Even when she had been in Rome she had experienced feelings of longing for Cashel, for the rich green plains, the mountains and dense verdant forests of her homeland. Now, she realised, she felt another longing. She felt a sadness when she had parted from the Saxon monk Eadulf who had been her companion and helper in resolving mysteries at the Abbey of Hilda and later in the Lateran Palace in Rome. She wished he was here now. She wanted someone she could trust, in whom to confide her ideas about the incidents that she had witnessed.
Such were the thoughts that filled her mind as she twisted and turned. It was only the prospect of seeing old Brother Ruadán again that convinced her to go on. How much more isolated must Brother Ruadán feel, being so elderly and so far from home? She felt that she owed a duty to her ageing mentor and teacher. She could bring him some cheer of his native land and friends now that he was nearing the end of his life.
As she lay there, she began to hear the distant sound of people whispering. It encroached on her thoughts. She sat up with a frown of annoyance. It was coming from outside, beyond the open window and balcony that overlooked the small courtyard below. The balcony was only shielded from her room by a thick curtain to keep out the swarming insects, especially the little flies that could bite one during the sultry nights and cause illness.
Fidelma swung off the bed and moved to the curtain, pausing to listen. The sounds made no sense at all and she would have been prepared to ignore things altogether, had she not wondered why people should stand whispering in the middle of the night.
Carefully, she eased the curtain aside and stepped on to the balcony. The night was now dark, for clouds had spread across the sky obscuring the moon. She peered down. The courtyard was in shadows, and it was not until her eyesight grew used to the darkness that she could discern a group of five figures. Three of them were tall, one with white hair, while the other two were short. Of the two shorter figures, one was slight, obviously a woman, and the other, a man, seemed elderly, for he too had white hair, just discernible in the darkness. They were whispering together in a language Fidelma guessed was that of the Longobards. The conversation seemed intense, and as if the man of short stature with white hair was scolding the others. One of the taller men seemed to be protesting.
Well, it was none of her business. She was about to turn back into her chamber and try once more to get some rest before the onward journey when the clouds parted briefly and the bright moon pierced the gloom. It was only for a moment but Fidelma saw the white hair of the tall physician, Suidur. The shorter elderly man and the woman remained in the darkness. She did not see the faces of the others, but their long black robes seemed familiar. Then the woman turned her face so that the moonlight caught it for an instant. Her voice was clear and she suddenly lapsed into Latin.
‘The gold must already be here. That means it will happen soon.’
The short, elderly man snapped something at her.
Fidelma gave a gasp and drew back behind the curtain. Whether it was the sound of her withdrawn breath or just a reaction to the sudden moment of moonlight, there was a pause in the conversation. She waited behind the curtain, unable to breathe for a moment, until she heard the talk resume.
Another voice said something sharply and the conversation continued as before in the Longobard language. She waited until the whispering ceased. The voice she had recognised was that of Sister Gisa. She did not know who the short, elderly man was – but was it just her imagination that they, with Suidur, were in conversation with the same two men who had attacked Magister Ado in Genua? Indeed, the same warriors who had attacked them and wounded Brother Faro as they entered the valley?
CHAPTER FOUR
It was well after first light when Fidelma joined her companions in the hall of the fortress at the first meal of the day. She had finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep and awoken feeling tired and irritable. There was no sign of Suidur but Radoald was there presiding over the meal and indulging in a friendly exchange with Magister Ado. Sister Gisa was seated by Brother Faro who still had his arm in a sling but looked none the worse for his experience. Fidelma wondered whether she should relate her experience of the night to Magister Ado as, after all, he had been the subject of the attacks. She decided that she should do so only when a suitable opportunity arose, for if Suidur and Sister Gisa were part of some plot against him, he should be told. Then she began to have doubts. What exactly was the plot against him? Who was involved and why? Surely she should find out more before becoming involved … Perhaps Brother Ruadán would be able to enlighten her.
