The Haunted Abbot sf-12

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘And you knew the religious that were there before Cild came along, men like Botulf?’

  Mul blinked for a moment.

  ‘Most people in the area knew Botulf.’ He looked at Eadulf. ‘You knew him better than most. I remember that you were boys together, though you probably don’t remember me from those days.’

  Fidelma leaned forward.

  ‘You see, Mul, I would like to know a little more about this man Cild and his brother, Aldhere, as well. I want to know what the evil is that permeates this area.’

  Mul grimaced in disgust.

  ‘Each is doubtless as evil as the other. One is an outlaw, murdering and thieving outside the law. The other is a tyrant, murdering and thieving within the law. A curse on them both.’

  Eadulf was about to open his mouth when he was stayed by a glance from Fidelma.

  ‘I think that you should tell us your story, Mul, for I feel that you have one to tell.’

  Mul regarded her keenly for a moment, then he shrugged.

  ‘You are discerning, as I said before. I inherited this farm from my father. When he died a few years ago, I was married with two fine sons. It was a good farm and life was good even though the elements were often harsh. Then it all changed.’

  ‘How did it change?’ asked Fidelma when he paused.

  ‘How? Cild arrived. I had never heard of Cild before, but when I visited the market in Seaxmund’s Ham, not long afterwards, someone told me that he had once been a warlord on the borders with Mercia. They told me that his father had disinherited him and so he had gone to a land called Connacht beyond the western sea. He had returned with a wife, a woman of your race.’ He nodded towards Fidelma.

  ‘You refer to Gélgeis?’

  ‘That was her name. Cild and Gélgeis came to the abbey when Cild became its abbot. Then I heard that Cild’s brother, a thane, had been disgraced. It was said that King Ealdwulf had refused to return Cild’s father’s titles and lands to the abbot.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘For a few months all was quiet and then I heard that Gélgeis had perished in the marshes near the abbey …’

  ‘Did you find out how?’

  ‘How?’ Mul was bemused for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘I heard that Cild had become like a man possessed, driving out the religious who believed in the original rules of their Order and welcoming these new ideas from the Roman Rule of Canterbury. He slaughtered many who would not change theirways. He separated married clergy and sold the women into slavery. The abbey became closed to all women.’

  ‘You could have warned us about that,’ intervened Eadulf. ‘The night you drove us to the abbey, you could have warned us.’

  ‘You were religious intent on going to the abbey,’ replied Mul. ‘Why should I warn you? I am not a Christian nor have I any desire to become one if all you do is fight and argue among yourselves. Anyway, as I was saying, Cild showed that he was still a warlord. A few months ago he enticed into the abbey a band of young warriors who, dressed in the holy robes which you Christians adopt, would scour the countryside in search of loot. They raided this farm and it was then that I knew evil stalked the abbey.’

  He fell silent for a moment or two as if contemplating the memory.

  ‘What happened?’ encouraged Fidelma softly.

  Mul resumed his story, speaking in a studied voice as if to control his emotions.

  ‘I was away at market when they came. They came to loot. My wife and two young boys were here. In trying to protect what little I had, my wife was slain and the two children with her. I found their bodies outside when I returned. They are buried just beyond the barn.’

  Eadulf coughed awkwardly. ‘How did you know that they were slain by the abbot’s men?’

  Mul rose and turned to a cupboard. He opened it and took something from it, then returned to the table. He hesitated a moment and set it down on the board. It was a piece of bloodstained woollen cloth and a small metal crucifix on a silver chain.

  ‘That was clutched in my wife’s hand where she had ripped it from her assailant,’ Mul said quietly. ‘I knew then that it was the religious from Aldred’s Abbey who had paid me a visit that day. I will have my revenge on Cild, even if I have to wait ten years or ten times ten years. I have sworn this by the sword of Woden.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ Eadulf demanded.

  ‘Less than six months ago. Just at the time the young men appeared in the abbey, young fighting men.’

  Fidelma had picked up the small crucifix, turning it over in her hands with her brows drawn together.

  ‘This is of Irish workmanship, not Saxon,’ she said softly after a moment or two.

