The Haunted Abbot (9 page)

‘I’ll remember,’ Fidelma called after him. ‘And be circumspect with your questions, Eadulf. It seems an easy thing to cause annoyance to the brethren of this place.’

Eadulf left the guests’ hostel as a distant bell began to toll the Angelus. He increased his pace along the dark stone-flagged corridor, trying to remember the route to the chapel. It was icy cold and through the arches that gave onto the quadrangle he could see that the snow was still slanting downward from the black night sky. Making his way through a series of covered ways he came to a smaller quadrangle, encompassed by a covered walkway. On the side that Eadulf was proceeding along, a door at the end was illuminated by a storm lantern. He could see a similar lantern lighting another door on the far side. The snow lay thick where the quadrangle was open to the elements. He realised that this was the small area at the back of the chapel where poor Brother Botulf’s body had been found. He paused. One of the doors must lead to the crypt.

He was standing by one of the pillars, trying to reason how best to get to the other side of the chapel where the main doors were, when he noticed a movement on the far side of the quadrangle, among the shadows of the covered walkway. A slim figure in a long cloak moved from a darkened recess and strode swiftly, silently, along it. He watched the progress of the figure, frowning. There was something incongruous about it, given the surroundings. The figure paused just by the door with the lantern, hesitated and cast a quick glance around, as if to ensure that it was not being observed. Eadulf’s eyes widened a fraction.

The shadowy light revealed the face of a young woman. Even from across the quadrangle, Eadulf had the impression of ethereal beauty, of pale skin - was it too pale? It might have been a trick of the light - and fair hair. The figure was not clad as a religieuse but in some rich, crimson gown and there was evidence of silver jewellery and glittering gemstones.

Then, quickly, silently, the figure vanished through the door.

Eadulf stood for a moment or two wondering who the young woman was and what she was doing in an abbey which he was assured was the preserve only of men pledged to a life of celibacy under the faith. No women were supposed to be allowed within these walls.

When Eadulf reached the chapel, the abbot had already begun the service for the soul of Brother Botulf. He was intoning the blessing and Eadulf was forced to put his questions to one side.

‘May the blessing of light be on you, light without and light within …’

There were some thirty or more brethren gathered in the chapel. Eadulf took his seat on a bench at the back, not wishing to make himself conspicuous among the assembly.

He glanced around. Most of the congregation were young. They seemed to be sturdy men. Several had features that were harsh and would not be out of place in a battle host, seeming more suited to swords and shields rather than a crucifix and a phial of holy water.

They followed the prayers with a song. Eadulf did not know it and so did not join in.

Abbot Cild then came forward and had just started an adulatory soliloquy when the two great wooden doors of the chapel opened with a crash.

Eadulf, along with the rest of the congregation of brethren, swung round startled.

A tall man stood framed in the doorway, feet wide apart, a naked sword in one hand, his shield ready on the other arm in a defensive position. That he was a warrior was easy to see but who or what manner of warrior was more difficult to recognise. He wore a burnished helmet on which was fashioned the head and wings of a goose. The goose had its beak open in a warning; its neck was curved and low while its wings were swept back on either side of the helmet. It was a truly frightening image. Eadulf vaguely recalled hearing that in some cultures the goose was an emblem of battle. It seemed so now, for below this helmet was a faceguard and only the bright eyes of the warrior glinted in the candlelight from the chapel, emanating a threatening malignancy.

A long black fur cloak hid the body, although Eadulf saw the glint of a breastplate underneath. The arm that held the menacing sword was muscular. For several long seconds there was absolute silence in the chapel. Then the man spoke, or rather his voice was raised so that it reverberated throughout the building. His Saxon was stilted and accented.

‘Know me, Cild, abbot of Aldred’s Abbey. Look upon me and know me.’

There was a moment of utter silence in the chapel.

Abbot Cild must have been a man of iron control for he did not seem perturbed at all by the threatening appearance of the warrior. When he replied it was in a sneering tone.

‘I do not recognise men who come armed into Christ’s house with their features disguised by war helmets.’