‘It seems that we shall have company for the rest of our journey,’ Sister Gisa whispered to her as they were finishing their meal.
‘Oh?’ Fidelma inquired politely.
‘Two farmers are taking goods to trade at the abbey.’
‘Our local hill farmers often take goods to the abbey,’ Radoald intervened, overhearing. ‘You arrived here at a convenient moment. The merchants are already outside. But, after what happened to your party yesterday, I’ll send two of my own men to accompany you.’
Fidelma’s senses were suddenly alert. How convenient for the would-be assassins to travel with them. She could not get the image of the previous night out of her mind. But then she looked at the young, enthusiastic face of Sister Gisa and wondered how the girl could be involved in a conspiracy to murder.
‘Are you well enough to undertake this journey, Brother Faro?’ she asked. It passed through her mind to use the young religieux as an excuse to delay so that she might find out more about whatever was happening. But the young man nodded vigorously.
‘The wound is healing well. I hardly feel it. And the sooner we get to Bobium, the better.’
‘I have already given orders for your horses to be ready. Alas, other matters need my attention,’ Radoald said, ‘otherwise I would gladly offer you my company on the journey.’
Magister Ado seemed content. ‘We shall be safe from here on. Bobium is not far now, Fidelma. We should be able to reach it before midday.’
Fidelma followed the others out into the courtyard and carefully scrutinised those who were to be their companions for the rest of the journey. There were two men with pack mules, and the two warriors. To her relief, none of them appeared to have any features in common with the erstwhile attackers. The two with the pack mules were small, rotund men, looking as she imagined typical farmers might look. The two warriors were of average height. She noticed, with interest, that Lord Radoald had provided Sister Gisa with a horse, but she insisted on leading their mule. There was no sign of Suidur when they bade their farewell to the young Lord of Trebbia.
The small caravan set off without fuss. One warrior rode at the head. Magister Ado and Fidelma came next, then Brother Faro and Sister Gisa with their mule. Behind them were the two merchants and their mules. The second warrior brought up the rear.
For a while, Fidelma rode in silence, her eyes watchful on the surrounding countryside.
‘You seem pensive, Sister,’ Magister Ado finally commented after they had ridden in silence for a while.
‘Having been ambushed once, I felt that we should be constantly alert,’ she replied apologetically.
Magister Ado grimaced. ‘So you think those bandits will try again to waylay us?’
‘Why not?’ she asked innocently. She did not explain what she had witnessed in the night.
The elderly religieux shook his head. ‘I do not think we shall be in any danger in Lord Radoald’s territory so near to Bobium.’
‘I bow to your knowledge, Magister Ado,’ she replied. ‘But there is a good saying, however: semper paratus.’
Magister Ado was amused. ‘Always prepared? It seems a good maxim, lady. But by midday, or soon after, you will see the great walls of the Abbey of Bobium and your fears will then be proved unfounded.’
Fidelma inclined her head as though in acquiescence. ‘It is hard to accept that there are those prepared to maim or kill because they disagree with the
form of Christian creed another has.’
Fidelma had not meant it to sound so belligerent but Magister Ado only chuckled in good humour.
‘You believe that there is something more to it? Some dark secret that I am not telling you? Wait until you have spoken with Brother Ruadán, and you will see that the disagreement runs deep among our people here. Much blood has been scattered in this argument. From what our young friends tell me,’ he glanced briefly behind to where Sister Gisa and Brother Faro were following, ‘Brother Ruadán has suffered more than I have – suffered for his adherence to the Nicene Creed.’
She did not press the elderly religieux further but rode on in silence. Her anxious eyes wandered constantly over the thickly growing trees that rose up into the mountains on their right. To their left, the turbulent waters of the Trebbia provided a barrier which would have made attack from that quarter difficult. Now and then she glanced back to the plodding farmers behind them.
Then she saw a movement on the hill to their right. It was a man standing on a jutting rock but almost shrouded by the surrounding trees.
