Behold a Pale Horse (35 page)

Fidelma kept her irritation under control. ‘The fire? What fire?’

‘Oh, there appeared to be a great fire high up on the mountain, on Mount Pénas. It blazed brightly in the darkness. Several of our brethren were roused and went out to stand watching it. It blazed a long time. Sometimes, when the weather is hot, fires start among the trees up there.’

‘Brother Eolann is coming with us,’ she asserted, ‘so we had best get another horse.’

Wulfoald looked surprised. ‘Why is the
scriptor
coming with us?’

‘Because he is my witness to what the old woman said and which is so contrary to what you told me.’

The warrior’s mouth tightened. ‘This is delaying us, lady. Brother Bladulf and his companions have already left to ascend to the sanctuary with two of my men.’

Before she had time to reply, Brother Wulfila came hurrying across the courtyard. He seemed agitated.

‘Where is Brother Eolann?’ demanded Fidelma before he had time to recover his breath.

‘Sister … er, lady, you had best come with me. He’s in the
scriptorium
.’

‘What is it?’ she pressed.

However, the steward simply shook his head and waved her to follow him.

With a muttered apology to Wulfoald, she turned and went after him through the small cloisters to the stairs ascending in the tower to the
scriptorium
. Brother Eolann was seated in a chair, with Brother Hnikar bending over him and dabbing at a wound in his forehead with a wet cloth. Blood had stained his robe and he looked very pale.

‘What happened?’ Fidelma gasped.

Brother Hnikar answered first. ‘I think he fell down the steps and knocked himself out.’

‘Is that so? she demanded of the
scriptor
, who nodded and then winced at the movement.

‘Truthfully, I do not know, lady,’ he said, resorting to their own language. ‘I was working late here, as you know. Then, when I had finished, I extinguished the lamp, for I am used to finding my way in the twilight. I was crossing the
scriptorium
when I think I tripped and hit my forehead.’ He raised a hand to show her: there was bruising and signs of a lump.

Fidelma examined the wound closely, much to Brother Hnikar’s annoyance. ‘You
think
you tripped?’ she repeated.

‘I am sure I did. But I am confused. I can’t recall much.’

Then the steward, Brother Wulfila, was speaking. ‘When you asked me to find the
scriptor
I looked for him in his chamber and then came to the
scriptorium
and found him semi-conscious on the floor in a pool of blood. I sent for our physician and came to find you.’

‘I knew nothing until Brother Wulfila was dabbing water on my head,’ confirmed Brother Eolann. ‘He placed me in this chair and went for the physician.’

Brother Hnikar turned, regarding Fidelma with disapproval.

‘I can allow no more questions until I have administered balms for the wound and allowed the
scriptor
to rest.’

Brother Eolann glanced up with an unhappy expression. ‘I am sorry, lady. Brother Hnikar will not allow me to join you to see Hawisa this morning.’

Fidelma grimaced sourly. ‘That much is obvious.’ Without someone she could trust to translate Hawisa’s words, the whole exercise of going to see the old woman again was pointless.

‘Be careful, Brother Eolann,’ she said in her own language. ‘I’ll find an alternative translator.’

Brother Hnikar’s features were even more disapproving now.

‘The Rule in this abbey, Sister Fidelma, is that all conversations are carried on in the common language of the abbey – that is, Latin. We, who are one under God, have no secrets from Him, and therefore should have no secrets from one another.’

Fidelma lowered her head, more to hide her irritation than in a sign of submission.

‘Sister Fidelma was merely wishing me a speedy recovery,’ Brother Eolann said hastily in Latin.

‘Indeed, a speedy recovery,’ she added in Latin.

Brother Eolann hesitated and then said: ‘I am truly sorry, Sister Fidelma. I am sorry for
everything
.’

She left the
scriptorium
with a slightly puzzled frown at the inflection on his last word. Brother Wulfila came hurrying after her.

‘Has Abbot Servillius returned yet?’ she asked as they came down the tower stairs.

‘Neither he nor Sister Gisa have returned,’ replied the steward.

‘And Brother Faro?’

‘Brother Faro left yesterday to take alms to the poor of a settlement down the valley, and has not returned to the abbey.

Fidelma’s mind was working furiously as she emerged into the courtyard. It was now bright daylight. Wulfoald was still waiting, albeit impatiently, with the horses. The courtyard was unusually crowded: everyone seemed to be staring upwards, looking towards the mountain. Fidelma too glanced up. A long pall of grey-black smoke was trailing into the sky at some point on the mountain slopes. A feeling of apprehension came over her.

‘What is that smoke?’ she asked Brother Wulfila, who had followed her out and was also gazing upwards.

‘I told you,’ the steward reproved. ‘During the night there was a blaze on the mountainside that lasted quite a time.’

‘Where would you say it was located?’

‘It is difficult to say exactly. Somewhere along the trail leading to the sanctuary on the mountain-top but,
Deo favente
, it does not seem to be anywhere near the sanctuary of the Blessed Columbanus.’

Wulfoald overheard the exchange and said, ‘If you are worried about the journey, you have only to look there. See, there are the remains of rainclouds sweeping across the peaks. It must have been raining heavily up there. That will have dampened the fire, so there is no danger. Now, where is Brother Eolann?’

‘He will not be coming,’ she replied shortly. ‘He had an accident.’

Wulfoald’s eyes widened. ‘That is unfortunate. Is he badly hurt?’

