Behold a Pale Horse sf-22

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘That is true enough, if the murderer has even left the abbey. Anyway, Wulfoald is no longer here. And it would be a waste of time searching outside the abbey walls.’

  Venerable Ionas’ eyes widened. ‘Am I to take it that you mean the murderer is still hiding in the abbey?’

  ‘Not hiding,’ replied Fidelma grimly. ‘I think he is known to the community. I believe that I have been led on a false trail. A trail deliberately laid to confuse me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The death of Abbot Servillius.’

  ‘I am sorry, I do not follow you.’

  ‘I was so keen on following clues that led me to the abbot. Whoever laid the trail knew that sooner or later I would connect the name Quintus Servillius Caepio with Abbot Servillius. One and one can make two, but sometimes you have to ensure that the two numbers you are given in the first place are accurate.’

  Venerable Ionas looked perplexed. ‘I am still not following your logic, Sister Fidelma, but I will trust you for the time being. You mean that all you told me in my study just now was wrong?’

  ‘Not necessarily wrong,’ she explained quickly. ‘It was the information that I was being carefully fed. Information that someone had painstakingly laid as a trail in such a clever way that I would think I was uncovering it myself. It was laid so as to ensure my curiosity would be roused. Someone removed pages from the books in the library, not because they did not want me to see what was on the pages, but precisely because they knew my curiosity would lead me to find out what was on them.’

  ‘But there was little on those pages apart from the story of Caepio’s lost gold.’

  ‘The gold of Quintus Servillius Caepio,’ corrected Fidelma. ‘Aurum Tolosa.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You provided the last clue — you told me Servillius was a patronymic. You admitted that the abbot was proud of his ancient patrician roots in this area.’

  Venerable Ionas was frowning thoughtfully. ‘So I gave you this last clue? Yes, I remember telling you about the name …’ A suspicous look suddenly crossed his face. ‘Are you suggesting that I led you on a false trail?’

  ‘It is more complicated than that,’ replied Fidelma. ‘The person behind this would make a great fidchell player.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It is a board game played in my country, and its name means “wooden wisdom”. In many ways it is like ludus latrun-culorum, the board game of military tactics that is played here in this country.’

  ‘I still find it hard to follow your reasoning.’

  ‘There is a master player, a strategist involved in this matter; he or she has laid out all the pieces so that I have been led into a blind alley. He or she thought that it would take me longer to work things out, but realising that I was shortly to confront the abbot, they also realised it was too soon for their purpose. That is why, I’m afraid, Abbot Servillius had to die. I think he was killed soon after he arrived back in the abbey yesterday.’

  ‘It sounds as though you know the identity of this strategist, as you call him.’

  ‘In my country,’ replied Fidelma, ‘we have a saying: “woe to him whose betrayer sits at his table”.’

  There was the sound of raised voices at the main door and a moment later Magister Ado came hurrying into the hall; behind him was Brother Faro.

  ‘Is it true?’ he demanded, looking at Venerable Ionas. ‘I have just returned from Travo to be greeted by the news that Abbot Servillius is dead — that he has been murdered.’

  ‘News seems to travel quickly,’ Fidelma muttered.

  ‘As far as the abbey gates,’ Magister Ado replied withuncharacteristic sharpness. ‘Brother Wulfila just told me. I met with Brother Faro on the way back. We heard nothing until we arrived here. So it is true?’

  ‘I am afraid it is true, Brother,’ admitted Venerable Ionas. ‘The abbot was beaten to death, his skull crushed.’

  Magister Ado crossed himself swiftly. ‘Deus adjuvat nos,’ he muttered piously. ‘Has the culprit been caught?’

  ‘Alas, no.’

  ‘Is it known who did this?’

  ‘I think so,’ Fidelma replied. ‘And we might lay many deaths at his door.’

  ‘Many deaths?’ queried Magister Ado.

  ‘I think our Hibernian sister means the death of Lady Gunora and others.’

