Behold a Pale Horse sf-22

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘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 Trebbia, 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 thecabin 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 though
t 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 isthe 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.

  ‘A trained rider on a good horse could make it,’ corrected Wulfoald.

  ‘I saw him,’ affirmed Odo. ‘He was riding down the mountain but I lost sight of him in the smoke. He was the man who did this, there is no doubt.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’ Fidelma leaned forward eagerly.

  Odo shook his head. ‘He was just a figure in the darkness. All I remember was that the horse was pale. It could have been white or grey.’ He suddenly peered at Wulfoald’s horse and frowned. ‘It was much like that one.’

  ‘Set deliberately …’ Wulfoald was thoughtful. ‘It is lucky that the fire did not spread further.’

  ‘There was a heavy rain that swept the area, and other mountain people came to make sure there were fire-breaks in case it restarted. They have all returned to their homes to ensure their herds are well. I was about to leave when I saw people passing up the road to the sanctuary …’

  ‘That would have been Brother Bladulf and his brethren,’ Wulfoald observed.

  ‘They passed by on foot along the main track up towards the sanctuary. I waited in case they returned and then I saw you coming directly to Hawisa’s cabin and thought you must have been responsible.’

  ‘If someone was responsible for the fire, and therefore the death of the old woman, then there are many questions to be answered. By the way,’ Fidelma had a sudden thought, ‘did your aunt tell you about the day Wamba was found?’

  ‘She had spoken of nothing else since the burial,’ confirmed the goatherd. ‘My cousin was her only child. Why do you ask?’

  ‘And what did she say? Explain the circumstances.’

  ‘That day she came to my cabin, which, as I say, is not far away down the mountain. She told me that a warrior had found Wamba where he had apparently fallen from a rockface. He was dead. She asked me to tend to the goats while she went to the abbey where the body was being taken for burial.’

  ‘Did she say how she knew the warrior had found her boy?’

  Odo stared at her in puzzlement. ‘Because the warrior told her so.’

  ‘She had not gone to the abbey when you saw her. When had the warrior told her about finding the body?’

  The young man looked bewildered. ‘I do not understand. He told her when he brought the body to her cabin.’

  Fidelma heard Wulfoald’s suppressed exclamation of satisfaction but ignored it.

  ‘Did she tell you who this warrior was? His name?’

  ‘Only that he was one of Lord Radoald’s men, that’s all I know. Strangely enough, Abbot Servillius was with her at the time. He had come to give Wamba payment for some old coin that Wamba had been given. Apparently he had taken the money to the abbey.’

  ‘You did not go to Wamba’s funeral?’

  ‘I could not. Hawisa asked me to look after the goats. She went.’

  Fidelma was sitting back, her mind racing. The story was totally contrary to what Hawisa had told them on their visit to her. This account entirely supported Wulfoald’s version of events. How could such a thing be?

  ‘Well.’ Wulfoald smiled almost triumphantly. ‘Now you know my story is correct.’

  ‘So one other thing, Odo. Did you know that your aunt had placed a box belonging to Wamba in the cairn that she had erected?’

  The youth nodded sadly. ‘It was stolen almost immediately,’ he replied. ‘One of the goatherds even saw it being taken. He actually
saw a man in the robes of a religieux climbing down from where the cairn was, with the box in his hand. He scrambled up to the path to intercept him, but by the time he reached the spot, the thief had escaped on a horse. Curiously enough, yesterday morning my aunt found the box, slightly damaged, but placed back in the cairn.’

  Fidelma did not bother to explain but asked, ‘Was the colour of this horse mentioned?’

  Odo thought a moment and then he realised the implication. ‘It was pale grey too.’

  ‘Where would this witness be now?’

  ‘Gone, lady. He went to Travo soon after the cairn was desecrated and has not returned.’

  Fidelma sat back, gazing moodily at the gushing waters of the stream. Not for the first time, questions cascaded in her mind. Why had Hawisa told her and Brother Eolann such a different tale? Why would she lie so blatantly? Then she realised she was asking the wrong question. She had not thought of it before — indeed, had never contemplated it. How did she know what Hawisa had told her? Her story had been relayed through interpretation only. Fidelma had totally relied on her interpreter and that was Brother Eolann. But why should Brother Eolann have misinterpreted what the old woman had said? If Hawisa was not lying at the time, why would the scriptor purposely distort her words? There were other questions. Why did Abbot Servillius climb all the way to Hawisa’s cabin to compensate her for a coin that was not worth much? And why had Brother Ruadán claimed that Wamba had been killed because he found the coins?

  Fidelma rose to her feet, turning over the answers she had received and coming up with more questions. Another thought struck her. She turned quickly back to Odo.

  ‘You said that Abbot Servillius had come to Hawisa’s cabin that day to recompense Wamba for some coins that he had been given and taken to the abbey.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you mean Wamba had found the coins or been given these coins by someone else?’

  ‘Wamba told me that he had been given two coins, not that he found them. He believed they were gold and ancient, but he never showed them to me. He only mentioned one to his mother.’