Behold a Pale Horse

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma thought carefully. ‘You think that he would refuse?’

  Brother Eolann chuckled sourly. ‘I am sure he would.’

  ‘If his permission could be obtained, would you be willing to accompany me?’

  ‘I think, with all due respect, that I would need to know more. What is the purpose behind this? What is your interest in Hawisa? And why do you approach me, of all the brethren here?’

  ‘I ask you because you are from Muman. You know the function of a dálaigh and the rules connected to that function. And, while I shall tell you that which you ask, before I share that knowledge with you, I must place you under a géis that you must take oath on.’

  The young scriptor’s expression was one of surprise. ‘A géis?’ he echoed in astonishment.

  Anyone from Hibernia knew the importance of the oath well. It was an ancient sacred bond which, when placed on someone, compelled them to obey the instruction. Any person transgressing or ignoring the géis was exposed to the rejection of society and brought to shame and outlawry.

  ‘I do not ask this lightly,’ Fidelma assured him.

  Brother Eolann was quiet for a while and then slowly nodded his agreement. The words of the ritual were spoken softly and with solemn intent. Afterwards, Fidelma sat back on a stool opposite the scriptor.

  ‘I will tell you now why I am interested in Wamba’s death, Eolann of Faithleann’s Island, and then you will understand. You see, I believe that Brother Ruadán was murdered …’

  Ignoring his shocked expression, Fidelma told Brother Eolann what had transpired when she had seen Brother Ruadán and the nature of the observation which caused her to believe that his death had not been natural.

  ‘In telling you this, and not keeping my own counsel, I open myself to your trust, for you might argue that the géis has no validity in this land of the Longobards where I am just a stranger.’

  Brother Eolann considered what she had said in silence. Then he shrugged in acceptance. ‘I accept the géis in honour and sincerity. If there is murder abroad in this abbey, then it must be stopped.’

  ‘I need to find this woman, Hawisa, and ask her some questions. You can help me by being my mouth and my ears as to my questions and her responses.’

  The door suddenly opened and Brother Wulfila entered, paused and began to back out with an embarrassed look at Fidelma.

  ‘I am sorry,’ the steward mumbled. ‘I came to collect a book for the abbot and—’

  Brother Eolann rose hurriedly. ‘I have it in the copying room, Brother Wulfila,’ he said, in annoyance. ‘Excuse me, Sister, while I deal with this.’

  He went through the side door, followed by the steward. Eventually they returned with Brother Wulfila carrying a book, the steward giving a slight bow of acknowledgement to Fidelma as he left.

  ‘Now.’ Brother Eolann settled himself back on his stool. ‘We would still need an excuse to go up into the mountains and Abbot Servillius’ permission to leave the abbey.’ He contemplated the matter for a few moments. Then a broad smile spread across his features. ‘An excuse is more easy than at first I thought.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘You may tell the abbot that you have been told of the sanctuary which Colm Bán built on top of this mountain. You express a desire to visit it so that you can tell the people at home all about it. You may say that I have offered to guide you there. On our way up the mountain, we shall pass by Hawisa’s cabin.’

  Fidelma went to the window behind Brother Eolann and peered up the steep slopes of the mountain. ‘Is it high?’ she asked.

  ‘It is, but not a difficult climb.’

  ‘And what is this sanctuary?’

  ‘Well, it was originally a pagan temple built by the Gauls, a people called the Boii, who once dwelled in this area. Colm Bán had promised the Longobard, Queen Theodolinda, that he would build a sanctuary dedicated to Our Lady where she would be venerated for all the ages to come. So when he settled here and began to build the abbey, he took some of his followers to the top of the mountain – Mount Pénas, it is called – and they reconsecrated the temple on the top into a chapel of the Faith and dedicated it to Mary the Mother of Christ.’

  ‘Who was this Queen Theodolinda?’

  ‘She was wife to Agilulfo who gave Colm Bán this land to build his abbey on.’

  ‘The sanctuary would certainly be worth seeing for its own sake. An excellent excuse to ask for permission to leave the abbey to see it. How long would we need to be away?’