The warrior responded with a fierce smack of his sword across his shield. The sound was like a thunderclap.

‘You who pretend not to know the crest I wear on my helmet, you who pretend not to know my voice … you know me well. I am Garb son of Gadra. Tell your brethren - do I lie?’

Abbot Cild hesitated.

‘If you say so, so you are,’ he responded tightly.

‘I am Garb of the Plain of the Yew Trees.’

‘And if you are,’ rejoined the abbot, still not cowed, ‘then you commit sacrilege in the manner of your coming. Put down your sword.’

The Irish warrior, for Eadulf had identified the man by his accent as well as the name he had given, gave a sharp laugh.

‘I value my life too much to put down my weapon in this place. I will keep my sword.’

‘Then tell us what you want and be gone.’

‘I will—’ The man stopped short and turned quickly to the side. ‘Cild, tell your brethren they are dead men if they come further!’

Two men with drawn bows suddenly appeared at the Irish warrior’s sides. Eadulf, too, had noticed that several of the Saxon brethren had been edging along the side aisle of the chapel. To Eadulf’s surprise, they carried short swords in their hands. Their obvious intention was to disarm or close with the intruder. Cild rapped out an order. They halted, realising that the arrows were aimed unerringly at them.

Abbot Cild waved them back. ‘Return to your places, Brothers. Let us deal with this madman peacefully.’

The Irish warrior turned back to him. ‘Madman? That is good, coming from your mouth, Cild. But it is wise that you tell your men to desist for it is not my intention to join poor Botulf there in an early grave.’

Eadulf started at the use of his friend’s name on the lips of this warrior who called himself Garb.

‘Don’t profane his name by uttering it!’ cried Abbot Cild, his voice filled with an angry emotion for the first time.

‘Botulf was a good friend to my family, Cild, as well you know,’ went on the warrior in a calm tone. ‘It is in
your
mouth that his name is profaned. It was convenient for you that he was killed on this day of all days. Maybe it is another debt to be added to your account?’

Abbot Cild stared at the man woodenly.

‘Brother Botulf was killed by a thief,’ he finally said. ‘An outlaw breaking into this abbey. He will soon be caught and dealt with.’

‘A thief? Perhaps. I still call it convenient.’ There was irony in the man’s voice. ‘By the virtue of my sisters, I still call it convenient!’

‘What do you want, Garb?’ Abbot Cild’s eyes were suddenly furtive. His change of expression was not lost on Eadulf.

‘Ah, you have no difficulty recognising me now, eh?’ The voice of the warrior was bantering.

‘What do you want?’

‘I come from my father, Gadra; from Gadra who was also father to Gélgeis, the wife whom you put from you and killed.’

A gasp of shock rippled through the chapel. Eadulf glanced swiftly from accuser to abbot in astonishment. Abbot Cild’s face was white and now etched in sharp lines. The dark eyes were like coals.

‘I did not kill your sister, Garb.’

‘You would doubtless deny it. You have no shame. Yet shame shall be your portion, Cild. I come as an emissary of my father, chief of the Plain of the Yew and father of your murdered wife. This is not the first time he has accused you of her murder and called upon you to come to arbitration. You have refused to do so. Will you do it now?’

‘If I did not do so before, I will not do so now while you threaten me. Go back to your own country, Garb. Go back to your father. You and your people are not welcome in our Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. You cannot cow me with the threat of violence, for you will never leave this abbey alive if I am harmed.’

Garb chuckled softly. ‘You are an arrogant fool, Cild! I have merely come to perform the ritual
apad
. I do not threaten you.’

‘The what … ?’ Cild’s voice was hesitant.

‘I give you notice that my father seeks restitution for the murder of his daughter at your hands. He undertakes the ritual
troscud
to compel you to accept the arbitration of the court. You have nine days, according to our law, to consider your position and then my father will begin the
troscud
… he will fast to the death or until you have accepted arbitration.’

Abbot Cild’s sharp features moved swiftly to relief and then broke into a sneer.

