Sister Fidelma 22 - Behold a Pale Horse

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By Peter Tremayne and featuring Sister Fidelma:

  Copyright Page

  For the wonderful Sister Fidelma enthusiasts

  that I met in the Abbey of Bobbio, who suggested

  that she travel there –

  Bobbio in noir, perché no?

  Et ecce equus pallidus et qui sedebat desuper nomen illi Mors et Inferus sequebatur eum …

  And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and the name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him …

  Revelation 6:8

  Vulgate Latin translation of Jerome 4th century

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  Sister Fidelma of Cashel, a dálaigh or advocate of the law courts of seventh-century Ireland

  At Genua in the kingdom of the Longobards

  Magister Ado of Bobium

  Brother Faro

  Sister Gisa

  In the Trebbia Valley

  Radoald, Lord of Trebbia

  Wulfoald, commander of Radoald’s warriors

  Suidur the Wise, physician to Radoald

  Aistulf the Hermit

  At the Abbey of Bobium

  Abbot Servillius

  Venerable Ionas, a scholar

  Brother Wulfila, steward

  Brother Hnikar, apothecary

  Brother Ruadán, formerly of Inis Celtra

  Brother Lonán, herbalist

  Brother Eolann, scriptor or librarian

  Brother Waldipert, cook

  Brother Bladulf, gatekeeper

  Romuald of Benevento, Prince of the Longobards

  Lady Gunora, his nurse

  Bishop Britmund, of Placentia, leader of the Arians

  Brother Godomar, his steward

  On Mount Pénas

  Wamba, a goatherd

  Hawisa, mother of Wamba

  Odo, her nephew, a goatherd

  Ratchis, a merchant

  At Vars

  Grasulf, son of Gisulf, Lord of Vars

  Kakko, his steward

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  May 2008 found me in Northern Italy promoting the Sister Fidelma Mysteries. One of the most exciting events was being invited to the famous Abbey of Bobbio to talk to a gathering in the ancient cloisters. The Abbey of Bobbio was one of the few places that I had long wanted to visit, but never before found the opportunity.

  Bobbio, or Bobium as it was originally called, had been established in AD612 by the celebrated Irish saint and missionary Columbanus (AD540 – 615). He was from Leinster but had become Abbot of Bangor, Co. Down, before beginning his travels abroad. The original Irish form of his name, Colm Bán, meant ‘white dove’, but he is often confused with his Donegal namesake Colm Cille (AD521 – 97), meaning ‘dove of the church’, popularly known as Columba. Colm Cille’s most famous foundation was on Iona, a tiny island off the coast of Scotland. Bobbio became equally renowned in Europe for its great library and its scholars.

  It was a privilege for me to be talking about Sister Fidelma in such a setting as the ancient cloisters of Bobbio. A member of the audience asked me why I couldn’t bring Fidelma to Bobbio, solving some mystery during a visit to this great Irish establishment in the Val de Trebbia, in the Apennine Mountains.

  In Shroud for the Archbishop, Fidelma had already visited Rome where she solved the mystery of the death of Wighard, the Archbishop-designate of Canterbury, which took place there in AD664. It was a real event around which I had created a story. So, I replied, ‘Why not?’ The major Northern Italian daily newspaper Libertà, reporting the event, carried the story under the headline Bobbio in noir, perché no? The idea for the story took two years to germinate and came out in this form, but not before I made further trips to the Trebbia Valley.

  The Sister Fidelma Mysteries, with the exception of the two short-story collections, follow a strict chronological order, analogous to the date of their publication. For example, the first novel,

  Absolution by Murder (1994) was set in May AD664. The subsequent novels cover the years through to AD670, the year in which The Chalice of Blood (2010) is set. Behold A Pale Horse becomes an exception. This story follows immediately on from the action in Shroud for the Archbishop, which was set in Rome during the summer of AD664. Readers may recall that Fidelma left her new friend, Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the Eternal City to return home to Ireland. She took a ship from Ostia, the port at the mouth of the Tiber, with the intention of disembarking at Massilia (Marseilles) and following the pilgrims’ route overland.

  Peter Tremayne

  The Trebbia Valley

  CHAPTER ONE

  The elderly man was obviously a religieux. He wore the corona spina, the tonsure of St Peter, and a long brown woollen homespun cloak over a robe of similar material, with leather sandals on his feet. Marking him as being above the lower orders of religious brethren, he carried a staff of office topped with a small silver hook as if it were a crozier of the type a bishop might use.

  He hurried by Sister Fidelma without a glance, the soles of his sandals slapping on the cobbles of the narrow street. Fidelma was sheltering under the thatch cover of a little house in the crowded section of the old seaport where she had found lodgings. She barely glanced up as the man passed her, registering the details only subconsciously. In truth, she was bored and her mind preoccupied with the question of how she could pass the time; pass another day in this dreary harbour town where she had been stranded for several days.

