop hesitated, as if about to say something more, and then swept from the room, followed by his silent companion, Brother Godomar. Brother Wulfila, as steward, went scurrying after them for it was his task to see them safely from the confines of the abbey.

  After they had gone, Abbot Servillius slumped back in his chair and gave a long, deep sigh.

  ‘When the Creator handed out charity, He must have missed giving Britmund a share of it.’

  Radoald was rueful. ‘I am afraid that this is my fault. I tried to play the peacemaker, having been conscious of what happened to poor Brother Ruadán. I want these attacks to cease.’

  Fidelma stirred uncomfortably, remembering how she had seen poor Brother Ruadán lying in his bed, an old man attacked and injured because of the arrogance of Bishop Britmund, a so-called man of God.

  ‘What is more worrying, Radoald, is that such prelates as Britmund may well be placed in a position of power if the stories of Perctarit’s return are true,’ pointed out Abbot Servillius.

  ‘But we have heard nothing more tangible than rumours of his returning. No details, no hard news,’ Wulfoald intervened. It seemed the warrior was comfortable speaking his mind before his lord and the prelates of the abbey. ‘There is no need to panic until we have news.’

  The abbot seemed irritated as he replied, ‘We of Bobium are not panicking but we should be prepared for the worst.’

  ‘We do not accuse you of panic, Abbot Servillius,’ Radoald calmed him. ‘But we can do nothing until we receive definite news.’

  ‘And how can we obtain that?’ replied the abbot petulantly. ‘By the sight of Perctarit’s army marching up the Trebbia Valley?’

  Radoald responded with conviction. ‘It is my intention to position some of my men strategically to listen to such rumours, to hear the news and to report back to me of any impending dangers. After all, if Perctarit comes here, he will be seeking revenge. I must remind you that it was my father, when he was Lord of Trebbia, who supported Grimoald in the assassination of Godepert and in forcing his brother, Perctarit, to flee into exile. And was I not fighting at my father’s side?’

  The abbot looked uncomfortable. ‘You are right to rebuke me. I was thinking only of the welfare of this abbey and the brethren.’

  ‘And rightly so, Father Abbot,’ replied Radoald. ‘A father must think of the welfare of his children.’

  There was a brief pause and then Magister Ado intervened. ‘Lord Radoald is correct. But we are well protected here in this valley by virtue of it not being on any major route which Perctarit must occupy if he does mean to return to overthrow the King. This valley is of no strategic value.’

  ‘I must take up Magister Ado on his observation that this Valley of the Trebbia is a byway which Perctarit would ignore,’ corrected Wulfoald. ‘As an historian he has forgotten how strategic this valley was in ancient times.’

  ‘I do not pretend to be an historian,’ the elderly religieux said immediately. ‘I have only written of the lives of the great founders of the Faith, that is all.’

  ‘Then I crave pardon.’ Wulfoald smiled. ‘But I have read the Greek Polybius and the Latin of Livy, who came from this very territory. They both gave us their descriptions of the Battle of Trebbia.’

  Venerable Ionas spoke for the first time in the exchange. ‘Most of us know to what you are alluding, my young warrior friend.’ He turned to Fidelma. ‘This little peaceful valley was once Gaulish territory, and in the distant days of the Roman Republic, the Romans knew that they had to conquer this land to expand their empire. But it was a long and painful business. Many Roman consuls lost their lives here as well as their legions while trying to subdue the Boii, who were the main people that dwelled here. A former consul, Flaminius, managed to reach Genua along the coast and establish a garrison there, which allowed legionaries to march through this valley on their quest to conquer. Later, it was at the mouth of this very valley that the Carthaginians of Hannibal achieved their first major victory against the Romans – it is still called the Battle of Trebbia.’

  Venerable Ionas’ voice had risen in enthusiasm and suddenly, realising their eyes were upon him, he hesitated and shrugged with a smile. ‘Your pardon again. Sometimes I let my fascination for history, especially of this place, carry me away.’

