The Haunted Abbot

Chapter Thirteen

It had been snowing for more than an hour and it was very cold and damp. In spite of her double cloaks, Fidelma was still feeling the chill and her chest and throat were hurting again. The snow was slanting downwards once again like hard ice pellets, thick and heavy, almost obscuring Eadulf and his pony even though they were only a few yards ahead of her.

Half an hour ago they had crossed a river which Eadulf had told her was the Aide. Upstream lay Aldred’s Abbey where the crossing was made by the bridge but here there was a ford which, although it was deep, was shallow enough to allow them to make it on horseback to the northern bank without wetting more than their lower legs.

Fidelma coughed wheezily and shivered.

‘Eadulf?’ she called uncertainly into the snow blanket that separated them.

His figure suddenly emerged out of the snow for he had halted his pony and waited for her to come alongside him.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked in concern.

‘I think I need a rest. Is there any shelter along this path?’

Eadulf shook his head.

‘It will take us some time to reach Aldhere’s encampment,’ he said. ‘I doubt if I can find it until this snow lifts. We will find some place to shelter until it passes.’

She coughed again and the worried lines deepened in Eadulf’s forehead. He had to admit to himself, if not to Fidelma, that he had no idea where they might rest.

‘Don’t worry. I will find a place,’ he assured her. He urged his pony onwards and, automatically, she followed. Her illness was debilitating her, she knew. She was probably a fool to have insisted on leaving Tunstall before she had fully recovered. But she also knew that other lives hung in the balance. She could not help herself. Unsolved mysteries were like some terrible narcoticto her. She could not let go while there were still questions which needed answers.

Eadulf suddenly exclaimed out of the white gloom.

‘What is it?’ she called anxiously.

‘It is all right,’ he called back. His voice mirrored his relief. ‘I’ve discovered exactly where we are.’

‘I thought you already knew that?’ she observed with scarcely veiled sarcasm.

‘I think so. We are at Frig’s Tun.’

‘What is that?’

‘Remember our mad farmer? The one who took us to the abbey on that first night? Well, that is his farm.’

‘Because of that drive I …’ she began and then turned to hide a wheeze, muttering something which Eadulf did not hear. He pretended not to notice her irritation.

‘His name was Mul,’ he went on. ‘His farm is not far from this point. We will find warmth, food and shelter there. It is no use going on today with this blizzard.’

Fidelma did not respond. Eadulf was absolutely right, of course. If she attempted to go further in this snowstorm she might wind up with another bout of illness and perhaps a fatal one. But it also meant that another day would pass. Only a few days would then be left until the start of Gadra’s troscud. She knew that prevention was easier than stopping things once they had begun.

‘Keep close!’ called Eadulf, turning once more and nearly being swallowed by the sheeting snow.

Fidelma screwed her eyes against the sleeting cold as she made an effort to keep up with Eadulf. She was unaware of her surroundings for they were entirely shrouded in the white gloom. But it was not long before she realised that Eadulf had halted and slid from his horse. He was standing looking up at her.

‘Here we are,’ he called.

She glanced up, trying to focus through the icy pellets.

The vague outline of a building emerged through the snow in front of her. And she could hear the sound of a dog barking.

Eadulf held her pony’s head while she dismounted and then he hitched the reins to a post before going to the door. Before he could knock on it, the door swung open and a burly figurestood framed in it, one hand holding the collar of a straining hound who barked and snarled at them. Behind them shone the faint illumination of a welcoming fire.

‘Who are you and what do you seek?’ demanded a familiar rasping voice.

‘Peace on your house, Mul,’ replied Eadulf. ‘You remember us? The travellers whom you took to Aldred’s Abbey.’

Mul stepped forward and examined him and then glanced at Fidelma.

‘I remember you well enough, gerefa, though I did not expect to see you again after you entered the portals of that accursed place!’ He turned to his hound and struck it sharply on the nose. ‘Peace, Bragi, peace! Go to your spot!’

The hound gave a soft growl but Mul tapped him sharply on the nose again and he put his head down and went inside.

Mul turned to them.

‘What do you seek here?’ he demanded again.

‘Shelter from the elements,’ replied Eadulf.

‘I see you have acquired ponies since last we met. Take them into the barn. There is fodder and water inside.’ He indicated a building close by and, as Eadulf obeyed the instruction, Mul turned to Fidelma. ‘Come inside and warm yourself by the fire. These blizzards are as bad as any I have seen.’

