Behold a Pale Horse (20 page)

‘You have no idea of what they might be about?’

‘Alas, I do not.’

‘Well, I am sorry to bother you on the matter of coins. It was of minor interest.’

The abbey bell began to ring to call the brethren to the evening meal, and with a sigh she thanked him and went to join the others in the
refectorium
. It had been good to have her mind distracted by the problems of the library rather than dwell on the death of Brother Ruadán. But dwell on it, she must. There was a mystery to be solved. A murderer to be caught.

In Fidelma’s culture it was the custom to watch the corpse for a night and a day. She found the custom here slightly different, but it carried the same intent. The body had been watched in the abbey chapel all afternoon and evening. After the evening meal, Fidelma joined the brethren and some of the Sisters in prayers in the chapel, seated before the bier. All the senior clerics were in attendance now, from the abbot to Brother Lonán, the gardener. After a while, Lord Radoald, accompanied by the warrior, Wulfoald, entered the chapel and came straight to her side to sit down.

‘Brother Ruadán was a good man and well respected in this valley,’ whispered the young Lord of Trebbia. ‘I am truly sorry, especially for you, having travelled to this place to see him and then to find him dead.’

‘I saw him …’ Fidelma began, then saw that Brother Hnikar, seated just in front of her, was leaning backwards in an attitude of apparent unconcern, in order to eavesdrop. ‘I saw him when I arrived,’ she said, ‘but his mind was wandering for he made no sense.’

‘Sad, indeed. I presume this means you will shortly start on your journey back to your own land?’

Fidelma frowned, wondering if there was a hidden eagerness in his voice. Was he anxious to get rid of her?

‘I shall commence my journey back to Genua soon.’

‘Then when you are ready, it would be my pleasure to send an escort with you as far as Genua, for we would not like a repeat of the unpleasantness that attended your journey hither.’

‘You may rest assured that I would not like it either,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘I will inform you when I am ready.’

The young Lord of Trebbia rose, with Wulfoald at his side, then went to make his obeisance before the altar and the bier of Brother Ruadán.

In a custom that she was familiar with in her own land, at midnight the corpse of Brother Ruadán was carried on its bier from the chapel and out of the abbey. The necropolis was not far away. It was an area on the slope of the hill behind the abbey, surrounded by a small wall and entered by a stone arched gateway.

In front of the bier strode one of the brethren bearing a cross on a pole, flanked by two others bearing brand torches. Behind the bier, which was carried by six brothers, came Abbot Servillius, Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado. After them, came Fidelma side by side with Brother Eolann. Others of the brethren, like Brother Lonán, Brother Faro and Brother Wulfila, followed, along with several women of the sisterhood, including Sister Gisa. Others had joined the torchlit procession outside the gates of the abbey. With them came the Lord Radoald and Wulfoald and some of the local townsfolk. It seemed that Ruadán had been well respected. The column of mourners moved under the archway into the necropolis, progressing slowly up the hill towards a spot where Fidelma could see several other torches burning.

There were an assortment of grave markers on either side which she could just make out in the flickering light of the torches. Yet, at the top of the rise, which marked the back of the necropolis, stood three small houses, though they were not houses that she had ever seen before. It was hard to make them out in the darkness.

As the brethren had entered the necropolis, they had begun a chant in Latin which Fidelma had not heard before.

‘Dominus pascit me, nihil mihi deerit
…’ The Lord rules me and I shall want nothing.

They moved in file behind the bier as it was carried by torchlight to the place where the grave had been dug.

‘Sed et si ambulavero in valle mortis non timebo malum quoniam tu mecum es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa consolabuntur me …’
For though I should be in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they have comforted me …

They moved through the gates and Fidelma saw several of the brethren already awaiting them. They stood by a hole freshly dug in the dark earth.

The body was lowered into it, prayers were said and then Abbot Servillius motioned Fidelma to step forward.

She suddenly found that she wanted to turn on them and accuse one of them for the murder of her mentor. She wanted to cry out that he had not died of injuries received from a week or two ago but that he had been murdered that very morning after he had spoken to her. That he had tried to issue her with some warning and had told her to leave this evil place. But she gathered her racing thoughts and calmed herself.

‘Brother Ruadán was from the Kingdom of Muman, one of the Five Kingdoms that you call the land of Hibernia. He was named after a holy man who is regarded in my land as one of the Twelve Apostles of Hibernia. This Blessed Ruadán became the first Abbot of Lothra, which was near the home of the young Brother Ruadán, who grew up with a thirst for learning and piety. He entered the Abbey of Inis Celtra, a small island in a great lake, where he devoted himself to his books and the pursuit of knowledge. I, among many others, studied under him and grew rich in knowledge from his instruction and profound in wisdom from his guidance. His life was one of the few beacons of light in this dark world.’

Fidelma then took up a handful of earth and threw it down into the grave.

Abbot Servillius gave her a glance of approval and stepped forward in turn.

‘Hibernia’s loss was the gain of this abbey. It was a sad day for Hibernia when Brother Ruadán left its shores and became a
peregrinus pro amore Christi
. But it was a great joy to us when he entered the gates of this community. He became one of our greatest preachers, going out among the heathen and trying to bring them to the path of truth. He suffered for the truth, and we may say he was a true martyr – for he died of the beating inflicted upon him by those whom prefer heresy to obedience to the Faith. His soul will be gathered to God and there will be joy in the heavens.’