  ‘May I ask a question?’

  They turned to look at Fidelma with interest as she spoke.

  ‘Proceed,’ invited Abbot Servillius.

  ‘From what I have been told, your King, Grimoald, is a follower of this Arian Creed. This former King, Perctarit, believes in the Nicene Creed. Am I correct in assuming this?’

  ‘You are correct,’ agreed Abbot Servillius.

  ‘Then I am confused. How is it that the Arians, such as Bishop Britmund, would support Perctarit, a Nicenine, should he try to wrest back the throne from which he was deposed? It is not logical.’

  Abbot Servillius allowed Radoald to respond.

  ‘Religion plays no part in this struggle for kingship. What you say is true, except that Grimoald is a very liberal King and allows people to follow their own faith, whether it be one of the Christian sects or, indeed, whether they want to stick with their old gods and goddesses. Perctarit, on the other hand, will promise and do whatever it takes for him to reassert his power … even to permit Britmund to destory all those in his territories who support the Nicene Creed. We hear rumours that Perctarit is negotiating such an aim to secure support.’

  Fidelma was sure she saw something in the glance that Wulfoald exchanged with Radoald. Then Wulfoald was speaking. ‘Anyway, if Perctarit crossed into the Valley of the Padus, he would have to march east and deal with Grimoald’s Regent, Lupus of Friuli, who commands a large army there. Perctarit could not leave that army unchallenged behind him if he intended to march south against Grimoald. He would have to bribe or destroy Lupus before unleashing his followers on Grimoald and the abbeys and churches that still follow the Creed of Nicaea.’

  Fidelma remained quiet. The politics did seem entirely confusing. But it was not her place to intervene in foreign affairs.

  Radoald rose abruptly, and they followed suit.

  ‘Well, we can do no more except watch and hope all our fears
are in vain.’ He turned to Fidelma with an apologetic expression. ‘I am sorry that you witnessed this confrontation, lady. I only insisted that you attend in order to draw on your advice from the confrontation you witnessed at the Abbey of Streonshalh.’

  Fidelma contrived to shrug. ‘I am only sorry that the positions were so entrenched that my advice would have been superfluous.’

  ‘Have you seen Brother Ruadán?’ continued the young lord. ‘How is he? I was hoping to speak with him myself but Brother Hnikar says he is too frail.’

  ‘I saw him last night,’ Fidelma answered truthfully, not mentioning her morning visit. ‘He is, indeed very frail.’

  ‘But still lucid?’ pressed Radoald, almost eagerly.

  ‘I find him so,’ countered Fidelma with a frown. ‘But then we spoke in our own language, which may not stress him as much as talking in another tongue. Anyway, I hope to speak with him later.’

  ‘Brother Hnikar, our physician, expects the worst,’ intervened Brother Wulfila, who had now returned to attend to the needs of the others, catching the last remark.

  Radoald shook his head sadly. ‘You must let me know how his condition fares as I would like to speak with him also. A crime was committed and the culprit must be found and punished. Indeed, perhaps I could send my own apothecary Suidur to assist your Brother Hnikar … ?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Abbot Servillius said, almost sharply. ‘We have faith in Brother Hnikar. I suggest we wait for a while to see if there is an improvement. Brother Hnikar could not even sanction more than one fleeting visit from Sister Fidelma because of Brother Ruadán’s weakening condition.’

  ‘I did not mean to imply that your apothecary was lacking,’ Radoald replied. ‘Only that two heads are sometimes better than one. I will, however, abide by Brother Hnikar’s ruling.’

  ‘I do not mean to slight Suidur,’ the abbot said. ‘But from what I hear, Brother Ruadán is beyond the skill of even the best apothecary. All we can do is wait and pray.’

  Although she wanted to comment, Fidelma was again silent, feeling that strange alienation from her surroundings, like someone in an unfamiliar bog land who fears that whatever step she might take would be the one that drags her into the mire.