Behold a Pale Horse sf-22

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘But let me make this absolutely clear. Wamba was given the coins?’

  ‘That’s what he told me and what he told his mother.’

  ‘Who gave him the coins?’

  ‘Some old religieux, one of the Hibernians at the abbey.’

  ‘Can you remember the name?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘Not really. A name that sounded like strong rope.’

  The Latin word he used was rudens. Fidelma gave a quick smile of satisfaction.

  ‘Brother Ruadán?’ she asked.

  Odo had no hesitation. ‘That was the name.’

  Fidelma heaved a deep sigh. So it had been Brother Ruadán who had given Wamba the coins, coins that the old man considered had brought about the death of the boy.

  ‘I would be careful, Odo,’ she advised him. ‘There are strange things happening on this mountain. After we leave here, I would take your goats to some new pasture where you might protect yourself for a while.’

  Wulfoald was on his feet looking moodily at the horses. ‘I was hoping we could use the merchant’s mule to help carry the old woman’s body back to the abbey. It would be appropriate if she could be buried with her son.’

  Fidelma glanced at him in appreciation. ‘You can put it on my horse,’ she offered. ‘I can ride double behind you.’

  ‘Thank you, lady. I can help you move the body,’ Odo said. ‘It would be the right thing to do.’

  It did not take long to carry out the gruesome task, arranging Odo’s blanket to wrap the body in. The youth agreed to come to the abbey before midnight when such burials were carried out, to pay his last respects to his aunt.

  ‘Nothing further we can do here,’ Wulfoald said, as he stood with the horses. ‘I don’t understand it. If the fire wasdeliberately set, and it seems it was, then are we saying that this was an act of Grasulf and his men?’

  ‘I am as perplexed as you are, Wulfoald, by what we have seen and heard,’ Fidelma replied quietly.

  Wulfoald grimaced almost humorously. ‘I am sure that this has not turned out satisfactory to whatever ideas you had, lady,’ he said to Fidelma. ‘However, I would urge that we return to the abbey as quickly as possible. We ought to have a word with the scriptor, Brother Eolann, to see if he can cast any light on what Hawisa originally said to you and, perhaps, why.’

  ‘You are right, Wulfoald,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘I am sorry. I should have realised long before this that you were telling the truth.’

  Wulfoald looked amused but said, ‘Why is that, lady?’

  ‘When Brother Waldipert, the cook, told me that you had brought Wamba’s body to the abbey, he said quite clearly that you brought the body with the abbot and not to the abbot. That meant that you and the abbot had both escorted the body to the abbey. It was stupid of me to have overlooked it.’

  Wulfoald pursed his lips for a moment and then shrugged. ‘A small word, a tiny inflection. Easily missed. Grammatici certant et adhuc sub judice lis est?’

  Fidelma smiled wanly. ‘Grammarians discuss, and the case is still before the courts,’ she repeated. ‘But remember, wars hang on such linguistic misunderstandings.’

  ‘Let us hope no war hangs on this mystery,’ Wulfoald replied as he untethered his horse and mounted, holding out an arm to help Fidelma swing up behind him. Then he bent and took the reins of the beast that carried the corpse of the old woman and began to lead it carefully behind them down the mountain track towards the abbey.

  Fidelma felt bewildered as she held on to the back of the warrior. There was something not quite right here, something that made her believe that the answers to all these mysteries still lay in the abbey itself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Fidelma and Wulfoald left their grisly burden at the gates of the necropolis with one of the brethren, to await instructions on the burial, before continuing into the abbey itself. When Brother Wulfila swung back the gates to allow them to enter the courtyard, he looked nervous, and Fidelma immediately became aware of a tension in the air as they dismounted. One of the brethren took the horses to the stables.

  ‘Did all go well?’ demanded the steward. ‘Did you find out the cause of the fire?’

  ‘It seems that the fire was deliberately set,’ Wulfoald replied. ‘It destroyed the cabin of Hawisa and she perished in the flames.’

  ‘Deliberately set?’ gasped the steward.