  Mul shrugged. ‘Many of the Christians are trained by your race, woman. Cild had been in this kingdom of Connacht. The provenance of the cross merely confirms what I say.’

  She handed the cross to Eadulf without making further comment. It was a small, richly enamelled ornament on silver. It was, he observed, the type of rich jewel affected by the female laity rather than any member of the religious.

  ‘You say that this happened about six months ago?’ Fidelma was asking.

  ‘At the time of the summer solstice feasting,’ Mul muttered.

  ‘Tell me,’ Fidelma continued and again it seemed that she was changing the subject, ‘did you ever see Gélgeis, the abbot’s wife?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not so far as I remember. I might have seen her from afar. I would not have known her to see, face to face. I was told once that she was pretty, with fair hair and features.’

  ‘Did you ever hear what manner of woman she was?’

  ‘What manner …?’ He paused and then grimaced dismissively. ‘She was married to Cild. Isn’t that enough? You are known by the company you keep and that goes for the partner you marry.’

  ‘You are a man of hard judgment, Mul,’ Eadulf sighed. ‘Sometimes it is only after marriage that you get to know a person.’

  ‘Did you ever hear a rumour that Cild murdered his wife?’ asked Fidelma.

  Mul’s eyes widened a little and then he shook his head.

  ‘I only heard that she had wandered into Hob’s Mire. Many animals and several people have strayed into that bog and never returned. Perhaps her fate was a blessing for her.’

  ‘You said that you knew Brother Botulf?’ Fidelma pressed, ignoring his comment.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did you ever speak to him about Cild?’

  ‘After he was sent back to the abbey in disgrace, I hardlyever saw him. He was not allowed to go far from the abbey walls.’

  ‘What was this disgrace?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘He supported Aldhere against the King.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Aldhere was of the same poisonous root as his brother. I heard that he sacrificed the King’s cousin during a battle when the Mercians invaded. Through his cowardice, King Ealdwulf’s cousin died. Botulf defended Aldhere for which stand the King ordered that he should return to Aldred’s Abbey, where he had been one of the brethren in the early days, and remain there, not leaving on pain of death.’

  ‘You imply that Aldhere was guilty. Does that mean that you thought Botulf was a liar?’ demanded Eadulf sullenly.

  ‘I would not know his reasons for defending Aldhere. Botulf was a good man, so far as I knew. Perhaps he was simply misguided. But I never had time to speak to him about the matter.’

  ‘Then how do you know that Aldhere is guilty?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘Deeds not words!’ snapped Mul.

  ‘Explain that,’ Fidelma invited.

  ‘Simple enough. Ask anyone. Aldhere and his men are a band of robbers. They steal from everyone. They have also terrified and burnt the homes of many innocent people. Are these the actions of a good man who was not guilty of the accusation made against him?’

  Fidelma sat back and sighed.

  ‘Well, it might be the actions of a man driven to find a means of survival. But burning the
homes of the innocent is certainly not in keeping with the character of a man of principle.’

  ‘I say, a curse on both of them,’ Mul growled. ‘Religious brother or warrior brother; white dog, black dog, both are dogs.’

  ‘You may well be right. It does not help us get closer to the truth,’ Eadulf said in exasperation.

  Mul turned to him with curiosity.

  ‘What truth are you seeking, gerefa?’

  ‘The truth of who killed my friend Botulf.’

  Mul sat back with a look of astonishment.

  ‘You did not tell me that Botulf was dead!’

  Of course, Eadulf realised that Botulf had only been killed on the day Mul had dropped them at the abbey.

  ‘I’m sorry. He was bludgeoned to death in the abbey.’

  ‘I suppose the abbot was responsible,’ Mul muttered bitterly. ‘I felt that it was like putting a rabbit in with a run of ferrets … I mean, putting Botulf in Cild’s abbey when Botulf had defended his brother. Cild would obviously resent that.’

  ‘There is a logic in what you say,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Do you know anything of the Irish religious in this area?’

  Mul shook his head.

