Wulfoald raised a hand to his forehead where there was still a slight scar where the steward had caught him with the wooden bar.
‘Wulfila … there is someone for whom I cannot feel sorry. His blow still pains me. Tell me, did you know he was the third conspirator in this matter before he declared himself?’
‘I suspected, and foolishly did not say so before. The facts added up. I should have challenged him but could not make my assertions before Venerable Ionas and the magister. The very moment I arrived at the abbey I saw an exchange between Brother Faro and Wulfila that was not one between a steward of an abbey and a member of the brethren. On seeing Brother Faro wounded, Wulfila rushed forward like a servant and was sharply rebuked by Faro. I learned that both men came to the abbey two years before, after Perctarit went into exile. Both, I discovered, had previously been warriors.’
‘Faro made no disguise of that,’ agreed Wulfoald.
‘But it was not revealed that Wulfila had served Faro, who was one of Perctarit’s commanders. Aistulf later told me about the Lord of Turbigo whose reputation he had heard of when fighting in the wars two years ago. Faro was a brilliant commander. A good strategist. Faro and Wulfila joined with Eolann at Mailand and came to Bobium to plot Perctarit’s return and campaign against Grimoald.’
‘So it was Wulfila who murdered poor Brother Ruadán?’ queried Sister Gisa.
‘It was. Wulfila heard me say that I had found Brother Ruadán lucid and that I was going to talk to him again. He had to make sure that it did not happen. Wulfila smothered him with a pillow. He had not realised that I had already spoken to Brother Ruadán only minutes before. Brother Hnikar then mentioned that it was Wulfila who had come to tell him that Brother Ruadán had died in his sleep. I knew that not to be so. Wulfila had also to have been outside Lady Gunora’s chamber when she left the abbey with the prince. He alerted his master, Faro, who chased after them and killed Lady Gunora. Finally, Wulfila lied to me when he said Abbot Servillius was in his chamber and would see no one. Wulfila had already killed him.’
‘But why?’
‘He advised Eolann to stage an injury to prevent him accompanying me to see Hawisa and revealing that he had misinterpreted what she had said. He did this just in case Faro failed in killing her before we got to her cabin. The weak point among the conspirators was Eolann. He was a scholar, acting for his beliefs against those he saw as Arians. But he was not a cold-blooded killer like his military-trained co-conspirators. The fact that he could not let me fall to my death on Mount Pénas demonstrated that he still had scruples. He was worried about the lives that were being taken. His Faith could not support it and so he went to confess his sins to Abbot Servillius. We can never be sure how Wulfila found out, or whether Eolann told him what he intended. At that point Wulfila decided that both Eolann and Abbot Servillius had to die. Faro and the conspiracy had to be protected until the time was ready.’
‘You worked it out brilliantly,’ Sister Gisa said in appreciation.
Sister Fidelma frowned with irritation. ‘Not I. I did nothing but allowed myself to be misled by Eolann through my sheer arrogance. I should have known about Wulfila long before. I regard this as a failure of all my training and faculties. I am ashamed.’
‘You are too hard on yourself, lady,’ murmured Sister Gisa. ‘A stranger in a strange land. You discovered the hiding-place of the gold and had it removed for safety into the abbey. That delay allowed Radoald’s men to arrive in time.’
‘When all is said and done, it was nothing but the same old story,’ observed Wulfoald. ‘The search of kings for power and all the bloodshed such ambitions bring with them. I suppose that search will be with us until Judgement Day.’
Fidelma regarded him with mild appreciation. ‘There is the making of a philosopher in you, Wulfoald.’
He grinned. ‘I have no such aspirations, lady. I am a warrior, so I am part of that search for power.’
‘Well, remember, my friend, that force without good sense falls by its own weight.’
Wulfoald chuckled. ‘I too have read Horace, lady. Vis consili expers mole ruit sua. It is a lesson that Perctarit has learned by now.’
‘So you do not think your people have need to fear Perctarit again?’
‘I do not think any such thing, lady. While he is alive, Perctarit will always try to return to what he thinks is rightfully his. Perhaps he will … one day. In the meantime, Grimoald rules fairly and allows both those who follow the Creed of Arian and those who follow the Nicene Creed to dwell in peace, if not in harmony, with each other. Perctarit may, however, find peace in Frankia or Burgundia and not bother our kingdom again. Who knows? I am a cynic and I follow the way of Epicurus. Dum vivimus vivamus.’
