The Haunted Abbot sf-12 Read online

  ‘Around those trees and we’ll turn on the marsh road,’ he said encouragingly. ‘From that point, were it not for the snowstorm, you would be able to see the River Aide in the distance. The marsh road will take us to the bridge and the abbey is not far beyond.’

  ‘Another mile or so, at most,’ confirmed Eadulf with a tone of satisfaction. ‘We are quite close and it is well before midnight.’

  ‘Midnight? I’ll be in bed at my own farm and asleep before then,’ said the farmer.

  Eadulf squinted through the slanting snow. As the wagon came around the line of trees he could only just see an indistinctwhiteness of landscape, without the shadows of hills or forest, which showed the level marsh. A ribbon of white powdery snow stretched away, free from curves or bends in which drifts could gather.

  ‘Inclement is scarcely a term to describe this weather, my friend,’ Eadulf observed, shivering a little. ‘Surely, Mul, you will stay at the abbey for the rest of the night rather than journey on to Frig’s Tun?’

  ‘Woden’s hammer! I would not stay at Aldred’s Abbey this night nor any night — even if you paid me treble the penny which you have promised me,’ averred the farmer forcefully. ‘I call for its destruction!’

  Eadulf stared at him through the slanting snow, wondering at the vehemence in his voice.

  ‘What do you fear at the abbey?’ he demanded.

  ‘Everyone knows that the devil has come to that place.’

  ‘The devil?’ Eadulf’s eyes widened a little. ‘That is a strong thing to say and a bad thing when you speak of a Christian community.’

  Mul shrugged indifferently.

  ‘Have you been away long from this land?’ he asked and, for a moment, Eadulf thought he was changing the subject.

  ‘Several years,’ he confirmed after a slight hesitation.

  ‘Well, I shall tell you, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, that many things have changed in these parts. Sometimes it is not wise even to confess that you belong to the new faith.’

  Eadulf was impatient. He disliked people who did not explain precisely what they meant, and said so.

  ‘I have heard all about the conflict in the kingdom of the East Saxons. But I cannot see what that has to do with Aldred’s Abbey and any evil therein. State plainly what you mean, Mul.’

  ‘I can say no more than this; the devil has cast his shadow over Aldred’s Abbey. Now, let me drive on before we all freeze to death. Just have a care, Brother; have a care for your companion and yourself. There is a brooding evil at the abbey. I have heard that-’

  He halted in mid-sentence, shrugged once more and turned to crack his whip over the mules’ heads. The cart jerked forward again, almost sending Eadulf flying back into the wagon.

  ‘Did you hear and understand that?’ Eadulf asked, resorting to the language of Éireann as he settled down and leaned close to Fidelma.

  Fidelma glanced at him in the twilight.

  ‘I did not understand the nuances but I understood the sense,’ she confessed. ‘This farmer, Mul, is afraid of the abbey. That I realise. Is it because he is a pagan and fears the new religion?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Eadulf. ‘Maybe it is due to some pagan peasant superstition. Who knows?’

  ‘I presume that your Saxon word diofol is the same as our word díabul?’

  ‘Aye. Lucifer, Satan … the devil.’ Eadulf nodded.

  Fidelma was thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘A curious thing for a pagan to say about a Christian house. Tell me, this friend of yours … the one who sent you the message at Canterbury …?’

  ‘Brother Botulf?’

  ‘Indeed. Brother Botulf. Are you sure that he gave you no explanation, no hint, as to why he wanted to see you so urgently?’

  Eadulf looked pained. ‘I have kept nothing back from you. You know as much as I do. He merely said that he wanted me to be at the abbey before midnight tonight.’

  Fidelma exhaled in frustration. ‘But why midnight tonight? Has this day any significance for you?’

  ‘There is no significance to the day that I know.’

  ‘Is he someone given to making a drama out of nothing?’

  ‘Not at all. He was a humorous and happy man. He was converted by Fursa before that blessed man left for Gaul, and he was one of the first to join Aldred in establishing the abbey. Aldred died some years ago and Botulf is now steward of the abbey. It is true that I have not seen him for three years but people do not change their personalities. He is not given to making idle demands. If he wants me to be at the abbey before midnight tonight, then it is for a good reason.’

