Behold a Pale Horse

body of Brother Eolann was buried and Fidelma was asked to come forward to say a few words about her compatriot. She found it difficult, knowing that he must have been central in the conspiracy to lay a false trail. She managed only a few words.

‘Brother Eolann came from my father’s Kingdom of Muman,’ she began. Although her father had died when she was a child, it was easier to phrase it in this way than to explain that, as there was no hereditary kingship in her land, kings were elected albeit from the same bloodline. It was true that her brother, Colgú, was now heir-apparent to their cousin Cathal, the current King of Muman. ‘He came from a place called Inis Faithlean, the island of the blessed Faithlean, who was one of the great teachers of the Faith in our land.

‘It was a place much like this, although it was on an island in a lake, surrounded by mountains covered in luxuriant growths of plants and trees, of evergreens like holly, mountain ash and arbutus. It seemed a curious fate that while he was sent on a mission to St Gallen, his footsteps eventually led him …’ She paused with a frown, distracted by the thought of something she had been overlooking. Then she quickly continued: ‘His footsteps led him to Mailand andthence here to the Valley of the Trebbia and your abbey, which Colm Bán founded many years ago. I am told he was a good scriptor, but he made a mistake. He took an oath, what my people call a géis — and he should have known that no one breaks it with impunity. The evil rebounds on the person who breaks it. And so, his life was taken …’

She came to a faltering end for there was little else she could positively say, but Venerable Ionas stepped forward and added: ‘But there is one person who knows, who sees the perpetrator, and even if we poor mortals fail to discover him in this life, he will be found and punished in the next.’

When it came to lowering the remains of Abbot Servillius into the ground it was the Venerable Ionas who led the tributes. In Fidelma’s culture this would have been called the écnaire, the intercession for the repose of the soul, followed by the blessing.

‘Servillius was of a Roman patrician family of Placentia. His ancestors had a long and noble tradition of service in this land. He served this abbey not only as abbot but as bishop. I was here when Servillius first came through the gates of this abbey. That was two score years ago, when there were some here who had known our blessed founder Columbanus. I knew them well and was inspired by them to write a life of that blessed man.

‘Servillius was also blessed in different ways. When he became abbot he inherited our founder’s desire to make this abbey not only a centre of piety but of learning, of knowledge and of progress. He tried to stop the abbey from falling into the hands of the followers of Arius, and it was through my offices I went to Rome and secured a recognition of our allegiance to the Holy Father and the granting of the mitre for our abbot as bishop. I secured the same distinction forAbbot Bobolen before him. Together we fought off the evil intentions of the followers of the Arian Creed …’

He suddenly paused and glanced at Magister Ado. Fidelma noticed the glance as it had registered in her mind that the Venerable Ionas was being a little too egocentric in his observations, which were supposed to be in praise of Abbot Servillius.

‘In that great cause of true Faith we were supported by the Magister Ado who had later joined this abbey and became one of our most renowned scholars. I — we — shall not allow our abbot to die in vain but will continue to ensure that this abbey becomes that centre respected throughout Christendom for its piety and learning.’

It was as the abbot’s body was being lowered into the grave that they all heard it, echoing across the valley. It was the high-pitched echoing drone of the pipes, the lamenting cry of a soul in torment.

Consternation broke out among the brethren. Some fled back down the track towards the abbey. Even in the glow of the flickering lamplight, Fidelma saw the pale, ghastly look on the faces of Brother Hnikar and Brother Wulfila. Even Brother Faro swung round to stare at the dark shapes of the rising mountains. The only person who stood, a faint smile discernible on his lips in the candlelight, was Odo.

It was Magister Ado who turned to those brethren who remained hesitating by the graveside. ‘Have you never heard the muse before?’ he remonstrated. ‘Have you never heard the pipes played whenever there is a burial here?’

Fidelma turned to Brother Faro, who was standing at her side, head to one side, listening to the mournful dirge. There was a strange, almost worried look on his face.

‘It seems that Brother Wulfila was wrong when he thoughtAbbot Servillius and Sister Gisa had gone to see the old hermit because he was ill,’ she commented. She then turned to Odo, who still stood nearby. ‘I am no expert in your local pipes, but who would you say is playing that lament?’

The youth replied immediately. ‘It is the favourite lament of the hermit. Only Aistulf plays the muse in that fashion.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

For the first time in her life, that night as she retired to bed, Fidelma pulled some heavier items of furniture as quietly as she could across her door before lying down and falling into a fitful, dream-ridden sleep. It was halfway through the night that she suddenly sat up in the darkness, a sweat on her forehead and a coldness on the back of her neck. ‘Of course,’ she muttered as her thoughts cleared. ‘Of course! How stupid of me. How very stupid!’ She managed to doze again but felt exhausted on waking the next morning.

She rose, washed and, in spite of her exhaustion, there was something coursing through her that excited her into activity. She went to join the brethren for the first meal of the day but found she was unable to concentrate on it. Venerable Ionas led the prayers while Magister Ado sat brooding and picking at his meal. Fidelma glanced around the refectorium. She could see no sign of Brother Faro and when the meal was finished, she asked Brother Wulfila where he was.

‘He has already left the abbey again in search of Sister Gisa,’ the steward responded disapprovingly.

The bell had rung and everyone was dispersing to their daily tasks. Fidelma went hurrying after the Venerable Ionas.

‘I need to speak to you,’ she began without preamble. ‘It is a matter that, for the moment, needs to be kept strictly between us.’

‘It is not our custom to keep secrets from one another, Sister Fidelma,’ reproved the old scholar.

‘Certain members of this community have already broken that custom. When I say that the abbey is in imminent danger, then I think secrecy is expedient.’

The Venerable Ionas regarded her with a troubled expression. ‘With the deaths that have recently occurred, Fidelma of Hibernia, I think I might have arrived at that decision myself. Last night I supported you in the proposition that you should investigate these deaths. Are you now saying that you have come to some conclusion?’

‘Not a complete one,’ she admitted, ‘although by the time this day is over, I think I will have most, if not all, of the answers.’

‘So what is this secret that you must share with me?’

They were standing on the steps of the hall overlooking the courtyard. Fidelma glanced round. ‘Is there a way that we might proceed to the necropolis without being seen?’

Venerable Ionas frowned. ‘And what would be found there?’

‘I hope to show you. But we must not be observed.’

‘You cannot tell me more?’

‘Only that before he died, Brother Ruadán asked me a question. I thought his mind was wandering. I now realise he was speaking rhetorically. He said: “What evil can be disguised in a mausoleum.” It has taken me a long time to realise what he meant, because I had been following a false trail.’

Venerable Ionas motioned her to follow him. They went back into the hall and through a passage that led beyond the kitchens. They did not go through them or into theherbarium but along another passage and into what looked like a disused storeroom. Venerable Ionas set about removing some boxes in one corner, to reveal the iron handle of a trap door.

The old scholar smiled wryly at Fidelma. ‘When I was young and first came to the abbey, I was shown this way out should we younger religious want to escape the attentions of the gatekeeper. He was a tougher man than Brother Bladulf, and the rules were far stricter in those days. Sometimes it was just necessary to get away to the