He, too, bent and picked up a handful of earth. Then, one by one, those gathered there did likewise. Each stood a moment with their thoughts of the old man before turning away.

As Fidelma and the others moved away from the grave, an eerie wailing sound pierced the night air. It had a ghostly, musical quality and Fidelma recognised it as the sound of bagpipes. It was almost like the instruments used in her own lands, but more thin and reed-like than the pipes she had grown up with. It seemed to echo round the mountains with a lamenting cry, like a soul in torment. She turned with a startled look to the Venerable Ionas, whom she found next to her.

‘Have no fear, daughter,’ the elderly scholar said with a smile. ‘It is only old Aistulf playing the
muse
– a lament for the departed.’

‘Aistulf the hermit? What is the
muse
?’

‘It is the bagpipes played by the folk of the mountains here. Sometimes, at night, when sound carries across the valley, you may hear old Aistulf playing the pipes. Do not let it concern you.’

The mourners were leaving the necropolis. One of the torch-bearers waited to accompany Fidelma and others. As they walked down the path between the gravestones and wooden crosses, she caught sight of a rough wooden cross with a name on it. It was unlike the well-crafted memorial stones around it, and in the flickering light she noticed that the name was not so much engraved as burned into the wood by means of a hot iron. They had passed on before the name had completely registered in her mind.
Wamba
. Where had she heard that word before? Then she almost stopped dead in her tracks. The name had been spoken by Brother Ruadán!

‘The boy … poor little Wamba. He did not deserve to die because he had the coins.’

Those were the very words that he had said that morning. What coins? Why
the
coins? How did Wamba die? Whom could she ask? Whom could she trust?

By the time she had returned to her chamber in the guest-house, her mind was swimming with so many questions that she knew she would be unable to sleep. But exhaustion caught up with her and suddenly she was waking to the early-morning light.

‘I have,’ she replied.

‘Excellent. A good sleep can be a great healing of emotions.’

The prayers and the single bell proclaimed the ritual of the meal which was eaten this time in a self-imposed silence. Even Magister Ado and the Venerable Ionas seemed engrossed in their own thoughts. It was not until the end of the meal that Abbot Servillius approached her again. He reached into his
marsupium
, drew out something wrapped in a piece of cloth and handed it to her.

‘As I promised, here is the item that you may take back to Brother Ruadán’s abbey, where he started out on his journey, as a token of the love we bore him.’

Fidelma unwrapped it. It was a silver cross that Brother Ruadán had worn on a small chain around his neck. She remembered it well from the time she was a child when he had been teaching her. Solemnly, she re-wrapped it and put it in her own
marsupium
.

‘The brethren of Inis Celtra will appreciate this, Abbot Servillius. Thank you for this gesture.’

The abbot waved her thanks aside. ‘I suppose you will be thinking of making your plans to travel back to your own country now?’ he said. ‘The autumn will soon be approaching. I would not delay any longer, for the road between here and Genua becomes very bad. The Trebbia is inclined to flood and make it impassable.’

Fidelma was about to reply when the abbot apparently seemed to catch sight of someone across the
refectorium
, asked her pardon and hurried off. Then she was aware of Magister Ado at her side, speaking to her.

‘It was my fault, encouraging you to make a journey all this way for nothing,’ he was saying. ‘You could have been halfway across the ocean by now.’

‘I came to see Brother Ruadán,’ she replied reprovingly. ‘At least I was able to do that before his death and am now able to tell his brethren at Inis Celtra how he was gathered to God after serving this abbey. The abbot was kind enough to give me a relic to take to them in remembrance.’

Magister Ado appeared embarrassed. ‘I chose my words in a clumsy manner, for which I sincerely apologise. I am glad to offer you any assistance you require to help you back to Genua. Have you made any plans as to when you will leave?’

It seemed to Fidelma that there were many people suddenly willing to help her leave the abbey and return to Genua: Radoald, Abbot Servillius and now Magister Ado. She wondered why.

‘I have made no plans yet,’ she told him. ‘I am hoping I will have time to study the abbey and the surrounding countryside a little before doing so.’

Magister Ado looked astonished. ‘Why?’ It was almost a demand.

‘So that I am able to report to the scholars of Hibernia how the Blessed Colm Bán chose this place to end his days,’ she replied easily. ‘I have barely seen anything yet. I shall depart when I have gathered sufficient information to satisfy the scholars of Hibernia, and you, as a scholar, should appreciate that above all people.’

She left the
refectorium
and made her way to the gates of the abbey. Her intention was to examine the gravestone that had caught her eye the previous night. At the gate was Sister Gisa, waiting.

‘How are you this morning, Sister Fidelma?’ the young girl greeted her with apparent concern.

‘Well enough,’ replied Fidelma. It seemed everyone was also solicitous about her welfare.

‘A sad thing it is, to have come all this way to witness the death of your old master.’

‘At least it can be said that I saw him before he died,’ Fidelma replied before changing the subject. ‘Are you waiting for Brother Faro?’ she asked. The girl actually flushed.