Behold a Pale Horse

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Six deaths,’ Fidelma corrected softly.

  ‘What?’ Magister Ado was shocked.

  ‘Six deaths,’ she repeated, ‘plus an attempt on your life and the wounding of Brother Faro. All these are mixed together. Let us hope there are no other deaths.’

  Brother Wulfila interrupted sharply. ‘I must remind you that it is the custom of the abbey to bury the dead at midnight. Now we have the bodies of Abbot Servillius, Hawisa and Brother Eolann to consign to the earth.’

  ‘Then I suggest we put an end to these speculations and prepare ourselves for the burial of these bodies, unless there are any strong objections?’ The Venerable Ionas glanced toward Magister Ado.

  Magister Ado inclined his head. ‘I concur, Venerable Ionas. Since you are senior here and we will be asked by the brethren to make a choice of a new abbot and bishop, as is custom, let me make clear now, that I intend to nominate you.’

  Venerable Ionas was uncomfortable. ‘While I thank you for your confidence in me, magister, the choice may be left to the wishes of the brethren. But for now we have these bodies to take to the necropolis. It is, indeed, a dreadful day for the abbey.’

  They were moving back across the courtyard, lit by brand torches, and it was clear to Fidelma there was much on the mind of the Venerable Ionas. It was as if he were trying to ask her a question. The others had dispersed and she waited expectantly. He halted and turned to her.

  ‘You said there have been six murders. I count three. Those are bad enough but who else?’

  ‘I count Wamba.’

  ‘Because of the coin? Who else?’

  ‘His mother, Hawisa. The fire was purposely set.’

  ‘And the third? Ah, Brother Ruadán. But Brother Ruadán died from the injuries inflicted on him by a mob of Arians. He died over a week later in his bed – you saw him.’

  Fidelma shook her head slowly. ‘He was smothered in his bed by the same hand that is responsible for all these killings.’

  ‘But why?’

  She smiled uneasily. ‘Cui bono?’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Did not Cicero attribute those words to a Roman judge: who benefits? When we find out who stands to gain from the deaths, then we will know the identity of the killer.’

  Fidelma sat alone in her chamber deep in thought. She had been a fool. Perhaps she was still a fool. Why didn’t she simply head back to Genua and find a ship to Massilia before this valley erupted into the war that was threatening? She had nothing to do with the ambitions of the exiled King Perctarit nor those of Grimoald. She cared nothing about them. She longed to be back in her own land, among her own people. She had only come here to see her old master, Brother Ruadán and, in remembering him, she understood why she was staying. She owed it to him to discover his killer.

  And Brother Eolann? What was the proverb? Superbum sequitur humilitas: arrogance will bring your downfall. It was her arrogance and pride that had allowed her to be led along the false trail of the Aurum Tolosa – a fool’s treasure, indeed! She heaved a sigh and once more began to think that she was stupid to stay here and be arrogant enough to believe that she could solve this puzzle. It had been Paul, in his advice to the Philippians, who exhorted them to do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit but to always act with humility.

  Humility. What did she know when it came to simple facts? Brother Ruadán had given the young boy Wamba two ancient gold coins. Why? The boy had brought one to the abbey and the next day he was dead, said to have fallen from some rocks. Shortly afterwards, Brother Ruadán was found beaten almost to death outside the gates of the abbey. Brother Ruadán, on his deathbed, believed Wamba had been killed because of the coins. Her old mentor would have eventually died from his injuries, but someone had to make sure that he did not talk to her first. Had it not been for her determination, going in stealth to his chamber before anyone was stirring, she would not have heard of the coins or the boy, Wamba. Then she had shared that knowledge with Brother Eolann.

  As soon as she had mentioned the coins and Wamba to Brother Eolann, she found that she was being led into a fantasy about an ancient treasure. Aurum Tolosa. Or was it a fantasy? She had been misdirected about the name Servillius. Now Brother Eolann was dead. She had thought that he was the culprit. She realised that she was overlooking something, but she could not remember what it was. She was too tired. It had been a long day and there were still the obsequies for the dead to go through.

