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 beencovered 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.
Venerable 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 andthence 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 forAbbot 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 thoughtAbbot 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 exhaus
ted 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 did not go through them or into theherbarium 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.’
‘I assure you, therefore, that it is important to look inside,’ insisted Fidelma. ‘We must do it and do it now.’
‘But why?’
‘The answer to all the deaths that have happened and may happen will be found in this mausoleum. I ask you to trust me.’
Venerable Ionas stared at her in amazement, but he could feel her sincerity. He hesitated a moment more and finally agreed. ‘Very well. Thankfully, it is easy enough to replace such fittings as these.’ He bent down, picked up a piece of rock and banged it against the iron lock. It fell away with only three sharp blows. Together, they drew back one of the doors. Whatever Venerable Ionas was expecting to see inside, it was not a wagon piled with leather sacks. This occupied most of the interior and there was no sign of any sarcophagus.
Fidelma’s expression did not change as she stepped forward and began to tug open one of the sacks. She held it for Venerable Ionas to see. Inside it was stuffed with golden coins.
‘Is this the Aurum Tolosa?’ breathed the old scholar, staring at it. ‘Does it truly exist?’
Fidelma gave a shake of her head, saying, ‘It might well be from Tolosa, but it is not the fabled gold of Caepio.’
‘Then what …?’
‘It is meant as payment to the Lord of Vars for his services,and I think he will be coming for it soon. We had best try to fix the lock and return to your chamber to discuss this matter.’
When they were back in his chamber, they sat for a while in silence.
‘How long have you known?’ Venerable Ionas finally asked.
‘Only since last night,’ Fidelma replied. ‘I was too busy chasing the mythological gold to come to a solution earlier.’
‘The Aurum Tolosa?’ asked Venerable Ionas, bewildered. ‘But where does this gold come from? You say it is payment for the Lord of Vars — but for what, and why?’
‘From Perctarit to Grasulf to persuade him to join him in an uprising against Grimoald. One thing I learned at Vars was that Grasulf was expecting such payment. When Perctarit was ready, he would tell Grasulf where it had been placed by his agent.’
‘His agent? Who placed it there, in the mausoleum of Bobolen?’
‘I think I know, but I need to confirm things. I am sure the wagon has been hidden there for some time. I don’t know how, but I believe poor Brother Ruadán discovered the secret. He found some coins and, presumably out of charity, gave two of them to Wamba.’
Venerable Ionas was shaking his head in bewilderment.
‘I still cannot understand. Was it something to do with Brother Eolann?’
‘He had a hand in it yet he was not the central person involved.’
‘There are many questions to be answered, Fidelma.’
‘I know,’ she agreed grimly. ‘That is why I cannot reveal who I think is the instigator of this plot.’ She rose and added: ‘Matters will soon come to fruition. I leave you for a while.’
‘Where do you intend to go?’
‘To seek out Lord Radoald. I believe that he can supply some answers to this mystery.’
‘You must be careful,’ insisted Venerable Ionas. ‘If it is known that you have discovered this gold, even the fact that you are a woman — indeed, a princess from Hibernia — will not protect you.’
Fidelma smiled thinly. ‘I never thought it would,’ she replied. Then she asked: ‘Are there any men of strength in the abbey? A blacksmith and his assistant?’
Venerable Ionas pursed his lips for a moment in thought. ‘We have three or four such men.’
‘Then they must be men that you totally trust. Only you are to communicate with them and let them take an oat
h of silence about what you will ask them to do. No word of what I want you to ask them must be revealed to anyone else in the abbey. Nor must you mention it to anyone yourself, not even to those whom you trust, like Magister Ado, Brother Bladulf or Brother Wulfila or even Brother Lonán.’
‘I do not understand but I shall trust you, Fidelma. I will make the men take such an oath and bind them to silence.’
She outlined her instructions. ‘This must be done in secret. If I am right, it should buy some time, at least. I hope to return to the abbey well before the end of the day, and by that time all will be clear.’
‘I pray that it is, for you are saying that I cannot trust some who are my closest associates … even friends.’
‘I would also ask you to request the brethren to stay close to the abbey today,’ she added.
‘Are you some soothsayer that you are sure of this impending danger?’ queried the elderly scholar in resignation.
‘Ah, had I eyes that foresee the future, I would never have left the port of Genua.’
‘Well, there are no footsteps backwards in life, my child. Once the die is thrown, we must accept the outcome and make of it what we will.’
Fidelma paused at the door. ‘You are right, Venerable Ionas. Sometimes I give way to a selfishness of spirit, of which I should be ashamed. I have learned much from the mistake of putting trust in Brother Eolann.’
‘God made you as you are, Fidelma, and for that this abbey is grateful. Stay safe and hurry back to us.’
She left the abbey soon afterwards and only the Venerable Ionas saw her leading a horse out of the stables. He had contrived to send those brethren in the courtyard on some errands and he, himself, opened the gates for her. He followed her with a worried eye as she mounted the animal and trotted it down towards the river.
The way to Radoald’s fortress was easy as Fidelma was beginning to know it well. She crossed the hump-back bridge and turned to follow the turbulent waters of the Trebbia upstream beside the thick woods that spread along its banks. It was still early and the day tranquil with sunny blue skies. The various forest noises were so soporific that Fidelma had difficulty in accepting the grim reality of the deaths that had taken place in this pleasant countryside; in accepting the threat of warfare that would tear this peaceful valley apart.
Behold a Pale Horse sf-22 Page 29