Behold a Pale Horse

by Peter Tremayne

  Sister Gisa sighed. ‘I have. He wants to finish his studies here before he thinks of moving on. He joined the abbey only two years ago and feels he must study further before he seeks another place.’ Then she changed the subject. ‘Where are you going now?’

  ‘I am just on my way to the necropolis to lay a flower on Ruadán’s grave as is our custom in my country,’ Fidelma answered.

  Sister Gisa fell in step with her. ‘I shall accompany you then,’ she announced. The girl was silent for a moment and then asked: ‘When will you be starting back for Genua to find a ship for your homeland?’

  Fidelma suppressed a sigh. She wondered how many more would ask the same question. ‘Within a few days. Perhaps a week. But I would like to see more of the abbey and its surroundings first.’

  This time the girl did not ask why but suddenly pointed to a group of bushes not far away. ‘There are some flowers, white ones. They would be suitable, would they not?’

  Fidelma followed the girl to the bushes and gathered some of the white lily-looking flowers. There was no one about in the abbey’s necropolis as they climbed the hillside and entered. Once again her attention was drawn to the three curious constructions at the top end of the necropolis. Now, in the daylight, she realised they were sepulchres, burial chambers built in the fashion of tiny palaces that she had seen in Rome. Ornate structures of white stone that resembled the Ancient Roman buildings.

  ‘To whom are those dedicated?’ she asked.

  ‘They are the burial chambers of the abbots.’

  ‘But there are only three.’

  ‘That is because the community has only started to erect them. The grave of the founder of the abbey, Columbanus, is under the High Altar in the abbey chapel. But the other abbots are placed out here. That one on the end is where Attala rests. He succeeded Columbanus. That next one is the tomb of Bertulf. He went to Rome and accepted the authority of the Pope over the abbey. And the third one, that is where Abbot Bobolen lays. He was the one who accepted the Rule of Benedict and the mitre of a bishop from Pope Theodore just twenty years or so ago.’

  ‘I see that they are still working on the sepulchre of Bobolen.’

  Sister Gisa shook her head. ‘It is only some minor paintwork. The shrine was finished and sealed before Faro and I set out for Genua to meet Magister Ado. You see, Faro has to oversee the workmen and report their progress to Abbot Servillius. It is the intention to build a mausoleum for every abbot.’

  ‘The tombs are very impressive,’ admitted Fidelma. ‘Was Faro a builder or architect then?’

  ‘No, but he is a good organiser. He designed Bobolen’s tomb himself and persuaded workmen from Placentia to come and build it for charity’s sake. It involved much work. I lost count of the wagons of stone brought along the valley.’

  ‘Stone?’

  ‘A special stone – a marble. It is not available in the valley.’

  They had arrived at the newly filled-in grave of Brother Ruadán and halted. Fidelma placed her flowers on the freshly packed earth and stood with head bowed for a few moments.

  Sister Gisa was staring out across the hillside. ‘Were you scared last night when you heard the muse?’ she suddenly asked.

  ‘The muse? Oh, you mean the bagpipes. No, I was not scared but surprised. We have such instruments in Hibernia and, for a moment, I thought it might have been one of the Hibernian brethren playing. But there was something that did not sound right about it – I mean that they did not sound quite like the Hibernian pipes.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Some of your compatriots have remarked on it. They are similar but I think slightly different.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘They have the mouthpiece, a drone and a chanter and the air is held in a goatskin bag. They sometimes call them the Apennine pipes after the mountain range here.’

  ‘I was told that they were being played by an old hermit.’

  ‘Aistulf? He is a master of the pìpes.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Oh yes. He is a kindly man. I often go to see him to make sure he is well.’

  ‘He certainly plays well, but he must be a solitary person to dwell in these mountains alone.’

  ‘Oh, he is not denied of company that much.’ She sighed. ‘Although he is lonelier now than he used to be.’ When she saw from Fidelma’s features that she had not understood, she added: ‘He is a master of his instrument and now and then has taught others so that the art may be passed on.’ To Fidelma’s astonishment, Sister Gisa turned and pointed to the very wooden cross that had brought her to the necropolis. ‘He was teaching poor Wamba the pipes before he died.’

