Peter Tremayne - The Haunted Abbot

‘May the blessing of light be on you, light without and light within …’

There were some thirty or more brethren gathered in the chapel. Eadulf took his seat on a bench at the back, not wishing to make himself conspicuous among the assembly.

He glanced around. Most of the congregation were young. They seemed to be sturdy men. Several had features that were harsh and would not be out of place in a battle host, seeming more suited to swords and shields rather than a crucifix and a phial of holy water.

They followed the prayers with a song. Eadulf did not know it and so did not join in.

Abbot Cild then came forward and had just started an adulatory soliloquy when the two great wooden doors of the chapel opened with a crash.

Eadulf, along with the rest of the congregation of brethren, swung round startled.

A tall man stood framed in the doorway, feet wide apart, a naked sword in one hand, his shield ready on the other arm in a defensive position. That he was a warrior was easy to see but who or what manner of warrior was more difficult to recognise. He wore a burnished helmet on which was fashioned the head and wings of a goose. The goose had its beak open in a warning; its neck was curved and low while its wingswere swept back on either side of the helmet. It was a truly frightening image. Eadulf vaguely recalled hearing that in some cultures the goose was an emblem of battle. It seemed so now, for below this helmet was a faceguard and only the bright eyes of the warrior glinted in the candlelight from the chapel, emanating a threatening malignancy.

A long black fur cloak hid the body, although Eadulf saw the glint of a breastplate underneath. The arm that held the menacing sword was muscular. For several long seconds there was absolute silence in the chapel. Then the man spoke, or rather his voice was raised so that it reverberated throughout the building. His Saxon was stilted and accented.

‘Know me, Cild, abbot of Aldred’s Abbey. Look upon me and know me.’

There was a moment of utter silence in the chapel.

Abbot Cild must have been a man of iron control for he did not seem perturbed at all by the threatening appearance of the warrior. When he replied it was in a sneering tone.

‘I do not recognise men who come armed into Christ’s house with their features disguised by war helmets.’

The warrior responded with a fierce smack of his sword across his shield. The sound was like a thunderclap.

‘You who pretend not to know the crest I wear on my helmet, you who pretend not to know my voice … you know me well. I am Garb son of Gadra. Tell your brethren — do I lie?’

Abbot Cild hesitated.

‘If you say so, so you are,’ he responded tightly.

‘I am Garb of the Plain of the Yew Trees.’

‘And if you are,’ rejoined the abbot, still not cowed, ‘then you commit sacrilege in the manner of your coming. Put down your sword.’

The Irish warrior, for Eadulf had identified the man by his accent as well as the name he had given, gave a sharp laugh.

‘I value my life too much to put down my weapon in this place. I will keep my sword.’

‘Then tell us what you want and be gone.’

‘I will-’ The man stopped short and turned quickly to the side. ‘Cild, tell your brethren they are dead men if they come further!’

Two men with drawn bows suddenly appeared at the Irish warrior’s sides. Eadulf, too, had noticed that several of the Saxon brethren had been edging along the side aisle of the chapel. To Eadulf’s surprise, they carried short swords in their hands. Their obvious intention was to disarm or close with the intruder. Cild rapped out an order. They halted, realising that the arrows were aimed unerringly at them.

Abbot Cild waved them back. ‘Return to your places, Brothers. Let us deal with this madman peacefully.’

The Irish warrior turned back to him. ‘Madman? That is good, coming from your mouth, Cild. But it is wise that you tell your men to desist for it is not my intention to join poor Botulf there in an early grave.’

Eadulf started at the use of his friend’s name on the lips of this warrior who called himself Garb.

‘Don’t profane his name by uttering it!’ cried Abbot Cild, his voice filled with an angry emotion for the first time.

‘Botulf was a good friend to my family, Cild, as well you know,’ went on the warrior in a calm tone. ‘It is in your mouth that his name is profaned. It was convenient for you that he was killed on this day of all days. Maybe it is another debt to be added to your account?’

Abbot Cild stared at the man woodenly.

‘Brother Botulf was killed by a thief,’ he finally said. ‘An outlaw breaking into this abbey. He will soon be caught and dealt with.’

‘A thief? Perhaps. I still call it convenient.’ There was irony in the man’s voice. ‘By the virtue of my sisters, I still call it convenient!’

‘What do you want, Garb?’ Abbot Cild’s eyes were suddenly furtive. His change of expression was not lost on Eadulf.

‘Ah, you have no difficulty recognising me now, eh?’ The voice of the warrior was bantering.

‘What do you want?’

‘I come from my father, Gadra; from Gadra who was also father to Gélgeis, the wife whom you put from you and killed.’

A gasp of shock rippled through the chapel. Eadulf glanced swiftly from accuser to abbot in astonishment. Abbot Cild’s face was white and now etched in sharp lines. The dark eyes were like coals.

‘I did not kill your sister, Garb.’

‘You would doubtless deny it. You have no shame. Yet shame shall be your portion, Cild. I come as an emissary of my father, chief of the Plain of the Yew and father of your murdered wife. This is not the first time he has accused you of her murder and called upon you to come to arbitration. You have refused to do so. Will you do it now?’

‘If I did not do so before, I will not do so now while you threaten me. Go back to your own country, Garb. Go back to your father. You and your people are not welcome in our Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. You cannot cow me with the threat of violence, for you will never leave this abbey alive if I am harmed.’

Garb chuckled softly. ‘You are an arrogant fool, Cild! I have merely come to perform the ritual apad. I do not threaten you.’

‘The what …?’ Cild’s voice was hesitant.

‘I give you notice that my father seeks restitution for the murder of his daughter at your hands. He undertakes the ritual troscud to compel you to accept the arbitration of the court. You have nine days, according to our law, to consider your position and then my father will begin the troscud … he will fast to the death or until you have accepted arbitration.’

Abbot Cild’s sharp features moved swiftly to relief and then broke into a sneer.

‘And if I do not accept this arbitration and your father merely dies for his mistaken belief in my guilt, what then?’

‘If you allow my father to die while fasting for justice, then the shame is yours. Not just in this world but in the next. Every man’s hand can be raised against you to strike you down without fear of punishment, for you then lose all rights as a human being.

‘I have also to say this. According to our law you are an airchinnech, a monastic superior, and so from the time of this apad you are prohibited from reciting the pater or credo or going to the sacrament of the Mass.’ The warrior turned his head slightly and whispered something to one of his companions who, relaxing his bow and replacing the arrow in his quiver, hurried forward to the altar of the chapel. From beneath his cloak he took a circlet of twisted willow branches and tossed it to the foot of the altar.