  Brother Eolann glanced at the position of the sun through the window. ‘If it were just to see Hawisa, we could reach her cabin and be back within the day. But to go on to the sanctuary, we would have to stay overnight on the mountain. If we left immediately we could be back by tomorrow afternoon. If the abbot gives permission, we have a reasonable excuse for being away overnight.’

  ‘I shall speak with Abbot Servillius immediately. If I get his blessing, can we set off straight away?’

  Brother Eolann seemed amused at her eagerness. ‘If there are no objections from the abbot. Stout shoes are necessary, for there are some places where the ascent is steep and rocky. A bag and a blanket are also advisable, for it can be cold on the summit.’

  ‘But we will definitely have time to speak with Hawisa and get to the sanctuary?’

  ‘Of course. I have climbed the mountain before.’

  Abbot Servillius looked up from his desk in mild surprise when Fidelma had told him her intention.

  ‘I did tell you that I wanted to see one or two places in this vicinity associated with Colm Bán that I might take news of this abbey back to the land of his birth,’ she reminded him. ‘Having come all this way, I could not return to Hibernia without seeing this sanctuary.’

  The abbot was less than enthusiastic. ‘Of course, I understand that you would want to see the sites connected with our blessed founder, your illustrious countryman,’ he said. ‘But this might not be the best of times to wander the mountains.’

  ‘But I have no other time, Father Abbot.’ She gave an impression of a tearful pout. ‘I shall be leaving soon, and not to have seen this little sanctuary that Brother Eolann told me so much about … that would be shameful. Perhaps you should have told me about it sooner.’ She thought an implied criticism might help strengthen her argument.

  Abbot Servillius blinked. ‘I should have mentioned it,’ he admitted, on reflection. ‘A group of us from the abbey ascend the mountain to the sanctuary every year in order to celebrate the Pascal festival and the martyrdom of the Christ. It was at the sanctuary that Columbanus died during one of his retreats.’

  She felt him weakening so she pressed again. ‘I learned of its existence from your scriptor, Brother Eolann, who has offered to show me the sanctuary if we can obtain your permission. He comes from my father’s kingdom and wants me to take good stories of this place back to his brethren.’

  ‘I knew that the scriptor came from Hibernia,’ agreed Abbot Servillius. He had conceded defeat. ‘I suppose that he would be best qualified to show you the sanctuary. Very well, Sister Fidelma. You have my permission. At least the days are still warm, but you had best take ample clothing, for the weather can change rapidly in the high places. Be warned of any bands of armed strangers. We must all be vigilant if the rumours are true that Perctarit has returned.’ He shrugged. ‘Send Brother Eolann to me and I will give him instructions.’

  It seemed that it was only a short time later that Fidelma and Brother Eolann were looking down on the abbey below them and climbing upwards on an easy track in the midday sunshine. Brother Eolann had suggested that they make the journey on foot as, although he believed they could reach Hawisa’s cabin on horseback, they would not be able to continue on to the sanctuary by those means. As the scriptor had advised, Fidelma wore her strongest leather sandals while slung on her back was a sack in which she had a blanket and her toiletries, together with some basic items to eat.

  The ascending slopes were covered
with thick woods and rocky outcrops, and even naturally hollowed-out areas where water was trapped on the mountainside, forming little pools. Now and then they encountered a local shepherd or goatherd and exchanged greetings. Hawisa’s home turned out not to be very far at all. They eventually found a small cabin built under the shelter of some trees by the side of a stream that tumbled down the hillside. As they approached, a dog started to bark a warning. A heavily built woman with coarse black hair and weatherbeaten skin, tanned a rich chestnut-brown, came forward to greet them.

  Her words were spoken in the gutturals of the Longobards, which Fidelma was beginning to generally identify, although still unable to understand it. Brother Eolann replied and Fidelma heard the name ‘Hawisa’, at which the woman frowned and nodded.

  Fidelma turned and, using Brother Eolann as her interpreter, said: ‘Tell her that I would like to ask a few questions about her son, Wamba.’

