Behold a Pale Horse

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘Faro!’ Sister Gisa screamed the name. ‘It cannot be!’ Wulfoald seemed the only one who did not express astonishment. ‘Everyone knew he was in charge of the building of the tombs. Didn’t he complete Abbot Bobolen’s tomb just before you left for Genua to meet Magister Ado?’

‘I refuse to believe it. I will not believe it,’ sobbed the girl.

‘He told us that he had been a warrior during the war between Perctarit and Grimoald,’ Fidelma gently reminded her. ‘A little investigation might have shown that he had served in Perctarit’s army. He came to Bobium two years ago after Perctarit’s exile, about the same time as Brother Eolann came from Mailand. Not only was he supervisor of the building of the mausoleums, but Sister Gisa told me that he had suggested the design of Bobolen’s tomb and secured the workmen to raise it.’

‘A charitable work …’ Sister Gisa began.

‘Not so. His workmen were also Perctarit’s men, and it was there that the gold was brought under cover of the building work. It was stored to await the day when Perctarit was ready to make his move. Even worse, Faro is undoubtedly the man on the pale horse who pursued and slew Lady Gunora andwould have done the same to Prince Romuald. He was the same person who was seen, still in his religieux robes, stealing Wamba’s box from the cairn put up by Hawisa. He climbed down, but someone saw him and he dropped the box, which I later found. He had left his horse on the track below. It was the same breed and colour that I have seen Faro ride. The person who witnessed this event has not been seen recently. Let us hope there is not another death to be accounted to him.’

‘You claim that he also killed the old woman, Hawisa, and set fire to her cabin?’

‘I do.’

‘Are you saying that Faro killed the boy, Wamba, Brother Eolann and Abbot Servillius?’ asked Aistulf.

Fidelma shook her head. ‘He might have killed Wamba — I am sure he did. But I believe there was a third conspirator. Of his identity I have a good idea but cannot say for certain. I believe I can do so only when I return to the abbey. The immediate problem is to safeguard the abbey and the gold from Grasulf’s attack.’

Sister Gisa was still sobbing softly.

‘You must face the facts, daughter,’ Suidur said gently as he placed an arm around her shoulders.

‘I will not believe it until Faro tells me directly,’ cried the girl through her tears.

Fidelma regarded her sympathetically. ‘If it is any consolation, I think he does care for you. Last night he warned me to leave the valley and, if I saw you, to give you that warning as well. He said the storm was coming.’

‘That storm might come sooner than anyone thinks,’ Wulfoald observed dryly.

‘I agree,’ Fidelma said. ‘I believe Grasulf will attack either today or tomorrow.’

‘Then we must protect the abbey and retrieve the gold at once,’ Radoald declared, rising from his seat.

As the others followed his example, Fidelma added: ‘I am now certain that Grasulf will have been informed that the gold is at the abbey and he is on the way to seize it. We must ride back and warn the brethren.’

‘It will take me a while to gather sufficient warriors,’ Radoald said with a frown.

‘We have Grimoald’s two warriors and four of my men who are good bowmen. I could take them and accompany Fidelma,’ Wulfoald suggested. ‘The abbey can be defended. We might be able to hold off any attempt to take the gold until you gather the rest of the men.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Aistulf announced with enthusiasm. ‘Fortes fortuna iuvat.’ Fortune helps the brave.

‘I thought you had renounced warfare?’ Radoald said to his father.

‘There comes a time when one cannot stand by with indifference. This is as much my valley and my people that Grasulf is attacking,’ replied Aistulf. ‘Have no fear, my son, you remain Lord of Trebbia. I am merely a hermit but I have a right to fight for the peace of this valley as much as anyone.’

Sister Gisa also insisted on accompanying them in spite of her distressed state. Wulfoald, with Grimoald’s two black-cloaked warriors, rode ahead with Fidelma and Sister Gisa followed, then four more warriors came behind them with Aistulf at their head. They rode purposefully, without talking. Fidelma was worried. Her mind was still running over all the evidence, since in spite of her assurance of Faro’s guilt and Brother Eolann’s complicity, there was a nagging in her mind about the identity of the third conspirator. She suspectedwho it was but could not be sure. There was something that she was missing.