  ‘Wamba?’ she said, feigning puzzlement as she pretended to notice the headstone for the first time. ‘That is odd.’

  Sister Gisa frowned. ‘Odd? Why so?’

  ‘Well, all the other grave inscriptions have Frater, Brother, prefixing the name. But this gives just his name.’

  ‘That is because he was not a member of the brethren.’

  ‘What work did he do at the abbey then?’

  ‘Wamba? He did not work at the abbey. He was just a goatherd. He lived up the mountain here with his mother. He used to sell goat’s milk to the abbey. But he also played a small pipe as most of the boys do who tend the flocks of sheep or the goats’ herds on the mountains. He was so good that Aistulf asked him to come to learn the pipes with him.’

  ‘You give me the impression that he was very young when he died.’

  ‘God be merciful to him, he was barely eleven years old.’

  ‘And he died recently?’

  ‘Just before Faro and I set out for Genua. It was the day after poor Brother Ruadán was found outside the abbey gates.’

  ‘Do you know how the boy died?’

  ‘We were told that his body was found, having fallen from some rocks. The poor boy broke his neck. He was discovered and his body taken to the abbey.’

  ‘Isn’t it unusual for a goatherd to be buried in the abbey’s necropolis?’

  ‘The abbot gave special permission that he be commemorated here in view of his service to the abbey. You seem very interested in him, Sister Fidelma.’

  ‘Call it my natural curiosity.’

  ‘Well, Brother Waldipert had far more to do with him than most of us. He is in charge of the abbey kitchens and used to buy the goats’ milk from Wamba.’

  ‘Surely the abbey has its own goats and cows to supply it?’ Fidelma asked. Self-sufficiency was usually a key element in any of the abbeys she had known.

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Sister Gisa. ‘But it was a custom from the days of Columbanus to help the local people. From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs. It is a good system of community living.’

  Fidelma realised she could not press further without being forced to compromise herself or trying to invent reasons for her questions. Moving away from the headstone, she said, ‘It is sad that this Wamba died so young when he was so talented.’

  Already her mind was turning over those last words of Brother Ruadán. The boy had been killed for coins. But Sister Gisa said that he had fallen from some rocks and broke his neck. That was surely an unusual end for a goatherd on a mountain? Now she had to be rid of the company of Sister Gisa and try to find Brother Waldipert. The answer to the first problem came almost immediately. They had emerged from the gates of the graveyard when Brother Faro came into sight. At once Sister Gisa’s face lit up, causing Fidelma to suppress a smile. How could the abbot be so blind as not to notice the intimacy between them?

  ‘How is your wound progressing, Brother Faro?’ she greeted him.

  The young man glanced at Sister Gisa with a quick nervous smile before turning back to Fidelma.

  ‘It is almost normal, thanks be to God. I feel no discomfort and I can use the arm freely.’

  ‘Well, I am sure the administrations of Sister Gisa had much to do with it,’ Fidelma said gravely. ‘I shall remember the garlic compress that you used,’ s
he added to the girl.

  ‘I was taught by my father,’ Gisa said. ‘He is … was a good physician.’

  ‘Anyway,’ interrupted Brother Faro, ‘this is nothing, compared to some wounds.’ He stopped, a slight flush on his face.

  ‘You have been hurt before?’

  ‘But not by an arrow. It was before I came here.’

  ‘At another abbey?’

  ‘I was not a religieux then.’

  ‘I thought you looked more like a warrior than a religieux,’ replied Fidelma.

  There was a slight uncomfortable pause before Brother Faro said, ‘I was, but I saw the futility of the wars and came here looking for peace and seclusion.’

  Fidelma glanced around the calm scenery of the valley and mountains and nodded slowly. ‘I can see why,’ she said. Then she excused herself and went back to the abbey. As she left, Sister Gisa and Brother Faro were already deep in conversation.

