Behold a Pale Horse (12 page)

‘I would introduce you to our special guest. This is Prince Romuald of the Longobards, lady.’ Then he turned to the boy. ‘Highness, I would present Fidelma of Hibernia, who is the daughter of a king of her country.’

The small boy rose and bowed solemnly from his waist. Fidelma found herself hiding a smile at his manner, which seemed so incongruous for his age.

‘I welcome you to this land, lady. My people and my own family have long held your countrymen in high esteem for their knowledge and teaching. Do you intend to remain in this abbey?’

‘I am here to see my old mentor, who has now made this abbey his home. Soon I must depart back to my own land,’ Fidelma replied politely.

The abbot then introduced the woman at the boy’s side as the Lady Gunora, companion to the young prince. The woman smiled shyly and bowed her head in acknowledgement.

The introductions being over, they resumed their seats while Brother Wulfila guided Fidelma to a seat on Venerable Ionas’ right hand before taking the seat next to her. At the sound of a single bell, the abbot stood up and intoned a prayer of thanks. he sat down and another single chime on a bell allowed the occupants of the
refectorium
to commence the evening meal. Fidelma was surprised as the noise of conversation permeated the great room. During the last weeks in Rome, when she had eaten in the religious refectories, she had noticed that most maintained the custom of consuming the meal in strict silence. In some abbeys, one of the brethren, a
recitator
, read aloud from the scriptures or the Psalms while the others ate.

She turned as Venerable Ionas had been speaking to her. ‘I am sorry, you were saying?’

‘I was merely asking about Columbanus,’ the scholar said apologetically. ‘I always ask any newcomer from Hibernia in case they have some knowledge which I could add to my work on the life of our founder.’

‘I am afraid I know little. He was from the Kingdom of Laighin and went north to study,’ replied Fidelma. ‘My own kingdom is Muman which is in the south-west of Hibernia.’

‘Hibernia is not one kingdom then?’

‘There are five kingdoms but the fifth kingdom is called Midhe – the Middle Kingdom – and it is there that our High King lives. He has nominal jurisdiction over all the kingdoms. The High King is chosen from one of the main ruling families. These days it is the Uí Néill of the north who dominate the succession.’

Venerable Ionas grimaced. ‘I have heard of this from other of your compatriots. I cannot understand it. But tell me, what little is it that you know of Columbanus?’

‘In our language his name is Colm Bán and it means “white dove”. All I know is that he became Abbot of Beannchar, a famous abbey in the north of Hibernia. It is told that he decided to leave the abbey to journey across the seas in order to set up centres of the Faith among the Franks and Burgundians. That is all. I had no knowledge of this place.’

The Venerable Ionas was nodding slowly, with a faint smile on his lips.

‘Indeed, my daughter,’ he said. ‘He made enemies among the Frankish nobles and there came a time when they ordered Columbanus and all his Hibernian monks to be deported back to their own land. Instead of returning to Hibernia, however, Columbanus came south, crossing the great mountains, and eventually brought his followers to the land of the Longobards. The King at that time, Agilulf, gave Columbanus this land. And here, in Bobium, he set up our community. Soon the religious of many lands joined him. He stuck firm to his old Hibernian ways and even argued with the Holy Father, Gregory the Great, that it was the Hibernians who maintained the true date of the Pascal Festival. He was a great man, a great teacher.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘I came here as a young man three years after he had died,’ replied the old scholar, with a shake of his head. ‘But I knew many who had known him and they helped me with my work on his life. When the time came for me to take a religious name, I chose the Greek form of the Hebrew name Jonah, which also means a dove. And you say that was the meaning of Columbanus’ own name?’

There was a sudden commotion at the doors of the
refectorium
and they swung open. Heads turned and there came gasps of surprise. One of the brethren came running up the aisle to the table where Abbot Servillius had half-risen, anger on his face. The young red-faced Brother stopped and was gasping for breath.