‘Not badly, but enough to prevent him journeying up the mountain.’

‘Then how …’ began Wulfoald.

‘… will I know what Hawisa is saying unless I rely on you to translate? In the circumstances …’ She smiled tightly.

‘This is a bad business.’ They turned to find that the Venerable Ionas had joined them. For a moment Fidelma was uncertain about what he was referring to. Then she realised that he was staring at the black pall of smoke on the mountain. The elderly scholar suddenly observed Wulfoald waiting with the horses. ‘Where are you off to?’

Wulfoald indicated the mountain. ‘I was heading up there with Sister Fidelma. However, I think she might have changed her mind.’

The Venerable Ionas seemed puzzled. ‘I thought you were sending your warriors with Brother Bladulf to the sanctuary? Is there need for Sister Fidelma to show you the way?’

‘Bladulf and my warriors have already gone but Sister Fidelma and I are on another errand. We were going to Hawisa’s cabin with Brother Eolann, since she needed someone to interpret our language for her. Brother Eolann has had an accident and cannot go.’

‘I need someone who knows your Longobard language as well as Latin,’ she began to explain, and then cursed herself for a fool as the reply was obvious.

‘But Wulfoald speaks—’

‘Alas, I would not be suitable for Sister Fidelma.’ Wulfoald smiled tightly. ‘She needed another voice.’

Venerable Ionas regarded him with incomprehension. Then he shrugged and waved to a rotund little man, unshaven and with bad teeth. The man was strapping a bag to a mule in a corner of the courtyard. He had a mass of black hair flecked with silver and a shaggy beard.

‘Ratchis,’ Venerable Ionas called, turning to Fidelma as the man came waddling over, slightly out of breath. ‘Sister, if you are certain you need another translator, then here is the very man. It is a happy coincidence that he is starting over the mountain this very morning.’

The man halted before them with a lopsided smile and greeted them all in Latin.

‘Ratchis,’ Venerable Ionas said, ‘are you good as a translator? Can you construe our good tongue of the Longobards into Latin?’

The fat merchant looked surprised at the question.

‘I have been trading in these mountains all my life, Venerable Ionas. You know I can.’

‘Then will you accompany Sister Fidelma here up the mountain and translate as she requests?’

The merchant looked doubtful. ‘I am on my way to Ticinum Papia. I cannot delay long.’

‘This will be on the way there,’ intervened Wulfoald, adding in a sour tone, ‘It will not take long. A brief halt and you will be on your way with the blessing of this abbey.’

The merchant glanced at Wulfoald in surprise. ‘Are you coming as well? But you speak both—’

‘Let us delay no longer with questions,’ snapped the warrior in irritation. ‘The sooner we leave, the sooner you will be on your way to Ticinum Papia.’

Fidelma turned to thank the bemused merchant for his services before mounting the horse that Wulfoald held ready. The warrior swung easily into the saddle while the merchant scrambled on to his mule.

‘We could not take the horses all the way up to the sanctuary,’ Wulfoald volunteered, ‘but they can reach just below Hawisa’s cabin. The track across the mountains to Ticinum Papia leads off there: that is the track our merchant friend will take to his destination. That is also the track on which I found Wamba. Let us try to make up now for the lost time.’

Fidelma did not respond. She was still brooding about the fact that Wulfoald seemed so confident that he was in the right.

Brother Wulfila opened the gates, in the absence of Brother Bladulf, and the three riders trotted out and alongside the walls of the abbey to join the track that wound up the mountain towards the distant peak. They had ridden in silence for a while when the merchant Ratchis spoke. His mule was making good time behind them; in fact, the animal was obviously used to climbing the hilly terrain.

‘Did I hear we are going to Hawisa’s cabin?’ he called.

Wulfoald glanced across his shoulder. ‘You know her, merchant?’

‘I know many in these mountains, warrior,’ the small man asserted. ‘I even recognise you as one of Lord Radoald’s men. Why are we going to see the old woman?’

‘To ask a few questions about the death of her son, Wamba,’ Fidelma replied.

‘But Wamba fell from some rocks and killed himself. I remember the gossip well. That was a few weeks ago. I thought he was buried at the abbey.’

‘Were you at the abbey when it happened?’ inquired Fidelma.

‘I arrived in time for the burial that night. I had been at Travo that day. You were there as well, Wulfoald.’

‘Where do you come from, Ratchis?’ Fidelma asked.

‘From Genua.’

‘It’s just that you do not travel with a large caravan of goods.’

Ratchis uttered a hollow laugh. ‘That is because I travel seeking custom at first and, when I have sufficient orders, I return to organise men and mules to deliver the goods. Alas, it seems there is little business to be done in your Valley of Trebbia these days. There is too much tension in the air. That is why I head for Ticinum Papia and will return along the old Salt Road by Vars.’

‘I doubt whether you will find the tension any different there,’ muttered Wulfoald.

‘Why would that be?’ asked the merchant with an air of innocence.

‘Come, Ratchis, you must know as well as I do,’ Wulfoald returned sternly. ‘At the moment Grasulf, the Lord of Vars, controls the old Salt Road from Genua all the way to Ticinum Papia and so all the way on to Mailand. And Mailand has always been loyal to Perctarit. If Grasulf gained control of the Trebbia, then he would control both routes from Genua, the Trebbia to Placentia as well as the old Salt Road to Mailand. Through either route troops and equipment landing at Genua by sea could strike inland in support of Perctarit, if he is at Mailand.’