  Finally she gave up trying to find a coherent train of thought about the matter and decided to prepare herself for the midnight ceremony. Down in the chapel, the brethren had already gathered to pay their respects to the abbot and the scriptor.

  As she entered, Brother Faro seemed to be waiting for her.

  ‘I have not been able to find Sister Gisa,’ he opened immediately. ‘I suppose you have no idea where she might be?’

  ‘None at all,’ replied Fidelma, surprised at his question and the agitation in his voice. ‘I am told that you went out to look for her.’

  ‘I thought I had a vague idea of the whereabouts of the caves used by the hermit Aistulf.’

  ‘But you found no sign?’

  ‘Not of her, nor of the hermit. I was returning when I met Magister Ado on the way. And now there are more deaths to contend with. I heard that Venerable Ionas believes that you are capable of solving these murders. But you do not even speak the language of the Longobards. With respect, for I know both Venerable Ionas and my own master, Magister Ado, have much respect for you, I would advise you to start back to Genua tomorrow. There is much danger here.’

  Fidelma gazed at the intense young man thoughtfully.

  ‘How do you interpret this danger then, Brother Faro? Why are you afraid of my staying here?’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I am a stranger here, true. But you are scarcely more. You told me so. You said you came here two years ago looking for a peaceful sanctuary. Why do you urge me to leave but stay yourself?’

  Brother Faro seemed embarrassed. ‘I think you know why else I stay.’

  ‘Then you will continue your search for Sister Gisa tomorrow?’

  He nodded quickly. ‘As soon as it is light. But if it happens that you see her before I do, I would advise you both to leave this valley, for I believe there is a storm coming.’

  ‘Tell me about Gisa,’ Fidelma said. ‘Does she know this area well? Would it be easy for her to get lost in this valley?’

  ‘She was raised in this valley. Many people here seem to know her well.’

  ‘Do you know any of her family?’

  ‘She has never told me about them. There are rumours that the hermit Aistulf is related. She has a good knowledge of healing plants and herbs. She has said her father was a physician. But that is all I know.’

  ‘Well, I will bear in mind your advice, Brother Faro. Tomorrow, perhaps, there will be others who will help in your search.’

  He stared thoughtfully at her. ‘You are staying?’

  ‘I am staying,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘It would be an insult to the memory of my old master, Brother Ruadán, if not to the others, for me to flee from this valley without resolving this situation.’

  ‘I trust you will not regret that decision. I am sure that the storm is upon us.’

  It was approaching midnight when the torchlit procession wound from the abbey gates up the hill to the necropolis. It was very different to the procession that had accompanied the body of Brother Ruadán only a few days before. The fear and tension of the brethren was almost a tangible reality. Only a few had obeyed the Venerable Ionas’ call to attend and these were mainly the pallbearers. The only outsider that Fidelma recognised was the youth, Odo. Hawisa had already been covered in winding sheets and laid by the now open grave of Wamba, which had been dug by the stronger members of the brethren. There was an air of dread, of horror combined with a nervousness which caused people to start at the smallest and most insignificant sounds.

  Ve
nerable Ionas and Magister Ado led the procession behind the biers of the abbot and scriptor, followed by the steward, the apothecary, and then Fidelma with Brother Faro. Firstly the body of Hawisa was lowered into the same grave as her son, Wamba, with a simple blessing. Then the body of Brother Eolann was buried and Fidelma was asked to come forward to say a few words about her compatriot. She found it difficult, knowing that he must have been central in the conspiracy to lay a false trail. She managed only a few words.

  ‘Brother Eolann came from my father’s Kingdom of Muman,’ she began. Although her father had died when she was a child, it was easier to phrase it in this way than to explain that, as there was no hereditary kingship in her land, kings were elected albeit from the same bloodline. It was true that her brother, Colgú, was now heir-apparent to their cousin Cathal, the current King of Muman. ‘He came from a place called Inis Faithlean, the island of the blessed Faithlean, who was one of the great teachers of the Faith in our land.