  ‘I know that there are some who are in hiding. They refuse to accept the decisions made at Whitby and obey Canterbury. Rules! Christian rules!’ He made a gesture like spitting. ‘Who cares? In this land we will continue to call the vernal equinox by the name of the goddess Eostre; others may celebrate it as Pascha, the resurrection of the new god, Christ, or even as Pésah, the Jewish Passover feast … but it is still the vernal equinox.’

  He saw Fidelma studying him in surprise and smiled disarmingly.

  ‘Just because I am a farmer, you need not think that I have no knowledge. I have been to the coastal ports and spoken with Phoenician traders. I know all about Pésah and the like. All farmers know and name the seasons — seasons are seasons however you want to name them.’

  ‘Do you know of a young woman of Éireann with red-gold hair who lives near the abbey?’ interrupted Eadulf.

  Mul was shaking his head when he suddenly smiled.

  ‘Do you mean young Lioba? She is no woman of Éireann.’

  Eadulf tried to recall if he had heard the name before. He thought he had but could not be sure.

  ‘That’s a Saxon name,’ Fidelma pointed out, glancing at Eadulf.

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Mul. ‘Her father was a farmer in the hills beyond the abbey. He is dead now. He died in the Yellow Plague. Her mother also died a year or so ago. But her mother had been a slave taken from a kingdom called Laigin. That’s who you mean. Lioba.’

  Laigin was one of the five kingdoms of Éireann, as well they knew.

  Mul suddenly chuckled lewdly.

  Eadulf frowned slightly. ‘What does your humour imply, Mul?’

  ‘That for all the piety at the abbey, Lioba seeks her pleasures there.’

  ‘I am told that this Lioba bears a resemblance to Gélgeis,’ hazarded Eadulf, pursuing a sudden train of thought.

  Mul rubbed his chin. ‘I would not know. Lioba must have been younger than the abbot’s wife.’

  ‘Let us return to the Irish religious in hiding. What do you know about them?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘Little enough. As Christians, I do not care about them. I think it is said that they are down Tunstall way. They never bother me nor I them.’

  He reached for more cider and grimaced with a bitter expression before sipping it.

  ‘I want little to do with you Christians though I will go this far: all gods are the same when it comes to seeking their help. They are all united in ignoring your pleas and cries for help. I know that. There are three graves on the hill above the farmstead that bear me witness.’

  ‘Christ was not responsible for the murder of your wife and children,’ admonished Eadulf.

  ‘No? If this Christ were an omnipotent deity he could have done something. Don’t you teach that he is all powerful, all loving and ordains everything that happens? No, gerefa, all gods are alike. Silent to our suffering.’

  Fidelma looked at Eadulf and shook her head quickly. It was not wise to pursue the argument further.

  ‘Have you heard of any trouble between the abbey and those who adhere to the Rule of Colmcille … the blessed one whom you call Columba?’ she asked.

  ‘Trouble? Cild had two of them executed, I know that. The others he had driven out into the marshes. Perhaps they have returned to your land? Perhaps it is they who are hiding in Tunstall? There are so many deaths here, Sister, that I am surprised you bother to seek the reasons for one or two. Theanswer to all of them lies between two people — Cild and Aldhere.’

  ‘It seems that there is no longer any law here,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘I would not believe it. I was brought up to believe that no one would dare to disobey the Law of the Wuffingas and a gerefa. Anarchy seems to reign in this land.’

  Mul grinned cynically.

  ‘Not anarchy, gerefa; but men who have swords and no compunction about using them. And, of course, such men have no loyalty to anyone other than themselves.’

  Fidelma held her head to one side questioningly.

  ‘Again you seem to imply something more than the words you use, Mul.’

  The farmer nodded slowly.

  ‘Speak to people in any market place and you will hear what they say.’

  ‘We are not in a market place, so I would like to hear what you say. What have you heard?’

  ‘I have heard that Aldhere would welcome a new King in this land. I have heard too that his brother, Cild, would also welcome a new King. Yet the word is that the brothers have different Kings in mind.’

  ‘Can you explain further?’ Fidelma pressed.

