Behold a Pale Horse

by Peter Tremayne

  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 Tre
bbia, 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.’

  ‘Spoken like a warrior.’ The merchant smiled. ‘Strategy? Alas, you see everything only in terms of strategy.’

  ‘In these times there is no other way to see things,’ replied Wulfoald, unperturbed.

  ‘I am a merchant and I see things only in terms of trade and profits. If one has to pay the warlords, such as Grasulf or Radoald, then one merely has to add that cost into the price.’

  ‘Are you not fearful these same warlords would kill you?’ Wulfoald asked.

  Ratchis chuckled. ‘Then where would they get their supplies afterwards?’

  Fidelma was silent, listening to the exchange. They had come a fair way up the mountain and, finally, Wulfoald suggested halting their ascent for they had gone beyond the spot where the main track turned off to start its winding climb. Fidelma recalled that it was not far up to Hawisa’s cabin. It was at this point that the low whinny of a horse came to their ears. At once Wulfoald’s sword was in his hand. He slid from his horse, glanced towards the others with a finger raised to his lips, and cautiously moved up the path before them. They sat and waited. Wulfoald was not gone long but soon re-emerged, his sword sheathed.

  ‘It is the horses and mule of Brother Bladulf and his party,’ he explained. ‘They have tethered them in a little clearing yonder and continued up to the sanctuary on foot to recover the body. We’ll leave our mounts at the same place as it will become too difficult for the animals to attempt to ascend further.’

  The horses and mule were tethered among the trees well below the area blackened by fire. There was a natural shelter and a gushing stream among the grassy slopes for the comfort of the horses.

  ‘If I remember correctly, Hawisa’s cabin is just over that rise in the track.’ Fidelma pointed.

  ‘Your memory is correct, lady,’ Wulfoald replied with a tight expression on his features.

  Even from this distance, Fidelma could smell the acrid stench of newly burned wood. The soft wind had begun to blow a fine ash on its gusting breath. Wulfoald had noticed it too and set off determinedly up the track.

  ‘Let us see how far this fire has eaten into the forest,’ he called back over his shoulder.

  By now Fidelma was experiencing the same apprehension she had felt when standing in the courtyard and seeing the smoke on the mountain. She was wondering if it had been a natural fire. If it was not, if it had been set by Grasulf and his men, then they might still be waiting in ambush.

  ‘We must be careful from here on,’ she advised.

  ‘Why so?’ The voice of Ratchis, the merchant, was high-pitched with nervousness. Neither of the others bothered to reply.

  As they approached the blackened section of forest, Fidelma began to feel really uneasy. If her accusation was correct – that Hawisa had told the truth and Wulfoald was lying about taking Wamba to the abbey – then Wulfoald had a reason to mean her harm. She was glad that the Venerable Ionas had asked the merchant to accompany them. He would be better than no help at all. But it was very confusing. Wulfoald was obviously confident in his statement. Maybe she was wrong. If so, why had Hawisa lied? Was it something about payment for the coin, about the gold?

  The area seemed familiar to Fidelma as they left the main path and headed into the forest, and now the foreboding she had felt when they set out came back with a vengeance. The sudden heavy showers seemed to have dampened everything apart from the all-pervasive smell of smoke and burned tinder and … was there something else in the air? There was a peculiar odour, which reminded Fidelma of roasting pig. Then she saw the ruins of a cabin. She recognised it at once because of its position and the still-gushing mountain stream which provided the only unchanged items in the blackened landscape. Before what might have been the doorway of the cabin near where she had sat only a few days before, were the remains of a body, too charred and distorted to be identified.

  Fidelma stood still, her face grim.

  Without any warning at all there was a cry, a shrill animal-like shriek. A figure was suddenly charging towards her, one hand holding high a flashing knife-blade. Fidelma froze with shock at the sudden appearance of the figure out of the black gloom of the burned forest. Then she was aware of Wulfoald, stepping before her and knocking aside the attacker, who dropped his knife and went sprawling in the ash-strewn floor of the clearing. Wulfoald stood over the man, his sword at the ready for a further attack. But the figure lay there, shoulders rising and falling strangely. It took a moment or so to realise he was sobbing uncontrollably.

  Fidelma became aware that the merchant, Ratchis, had given a cry of terror and was running back down the hill to the spot where they had left their mounts. She called after him but knew it was in vain and went to stand by Wulfoald.

  The warrior bent forward and seized the assailant by the back of his neck and hauled him to his feet. It was a young man scarcely in his twenties. He was tousle-haired, his face smudged with soot, the tears creating stains across his cheeks. His dress was typical of the goatherders of the area.