  The door to the abbey kitchens actually led on to the herbarium, Fidelma discovered, and that made it easier for her to find them without anyone wondering why she needed to be in the kitchens. She entered the herb garden and uttered a prayer of thanks that Brother Lonán was not about. Then she made for the doorway whence the pleasant odours of cooking emanated.

  Someone shouted a question at her in a harsh voice as she entered. A large man with an apron covering his robes was bent over a table gutting a fish, which he then threw into a simmering cauldron. He had glanced up as she entered and repeated his question in Latin when she did not answer.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I am Fidelma of Hibernia,’ she replied. ‘I am looking for Brother Waldipert.’

  The man sniffed and bent back to his task. ‘Then you have found him. You are the guest of the abbot who came to see Brother Ruadán, aren’t you? Sorry to hear that he died. He was a good man.’

  ‘Actually, I came to ask you about another death. The death of the boy, Wamba.’

  Brother Waldipert stopped and gazed at her in surprise. ‘Wamba the goatherd? Why do you ask about him?’

  ‘I was interested by the name on the memorial stone, the fact that someone who was not a member of the brethren was buried there.’

  The fat face of Brother Waldipert was sad. ‘He was one of the community to all intents and purposes. Poor little devil. He came every day to sell us fresh milk. He was good on the pipes, too.’

  ‘When I asked Sister Gisa how one so young was buried in the necropolis of the abbey, she told me a few details as far as she knew them. That was not much. Can you tell me about him?’

  Brother Waldipert sighed. ‘Indeed, he was eleven years of age or thereabouts. A happy-go-lucky lad who, as I say, came daily to the abbey to give us milk from his goats in return for vegetables and herbs that we grow here.’

  ‘He was surely very young to have his own herd of goats.’

  ‘Oh, goodness me, no – he did not own the goats. It was his mother, Hawisa, who owned them. He herded them for her on the upper slopes of the Pénas, that is the mountain behind us.’ He waved his hand towards the window, where the slopes of the hill rose up behind the abbey.

  ‘I am told that he fell from some rocks on the mountain and killed himself.’

  ‘That is true. He was found lying beneath them,’ confirmed the cook.

  ‘Is it known how the boy came to fall and break his neck?’ Fidelma asked. ‘It seems an unusual occurrence for a mountain goatherd to fall in such a manner.’

  Brother Waldipert stared at her suspiciously for a moment before responding. ‘Alas, he was alone on the mountain. Who knows how it happened? Accidents can and do happen. Why are you so interested?’

  ‘It is just that in my experience, goatherds are usually as sure-footed as their goats.’

  The cook shrugged. ‘Wamba was certainly raised on the upper slopes. Perhaps he was just too sure of himself. When I last saw him, and that was a few days before he was found, he was very confident. He came here so happy, not just with the milk for sale but saying that he had found some old coin that he thought would bring his mother great fortune.’

  Fidelma tried to control her interest. ‘He found a coin? One coin?’

  ‘Yes. He gave it to me,’ confirmed the cook. ‘He was pleased with his find and very boastful. He said that if he found more he would be rich enough to rule the valley. I nearly boxed his ears. Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas!’ the cook intoned. Then he added: ‘Imagine the vanity of a goatherd saying he could rule in the place of the Lord of Trebbia!’

  ‘Even a goatherd can dream,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Did he say where he had found the coin?’

  ‘I think he just said that he had found it,’ Brother Waldipert said reflectively. ‘He asked me if I would exchange goods for it as I had for the milk.’

  ‘And did you?’

  The fat man’s jowls shook as he gave a negative gesture. ‘No. I knew the coin was worth a lot for its gold weight alone. I do not even know what coin it was. An ancient one, that is all. So I told him that I would take it to the abbot and see what could be arranged. The boy trusted me and was happy to part with the coin. He went off, quite satisfied that some agreement would be reached. Then, a few days later, I was told he had been found dead.’

  ‘Who told you?’ Fidelma asked sharply.

  ‘It was the warrior who found him, Wulfoald. Do you know him? He had been coming across the mountain when he found the body of the boy at the foot of some rocks. In fact, I believe he brought the body straight here with the abbot, who announced his intention to bury him in the necropolis.’

  ‘That was unusual.’

