The Haunted Abbot (30 page)

‘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 their ways. 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 hardly ever 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.’