evil?’
Brother Faro had caught sight of them looking down and moved his horse nearer.
‘We are come to take something that belongs to Grasulf, Lord of Vars, and soon to be Lord of Trebbia.’ His face was fixed in a triumphant smile. He turned and pointed to the necropolis. Two of Grasulf’s warriors detached themselves from the rest and rode swiftly into the burial ground, their horses trampling through the graves towards the mausoleums of the abbots. Everyone waited in silence as they heard metal striking on stone. Faro sat relaxed on his horse, still gazing up at them.
‘I suggest that you open the gates. We would sooner take the abbey peacefully than come against it with weapons and fire.’
Venerable Ionas looked nervously at Wulfoald. The warrior said, ‘Stay firm. Radoald will be here soon. He must!’ The old scholar nodded and stared down at Brother Faro with distaste.
‘You know that you come against a House of God, Brother Faro. What has happened to your vows that you betray us and come in arms against your own brethren?’
‘I took a stronger vow to my King long before I disguised myself in rough woollens,’ was the reply. ‘I am Faro, Lord ofTurbigo.’ Then the young man caught sight of Sister Gisa and his features seemed to soften. ‘Gisa, I am sorry that you had to find out this way. Believe me, what passed between us was not false. Now I give you my protection and offer you my companionship. Leave your drab associates and join me.’
She had been standing shivering as one caught in a cold wind. Suddenly she seemed to erupt, her face contorted with anger as she faced the truth. ‘Companionship?’ she cried, though her eyes were swimming with tears. ‘The companionship of a murderer?’
‘The companionship of the Lord of Turbigo, Commander in the army of Perctarit, the rightful King of the Longobards!’ Faro replied.
They heard a cry of rage from the direction of the necropolis and one of the men who had been despatched there came riding back at a swift canter. There was a quick exchange with Faro which those on the wall could not make out. Faro looked up at them.
‘So, you have found that which rightfully belongs to Grasulf? I suggest you hand it over without further delay.’
Grasulf, overhearing this, had edged his horse forward alongside Faro and there was a sneer on his face as he gazed up at them.
‘Have they stolen the gold?’ His voice was loud. ‘Well, we will fire the place in any event,’ he said. Then he caught sight of Fidelma. ‘Well, well, all the little birds are gathered, and among them is the Hibernian princess. Don’t worry — if you are taken alive, a princess ought to be worth a ransom from someone. Especially from slavers.’ Then he glanced at his companion. ‘Come, Faro, we cannot afford to waste words. They have our ultimatum. The gates are to be opened immediately or we start the attack andwill burn this place down with everyone in it if they don’t surrender.’
Faro sat back with a shrug. ‘You hear what the Lord of Vars says?’ he called. ‘You have a choice. Open the gates or we shall fire the abbey.’
‘Open the gates, open the gates!’ a commanding voice began to cry from inside the courtyard. They turned in surprise to see Brother Wulfila, the steward, hurrying towards them. Brother Bladulf, so used to receiving commands from the steward, was already moving, swinging the bar away from the gates.
‘Our third conspirator,’ Fidelma cried. ‘I should have warned you. Stop him!’ But the noise of the voices from those inside the courtyard were rising too loudly for her to be heard. She turned to Venerable Ionas. ‘You must stop him. Wulfila is Perctarit’s man.’
While Venerable Ionas hesitated in bewilderment, it was Wulfoald who almost leaped from the wall and, running towards the gates, threw himself at the steward. Wulfila turned; he already had one of the heavy wooden bars in his hands, and wielded it with ease like a trained warrior. The blow caught Wulfoald on the side of the head and brought him crashing to the ground. Then Wulfila was pushing through the now unsecured gate.
Above the cacophony there came the sound of more war horns, long clear blasts, and a large band of horsemen were galloping across the river, banners flying as they swept towards Grasulf’s war band. Faro turned to face the approaching danger and suddenly his helmet was replaced and his sword was drawn. Grasulf gave out a curse in a great roaring voice.
‘Radoald!’ shouted Aistulf in triumph.
Fidelma, concerned with Brother Wulfila, saw that he hadpassed through the open gate and was running towards the war band of Grasulf, now in disarray. He was shouting to them and continued to run forward, one hand outstretched.
Those on the wall could hear him cry out: ‘Wait! It is I, Wulfila. Wait! I am-’
One of Grasulf’s men turned, a bow already strung in his hand. The arrow transfixed itself through Wulfila’s throat. Without a sound the former steward of the abbey measured his length on the ground outside the gates and lay still.
They had little time to register the fact, before Radoald’s warriors crashed into the bewildered and confused horsemen of Grasulf. The conflict was not longlasting, although it seemed an eternity to Fidelma. Soon the enemy war band was fleeing down the valley, leaving many dead and wounded behind. Among them, she recognised the body of the Lord of Vars.
Sister Gisa stood at Fidelma’s side staring at the bodies, tears streaming from her eyes.
‘He escaped,’ she said flatly. ‘He has fled with the others down the valley.’
It was a week later that Fidelma found herself standing on the quay of the port of Genua. She was at the foot of the gangplank of a ship whose crew were making ready to set sail. Sister Gisa and Wulfoald stood by her side.
‘I cannot say that I am sorry to leave here,’ she announced.
‘However you feel about us, lady,’ Sister Gisa said softly, ‘we shall miss you.’
‘All has ended well, lady, and that is something we can all be grateful for,’ added Wulfoald. ‘Grimoald has driven Perctarit and his rebels back into the lands of the Franks. The conspiracy to fund Grasulf’s uprising to take over the strategic valleyroutes has been thwarted and the Lord of Vars has been slain, his power broken.’
Fidelma nodded absently. ‘And the abbey is richer by a gift of gold from Perctarit. But has it ended well? So many deaths. Poor Brother Ruadán, little Wamba, his mother Hawisa, Lady Gunora, Abbot Servillius … so many deaths — and for what?’
Wulfoald raised a hand to his forehead where there was still a slight scar where the steward had caught him with the wooden bar.
‘Wulfila … there is someone for whom I cannot feel sorry. His blow still pains me. Tell me, did you know he was the third conspirator in this matter before he declared himself?’
‘I suspected, and foolishly did not say so before. The facts added up. I should have challenged him but could not make my assertions before Venerable Ionas and the
‘Faro made no disguise of that,’ agreed Wulfoald.
‘But it was not revealed that Wulfila had served Faro, who was one of Perctarit’s commanders. Aistulf later told me about the Lord of Turbigo whose reputation he had heard of when fighting in the wars two years ago. Faro was a brilliant commander. A good strategist. Faro and Wulfila joined with Eolann at Mailand and came to Bobium to plot Perctarit’s return and campaign against Grimoald.’
‘So it was Wulfila who murdered poor Brother Ruadán?’ queried Sister Gisa.
‘It was. Wulfila heard me say that I had found Brother Ruadán lucid and that I was going to talk to him again. He had to make sure that it did not happen. Wulfila smothered him with a pillow. He had not realised that I had already spoken to Brother Ruadán only minutes before. Brother Hnikar then mentioned that it was Wulfila who had come to tell him that Brother Ruadán had died in his sleep. I knew that not to be so. Wulfila had also to have been outside Lady Gunora’s chamber when she left the abbey with the prince. He alerted his master, Faro, who chased after them and killed Lady Gunora. Finally, Wulfila lied to me when he said Abbot Servillius was in
