Peter Tremayne - The Haunted Abbot

Eadulf suddenly realised that Aldhere had a score of men with him. Cild must have known that he was no match for them. Why would he have put on this show? Whom did he want to impress? Eadulf himself? The community? Garb and his Irish warriors? Or was this just another manifestation of Cild’s irrational moods?

They had all mounted horses brought to them by men who had obviously held them in the thickness of the wood while the attack was taking place. Two of Aldhere’s men took the lead, riding some little way ahead as scouts, while Eadulf and Aldhere followed. The others brought up the rear.

Aldhere rode in a relaxed position, stretched back in the saddle. It was clear that he had been raised on horseback.

‘Now, what is it that you wish to say that you feel is for my ears alone?’ asked the tall outlaw as they began to move forward.

‘Abbot Cild believes that you killed Brother Botulf.’

The sardonic snort told Eadulf that Aldhere did not think much of Abbot Cild’s belief. But Eadulf’s eyes narrowed at the implication.

‘So you knew that Brother Botulf has been killed?’

‘I knew,’ Aldhere replied grimly. ‘And if you are looking for a culprit you must speak to Cild.’

‘Are you making a counter-claim that Cild was the murderer and not you?’

‘Did I not make myself clear?’

‘Tell me how you knew that Brother Botulf was dead.’

For the first time, Aldhere’s features had become grave.

‘What does this matter to you, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham? You tell me that you have only just arrived at Aldred’s Abbey and, as I have said, if you have sense then you will leave it without delay.’

Eadulf decided to speak plainly.

‘It matters a great deal to me, Aldhere. Botulf was a close friend of mine. He was the friend of my childhood and youth. While I was at Canterbury a few weeks ago he sent a message to me asking me to come to the abbey and requesting that I endeavour to get there before midnight last night. I did so, only to find out that he had been killed shortly before I arrived. In support of Cild’s accusation of your complicity, one of the brethren insists that he saw you at the abbey about the same time.’

Aldhere was silent for a moment.

‘That would have been Wigstan, returning from his journey to the fishing village with fish for the abbey. I saw him. He was right. I was there.’

Eadulf glanced at him sharply. ‘Are you now admitting …?’

‘Don’t make yourself out to be a fool, holy gerefa. Of course I am not. Did Botulf tell you why he wanted you to come to Aldred’s Abbey? Or why you had to be there by that particular time?’

Reluctantly, Eadulf shook his head.

‘I did not kill Botulf,’ Aldhere said abruptly, with a controlled passion. ‘He was a friend of mine, too. I had come to the abbey to meet him in secret — also being instructed, like you, to come by an appointed hour at dawn yesterday.’

‘And so Brother Wigstan saw you?’

‘I have not denied it.’

‘But you did not see Botulf?’

Aldhere shook his head firmly. ‘While I was waiting for him in the shadow of the copse by the side of the abbey, I heard an outcry. I decide that I would not wait around to discover its meaning.’

‘So how did you learn that this outcry was due to the fact that Botulf had been found dead?’

‘Through Wiglaf. He had a contact in the abbey and found out that, thanks to Wigstan, Cild was claiming I was responsible.’

‘Why does Abbot Cild hate you?’

Aldhere gave a long deep sigh. ‘It is a long story. A tale with an even longer preamble.’

‘I have plenty of time,’ replied Eadulf without humour.

‘Then have patience until we reach the camp and then, over a dish of hot soup, I shall tell you that story.’

Eadulf relapsed into silence for a while. He was disconcerted by Aldhere. This was not exactly the image of the marsh outlaw that had been conjured by Cild. In spite of his appearance, which initially fitted Eadulf’s concept of a robber, Aldhere was a pleasant-mannered, educated man, with the quiet authority of a thane rather than an outlaw. Eadulf was bursting with questions but he decided to keep his natural impatience in check. As Fidelma was so fond of saying, they succeed who are patient.

They were riding northwards, parallel to the seashore but keeping to the shelter of the woods which grew thick where they were protected from the corrosive sea-salt air. Eadulf began to recognise his surroundings and he felt a slight pang of homesickness as he realised that they were not very far away from his birthplace.

Away to their right lay the shingle seashore and sand dunes marking the extremity of the land but to their left was a landscape of small lagoons, freshwater reedmarsh, and mixed woodland and heath. Then, as they moved through a thick belt of aspen, birch and oak that had seemed impenetrable, Eadulf suddenly found that they had arrived in a clearing with makeshift huts where several people were moving about, men and women and even children.

‘Welcome to my camp,’ smiled Aldhere, halting his mount and sliding off it.

Eadulf followed his lead and the outlaw conducted him towards one of the huts. Before they reached it, the door was opened and a woman came forward to greet Aldhere. She was slim, and flaxen hair showed beneath a headscarf that covered most of her features. She halted and frowned at the sight of Eadulf.

‘Who is he? A prisoner? One of Cild’s men?’ she demanded in an unfriendly tone. She spoke Saxon with a foreign accent which Eadulf could not place for the moment.

Aldhere shook his head, smiling.

‘No, my sweet, this is a guest. This is my woman, Bertha. This is Brother Eadulf, Bertha. Now bring us mead and hot soup and leave us to talk.’

Bertha sniffed disparagingly but ducked back into the hut, followed by Aldhere and Eadulf. The interior formed a single room with scarcely space for a bed, a table and a few stools. Aldhere motioned Eadulf to be seated, and placed himself on the other side of the table. Bertha set a jug of mead on the board. As she did so Eadulf saw that she had a scar on her right arm, running upwards from the wrist. The soup had already been made and, after a moment, bowls of steaming vegetables and fresh, warm bread were also placed before them. Then Bertha flounced from the hut as if angered by her exclusion.

‘Bertha? That is a Frankish name,’ commented Eadulf when they were alone.

Aldhere nodded thoughtfully. ‘I released her from a Frankish slaver, who was trying to sell her to the East Saxons. The slavers did not treat her well. I saw that you noticed the scar on her arm. She has others and that is why she tends to cover her face in front of strangers. She has preferred to stay with me.’

Eadulf nodded sympathetically. ‘A cursed trade is slaving and one that I hope will be outlawed one day. But, tell me, why were the East Saxons trying to kill me? They were never so violent when I was a young man.’

Aldhere took the jug of mead and poured from it.

‘It is all to do with King Sigehere who has returned to the worship of the gods of his father. He has declared war on all Christians.’

‘I thought that he had his hands full fighting his own people. Why does he send his men to raid our territory?’

‘Sigehere is an ambitious man no matter what religion he holds. The kingdom of the East Saxons is too small for him and so he sends warriors to probe his neighbours to test their strengths and weaknesses. There have been several raids against us … as you have now witnessed. A Christian holy man would have been a good catch for the warriors of Sigehere. They would have reserved a special entertainment for you.’

Eadulf shivered at the thought and took up the beaker of mead.