  Magister Ado’s expression was grim. ‘We live in evil times, Fidelma. We are pawns between the ambitions of Grimoald and Perctarit. Abbot Servillius gave sanctuary to Prince Romuald, and once it was known to people like Bishop Britmund, it would have become known to those who hoped to use the prince to attack the father. I suggest Abbot Servillius was murdered in retaliation for giving shelter to the young boy.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ contradicted Fidelma in a quiet voice.

  Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado were both looking at her expectantly.

  ‘You said that you think you know who did this and that he is still in the abbey,’ Venerable Ionas said. ‘Then speak-’

  Outside in the courtyard they heard a wailing sound. It started faintly and became louder, and then it was taken up with other cries, creating a human chorus of fear and anxiety. They were moving to the door when one of the brethren, dishevelled and grubby, burst into the hall.

  ‘The Evil One is at large in the abbey,’ he shouted. ‘Save us! Save us from him!’

  The cries were in Fidelma’s own language. She realised that it was Brother Lonán, the herbalist and gardener, who had come running towards them. She grasped the hysterical man by the collar and almost shook him.

  ‘Control yourself, Brother! There is no evil in this place other than that which is made by men. What ails you? Speak! Speak in the language of the Faith so that these others may understand.’

  The man blinked at the harshness of the words in his own language. Then he stared at her. ‘Death stalks the abbey, Sister. Evil stalks the abbey. We must flee from this accursed place.’ He fell to shivering and weeping, the hysteria unabated.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Venerable Ionas, before he turned to Brother Wulfila, who had followed the herbalist in, and said sharply: ‘Get outside into the courtyard and stop our brethren from making that awful wailing noise.’

  Fidelma stared at the sobbing man with distaste and then said, still in her own language: ‘You have one more chance to control yourself. If you do not speak, I am told the Rule of Benedict provides punishments for those who refuse to obey.’

  Brother Lonán started back, a look of shock on his face.

  ‘Now,’ she said firmly, ‘know who you are and where you are. Speak in the language of the brethren and tell us what is the matter.’

  The herbalist swallowed nervously. ‘I … I was in the herbarium,’ he began.

  ‘It is dark,’ snapped Magister Ado. ‘What were you doing there at this time?’

  ‘I always go for a walk around the garden during the warmsummer evenings. The smell of the herbs and flowers, the scent of the evening garden … well, it is my pleasure.’

  Magister Ado sniffed in disapproval. ‘We are not here for individual pleasures, Brother Lonán, but-’

  ‘Better to hear what has caused him to be in this state, than to lecture him on what is correct behaviour,’ Venerable Ionas intervened reproachfully.

  ‘The moon is already bright and full, as you can see,’ the herbalist went on after some encouragement. ‘I was walking along the path by the olive trees when I heard a growling sound — the sound of a wolf.’

  ‘Wolves often come down into the valley in their hunt for food,’ observed Magister Ado. ‘What was unusual about this? Was this a reason to be afraid and cry like some whimpering child?’

  ‘I am used to wolves prowling at night, Venerable Ado,’ Brother Lonán replied defensively. ‘I know what to do when I encounter them. I threw stones at it and was surprised when it did not run off with the same alacrity that its kind usually display. It seemed that it would dispute with me. Then I threw some heavier
stones and shouted and it moved away.’

  ‘And so?’ prompted Fidelma, after he had paused.

  ‘It had been digging by the trees. I moved forward. It was dark and shaded. And then the moon suddenly came out and shone between the branches down on the spot where the animal had been digging. Something pale and white was peering up at me from the soil … God help me!’

  Magister Ado gave a sharp intake of breath in his exasperation.

  ‘Tell us what it was,’ Fidelma said quickly.

  ‘It was the face of Brother Eolann.’

  It was a short time later when Brother Lonán guided the party into the herb garden. Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado walked behind him with Fidelma. Brother Hnikar and Brother Wulfila and Brother Faro, armed with lamps and spades, came next. They were led towards a group of olive trees at the far end of the garden. The herbalist stood back while they edged forward to the spot at which he pointed. There was no doubt that the body had been partially uncovered by the digging of the wolves. The lamps of the party played on the deathly white features of the scriptor Brother Eolann.

  Brother Hnikar bent down and examined the head.