‘A man is watching us,’ she whispered urgently, trying not to show she had noticed. ‘To my right by those tall trees on the rock. I can’t see a weapon though.’
Magister Ado looked up quickly, suddenly tense. Then he immediately relaxed – and raised his hand as if to wave it in greeting to the figure high above them.
‘It’s old Aistulf,’ he said to her. ‘Aistulf the Hermit.’
The figure above them had turned abruptly and went scurrying off among the trees. She caught sight of a bent back and white, long hair.
‘He’s not a friendly soul,’ she commented dryly.
Magister Ado chuckled. ‘That is the nature of a hermit. Old Aistulf lives alone in a cave somewhere up in those hills. He came to our valley only a few years ago, at the end of the wars which brought Grimoald to power. He is a friend of our abbot, Abbot Servillius. I have never seen him up close. No one has, except Abbot Servillius and, I think, Sister Gisa. They sometimes go up into the hills and see him. Aistulf wanders these mountains. I know nothing more about him except that he means no harm.’
‘He is elderly,’ Fidelma observed. ‘He needs more than someone keeping check on him now and again. In Hibernia our laws about the care of the elderly are very strict.’
‘Sister Gisa often visits the old man. There is some talk that Aistulf is a member of her family. Gisa was born in this valley.’
Fidelma glanced back towards Sister Gisa. She seemed engrossed with the injured Brother Faro and had obviously not noticed the old man on the hill.
‘Tell me about Tolosa. What is it like?’ she asked, trying to find a subject to speak of rather than not talk at all.
Not for the first time she became aware of a passing look of suspicion in the elderly man’s eyes.
‘Why are you interested?’ he countered.
‘Among my people we have a saying that knowledge comes by asking questions. It is because I have never been to that city that I would know something of it.’
Magister Ado considered for a moment and then said, ‘It is a city in ruins, as Radoald observed, though not as desolate as he believed. The great basilica, the abbey, still stands with its library. However, if it were not for the want of our library, I might never have been persuaded to make the journey.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Our scriptor Brother Eolann heard that the abbey in Tolosa had a copy of the Life of the Blessed Martyr Saturnin, who founded the abbey there. He persuaded me to take a copy of the Life of Columbanus and exchange it for the book on Saturnin. Bobium has one of the greatest libraries in Christendom, and we are justly proud of it. Our wealth is in our books.’
‘Would your enemies know that you had travelled to Tolosa to get this book? Is it as valuable to them as it is to your abbey?’
‘I declare, you are a vexatious young lady, to keep dwelling on this question.’
‘Questions, as I have said, are a path to knowledge.’
‘And sometimes knowledge can be dangerous. Especially when there are people about with evil intent.’
‘Better is knowledge of evil than evil without knowledge,’ countered Fidelma.
Magister Ado began to frown in annoyance, and then, unexpectedly, threw back his head and burst into laughter.
‘Being away from Bobium, I had forgotten the method of argument of my Hibernian brethren. Is this truly the way that you are taught in your land?’
‘By question and answer?’
‘By taking one answer and forming another question from it?’
‘An answer always leads to another question. There is no ultimate answer, for if there was, we would never have progress.’
Magister Ado exhaled with resignation and, somewhat irritably, conceded: ‘It seems all those born in Hibernia are philosophers.’
‘Not all of us,’ Fidelma replied dryly. ‘Though all of us think we are.’
They continued on in silence for a while. Behind them, Brother Faro and Sister Gisa sometimes murmured together while the warriors and the two farmers were generally silent, guiding their pack mules. They passed along the river banks, by the swirling waters, under the shade of the tall trees that lined the track. Once or twice they saw men fishing, who raised a hand in greeting as they passed by.
‘The local folk have the right to fish the river,’ explained Magister Ado. ‘There are many good fish to be caught here, especially loach.’
Apart from the few fishermen, they encountered no one else on the track as it followed the bends and flow of the river.