‘Father Abbot … Father Abbot, I could not stop them …’

‘You forget yourself, Brother Bladulf,’ thundered the abbot. ‘Have you not been gatekeeper long enough to know your proprieties and rules of this abbey? During the evening meal—’

But the young man was glancing over his shoulder. Two men had entered the
refectorium
and were striding almost arrogantly up the aisle between the now astonished and silent brethren towards the top table. Fidelma examined them with curiosity. There was no doubt that the leading figure was a bishop, his robes and crozier proclaimed it. The man a little behind him was also clad in religious robes, but not of rank.

Abbot Servillius sat back in his chair in shock at the sight of the newcomers.

‘
Pax vobiscum
,’ said the bishop in greeting, halting before their table with his belligerent gaze sweeping their astonished faces.

Abbot Servillius did not answer the traditional salutation. He simply breathed the name,
‘Britmund.’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

The bishop was short and stocky, florid of feature with greying hair but dark eyebrows, and eyes that seemed like shiny black pebbles. His lips were thin and bloodless, and twisted in a cruel smile. His eyes narrowed as they glanced at Magister Ado at the abbot’s side and moved on to the young boy seated next to him.

‘So it is true.’ He gave a half-bow towards the prince. ‘My greetings and blessings on you, Prince Romuald. Your friends at the fortress of Friuli are missing you.’

A soft breath hissed from the mouth of Lady Gunora, who seemed to draw the boy protectively towards her.

‘His friends are
here
,’ she said defensively.

Bishop Britmund shook his head with an irritating smile on his features.

‘I fear that is not the case.’ His glance fell on Sister Fidelma. ‘It is interesting to see that this abbey of heretics now accepts females dining at the abbot’s side,’ he sneered. ‘Is it not enough you actually allow them to dine in the same hall as the brethren?’

Abbot Servillius now leaned forward, his voice one of scarcely controlled anger.

‘Sister Fidelma is our guest, a visitor from Hibernia, and daughter of a king of that country.’

‘It is a pity that you do not show respect to all your guests.’ The bishop was sardonic. ‘Brother Godomar and I have spent long days coming to this abbey. Our greeting scarcely merits the conventions of hospitality.’

‘A pity that
you
did not observe the conventions of entry,’ Abbot Servillius replied, ‘and allow the gatekeeper to escort you to my study where I could have greeted you as custom prescribes. If you prefer to march into this
refectorium
unannounced with belligerence in your voice, then you will find it takes a while for us to remember our manners.’

‘Why should I wait when I knew this was the hour of your evening meal and when my companion and I are famished?’

‘If it is hospitality that you are requesting, Britmund of Placentia, then we are not heretics enough to deny it to you. You will find space at that table,’ the abbot indicated a table on the right-hand side of the hall. ‘Sit yourselves there and one of the brethren will provide you and your companion with food and drink.’

For a moment Bishop Britmund stood defiantly before the abbot, having expected to be invited to sit at his table by virtue of his rank. But the abbot had still not risen nor given the conventional greeting to a cleric of rank; a matter that intrigued as well as surprised Fidelma. Clearly, no love was lost between the abbot and the bishop.

‘You seek something else, Britmund?’ the abbot inquired mildly. ‘Perhaps you came to ask after the health of Brother Ruadán?’

‘That old fool!’ replied the bishop harshly. ‘Does he still live?’

For a moment, Fidelma could not believe what the bishop had said. She found her hands clenching under the table, a flush coming to her cheeks.

The abbot was speaking before her anger broke out. ‘
Deo favente
, he lives – no thanks to those whom you stirred up with your fanatical zeal to attack him.’ Abbot Servillius’ voice was studied and calm, but it was clear that there was hatred behind his words.

‘I speak as I find,’ replied the bishop indifferently. ‘The old man provoked the attack himself by preaching those ideas which we find repugnant in Placentia. He should have kept out of our city.’

