‘I doubt whether you will find the tension any different there,’ muttered Wulfoald.
‘Why would that be?’ asked the merchant with an air of innocence.
‘Come, Ratchis, you must know as well as I do,’ Wulfoald returned sternly. ‘At the moment Grasulf, the Lord of Vars, controls the old Salt Road from Genua all the way to Ticinum Papia and so all the way on to Mailand. And Mailand has always been loyal to Perctarit. If Grasulf gained control of the Trebbia, then he would control both routes from Genua, the Trebbia to Placentia as well as the old Salt Road to Mailand. Through either route troops and equipment landing at Genua by sea could strike inland in support of Perctarit, if he is at Mailand.’
‘Spoken like a warrior.’ The merchant smiled. ‘Strategy? Alas, you see everything only in terms of strategy.’
‘In these times there is no other way to see things,’ replied Wulfoald, unperturbed.
‘I am a merchant and I see things only in terms of trade and profits. If one has to pay the warlords, such as Grasulf or Radoald, then one merely has to add that cost into the price.’
‘Are you not fearful these same warlords would kill you?’ Wulfoald asked.
Ratchis chuckled. ‘Then where would they get their supplies afterwards?’
Fidelma was silent, listening to the exchange. They had come a fair way up the mountain and, finally, Wulfoald suggested halting their ascent for they had gone beyond the spot where the main track turned off to start its winding climb. Fidelma recalled that it was not far up to Hawisa’s cabin. It was at this point that the low whinny of a horse came to their ears. At once Wulfoald’s sword was in his hand. He slid from his horse, glanced towards the others with a finger raised to his lips, and cautiously moved up the path before them. They sat and waited. Wulfoald was not gone long but soon re-emerged, his sword sheathed.
‘It is the horses and mule of Brother Bladulf and his party,’ he explained. ‘They have tethered them in a little clearing yonder and continued up to the sanctuary on foot to recover the body. We’ll leave our mounts at the same place as it will become too difficult for the animals to attempt to ascend further.’
The horses and mule were tethered among the trees well below the area blackened by fire. There was a natural shelter and a gushing stream among the grassy slopes for the comfort of the horses.
‘If I remember correctly, Hawisa’s cabin is just over that rise in the track.’ Fidelma pointed.
‘Your memory is correct, lady,’ Wulfoald replied with a tight expression on his features.
Even from this distance, Fidelma could smell the acrid stench of newly burned wood. The soft wind had begun to blow a fine ash on its gusting breath. Wulfoald had noticed it too and set off determinedly up the track.
‘Let us see how far this fire has eaten into the forest,’ he called back over his shoulder.
By now Fidelma was experiencing the same apprehension she had felt when standing in the courtyard and seeing the smoke on the mountain. She was wondering if it had been a natural fire. If it was not, if it had been set by Grasulf and his men, then they might still be waiting in ambush.
‘We must be careful from here on,’ she advised.
‘Why so?’ The voice of Ratchis, the merchant, was high-pitched with nervousness. Neither of the others bothered to reply.
As they approached the blackened section of forest, Fidelma began to feel really uneasy. If her accusation was correct — that Hawisa had told the truth and Wulfoald was lying about taking Wamba to the abbey — then Wulfoald had a reason to mean her harm. She was glad that the Venerable Ionas had asked the merchant to accompany them. He would be better than no help at all. But it was very confusing. Wulfoald was obviously confident in his statement. Maybe she was wrong. If so, why had Hawisa lied? Was it something about payment for the coin, about the gold?
The area seemed familiar to Fidelma as they left the main path and headed into the forest, and now the foreboding she had felt when they set out came back with a vengeance. The sudden heavy showers seemed to have dampened everything apart from the all-pervasive smell of smoke and burned tinder and … was there something else in the air? There was a peculiar odour, which reminded Fidelma of roasting pig. Then she saw the ruins of a cabin. She recognised it at once because of its position and the still-gushing mountain stream which provided the only unchanged items in the blackened landscape. Before what might have been the doorway of thecabin near where she had sat only a few days before, were the remains of a body, too charred and distorted to be identified.
