Behold a Pale Horse

was to examine the gravestone that had caught her eye the previous night. At the gate was Sister Gisa, waiting.

‘How are you this morning, Sister Fidelma?’ the young girl greeted her with apparent concern.

‘Well enough,’ replied Fidelma. It seemed everyone was also solicitous about her welfare.

‘A sad thing it is, to have come all this way to witness the death of your old master.’

‘At least it can be said that I saw him before he died,’ Fidelma replied before changing the subject. ‘Are you waiting for Brother Faro?’ she asked. The girl actually flushed.

‘Why would I be?’ she countered almost aggressively.

‘You and he are greatly attached to one another,’ Fidelma observed gently. ‘That much is obvious.’

‘Oh, I …’ The girl was startled.

‘Do not worry. There is surely nothing wrong in that?’

There was scarlet on the girl’s cheeks. ‘I have not broken the rules of the abbey.’

‘Of course not.’ Fidelma smiled reassuringly. ‘Forgive me if it is something that you do not wish to speak of.’

‘Please,’ the girl was clearly worried, ‘please say nothing. Abbot Servillius is very strict on the rule of segregation and on celibacy.’

‘Then why do you and Brother Faro not move to a mixed-house where married religious are allowed? If you are serious about your feelings for one another, then there is no problem in finding such a sanctuary. Those who advocate celibacy among the religious are still a minority — the ascetics who think denial of life is a way to fulfil life.’

Sister Gisa actually smiled, albeit anxiously.

‘You are discerning, Sister. I hope that there are none here who are as discerning as you.’

‘I believe Magister Ado knows how you feel.’

At once a look of alarm came back to the girl’s features. ‘He knows?’

‘I am sure that he would not betray you but would bless your resolve if you went to find a place that is more congenial to your thoughts.’

‘But Faro is his disciple — he educated him in the Faith. And Faro does not want to leave Bobium.’

‘So you have spoken to him about it?’

Sister Gisa sighed. ‘I have. He wants to finish his studies here before he thinks of moving on. He joined the abbey only two years ago and feels he must study further before he seeks another place.’ Then she changed the subject. ‘Where are you going now?’

‘I am just on my way to the necropolis to lay a flower on Ruadán’s grave as is our custom in my country,’ Fidelma answered.

Sister Gisa fell in step with her. ‘I shall accompany you then,’ she announced. The girl was silent for a moment and then asked: ‘When will you be starting back for Genua to find a ship for your homeland?’

Fidelma suppressed a sigh. She wondered how many more would ask the same question. ‘Within a few days. Perhapsa week. But I would like to see more of the abbey and its surroundings first.’

This time the girl did not ask why but suddenly pointed to a group of bushes not far away. ‘There are some flowers, white ones. They would be suitable, would they not?’

Fidelma followed the girl to the bushes and gathered some of the white lily-looking flowers. There was no one about in the abbey’s necropolis as they climbed the hillside and entered. Once again her attention was drawn to the three curious constructions at the top end of the necropolis. Now, in the daylight, she realised they were sepulchres, burial chambers built in the fashion of tiny palaces that she had seen in Rome. Ornate structures of white stone that resembled the Ancient Roman buildings.

‘To whom are those dedicated?’ she asked.

‘They are the burial chambers of the abbots.’

‘But there are only three.’

‘That is because the community has only started to erect them. The grave of the founder of the abbey, Columbanus, is under the High Altar in the abbey chapel. But the other abbots are placed out here. That one on the end is where Attala rests. He succeeded Columbanus. That next one is the tomb of Bertulf. He went to Rome and accepted the authority of the Pope over the abbey. And the third one, that is where Abbot Bobolen lays. He was the one who accepted the Rule of Benedict and the mitre of a bishop from Pope Theodore just twenty years or so ago.’

‘I see that they are still working on the sepulchre of Bobolen.’

Sister Gisa shook her head. ‘It is only some minor paintwork. The shrine was finished and sealed before Faro and I set out for Genua to meet Magister Ado. You see, Faro has to oversee the workmen and report their progress to AbbotServillius. It is the intention to build a mausoleum for every abbot.’

‘The tombs are very impressive,’ admitted Fidelma. ‘Was Faro a builder or architect then?’

‘No, but he is a good organiser. He designed Bobolen’s tomb himself and persuaded workmen from Placentia to come and build it for charity’s sake. It involved much work. I lost count of the wagons of stone brought along the valley.’

‘Stone?’

‘A special stone — a marble. It is not available in the valley.’

They had arrived at the newly filled-in grave of Brother Ruadán and halted. Fidelma placed her flowers on the freshly packed earth and stood with head bowed for a few moments.

Sister Gisa was staring out across the hillside. ‘Were you scared last night when you heard the muse?’ she suddenly asked.

‘The muse? Oh, you mean the bagpipes. No, I was not scared but surprised. We have such instruments in Hibernia and, for a moment, I thought it might have been one of the Hibernian brethren playing. But there was something that did not sound right about it — I mean that they did not sound quite like the Hibernian pipes.’

‘Ah, yes. Some of your compatriots have remarked on it. They are similar but I think slightly different.’

‘How so?’

‘They have the mouthpiece, a drone and a chanter and the air is held in a goatskin bag. They sometimes call them the Apennine pipes after the mountain range here.’

‘I was told that they were being played by an old hermit.’

‘Aistulf? He is a master of the pìpes.’

‘You know him?’

‘Oh yes. He is a kindly man. I often go to see him to make sure he is well.’

‘He certainly plays well, but he must be a solitary person to dwell in these mountains alone.’

‘Oh, he is not denied of company that much.’ She sighed. ‘Although he is lonelier now than he used to be.’ When she saw from Fidelma’s features that she had not understood, she added: ‘He is a master of his instrument and now and then has taught others so that the art may be passed on.’ To Fidelma’s astonishment, Sister Gisa turned and pointed to the very wooden cross that had brought her to the necropolis. ‘He was teaching poor Wamba the pipes before he died.’

‘Wamba?’ she said, feigning puzzlement as she pretended to notice the headstone for the first time. ‘That is odd.’

Sister Gisa frowned. ‘Odd? Why so?’

‘Well, all the other grave inscriptions have Frater, Brother, prefixing the name. But this gives just his name.’

‘That is because he was not a member of the brethren.’

‘What work did he do at the abbey then?’

‘Wamba? He did not work at the abbey. He was just a goatherd. He lived up the mountain here with his mother. He used to sell goat’s milk to the abbey. But he also played a small pipe as most of the boys do who tend the flocks of sheep or the goats’ herds on the mountains. He was so good that Aistulf asked him to come to learn the pipes with him.’

‘You give me the impression that he was very young when he died.’

‘God be merciful to him, he was barely eleven years old.’

‘And he died recently?’