  ‘He can’t have been buried that long. The burial seems shallow, which is a sign of a hurried disposal of the body. No wonder the wolf was able to uncover it. However, the state of the body makes me believe that he, too, like the abbot, has been dead for some time.’

  ‘Any idea how he came by his death?’ asked Fidelma.

  Brother Hnikar stood up and she thought she saw him sneer in the flickering lamplight.

  ‘Not from the blow on the head that he received this morning,’ he replied. ‘I will need to examine the body more carefully. Brother Wulfila and Brother Lonán, dig the body up and bring it to my apothecary.’ He turned to Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado. ‘There is no need for us to remain here. Let us proceed to the apothecary and await the body, and then I shall be able to see if an Evil One is stalking the abbey and what manner of death he is inflicting.’

  The last remark was aimed in a cutting tone at the still shivering Brother Lonán.

  They did not have to wait long in the odour-filled apothecary. Brother Hnikar was not a likeable person but he was certainly a professional as he bent over the body. Almost atonce he observed: ‘He was killed by that wound under the hair. It was inflicted by a broad-bladed weapon. If I were given to guessing, it was probably a sword like a gladius.’

  ‘A gladius?’ Fidelma repeated.

  ‘A short, stabbing sword used by the Roman Legions,’ he explained. ‘It is still favoured by some of our warriors these days. I have seen Wulfoald use one.’

  Fidelma frowned. ‘So is it a commonly used weapon?’

  ‘Not that common these days.’ It was Magister Ado who answered her this time. ‘I think warriors on horseback like to use long, slashing swords. It depends on who one is fighting. These short swords are efficient at close quarters, but faced with a charging warrior with a lance or a full-length sword, their use is limited.’

  ‘You cannot tell if he was killed this morning or this evening?’ Fidelma pressed.

  Brother Hnikar actually chuckled. ‘If the day comes when a physician can tell the exact time a body has died, that will be when we shall be able to solve all killings. All we would need is the time when the person died and seize whoever was next to them then. That is a fantasy.’

  ‘I saw him not long before you returned to the abbey, Sister,’ offered Brother Hnikar. ‘I told you so.’

  ‘So he was killed sometime after that.’

  Brother Hnikar shrugged. ‘He was buried after dark, that is all I can say, for the earth has not had any pronounced marking on his clothing or body.’

  ‘Then he must have been in the abbey when I was looking for him,’ Venerable Ionas said. ‘But where was he hiding?’

  ‘Or being hidden,’ added Fidelma. She had been quiet for some time as she pursued a vagrant train of thought. Then she turned suddenly to Magister Ado. ‘Was it Brother Eolann’sidea that you make the journey to Tolosa to negotiate for that book … what was it? The Life of the Blessed Saturnin.’

  Magister Ado was surprised at her memory. ‘It was. Why?’

  ‘Would you have gone otherwise?’

  ‘I would not. The scriptor was quite insistent that that volume must be added to our library, as it would enhance the reputation of our abbey as a great centre of learning. As I had been to Tolosa before, it was felt that I was the best person to negotiate the matter. But how does this connect with the murder of the abbot? How do the two deaths come together?’

  ‘Six deaths,’ Fidelma corrected softly.

  ‘What?’ Magister Ado was shocked.

  ‘Six deaths,’ she repeated, ‘plus an attempt on your life and the wounding of Brother Faro. All these are mixed together. Let us hope there are no other deaths.’

  Brother Wulfila interrupted sharply. ‘I must remind you that it is the custom of the abbey to bury the dead at midnight. Now we have the bodies of Abbot Servillius, Hawisa and Brother Eolann to consign to the earth.’

  ‘Then I suggest we put an end to these speculations and prepare ourselves for the burial of these bodies, unless there are any strong objections?’ The Venerable Ionas glanced toward Magister Ado.

  Magister Ado inclined his head. ‘I concur, Venerable Ionas. Since you are senior here and we will be asked by the brethren to make a choice of a new abbot and bishop, as is custom, let me make clear now, that I intend to nominate you.’

