Behold a Pale Horse

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Fidelma stepped back into the hall. ‘What happened?’ she asked the cook.

The man had still not recovered, was still staring and trying to utter words. To Fidelma’s surprise, Venerable Ionas stepped forward and struck the cook sharply across the cheek. The man staggered back, blinking; a hand went to his reddening cheek.

‘Ignosce mihi — forgive me, Brother Waldipert,’ the elderly religieux said. ‘There was no time to bring you from your shock in any other way, and each moment is precious.’

Brother Waldipert stood rubbing his cheek and gazing dumbly at Venerable Ionas.

‘How came you here?’ continued the elderly cleric.

‘I … I came with some accounts for the Father Abbot to approve.’ The words emerged slowly.

‘How long ago?’

‘A moment or two only. I knocked on the door and then opened it and saw … saw … I don’t know what happened. You hit me. You hit me on the cheek.’

‘Brother Waldipert,’ Fidelma intervened. ‘You opened the door and saw the abbot on the floor. Did you see anyone elsein the room, someone leaving the room by other means — the window, for example?’

The cook shook his head. ‘There are no other means. The window is too small for anyone to leave by.’

There was a noise across the hall and Brother Hnikar appeared. He glanced at them as he hurried into the abbot’s chamber. They saw him go down on his knees beside the body. It was a cursory examination.

‘Dead,’ he said. ‘He has had his skull smashed in.’

Fidelma had the urge to say they did not need his opinion to tell them the obvious, but restrained herself.

‘I presume that brass candle-holder would be the weapon.’ She pointed to it.

Brother Hnikar followed the direction of her hand. ‘I would imagine it was.’

‘How long ago did this happen?’

‘It is hard to say,’ replied the physician. ‘The blood has dried and the body has stiffened. Perhaps half a day has gone by.’

‘Half a day?’ Fidelma was surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

The man did not deign to answer her but merely responded, ‘Who found him? You?’

‘It was Brother Waldipert who discovered the body.’

Brother Hnikar rose to his feet and regarded the cook for a moment.

‘This is a bad business,’ he said, now speaking directly to Venerable Ionas.

‘Indeed, it is,’ agreed the elderly scholar. ‘I shall take charge.’

‘But we must await the return of Magister Ado before we can appoint a new abbot,’ Brother Hnikar protested.

‘I did not say I would take charge as abbot,’ VenerableIonas replied grimly. ‘I will take charge until Magister Ado returns and then we shall discuss the matter.’

‘We need to establish when the abbot was last seen alive,’ Fidelma told them.

Brother Hnikar regarded her with disapproval. ‘I have to remind you that you are a visitor in this abbey. Distinguished, so I am told. But nevertheless a visitor.’

Venerable Ionas cleared his throat. ‘Dear Brother Hnikar, our distinguished visitor does have a point. These things need to be done. And, as custom dictates, this night we must lay to rest the remains of our great friend and former abbot. To him we owe a duty to find his murderer.’

‘I stand corrected, Venerable Ionas,’ sniffed the apothecary. ‘It was probably some barbarian intent on robbery. Although I would say that the person who has committed this crime will have escaped to the forests long ago. Therefore we need to find Wulfoald and ask that he send his warriors out to track the culprit down.’

‘I don’t think it was some robber,’ Fidelma was prompted into saying and then shut her mouth firmly as Brother Hnikar’s lips visibly thinned. However, Venerable Ionas distracted him quickly.

‘Time irretrievably passes, my brother. We must seize it if we are to get anywhere. As you have said, Sister Fidelma is a distinguished visitor. She is a lawyer and judge in her own land, and as such she was entrusted by the Holy Father and his adviser and military governor to solve the mystery of the murder of an archbishop at the Lateran Palace.’

Brother Hnikar made a dismissive motion with his hand. ‘I have already heard about that.’

‘Then, as the senior cleric in this community, I tell you this — I am appointing her to make inquiries about the matter.She has my full authority to come and go as she likes and to inquire of whomever she likes.’

Brother Hnikar was looking shocked. ‘But the Rule …’

‘The Rule continues but in no way blocks her authority nor the authority that she holds from me.’