Fidelma followed the farmer inside and Mul closed the door behind her. The hound glanced up and growled softly but made no move.

‘Bragi will not harm you while he sees that you are no enemy to me.’

Fidelma smiled softly and removed her double-cloak before edging near the fire and bathing in its warmth.

There was a big metal cauldron hanging from a spit over the leaping flames filled with some aromatic stew. Its fragrance permeated the tiny two-roomed stone farmhouse. Mul moved to it and took down a ladle, stirring it and examining the contents.

‘Pork stew,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘It will be ready soon.’

Mul was as she remembered him, with thick-set shoulders, a muscular torso, a coarse ruddy face and a thick pug nose. He was, in a word, ugly, but even with his close-set eyes and beakof a nose, and the glimpse of broken, yellowing teeth, there was something amiable about his attitude.

She glanced round the room. It was the usual living room with a central hearth for cooking. It was grey and smoky from the fire but the warmth was welcome even though the smoke tickled her sore throat. The second room bespoke a wealth not many such farmers had. This second room did not extend all the way to the roof but was capped by boards creating a third room, open on one side to the main living room from which a ladder gave access.

It seemed clear that Mul used neither this loft room nor the second room for there was a wooden cot on the far side of the hearth which appeared to be his bed. Most people would sleep next to the hearth during the winter months for it was the logical place to keep warm. It was gloomy, for the place was only lit by the light of the fire. As if reading her thoughts, Mul bent to the fire and lit a taper. Then he moved to a lamp and set its wick alight.

‘A cup of cider to warm the spirit?’ he inquired, setting the lamp on the table.

She nodded silently as she rubbed her arms to restore the circulation.

Mul went to a wooden cupboard and took out some clay beakers which he filled from a flagon.

‘The God of the Christians could only create water,’ he smiled as he handed her a beaker, ‘but Aegir, the god of the Saxons, created cider, and provided the Aesir with their sacred drink at the autumnal equinox.’

Fidelma frowned. She had forgotten that Mul was a pagan. No wonder she saw none of the symbols with which a Christian would usually festoon the house to mark this day. She still had to remind herself that this was the day of the birth of Christ.

‘So you still believe in your old gods, Mul?’

Mul grinned broadly. ‘When I have need to, woman.’

She paused for a moment and took a sip at the cider that he had given her. It was sweet, strong and good in her aching throat.

‘You have a large house, Mul.’ She decided to ignore his implied invitation to engage in an argument on religion. She noticed a shadow cross his face.

‘Aye,’ he said shortly.

‘You have not married?’

Mul shifted his weight from one foot to another.

‘I was married … once.’

‘What happened?’

‘You ask many questions for a woman,’ snapped Mul.

‘I am of an inquisitive nature,’ replied Fidelma solemnly. Then she suddenly remembered. ‘Ah, but I recall now. In your culture, you do not think it is fitting that women assert themselves as equals to men and ask questions.’

Mul glowered a little and it was clear that he was somewhat at a loss to know how to deal with her self-assertive and assured manner.

‘I have come across religieuses of your nation before. I find it strange that your menfolk have allowed you this much freedom.’

The door opened suddenly. The hound leapt up and only a sharp command from Mul stopped it from springing forward. Eadulf stood in a flurry of snow before turning and pressing the door closed behind him.

‘Sit, Bragi! Sit!’ ordered Mul. Then he turned to Eadulf with a scowl. ‘You had best be more cautious, gerefa,’ he admonished. ‘I do not keep the hound as a pet. Bragi is a guard dog.’

Eadulf replied with a noncommittal grunt, removed his cloak and sat down.

‘The weather seems to be worsening,’ he said, after accepting a cup of cider from Mul.

The farmer sat by the fire and the hound placed its head on one of his feet.

‘You are right, gerefa. This winter has seen more blizzards than I recall. Many beasts have perished around these parts. We poor farmers suffer as always, and when the King’s men come to demand the King’s taxes, it will be spring and the winter damage will be forgotten. We will have to pay or suffer confiscation. But that is the way of things. They will not alter. The King’s men come down like thieves and take almost everything apart from that which allows us to survive until the next time of shearing.’

Fidelma smiled sympathetically.

‘A learned man called Suetonius wrote that it is the part of the good shepherd to shear his flock, not to flay it.’

