Peter Tremayne - The Haunted Abbot

There was a mutter of concern from the brethren as the man trotted back to the side of Garb the warrior and resumed his stance with his readied bow.

‘See that withe?’ cried Garb. ‘That is symbolic of the moral prohibition that is placed on you, not to perform your priestly functions until such time as you concede justice to my father. If you ignore this, then your soul may be damned.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ mocked Cild. ‘Your laws do not apply here.This is not one of the kingdoms of Éireann but the kingdom of the East Angles.’

‘You were married to my sister in my father’s house on the Plain of the Yew. Your oaths were sworn by the Laws of the Fénechus in front of a Brehon. The same laws now hold you accountable for her death. You have nine days before the troscud starts. Now, I have fulfilled my task.’

With that the warrior stepped rapidly back. His companions reached forward and slammed the doors shut. There was a rush to the doors by the brethren nearest them but they found the doors barred on the outside.

Eadulf had not left his seat. Garb had obviously planned this confrontation well and he would have prepared his retreat with equal precision. Eadulf suspected that the warrior and his companions would have made good their escape by the time the infuriated brethren broke out of the chapel. He glanced to where Abbot Cild was still standing at the lectern where he had been interrupted. Brother Willibrod had gone to his side.

‘How did they get into the abbey?’ Abbot Cild was demanding. ‘The doors were shut and secured, weren’t they?’

‘I will find out,’ Brother Willibrod replied, almost rubbing his hands together in his anguish. ‘But what should we do?’

‘Do?’ Abbot Cild had turned and was staring at the withe lying at the foot of the altar. ‘First, you may take that and throw it on the fire. Second, you may see to the burial of Brother Botulf. Third, you may ensure that those brothers who will accompany me in the search for Aldhere and his outlaws tomorrow are properly armed. I have a feeling that these Irish bandits will be found with him.’

Eadulf rose and walked across to him. ‘Bandits? It did not sound to me as if the warrior, Garb, was a bandit. I have spent some time in his country and what he was saying was a ritual prescribed by law, although I do not understand most of it.’

Abbot Cild glowered at him. ‘This is none of your business, Brother Eadulf. I advise you not to interfere.’ Cild glanced to where some of the brethren were still banging on the secured doors of the chapel. ‘Stop that nonsense!’ he shouted.

They turned, like frightened children, and stood heads hung before the abbot.

Cild turned to Brother Willibrod. ‘Take one of the brethren through the underground passage beneath the chapel and open the doors. I should imagine that the wretches are long gone by now. It was merely a means to hold us here while they escaped.’

It seemed a long while before the chapel doors were opened. In fact it was probably no more than ten minutes.

‘Where is Brother Willibrod?’ demanded the abbot, striding forward. Eadulf noticed that it had stopped snowing and although the wind was still up it was blowing less strongly than before.

‘He went to see how they were able to enter the abbey,’ said the brother who had opened the doors, backing before the abbot.

At that moment, Brother Willibrod came hurrying up to join them.

‘They came over the wall,’ he began breathlessly. ‘I saw the marks in the snow. Three of them must have climbed up by means of a rope and grappling hook. I went outside and found signs of where half a dozen horses stood, so three others waited outside.’

Abbot Cild rubbed his chin in moody contemplation. ‘Did you notice which way the tracks led or came from?’

‘The wind was swiftly covering them. The snow is powdery and dry.’

Abbot Cild was clearly annoyed. ‘It makes no difference. I am going to my chamber. You may finish the burial rituals for I have much to do. We will deal with these villains tomorrow.’

Brother Willibrod gazed unhappily after the retreating form of the abbot, his one eye blinking rapidly. Then he saw Eadulf looking at him and shrugged.

‘At times,’ he confided, ‘I wish I had courage enough to return to Blecci’s Hill.’

‘Blecci’s Hill?’ queried Eadulf. ‘That’s on the banks of the Ouse, isn’t it?’

‘You know it?’

‘It is just over the border in the kingdom of Mercia. There was a battle there many years ago.’

Willibrod smiled, pleased that Eadulf knew something of the history.

‘That was before I was even born. It was when the Northumbrians raided our territory.’ He sighed deeply and then drew his mindback to the present. ‘One day I shall return, God willing, and set myself in a little hermitage on Blecci’s Hill. But now …’ He turned round and called several of the brethren to him.

‘Resume tolling the funeral bell. We will not insult the memory of our brother Botulf by allowing this incident to shatter the solemnity of the occasion. God willing, on the morrow, we will avenge this insult.’

Eadulf was awake well before dawn. It was still cold, although in the hearth some ash-covered embers seemed to have retained a spark of life. There was a curious grey twilight in the room which was caused by the white reflection of the snow outside.

He arose from his bed, shivering, and moved swiftly across to the fire, making sure to put only brittle, dry twigs on the embers, waiting for them to spark into flame before stacking more substantial pieces of wood on it. It took only a few moments to set the blaze going in a more hearty fashion. Even so, he found himself so affected by the chill room that he had to blow on his hands and stamp his feet to help restore his circulation.

His toilet was perfunctory. He splashed his face and hands in a bowl of cold water, noticing, with a shiver, the tiny particles of ice that had formed around the edge of the bowl. He towelled vigorously, drew on his robes and went softly to the next room.

When he had returned from the chapel, which had been well after midnight, after the burial of Brother Botulf in the small community cemetery which lay alongside the chapel walls, he had gone to report to Fidelma about the curious Irish visitors and their claims about Abbot Cild. But Fidelma had been fast asleep, shivering slightly but sweating profusely as she tossed in an uneasy slumber. He had not disturbed her, realising that she was suffering from a bad ague. Her breathing had been sharp and rasping.

Now, as he moved quietly into the room, he found her still huddled in the bed. Her eyes were shut, although from time to time she uttered a pitiable cough and her nose was red from sneezing. He went straight to the fire and banked it up into a blaze, and then turned to heat some water.

‘I feel awful,’ came a croaking voice that did not bear any resemblance to Fidelma’s usual tones.

Eadulf turned from his task and smiled in sympathy.

‘It looks as though you have caught a bad cold from our journey,’ he observed unnecessarily.

Fidelma eased herself up slightly against the back of her wooden cot. Sweat still stood on her temples and she coughed spasmodically. Eadulf laid the back of his hand on her moist but burning forehead.

‘As soon as I have the water heated, I’ll prepare an infusion for you to make you feel better.’

‘My throat is dry.’

He handed her a beaker of ice-cold water and told her to sip it gently to ease her throat. The water set off a little coughing fit and he took it from her.

‘I will give you an infusion of betony leaf. It will help your headache. It’s a favourite herbal remedy of my people. We’ll try that mixed with some more elder and woodbine.’