  Wulfoald shook the unhappy creature as she had seen a wolf shaking its prey. Questions shot out fiercely. Then Wulfoald turned to Fidelma to interpret.

  ‘The youth thought we were the ones who did this.’ He jerked his head at the burned-out ruins. ‘Hawisa is dead and some of her livestock as well. That’s why he attacked us.’ He turned back to the youth, then peered closer at him. ‘This is the nephew of Hawisa. His name is Odo. I recognise him now under the soot and grime.’

  Fidelma was surprised when the youth suddenly said in very poor but understandable Latin: ‘Yes, Hawisa was my aunt. I do not know you.’

  ‘I am in Lord Radoald’s service,’ replied the warrior. ‘This is Fidelma of Hibernia.’

  ‘So your name is Odo?’ asked Fidelma. ‘And you are the goatherd that took over the goats when your cousin Wamba died?’

  ‘You are a stranger here,’ replied the youth with caution in his tone. ‘How did you know this?’

  ‘Your aunt told me of you. I talked with her several days ago.’

  ‘She did not speak Latin.’

  ‘I know. But I had an interpreter with me. How is it that you speak Latin?’

  The youth drew himself up. ‘I was taught by the brethren and still speak with Aistulf when I can.’

  ‘Aistulf the hermit?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘This Aistulf does not appear to be such a hermit, after all. I gather he also taught your cousin Wamba the bagpipes. What is it you call them locally – the muse?’

  ‘I suppose Hawisa told you that? Wamba was clever. He would have been a very good piper …’

  ‘ … had he lived.’ Wulfoald finished the sentence for him.

  ‘It was about Wamba that I came to speak to your aunt some days ago,’ Fidelma ignored his interruption, ‘and I wanted to clarify things with her today. But this is how we found her cabin, and …’ She did not finish the sentence but merely nodded at the charred remains. Then she said: ‘Let us remove ourselves to a more pleasant area where we may talk.’

  They walked downhill a short distance. Odo had placed a blanket on some rocks and went to pick it up. When he saw them looking, he explained, ‘I brought it to cover my aunt with and perhaps get her body away so that she might be given a decent burial.’ They waited while he placed it over the charred corpse before they walked down to the place where they had left their horses, the little clearing that had escaped the flames. Through it a stream still gushed and sparkled with the green vegetation around it. Although their horses grazed peacefully, there was no sign of Ratchis’ mule.

  Wulfoald peered about in resignation. ‘I think our merchant friend has deserted us. Did you still want him?’

  Fidelma shook her head and seated herself on the trunk of a fallen tree, indicating that Odo should do likewise.
‘Now, Odo, let us talk. You believe that this was no natural fire?’

  ‘Yes – what do you know of this fire, lad?’ put in Wulfoald, who was leaning against the trunk of a tree. ‘By attacking us, you made it plain that you knew that it had been deliberately set.’

  Odo looked up at him, an expression of anguish on his features as he tried to gather his thoughts.

  ‘Something awoke me in the night. The alarm of animals and birds, I suppose – the fire must have frightened them. I live not far down the mountain, just over the shoulder of that hill. I could not see what was causing the animals to flee that area of the woods at first. I heard the sound of the fire before I saw the flames and the direction of it. What could I do? I knew from its ferocity that I could not reach my aunt’s cabin. I had the animals and myself to protect as well. Across the hill is a rocky ground with a pool, almost as big as a lake. I took the herd and went there, knowing the stony land and water would create a break for the fire.’

  He paused and swallowed hard before resuming. ‘The fire burned long and fiercely. I was there until morning before I dared believe that the heavy rains had dampened it out and there was no chance of it starting again. Then I felt safe to return. By the time I reached the area of the fire, it was too late. My aunt …’ The youth suddenly began to sob again and Fidelma reached forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘The fire seemed confined to your aunt’s cabin and the immediate area,’ Wulfoald observed. ‘It could be that she had an accident. Perhaps a cooking fire became out of control.’

  ‘But you felt it was deliberate,’ interrupted Fidelma. ‘Who did you think had set the fire? In other words, why did you think this was arson?’

  ‘Just before I started moving the herd to safety, I glanced up towards my aunt’s cabin,’ Odo told her. ‘I couldn’t see much with the flames and smoke, but I saw a man on horseback leaving the area.’

  ‘I thought your aunt’s cabin is impossible to reach on horseback, ’ Fidelma said.