Mul glanced at her with sudden appreciation.

‘Your woman has a good mind,’ he confessed to Eadulf, ‘but she does not know the King’s tax gatherings. They would, indeed, remove the skin from the body if it was worth anything to them.’

‘But, surely, such a winter as this would be borne in mind?’ Eadulf argued.

‘We have had bad winters but this is the worst I recall. You are from these parts, gerefa. You must bear witness to what I am saying.’

‘You are right that I cannot recall a winter so cold and foul, and for giving us hospitality from the inclement elements we must thank you,’ Eadulf replied.

Mul put his head back and roared with laughter.

Eadulf exchanged a glance with Fidelma and frowned.

‘What amuses you?’

‘That you presume that I am giving you hospitality.’ He emphasised the word ‘giving’.

‘I do not understand,’ Eadulf rejoined.

‘I’ll give you shelter and food but for a price.’

Eadulf’s features tightened in annoyance.

‘I remember that you charged to drive us to the abbey. I should have suspected that you would not bring people out of a blizzard and allow them to share your home for nothing.’

Mul was grinning. ‘As a farmer I have learnt that money is like dung. It does no good unless it is spread, gerefa. I perceive that you have some to spread and that will help me survive the losses I will endure this winter.’

‘That is not a Christian idea of charity …’ protested Eadulf.

‘As the woman will remind you,’ returned Mul, ‘I am not a Christian.’

‘Eadulf,’ Fidelma interrupted softly, ‘the man has a point. A quid pro quo — something for something.’

Mul nodded towards her.

‘A good philosophy, woman. Two things that are important, a good mind and the ability to use it. I am sure that you will not begrudge me a penny for this night’s lodging, for the blizzard is set in now. You will not be able to leave here until tomorrow morning.’

Eadulf was disapproving.

‘I fear that you have many faults, Mul.’

Mul grinned back.

‘Is it not said that money will hide many faults?’ he countered.

‘Very well, Mul,’ sighed Eadulf. ‘But as you did not receive your fee until you had delivered us to the abbey, nor shall you receive your fee until we are about to depart.’

Mul grinned without rancour.

‘It is agreed, gerefa. And now I think my stew is ready. It is a sparse meal, for I was not expecting guests, but there is plenty of cheese and bread to follow. Seat yourselves,’ he added, indicating the table.

‘Can we do anything?’ inquired Fidelma politely.

Mul hesitated and then grimaced.

‘No, thank you, woman. I have grown used to my own company and way of doing things.’

He fetched platters and spoons and soon set before them wooden bowls of the steaming pork to which some root vegetables had been added. Bread and cheese were also placed on the table along with more cider.

The hound gave the appearance of sleeping by the fire but once, when Eadulf moved too quickly, the eyelids flickered open. The lips of the animal drew back across the teeth in a silent growl.

Mul snapped an order and the dog closed its eyes again.

Fidelma waited until the remains of the stew had been cleared away before turning to the subject that had been in her mind ever since Eadulf had told her that they were at the farmhouse of Mul.

‘I recall, Mul, that on the night you left us at Aldred’s Abbey, you had little good to say about it. Was that a general indictment of Christians or specific to the inhabitants of the abbey?’

Mul fixed her with his piercing bright eyes.

‘You will find few in these parts who have anything good to say about that place,’ he replied.

‘If I recall,’ Fidelma pressed, ‘you felt that the devil dwelt in that place.’

‘You have a good memory, woman,’ the farmer said, helpinghimself to more cider. ‘I said that the devil had cast his shadow over Aldred’s Abbey. I still say it.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You have met the abbot?’

‘Abbot Cild. I did not see him, for I fell ill when we arrived, but Eadulf met him several times.’

Eadulf nodded.

‘I would say that he might be described as a devil but not the devil,’ he affirmed, taking another piece of cheese.

Mul looked at him wryly.

‘Even though you be Christians, I would not have thought that either of you would have had much good to say about Abbot Cild.’

Fidelma heard some underlying meaning in his tone. She stared at him, trying to get beyond his bright, piercing gaze.

‘Why would that be, Mul?’ she asked softly.

Mul leant back smiling.

‘Your companion, the gerefa Eadulf, is a person who reacts first and thinks afterwards,’ he said. ‘I have noticed it and so has Bragi there.’

