Behold a Pale Horse

by Peter Tremayne

  Brother Eolann was still anxious. ‘I trust I did not hurt you.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ she said solemnly. ‘I can stand a bruise or two for that.’

  ‘I warned you that it was a difficult point to cross. But see along there … we are a short way from joining the main track to the top and,’ he glanced again at the sky, ‘we would not have made it before dark had we gone any other way.’

  ‘Then let us move on. The sooner we are away from this place, the more I shall like it.’

  He stood up and led the way forward again. The rest of the journey was simple and without incident. Even so, dusk had already spread over the mountain-top when they reached a hut, built in a little hollow. She could make out no details in the gloom. It was a cloudy night and there was no moonlight to assist them. Nevertheless, Brother Eolann seemed to know his way about and, after a while, with flint and tinder, he had lit a brand torch and then proceeded to get a fire alight outside the small hut. To Fidelma’s amusement he built a large fire that she was sure would be seen on the mountain-top for quite a distance around. He did not smile when she commented that she only wanted to keep warm and not roast to death.

  ‘It is very cold up here, lady. The temperatures during the night, even in late summer, can be freezing. Besides which … well, there are many animals which wander the slopes at night. The fire will keep them at bay.’

  Inside the hut was an oil lamp which he lit. There was, apparently, a water supply nearby and he filled a jug with fresh water. Soon they were sitting eating a frugal meal in silence and watching the dark clouds sweeping low across the mountain-tops, creating a damp, chilling mist in the moments before darkness descended. There were no stars, for the clouds obliterated them. Fidelma felt exhausted at the unexpected exercise. She only vaguely remembered crawling into the hut.

  It was bright sunlight when she awoke to the hunting cry of buzzards. The fire was still sending a plume of smoke upwards and Brother Eolann was already building it up again. He had food ready and directed her to the source of water behind the hut where she could wash in private.

  She was impressed by the breathtaking view of hilltops that surrounded her.

  ‘This is one of the highest peaks in these hills,’ Brother Eolann offered, seeing the rapt look on her face as she gazed around the vista. The day was warm and pleasant and the clouds that had obscured the moon on the previous night had dispersed and given way to brilliant sunshine.

  They were in a sheltered dip on the peak and she could well understand why it had been chosen by Colm Bán for his sanctuary. A little way off, on the highest part of the bald, rounded hilltop, stood the half-completed building which was clearly dedicated to the Faith and marked by a large cross outside. Brother Eolann accompanied Fidelma to it and they spent a few moments in contemplation inside the darkness of the little chapel.

  ‘I will be reluctant to leave this spot,’ Fidelma remarked as they came out into the sunshine again. ‘Are those caves I see down there, behind the hut?’

  ‘They are,’ Brother Eolann confirmed. ‘They are not big ones but it is said that it was one of those that Colm Bán used as his retreat and, sadly, where that great man passed on, into the arms of Christ.’

  ‘Yet he is buried in the abbey.’

  ‘The brethren removed his body to the abbey and built a crypt for him under the chapel’s High Altar.’

  ‘I should pay my respects at the cave before I depart.’

  The caves were not big. In fact, in the larger one there was scarcely room enough for two people to crawl in. This one showed signs of having been used recently, while the other held little of note. Fidelma left the caves and returned to examining the countryside around them. A short distance below them, the thick under-bush of ferns and bracken began, and beyond that, looking down the southern slopes, conifers and beeches marked the beginning of the dense forests that spread among these hills. Fidelma gazed once more across the impressive vista unfolding before her. As she was turning back to the hut, something caught her eye amidst the undergrowth.

  ‘Look!’ She pointed to a splash of colour that was out of keeping with its surroundings. It appeared to be a piece of richly coloured fabric.

  She moved quickly down the hill, followed more slowly by Brother Eolann. She was plunging into the undergrowth when the scriptor called out a warning.

  ‘Be careful, lady. This is the sort of growth that the vipera, the venomous snake, is found in. Let me go first.’

