Behold a Pale Horse

‘I am sure he does not,’ the scriptor said immediately. ‘I have heard that there is enmity between Trebbia and Vars.’

‘But I thought you said that you had climbed these mountains regularly and that was why you knew the paths on — what was it called — Mount Pénas? How do you not know this place?’

‘It is true that I have climbed the mountains, but I always kept to the side overlooking the Valley of the Trebbia. I was always warned to be careful, for we were told that to the north and east are the lands that once held allegiance to Perctarit. If they do not hate Grimoald, then they are followers of Arius and have cause to hate the brethren of Bobium.’

‘And who are these?’

‘Either or both. It makes no difference.’

‘You have no idea where we are?’

‘I should think that the river is called the Staffel in the Longobard language; it is called the Iria in Latin. We must be overlooking the old Salt Road to Genua.’

‘Well, we can do little until we find out who these people are and what they want. There is certainly no way out of this room except through the door.’

Brother Eolann sighed. ‘I hope they bring us food and drink soon. We have had nothing since dawn and must have been travelling a good part of the day.’

Fidelma remembered that the food they had taken for their journey on the mountain had been in their bags. ‘Did they take your bag as well?’ she asked.

‘They did. There was dry biscuit, cheese and fruit in it. Now we have nothing.’

Fidelma smiled wanly. They had forgotten to take her marsupium, but there was no food in it. It was where she carried her ciorr bholg or ‘comb bag’. It was a small handbag which all the women of rank in Hibernia carried. It usually contained a scathán, a small mirror, deimess, scissors, a bar of sléic or soap and, in Fidelma’s case, a phal of honeysuckle fragrance. Unlike many women she did not carry a phal of berry juice with which to redden her lips or blacken her eyebrows, which was often the custom among Hibernian women.

Fidelma was not thinking of her toiletries but of the gold coin that she had, thankfully, placed in it. A thought struck her. ‘If these are the people who killed poor Lady Gunora, then they may have brought Prince Romuald here as a prisoner.’

‘Do you think these men are truly the killers of Lady Gunora?’ Brother Eolann’s nervousness was evident.

‘Why else would they have been lurking around that particular area?’

Brother Eolann looked uncomfortable. ‘It is a situation that is new to me. I am not able to guess who they are or their motivations. This must be the fortress of a local war lord. That is all I know. As I said, I am not familiar with this part of the country. What can we do?’

‘Do? I don’t think there is anything we can do until our captors make the next move.’

‘We can’t just wait, hoping they will bring us food.’ Brother Eolann’s voice rose in protest.

Fidelma gave him a look of pity. ‘Were you never taught the dercad?’

The dercad was an ancient form of meditation which some church leaders disapproved of as it was practised in the time before the Faith of Christ came to the shores of the Five Kingdoms of Éireann. It was a way of making the mind as still as water in a dark mountain pool, ridding oneself of the chaos of emotions and fear, the worst of all the emotions.

‘Of course I was,’ protested the scriptor. ‘But how does that help us now?’

‘I suggest we can occupy the time in no other constructive manner than by ridding our minds of expectation and fear.’

Fidelma took a seat on the other bed, sitting cross-legged with her hands folded in her lap. Then she closed her eyes and began to breathe slowly and deeply.

Brother Eolann pursed his lips for a moment or two, then shrugged and copied her.

How much time passed was difficult to say. But the day had grown dark. They could hear faint sounds, laughter, shouting and conversation from around them. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the scraping of the wooden bar beingraised and the door was pushed open. Fidelma’s eyes opened immediately and she rose from her position. Brother Eolann stirred and looked about sleepily, showing that instead of being in a true state of the dercad, he had actually fallen asleep.

A man entered carrying a lighted oil lamp which he set on the table; he then withdrew without a word. But even as he left, another man came in bearing a pitcher and clay beakers. These were placed on the table in silence, and then the first man reappeared with wooden platters on which was bread, cold meats, cheese and fruit. He turned and left just as Fidelma found her voice.

‘Wait! Who are you? What do you want with us?’

Her words were spoken in Latin and she was going to tell Brother Eolann to translate them when a deep voice answered her.

‘Peace, little sister. All will be answered in good time.’

In the door stood a big man, so large that his shoulders seemed to brush either side of the frame. He looked fat but on closer inspection he was built of solid muscle. He had a mass of black curling hair and dark eyes that blazed curiously as they reflected the lamplight.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Fidelma again.

‘I am Kakko, little sister.’

‘And is this your fortress?’

The big man threw back his head and roared with laughter, as if she had said something exceptionally funny. She waited patiently until his mirth subsided. She was aware that Brother Eolann was staring longingly at the food and drink that had been placed on the table, trying to restrain himself. However, this was an opportunity not to be missed.

‘Have I said something to amuse you?’ she asked coldly.

‘I am only the steward here, little sister.’

‘Then whose fortress is it?’

‘This fortress and the lands along this valley belong to my lord.’

Fidelma suppressed a sigh of impatience. ‘And who is your lord?’

‘My lord is Grasulf son of Gisulf.’

She looked across at Brother Eolann but he shook his head, indicating that the name meant nothing to him.

‘And who is Grasulf exactly?’

Kakko’s dark eyes widened almost in horror. ‘You do not know of the Lord of Vars?’

‘We are strangers here.’

‘Strangers?’

‘We are of Hibernia. I had been in this land but a few days when your warriors abducted me and my companion.’

The big man stared thoughtfully from Fidelma to Eolann. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded of Fidelma.

‘I am Fidelma and he is Brother Eolann, the scriptor at Bobium.’

Kakko was staring at Brother Eolann. ‘Hibernians, eh? There are many in this land. Perhaps too many. They are the ones who set up Bobium in the first place.’

‘As I have said,’ Fidelma added firmly, ‘I have been in your country but a few days and plan to stay little longer. I do not know why you have taken me captive but I demand my release.’

The steward’s eyes widened again and then a big smile spread over his features. Humour seemed to come easily to him.

‘You demand?’ he grinned. ‘I will tell that to my lord Grasulf when he returns.’

‘When he returns?’ snapped Fidelma. ‘Returns from where?’

‘My lord is on a boar hunt and is not expected back until tomorrow.’

‘So who gave instruction for our abduction?’

‘It has become a standing practice that any stranger in his territory should be detained and questioned,’