  It seemed a lifetime ago since she had left Rome to travel down the Tiber to the seaport of Ostia and thence obtain a passage for Massilia. Everything appeared to go well at first. The ship set sail with a blustery wind from the south-east, and the captain was confident of an easy voyage. Before the day was out, however, everything had gone wrong. The wind suddenly changed direction, a storm came out of nowhere and a sail was ripped, a spar cracked and the ship was driven against some rocks, splintering the planking around the keel. Fidelma could not blame the captain for poor seamanship. In fact, he had saved the lives of his passengers and crew by being able to bring the crippled vessel into the nearby natural harbour of Genua before it sank. The sailors seemed to consider this as a blessing from the old gods. When Fidelma inquired why, she was told that Genua was named from the two-headed god Giano, who was the protector of ships. The superstitious sailors felt the god had reached out to save them.

  The fact remained that the ship was beyond immediate repair. Fidelma was assured that the seaport of Genua was the crossroad of commerce and that she should easily be able to secure a new passage to Massilia. However, the assurances proved wrong. There were few ships in the harbour and none heading for Massilia nor to any adjacent port. There was some rumour that a Frankish fleet might be heading for the seaport and talk of war in the air, but she took no notice. Fidelma had wandered the back streets around the harbour until she was directed to a small hostel which catered for religious pilgrims. She had no complaints about the hospitality, but the days were long in passing and there was no sign of any ship on which she might continue her journey.

  Genua was not a place which held her attention. The old woman who ran the hostel had related the general history of the area within one brief conversation. In recent years, various conquerors had seized the seaport for strategic reasons and it was here the ships of the ruling Byzantines had once harboured while they tried to stop the invading Germanic tribes, the Longobards, who now held sway and had mixed their culture in this centre of commerce. Alboin and his Longobards had swept down the entire Italian peninsula during the previous century and conquered it, with the exception of isolated territories such as the lands around Rome itself, which clung to their independence. Some thirty-six powerful Longobard dukes now ruled under their King.

  Among the languages of the seaport, she could hear various tongues, and Fidelma could now distinguish the harsh gutturals of the language of the Longobards from the others. However, she was thankful that Latin was still the language of general communication, for at least she was able to make herself understood.

  She was dwelling on these matters when the elderly religieux had hurried by. Some part of her mind registered this fact but would have dismissed it, had it not been for the two men following in his footsteps. It was their manner that caused her to glance up and give her full attention. They were hooded, their dark cloaks covering their tall figures, and they were bent forward, giving the impression of serious intent; one, at least, carried a cudgel in his right hand. Fidelma realised that this was what had caught her attention. The man’s cloak had flapped back as he passed, thus momentarily revealing the weapon. They both seemed to be treading carefully, as if to avoid making the same noise on the cobbles that had marked the passage of the
ir quarry.

  Fidelma did not think about consequences. If there was some knavery here, then her training as a dálaigh – an advocate of the laws of her own land, now part of her very being – caused her to move automatically. Quietly, she followed the two men as they shadowed the elderly religieux along the narrow street. There were only two or three people moving along in the opposite direction and no one took any notice of them. Then they approached a stretch which was devoid of people. One of the men began to increase his stride, and some instinct caused Fidelma to slip into the shelter of a tiny recess between the buildings – just as the second man turned his head and glanced back, as if to check whether anyone else was on the street. When she peered cautiously out again, she saw that both men were closing rapidly on the elderly man. He seemed unaware of their presence. The leading pursuer had already raised his cudgel to strike.

  Fidelma found herself throwing caution to the wind and running after them.

  ‘Caveo! Caveo!’ she cried loudly in Latin.

  The elderly religieux turned at her cry and met the downward strike of the cudgel with a dexterous movement of his staff, fending off the blow.

  The second attacker turned immediately to face Fidelma and she realised that he also held a cudgel. He raised it as he ran back towards her. What happened next was over in a few seconds. Still running forward, she suddenly ducked and halted. Her antagonist had no time to stop his forward momentum. He went flying across her crouched body and came down heavily on the cobbles, his cudgel spinning from his hand. Fidelma swung round and kicked the weapon further from him as he lay momentarily winded on the ground.

  She had only used the art of the troid-sciathagid a few times before. She had used it once in Rome not so long ago when she had been attacked. It was a traditional technique of her people, called ‘battle through defence’ which had been taught in ancient times by those wise teachers who felt it wrong to carry arms to protect themselves. In these violent times, lonely missionaries were often attacked, robbed and sometimes killed. Now, many of the peregrinatio pro Christo, the missionaries who went abroad, learned how to defend themselves in this manner without the use of weapons.

  Fidelma adopted a defensive posture, ready to confront her attacker again. His cloak had fallen open and her eyes caught an embroidered symbol on his right shoulder. It was a curious design, like a flaming sword surrounded by a laurel wreath. She was still looking at it when there was a shouted instruction from behind her. The next moment, the first attacker brushed roughly by her, running down the street. His companion rolled over, came to his feet and joined him. Both of them disappeared swiftly into some side alley. Fidelma hesitated, not knowing what to do next, when a voice behind her called in Latin: ‘Let them go, Sister. Let us not take chances.’