  ‘I have to inform you, as steward, that we brought the body of Hawisa down and left it at the necropolis. We considered it appropriate that the old woman should be buried with her son.’

  ‘Perhaps it is best, then, if the body is taken to the chapel overnight.’

  ‘We thought it would be more expedient to leave it at the necropolis,’ Sister Fidelma said. ‘I am afraid the odours would be offensive to the brethren if it was brought into the abbey.’

  Brother Wulfila looked undecided. ‘But the body should be given a blessing before burial. It ought to be brought to the chapel for services …’

  ‘I suggest that the blessing be done at the graveside,’ Wulfoald replied dryly. ‘Death, in such circumstance, does not smell sweet.’

  It took the steward a few moments before he understood. ‘Of course, of course,’ he muttered, anxiously peering around as if looking for someone.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Fidelma asked. ‘You appear preoccupied, Brother Wulfila.’

  ‘I am sorry, lady. I have a matter to attend to,’ he said, and then he left them to hurry away.

  Wulfoald glanced at Fidelma with a shrug and hailed Brother Hnikar who was passing by.

  ‘Is Abbot Servillius in his chamber?’

  The apothecary halted. ‘He has come back but is not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Not to be disturbed?’ queried Wulfoald, amazed.

  The other man explained: ‘Abbot Servillius returned a short while ago. He has retired immediately to his chamber for he is exhausted. I have never seen him look so worried. He told the steward specifically that he is not to be disturbed until the bell for the evening meal.’

  ‘And Sister Gisa — where is she?’ Fidelma asked, recalling that they had ridden out together on the previous night.

  ‘Abbot Servillius says Sister Gisa has remained with Aistulf. It is very curious.’

  Wulfoald gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Then I am sure the abbot will explain when he emerges from his rest. Doubtless he is exhausted, having been away all night. If Sister Gisa is with Aistulf, then she will be all right.Meanwhile, Sister Fidelma, we must go in search of Brother Eolann.’

  Fidelma agreed. ‘Has he recovered from his er … fall?’ she asked Brother Hnikar.

  ‘Yes, yes. He is fine and he claims no pain at all from his injury, even though he has a bruise and a bump on his head. I saw him a short time ago, heading for the scriptorium.’

  Fidelma led the way to the entrance to the scriptorium through the smaller courtyard and up the tower. The chamber in which Brother Eolann was usually to be found, however, was empty and in gloom. Although it lacked a long time until dusk, every time she had been in the room there was a lamp or tallow candle spluttering with light. There was none now. With a puzzled grimace to Wulfoald, she turned and opened the door into the copyists’ room. Here the lamps blazed as a dozen or so of the brethren were seated at their desks with maulsticks to rest their wrists on as they used their quills to copy texts on to vellum from the skins of goats or sheep. There was an industrious scratching as they painstakingly bent to their various tasks.

  One of them looked up and caught sight of Fidelma and Wulfoald. He rose from his stool and came forward with an inquiring glance.

  ‘I am looking for the scriptor, Brother Eolann,’ she told him.

  ‘We have not seen him for a while, Sister,’ the scribe replied. ‘We thought he might have left the abbey again.’

  ‘Left the abbey again?’

  ‘He was away nearly four nights with you, Sister,’ replied the scribe solemnly but without guile.

  She flushed in a
nnoyance. ‘He was here this morning and had an — an accident. A fall. He has not been seen by you today?’

  ‘He was here some time today,’ offered another of the copyists, glancing up.

  ‘He may be with Venerable Ionas, Sister,’ said another. ‘He is often in conference with him. Venerable Ionas works in his own chamber through there.’ He pointed to another door.

  Fidelma thanked them and, with Wulfoald behind her, followed the direction that the copyist had indicated through a door into a small passage. Even before they began to search for Venerable Ionas’ chamber, they saw the elderly scholar himself walking along the passage as if on his way to the copyists’ room. His expression grew concerned when they told him who they were looking for.

  ‘I have also been in search of Brother Eolann. I saw him briefly after Abbot Servillius returned. In fact, he said he was going to make confession to the abbot but he has not been seen in the scriptorium since then. I was told that he had a bad fall this morning and perhaps he is still suffering from the shock of it.’