‘While we live, let us live,’ Fidelma echoed. ‘Let us hope that Perctarit and his followers allow that.’
Sister Gisa had been silent all this time and now she stirred herself.
‘There is little in life for me without Faro,’ she sighed. ‘I hate him for what he has done, and yet … All is blackness for me. I don’t understand myself.’
Fidelma felt compassion for the girl. ‘You think it now. Time is a great healer.’
‘Faro,’ breathed Sister Gisa, ignoring her. ‘Did Faro survive that great battle against Grimoald? Has he followed Perctarit’s flight to Frankia? He fooled me – he fooled us all. But he was …’
Fidelma smiled and laid a comforting hand on the girl’s arm. ‘Let me pass on the advice of Ovid in his Remedia Amoris: res age, tute eris.’
‘The remedy for love is, be busy and you will be safe.’ Sister Gisa’s voice was tight. ‘Ah, all well and good that you give such advice. How do you know how painful love is?’
For a moment Fidelma’s jaw hardened and her eyes glistened. She was thinking of a young warrior, Cian, with whom she had fallen in love when she had been a student at Brehon Morann’s law school. She had been only eighteen years old. Cian was a few years older – tall, chestnut-haired, a warrior in the bodyguard of the High King. She had been in love with him and he had merely dallied with her, using her until his fancy was taken by someone else. It had been a bitter pill to swallow. It probably had been the main reason for her willingness to accept the advice of her cousin, Abbot Laisran of Darú, that she should join the religious of Cill Dara, than any intellectual consideration about the Faith.
‘I know how painful love can be,’ she answered firmly. Yet even as she was saying it, she found a new image coming into her mind. She was no longer thinking of Cian but of the Saxon religieux she had so recently met and who had helped her resolve the murders at the Synod of Streonshalh and, more recently, in the Lateran Palace. Brother Eadulf of Saxmund’s Ham, whom she had left in Rome and whom she might never see again. Why was she thinking of him? Perhaps if he had been with her, with his quiet support and questioning, she might not have been drawn down that blind road, her thoughts filled with the Aurum Tolosa, the mythical gold, and the connection to Abbot Servillius. Magister Ado had once accurately assessed her weakness: an over-confidence amounting to arrogance.
She was suddenly aware of one of the sailors at her side. He raised a hand to his forehead and said, ‘Excuse me, lady. The Captain says that the tide is turning. We must be away at once. Will you come aboard?’
Fidelma assented and turned to her companions.
‘I hope your valley is able to maintain the peace that it has now achieved. May Bobium thrive, so that Colm Bán’s establishment will grow and its name become renowned throughout the civilised world.’ She smiled at each of them in turn.
‘Safe home, lady.’ Wulfoald grinned. ‘We have much to thank you for.’
Sister Gisa nodded her agreement, smiling at Fidelma through the brightness of tears in her eyes. Impulsively, she moved forward and embraced the girl.
Fidelma then stepped away and walked up the gangplank. She turned and looked down at them as the crew began to haul in the plank. She heard the sound of bare feet on the deck and the crack of canvas as the sa
ils unfurled. The ship’s timbers groaned a little, almost protesting, as it slowly eased away from the quayside. Then the tide caught the vessel. The figures of Sister Gisa and Wulfoald began to grow smaller. She raised a hand to them before the ship turned to catch the wind and they vanished from her sight. For a moment she felt a strange sense of isolation, of missing them, and then the salt air stung her cheeks and she breathed in deeply, lifting her face up towards the sunshine.
She was going home at last. Home. Home to Muman. Home to Cashel. What was the old saying? There was, indeed, no hearth like one’s own hearth.
By Peter Tremayne and featuring Sister Fidelma:
Absolution by Murder
Shroud for the Archbishop
Suffer Little Children
The Subtle Serpent
The Spider’s Web
Valley of the Shadow
The Monk who Vanished
Act of Mercy
Hemlock at Vespers
Our Lady of Darkness
Smoke in the Wind
The Haunted Abbot
Badgers Moon
Whispers of the Dead
The Leper’s Bell
Master of Souls
A Prayer for the Damned
Dancing with Demons
The Council of the Cursed
The Dove of Death
The Chalice of Blood
Behold a Pale Horse
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BEHOLD A PALE HORSE. Copyright © 2011 by Peter Tremayne. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
ISBN 978-0-312-65863-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-01483-2 (e-book)
First published in Great Britain by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP, an Hachette UK Company
First U.S. Edition: July 2012
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