It was late afternoon when they finally crossed the hump-back bridge. Another of Wulfoald’s warriors had appeared, riding towards them from the direction of Travo. He met them by the bridge. The exchange was rapid and brief.

‘Grasulf and his warriors have already crossed into the valley downstream and are heading in this direction,’ Wulfoald shouted to Fidelma. ‘We have little time to alert the abbey and township.’

The party did not delay but crossed the bridge and galloped up to the gates of the abbey. Brother Bladulf had apparently returned from Mount Pénas, for it was he who opened the gates. Venerable Ionas and Magister Ado were already in the courtyard and came hurrying across to greet them.

‘You are about to be attacked by Grasulf’s men in the name of Perctarit,’ shouted Wulfoald, as he swung down from his horse. ‘I would gather as many people into the abbey as you can for safety, then shut the gates and be ready to receive them.’

Venerable Ionas was about to ask a question when his eyes alighted on Aistulf. He was shocked.

‘My lord Billo,’ he began. ‘What-?’

Aistulf brushed him aside. ‘Explanations can come later. You have no time before Grasulf attacks.’

‘It is so,’ Fidelma said. ‘Brother Faro is behind this conspiracy. Is he here?’

‘He has not returned since this morning,’ gasped Magister Ado. ‘I cannot believe it.’

‘There is no time to debate the matter,’ Fidelma snapped. ‘You must prepare.’

Wulfoald was already ordering his warriors to take positions on the walls above the gates of the abbey.

‘We cannot fight against Grasulf,’ Magister Ado protested. ‘This is a House of God, of peace. Our brethren are sworn to peace.’

‘We will do the fighting for you,’ Wulfoald said tersely. ‘Just pray for us.’

Venerable Ionas stared at them in dismay. ‘How can we defend ourselves with just these few warriors?’ he demanded.

‘Lord Radoald is coming with a larger force,’ replied Wulfoald. ‘They should be here soon. Please, sound the alarm bell of the abbey before it is too late.’

Brother Bladulf was waiting nervously, but when the order was relayed to him, he went to the watch-tower and, untying a rope, began the warning peal on the abbey bell. The courtyard became a sea of confused figures, with members of the brethren running this way and that. Sister Gisa had ridden off to the house of women in the township to rouse the Sisters who, with others, began flooding towards the abbey gates, some of them even herding their livestock with them. Magister Ado had become galvanised into action as he saw the panic of the brethren and the people. He was shouting instructions, trying to make himself heard, commanding, explaining, and trying to create some order in the confusion.

Fidelma now turned towards the pale, anxious figure of Venerable Ionas.

‘Did you do as I asked?’ she said.

He was distracted and she had to ask again before he confirmed it.

‘It is all moved and the lock secured again?’ she pressed.

‘It was done exactly as you suggested.’

‘And no one else has been informed?’

‘No one saw us and I swore those who helped to silence, as you told me.’

The panicking townsfolk, including members of the female community, were now pushing in through the gates. Above the cacophony they heard the discordant sounds of war horns blasting, harsh and angry, further down the valley.

‘The attack!’ cried Venerable Ionas. ‘We are lost!’

‘We are not!’ came the sharp tones of Wulfoald. ‘We must hold here until Radoald arrives. The gates must be shut at once.’

Venerable Ionas stared at him for a moment. There were still people struggling to get through the gates, some with squawking chickens, others dragging goats or hauling reluctant pigs. For a moment Fidelma thought the elderly scholar would refuse the order, but then it seemed he realised there was no other choice. With his mouth drawn into a grim line he seized a passing member of the brethren. It was the fat cook, Brother Waldipert.

‘Shut the gates. Go, get others and help Brother Bladulf. Tell those who cannot get into the abbey to run and hide as best they can. We can’t shelter everyone. The gates must be shut now!’ While the cook hurried off on his errand, calling on some of the passing brethren to follow him to the gate, Venerable Ionas joined Magister Ado in trying to organise the brethren, getting the horses into the stable.

Fidelma followed Wulfoald up the short flight of stone steps leading to the walkway above the gate. Aistulf had already organised the warriors into position, with their bows strung and arrows at the ready. Fidelma realised that the few bowmen would not keep any serious attack back for very long.

