‘I see that they are still working on the sepulchre of Bobolen.’
Sister Gisa shook her head. ‘It is only some minor paintwork. The shrine was finished and sealed before Faro and I set out for Genua to meet Magister Ado. You see, Faro has to oversee the workmen and report their progress to AbbotServillius. It is the intention to build a mausoleum for every abbot.’
‘The tombs are very impressive,’ admitted Fidelma. ‘Was Faro a builder or architect then?’
‘No, but he is a good organiser. He designed Bobolen’s tomb himself and persuaded workmen from Placentia to come and build it for charity’s sake. It involved much work. I lost count of the wagons of stone brought along the valley.’
‘Stone?’
‘A special stone — a marble. It is not available in the valley.’
They had arrived at the newly filled-in grave of Brother Ruadán and halted. Fidelma placed her flowers on the freshly packed earth and stood with head bowed for a few moments.
Sister Gisa was staring out across the hillside. ‘Were you scared last night when you heard the muse?’ she suddenly asked.
‘The muse? Oh, you mean the bagpipes. No, I was not scared but surprised. We have such instruments in Hibernia and, for a moment, I thought it might have been one of the Hibernian brethren playing. But there was something that did not sound right about it — I mean that they did not sound quite like the Hibernian pipes.’
‘Ah, yes. Some of your compatriots have remarked on it. They are similar but I think slightly different.’
‘How so?’
‘They have the mouthpiece, a drone and a chanter and the air is held in a goatskin bag. They sometimes call them the Apennine pipes after the mountain range here.’
‘I was told that they were being played by an old hermit.’
‘Aistulf? He is a master of the pìpes.’
‘You know him?’
‘Oh yes. He is a kindly man. I often go to see him to make sure he is well.’
‘He certainly plays well, but he must be a solitary person to dwell in these mountains alone.’
‘Oh, he is not denied of company that much.’ She sighed. ‘Although he is lonelier now than he used to be.’ When she saw from Fidelma’s features that she had not understood, she added: ‘He is a master of his instrument and now and then has taught others so that the art may be passed on.’ To Fidelma’s astonishment, Sister Gisa turned and pointed to the very wooden cross that had brought her to the necropolis. ‘He was teaching poor Wamba the pipes before he died.’
‘Wamba?’ she said, feigning puzzlement as she pretended to notice the headstone for the first time. ‘That is odd.’
Sister Gisa frowned. ‘Odd? Why so?’
‘Well, all the other grave inscriptions have Frater, Brother, prefixing the name. But this gives just his name.’
‘That is because he was not a member of the brethren.’
‘What work did he do at the abbey then?’
‘Wamba? He did not work at the abbey. He was just a goatherd. He lived up the mountain here with his mother. He used to sell goat’s milk to the abbey. But he also played a small pipe as most of the boys do who tend the flocks of sheep or the goats’ herds on the mountains. He was so good that Aistulf asked him to come to learn the pipes with him.’
‘You give me the impression that he was very young when he died.’
‘God be merciful to him, he was barely eleven years old.’
‘And he died recently?’
‘Just before Faro and I set out for Genua. It was the day after poor Brother Ruadán was found outside the abbey gates.’
‘Do you know how the boy died?’
‘We were told that his body was found, having fallen from some rocks. The poor boy broke his neck. He was discovered and his body taken to the abbey.’
‘Isn’t it unusual for a goatherd to be buried in the abbey’s necropolis?’
‘The abbot gave special permission that he be commemorated here in view of his service to the abbey. You seem very interested in him, Sister Fidelma.’
‘Call it my natural curiosity.’
‘Well, Brother Waldipert had far more to do with him than most of us. He is in charge of the abbey kitchens and used to buy the goats’ milk from Wamba.’
‘Surely the abbey has its own goats and cows to supply it?’ Fidelma asked. Self-sufficiency was usually a key element in any of the abbeys she had known.
‘Of course,’ agreed Sister Gisa. ‘But it was a custom from the days of Columbanus to help the local people. From each according to their ability, to each according to their needs. It is a good system of community living.’
Fidelma realised she could not press further without being forced to compromise herself or trying to invent reasons for her questions. Moving away from the headstone, she said, ‘It is sad that this Wamba died so young when he was so talented.’
Already her mind was turning over those last words of Brother Ruadán. The boy had been killed for coins. But Sister Gisa said that he had fallen from some rocks and broke his neck. That was surely an unusual end for a goatherd on a mountain? Now she had to be rid of the company of Sister Gisa and try to find Brother Waldipert. The answer to the first problem came almost immediately. They had emerged from the gates of the graveyard when Brother Faro came into sight. At once Sister Gisa’s face lit up, causing Fidelma to suppressa smile. How could the abbot be so blind as not to notice the intimacy between them?
‘How is your wound progressing, Brother Faro?’ she greeted him.
The young man glanced at Sister Gisa with a quick nervous smile before turning back to Fidelma.
‘It is almost normal, thanks be to God. I feel no discomfort and I can use the arm freely.’
‘Well, I am sure the administrations of Sister Gisa had much to do with it,’ Fidelma said gravely. ‘I shall remember the garlic compress that you used,’ she added to the girl.
‘I was taught by my father,’ Gisa said. ‘He is … was a good physician.’
‘Anyway,’ interrupted Brother Faro, ‘this is nothing, compared to some wounds.’ He stopped, a slight flush on his face.
‘You have been hurt before?’
‘But not by an arrow. It was before I came here.’
‘At another abbey?’
‘I was not a religieux then.’
‘I thought you looked more like a warrior than a religieux,’ replied Fidelma.
There was a slight uncomfortable pause before Brother Faro said, ‘I was, but I saw the futility of the wars and came here looking for peace and seclusion.’
Fidelma glanced around the calm scenery of the valley and mountains and nodded slowly. ‘I can see why,’ she said. Then she excused herself and went back to the abbey. As she left, Sister Gisa and Brother Faro were already deep in conversation.
The door to the abbey kitchens actually led on to the herbarium, Fidelma discovered, and that made it easier forher to find them without anyone wondering why she needed to be in the kitchens. She entered the herb garden and uttered a prayer of thanks that Brother Lonán was not about. Then she made for the doorway whence the pleasant odours of cooking emanated.
Someone shouted a question at her in a harsh voice as she entered. A large man with an apron covering his robes was bent over a table gutting a fish, which he then threw into a simmering cauldron. He had glanced up as she entered and repeated his question in Latin when she did not answer.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I am Fidelma of Hibernia,’ she replied. ‘I am looking for Brother Waldipert.’