  The woman’s eyes narrowed at once. ‘He’s dead,’ she said flatly.

  Fidelma continued speaking through the scriptor.

  ‘We know, and we are so sorry for your loss. I am told that he fell from some rocks while tending his goats.’

  The woman made a sound like a snort. ‘Wamba was not the sort of clumsy boy who would fall. Ask Wulfoald for the truth.’

  ‘The warrior? I thought he was the one who found Wamba and took his body to the abbey.’

  Brother Eolann seemed to be searching for the right words.

  ‘And why did not Wulfoald bring the body home to me?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘Did he know where Wamba lived?’

  ‘Ha!’ It was almost a bark of laughter. ‘And when word was finally brought to me that my son was dead, and I went down to the abbey, my boy had been buried, so that I could not see him. How do I know now what injuries he had, or even the cause of them?’

  ‘Have you reason to suspect that things did not transpire as you were told?’

  ‘Speak to your abbot and leave me in peace with my suspicions.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips for a moment. ‘What are your suspicions, then, Hawisa?’

  ‘I say nothing but there are questions to be answered. They must be answered by Abbot Servillius and Wulfoald. He knew well enough where my cabin is. Why did he proceed to the abbey?’

  ‘But what purpose would he have for conspiring to keep news of your son’s death from you until he was buried?’

  The woman stood with arms folded and lips compressed. It was clear that she had had her say and was not going to release any more. Fidelma suppressed a sigh.

  ‘I wanted to ask you whether Wamba ever spoke of a Brother Ruadán, an old Hibernian Brother in the abbey.’

  The woman slowly shook her head. ‘Wamba used to sell our milk to Brother Waldipert at the abbey’s kitchens,’ she told Fidelma through Brother Eolann. ‘My nephew, Odo, has now taken over my herd of goats and continues to sell milk to the abbey. Apart from Brother Waldipert, I do not think my lad knew anyone else among the brethren.’

  Fidelma felt disappointed at not being able to form an immediate link between Brother Ruadán and Wamba. ‘I am told that Wamba found something on the mountain a few days before he died.’

  The woman blinked. A suspicious expression crossed her features and she said defensively, ‘There is a saying that what is found on the mountain and not claimed immediately belongs to the finder and cannot be reclaimed later.’

  ‘Do not worry,’ Fidelma assured her. ‘I am not here to claim anything. I just want to know the circumstances of that find and what happened to it.’

  The woman looked from her to Brother Eolann, who had been translating this, and back again to Fidelma.

  ‘Sit you down,’ she said heavily, indicating a wooden bench by the trees. ‘I will fetch cider for you. The day is hot, and though I am not enamoured of your abbot, there is no need for you to suffer in his stead.’

  Fidelma had noticed some long pauses in between the translations and so took the opportunity to ask Brother Eolann if he found the task difficult.

  ‘The woman speaks with an accent of the peasantry. Sometimes it is hard to understand.’

  A few moments passed before Hawisa returned with an earthenware jug, which had been standing in the stream, and some mugs. She poured a rich, dark golden liquid into them, and they sipped gratefully at the chilled liquid. Hawisa now seated herself nearby and stared into her own drink for a moment or two and then spoke with sad reflection, pausing every so often for the Brother to translate for the lady.

  ‘Wamba came back from herding the goats one day and told me that we would soon be rich.’ She grimaced fleetingly at the memory. ‘He told me that he had found a little gold coin. Alas, he did not know the value for it did not make us rich, but the abbot gave me sufficient goods in exchange that lasted for a while.’

  ‘I am sorry, but I do not understand.’ Fidelma glanced at Brother Eolann, wondering if he had misinterpreted what she was saying. ‘I understood the boy took the coin to Brother Waldipert and he promised the boy a valuation of the coin. Wamba died before he could go back to the abbey to conclude the deal.’

  Brother Eolann had a hesitant exchange with the woman.

  ‘She confirms what you said,’ the young man responded at last. ‘She saw Abbot Servillius, who told her that the coin was old but not valuable. He arranged for her to be provided with some produce in compensation for the coin. She says that it was a pity. Wamba had hoped to increase their little herd by purchasing another goat or two.’

