Behold a Pale Horse

was why fingal — kin-slaying — was considered the worst crime that a person could commit. It struck at the very heart of society. The law of which she was an advocate applied heavy sanctions against the perpetrators of kin-slaying.

She sat back thinking about it for a while and then she remembered the disappearance of Lady Gunora and the young prince. She had almost forgotten about them, apart from the angry quotation that the woman had used.

She heard Brother Eolann re-enter the library room.

‘Did you find what you wanted?’ he asked.

‘I did,’ she said, allowing the papyrus scroll to re-roll itself. She pushed it aside and, changing the subject, quickly added: ‘You have an excellent library here, Brother Eolann.’

Brother Eolann seemed happy as he glanced with pride along the shelves. ‘As I have said, I am proud of the books that we have here. We have been lucky in our collections.’ He indicated a shelf. ‘One previous scriptor was a local man who specialised in collecting ancient works from writers of this area — Paetus the Stoic philosopher of Patavium, poets and essayists like Varus, Catullus, Catius, Pomponius … in ancient times, the people of this area were highly literate. And they were not even Romans.’

‘You mean that they were Longobards?’ queried Fidelma, not particularly interested.

‘The Longobards only settled in this territory a century ago. The original inhabitants were Gauls. Then the Roman legions conquered this area and that was a full century before the birth of the Christ. But of the Gauls, you will sometimes see an echo of their language here.’

‘So they wrote in their own tongue?’

‘They seemed to have a religious prohibition about writing their secrets in their own language. They wrote mostly in Latin and we have learned much from them, but you will see a few original inscriptions and the names of places which show the ghost of their mother tongue.’

Fidelma realised that it was time to leave, since she had other questions to pursue. Her mind turned to the disappearance of Lady Gunora and the young prince. Also, she had meant to visit Brother Ruadán to see if she could obtain more clarity from the frail old man. So she rose and thanked the librarian for his interesting conversation and left him. She remembered the way back through the tower to the small courtyard and along the dark corridor to the main hall. Once or twice, members of the brethren gave her sharp glances, reminding her that this was not a mixed-house and that women were not supposed to wander unaccompanied within its confines. She ignored them and the whispered remarks that followed her.

She found her way back to the guest-house and reached the door of her chamber. She was about to enter when she heard a movement along the corridor. Turning, she saw Brother Wulfila emerging from what had been the quarters of Lady Gunora and her princely charge. Fidelma called to him, deciding innocence might extract more information.

‘I have not seen Lady Gunora this morning. I trust she is well?’

There was no mistaking the anxious expression thatcrossed the steward’s features. ‘Well enough, Sister,’ he said shortly.

‘Ah, is she in her chamber? I will speak with her.’

Brother Wulfila moved slightly as if he would block the door. Then he seemed to make a decision. ‘She is not here,’ he admitted.

Fidelma waited in silence. It seemed that the steward was trying to think of something to say. ‘I believe that she and the young prince have left the abbey.’

Fidelma’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Left the abbey? I thought there was some danger for them outside these walls?’

‘I am sure that the Father Abbot knows what he is doing,’ the man muttered.

‘Ah! Then they left with the approval of Abbot Servillius?’

‘I am not at liberty to say.’ Brother Wulfila was agitated. He turned and scurried off along the corridor.

Fidelma stared after him a moment or two. If anyone knew why and how Lady Gunora and the boy had left the abbey, it was surely the steward, who had been in the corridor during the night.

Fidelma entered her own chamber and took a moment to tidy herself and wash her hands. A bell began to ring, but she knew it was not to summon the brethren for a meal. She left her room to find one of the Brothers hurrying by. When she asked him what the bell signified, he answered it was for the midday prayers. She let him hurry on. The abbey was quiet now and she realised it was the ideal time to see if Brother Ruadán was able to talk further with her. She made her way down towards his chamber and had just rounded the corner into the passage when she came face to face with the apothecary.

‘Ah, Sister Fidelma.’ The portly man greeted her with disapproval, almost barring her way.

‘Brother Hnikar. I was just on my way to see Brother Ruadán. I trust he is well enough to see me today?’ She hoped that he would not suspect that she had visited her old mentor earlier that morning.

A shadow crossed the features of the apothecary. He paused a moment and then cleared his throat, his lower lip jutting out like a child about to burst into tears.

‘That will not be possible.’

‘Not possible?’ Fidelma tried to control her irritation. ‘Why not?’

Of all the answers she was expecting, she did not expect his next sentence.

‘I am afraid Brother Ruadán is dead. He died in his sleep during the night.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Fidelma paused but a second before she dodged nimbly round the portly apothecary and thrust open the door of Brother Ruadán’s chamber. She could hear Brother Hnikar’s outraged protests behind her. She hesitated briefly on the threshold. Brother Ruadán lay on his bed. Then she strode to the bedside and stood looking down at the body.

The elderly Brother looked peaceful now. It was clear that his body had already been washed and prepared ready for the services that would precede the burial. Then her eye fell on his hands, carefully folded on his breast. Some of the fingernails were torn — split, as if ill-kept — with dried blood visible beneath them. They were not the nails of the hand she had held that morning. One of the things that people of her country prided themselves on were their hands and fingernails. Among the aristocracy and the professional classes, the fingernails had to be kept carefully cut and rounded as a sign of breeding. To be insulting, one of the worst terms one could use against another person was to call them crécht-ingnech or ‘ragged nails’. Between the time that she had seen the old man earlier that morning to the time of his death, Brother Ruadán must have fought with his hands againstsomething, against someone, breaking his nails and causing blood from his assailant to be caught under them.

Her expression was stony as she gazed down at her old tutor. Ill as Brother Ruadán had been, someone had determined to end his life. He had been murdered.

She re-examined his face, the slightly blue texture of the skin and the lips stretched over the yellowing teeth and the eyes that had not been completely closed after death. She noticed little spots of dried blood around the nostrils. In a flash she realised that the killer had probably held a pillow over the old man’s face, holding him down while he made a desperate attempt to push them off, scratching and clawing at the powerful arms of his assailant. That was how he had damaged his hands.

Fidelma glanced up at the apothecary who had followed her into the chamber, still protesting at her behaviour.

‘When did this happen?’ she interrupted him.

‘I told you, it was reported to me that he had died in the night. Really, Sister, you presume too much to enter without approval-’

‘He has already been washed and prepared for burial. Why was I not informed when this happened?’

Brother Hnikar blinked at the sharp tone of her voice.

‘I have known poor Ruadán since I was a little girl,’ she went on. ‘I have a right to know.’

‘You have no right to be here without permission of the abbot.’