The Haunted Abbot

Seated by him was a second man with a swarthy complexion. The driver was easing the wagon down the incline towards the river with the obvious intention of crossing.

Eadulf seized the opportunity without thinking further. He stepped through the bushes almost into the path of the wagon.

‘Good day, brothers!’

Startled, the driver heaved on the reins, bringing the vehicle to a halt. His companion’s hand went to the knife in his belt. When they saw that they were being accosted by a religious, they both relaxed a little.

‘Good day, Brother,’ the driver said in a strangely accented voice.

Eadulf raised his voice so that Fidelma could hear him and would come to join him.

‘Forgive me, brothers, but are you travelling southwards?’

‘As you can see,’ replied the driver. ‘We are bound for the port of Gipeswic.’

‘Ah,’ smiled Eadulf. ‘My companion is exhausted and our destination lies a few miles along your road. Is it possible that you might have room on your wagon? It would facilitate our crossing the river.’

The driver was frowning, a refusal forming on his lips. Eadulf heard Fidelma come up behind him. The driver suddenly relaxed and glanced at his companion who nodded briefly.

‘There is room, indeed, Brother. We are merchants from Frankia. Forgive our wariness but it is said that outlaws throng these woods. Your companion seems to be from the land of Éireann.’

‘How did you know?’ Fidelma smiled weakly.

‘By the cut of your robes, Sister. We come from Péronnewhere there is a community of Irish religious under their abbot named Ultan.’

Eadulf looked surprised. ‘Ultan? Surely he is bishop at Ard Macha?’

Fidelma was indulgent in her explanation: ‘It is a name given to any man from the kingdom of Ulaidh. But I know the Ultan you mean,’ she said, turning to the Frankish merchants. ‘He is brother to Fursa who once led a mission to this land of the East Angles.’

Eadulf’s eyes widened a little. ‘That Ultan still lives and is abbot in Frankia?’

The driver grinned. ‘He was when we left six months ago to bring some trade to this land.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Get down, Dado, and help the good sister into the wagon. Have you travelled far, Brother?’ This to Eadulf. ‘Your companion looks tired and weak.’

‘We have travelled some distance,’ Eadulf replied ingenuously. ‘We are most grateful for your charity.’

They climbed onto the wagon and seated themselves behind the driver, a man called Dagobert, and his companion Dado. Eadulf noticed the wagon was full of trade goods. Many were local items which he realised must have been swapped for the goods brought from Frankia.

‘Have you had a successful journey, brothers?’ inquired Eadulf as the wagon lurched forward, continuing down towards the river.

‘There is little trade in this poor land, Brother,’ the driver replied, as he cracked his whip over the heads of the mules.

‘There seems a scarcity of gold and jewellery in your land,’ added his companion, Dado. ‘We brought some plate garnet and amethyst. Your smiths seemed to want our Frankish coin only to melt it down to use the gold.’ Dado pursed his lips and made a spitting sound without actually spitting. ‘The smiths here seem a poor lot. And the pottery production!’ He raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Many still seem to construct their vessels without a potter’s wheel and bake it with an uneven firing by building nothing more elaborate than a bonfire over a stack of sun-dried pots. What do these people have to trade? We shall not be coming this way again.’

Eadulf felt a little uncomfortable at these merchants’ assessment of his homeland.

‘Surely there is trade to be gained in the manufacture of wool or weaving of cloth?’ he demanded irritably.

‘Better quality is to be had elsewhere. The people here are more a warrior people, living on subsistence farms,’ replied the man. ‘Even for the grinding of the corn they have to send for quernstones from Frankia. That is what we have brought across, lava quernstone and millstones to grind the grain of the Saxons. What is offered in return? Slaves? There are too many Anglo-Saxon slaves on the market. It was the discovery of such slaves in the markets in Rome which caused the blessed Bishop of Rome, Gregory, to send Augustine to the kingdom of Kent. There are still many parts of this land that are pagan, but Christian or pagan, the only export seems to be slaves.’

Eadulf compressed his lips sourly.

Fidelma, however, seized the opportunity to gain more knowledge from the gossip.

‘I have heard that the East Saxons have gone back to their old gods,’ she said.

Dado, who appeared to be the more talkative of the two once he had started, nodded immediately.

‘We heard many stories when we first arrived at the port of Gipeswic. They say that King Sigehere was burning down all the Christian centres and rounding up the religious as slaves … those he does not kill, of course.’

‘I was wondering if you had heard any news of a warband landing downriver?’

Dado whistled and glanced at Dagobert with a shake of his head.

‘We have heard nothing. When was this?’

‘This morning.’

‘That is curious,’ said Dado, frowning.

‘Curious?’ Fidelma pressed.

‘An hour or so ago we had paused to take some refreshment when we met another traveller — a rider on horseback. He had come directly from the coast this morning and made no mention of any raid. But it is probably best that we are returning to our homeland. I suggest you do the same. This has proved aninhospitable land. Poverty, slaves and warfare. God speed our return to Frankia.’

‘Amen to that, Dado,’ muttered the driver.

Eadulf sat silently, a red flush on his cheeks. Something angered him about these strangers speaking of his country in such a manner. The trouble was that he could not think of any counter argument. His people were a warrior people who had swept through Europe guided by what they could seize at the point of the sword. Before the faith came, the greatest end that any one of them could meet was a death in battle, sword in hand, and the name of the god Woden on his lips.

It was less than one hundred years ago that Wuffa, son of Wehha, had led his people to this land and made himself the first King of East Anglia, driving the Britons westward. Ten kings had succeeded Wuffa, who was descended from Woden himself, from Casere the fourth son of the great god. Eadulf as gerefa could recite the eight generations between Woden and Wuffa. More, he could recite the ten generations that separated Wuffa from King Ealdwulf.

Wuffa’s son Tytila who was killed in battle against Ceolwulf of Wessex; Redwald who became bretwalda or overlord of the Saxon kingdoms; Eorpwald who was murdered by his brother because he converted to Christianity; Ricbert the Pagan who met with an end that was uncertain; then Sigebert, Egric, Anna, and Athelhere who all died in battle, sword in hand. Then Athelwold who ruled for nearly eight years before Ealdwulf came to power. Normally, Eadulf would have been proud at the recitation of the kings of the East Angles. But he had travelled extensively and seen much and now he began to wonder if there was anything to be proud of in coming from a warrior nation that could offer no trade to others except a trade in slaves.

He shivered and drew his robe closer around him. Surely he had been too long in the five kingdoms of Éireann that he was now questioning the values of his own people? It was not so long ago that he, as a young man, would have been proud to grasp his sword and run into battle crying for the blessing of Woden, Thunor or Frig! But there are no footsteps that lead backwards. He had moved on and it was not merely his time outside his own land that made him question its values but thenew faith itself. That was calling into question all the old ways; all the old values.

‘You are quiet, Eadulf. Is anything wrong?’

He turned at Fidelma’s soft whisper and forced an answering smile.

‘Just thinking, that is all.’

The cart was moving slowly along the track; the mules were sure-footed and hardy beasts and had seemed to make light of pulling the heavy vehicle across the river.