The Haunted Abbot sf-12

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Merciful God!’ he breathed as he examined it.

  Fidelma stood impatiently at the door. ‘What is it?’

  He turned and held it out so that she could see it in the light.Burned onto the leather below the patterned symbol, probably by means of a red hot needle or similarly pointed object, was a name. The name was ‘Botulf’.

  ‘It is empty,’ she observed, quickly peering inside. ‘What is your friend’s purse doing here?’

  Eadulf had been looking closely around the spot where he had found it. There were dark stains there. He followed a splattering of them to where some steps led upwards to be blocked by an old, wooden door, bolted on the inside.

  Fidelma had recognised the stains.

  ‘Blood. I think your friend Botulf might have met his death here?’ she observed softly.

  Eadulf shivered and not with cold. He was aware that she was coughing again.

  ‘I’ll wager that door leads through the crypt to the small courtyard by the chapel. Poor Botulf’s body was found there. I’ll keep this,’ he said, putting the purse in his sacculus. ‘We’d best move on. We can consider this matter later.’

  The passage seemed to continue for ever and he was coming to the awful conclusion that he had mistaken the directions. Perhaps it had been two left turns after all, instead of two right? He was about to suggest that they turn back when he saw some light up ahead.

  It was the end of the tunnel. The exit was covered with creepers. Trailing growths hung over it like a curtain. Eadulf had a little difficulty in pushing them aside, halting to draw back the foliage for Fidelma to squeeze though. Clearly no one had been through this way in some time.

  Cautiously he moved forward. The dankness and cold of the passage had prepared them for the chill of the day outside. Although the sky was clear and blue, the snow lay like a crisp covering over every exposed place.

  They had actually emerged twenty or so paces from the abbey walls, in the shelter of a hillock where trees provided a thin screen from watching eyes.

  Eadulf peered cautiously round.

  ‘Down!’ he suddenly hissed.

  Fidelma obeyed him without question.

  Close by the south wall of the abbey were gathered half a dozenmen. With them, seated on horseback, was a slim figure with long red hair. It appeared to be a girl. One of the men was talking to her. Then she raised her hand in acknowledgment and urged her horse forward, straight towards their hiding place. The track brought her very close to where they were concealed, but the black mare she was riding raced by without their being spotted. Eadulf was frowning as he gazed after her vanished form.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Fidelma, noticing his curious expression.

  ‘I could swear that was the same woman I saw the other night — the one everybody is making such a fuss about.’ He looked back towards the men by the abbey walls. ‘I wonder what they are doing?’

  Fidelma followed his gaze.

  ‘Men from the abbey preparing for this Saxon attack?’

  Eadulf shook his head.

  ‘A strange place to set up a defensive position,’ he said. ‘Any attack from the sea is going to come from the east.’ He paused and listened. There was no sound of any approaching warband, nor of any personal pursuit. He looked around cautiously. ‘I am afraid that it is going to be a fair walk to Tunstall. I wish we could have procured some horses.’

  Fidelma, feeling much better since leaving the dark, damp confines of the tunnels, was mischievous.

  ‘I thought that you did not enjoy riding?’

  Eadulf smiled briefly. Her humour was a sign that she was returning to her old self.

  ‘I am worried for you. It is a long way to trudge through the cold snow in your condition.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Eadulf. It is true that I would prefer to be seated before a good fire with a hot drink but beggars cannot choose. The sooner we start, the sooner we will arrive.’

  Eadulf nodded but he insisted on carrying both their travelling bags so that Fidelma would not be burdened with hers. They moved deeper into the woods and Eadulf tried to find tracks that were clear of snow and so would not leave a trail that could easily be seen by those wishing to pursue them. He kept a slow but steady pace but, even so, Fidelma had to rest now and then for her breathing was fast and shallow. It was obvious that she was not entirely recovered from the illness.