  Venerable Ionas told them the location of Brother Eolann’s chamber but they had no luck there. The scriptor believed in living frugally for there was hardly anything that could be described as personal belongings in the room, only a spare set of sandals, some clothing and personal toilet articles. There was not even a book nor a set of scribal implements to mark his profession.

  Fidelma turned to Wulfoald with a look of resignation.

  ‘There is little more that we can do until we find Brother Eolann’s whereabouts.’

  ‘I agree. This matter is becoming curious, lady. Unfortunately, I have the security of the valley to occupy me and so must return to Radoald’s fortress to discuss these matters with him.’

  ‘You believe warfare is imminent?’

  ‘That is one thing that is sure. And another thing that is also sure is the fact that Grasulf of Vars will be part of it. But he will go with the side that pays him the most. That’s why Suidur went to see him, to find out what Perctarit was offering him.’

  They had made their way back down to the courtyard and Wulfoald called for his horse to be brought out.

  Fidelma waited a moment before making up her mind to bathe after her journey. Later, she lay down in her chamber and dozed for a while. It was growing late when she opened her eyes. Time had passed quickly. Her feelings of unease began to increase. She must not delay in questioning Abbot Servillius about his visit to Hawisa. When she went down to the main hall and found Brother Wulfila, she was informed that the abbot had not yet emerged. His strict instruction was that he should not be disturbed before the bell for the evening meal.

  In response to her question, the steward declared that he had not seen Brother Eolann since midday. There was no further news of Sister Gisa, but Brother Faro had returned — although on being told of Sister Gisa’s absence, he insisted on leaving the abbey again to see if he could find his companion. The steward seemed distressed that no one appeared to be obeying the rules of the abbey any more.

  Annoyed at what she saw as timewasting, Fidelma decided to seek out Venerable Ionas again to see if his scholarship could shed light on those matters that were worrying her. She retraced her steps to the scriptorium and then found his chamber. A few seconds after tapping on the door, the elderly scholar’s voice invited her to enter. He was sitting at his desk with some manuscript books laid out in front of him and a quill in his hand.

  ‘Venerable Ionas, may I bother you for a moment?’

  The old man sat back from his desk with a frown and laid down the quill. ‘If you are still looking for Brother Eolann, he has not been seen yet. It is very vexatious.’

  ‘I have heard as much from Brother Wulfila,’ she replied, entering and shutting the door behind her. ‘But it is about another matter I have come to seek your advice.’

  ‘Then how can I be of help, Sister Fidelma?’ he asked with interest.

  ‘I hear that you know something about ancient coins.’

  ‘I know a little, for in the study of history, coins can sometimes be useful.’

  ‘Can you tell me what this is?’ She had taken the gold coin from her ciorr bholg, or comb bag, and placed it in his hand, before sitting by his desk on a small stool.

  Venerable Ionas peered at it shortsightedly, turning it over in his frail hands. Then he nodded slowly. ‘A gold piece from ancient Gaul. It looks quite old. Where did you find it?’

  ‘Oh, it was given to me.’ Fidelma glossed over its provenance. ‘But are you sure it is from Gaul, not a local coin?’

  ‘See the charioteer on it, the horses with stars above them?’ Venerable Ionas held up the coin to the light of his lamp. ‘And see those letters on the obverse? That is a gold coin of the Tectosages of Gaul. Their capital was the city of Tolosa.’

  Fidelma tried not to reveal that Tolosa meant anything to her. She was about to thank the old scholar when a thought struck her.

  ‘You have been here many years, Venerable Ionas?’ It was a question rather than a comment.

  ‘I came here a few years after the death of our dearly beloved Columbanus, and met and spoke with those who had known him in life,’ he replied. ‘That was when I began writing mylife of our founder. After that I wandered in several parts of Christendom, even among the Franks and then to Rome. That is where I picked up my knowledge of Gaulish coins, so I can identify the one you hold.’

  ‘Brother Eolann mentioned you had such knowledge.’

  ‘He is a good scriptor.’