  She halted while he picked up a stout stick and began to move forward, hitting the ground and making much noise.

  ‘The vipera will not attack unless it thinks it is attacked,’ explained the scriptor. ‘If it hears you approaching, it will slither away for shelter. It is only if you approach in stealth and come upon it unexpectedly that it will strike.’

  Fidelma was content to let him beat the path to what they thought was the fluttering fabric. But it was not just fabric. It was a body – the body of a woman. She had been dead for some time, judging from the sickly stench of decomposition that was drawing the attention of several flying insects. The clothing now seemed familiar to Fidelma. Placing a hand across her mouth and nostrils, she crouched down to examine the features. She recognised the corpse at once.

  ‘It’s the Lady Gunora,’ she gasped.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The head of the woman had been almost severed from her body by several blows to the neck from a sharp-edged implement such as a sword.

  Fidelma almost retched at the mangled form and she fought for a moment to control herself. At her side Brother Eolann was offering up a prayer in a horrified voice.

  Once Fidelma recovered her equilibrium, she glanced intently at the area surrounding the remains.

  ‘What is it?’ Brother Eolann asked. ‘Do you think that her killers are hiding nearby?’

  ‘She has been dead for over a day,’ Fidelma replied quietly. ‘They would not delay here so long. But she left the abbey yesterday with the boy, the young Prince Romuald. Do you see any sign of … of his body?’

  Brother Eolann, still pale, joined Fidelma in searching the surrounding shrubland. There were no obvious signs of another body nearby, so she returned her attention to the corpse; wrinkling her nose in distaste, she bent down and checked through the clothing, searching for any personal items. Surprisingly, there were none. It seemed that the Lady Gunora had not even been carrying the customary bag for toilet articles, which most women of her rank carried tied at her waist. Or had she already been searched and the items taken?

  ‘Do you think this might be the work of Perctarit and his men?’ the scriptor asked, glancing at the corpse. ‘They might have seized the prince when they killed Lady Gunora.’

  ‘At the moment, Brother Eolann, we do not have sufficient knowledge to think anything. However, we shall learn nothing more here. Is there a spare blanket in the hut here?’

  ‘I think so,’ Brother Eolann replied, puzzled.

  ‘Since we cannot do anything here, I suggest that we get a blanket and use it to carry the corpse to the chapel where it will be safe from those,’ she indicated the circling buzzards, ‘or any other wild beast.’

  The scriptor did not look happy but he made no demur. It took them quite a while to transport the body to the chapel and place it inside, covered by the blanket.

  It had been such a warm, pleasant day when Fidelma had awoken with the vast panorama of the hills. Now the day seemed to have turned cold and unpleasant.

  ‘Is it time that we started back down?’ she suggested.

  ‘We have time enough,’ returned Brother Eolann. ‘I’d rather let the fire die down a bit so that it will be safe to leave it.’

  ‘I thought you had stacked it rather high this morning,’ Fidelma replied and went into the hut to brush herself down. She finished packing her bag, which she slung on her back, and re-emerged into the sunlight.

  Facing her were three warriors with swords drawn and glistening threateningly
in the sunlight. A fourth man stood by Brother Eolann. His sword was resting lightly with its point against the scriptor’s chest.

  No one spoke or moved for a moment until Fidelma recovered from her surprise and demanded: ‘Who are these men?’

  Brother Eolann cleared his throat and spoke in the local language to them. One of the men laughed gruffly before responding.

  ‘He says that we will soon find out. Meanwhile, we are his prisoners and will accompany him.’

  ‘Can’t you tell him that we are poor religious from the Abbey of Bobium?’ queried Fidelma.

  Brother Eolann grimaced. ‘I fear that he knows that already, lady.’

  ‘You mean these are—’

  The warrior who had responded suddenly shouted at her. She did not need Brother Eolann’s translation to interpret what he said. She thought of the corpse of the slain Lady Gunora and was silent.