By this time, Brother Bladulf and Brother Waldipert, with the help of others of the brethren, had pressed the gates home against the unfortunate people left outside. They were nowdispersing in all directions, wailing and crying in fright. Inside the abbey courtyard was a small crowd of townsfolk adding to the panic of the brethren. Fidelma, with a sigh of relief, saw that Sister Gisa had returned safely among them. She felt a moment of sorrow for the girl who had to face the terrible truth about the man she obviously loved. A few moments later, Sister Gisa with Magister Ado and Venerable Ionas joined them on the walkway overlooking the gates.

As they looked anxiously across the Trebbia, the sound of the war horns came again, and this time from much nearer. Now they could hear the advance of horses, crunching on the stony path and splashing in the shallows. The war band came suddenly into sight with banners waving. They rode up the lower slopes, coming to a halt outside the abbey walls. The people from the settlement who had remained outside the abbey walls had now miraculously disappeared into the undergrowth and forests.

‘Not as large a party as I feared,’ muttered Wulfoald with some satisfaction, examining the opposing force.

‘Large enough to break in and destroy us,’ Venerable Ionas replied pessimistically.

Fidelma viewed the enemy warriors below them. They had drawn up before the abbey gates, waiting for the order of their leader. Fidelma had already recognised the black-bearded Lord of Vars. Next to him she could see the large form of his steward Kakko, a battle-axe in his hand, carried as if it weighed no more than a hazel wand.

‘Oh, look!’ the cry came from Sister Gisa. ‘Look!’

A warrior of youthful appearance had ridden forward from Grasulf’s side. There was something familiar about his manner although not his clothing, with its burnished breastplate and warrior’s accoutrement and helmet. He halted hispale grey horse, removed his helmet and stared up arrogantly at them.

‘Brother Faro!’ Magister Ado breathed through clenched teeth.

Fidelma nodded slowly. ‘There is the leader of this evil conspiracy that has caused all these deaths. “Behold a pale horse: and the name that sat on him was Death”.’

Magister Ado was still shocked. ‘But Brother Faro was my pupil! How came he to this treachery and 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 magister. The very moment I arrived at the abbey I saw an exchange between Brother Faro and Wulfila that was not one between a steward of an abbey and a member of the brethren. On seeing Brother Faro wounded, Wulfila rushed forward like a servant and was sharply rebuked by Faro. I learned that both men came to the abbey two years before, after Perctarit went into exile. Both, I discovered, had previously been warriors.’

‘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 his chamber and would see no one. Wulfila had already killed him.’

‘But why?’

‘He advised Eolann to stage an injury to prevent him accompanying me to see Hawisa and revealing that he had misinterpreted what she had said. He did this just in case Faro failed in killing her before we got to her cabin. The weak point among the conspirators was Eolann. He was a scholar, acting for his beliefs against those he saw as Arians. But he was not a cold-blooded killer like his military-trained co-conspirators. The fact that he could not let me fall to my death on Mount Pénas demonstrated that he still had scruples. He was worried about the lives that were being taken. His Faith could not support it and so he went to confess his sins to Abbot Servillius. We can never be sure how Wulfila found out, or whether Eolann told him what he intended. At that point Wulfila decided that both Eolann and Abbot Servillius had to die. Faro and the conspiracy had to be protected until the time was ready.’

‘You worked it out brilliantly,’ Sister Gisa said in appreciation.

Sister Fidelma frowned with irritation. ‘Not I. I did nothing but allowed myself to be misled by Eolann through my sheer arrogance. I should have known about Wulfila long before. I regard this as a failure of all my training and faculties. I am ashamed.’

‘You are too hard on yourself, lady,’ murmured Sister Gisa. ‘A stranger in a strange land. You discovered the hiding-place of the gold and had it removed for safety into the abbey. That delay allowed Radoald’s men to arrive in time.’

‘When all is said and done, it was nothing but the same old story,’ observed Wulfoald. ‘The search of kings for power and all the bloodshed such ambitions bring with them. I suppose that search will be with us until Judgement Day.’

Fidelma regarded him with mild appreciation. ‘There is the making of a philosopher in you, Wulfoald.’

He grinned. ‘I have no such aspirations, lady. I am a warrior, so I am part of that search for power.’

‘Well, remember, my friend, that force without good sense falls by its own weight.’