  ‘This land is viewed with envy by Wulfhere of Mercia to the west and by Sigehere of the East Saxons to the south. Either King would be a fool not to take advantage of the conflict raging in this small corner of the kingdom.’

  ‘Are you saying that you have definite word that either Cild or Aldhere is in league with Wulfhere or Sigehere?’ Eadulf was aghast.

  ‘Definite word? No, of course not. I tell you what I have heard in the market places.’

  ‘Idle gossip. Speculation without facts!’ suggested Eadulf. Fidelma noticed that even as he spoke Eadulf was less than confident and seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

  ‘If the land of the South Folk fell, then the land of the North Folk would follow swiftly,’ Mul snapped, undeterred.

  ‘You might well be right,’ conceded Fidelma. ‘It seems that there is no peace between peoples anywhere in the world. Thereare plots and conspiracies between the five kingdoms of my own island. During our visit to the land of the Britons we found their kingdoms divided against each other. Why should the lands of the Angles and the Saxons be any different? However, that is not why we are here.’

  Mul sniffed and once more reached for the cider jug. Finding it empty, he rose and went to the cupboard and drew out another flagon.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘you are here to find out how Cild murdered your friend Botulf.’

  ‘We are here to find out first if Cild murdered Botulf,’ corrected Eadulf. ‘If he did so, then the “how” will follow.’

  ‘And moreover whether he killed his wife, Gélgeis,’ Fidelma added. ‘We are here to prevent more tragedy and such an effusion of blood as this land has never seen before.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The blizzard had passed on during the night. The morning, while still icy cold, was bright with the sky pastel blue and the sun almost white in its weakness. Fidelma and Eadulf had passed the night in the comfortable warmth of Mul’s farmhouse. They had broken their fast with Mul but waited until he was out of earshot before they made their prayers to St Stephen, for it was his feast day — the feast of the first martyr for the new faith. Then, after paying Mul the promised coin for the night’s lodging, they left on their journey northwards. The roads were filled with snow banks, crisp flakes that had
drifted in the blizzard and piled against hedge and ditch. The journey was not going to be without hardship.

  Fidelma, however, had slept well and felt much stronger than before. The ague that she had endured was now receding and she was more comfortable and relaxed.

  Mul’s smoking chimney had barely disappeared behind the hill when Eadulf turned to Fidelma. There were several questions that he had wanted to ask but had been unable to in the intimacy of the farmhouse in which Mul would hear even the whispered word.

  ‘What did you mean by “preventing such an effusion of blood as this land has not seen before”?’ Eadulf demanded.

  Fidelma’s expression was serious.

  ‘Why am I so keen to prevent this ritual fast from taking place, Eadulf?’

  ‘To prevent the death of Gadra … to find out the truth about the deaths of Gélgeis and Botulf …’ Eadulf thought the reasons were surely obvious.

  ‘There is one thing that you appear to have overlooked, or perhaps do not realise, about the troscud, the ritual fast. Gadra is a chieftain of Maigh Eo. He is a descendant of the Uí Briúin kings of Connacht, and they in turn are related to the Uí Néill High Kings. If Gadra dies, as it is like he will, and Cild does not compensate his family, as it is like he will not, then therewill begin a blood feud which will encompass the Uí Briúin and perhaps the Uí Néill, which will spread from Cild to the whole kingdom of the East Angles, and soon, perhaps, every kingdom on these islands might be taking sides. From this incident, there might grow a terrible warfare.’

  Eadulf was astounded. ‘Do you really think that it could lead to that?’

  Her features told him how earnest she was.

  ‘As soon as I realised that Gadra was one of the Uí Briúin I knew that we were not dealing with some petty chieftain but one with powerful connections. That is what stirs me to find a solution to this matter.’ She paused and added: ‘What were the thoughts that occupied you when Mul suggested that Aldhere or Cild might be in league with neighbouring kings for their own aggrandisement?’

  Eadulf grimaced. He had thought she had not noticed his apprehension when Mul spoke of the gossip in the market places. In fact, he had almost forgotten the subject now that they had left Mul’s farmstead.