The apothecary was going to open his mouth again, hesitated and then bowed towards Fidelma.

‘Will there be any objection, Sister Fidelma, to my removing the body to prepare it for burial, now we know how he met his death?’ His voice held a thinly veiled sarcasm.

‘You may remove the body as you will, but only after I have made an examination of the room. We may know how the abbot met his death but we must also learn why and by whom.’ She turned to Venerable Ionas with a nod of thanks. ‘It seems that Brother Hnikar cannot help us for the moment and we will have a further word with Brother Waldipert later.’

It was a clear dismissal of both men who then departed, one with a scowl and the other in bemusement, leaving Venerable Ionas and Fidelma alone.

‘You will not have long,’ the elderly cleric said with a sigh. ‘Brother Hnikar does not like what I have done and he will be off, even now, to find Brother Wulfila to support him. And when Magister Ado returns …’ He ended with a shrug. ‘Perhaps we had best do what Brother Hnikar suggested and alert some of Wulfoald’s warriors to search the surrounding countryside. The murderer cannot have gone far on foot, and he would be recognised if he left on horseback.’

‘That is true enough, if the murderer has even left the abbey. Anyway, Wulfoald is no longer here. And it would be a waste of time searching outside the abbey walls.’

Venerable Ionas’ eyes widened. ‘Am I to take it that you mean the murderer is still hiding in the abbey?’

‘Not hiding,’ replied Fidelma grimly. ‘I think he is known to the community. I believe that I have been led on a false trail. A trail deliberately laid to confuse me.’

‘How?’

‘The death of Abbot Servillius.’

‘I am sorry, I do not follow you.’

‘I was so keen on following clues that led me to the abbot. Whoever laid the trail knew that sooner or later I would connect the name Quintus Servillius Caepio with Abbot Servillius. One and one can make two, but sometimes you have to ensure that the two numbers you are given in the first place are accurate.’

Venerable Ionas looked perplexed. ‘I am still not following your logic, Sister Fidelma, but I will trust you for the time being. You mean that all you told me in my study just now was wrong?’

‘Not necessarily wrong,’ she explained quickly. ‘It was the information that I was being carefully fed. Information that someone had painstakingly laid as a trail in such a clever way that I would think I was uncovering it myself. It was laid so as to ensure my curiosity would be roused. Someone removed pages from the books in the library, not because they did not want me to see what was on the pages, but precisely because they knew my curiosity would lead me to find out what was on them.’

‘But there was little on those pages apart from the story of Caepio’s lost gold.’

‘The gold of Quintus Servillius Caepio,’ corrected Fidelma. ‘Aurum Tolosa.’

‘And?’

‘You provided the last clue — you told me Servillius was a patronymic. You admitted that the abbot was proud of his ancient patrician roots in this area.’

Venerable Ionas was frowning thoughtfully. ‘So I gave you this last clue? Yes, I remember telling you about the name …’ A suspicous look suddenly crossed his face. ‘Are you suggesting that I led you on a false trail?’

‘It is more complicated than that,’ replied Fidelma. ‘The person behind this would make a great fidchell player.’

‘A what?’

‘It is a board game played in my country, and its name means “wooden wisdom”. In many ways it is like ludus latrun-culorum, the board game of military tactics that is played here in this country.’

‘I still find it hard to follow your reasoning.’

‘There is a master player, a strategist involved in this matter; he or she has laid out all the pieces so that I have been led into a blind alley. He or she thought that it would take me longer to work things out, but realising that I was shortly to confront the abbot, they also realised it was too soon for their purpose. That is why, I’m afraid, Abbot Servillius had to die. I think he was killed soon after he arrived back in the abbey yesterday.’

‘It sounds as though you know the identity of this strategist, as you call him.’

‘In my country,’ replied Fidelma, ‘we have a saying: “woe to him whose betrayer sits at his table”.’

There was the sound of raised voices at the main door and a moment later Magister Ado came hurrying into the hall; behind him was Brother Faro.

‘Is it true?’ he demanded, looking at Venerable Ionas. ‘I have just returned from Travo to be greeted by the news that Abbot Servillius is dead — that he has been murdered.’