  The leading warrior said no more but turned and led the way. His men fell in around them, using the tips of their swords as prods, and began to push them along. Fidelma saw that the path they were taking led down the opposite side of the mountain from the route back to Bobium. She glanced at her companion but Brother Eolann gave a slight shake of his head, as if trying to warn her not to speak again. These warriors, whoever they were, could not be trifled with.

  The country on the north-east side of the mountain seemed just as spectacular as it had been in the Trebbia Valley. Perhaps more so. She could see blue strips of rivers in valleys, surrounded by numerous peaks stretching away in all directions. In the distance were slabs of bare grey rock, which had been worn away by water erosion. Even with her concern that they were prisoners of men who cared little for their lives, Fidelma studied her surroundings carefully in case a chance offered itself for escape. She registered that this side of the mountains was the weather side, where there seemed little protection against hill erosion. The usually hard rock and brittle surface often gave way to soft clay and limestone.

  They marched on in silence until they descended well below the treeline and began to walk through a thick, noise-filled forest. A myriad species of bird calls rose in cacophony, while the bark of foxes and the solitary howl of a wolf came to Fidelma’s ears. They seemed to be trudging along for an eternity. The incline eventually began to grow more gentle, and here and there they passed boys and old men with herds of goats or flocks of sheep. Still no one spoke. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Fidelma said to Brother Eolann: ‘Please ask him how much longer he intends to keep this pace up.’

  Immediately she felt the pressure of the point of one of the men’s swords between her shoulderblades. Brother Eolann was clearly too nervous to obey her.

  Ignoring the guard, Fidelma repeated her question, calling out to the leader in her book Latin.

  The man halted and turned back with a scowl. He snapped a question at Brother Eolann, who answered hesitantly. The warrior suddenly chuckled; it was not a pleasant sound. Then he said something to Brother Eolann. The scriptor shrugged and muttered, ‘He says that you are impertinent for a woman, lady. You will know soon enough …’ Then he added anxiously, ‘Best not to mention your rank, lady. People around here are not above holding those of rank to ransom.’

  There was a sharp command from the leader. She interpreted it as another command for silence.

  They moved on again. This time it was a shorter trek until they came to a clearing in the forest where there were half a dozen horses tethered, with two other warriors apparently looking after them. They called out excitedly to one another and some conversation was exchanged in which the other two examined the captives with curiosity.

  Fidelma and Brother Eolann found themselves pushed forward to the horses. Two of the warriors sheathed their swords and leaped nimbly up into the saddles. Then, before she realised what was happening, strong hands seized Fidelma and almost threw her on the horse behind one of the warriors. She did not need to know the man’s rough words to understand the exhortation to hang on. He began to move off at once and she looked to one side to see that Brother Eolann had been similarly treated.

  They rode on until Fidelma lost all track of time and place. She only knew that it was late in the afternoon and the band of horsemen were now trotting along a fairly easy path across the side of a hill. Below them was a valley with a broad river flowing through it. After a further descent they came to a small settlement under a precipitous rocky hill. Now she could see, balanced on the very top, overlooking the small settlement, a stone fortress with an imposing square tower. At first, she thought there was no way up, but then they were ascending a winding path towards the summit. Whatever the building was, it was clearly the place that their captors were making for.

  Indeed, eventually they came to high walls in which were set two large dark oak gates, with sufficient space to admit men on horseback. Warriors looked down on them from the walls. One of the men accompanying them produced a hunting horn and let forth two short blasts, ending with one long wailing sound. The gates swung open and they rode through and halted in a small courtyard.