Wulfoald chuckled. ‘I too have read Horace, lady. Vis consili expers mole ruit sua. It is a lesson that Perctarit has learned by now.’

‘So you do not think your people have need to fear Perctarit again?’

‘I do not think any such thing, lady. While he is alive, Perctarit will always try to return to what he thinks is rightfully his. Perhaps he will … one day. In the meantime, Grimoald rules fairly and allows both those who follow the Creed of Arian and those who follow the Nicene Creed to dwell in peace, if not in harmony, with each other. Perctaritmay, however, find peace in Frankia or Burgundia and not bother our kingdom again. Who knows? I am a cynic and I follow the way of Epicurus. Dum vivimus vivamus.’

‘While we live, let us live,’ Fidelma echoed. ‘Let us hope that Perctarit and his followers allow that.’

Sister Gisa had been silent all this time and now she stirred herself.

‘There is little in life for me without Faro,’ she sighed. ‘I hate him for what he has done, and yet … All is blackness for me. I don’t understand myself.’

Fidelma felt compassion for the girl. ‘You think it now. Time is a great healer.’

‘Faro,’ breathed Sister Gisa, ignoring her. ‘Did Faro survive that great battle against Grimoald? Has he followed Perctarit’s flight to Frankia? He fooled me — he fooled us all. But he was …’

Fidelma smiled and laid a comforting hand on the girl’s arm. ‘Let me pass on the advice of Ovid in his Remedia Amoris: res age, tute eris.’

‘The remedy for love is, be busy and you will be safe.’ Sister Gisa’s voice was tight. ‘Ah, all well and good that you give such advice. How do you know how painful love is?’

For a moment Fidelma’s jaw hardened and her eyes glistened. She was thinking of a young warrior, Cian, with whom she had fallen in love when she had been a student at Brehon Morann’s law school. She had been only eighteen years old. Cian was a few years older — tall, chestnut-haired, a warrior in the bodyguard of the High King. She had been in love with him and he had merely dallied with her, using her until his fancy was taken by someone else. It had been a bitter pill to swallow. It probably had been the main reason for her willingness to accept the advice of her cousin, Abbot Laisranof Darú, that she should join the religious of Cill Dara, than any intellectual consideration about the Faith.

‘I know how painful love can be,’ she answered firmly. Yet even as she was saying it, she found a new image coming into her mind. She was no longer thinking of Cian but of the Saxon religieux she had so recently met and who had helped her resolve the murders at the Synod of Streonshalh and, more recently, in the Lateran Palace. Brother Eadulf of Saxmund’s Ham, whom she had left in Rome and whom she might never see again. Why was she thinking of him? Perhaps if he had been with her, with his quiet support and questioning, she might not have been drawn down that blind road, her thoughts filled with the Aurum Tolosa, the mythical gold, and the connection to Abbot Servillius. Magister Ado had once accurately assessed her weakness: an over-confidence amounting to arrogance.

She was suddenly aware of one of the sailors at her side. He raised a hand to his forehead and said, ‘Excuse me, lady. The Captain says that the tide is turning. We must be away at once. Will you come aboard?’

Fidelma assented and turned to her companions.

‘I hope your valley is able to maintain the peace that it has now achieved. May Bobium thrive, so that Colm Bán’s establishment will grow and its name become renowned throughout the civilised world.’ She smiled at each of them in turn.

‘Safe home, lady.’ Wulfoald grinned. ‘We have much to thank you for.’

Sister Gisa nodded her agreement, smiling at Fidelma through the brightness of tears in her eyes. Impulsively, she moved forward and embraced the girl.

Fidelma then stepped away and walked up the gangplank.She turned and looked down at them as the crew began to haul in the plank. She heard the sound of bare feet on the deck and the crack of canvas as the sails unfurled. The ship’s timbers groaned a little, almost protesting, as it slowly eased away from the quayside. Then the tide caught the vessel. The figures of Sister Gisa and Wulfoald began to grow smaller. She raised a hand to them before the ship turned to catch the wind and they vanished from her sight. For a moment she felt a strange sense of isolation, of missing them, and then the salt air stung her cheeks and she breathed in deeply, lifting her face up towards the sunshine.

She was going home at last. Home. Home to Muman. Home to Cashel. What was the old saying? There was, indeed, no hearth like one’s own hearth.