Behold a Pale Horse sf-22

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Brother Ruadán was a good man and well respected in this valley,’ whispered the young Lord of Trebbia. ‘I am truly sorry, especially for you, having travelled to this place to see him and then to find him dead.’

  ‘I saw him …’ Fidelma began, then saw that Brother Hnikar, seated just in front of her, was leaning backwards in an attitude of apparent unconcern, in order to eavesdrop. ‘I saw him when I arrived,’ she said, ‘but his mind was wandering for he made no sense.’

  ‘Sad, indeed. I presume this means you will shortly start on your journey back to your own land?’

  Fidelma frowned, wondering if there was a hidden eagerness in his voice. Was he anxious to get rid of her?

  ‘I shall commence my journey back to Genua soon.’

  ‘Then when you are ready, it would be my pleasure to send an escort with you as far as Genua, for we would not like a repeat of the unpleasantness that attended your journey hither.’

  ‘You may rest assured that I would not like it either,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘I will inform you when I am ready.’

  The young Lord of Trebbia rose, with Wulfoald at his side, then went to make his obeisance before the altar and the bier of Brother Ruadán.

  In a custom that she was familiar with in her own land, at midnight the corpse of Brother Ruadán was carried on its bier from the chapel and out of the abbey. The necropolis wasnot far away. It was an area on the slope of the hill behind the abbey, surrounded by a small wall and entered by a stone arched gateway.

  In front of the bier strode one of the brethren bearing a cross on a pole, flanked by two others bearing brand torches. Behind the bier, which was carried by six brothers, came Abbot Servillius, Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado. After them, came Fidelma side by side with Brother Eolann. Others of the brethren, like Brother Lonán, Brother Faro and Brother Wulfila, followed, along with several women of the sisterhood, including Sister Gisa. Others had joined the torchlit procession outside the gates of the abbey. With them came the Lord Radoald and Wulfoald and some of the local townsfolk. It seemed that Ruadán had been well respected. The column of mourners moved under the archway into the necropolis, progressing slowly up the hill towards a spot where Fidelma could see several other torches burning.

  There were an assortment of grave markers on either side which she could just make out in the flickering light of the torches. Yet, at the top of the rise, which marked the back of the necropolis, stood three small houses, though they were not houses that she had ever seen before. It was hard to make them out in the darkness.

  As the brethren had entered the necropolis, they had begun a chant in Latin which Fidelma had not heard before.

  ‘Dominus pascit me, nihil mihi deerit …’ The Lord rules me and I shall want nothing.

  They moved in file behind the bier as it was carried by torchlight to the place where the grave had been dug.

  ‘Sed et si ambulavero in valle mortis non timebo malum quoniam tu mecum es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa consolabuntur me …’ For though I should be in the midstof the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they have comforted me …

  They moved through the gates and Fidelma saw several of the brethren already awaiting them. They stood by a hole freshly dug in the dark earth.

  The body was lowered into it, prayers were said and then Abbot Servillius motioned Fidelma to step forward.

  She suddenly found that she wanted to turn on them and accuse one of them for the murder of her mentor. She wanted to cry out that he had not died of injuries received from a week or two ago but that he had been murdered that very morning after he had spoken to her. That he had tried to issue her with some warning and had told her to leave this evil place. But she gathered her racing thoughts and calmed herself.

  ‘Brother Ruadán was from the Kingdom of Muman, one of the Five Kingdoms that you call the land of Hibernia. He was named after a holy man who is regarded in my land as one of the Twelve Apostles of Hibernia. This Blessed Ruadán became the first Abbot of Lothra, which was near the home of the young Brother Ruadán, who grew up with a thirst for learning and piety. He entered the Abbey of Inis Celtra, a small island in a great lake, where he devoted himself to his books and the pursuit of knowledge. I, among many others, studied under him and grew rich in knowledge from his instruction and profound in wisdom from his guidance. His life was one of the few beacons of light in this dark world.’

  Fidelma then took up a handful of earth and threw it down into the grave.

  Abbot Servillius gave her a glance of approval and stepped forward in turn.

  ‘Hibernia’s loss was the gain of this abbey. It was a sadday for Hibernia when Brother Ruadán left its shores and became a peregrinus pro amore Christi. But it was a great joy to us when he entered the gates of this community. He became one of our greatest preachers, going out among the heathen and trying to bring them to the path of truth. He suffered for the truth, and we may say he was a true martyr — for he died of the beating inflicted upon him by those whom prefer heresy to obedience to the Faith. His soul will be gathered to God and there will be joy in the heavens.’

  He, too, bent and picked up a handful of earth. Then, one by one, those gathered there did likewise. Each stood a moment with their thoughts of the old man before turning away.

  As Fidelma and the others moved away from the grave, an eerie wailing sound pierced the night air. It had a ghostly, musical quality and Fidelma recognised it as the sound of bagpipes. It was almost like the instruments used in her own lands, but more thin and reed-like than the pipes she had grown up with. It seemed to echo round the mountains with a lamenting cry, like a soul in torment. She turned with a startled look to the Venerable Ionas, whom she found next to her.

  ‘Have no fear, daughter,’ the elderly scholar said with a smile. ‘It is only old Aistulf playing the muse — a lament for the departed.’

  ‘Aistulf the hermit? What is the muse?’

  ‘It is the bagpipes played by the folk of the mountains here. Sometimes, at night, when sound carries across the valley, you may hear old Aistulf playing the pipes. Do not let it concern you.’