  For a moment or two they sat in silence. Finally, Fidelma spoke again.

  ‘Well, as I have often said, Eadulf, there is no use speculatingwithout knowledge. We will have to wait until we have that knowledge.’

  If they had expected the journey to become easier once they reached the marsh road, they were soon disabused of the notion. The wagon continued to advance but in a crazy skidding progress from side to side. Underneath the powdery snow, the surface had become ice. The wind blew great white clouds of snow over the wagon so it was hard to make anything out. Several times, Mul was forced to get down and lead the sturdy little mules, feeling the way along the road before letting them move forward.

  Now and then, Eadulf, painfully aware that either of the animals might slip and break a leg, also dismounted to help the farmer. In this fashion it seemed to take an eternity to reach the wooden bridge which spanned the river. Along the river edges were jagged strips of ice. Indeed, the water might well have been frozen over were it not for the torrent pushing down its centre.

  At least the bridge was fairly clear, for the wind gusted so strongly across it that it blew the snow from the wooden planking before it had a chance to lie, and there was nowhere for it to bank. Mul led the mules across and brought the wagon to a halt on the other side.

  He screwed up his eyes against the blinding ice pellets before pointing with a shout to Eadulf.

  ‘See! There is the light of the abbey. A few hundred paces and we will be at the gates. I will take you up there, but there I shall leave you.’

  ‘You would do well to reconsider that, Mul,’ Eadulf replied, examining the continuing drifting snowfall. ‘It is going to be a difficult journey to your farm. You will not have me to help you.’

  ‘I have managed thus far, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. I will manage the extra distance.’

  The wagon started forward again, and this time it seemed but a short distance up the twisting, tree-sheltered roadway to the dark walls of the abbey. A storm lantern danced in the wind outside the great wooden doors.

  ‘We are here, Fidelma,’ cried Eadulf, picking up their bags and tossing them to the ground.

  Fidelma had risen from beneath the furs and stood in thewagon, staring in disapproval at the forbidding squat grey stone walls.

  ‘It seems more like a fortress than a house of God.’

  Eadulf nodded in the gloom. ‘That is probably because it has to act as fortress as well as spiritual centre. We are still a violent society, Fidelma. Often our kingdom here is under attack from the Mercians, or even the West Saxons.’

  ‘I have read the works of Gildas,’ she replied solemnly, ‘telling how your people invaded this island over two hundred years ago and drove the Britons out or massacred them. It is not a pleasant story. Yet your people continue to live in conflict. When they are not fighting with the Britons then they are fighting with each other.’

  ‘It is not a pleasant world,’ rejoined Eadulf defensively. ‘It has always been so. All people fight wars. Our gods are gods of war.’ Then, realising what he had said, he flushed, glad of the covering of the snow to disguise his embarrassment. ‘I mean, this was the attitude before the coming of the word of Christ.’

  Fidelma moved to the edge of the wagon.

  ‘The word of Christ has come and still your people fight,’ she observed with sarcasm. ‘Perhaps they fight with a greater relish, often
proclaiming that each side is supported by Christ. My people have a saying: let those who think war is a solution go to war. A war only makes the victor brutal and the vanquished vengeful. Now, help me down, Eadulf.’

  Eadulf reached up and helped her climb down.

  Mul had been waiting patiently, still seated on the box of the wagon.

  ‘I will be on my way now,’ he called.

  Eadulf moved forward and reached into the purse at his belt, taking out a coin.

  ‘A penny is what we agreed, Mul.’

  He handed up the coin, which the farmer took readily enough.

  ‘May Woden protect you from your enemies,’ he called. ‘May his hammer smite those who offend you!’

  ‘Vade in pace, go in peace!’ Eadulf replied as the big wagon began to move off into the whirling snow clouds.

  ‘What was it the innkeeper called him? Mad Mul?’ Fidelma asked, as they stood watching the wagon disappear for a moment.‘I would not call him mad. Determined, yes. Nature has a tenacious enemy in a man who can defy her in such a manner.’