  ‘It was a place much like this, although it was on an island in a lake, surrounded by mountains covered in luxuriant growths of plants and trees, of evergreens like holly, mountain ash and arbutus. It seemed a curious fate that while he was sent on a mission to St Gallen, his footsteps eventually led him …’ She paused with a frown, distracted by the thought of something she had been overlooking. Then she quickly continued: ‘His footsteps led him to Mailand and thence here to the Valley of the Trebbia and your abbey, which Colm Bán founded many years ago. I am told he was a good scriptor, but he made a mistake. He took an oath, what my people call a géis – and he should have known that no one breaks it with impunity. The evil rebounds on the person who breaks it. And so, his life was taken …’

  She came to a faltering end for there was little else she could positively say, but Venerable Ionas stepped forward and added: ‘But there is one person who knows, who sees the perpetrator, and even if we poor mortals fail to discover him in this life, he will be found and punished in the next.’

  When it came to lowering the remains of Abbot Servillius into the ground it was the Venerable Ionas who led the tributes. In Fidelma’s culture this would have been called the écnaire, the intercession for the repose of the soul, followed by the blessing.

  ‘Servillius was of a Roman patrician family of Placentia. His ancestors had a long and noble tradition of service in this land. He served this abbey not only as abbot but as bishop. I was here when Servillius first came through the gates of this abbey. That was two score years ago, when there were some here who had known our blessed founder Columbanus. I knew them well and was inspired by them to write a life of that blessed man.

  ‘Servillius was also blessed in different ways. When he became abbot he inherited our founder’s desire to make this abbey not only a centre of piety but of learning, of knowledge and of progress. He tried to stop the abbey from falling into the hands of the followers of Arius, and it was through my offices I went to Rome and secured a recognition of our allegiance to the Holy Father and the granting of the mitre for our abbot as bishop. I secured the same distinction for Abbot Bobolen before him. Together we fought off the evil intentions of the followers of the Arian Creed …’

  He suddenly paused and glanced at Magister Ado. Fidelma noticed the glance as it had registered in her mind that the Venerable Ionas was being a little too egocentric in his observations, which were supposed to be in praise of Abbot Servillius.

  ‘In that great cause of true Faith we were supported by the Magister Ado who had later joined this abbey and became one of our most renowned scholars. I – we – shall not allow our abbot to die in vain but will continue to ensure that this abbey becomes that centre respected throughout Christendom for its piety and learning.’

  It was as the abbot’s body was being lowered into the grave that they all heard it, echoing across the valley. It was the high-pitched echoing drone of the pipes, the lamenting cry of a soul in torment.

  Consternation broke out among the brethren. Some fled back down the track towards the abbey. Even in the glow of the flickering lamplight, Fidelma saw the pale, ghastly look on the faces of Brother Hnikar and Brother Wulfila. Even Brother Faro swung round to stare at the dark shapes of the rising mountains. The only person who stood, a faint smile discernible on his lips in the candlelight, was Odo.

  It was Magister Ado who turned to those brethren who remained hesitating by the graveside. ‘Have you never heard the muse before?’ he remonstrated. ‘Have you never heard the pipes played whenever there is a burial here?’

  Fidelma turned to Brother Faro, who was standing at her side, head to one side, listening to the mournful dirge. There was a strange, almost worried look on his face.

  ‘It seems that Brother Wulfila was wrong when he thought Abbot Servillius and Sister Gisa had gone to see the old hermit because he was ill,’ she commented. She then turned to Odo, who still stood nearby. ‘I am no expert in your local pipes, but who would you say is playing that lament?’

  The youth replied immediately. ‘It is the favourite lament of the hermit. Only Aistulf plays the muse in that fashion.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  For the first time in her life, that night as she retired to bed, Fidelma pulled some heavier items of furniture as quietly as she could across her door before lying down and falling into a fitful, dream-ridden sleep. It was halfway through the night that she suddenly sat up in the darkness, a sweat on her forehead and a coldness on the back of her neck. ‘Of course,’ she muttered as her thoughts cleared. ‘Of course! How stupid of me. How very stupid!’ She managed to doze again but felt exhausted on waking the next morning.