The hound raised his head at the sound of its name.

Eadulf had stiffened slightly.

‘Explain yourself, Mul,’ he snapped.

‘I just want to warn you not to move suddenly.’ Mul continued to smile. ‘Bragi does not like it. He also reacts and, poor animal, has no mind to reason whether the movement has an evil intent or not. I would not like you to respond physically to what I am about to say.

Eadulf’s scowled deepened.

‘Go on,’ demanded Fidelma. ‘What do you want to tell us that may cause consternation?’

‘A rider from the abbey has been going around the surrounding farms and villages announcing that the abbot has placed a reward of three gold pieces on your heads. He urges anyone who encounters you to either take you captive or send to the abbey to report your whereabouts. Three gold pieces seems a great fortune. Especially to the poor farmers of this area.’

Fidelma glanced anxiously at Eadulf. He had gripped the edgeof the table with his hands. His jaw was clenched but he did not otherwise move.

‘And what reason does Abbot Cild give for announcing this reward?’ Fidelma asked evenly.

Mul returned her composed stare.

‘You probably know that well enough, woman. You are accused of witchcraft and the gerefa here is accused of aiding and abetting you.’

Eadulf had still not moved but now he said quietly, ‘As you say, Mul, three gold pieces is a lot of money.’

The farmer nodded complacently. ‘More than I will earn this year and even next year put together with this year. Aye, it is indeed a lot of money. More than I could ever hope to have at one time.’

‘And we know how you like money,’ muttered Eadulf, his eyes darting here and there in search of some means of self-defence.

The hound’s head had risen and its eyes were wide open and alert. It had that amazing canine ability to detect atmosphere in the slight nuances of the human voice.

Mul was sitting back in his chair, a slight smile on his face, the cup of cider in his hand.

‘You appear to be very much alarmed, gerefa,’ he said mildly.

‘Alarm is a reasonable reaction when you have confessed that your main interest is money and that you are in dire financial straits because of this winter,’ replied Eadulf. ‘Let me tell you why you should shun this gold …’

Fidelma reached forward in an easy manner and laid her hand on his arm.

‘I do not think any eloquence will alter the intention of Mul. Publilius Syrus once wrote that when gold argues the cause, eloquence is impotent.’

Mul chuckled in appreciation.

‘You have intelligence and wit, woman. The trouble with the religious is that they attempt to preach morality to the starving. Give a man an eloquent lecture on good and evil and give another man a penny and you will see which one of them will respect you the more.’

There was a silence and then Fidelma asked quietly: ‘So what do you intend to do, Mul?’

The farmer poured another beaker of cider.

‘Do? Nothing.’

For a moment neither Eadulf nor Fidelma replied.

‘I don’t understand,’ Fidelma said after a while. ‘Are you saying that the three gold pieces are not a temptation to you?’

‘Oh, they are a temptation right enough. But I would not trust Abbot Cild to pay them after he has secured what he wants. I denounce him as the devil. I would rather freeze to death than deal with him.’

Eadulf sat back, relaxing slowly.

‘Are you playing games with us, Mul?’

‘You, gerefa, leapt to your own conclusion. You believed that I cared more for gold than for my own principles. Who am I to correct your errors?’

‘Well, now that you have corrected our errors,’ interposed Fidelma, ‘perhaps I should explain that the abbot’s accusations are false.’

Mul shrugged. ‘I would not care one way or another. There was evil in that abbey before you went there and doubtless it will be there after you are gone.’

‘Have you farmed long here, Mul?’ Fidelma asked, causing Eadulf to look at her in surprise at what seemed an abrupt change of topic.

‘All my life. Ask your companion, the young gerefa here.’ He motioned humorously to Eadulf. ‘My father and his father once went on a hosting together.’

‘So you have seen many changes at the abbey?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Not that many,’ replied Mul. ‘I was a boy when the Irish missionaries came to this land, converting people to the new faith. I saw the building of the abbey rise on the walls of the old fortress that was there.’

‘And you knew the religious that were there before Cild came along, men like Botulf?’

Mul blinked for a moment.

‘Most people in the area knew Botulf.’ He looked at Eadulf. ‘You knew him better than most. I remember that you were boys together, though you probably don’t remember me from those days.’

Fidelma leaned forward.

‘You see, Mul, I would like to know a little more about this man Cild and his brother, Aldhere, as well. I want to know what the evil is that permeates this area.’