  Picking his way carefully, Eadulf led the way through the forest and undergrowth. After some time he glimpsed what appeared to be a woodsman’s cottage through the trees. It was a short distance above them on the slopes of the hill. A thin blue wisp of smoke was curling from the chimney. Although they had not come very far from the abbey, Eadulf felt it might be a suitable place for Fidelma to rest in comfort for a while. He turned to Fidelma who was only just catching up with him.

  ‘I am going to see if we can claim hospitality at that woodsman’s hut,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you sit down on that log for a moment while I go up there?’

  Fidelma sank down thankfully onto the log to recover her breath. She glanced up towards the hut.

  ‘Aren’t we too close to the abbey to rest for a while? If the abbey is attacked then the attackers may well march in this direction.’

  Eadulf shook his head. ‘I think we will be safe for a while yet.’

  ‘I would prefer to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the abbey, but …’ She shrugged. She was too weak to argue with him.

  Eadulf left her and made his way towards the woodsman’s hut. From the outside it appeared deserted as there were no dogs or other animals about. But the wisp of smoke indicated there was a fire lit inside and where there was a fire there must be someone to stoke it. He walked confidently to the door. Then he saw a horse, still saddled, with its reins hitched to a nearby post. It was blowing a little as if it had just had a hard ride. It was a black mare.

  He drew near and was about to raise his fist to the door to announce his presence when a scream stopped him. It was a female scream which ended in a peal of laughter. Then a voice, a woman’s voice, began to speak. The words were punctuated with squeals and groans.

  ‘Come, lover … oh, it is good … good … oh …’

  It was obvious what was taking place inside and Eadulf dropped his arm. He felt a surge of embarrassment. Then he suddenly realised, with some shock, that the voice was speaking in the language of Éireann.

  He hesitated, wondering what to do. Half of him wanted to turn away and the other half of him was curious to know who was speaking in such a fashion.

  He suppressed his embarrassment and moved cautiously along the wall to where he had seen a window. There was no glass in it and the piece of sacking was torn. He edged near and took a quick glance into the hut. Then, ascertaining that he was not being observed by those inside, he took a longer look, feeling like some heteroclite; like some perverted peeper.

  He saw what he had expected to see: a man and woman making love. It seemed that the woman was more active than the man, talking and moaning all the time. She was young and slim, with a shock of reddish-blonde hair. Above her naked body was a thick-set man of middle age. The first thing that Eadulf noticed about him was that he wore the tonsure of St Peter. Then the man raised his face but, fortunately for Eadulf, his good eye was tight shut in his ecstasy. The other was still covered by its leather patch.

  It was Brother Willibrod, the dominus of Aldred’s Abbey.

  Eadulf turned swiftly away, swallowing hard. He paused for a moment, gathering his breath, and then went back down the hill and through the woods to where Fidelma was patiently waiting.

  ‘We will get no hospitality there,’ he said shortly, responding to her questioning look. ‘We should move on immediately.’

  Fidelma saw his anxiety and did not press him with questions. Eadulf would tell her what disturbed him in his own good time.

  They moved as fast as her ability allowed and it was not long before they found that their road, if they inten
ded to proceed south to Tunstall, had to cross the River Aide. Fast flowing and icy cold, it was too deep to wade across. Eadulf had forgotten that, being denied the use of the bridge by the abbey, they would have to continue along the river bank until they came to a suitable ford, which might take them miles out of their way.

  They had managed to walk a distance of what he judged to be a further two miles or so when Fidelma said: ‘I am sorry, Eadulf, I must rest for a little while again.’

  Eadulf could see that she was exhausted. He realised that they ought to find some shelter and soon. He stopped, and then was glad that he had halted, otherwise he might not have heard thesound. It was a creaking of wood, overlaid by a squeal of protest. Then a heavy snort.

  ‘A heavy wagon,’ commented Fidelma, whose hearing was acute.

  ‘Wait here,’ muttered Eadulf and moved hurriedly forward towards the track from which the sound was emanating. The track proved to be close by and led down to the river. A heavy-looking, four-wheeled wagon pulled by two mules came swaying along it, driven by a man in a leather jerkin. He had a ruddy face and heavy jowls. Seated by him was a second man with a swarthy complexion. The driver was easing the wagon down the incline towards the river with the obvious intention of crossing.