‘And if I do not accept this arbitration and your father merely dies for his mistaken belief in my guilt, what then?’

‘If you allow my father to die while fasting for justice, then the shame is yours. Not just in this world but in the next. Every man’s hand can be raised against you to strike you down without fear of punishment, for you then lose all rights as a human being.

‘I have also to say this. According to our law you are an
airchinnech
, a monastic superior, and so from the time of this
apad
you are prohibited from reciting the
pater
or
credo
or going to the sacrament of the Mass.’ The warrior turned his head slightly and whispered something to one of his companions who, relaxing his bow and replacing the arrow in his quiver, hurried forward to the altar of the chapel. From beneath his cloak he took a circlet of twisted willow branches and tossed it to the foot of the altar.

There was a mutter of concern from the brethren as the man trotted back to the side of Garb the warrior and resumed his stance with his readied bow.

‘See that withe?’ cried Garb. ‘That is symbolic of the moral prohibition that is placed on you, not to perform your priestly functions until such time as you concede justice to my father. If you ignore this, then your soul may be damned.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ mocked Cild. ‘Your laws do not apply here. This is not one of the kingdoms of Éireann but the kingdom of the East Angles.’

‘You were married to my sister in my father’s house on the Plain of the Yew. Your oaths were sworn by the Laws of the Fénechus in front of a Brehon. The same laws now hold you accountable for her death. You have nine days before the
troscud
starts. Now, I have fulfilled my task.’

With that the warrior stepped rapidly back. His companions reached forward and slammed the doors shut. There was a rush to the doors by the brethren nearest them but they found the doors barred on the outside.

Eadulf had not left his seat. Garb had obviously planned this confrontation well and he would have prepared his retreat with equal precision. Eadulf suspected that the warrior and his companions would have made good their escape by the time the infuriated brethren broke out of the chapel. He glanced to where Abbot Cild was still standing at the lectern where he had been interrupted. Brother Willibrod had gone to his side.

‘How did they get into the abbey?’ Abbot Cild was demanding. ‘The doors were shut and secured, weren’t they?’

‘I will find out,’ Brother Willibrod replied, almost rubbing his hands together in his anguish. ‘But what should we do?’

‘Do?’ Abbot Cild had turned and was staring at the withe lying at the foot of the altar. ‘First, you may take that and throw it on the fire. Second, you may see to the burial of Brother Botulf. Third, you may ensure that those brothers who will accompany me in the search for Aldhere and his outlaws tomorrow are properly armed. I have a feeling that these Irish bandits will be found with him.’

Eadulf rose and walked across to him. ‘Bandits? It did not sound to me as if the warrior, Garb, was a bandit. I have spent some time in his country and what he was saying was a ritual prescribed by law, although I do not understand most of it.’

Abbot Cild glowered at him. ‘This is none of your business, Brother Eadulf. I advise you not to interfere.’ Cild glanced to where some of the brethren were still banging on the secured doors of the chapel. ‘Stop that nonsense!’ he shouted.

They turned, like frightened children, and stood heads hung before the abbot.

Cild turned to Brother Willibrod. ‘Take one of the brethren through the underground passage beneath the chapel and open the doors. I should imagine that the wretches are long gone by now. It was merely a means to hold us here while they escaped.’

It seemed a long while before the chapel doors were opened. In fact it was probably no more than ten minutes.

‘Where is Brother Willibrod?’ demanded the abbot, striding forward. Eadulf noticed that it had stopped snowing and although the wind was still up it was blowing less strongly than before.

‘He went to see how they were able to enter the abbey,’ said the brother who had opened the doors, backing before the abbot.

At that moment, Brother Willibrod came hurrying up to join them.

‘They came over the wall,’ he began breathlessly. ‘I saw the marks in the snow. Three of them must have climbed up by means of a rope and grappling hook. I went outside and found signs of where half a dozen horses stood, so three others waited outside.’

Abbot Cild rubbed his chin in moody contemplation. ‘Did you notice which way the tracks led or came from?’