  ‘Do you know much about him?’

  The old man was surprised. ‘I thought that he came from the same part of the world as you do?’

  ‘He does,’ agreed Fidelma quickly. ‘I meant, since he came to this abbey.’

  ‘Oh, he has only been here two or three years. I am told that he first went to the Abbey of Gallen, an Hibernian whom you called Gall. Then he crossed the high peaks and spent some time in Mailand. That was about the time when Perctarit still ruled from there, before he was driven into exile. Brother Eolann then came here, seeking peace and solitude. He had talent and soon rose to become scriptor of the abbey.’

  ‘But he was sad at being criticised when some of his books were needlessly ruined. Some of their pages were cut off and disappeared.’

  ‘I do not remember mention of that,’ said the old scholar. ‘I was not told and I use the library every day.’

  ‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘It is a great crime to destroy books,’ he went on.

  ‘Brother Eolann and I managed to ascertain that the pages had been cut from books by Livy and Pliny. We identified the pages from Livy. They had been removed from one of the books containing a passage about a Roman Proconsul named Caepio. His legions were destroyed in Gaul.’

  Venerable Ionas looked at her with quick interest.

  ‘Caepio? Yes, he was the Proconsul and Governor of thisvery territory in the days of the old Empire. He was the great-grandfather of Marcus Brutus, one of the assassins of the General Julius Caesar.’

  ‘I have heard of Julius Caesar,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘But that must have been in very ancient times then? I had a feeling that Caepio had some more immediate connection with this area — some legacy.’

  ‘Caepio?’ Venerable Ionas shook his head. ‘No, he lived a long time before Julius Caesar — many years, in fact, before the Coming of the Christ. Caepio’s legacy was reviled throughout the Empire. There is a good reason why his life was not considered worthy. His arrogance destroyed two Roman armies, tens of thousands of men, but he escaped with his life. He was taken before the Roman Senate, tried and found guilty of the destruction of his army and of embezzlement of money. Being a patrician he was stripped of his citizenship and ordered into exile. No one was allowed to provide him with fire or water within eight hundred Roman miles of the Senate House, and he was fined fifteen thousand gold talents. He was not allowed to speak to friends or family from the moment of his sentence. The story is that he
managed to reach a Greek city in the east and died there in exile.’

  Fidelma was quiet. Venerable Ionas’ account more or less confirmed and expanded the few words that she had seen in the book in the library at Vars.

  ‘Why would pages relating to Caepio be cut out of the books in the abbey library?’ asked Venerable Ionas.

  ‘I was told there was some legend connected with gold from Tolosa,’ she said.

  The elderly scholar looked at the coin and grimaced. ‘The same old dream. Aurum Tolosa, eh?’

  ‘Then you know of it?’ Fidelma asked quickly.

  ‘The people of these valleys often talk about it. It is more or less the gold of fools. A myth. It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘But tell me about it.’

  ‘Before the battle in which the Roman armies were annihilated, Caepio and his legions attacked and sacked the town of Tolosa and carried off a vast amount of gold and silver. Some stories even say that the people had hidden the gold in a great, dark lake, but Caepio managed to recover it …’

  ‘That which was taken from a watery grave must be returned to it,’ muttered Fidelma.

  ‘What?’ frowned the old scholar.

  ‘Forgive me, I was just remembering something that someone said. Go on.’

  ‘Well, the figures vary, but it is said that the legionnaires filled forty-six wagons with gold and silver. Caepio then sent them back to his villa in Placentia. When the Senate asked him where the gold was, he claimed it had never reached Placentia — that the wagons had been attacked by bandits and looted on the way. The Senate didn’t believe him. They believed that he had appropriated the gold for himself and had buried it somewhere in these very mountains — hence the severity of his sentence. The fact was that it disappeared and over the many centuries since, it has become a myth. So why are you interested in this?’ He held up the coin and examined it. ‘A gold coin of Tolosa … a coin of the Tectosages.’ He began to smile. ‘Ah, don’t tell me that someone is trying to persuade you that this coin is part of the lost gold of Tolosa?’