‘If you find his preaching so repugnant, Britmund, why do you enter here, into this abbey which you call heretical?’

‘I am here, reluctantly, at the invitation of the Lord Radoald.’

There was a collective gasp among the brethren in the hall.

‘An invitation from Lord Radoald of Trebbia?’ asked Magister Ado sharply.

Bishop Britmund smiled thinly at him. ‘I know of no other lord of this valley … yet.’

‘And why would Lord Radoald ask you to come here?’ demanded the abbot.

‘We left him only this morning, having enjoyed his hospitality last night,’ intervened the Magister Ado. ‘He made no mention of such a request to me.’

‘I am not privy to Lord Radoald’s thoughts as to why he should not mention the matter to you, Ado,’ replied Bishop Britmund. ‘Perhaps he is aware of your facility to use all means in your power to attack those of my faith. However, being lord of this valley, he says he desires peace between those of your creed and those of mine. He asked me to come here so that you, Servillius, and I may discuss a common ground under him as mediator. I am told that he should be at the abbey at first light tomorrow to facilitate these discussions.’

‘It would have been better had he informed us of your impending arrival,’ muttered Abbot Servillius, ‘and the subject of your coming.’

A look of triumph seemed to flit across his features as Bishop Britmund regarded the abbot. ‘Perhaps he thought that you might absent yourself from any discussion had you had warning of it?’

Abbot Servillius’ jaw tightened. ‘I would never absent myself from any debate on the true Faith,’ he grunted.

‘Then I and my companion shall expect the hospitality of this abbey for as long as these discussions take.’

Abbot Servillius looked towards Brother Wulfila, seated on the other side of Fidelma, before he answered. ‘Our evening meal is in progress. You are welcome to join us. Afterwards, we may make the necessary arrangements.’

Bishop Britmund bowed ironically towards the abbot, as if he had enjoyed the verbal duel. Then he moved away with Brother Godomar to the empty seats which had been indicated. It was at this moment that Fidelma became aware that Sister Gisa had risen from her place and was trying to attract the attention of the steward. There were some sharp exchanges and she saw the girl press a paper into Brother Wulfila’s hand. The steward examined it and muttered something before rising and going to the abbot’s side. Abbot Servillius glanced at the paper and his face grew grim. There was a further exchange and the steward returned and seemed to instruct Sister Gisa to sit back down in her place.

As the abbot was whispering intently to Magister Ado, Fidelma turned to the Venerable Ionas. ‘Who is this Bishop Britmund?’ She knew she had heard the name before and was trying to recall when.

‘He is an Arian, a follower of Arius, and an enemy to our abbey,’ answered the old scholar, who was clearly troubled. ‘He is Bishop of Placentia, a town which lies beyond the mouth of the valley by the great River Padus. He and our abbot are almost sworn enemies. Many of our brethren have been attacked when trying to preach in Placentia.’

‘Including Brother Ruadán?’ she asked.

‘Including Brother Ruadán,’ he replied quietly.

Abbot Servillius then turned to Venerable Ionas and spoke swiftly to him. The abbot was looking worried. Having ended his conversation with the Venerable Ionas, he rose and went to have a whispered exchange with Lady Gunora. Next he came to Brother Wulfila, who respectfully rose from his seat. Fidelma could hear their whispers behind her.

‘You will have to find somewhere for the bishop and his companion to stay. Anywhere but in the guest-house.’

‘Not the guest-house?’

‘It would be wise to keep the bishop and his companion as far apart from Lady Gunora and her charge as possible.’

‘Of course, Father Abbot. I will arrange accommodation in the west tower.’ It seemed that the steward was no longer interested in his food because he left the
refectorium
to fulfil his task. Fidelma had observed that these movements were not lost on the dark eyes of Bishop Britmund, who had followed the abbot with an expression almost of derision on his features. Fidelma leaned towards the Venerable Ionas.

‘Did this Bishop Britmund have a hand in the injuries suffered by Brother Ruadán?’