  She turned back to the elderly man, who stood leaning on his staff. There was a slight abrasion on his forehead and a trickle of blood.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she demanded, moving forward.

  The elderly man smiled. ‘It could have been worse, but thanks to you, Sister, I was warned in time to deflect the blow. And you? I have seen that trick done before by an Hibernian Brother. Are you of that country?’

  ‘I am,’ Fidelma agreed solemnly. ‘I am Fidelma of Hibernia.’

  ‘Then well met, Sister Fidelma. I am Ado of Bobium.’

  Fidelma glanced at the silver shepherd’s hook on the end of his staff. ‘Abbot Ado?’ she ventured.

  He chuckled with a shake of his head. He was a handsome, intelligent-looking man, in spite of his advancing years. He had blue eyes and his hair was white and almost to his shoulders but well-tended. He gave the impression of a man of some strength, and the way he had handled his staff to disarm his attacker showed that he had not only strength but dexterity.

  ‘An abbot? No, although some address me as Magister Ado as a token of respect for my scholarship and advancing years.’ He glanced quickly around. ‘However, I would advise that we do not tarry here in case our friends return. My destination is not far away. Come, let me offer you some hospitality for your timely assistance against those … er, robbers.’

  Fidelma felt that the elderly man had been going to use another word to describe his attackers, but she did not press him. Here was some distraction from the boredom she had been faced with just moments ago. She fell in step with him as they continued across the narrow street and, after her new companion asked a few prompting questions, she explained how she had come to be in Genua.

  Magister Ado eventually came to a halt before a door.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, raising his staff and knocking on it in a curious pattern which indicated a code. Almost at once, the door was opened by a young man with an anxious look on his dark, handsome features. He was also dressed in religious robes but seemed alert and muscular, as though designed to be a warrior rather than a man of the cloth. His expression became one of dismay as he saw the drying blood on the old man’s forehead.

  ‘Magister Ado! Are you hurt?’

  Again the elderly religieux smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Nothing serious,’ he replied. ‘But my companion and I will be the better for a cup of wine, Brother Faro.’

  The young man looked curiously from Magister Ado to Fidelma. Then he forced a smile.

  ‘I am sorry for my hesitation. Please enter; come in quickly.’

  He held the door wide open and Fidelma noticed that, once they had passed in, he had gone out into the street and glanced up and down as if to ensure that no one had observed their entrance into the house.

  Magister Ado waited until the young man closed the door and led them through the stuffy interior to a small courtyard at the centre of the building. The air was still warm here but seemingly cooled by a tinkling small fountain in the centre. A moment later a young woman emerged from another doorway.

  ‘Ah, Sister Gisa,’ greeted Magister Ado. ‘My companion and I are in need of wine. This is Sister Fidelma of Hibernia.’

  The young woman – she was scarcely more than a girl – was examining the elderly religieux with concern.

  ‘You have blood on your forehead, Magister …’ she began.

  ‘I am fine. Do not worry.’ He turned to Fidelma. ‘These are good comrades of mine – Sister Gisa and Brother Faro. They tend to fuss over me. Now, Sister Gisa, fetch that wine.’

  The girl, with a quick, worried nod of greeting at Fidelma, moved to a side table and took up a flagon and clay beakers. Brother Faro’s anxious expression did not diminish. ‘What happened?’

  ‘An attempt at robbery, that is all. Thankfully, Sister Fidelma was near since, without her help, things might have been worse.’

  ‘You mean that they know you are here?’ demanded Brother Faro.

  Fidelma noticed that the older man glanced with a frown at his young companion before resuming his pleasant expression. ‘Hurry with that wine, my child. The dust of the street is still in my throat.’

  Sister Gisa glanced shyly at Fidelma, as she poured the wine. She was quite attractive, Fidelma noted. Her eyes were dark, matching the colour of her hair which could be seen at the edges of her headdress. The skin of her face was an olive brown, but not tanned by the sun as Fidelma had noticed others were in this southern clime.

  ‘How did you come to have a hand in this matter, Sister?’ the girl asked. So far, everyone spoke in impeccable Latin and not the local language.

  Fidelma gave a half-shrug. ‘I saw two men sneaking up behind Magister Ado and was able to shout a warning to him. That is all.’

  Magister Ado was shaking his head. The smile he had resumed had not left his features. It seemed his permanent expression.

  ‘All? She did more than that, my friends. One of the brutes turned to attack her and she was able to throw the man to the ground. I have seen such a thing done only once before and that was by one of our Hibernian Brothers.’

  Brother Faro seemed overcome with gratitude.

  ‘Then you have saved the life of our master. I thank you, Sister.’