  Eadulf picked up their bags from the snow-covered ground and turned towards the tall dark gates of the abbey.

  ‘No one seems to be stirring,’ Fidelma observed curiously. ‘Someone should have noticed our arrival. Do they not keep a watch?’

  ‘There’s a bell rope at the side of the door. With this snowstorm, the wind and the darkness, probably no one heard or saw the arrival of Mul’s wagon.’

  He reached the rope, just by the swinging storm lantern, set down one of the bags and pulled sharply. They could only just hear the distant clang of the bell above the whistling of the wind.

  It was some time before there came a rasping sound and a tiny grille in the door was opened. Even peering closely through the aperture, Eadulf could only make out a faint shadow beyond.

  ‘Who are you and what do you seek here?’ came a harsh, unfriendly voice.

  ‘I am Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, travelling with Sister Fidelma of Cashel. We seek shelter from the storm and a word with the steward of this abbey.’

  There was no answer for a moment but then the voice said: ‘We have declared ourselves a closed community of brethren in the service of Christ. The abbey is not open to receive women.’

  Eadulf flushed with annoyance.

  ‘You will open this door in the name of Theodore of Canterbury whose representative I am,’ he replied sternly. ‘If we freeze to death on your threshold, the archbishop will demand a grim restitution from this abbey.’

  There was a short silence and then the grille door snapped shut. After what seemed an eternity, they heard the scraping of bolts being drawn back. Then one of the two great wooden doors swung inwards a short way.

  Eadulf pushed his way forward through the narrow aperture, ensuring Fidelma was close at his back, and the door was immediately shut with a crash behind them.

  They were standing in a narrow arched entrance, the grey stones lit by an overhead lantern. The entrance gave way toa large courtyard across which were the main buildings of the abbey and the chapel. They heard the bolts being thrust home with a sound that Fidelma associated more with a prison than with a religious community.

  The man who had opened the door now came forward and scrutinised them closely with one dark, sharp eye. He wore a leather patch over the other. In the light of the lantern, Fidelma saw that the doorkeeper was tall, clad in the brown woollen robes of a member of the religious, with a wooden cross on a leather thong around his neck. He was lean, with a prominent, hook nose and thin red lips. His forehead was balding and wisps of grey straggling hair sprouted untidily over his ears and at the back of his head. His single right eye was dark and restless. A livid white scar, the ends of which could be seen even in the lamp-light, crossed diagonally over the left eye socket, under the patch.

  ‘I am Brother Willibrod. I am the dominus of the domus hospitale of this abbey.’ He paused and glanced at Fidelma. ‘That is, I am in charge of the guests’ quarters …’

  ‘Should you wish to speak Latin,’ Fidelma interrupted mischievously while speaking in that language, ‘I am competent enough in that tongue to follow you.’

  The mouth of Brother Willibrod turned down in disapproval. He resorted to Saxon.

  ‘Sister, I have to tell you that this is not a conhospitae, a mixed house. We are all brothers of the faith here. There are no women, neither do we provide facilities for female guests.’

  Eadulf was almost beyond irritation.

  ‘Are you refusing us hospitality?’ he demanded, a threatening tone in his voice.

  ‘Not you, Brother. It is just that we are a closed Order and women are not allowed in this abbey. It is our rule.’

  ‘Where is your duty of hospitality?’

  ‘The hospitality is not open to women,’ replied the dominus stubbornly again. ‘Since the great Council at Whitby, we no longer abide by the rules laid down by the missionaries of Eireann. I am told that Domnoc’s Wic is still a mixed house. That is twelve miles from here.’

  Eadulf took an aggressive step towards Brother Willibrod. The dominus flinched but Eadulf made no further physical threat.

  ‘I presume that you are aware of the condition of the weather and that it is but a few hours to midnight?’ he asked coldly.

  Brother Willibrod regarded him nervously.

  ‘I can only relay the rule of the abbey,’ he replied defensively.

  ‘Dominus, listen to me. I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, lately come from Canterbury, and-’

  The dominus nodded rapidly. ‘You have said that you are the representative of Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury. That is the reason why I have admitted you. Have you been sent by our new archbishop? Is it true that he is a Greek from the very place where the saintly Paul of Tarsus was born?’

