Behold a Pale Horse

‘Since we cannot do anything here, I suggest that we get a blanket and use it to carry the corpse to the chapel where it will be safe from those,’ she indicated the circling buzzards, ‘or any other wild beast.’

The scriptor did not look happy but he made no demur. It took them quite a while to transport the body to the chapel and place it inside, covered by the blanket.

It had been such a warm, pleasant day when Fidelma had awoken with the vast panorama of the hills. Now the day seemed to have turned cold and unpleasant.

‘Is it time that we started back down?’ she suggested.

‘We have time enough,’ returned Brother Eolann. ‘I’d rather let the fire die down a bit so that it will be safe to leave it.’

‘I thought you had stacked it rather high this morning,’ Fidelma replied and went into the hut to brush herself down. She finished packing her bag, which she slung on her back, and re-emerged into the sunlight.

Facing her were three warriors with swords drawn and glistening threateningly in the sunlight. A fourth man stood by Brother Eolann. His sword was resting lightly with its point against the scriptor’s chest.

No one spoke or moved for a moment until Fidelma recovered from her surprise and demanded: ‘Who are these men?’

Brother Eolann cleared his throat and spoke in the local language to them. One of the men laughed gruffly before responding.

‘He says that we will soon find out. Meanwhile, we are his prisoners and will accompany him.’

‘Can’t you tell him that we are poor religious from the Abbey of Bobium?’ queried Fidelma.

Brother Eolann grimaced. ‘I fear that he knows that already, lady.’

‘You mean these are-’

The warrior who had responded suddenly shouted at her. She did not need Brother Eolann’s translation to interpret what he said. She thought of the corpse of the slain Lady Gunora and was silent.

The leading warrior said no more but turned and led the way. His men fell in around them, using the tips of their swords as prods, and began to push them along. Fidelma saw that the path they were taking led down the opposite side of the mountain from the route back to Bobium. She glanced at her companion but Brother Eolann gave a slight shake of his head, as if trying to warn her not to speak again. These warriors, whoever they were, could not be trifled with.

The country on the north-east side of the mountain seemed just as spectacular as it had been in the Trebbia Valley. Perhaps more so. She could see blue strips of rivers in valleys, surrounded by numerous peaks stretching away in all directions. In the distance were slabs of bare grey rock, which had been worn away by water erosion. Even with her concern that they were prisoners of men who cared little for their lives, Fidelma studied her surroundings carefully in case achance offered itself for escape. She registered that this side of the mountains was the weather side, where there seemed little protection against hill erosion. The usually hard rock and brittle surface often gave way to soft clay and limestone.

They marched on in silence until they descended well below the treeline and began to walk through a thick, noise-filled forest. A myriad species of bird calls rose in cacophony, while the bark of foxes and the solitary howl of a wolf came to Fidelma’s ears. They seemed to be trudging along for an eternity. The incline eventually began to grow more gentle, and here and there they passed boys and old men with herds of goats or flocks of sheep. Still no one spoke. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Fidelma said to Brother Eolann: ‘Please ask him how much longer he intends to keep this pace up.’

Immediately she felt the pressure of the point of one of the men’s swords between her shoulderblades. Brother Eolann was clearly too nervous to obey her.

Ignoring the guard, Fidelma repeated her question, calling out to the leader in her book Latin.

The man halted and turned back with a scowl. He snapped a question at Brother Eolann, who answered hesitantly. The warrior suddenly chuckled; it was not a pleasant sound. Then he said something to Brother Eolann. The scriptor shrugged and muttered, ‘He says that you are impertinent for a woman, lady. You will know soon enough …’ Then he added anxiously, ‘Best not to mention your rank, lady. People around here are not above holding those of rank to ransom.’

There was a sharp command from the leader. She interpreted it as another command for silence.

They moved on again. This time it was a shorter trek until they came to a clearing in the forest where there were halfa dozen horses tethered, with two other warriors apparently looking after them. They called out excitedly to one another and some conversation was exchanged in which the other two examined the captives with curiosity.

Fidelma and Brother Eolann found themselves pushed forward to the horses. Two of the warriors sheathed their swords and leaped nimbly up into the saddles. Then, before she realised what was happening, strong hands seized Fidelma and almost threw her on the horse behind one of the warriors. She did not need to know the man’s rough words to understand the exhortation to hang on. He began to move off at once and she looked to one side to see that Brother Eolann had been similarly treated.

They rode on until Fidelma lost all track of time and place. She only knew that it was late in the afternoon and the band of horsemen were now trotting along a fairly easy path across the side of a hill. Below them was a valley with a broad river flowing through it. After a further descent they came to a small settlement under a precipitous rocky hill. Now she could see, balanced on the very top, overlooking the small settlement, a stone fortress with an imposing square tower. At first, she thought there was no way up, but then they were ascending a winding path towards the summit. Whatever the building was, it was clearly the place that their captors were making for.

Indeed, eventually they came to high walls in which were set two large dark oak gates, with sufficient space to admit men on horseback. Warriors looked down on them from the walls. One of the men accompanying them produced a hunting horn and let forth two short blasts, ending with one long wailing sound. The gates swung open and they rode through and halted in a small courtyard.

Fidelma was aware of hands pulling her from the horse and a host of rough faces surrounded her. Some were grinning and some shouted at her, words that she did not understand. Then someone called a command and brutal hands removed the bag she was carrying on her back but did not take the marsupium at her waist. One of her captors came forward, grasped her by the arm and pushed through the curious crowd towards the buildings that ran the length of the inside walls. As she was propelled forwards, Fidelma glanced up to where a balcony jutted over the courtyard. Two men were standing looking down on the proceedings. Two tall men, clad in long black cloaks. They appeared to be warriors. One of them had the left side of his cloak flung back over his shoulder and she caught sight of a badge on his shoulder. Although he stood at some distance and above her, she was sure it was the flaming sword and laurel wreath emblem. She almost tripped and fell as it came to her that these looked like the same men who had attacked the Magister Ado in Genua; the same who had ambushed them as they entered the Valley of Trebbia. The same men who, she believed, she had seen in the darkness at the fortress of Radoald.

Recovering her balance, she managed to glance behind and saw Brother Eolann being manhandled in a similar fashion. At least it seemed that they were being kept together. Indeed, a door was opened and she was pushed, with scant ceremony, inside a room. Brother Eolann was propelled after her, bumping into her. The door was slammed shut and they heard a wooden bar crash into place to secure it.

The room was lit by a single window situated well above head height. There were no bars on it. Apart from two rough beds, a chair and a table, there was little else in the room. Brother Eolann sat down on one of the beds, seeminglyexhausted by the ordeal. Fidelma seized a chair and went to the window, placed it underneath and then balanced herself on it to peer out. At times, the fact that she was above the average height for her sex proved helpful. She quickly found the reason why the window was unbarred. It presented no other exit than a sheer drop into the valley below. She climbed down and sat with a sigh. There was nothing else in the room, not even an oil lamp.

‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘any ideas who our captors are?’

Brother Eolann shrugged. ‘That they have no respect for the religious, is certain,’ he replied. ‘I know little of these valleys on this side of the mountains, but I think this is the territory of the Lord of Vars.’

‘Does he hold allegiance to this King Grimoald?’ Fidelma was thinking of the two men bearing the symbol of the Archangel Michael on their clothing. It was no use trying to explain this story to Brother Eolann.