  Fidelma turned back to Hawisa.

  ‘So it was not worth very much. What sort of coin was it?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Coins are rare in this part of the world. Yet I have seen gold before.’

  ‘So the abbot kept this coin?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And you are sure that it was an old coin?’

  The woman nodded and set down her empty earthenware mug beside her.

  ‘I have been robbed of those I loved. First my fine husband was taken to serve in Grimoald’s army three years ago. He never returned and others told me he had been slain. Now my only child is dead. I have nothing to lose now so I care not what you report to your abbot. Wamba was killed because he found a piece of gold. That was why he was buried hurriedly, so that I should not see the wounds.’

  She leaned forward suddenly and, using two forefingers, sharply tapped Fidelma’s chest. She repeated a short sentence three times, but the only word Fidelma could make out was Odo. She glanced at Brother Eolann. ‘What does she say about Odo – that’s the nephew, isn’t it?’

  ‘She says Odo will confirm her story,’ replied Brother Eolann. ‘I don’t think there is a need for that. I have translated all she has said.’

  ‘We can accept her account of what happened,’ agreed Fidelma. Yet there is something illogical here,’ she went on. ‘Even if the coin was gold, it could not be so valuable that it would need several to be involved in the conspiracy to kill the boy. There wouldn’t be enough for anyone to take a profit from the deed.’

  Brother Eolann regarded her uncertainly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘First, we must include Brother Waldipert in this affair. Then we must include Abbot Servillius himself, as he valued the coin. Then we must include the warrior Wulfoald. The implication is that he might have killed the boy. He certainly found the body and took it to the abbey. We might even add Brother Hnikar who, as apothecary, would have washed and laid out the body for burial. He would have noticed if the body carried any marks to indicate an unnatural death – for I think Hawisa is arguing that the boy was buried before she could see the body and be aware that her son had been murdered.’

  Brother Eolann shrugged. ‘I have not your clever tongue nor way of thought.’

  Hawisa had been watching them very carefully during this exchange and suddenly spoke vehemently.

  ‘She says that all she knows is that she saw the gold coin. Wamba took it to the abbey and he was dead the next day. A
nd now he lies in the graveyard of the abbey where she cannot pray daily, for the journey is too much. She contents herself by praying at the spot where he was found.’

  The woman suddenly snapped out something in a harsh voice.

  ‘Report me to your abbot. I have no fear,’ translated Brother Eolann.

  ‘Neither do you need to fear,’ Fidelma assured her. ‘We are not here to report to Abbot Servillius. He does not know that we are here anyway, and we would prefer it that you did not tell anyone of our visit.’

  Hawisa looked puzzled.

  ‘Tell her that I am just a visitor from Hibernia. I came here because I am cursed with a curiosity about all things. And I heard about the story of her son, Wamba.’

  Hawisa was still puzzled but seemed to accept that this was some sort of explanation. Once more Brother Eolann began to translate as she spoke. ‘The founder of the abbey was from Hibernia. I am told several of your countrymen come to visit the abbey in his memory.’

  ‘Exactly so.’ There was a silence and then Fidelma added: ‘Before we leave, we would say a prayer at the spot where Wamba fell, where you now go to say your daily prayer. Would you tell us the way there?’

  Once again Hawisa was regarding Fidelma suspiciously. ‘Why would you want to see where my son fell to his death?’

  ‘It is not to see where but merely to say a prayer for his soul.’ Fidelma knew she was lying and hoped that Brother Eolann could translate her words with more sincerity. Hopefully, she would be forgiven for the lie as it was in the cause of seeking the truth.

  Hawisa did not answer at once. She seemed to think carefully before telling them, ‘If you follow that path,’ she indicated a track through the trees just beyond the cabin, ‘follow it to the north-east, you’ll eventually come to two large rocks that divide the pathway. Do not take the descending path but follow on and you’ll emerge along a series of high rock formations. There is a small cairn which I raised to mark the spot. It was said that is the point from where he fell.’