  Fidelma was aware of hands pulling her from the horse and a host of rough faces surrounded her. Some were grinning and some shouted at her, words that she did not understand. Then someone called a command and brutal hands removed the bag she was carrying on her back but did not take the marsupium at her waist. One of her captors came forward, grasped her by the arm and pushed through the curious crowd towards the buildings that ran the length of the inside walls. As she was propelled forwards, Fidelma glanced up to where a balcony jutted over the courtyard. Two men were standing looking down on the proceedings. Two tall men, clad in long black cloaks. They appeared to be warriors. One of them had the left side of his cloak flung back over his shoulder and she caught sight of a badge on his shoulder. Although he stood at some distance and above her, she was sure it was the flaming sword and laurel wreath emblem. She almost tripped and fell as it came to her that these looked like the same men who had attacked the Magister Ado in Genua; the same who had ambushed them as they entered the Valley of Trebbia. The same men who, she believed, she had seen in the darkness at the fortress of Radoald.

  Recovering her balance, she managed to glance behind and saw Brother Eolann being manhandled in a similar fashion. At least it seemed that they were being kept together. Indeed, a door was opened and she was pushed, with scant ceremony, inside a room. Brother Eolann was propelled after her, bumping into her. The door was slammed shut and they heard a wooden bar crash into place to secure it.

  The room was lit by a single window situated well above head height. There were no bars on it. Apart from two rough beds, a chair and a table, there was little else in the room. Brother Eolann sat down on one of the beds, seemingly exhausted by the ordeal. Fidelma seized a chair and went to the window, placed it underneath and then balanced herself on it to peer out. At times, the fact that she was above the average height for her sex proved helpful. She quickly found the reason why the window was unbarred. It presented no other exit than a sheer drop into the valley below. She climbed down and sat with a sigh. There was nothing else in the room, not even an oil lamp.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘any ideas who our captors are?’

  Brother Eolann shrugged. ‘That they have no respect for the religious, is certain,’ he replied. ‘I know little of these valleys on this side of the mountains, but I think this is the territory of the Lord of Vars.’

  ‘Does he hold allegiance to this King Grimoald?’ Fidelma was thinking of the two men bearing the symbol of the Archangel Michael on their clothing. It was no use trying to explain this story to Brother Eolann.

  ‘I am sure he does not,’ the scriptor said immediately. ‘I have heard that there is enmity between Trebbia and Vars.’

  ‘But I thought you said that you had climbed these mountains regularly and that was why you knew the paths on – what was it called – Mount Pénas? How do you not know this place?’

  ‘It is true that
I have climbed the mountains, but I always kept to the side overlooking the Valley of the Trebbia. I was always warned to be careful, for we were told that to the north and east are the lands that once held allegiance to Perctarit. If they do not hate Grimoald, then they are followers of Arius and have cause to hate the brethren of Bobium.’

  ‘And who are these?’

  ‘Either or both. It makes no difference.’

  ‘You have no idea where we are?’

  ‘I should think that the river is called the Staffel in the Longobard language; it is called the Iria in Latin. We must be overlooking the old Salt Road to Genua.’

  ‘Well, we can do little until we find out who these people are and what they want. There is certainly no way out of this room except through the door.’

  Brother Eolann sighed. ‘I hope they bring us food and drink soon. We have had nothing since dawn and must have been travelling a good part of the day.’

  Fidelma remembered that the food they had taken for their journey on the mountain had been in their bags. ‘Did they take your bag as well?’ she asked.

  ‘They did. There was dry biscuit, cheese and fruit in it. Now we have nothing.’

  Fidelma smiled wanly. They had forgotten to take her marsupium, but there was no food in it. It was where she carried her ciorr bholg or ‘comb bag’. It was a small handbag which all the women of rank in Hibernia carried. It usually contained a scathán, a small mirror, deimess, scissors, a bar of sléic or soap and, in Fidelma’s case, a phal of honeysuckle fragrance. Unlike many women she did not carry a phal of berry juice with which to redden her lips or blacken her eyebrows, which was often the custom among Hibernian women.

  Fidelma was not thinking of her toiletries but of the gold coin that she had, thankfully, placed in it. A thought struck her. ‘If these are the people who killed poor Lady Gunora, then they may have brought Prince Romuald here as a prisoner.’