‘News seems to travel quickly,’ Fidelma muttered.

‘As far as the abbey gates,’ Magister Ado replied withuncharacteristic sharpness. ‘Brother Wulfila just told me. I met with Brother Faro on the way back. We heard nothing until we arrived here. So it is true?’

‘I am afraid it is true, Brother,’ admitted Venerable Ionas. ‘The abbot was beaten to death, his skull crushed.’

Magister Ado crossed himself swiftly. ‘Deus adjuvat nos,’ he muttered piously. ‘Has the culprit been caught?’

‘Alas, no.’

‘Is it known who did this?’

‘I think so,’ Fidelma replied. ‘And we might lay many deaths at his door.’

‘Many deaths?’ queried Magister Ado.

‘I think our Hibernian sister means the death of Lady Gunora and others.’

Magister Ado’s expression was grim. ‘We live in evil times, Fidelma. We are pawns between the ambitions of Grimoald and Perctarit. Abbot Servillius gave sanctuary to Prince Romuald, and once it was known to people like Bishop Britmund, it would have become known to those who hoped to use the prince to attack the father. I suggest Abbot Servillius was murdered in retaliation for giving shelter to the young boy.’

‘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 mixed together. Let us hope there are no other deaths.’

Brother Wulfila interrupted sharply. ‘I must remind you that it is the custom of the abbey to bury the dead at midnight. Now we have the bodies of Abbot Servillius, Hawisa and Brother Eolann to consign to the earth.’

‘Then I suggest we put an end to these speculations and prepare ourselves for the burial of these bodies, unless there are any strong objections?’ The Venerable Ionas glanced toward Magister Ado.

Magister Ado inclined his head. ‘I concur, Venerable Ionas. Since you are senior here and we will be asked by the brethren to make a choice of a new abbot and bishop, as is custom, let me make clear now, that I intend to nominate you.’

Venerable Ionas was uncomfortable. ‘While I thank you for your confidence in me, magister, the choice may be left to the wishes of the brethren. But for now we have these bodies to take to the necropolis. It is, indeed, a dreadful day for the abbey.’

They were moving back across the courtyard, lit by brand torches, and it was clear to Fidelma there was much on the mind of the Venerable Ionas. It was as if he were trying to ask her a question. The others had dispersed and she waited expectantly. He halted and turned to her.

‘You said there have been six murders. I count three. Those are bad enough but who else?’

‘I count Wamba.’

‘Because of the coin? Who else?’

‘His mother, Hawisa. The fire was purposely set.’

‘And the third? Ah, Brother Ruadán. But Brother Ruadán died from the injuries inflicted on him by a mob of Arians. He died over a week later in his bed — you saw him.’

Fidelma shook her head slowly. ‘He was smothered in his bed by the same hand that is responsible for all these killings.’

‘But why?’

She smiled uneasily. ‘Cui bono?’

‘I do not understand.’

‘Did not Cicero attribute those words to a Roman judge: who benefits? When we find out who stands to gain from the deaths, then we will know the identity of the killer.’

Fidelma sat alone in her chamber deep in thought. She had been a fool. Perhaps she was still a fool. Why didn’t she simply head back to Genua and find a ship to Massilia before this valley erupted into the war that was threatening? She had nothing to do with the ambitions of the exiled King Perctarit nor those of Grimoald. She cared nothing about them. She longed to be back in her own land, among her own people. She had only come here to see her old master, Brother Ruadán and, in remembering him, she understood why she was staying. She owed it to him to discover his killer.

And Brother Eolann? What was the proverb? Superbum sequitur humilitas: arrogance will bring your downfall. It was her arrogance and pride that had allowed her to be led along the false trail of the Aurum Tolosa — a fool’s treasure, indeed! She heaved a sigh and once more began to think that she was stupid to stay here and be arrogant enough to believe that she could solve this puzzle. It had been Paul, in his advice to the Philippians, who exhorted them to do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit but to always act with humility.