  Venerable Ionas was uncomfortable. ‘While I thank you for your confidence in me, magister, the choice may be left to the wishes of the brethren. But for now we have these bodies to take to the necropolis. It is, indeed, a dreadful day for the abbey.’

  They were moving back across the courtyard, lit by brand torches, and it was clear to Fidelma there was much on the mind of the Venerable Ionas. It was as if he were trying to ask her a question. The others had dispersed and she waited expectantly. He halted and turned to her.

  ‘You said there have been six murders. I count three. Those are bad enough but who else?’

  ‘I count Wamba.’

  ‘Because of the coin? Who else?’

  ‘His mother, Hawisa. The fire was purposely set.’

  ‘And the third? Ah, Brother Ruadán. But Brother Ruadán died from the injuries inflicted on him by a mob of Arians. He died over a week later in his bed — you saw him.’

  Fidelma shook her head slowly. ‘He was smothered in his bed by the same hand that is responsible for all these killings.’

  ‘But why?’

  She smiled uneasily. ‘Cui bono?’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Did not Cicero attribute those words to a Roman judge: who benefits? When we find out who stands to gain from the deaths, then we will know the identity of the killer.’

  Fidelma sat alone in her chamber deep in thought. She had been a fool. Perhaps she was still a fool. Why didn’t she simply head back to Genua and find a ship to Massilia before this valley erupted into the war that was threatening? She had nothing to do with the ambitions of the exiled King Perctarit nor those of Grimoald. She cared nothing about them. She longed to be back in her own land, among her own people. She had only come here to see her old master, Brother Ruadán and, in remembering him, she understood why she was staying. She owed it to him to discover his killer.

  And Brother Eolann? What was the proverb? Superbum sequitur humilitas: arrogance will bring your downfall. It was her arrogance and pride that had allowed her to be led along the false trail of the Aurum Tolosa — a fool’s treasure, indeed! She heaved a sigh and once more began to think that she was stupid to stay here and be arrogant enough to believe that she could solve this puzzle. It had been Paul, in his advice to the Philippians, who exhorted them to do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit but to always act with humility.

  Humility. What did she know when it came to simple facts? Brother Ruadán had given the young boy Wamba two
ancient gold coins. Why? The boy had brought one to the abbey and the next day he was dead, said to have fallen from some rocks. Shortly afterwards, Brother Ruadán was found beaten almost to death outside the gates of the abbey. Brother Ruadán, on his deathbed, believed Wamba had been killed because of the coins. Her old mentor would have eventually died from his injuries, but someone had to make sure that he did not talk to her first. Had it not been for her determination, going in stealth to his chamber before anyone was stirring, she would not have heard of the coins or the boy, Wamba. Then she had shared that knowledge with Brother Eolann.

  As soon as she had mentioned the coins and Wamba to Brother Eolann, she found that she was being led into a fantasy about an ancient treasure. Aurum Tolosa. Or was it a fantasy? She had been misdirected about the name Servillius. Now Brother Eolann was dead. She had thought that he was the culprit. She realised that she was overlooking something, but she could not remember what it was. She was too tired. It had been a long day and there were still the obsequies for the dead to go through.

  Finally she gave up trying to find a coherent train of thought about the matter and decided to prepare herself for the midnight ceremony. Down in the chapel, the brethren had already gathered to pay their respects to the abbot and the scriptor.

  As she entered, Brother Faro seemed to be waiting for her.

  ‘I have not been able to find Sister Gisa,’ he opened immediately. ‘I suppose you have no idea where she might be?’

  ‘None at all,’ replied Fidelma, surprised at his question and the agitation in his voice. ‘I am told that you went out to look for her.’

  ‘I thought I had a vague idea of the whereabouts of the caves used by the hermit Aistulf.’

  ‘But you found no sign?’

  ‘Not of her, nor of the hermit. I was returning when I met Magister Ado on the way. And now there are more deaths to contend with. I heard that Venerable Ionas believes that you are capable of solving these murders. But you do not even speak the language of the Longobards. With respect, for I know both Venerable Ionas and my own master, Magister Ado, have much respect for you, I would advise you to start back to Genua tomorrow. There is much danger here.’