Mul grimaced in disgust.

‘Each is doubtless as evil as the other. One is an outlaw, murdering and thieving outside the law. The other is a tyrant, murdering and thieving within the law. A curse on them both.’

Eadulf was about to open his mouth when he was stayed by a glance from Fidelma.

‘I think that you should tell us your story, Mul, for I feel that you have one to tell.’

Mul regarded her keenly for a moment, then he shrugged.

‘You are discerning, as I said before. I inherited this farm from my father. When he died a few years ago, I was married with two fine sons. It was a good farm and life was good even though the elements were often harsh. Then it all changed.’

‘How did it change?’ asked Fidelma when he paused.

‘How? Cild arrived. I had never heard of Cild before, but when I visited the market in Seaxmund’s Ham, not long afterwards, someone told me that he had once been a warlord on the borders with Mercia. They told me that his father had disinherited him and so he had gone to a land called Connacht beyond the western sea. He had returned with a wife, a woman of your race.’ He nodded towards Fidelma.

‘You refer to Gélgeis?’

‘That was her name. Cild and Gélgeis came to the abbey when Cild became its abbot. Then I heard that Cild’s brother, a thane, had been disgraced. It was said that King Ealdwulf had refused to return Cild’s father’s titles and lands to the abbot.’

‘Go on.’

‘For a few months all was quiet and then I heard that Gélgeis had perished in the marshes near the abbey …’

‘Did you find out how?’

‘How?’ Mul was bemused for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘I heard that Cild had become like a man possessed, driving out the religious who believed in the original rules of their Order and welcoming these new ideas from the Roman Rule of Canterbury. He slaughtered many who would not change theirways. He separated married clergy and sold the women into slavery. The abbey became closed to all women.’

‘You could have warned us about that,’ intervened Eadulf. ‘The night you drove us to the abbey, you could have warned us.’

‘You were religious intent on going to the abbey,’ replied Mul. ‘Why should I warn you? I am not a Christian nor have I any desire to become one if all you do is fight and argue among yourselves. Anyway, as I was saying, Cild showed that he was still a warlord. A few months ago he enticed into the abbey a band of young warriors who, dressed in the holy robes which you Christians adopt, would scour the countryside in search of loot. They raided this farm and it was then that I knew evil stalked the abbey.’

He fell silent for a moment or two as if contemplating the memory.

‘What happened?’ encouraged Fidelma softly.

Mul resumed his story, speaking in a studied voice as if to control his emotions.

‘I was away at market when they came. They came to loot. My wife and two young boys were here. In trying to protect what little I had, my wife was slain and the two children with her. I found their bodies outside when I returned. They are buried just beyond the barn.’

Eadulf coughed awkwardly. ‘How did you know that they were slain by the abbot’s men?’

Mul rose and turned to a cupboard. He opened it and took something from it, then returned to the table. He hesitated a moment and set it down on the board. It was a piece of bloodstained woollen cloth and a small metal crucifix on a silver chain.

‘That was clutched in my wife’s hand where she had ripped it from her assailant,’ Mul said quietly. ‘I knew then that it was the religious from Aldred’s Abbey who had paid me a visit that day. I will have my revenge on Cild, even if I have to wait ten years or ten times ten years. I have sworn this by the sword of Woden.’

‘When did this happen?’ Eadulf demanded.

‘Less than six months ago. Just at the time the young men appeared in the abbey, young fighting men.’

Fidelma had picked up the small crucifix, turning it over in her hands with her brows drawn together.

‘This is of Irish workmanship, not Saxon,’ she said softly after a moment or two.

Mul shrugged. ‘Many of the Christians are trained by your race, woman. Cild had been in this kingdom of Connacht. The provenance of the cross merely confirms what I say.’

She handed the cross to Eadulf without making further comment. It was a small, richly enamelled ornament on silver. It was, he observed, the type of rich jewel affected by the female laity rather than any member of the religious.

‘You say that this happened about six months ago?’ Fidelma was asking.

‘At the time of the summer solstice feasting,’ Mul muttered.

‘Tell me,’ Fidelma continued and again it seemed that she was changing the subject, ‘did you ever see Gélgeis, the abbot’s wife?’

He shook his head. ‘Not so far as I remember. I might have seen her from afar. I would not have known her to see, face to face. I was told once that she was pretty, with fair hair and features.’

