Behold a Pale Horse

‘Just before Faro and I set out for Genua. It was the day after poor Brother Ruadán was found outside the abbey gates.’

‘Do you know how the boy died?’

‘We were told that his body was found, having fallen from some rocks. The poor boy broke his neck. He was discovered and his body taken to the abbey.’

‘Isn’t it unusual for a goatherd to be buried in the abbey’s necropolis?’

‘The abbot gave special permission that he be commemorated here in view of his service to the abbey. You seem very interested in him, Sister Fidelma.’

‘Call it my natural curiosity.’

‘Well, Brother Waldipert had far more to do with him than most of us. He is in charge of the abbey kitchens and used to buy the goats’ milk from Wamba.’

‘Surely the abbey has its own goats and cows to supply it?’ Fidelma asked. Self-sufficiency was usually a key element in any of the abbeys she had known.

‘Of course,’ agreed Sister Gisa. ‘But it was a custom from the days of Columbanus to help the local people. From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs. It is a good system of community living.’

Fidelma realised she could not press further without being forced to compromise herself or trying to invent reasons for her questions. Moving away from the headstone, she said, ‘It is sad that this Wamba died so young when he was so talented.’

Already her mind was turning over those last words of Brother Ruadán. The boy had been killed for coins. But Sister Gisa said that he had fallen from some rocks and broke his neck. That was surely an unusual end for a goatherd on a mountain? Now she had to be rid of the company of Sister Gisa and try to find Brother Waldipert. The answer to the first problem came almost immediately. They had emerged from the gates of the graveyard when Brother Faro came into sight. At once Sister Gisa’s face lit up, causing Fidelma to suppressa smile. How could the abbot be so blind as not to notice the intimacy between them?

‘How is your wound progressing, Brother Faro?’ she greeted him.

The young man glanced at Sister Gisa with a quick nervous smile before turning back to Fidelma.

‘It is almost normal, thanks be to God. I feel no discomfort and I can use the arm freely.’

‘Well, I am sure the administrations of Sister Gisa had much to do with it,’ Fidelma said gravely. ‘I shall remember the garlic compress that you used,’ she added to the girl.

‘I was taught by my father,’ Gisa said. ‘He is … was a good physician.’

‘Anyway,’ interrupted Brother Faro, ‘this is nothing, compared to some wounds.’ He stopped, a slight flush on his face.

‘You have been hurt before?’

‘But not by an arrow. It was before I came here.’

‘At another abbey?’

‘I was not a religieux then.’

‘I thought you looked more like a warrior than a religieux,’ replied Fidelma.

There was a slight uncomfortable pause before Brother Faro said, ‘I was, but I saw the futility of the wars and came here looking for peace and seclusion.’

Fidelma glanced around the calm scenery of the valley and mountains and nodded slowly. ‘I can see why,’ she said. Then she excused herself and went back to the abbey. As she left, Sister Gisa and Brother Faro were already deep in conversation.

The door to the abbey kitchens actually led on to the herbarium, Fidelma discovered, and that made it easier forher to find them without anyone wondering why she needed to be in the kitchens. She entered the herb garden and uttered a prayer of thanks that Brother Lonán was not about. Then she made for the doorway whence the pleasant odours of cooking emanated.

Someone shouted a question at her in a harsh voice as she entered. A large man with an apron covering his robes was bent over a table gutting a fish, which he then threw into a simmering cauldron. He had glanced up as she entered and repeated his question in Latin when she did not answer.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I am Fidelma of Hibernia,’ she replied. ‘I am looking for Brother Waldipert.’

The man sniffed and bent back to his task. ‘Then you have found him. You are the guest of the abbot who came to see Brother Ruadán, aren’t you? Sorry to hear that he died. He was a good man.’

‘Actually, I came to ask you about another death. The death of the boy, Wamba.’

Brother Waldipert stopped and gazed at her in surprise. ‘Wamba the goatherd? Why do you ask about him?’

‘I was interested by the name on the memorial stone, the fact that someone who was not a member of the brethren was buried there.’

The fat face of Brother Waldipert was sad. ‘He was one of the community to all intents and purposes. Poor little devil. He came every day to sell us fresh milk. He was good on the pipes, too.’

‘When I asked Sister Gisa how one so young was buried in the necropolis of the abbey, she told me a few details as far as she knew them. That was not much. Can you tell me about him?’

Brother Waldipert sighed. ‘Indeed, he was eleven years of age or thereabouts. A happy-go-lucky lad who, as I say, came daily to the abbey to give us milk from his goats in return for vegetables and herbs that we grow here.’

‘He was surely very young to have his own herd of goats.’

‘Oh, goodness me, no — he did not own the goats. It was his mother, Hawisa, who owned them. He herded them for her on the upper slopes of the Pénas, that is the mountain behind us.’ He waved his hand towards the window, where the slopes of the hill rose up behind the abbey.

‘I am told that he fell from some rocks on the mountain and killed himself.’

‘That is true. He was found lying beneath them,’ confirmed the cook.

‘Is it known how the boy came to fall and break his neck?’ Fidelma asked. ‘It seems an unusual occurrence for a mountain goatherd to fall in such a manner.’

Brother Waldipert stared at her suspiciously for a moment before responding. ‘Alas, he was alone on the mountain. Who knows how it happened? Accidents can and do happen. Why are you so interested?’

‘It is just that in my experience, goatherds are usually as sure-footed as their goats.’

The cook shrugged. ‘Wamba was certainly raised on the upper slopes. Perhaps he was just too sure of himself. When I last saw him, and that was a few days before he was found, he was very confident. He came here so happy, not just with the milk for sale but saying that he had found some old coin that he thought would bring his mother great fortune.’

Fidelma tried to control her interest. ‘He found a coin? One coin?’

‘Yes. He gave it to me,’ confirmed the cook. ‘He was pleasedwith his find and very boastful. He said that if he found more he would be rich enough to rule the valley. I nearly boxed his ears. Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas!’ the cook intoned. Then he added: ‘Imagine the vanity of a goatherd saying he could rule in the place of the Lord of Trebbia!’

‘Even a goatherd can dream,’ Fidelma replied solemnly. ‘Did he say where he had found the coin?’

‘I think he just said that he had found it,’ Brother Waldipert said reflectively. ‘He asked me if I would exchange goods for it as I had for the milk.’

‘And did you?’

The fat man’s jowls shook as he gave a negative gesture. ‘No. I knew the coin was worth a lot for its gold weight alone. I do not even know what coin it was. An ancient one, that is all. So I told him that I would take it to the abbot and see what could be arranged. The boy trusted me and was happy to part with the coin. He went off, quite satisfied that some agreement would be reached. Then, a few days later, I was told he had been found dead.’

‘Who told you?’ Fidelma asked sharply.

‘It was the warrior who found him, Wulfoald. Do you know him? He had been coming across the mountain when he found the body of the boy at the foot of some rocks. In fact, I believe he brought the body straight here with the abbot, who announced his intention to bury him in the necropolis.’

‘That was unusual.’