  She rose, washed and, in spite of her exhaustion, there was something coursing through her that excited her into activity. She went to join the brethren for the first meal of the day but found she was unable to concentrate on it. Venerable Ionas led the prayers while Magister Ado sat brooding and picking at his meal. Fidelma glanced around the refectorium. She could see no sign of Brother Faro and when the meal was finished, she asked Brother Wulfila where he was.

  ‘He has already left the abbey again in search of Sister Gisa,’ the steward responded disapprovingly.

  The bell had rung and everyone was dispersing to their daily tasks. Fidelma went hurrying after the Venerable Ionas.

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ she began without preamble. ‘It is a matter that, for the moment, needs to be kept strictly between us.’

  ‘It is not our custom to keep secrets from one another, Sister Fidelma,’ reproved the old scholar.

  ‘Certain members of this community have already broken that custom. When I say that the abbey is in imminent danger, then I think secrecy is expedient.’

  The Venerable Ionas regarded her with a troubled expression. ‘With the deaths that have recently occurred, Fidelma of Hibernia, I think I might have arrived at that decision myself. Last night I supported you in the proposition that you should investigate these deaths. Are you now saying that you have come to some conclusion?’

  ‘Not a complete one,’ she admitted, ‘although by the time this day is over, I think I will have most, if not all, of the answers.’

  ‘So what is this secret that you must share with me?’

  They were standing on the steps of the hall overlooking the courtyard. Fidelma glanced round. ‘Is there a way that we might proceed to the necropolis without being seen?’

  Venerable Ionas frowned. ‘And what would be found there?’

  ‘I hope to show you. But we must not be observed.’

  ‘You cannot tell me more?’

  ‘Only that before he died, Brother Ruadán asked me a question. I thought his mind was wandering. I now realise he was speaking rhetorically. He said: “What evil can be disguised in a mausoleum.” It has taken me a long time to realise what he meant, because I had been following a false trail.’

  Venerable Ionas motioned her to follow him. They went back into the hall and through a passage that led beyond the kitchens. They d
id not go through them or into the herbarium but along another passage and into what looked like a disused storeroom. Venerable Ionas set about removing some boxes in one corner, to reveal the iron handle of a trap door.

  The old scholar smiled wryly at Fidelma. ‘When I was young and first came to the abbey, I was shown this way out should we younger religious want to escape the attentions of the gatekeeper. He was a tougher man than Brother Bladulf, and the rules were far stricter in those days. Sometimes it was just necessary to get away to the mountains and walk in the silence, soft winds and sunshine.’

  He opened the trap door and descended some stone steps into a short passage, not more than three strides in length, that seemed to be cast in a shadowy green light caused by the light infiltrating through creepers that hung over the entrance. Fidelma followed him.

  They were suddenly outside the abbey in a wooded area, and Venerable Ionas led the way, surefooted through the trees, upwards and then along a level area until, to Fidelma’s surprise, they came out at the top end of the necropolis, at the back of the curious mausoleum buildings.

  ‘So, what now?’ Venerable Ionas asked.

  ‘I think we shall find what I am looking for in the third mausoleum.’

  ‘Abbot Bobolen’s mausoleum? You don’t mean that we should open it? That is sacrilege. It has only recently been finished and sealed.’

  ‘Sacrilege has already been committed, if my suspicion is correct, and to prove it we must examine the interior.’

  Venerable Ionas was unhappy as they moved cautiously towards the marble edifice. There seemed no one in the necropolis nor on the surrounding hillside; they were unobserved. Fidelma halted at the doorway of the tomb. The doors were extremely wide, as befitted the massive building, and they were made of iron. Venerable Ionas was frowning at the locking device.

  ‘That is curious. It does not seem very secure – more of a temporary fixing. This lock should have been made stronger.’