Humility. What did she know when it came to simple facts? Brother Ruadán had given the young boy Wamba two ancient gold coins. Why? The boy had brought one to the abbey and the next day he was dead, said to have fallen from some rocks. Shortly afterwards, Brother Ruadán was found beaten almost to death outside the gates of the abbey. Brother Ruadán, on his deathbed, believed Wamba had been killed because of the coins. Her old mentor would have eventually died from his injuries, but someone had to make sure that he did not talk to her first. Had it not been for her determination, going in stealth to his chamber before anyone was stirring, she would not have heard of the coins or the boy, Wamba. Then she had shared that knowledge with Brother Eolann.

As soon as she had mentioned the coins and Wamba to Brother Eolann, she found that she was being led into a fantasy about an ancient treasure. Aurum Tolosa. Or was it a fantasy? She had been misdirected about the name Servillius. Now Brother Eolann was dead. She had thought that he was the culprit. She realised that she was overlooking something, but she could not remember what it was. She was too tired. It had been a long day and there were still the obsequies for the dead to go through.

Finally she gave up trying to find a coherent train of thought about the matter and decided to prepare herself for the midnight ceremony. Down in the chapel, the brethren had already gathered to pay their respects to the abbot and the scriptor.

As she entered, Brother Faro seemed to be waiting for her.

‘I have not been able to find Sister Gisa,’ he opened immediately. ‘I suppose you have no idea where she might be?’

‘None at all,’ replied Fidelma, surprised at his question and the agitation in his voice. ‘I am told that you went out to look for her.’

‘I thought I had a vague idea of the whereabouts of the caves used by the hermit Aistulf.’

‘But you found no sign?’

‘Not of her, nor of the hermit. I was returning when I met Magister Ado on the way. And now there are more deaths to contend with. I heard that Venerable Ionas believes that you are capable of solving these murders. But you do not even speak the language of the Longobards. With respect, for I know both Venerable Ionas and my own master, Magister Ado, have much respect for you, I would advise you to start back to Genua tomorrow. There is much danger here.’

Fidelma gazed at the intense young man thoughtfully.

‘How do you interpret this danger then, Brother Faro? Why are you afraid of my staying here?’

‘I do not understand.’

‘I am a stranger here, true. But you are scarcely more. You told me so. You said you came here two years ago looking for a peaceful sanctuary. Why do you urge me to leave but stay yourself?’

Brother Faro seemed embarrassed. ‘I think you know why else I stay.’

‘Then you will continue your search for Sister Gisa tomorrow?’

He nodded quickly. ‘As soon as it is light. But if it happens that you see her before I do, I would advise you both to leave this valley, for I believe there is a storm coming.’

‘Tell me about Gisa,’ Fidelma said. ‘Does she know this area well? Would it be easy for her to get lost in this valley?’

‘She was raised in this valley. Many people here seem to know her well.’

‘Do you know any of her family?’

‘She has never told me about them. There are rumours that the hermit Aistulf is related. She has a good knowledge of healing plants and herbs. She has said her father was a physician. But that is all I know.’

‘Well, I will bear in mind your advice, Brother Faro. Tomorrow, perhaps, there will be others who will help in your search.’

He stared thoughtfully at her. ‘You are staying?’

‘I am staying,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘It would be an insult to the memory of my old master, Brother Ruadán, if not to the others, for me to flee from this valley without resolving this situation.’

‘I trust you will not regret that decision. I am sure that the storm is upon us.’

It was approaching midnight when the torchlit procession wound from the abbey gates up the hill to the necropolis. It was very different to the procession that had accompanied the body of Brother Ruadán only a few days before. The fear and tension of the brethren was almost a tangible reality. Only a few had obeyed the Venerable Ionas’ call to attend and these were mainly the pallbearers. The only outsider that Fidelma recognised was the youth, Odo. Hawisa had already beencovered in winding sheets and laid by the now open grave of Wamba, which had been dug by the stronger members of the brethren. There was an air of dread, of horror combined with a nervousness which caused people to start at the smallest and most insignificant sounds.

Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado led the procession behind the biers of the abbot and scriptor, followed by the steward, the apothecary, and then Fidelma with Brother Faro. Firstly the body of Hawisa was lowered into the same grave as her son, Wamba, with a simple blessing. Then the 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.’