‘You can now see the top of Mont Pénas behind those trees there!’ Magister Ado exclaimed, pointing. ‘It is the tallest mountain in these parts and Bobium is situated on its lower reaches.’
All the mountains seemed to be far taller than those Fidelma had observed before. As they swung around a bend of the river, and emerged through the trees to a section of open stony land, she could see a large watery confluence which seemed to create a broad headland on the far bank. There were many little rivers apparently rising from the mountains which flowed into the main course of the Trebbia. One such large stream joined the Trebbia from the north-east, and on the resulting right-angled headland rose many small buildings, while further up the hillside was a large complex of structures with a tower, contained within high walls.
‘Bobium!’ The word came from Magister Ado almost as a sigh. He turned to Fidelma and smiled. ‘That is Bobium. This is where your countryman, Colmbanus, came with his disciples to settle.’
Fidelma gazed in appreciation at the surrounding countryside; at the rivers, the tall mountains, the lush green forests. She could see why Columbanus had been enamoured with the spot. There was something reminiscent about the land of Éireann … something, but it was not quite the same.
‘How do we get to the far bank?’ she asked. The waters of the Trebbia that separated them from the abbey were now broad and quite turbulent, rushing over the stony riverbed. Magister Ado merely smiled and pointed ahead of them. She followed his outstretched hand and could make out, not far ahead, a long stone bridge connecting one bank to the other. It was the most curious construction that she had ever seen, since it was built in a series of arches, but the method of construction had resulted in a series of humpbacks.
‘Is it safe?’ she found herself wondering aloud.
Magister Ado chuckled. ‘It is called the Devil’s Bridge,’ he replied. ‘There is a story that Columbanus was trying to construct a stone bridge when the Devil appeared to him. He offered to build the bridge in a single night, but on one condition: that the first living soul to cross the bridge was to be his. Columbanus agreed. The bridge was built by morning, but because of the indiscipline of the imps and goblins that the Devil employed, each section came out in that series of humps you see and not one long level stretch.’
‘And did the Devil claim his soul?’ Fidelma asked sceptically.
; ‘It is said that Columbanus persuaded a little dog to run across the bridge and thus the Devil had to be satisfied with it rather than take a Christian soul which he had desired.’
Fidelma thought for a moment. ‘The story is hard to believe. In the first place, how could such a saintly man as Colm Bán make a pact with the Devil to achieve such a mundane task as building a bridge? In the second place, he would not mistreat a poor, innocent animal so callously. And finally, in the third place, why would the Devil take the soul of a dog when the Faith teaches us that only man is possessed of a soul but animals are not?’
Magister Ado was smiling broadly. ‘You are truly of a sceptical and practical mind, Fidelma. I perceive that this must not only be because of your land of origin, but also your training in law? Well, perhaps you will be pleased to know that our scholars tell us that the bridge was first built by the Roman legions when they were conquering this land. So, in spite of local tales, the bridge was here before Columbanus. Therefore, I think it will be safe enough to cross, Devil or no Devil.’
The stone bridge was narrow, scarcely wide enough for two riding abreast, but the party crossed and found themselves on the lower slopes of the mountain which apparently rose in easy stages. Fidelma could no longer see the peak, which seemed to merge with the surrounding hills. The abbey, with its redbrick tiles and soft ochre stucco walls, dominated the area a little way up the hillside. Near it were various buildings, constituting a small township. Around the settlement were arable lands that had been cultivated for agricultural purposes. As they moved up the track closer to the abbey, Fidelma saw that its main buildings were enclosed by high walls from which some of the stuccowork had fallen, revealing blocks of stone. On the walls, near the gates, rose a bell-tower. Someone had observed their approach, and a slow regular chime of the bell sounded, ceasing after the fourth ring. The gates were tall, fitted in the walls, and seemed of a dark wood. She would have guessed they were made of oak. They were swinging open.
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