Fidelma stood still, her face grim.
Without any warning at all there was a cry, a shrill animal-like shriek. A figure was suddenly charging towards her, one hand holding high a flashing knife-blade. Fidelma froze with shock at the sudden appearance of the figure out of the black gloom of the burned forest. Then she was aware of Wulfoald, stepping before her and knocking aside the attacker, who dropped his knife and went sprawling in the ash-strewn floor of the clearing. Wulfoald stood over the man, his sword at the ready for a further attack. But the figure lay there, shoulders rising and falling strangely. It took a moment or so to realise he was sobbing uncontrollably.
Fidelma became aware that the merchant, Ratchis, had given a cry of terror and was running back down the hill to the spot where they had left their mounts. She called after him but knew it was in vain and went to stand by Wulfoald.
The warrior bent forward and seized the assailant by the back of his neck and hauled him to his feet. It was a young man scarcely in his twenties. He was tousle-haired, his face smudged with soot, the tears creating stains across his cheeks. His dress was typical of the goatherders of the area.
Wulfoald shook the unhappy creature as she had seen a wolf shaking its prey. Questions shot out fiercely. Then Wulfoald turned to Fidelma to interpret.
‘The youth thought we were the ones who did this.’ He jerked his head at the burned-out ruins. ‘Hawisa is dead and some of her livestock as well. That’s why he attacked us.’ He turned back to the youth, then peered closer at him. ‘This isthe nephew of Hawisa. His name is Odo. I recognise him now under the soot and grime.’
Fidelma was surprised when the youth suddenly said in very poor but understandable Latin: ‘Yes, Hawisa was my aunt. I do not know you.’
‘I am in Lord Radoald’s service,’ replied the warrior. ‘This is Fidelma of Hibernia.’
‘So your name is Odo?’ asked Fidelma. ‘And you are the goatherd that took over the goats when your cousin Wamba died?’
‘You are a stranger here,’ replied the youth with caution in his tone. ‘How did you know this?’
‘Your aunt told me of you. I talked with her several days ago.’
‘She did not speak Latin.’
‘I know. But I had an interpreter with me. How is it that
The youth drew himself up. ‘I was taught by the brethren and still speak with Aistulf when I can.’
‘Aistulf the hermit?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘This Aistulf does not appear to be such a hermit, after all. I gather he also taught your cousin Wamba the bagpipes. What is it you call them locally — the
‘I suppose Hawisa told you that? Wamba was clever. He would have been a very good piper …’
‘ … had he lived.’ Wulfoald finished the sentence for him.
‘It was about Wamba that I came to speak to your aunt some days ago,’ Fidelma ignored his interruption, ‘and I wanted to clarify things with her today. But this is how we found her cabin, and …’ She did not finish the sentence but merely nodded at the charred remains. Then she said: ‘Let us remove ourselves to a more pleasant area where we may talk.’
They walked downhill a short distance. Odo had placed a blanket on some rocks and went to pick it up. When he saw them looking, he explained, ‘I brought it to cover my aunt with and perhaps get her body away so that she might be given a decent burial.’ They waited while he placed it over the charred corpse before they walked down to the place where they had left their horses, the little clearing that had escaped the flames. Through it a stream still gushed and sparkled with the green vegetation around it. Although their horses grazed peacefully, there was no sign of Ratchis’ mule.
Wulfoald peered about in resignation. ‘I think our merchant friend has deserted us. Did you still want him?’
Fidelma shook her head and seated herself on the trunk of a fallen tree, indicating that Odo should do likewise. ‘Now, Odo, let us talk. You believe that this was no natural fire?’
‘Yes — what do you know of this fire, lad?’ put in Wulfoald, who was leaning against the trunk of a tree. ‘By