‘Did you ever hear what manner of woman she was?’

‘What manner …?’ He paused and then grimaced dismissively. ‘She was married to Cild. Isn’t that enough? You are known by the company you keep and that goes for the partner you marry.’

‘You are a man of hard judgment, Mul,’ Eadulf sighed. ‘Sometimes it is only after marriage that you get to know a person.’

‘Did you ever hear a rumour that Cild murdered his wife?’ asked Fidelma.

Mul’s eyes widened a little and then he shook his head.

‘I only heard that she had wandered into Hob’s Mire. Many animals and several people have strayed into that bog and never returned. Perhaps her fate was a blessing for her.’

‘You said that you knew Brother Botulf?’ Fidelma pressed, ignoring his comment.

‘I did.’

‘Did you ever speak to him about Cild?’

‘After he was sent back to the abbey in disgrace, I hardlyever saw him. He was not allowed to go far from the abbey walls.’

‘What was this disgrace?’ asked Eadulf.

‘He supported Aldhere against the King.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I don’t know. Aldhere was of the same poisonous root as his brother. I heard that he sacrificed the King’s cousin during a battle when the Mercians invaded. Through his cowardice, King Ealdwulf’s cousin died. Botulf defended Aldhere for which stand the King ordered that he should return to Aldred’s Abbey, where he had been one of the brethren in the early days, and remain there, not leaving on pain of death.’

‘You imply that Aldhere was guilty. Does that mean that you thought Botulf was a liar?’ demanded Eadulf sullenly.

‘I would not know his reasons for defending Aldhere. Botulf was a good man, so far as I knew. Perhaps he was simply misguided. But I never had time to speak to him about the matter.’

‘Then how do you know that Aldhere is guilty?’ Eadulf asked.

‘Deeds not words!’ snapped Mul.

‘Explain that,’ Fidelma invited.

‘Simple enough. Ask anyone. Aldhere and his men are a band of robbers. They steal from everyone. They have also terrified and burnt the homes of many innocent people. Are these the actions of a good man who was not guilty of the accusation made against him?’

Fidelma sat back and sighed.

‘Well, it might be the actions of a man driven to find a means of survival. But burning the homes of the innocent is certainly not in keeping with the character of a man of principle.’

‘I say, a curse on both of them,’ Mul growled. ‘Religious brother or warrior brother; white dog, black dog, both are dogs.’

‘You may well be right. It does not help us get closer to the truth,’ Eadulf said in exasperation.

Mul turned to him with curiosity.

‘What truth are you seeking, gerefa?’

‘The truth of who killed my friend Botulf.’

Mul sat back with a look of astonishment.

‘You did not tell me that Botulf was dead!’

Of course, Eadulf realised that Botulf had only been killed on the day Mul had dropped them at the abbey.

‘I’m sorry. He was bludgeoned to death in the abbey.’

‘I suppose the abbot was responsible,’ Mul muttered bitterly. ‘I felt that it was like putting a rabbit in with a run of ferrets … I mean, putting Botulf in Cild’s abbey when Botulf had defended his brother. Cild would obviously resent that.’

‘There is a logic in what you say,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Do you know anything of the Irish religious in this area?’

Mul shook his head.

‘I know that there are some who are in hiding. They refuse to accept the decisions made at Whitby and obey Canterbury. Rules! Christian rules!’ He made a gesture like spitting. ‘Who cares? In this land we will continue to call the vernal equinox by the name of the goddess Eostre; others may celebrate it as Pascha, the resurrection of the new god, Christ, or even as Pésah, the Jewish Passover feast … but it is still the vernal equinox.’

He saw Fidelma studying him in surprise and smiled disarmingly.

‘Just because I am a farmer, you need not think that I have no knowledge. I have been to the coastal ports and spoken with Phoenician traders. I know all about Pésah and the like. All farmers know and name the seasons — seasons are seasons however you want to name them.’

‘Do you know of a young woman of Éireann with red-gold hair who lives near the abbey?’ interrupted Eadulf.

Mul was shaking his head when he suddenly smiled.

‘Do you mean young Lioba? She is no woman of Éireann.’

Eadulf tried to recall if he had heard the name before. He thought he had but could not be sure.

‘That’s a Saxon name,’ Fidelma pointed out, glancing at Eadulf.