  Eadulf seized the opportunity without thinking further. He stepped through the bushes almost into the path of the wagon.

  ‘Good day, brothers!’

  Startled, the driver heaved on the reins, bringing the vehicle to a halt. His companion’s hand went to the knife in his belt. When they saw that they were being accosted by a religious, they both relaxed a little.

  ‘Good day, Brother,’ the driver said in a strangely accented voice.

  Eadulf raised his voice so that Fidelma could hear him and would come to join him.

  ‘Forgive me, brothers, but are you travelling southwards?’

  ‘As you can see,’ replied the driver. ‘We are bound for the port of Gipeswic.’

  ‘Ah,’ smiled Eadulf. ‘My companion is exhausted and our destination lies a few miles along your road. Is it possible that you might have room on your wagon? It would facilitate our crossing the river.’

  The driver was frowning, a refusal forming on his lips. Eadulf heard Fidelma come up behind him. The driver suddenly relaxed and glanced at his companion who nodded briefly.

  ‘There is room, indeed, Brother. We are merchants from Frankia. Forgive our wariness but it is said that outlaws throng these woods. Your companion seems to be from the land of Éireann.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Fidelma smiled weakly.

  ‘By the cut of your robes, Sister. We come from Péronnewhere there is a community of Irish religious under their abbot named Ultan.’

  Eadulf looked surprised. ‘Ultan? Surely he is bishop at Ard Macha?’

  Fidelma was indulgent in her explanation: ‘It is a name given to any man from the kingdom of Ulaidh. But I know the Ultan you mean,’ she said, turning to the Frankish merchants. ‘He is brother to Fursa who once led a mission to this land of the East Angles.’

  Eadulf’s eyes widened a little. ‘That Ultan still lives and is abbot in Frankia?’

  The driver grinned. ‘He was when we left six months ago to bring some trade to this land.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Get down, Dado, and help the good sister into the wagon. Have you travelled far, Brother?’ This to Eadulf. ‘Your companion looks tired and weak.’

  ‘We have travelled some distance,’ Eadulf replied ingenuously. ‘We are most grateful for your charity.’

  They climbed onto the wagon and seated themselves behind the driver, a man called Dagobert, and his companion Dado. Eadulf noticed the wagon was full of trade goods. Many were local items which he realised must have been swapped for the goods brought from Frankia.

  ‘Have you had a successful journey, brothers?’ inquired Eadulf as the wagon lurched forward, continuing down towards the river.

  ‘There is little trade in this poor land, Brother,’ the driver replied, as he cracked his whip over the heads of the mules.

  ‘There seems a scarcity of gold and jewellery in your land,’ added his companion, Dado. ‘We brought some plate garnet and amethyst. Your smiths seemed to want our Frankish coin only to melt it down to use the gold.’ Dado pursed his lips and made a spitting sound without actually spitting. ‘The smiths here seem a poor lot. And the pottery production!’ He raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Many still seem to construct their vessels without a potter’s wheel and bake it with an uneven firing by building nothing more elaborate than a bonfire over a stack of sun-dried pots. What do these people have to trade? We shall not be coming this way again.’

  Eadulf felt a little uncomfortable at these merchants’ assessment of his homeland.

  ‘Surely there is trade to be gained in the manufacture of wool or weaving of cloth?’ he demanded irritably.

  ‘Better quality is to be had elsewhere. The people here are more a warrior people, living on subsistence farms,’ replied the man. ‘Even for the grinding of the corn they have to send for quernstones from Frankia. That is what we have brought across, lava quernstone and millstones to grind the grain of the Saxons. What is offered in return? Slaves? There are too many Anglo-Saxon slaves on the market. It was the discovery of such slaves in the markets in Rome which caused the blessed Bishop of Rome, Gregory, to send Augustine to the kingdom of Kent. There are still many parts of this land that are pagan, but Christian or pagan, the only export seems to be slaves.’