  ‘The abbot felt it appropriate.’

  ‘And did you give the coin that Wamba found to the abbot?’

  ‘I promised the boy and so I kept that promise.’

  ‘And what did the abbot do with it?’

  ‘He gave Hawisa some goods in exchange. It was an old coin but not that valuable. Anyway, Hawisa was pleased to have something, for she had lost her only son. I think that Hawisa gave her goats to a nephew, another goatherd, and he now supplies us as Wamba once did. A sad story. But I can’t understand why you are asking all these question about the boy.’

  Fidelma forced a smile of assurance. ‘Call it idle curiosity. I was merely interested.’

  Once again the words of Brother Ruadán echoed in her mind. ‘He did not deserve to die because he found the coins.’ The coins? Why not ‘a coin’? Suddenly she was confused. She was sure Brother Ruadán had said ‘had the coins’ not ‘found the coins’. Perhaps, after all, Brother Ruadán was not thinking clearly. There was a difference there, but did it mean something? Or was she reading too much into simple words?

  She thanked Brother Waldipert and went out into the herbarium. There was still no sign of Brother Lonán so she sat down on a wooden seat in a corner to consider what she knew of the facts.

  She had no doubt that Brother Ruadán had been deliberately killed – suffocated, most probably to prevent him saying anything further to her. But no one had known about her visit early on the morning he was killed. No one knew that he had mentioned the coins or the boy, Wamba. According to Sister Gisa, the boy was killed about the same time that Brother Ruadán was severely beaten. What was the link? There must be one. But if the boy had been killed for the value of the coin, it was the abbot himself who had been its ultimate recipient. He had compensated the boy’s mother for it. If the abbot had been part of this affair, would he have done so? Fidelma did not even know what affair she was talking about, except that Brother Ruadán called it ‘evil’. She could hardly go to the abbot for information. What could she say? What excuse could she give without revealing what Brother Ruadán had said?

  There was a mystery here which centred around the death of the boy Wamba and an ancient coin. But how could she set about resolving it without bringing attention upon herself?

  CHAPTER TEN

  What would Brehon Morann, in whose famous college Fidelma had stu
died law, have advised her to do? Consult all the witnesses. But who were the witnesses? Wulfoald had found the boy’s body. The coin had been given to Abbot Servillius. Who else? What was the name of the boy’s mother? Hawisa. She might be worth speaking with. But Fidelma was faced with two problems. The first was finding out where the woman lived. The second was that, even if she did find her, Fidelma did not have any knowledge of the language of the Longobards. She doubted that a goatherd’s mother could speak Latin. She was going to be restricted in what she did unless she could trust someone to be her interpreter.

  She considered all her limited choices. Brother Eolann was one of the few in the abbey with whom she had been able to establish an immediate rapport. Moreover, he was of Muman. Belonging to the same country was a bond. If the ascent of the mountain proved difficult, at least he was young and physically fit. With her mind made up, she left the herbarium and made her way back to the scriptorium. She encountered no one before she reached the oak door in the tower. Brother Eolann was once more at his desk.

  ‘Do you know Hawisa, the mother of the goatherd Wamba who was found dead a week or so ago?’ she asked without preamble.

  ‘I know of her,’ he said guardedly. ‘But I would think that Brother Waldipert would be able to help you more than I can. Wamba used to supply the abbey with goat’s milk. All I know is that Hawisa lives on the middle reaches of the mountain behind us.’

  ‘I have spoken with Brother Waldipert, but I need someone to help me. I would rather that no one knew the extent of my interest in this matter.’ Fidelma spoke softly, confidentially. ‘I want to find Hawisa and have a word with her about her son. Presuming that she would speak only the local language, I need someone to act as my interpreter.’

  Brother Eolann was astonished. ‘Are you suggesting that I take you to her cabin and translate for you?’

  ‘That is precisely what I am asking.’

  ‘There are difficulties.’

  ‘Which are?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘Getting permission for me to leave the abbey. Aside from the Rule of the community, the abbot would be more strict after what happened to Brother Ruadán and with the stories of rebellion in the land.’