Behold a Pale Horse

‘I do not think so,’ contradicted Fidelma in a quiet voice.

Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado were both looking at her expectantly.

‘You said that you think you know who did this and that he is still in the abbey,’ Venerable Ionas said. ‘Then speak-’

Outside in the courtyard they heard a wailing sound. It started faintly and became louder, and then it was taken up with other cries, creating a human chorus of fear and anxiety. They were moving to the door when one of the brethren, dishevelled and grubby, burst into the hall.

‘The Evil One is at large in the abbey,’ he shouted. ‘Save us! Save us from him!’

The cries were in Fidelma’s own language. She realised that it was Brother Lonán, the herbalist and gardener, who had come running towards them. She grasped the hysterical man by the collar and almost shook him.

‘Control yourself, Brother! There is no evil in this place other than that which is made by men. What ails you? Speak! Speak in the language of the Faith so that these others may understand.’

The man blinked at the harshness of the words in his own language. Then he stared at her. ‘Death stalks the abbey, Sister. Evil stalks the abbey. We must flee from this accursed place.’ He fell to shivering and weeping, the hysteria unabated.

‘What is it?’ demanded Venerable Ionas, before he turned to Brother Wulfila, who had followed the herbalist in, and said sharply: ‘Get outside into the courtyard and stop our brethren from making that awful wailing noise.’

Fidelma stared at the sobbing man with distaste and then said, still in her own language: ‘You have one more chance to control yourself. If you do not speak, I am told the Rule of Benedict provides punishments for those who refuse to obey.’

Brother Lonán started back, a look of shock on his face.

‘Now,’ she said firmly, ‘know who you are and where you are. Speak in the language of the brethren and tell us what is the matter.’

The herbalist swallowed nervously. ‘I … I was in the herbarium,’ he began.

‘It is dark,’ snapped Magister Ado. ‘What were you doing there at this time?’

‘I always go for a walk around the garden during the warmsummer evenings. The smell of the herbs and flowers, the scent of the evening garden … well, it is my pleasure.’

Magister Ado sniffed in disapproval. ‘We are not here for individual pleasures, Brother Lonán, but-’

‘Better to hear what has caused him to be in this state, than to lecture him on what is correct behaviour,’ Venerable Ionas intervened reproachfully.

‘The moon is already bright and full, as you can see,’ the herbalist went on after some encouragement. ‘I was walking along the path by the olive trees when I heard a growling sound — the sound of a wolf.’

‘Wolves often come down into the valley in their hunt for food,’ observed Magister Ado. ‘What was unusual about this? Was this a reason to be afraid and cry like some whimpering child?’

‘I am used to wolves prowling at night, Venerable Ado,’ Brother Lonán replied defensively. ‘I know what to do when I encounter them. I threw stones at it and was surprised when it did not run off with the same alacrity that its kind usually display. It seemed that it would dispute with me. Then I threw some heavier stones and shouted and it moved away.’

‘And so?’ prompted Fidelma, after he had paused.

‘It had been digging by the trees. I moved forward. It was dark and shaded. And then the moon suddenly came out and shone between the branches down on the spot where the animal had been digging. Something pale and white was peering up at me from the soil … God help me!’

Magister Ado gave a sharp intake of breath in his exasperation.

‘Tell us what it was,’ Fidelma said quickly.

‘It was the face of Brother Eolann.’

It was a short time later when Brother Lonán guided the party into the herb garden. Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado walked behind him with Fidelma. Brother Hnikar and Brother Wulfila and Brother Faro, armed with lamps and spades, came next. They were led towards a group of olive trees at the far end of the garden. The herbalist stood back while they edged forward to the spot at which he pointed. There was no doubt that the body had been partially uncovered by the digging of the wolves. The lamps of the party played on the deathly white features of the scriptor Brother Eolann.

Brother Hnikar bent down and examined the head.

‘He can’t have been buried that long. The burial seems shallow, which is a sign of a hurried disposal of the body. No wonder the wolf was able to uncover it. However, the state of the body makes me believe that he, too, like the abbot, has been dead for some time.’

‘Any idea how he came by his death?’ asked Fidelma.

Brother Hnikar stood up and she thought she saw him sneer in the flickering lamplight.

‘Not from the blow on the head that he received this morning,’ he replied. ‘I will need to examine the body more carefully. Brother Wulfila and Brother Lonán, dig the body up and bring it to my apothecary.’ He turned to Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado. ‘There is no need for us to remain here. Let us proceed to the apothecary and await the body, and then I shall be able to see if an Evil One is stalking the abbey and what manner of death he is inflicting.’

The last remark was aimed in a cutting tone at the still shivering Brother Lonán.

They did not have to wait long in the odour-filled apothecary. Brother Hnikar was not a likeable person but he was certainly a professional as he bent over the body. Almost atonce he observed: ‘He was killed by that wound under the hair. It was inflicted by a broad-bladed weapon. If I were given to guessing, it was probably a sword like a gladius.’

‘A gladius?’ Fidelma repeated.

‘A short, stabbing sword used by the Roman Legions,’ he explained. ‘It is still favoured by some of our warriors these days. I have seen Wulfoald use one.’

Fidelma frowned. ‘So is it a commonly used weapon?’

‘Not that common these days.’ It was Magister Ado who answered her this time. ‘I think warriors on horseback like to use long, slashing swords. It depends on who one is fighting. These short swords are efficient at close quarters, but faced with a charging warrior with a lance or a full-length sword, their use is limited.’

‘You cannot tell if he was killed this morning or this evening?’ Fidelma pressed.

Brother Hnikar actually chuckled. ‘If the day comes when a physician can tell the exact time a body has died, that will be when we shall be able to solve all killings. All we would need is the time when the person died and seize whoever was next to them then. That is a fantasy.’

‘I saw him not long before you returned to the abbey, Sister,’ offered Brother Hnikar. ‘I told you so.’

‘So he was killed sometime after that.’

Brother Hnikar shrugged. ‘He was buried after dark, that is all I can say, for the earth has not had any pronounced marking on his clothing or body.’

‘Then he must have been in the abbey when I was looking for him,’ Venerable Ionas said. ‘But where was he hiding?’

‘Or being hidden,’ added Fidelma. She had been quiet for some time as she pursued a vagrant train of thought. Then she turned suddenly to Magister Ado. ‘Was it Brother Eolann’sidea that you make the journey to Tolosa to negotiate for that book … what was it? The Life of the Blessed Saturnin.’

Magister Ado was surprised at her memory. ‘It was. Why?’

‘Would you have gone otherwise?’

‘I would not. The scriptor was quite insistent that that volume must be added to our library, as it would enhance the reputation of our abbey as a great centre of learning. As I had been to Tolosa before, it was felt that I was the best person to negotiate the matter. But how does this connect with the murder of the abbot? How do the two deaths come together?’

‘Six deaths,’ Fidelma corrected softly.

‘What?’ Magister Ado was shocked.

‘Six deaths,’ she repeated, ‘plus an attempt on your life and the wounding of Brother Faro. All these are