Behold a Pale Horse (47 page)

‘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 Laisran of 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.