  The mourners were leaving the necropolis. One of the torch-bearers waited to accompany Fidelma and others. As they walked down the path between the gravestones and wooden crosses, she caught sight of a rough wooden crosswith a name on it. It was unlike the well-crafted memorial stones around it, and in the flickering light she noticed that the name was not so much engraved as burned into the wood by means of a hot iron. They had passed on before the name had completely registered in her mind. Wamba. Where had she heard that word before? Then she almost stopped dead in her tracks. The name had been spoken by Brother Ruadán!

  ‘The boy … poor little Wamba. He did not deserve to die because he had the coins.’

  Those were the very words that he had said that morning. What coins? Why the coins? How did Wamba die? Whom could she ask? Whom could she trust?

  By the time she had returned to her chamber in the guest-house, her mind was swimming with so many questions that she knew she would be unable to sleep. But exhaustion caught up with her and suddenly she was waking to the early-morning light.

  CHAPTER NINE

  At the first meal of the day, Abbot Servillius greeted her with a sad smile. ‘Have you rested well, Sister?’ He seemed unusually concerned.

  ‘I have,’ she replied.

  ‘Excellent. A good sleep can be a great healing of emotions.’

  The prayers and the single bell proclaimed the ritual of the meal which was eaten this time in a self-imposed silence. Even Magister Ado and the Venerable Ionas seemed engrossed in their own thoughts. It was not until the end of the meal that Abbot Servillius approached her again. He reached into his marsupium, drew out something wrapped in a piece of cloth and handed it to her.

  ‘As I promised, here is the item that you may take back to Brother Ruadán’s abbey, where he started out on his journey, as a to
ken of the love we bore him.’

  Fidelma unwrapped it. It was a silver cross that Brother Ruadán had worn on a small chain around his neck. She remembered it well from the time she was a child when he had been teaching her. Solemnly, she re-wrapped it and put it in her own marsupium.

  ‘The brethren of Inis Celtra will appreciate this, Abbot Servillius. Thank you for this gesture.’

  The abbot waved her thanks aside. ‘I suppose you will be thinking of making your plans to travel back to your own country now?’ he said. ‘The autumn will soon be approaching. I would not delay any longer, for the road between here and Genua becomes very bad. The Trebbia is inclined to flood and make it impassable.’

  Fidelma was about to reply when the abbot apparently seemed to catch sight of someone across the refectorium, asked her pardon and hurried off. Then she was aware of Magister Ado at her side, speaking to her.

  ‘It was my fault, encouraging you to make a journey all this way for nothing,’ he was saying. ‘You could have been halfway across the ocean by now.’

  ‘I came to see Brother Ruadán,’ she replied reprovingly. ‘At least I was able to do that before his death and am now able to tell his brethren at Inis Celtra how he was gathered to God after serving this abbey. The abbot was kind enough to give me a relic to take to them in remembrance.’

  Magister Ado appeared embarrassed. ‘I chose my words in a clumsy manner, for which I sincerely apologise. I am glad to offer you any assistance you require to help you back to Genua. Have you made any plans as to when you will leave?’

  It seemed to Fidelma that there were many people suddenly willing to help her leave the abbey and return to Genua: Radoald, Abbot Servillius and now Magister Ado. She wondered why.

  ‘I have made no plans yet,’ she told him. ‘I am hoping I will have time to study the abbey and the surrounding countryside a little before doing so.’

  Magister Ado looked astonished. ‘Why?’ It was almost a demand.

  ‘So that I am able to report to the scholars of Hibernia how the Blessed Colm Bán chose this place to end his days,’ she replied easily. ‘I have barely seen anything yet. I shall depart when I have gathered sufficient information to satisfy the scholars of Hibernia, and you, as a scholar, should appreciate that above all people.’

  She left the refectorium and made her way to the gates of the abbey. Her intention was to examine the gravestone that had caught her eye the previous night. At the gate was Sister Gisa, waiting.

  ‘How are you this morning, Sister Fidelma?’ the young girl greeted her with apparent concern.

  ‘Well enough,’ replied Fidelma. It seemed everyone was also solicitous about her welfare.

  ‘A sad thing it is, to have come all this way to witness the death of your old master.’

  ‘At least it can be said that I saw him before he died,’ Fidelma replied before changing the subject. ‘Are you waiting for Brother Faro?’ she asked. The girl actually flushed.

  ‘Why would I be?’ she countered almost aggressively.

  ‘You and he are greatly attached to one another,’ Fidelma observed gently. ‘That much is obvious.’

  ‘Oh, I …’ The girl was startled.

  ‘Do not worry. There is surely nothing wrong in that?’

  There was scarlet on the girl’s cheeks. ‘I have not broken the rules of the abbey.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Fidelma smiled reassuringly. ‘Forgive me if it is something that you do not wish to speak of.’

  ‘Please,’ the girl was clearly worried, ‘please say nothing. Abbot Servillius is very strict on the rule of segregation and on celibacy.’

  ‘Then why do you and Brother Faro not move to a mixed-house where married religious are allowed? If you are serious about your feelings for one another, then there is no problem in finding such a sanctuary. Those who advocate celibacy among the religious are still a minority — the ascetics who think denial of life is a way to fulfil life.’

  Sister Gisa actually smiled, albeit anxiously.

  ‘You are discerning, Sister. I hope that there are none here who are as discerning as you.’

  ‘I believe Magister Ado knows how you feel.’

  At once a look of alarm came back to the girl’s features. ‘He knows?’

  ‘I am sure that he would not betray you but would bless your resolve if you went to find a place that is more congenial to your thoughts.’

  ‘But Faro is his disciple — he educated him in the Faith. And Faro does not want to leave Bobium.’

  ‘So you have spoken to him about it?’

  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. Perhapsa 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 AbbotServillius. 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 n
ot 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.’