  Eadulf compressed his lips sourly.

  Fidelma, however, seized the opportunity to gain more knowledge from the gossip.

  ‘I have heard that the East Saxons have gone back to their old gods,’ she said.

  Dado, who appeared to be the more talkative of the two once he had started, nodded immediately.

  ‘We heard many stories when we first arrived at the port of Gipeswic. They say that King Sigehere was burning down all the Christian centres and rounding up the religious as slaves … those he does not kill, of course.’

  ‘I was wondering if you had heard any news of a warband landing downriver?’

  Dado whistled and glanced at Dagobert with a shake of his head.

  ‘We have heard nothing. When was this?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘That is curious,’ said Dado, frowning.

  ‘Curious?’ Fidelma pressed.

  ‘An hour or so ago we had paused to take some refreshment when we met another traveller — a rider on horseback. He had come directly from the coast this morning and made no mention of any raid. But it is probably best that we are returning to our homeland. I suggest you do the same. This has proved aninhospitable land. Poverty, slaves and warfare. God speed our return to Frankia.’

  ‘Amen to that, Dado,’ muttered the driver.

  Eadulf sat silently, a red flush on his cheeks. Something angered him about these strangers speaking of his country in such a manner. The trouble was that he could not think of any counter argument. His people were a warrior people who had swept through Europe guided by what they could seize at the point of the sword. Before the faith came, the greatest end that any one of them could meet was a death in battle, sword in hand, and the name of the god Woden on his lips.

  It was less than one hundred years ago that Wuffa, son of Wehha, had led his people to this land and made himself the first King of East Anglia, driving the Britons westward. Ten kings had succeeded Wuffa, who was descended from Woden himself, from Casere the fourth son of the great god. Eadulf as gerefa could recite the eight generations between Woden and Wuffa. More, he could recite the ten generations that separated Wuffa from King Ealdwulf.

  Wuffa’s son Tytila who was killed in battle against Ceolwulf of Wessex; Redwald who became bretwalda or overlord of the Saxon kingdoms; Eorpwald who was murdered by his brother because he converted to Christianity; Ricbert the Pagan who met with an end that was uncertain; then Sigebert, Egric, Anna, and Athelhere who all died in battle, sword in hand. Then
Athelwold who ruled for nearly eight years before Ealdwulf came to power. Normally, Eadulf would have been proud at the recitation of the kings of the East Angles. But he had travelled extensively and seen much and now he began to wonder if there was anything to be proud of in coming from a warrior nation that could offer no trade to others except a trade in slaves.

  He shivered and drew his robe closer around him. Surely he had been too long in the five kingdoms of Éireann that he was now questioning the values of his own people? It was not so long ago that he, as a young man, would have been proud to grasp his sword and run into battle crying for the blessing of Woden, Thunor or Frig! But there are no footsteps that lead backwards. He had moved on and it was not merely his time outside his own land that made him question its values but thenew faith itself. That was calling into question all the old ways; all the old values.

  ‘You are quiet, Eadulf. Is anything wrong?’

  He turned at Fidelma’s soft whisper and forced an answering smile.

  ‘Just thinking, that is all.’

  The cart was moving slowly along the track; the mules were sure-footed and hardy beasts and had seemed to make light of pulling the heavy vehicle across the river.

  ‘You were saying that you heard there were outlaws in the woods, my friend.’ Eadulf suddenly addressed the driver, Dagobert. ‘Have you heard stories of an outlaw called Aldhere?’

  Dagobert inclined his head but it was his companion Dado who answered.

  ‘We met with many who talked of this bandit, Aldhere,’ he said. ‘Thanks be to the Almighty that we did not encounter him, otherwise we would be returning home even poorer than we are at the moment — that is, if we had been in a condition to return home.’

  ‘A fierce outlaw, then?’ Eadulf pressed.

  ‘Not so,’ interrupted Dagobert before his companion could speak. ‘My friend Dado neglects to tell you that we heard much talk but little bad said of him.’