Peter Tremayne - The Haunted Abbot

‘You mean raids from Sigehere?’

‘That I do. There are constant rumours that his warbands raid along the coast. But, come. Come and betake yourselves of our hospitality and welcome.’

The man turned and waved to the group of people who had gathered some way off and, at his signal, they seemed to break up and go in different directions. The man led the way to the farmhouse.

‘Wife,’ he called to the large, homely woman who stood at the door, ‘two religious, on their journey back to Seaxmund’s Ham. A beaker of mulled mead will refresh and help them on their way.’

‘That it will,’ agreed Eadulf, dismounting. ‘My companion has lost her voice and the mead will help ease her throat.’

Fidelma realised that he had said this so that she would arouse no suspicion by speaking in an accent that they would identify as foreign. She merely smiled and nodded at the farmer while the farmer’s wife, clucking a little like a mother hen, came bustling forward to help her from her horse.

‘Ah, poor dear. We shall soon see what we can do about that. A bad throat? Poor dear. Come into the house and I’ll heat a beaker of mead for you right away. It is auspicious to have religious call at our door on this day of all days.’

Fidelma grunted and nodded and dutifully followed the woman into the kitchen.

The farmer ushered Eadulf after them.

‘Are you heading to Seaxmund’s Ham now, Brother?’ he asked.

Eadulf nodded.

‘Why do you ask?’ he said, watching the farmer’s wife pour two beakers of mead and then, taking a red hot poker from the fire, plunge it first in one beaker and then the other, causing the mead to sizzle and bubble.

‘Have you noticed the sky from the west, Brother?’

Eadulf might have confessed that, riding through the forest, he had seen precious little of the sky in any direction. He answered, however, with a simple negative.

‘There are heavy grey clouds bunching up from the west. I fear that we will be having another blanketing of snow within the next few hours. Certainly before dusk.’

‘We should be able to make it across the Aide by then.’

‘Aye, if you do not tarry long.’

Eadulf lifted his beaker and took a swallow.

‘Then as soon as we have downed this delicious nectar and said a blessing on this house we shall be on our way.’

The farmer grinned appreciatively.

‘God grant a clear road to you, Brother. May He keep you safe from the outlaws who dwell in the marshes and from Sigehere’s raiders.’

‘Amen to that,’ Eadulf replied fervently.

It had been snowing for more than an hour and it was very cold and damp. In spite of her double cloaks, Fidelma was still feeling the chill and her chest and throat were hurting again. The snow was slanting downwards once again like hard ice pellets, thick and heavy, almost obscuring Eadulf and his pony even though they were only a few yards ahead of her.

Half an hour ago they had crossed a river which Eadulf had told her was the Aide. Upstream lay Aldred’s Abbey where the crossing was made by the bridge but here there was a ford which, although it was deep, was shallow enough to allow them to make it on horseback to the northern bank without wetting more than their lower legs.

Fidelma coughed wheezily and shivered.

‘Eadulf?’ she called uncertainly into the snow blanket that separated them.

His figure suddenly emerged out of the snow for he had halted his pony and waited for her to come alongside him.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked in concern.

‘I think I need a rest. Is there any shelter along this path?’

Eadulf shook his head.

‘It will take us some time to reach Aldhere’s encampment,’ he said. ‘I doubt if I can find it until this snow lifts. We will find some place to shelter until it passes.’

She coughed again and the worried lines deepened in Eadulf’s forehead. He had to admit to himself, if not to Fidelma, that he had no idea where they might rest.

‘Don’t worry. I will find a place,’ he assured her. He urged his pony onwards and, automatically, she followed. Her illness was debilitating her, she knew. She was probably a fool to have insisted on leaving Tunstall before she had fully recovered. But she also knew that other lives hung in the balance. She could not help herself. Unsolved mysteries were like some terrible narcoticto her. She could not let go while there were still questions which needed answers.

Eadulf suddenly exclaimed out of the white gloom.

‘What is it?’ she called anxiously.

‘It is all right,’ he called back. His voice mirrored his relief. ‘I’ve discovered exactly where we are.’

‘I thought you already knew that?’ she observed with scarcely veiled sarcasm.

‘I think so. We are at Frig’s Tun.’

‘What is that?’

‘Remember our mad farmer? The one who took us to the abbey on that first night? Well, that is his farm.’

‘Because of that drive I …’ she began and then turned to hide a wheeze, muttering something which Eadulf did not hear. He pretended not to notice her irritation.

‘His name was Mul,’ he went on. ‘His farm is not far from this point. We will find warmth, food and shelter there. It is no use going on today with this blizzard.’

Fidelma did not respond. Eadulf was absolutely right, of course. If she attempted to go further in this snowstorm she might wind up with another bout of illness and perhaps a fatal one. But it also meant that another day would pass. Only a few days would then be left until the start of Gadra’s troscud . She knew that prevention was easier than stopping things once they had begun.

‘Keep close!’ called Eadulf, turning once more and nearly being swallowed by the sheeting snow.

Fidelma screwed her eyes against the sleeting cold as she made an effort to keep up with Eadulf. She was unaware of her surroundings for they were entirely shrouded in the white gloom. But it was not long before she realised that Eadulf had halted and slid from his horse. He was standing looking up at her.

‘Here we are,’ he called.

She glanced up, trying to focus through the icy pellets.

The vague outline of a building emerged through the snow in front of her. And she could hear the sound of a dog barking.

Eadulf held her pony’s head while she dismounted and then he hitched the reins to a post before going to the door. Before he could knock on it, the door swung open and a burly figurestood framed in it, one hand holding the collar of a straining hound who barked and snarled at them. Behind them shone the faint illumination of a welcoming fire.

‘Who are you and what do you seek?’ demanded a familiar rasping voice.

‘Peace on your house, Mul,’ replied Eadulf. ‘You remember us? The travellers whom you took to Aldred’s Abbey.’

Mul stepped forward and examined him and then glanced at Fidelma.

‘I remember you well enough, gerefa, though I did not expect to see you again after you entered the portals of that accursed place!’ He turned to his hound and struck it sharply on the nose. ‘Peace, Bragi, peace! Go to your spot!’

The hound gave a soft growl but Mul tapped him sharply on the nose again and he put his head down and went inside.

Mul turned to them.

‘What do you seek here?’ he demanded again.

‘Shelter from the elements,’ replied Eadulf.

‘I see you have acquired ponies since last we met. Take them into the barn. There is fodder and water inside.’ He indicated a building close by and, as Eadulf obeyed the instruction, Mul turned to Fidelma. ‘Come inside and warm yourself by the fire. These blizzards are as bad as any I have seen.’