  Eadulf’s mouth quirked a little in vexation but he thought the air of reverence with which the other spoke of Theodore might be useful.

  ‘I know Theodore well and act as his emissary,’ he replied calmly. ‘It was my fortune to instruct him in the ways of our country while we were in Rome. In his name, I demand that you-’

  ‘Then you were in Rome itself?’ Brother Willibrod’s voice was a whisper, filled almost with awe.

  ‘I was. But now, Brother, in Theodore’s name, I demand hospitality for myself and my wife!’

  Brother Willibrod’s jaw dropped a little and he stared from Eadulf to Fidelma.

  Fidelma could not restrain her glance of annoyance at her companion and she added pedantically: ‘I am only a ben charrthach.’

  Brother Willibrod was unaware of the fine points of difference in Irish marriage laws and the status of wives. He shook his head sadly.

  ‘I will take your demand for hospitality to the abbot, as it is made in the name of the archbishop sent from Rome and, as you have pointed out, the weather is too inclement for the foreign woman to travel further. But I must give you a word of warning. Abbot Cild is of the party which believes in the celibacy of all the religious. Until the Council of Whitby, this was a mixed house. When the ruling at Whitby went against the Irish, most of the Irish abbots and religious — indeed, many of the Angles and Saxons who decided to continue their teachings — were ordered to quit these kingdoms.

  ‘Cild was appointed abbot here and eventually converted to the Rule of Rome, becoming an advocate for celibacy. The married religious were asked to leave. We became a closed community. It is against my instructions to let any women into these buildings. Only your authority as Archbishop Theodore’s representative forces me to present your case to Abbot Cild. He may well refuse you hospitality …’ he paused and looked uncomfortably at Fidelma, ‘especially if he learns that you are of the married religious.’

  Fidelma smiled winningly at the dominus, deciding that diplomacy might achieve more than trying to exert authority.

  ‘We shall not make a point of stressing our relationship, Brother Willibrod,’ she said with a meaningful glance at Eadulf. ‘And
perhaps you will respect our confidence, if it makes life easier for all concerned?’

  The dominus hesitated for a moment and then shrugged.

  ‘I will not mention it, if you do not wish it.’

  Eadulf was seething with anger, but he did his best to control himself.

  ‘Then instead of standing here in the chill of the evening air, perhaps you will show us to your guests’ accommodation so that we may wash and warm ourselves. For I tell you, whatever the views of your abbot, we do not intend to leave the shelter of this house tonight … not while this storm howls around our ears.’

  Brother Willibrod inclined his head. He seemed to be having an inward tussle with himself. Finally, logic won out.

  ‘I will take you to the guests’ chambers across the quadrangle here. Refresh yourselves, by all means. Then I am sure that the abbot will want to see you, Brother Eadulf. He will want to know what messages you bring him from Canterbury.’

  ‘Messages?’ Eadulf frowned.

  ‘You are an emissary from Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury. Abbot Cild will want to know why Theodore has sent you here and will have many questions to ask you.’

  Eadulf had used Theodore’s name merely to gain access to the abbey and now he realised that his bluff had been called.

  ‘Well, first …’ he began.

  ‘First, I will take you to the guests’ quarters,’ Brother Willibrod assured him quickly, turning and walking rapidly in the directionof the courtyard. They almost had to run to keep up with him. He moved with quick assurance for a person with one blind eye. Indeed, the pace was such that they did not have breath to spare to say anything further until the tall dominus halted outside a door and opened it for them.

  ‘Wait here!’ he instructed, and then he disappeared into the darkness of the interior. A few moments later he returned with a shielded candle. ‘I will light the way in.’

  They were in a long, stone-flagged corridor. Brother Willibrod went to the first door.

  ‘You may wash and refresh yourself in this room, Sister. There is a fire already alight and water ready. We always keep one room in such a condition in case of wayfarers. Your room, Brother, is not yet ready. I will get one of our brethren to lay and light a fire for you, but-’