‘True enough,’ agreed Mul. ‘Her father was a farmer in the hills beyond the abbey. He is dead now. He died in the Yellow Plague. Her mother also died a year or so ago. But her mother had been a slave taken from a kingdom called Laigin. That’s who you mean. Lioba.’

Laigin was one of the five kingdoms of Éireann, as well they knew.

Mul suddenly chuckled lewdly.

Eadulf frowned slightly. ‘What does your humour imply, Mul?’

‘That for all the piety at the abbey, Lioba seeks her pleasures there.’

‘I am told that this Lioba bears a resemblance to Gélgeis,’ hazarded Eadulf, pursuing a sudden train of thought.

Mul rubbed his chin. ‘I would not know. Lioba must have been younger than the abbot’s wife.’

‘Let us return to the Irish religious in hiding. What do you know about them?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Little enough. As Christians, I do not care about them. I think it is said that they are down Tunstall way. They never bother me nor I them.’

He reached for more cider and grimaced with a bitter expression before sipping it.

‘I want little to do with you Christians though I will go this far: all gods are the same when it comes to seeking their help. They are all united in ignoring your pleas and cries for help. I know that. There are three graves on the hill above the farmstead that bear me witness.’

‘Christ was not responsible for the murder of your wife and children,’ admonished Eadulf.

‘No? If this Christ were an omnipotent deity he could have done something. Don’t you teach that he is all powerful, all loving and ordains everything that happens? No, gerefa, all gods are alike. Silent to our suffering.’

Fidelma looked at Eadulf and shook her head quickly. It was not wise to pursue the argument further.

‘Have you heard of any trouble between the abbey and those who adhere to the Rule of Colmcille … the blessed one whom you call Columba?’ she asked.

‘Trouble? Cild had two of them executed, I know that. The others he had driven out into the marshes. Perhaps they have returned to your land? Perhaps it is they who are hiding in Tunstall? There are so many deaths here, Sister, that I am surprised you bother to seek the reasons for one or two. Theanswer to all of them lies between two people — Cild and Aldhere.’

‘It seems that there is no longer any law here,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘I would not believe it. I was brought up to believe that no one would dare to disobey the Law of the Wuffingas and a gerefa. Anarchy seems to reign in this land.’

Mul grinned cynically.

‘Not anarchy, gerefa; but men who have swords and no compunction about using them. And, of course, such men have no loyalty to anyone other than themselves.’

Fidelma held her head to one side questioningly.

‘Again you seem to imply something more than the words you use, Mul.’

The farmer nodded slowly.

‘Speak to people in any market place and you will hear what they say.’

‘We are not in a market place, so I would like to hear what you say. What have you heard?’

‘I have heard that Aldhere would welcome a new King in this land. I have heard too that his brother, Cild, would also welcome a new King. Yet the word is that the brothers have different Kings in mind.’

‘Can you explain further?’ Fidelma pressed.

‘This land is viewed with envy by Wulfhere of Mercia to the west and by Sigehere of the East Saxons to the south. Either King would be a fool not to take advantage of the conflict raging in this small corner of the kingdom.’

‘Are you saying that you have definite word that either Cild or Aldhere is in league with Wulfhere or Sigehere?’ Eadulf was aghast.

‘Definite word? No, of course not. I tell you what I have heard in the market places.’

‘Idle gossip. Speculation without facts!’ suggested Eadulf. Fidelma noticed that even as he spoke Eadulf was less than confident and seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

‘If the land of the South Folk fell, then the land of the North Folk would follow swiftly,’ Mul snapped, undeterred.

‘You might well be right,’ conceded Fidelma. ‘It seems that there is no peace between peoples anywhere in the world. Thereare plots and conspiracies between the five kingdoms of my own island. During our visit to the land of the Britons we found their kingdoms divided against each other. Why should the lands of the Angles and the Saxons be any different? However, that is not why we are here.’

Mul sniffed and once more reached for the cider jug. Finding it empty, he rose and went to the cupboard and drew out another flagon.

‘No,’ he said, ‘you are here to find out how Cild murdered your friend Botulf.’

‘We are here to find out first if Cild murdered Botulf,’ corrected Eadulf. ‘If he did so, then the “how” will follow.’

‘And moreover whether he killed his wife, Gélgeis,’ Fidelma added. ‘We are here to prevent more tragedy and such an effusion of blood as this land has never seen before.’