‘He is as bad as that?’ Fidelma tried to keep a straight face.
‘If I were a hermit, in love with nature, I would not send for him. Anyway, I do not think that enters into it. Aistulf only trusts Abbot Servillius and Sister Gisa. I am told that Sister Gisa has a good knowledge of the apothecary’s art.’
‘Do they have far to go?’
‘A good question, lady, but one without an answer. Somewhere up into the hills across the river,’ he pointed in the opposite direction to the slopes of Mount Pénas. ‘No one but the abbot and Sister Gisa are allowed to know where he bides. And now, lady, the hour grows later … I have to be up early to lead the brethren up to the sanctuary to recover the body of Lady Gunora.’
Fidelma took the hint and turned back towards the guest-hostel. Suddenly realising just how exhausted she was, she collapsed straight onto her bed and was asleep before she could put the cavalcade of thoughts into some order.
Someone was shaking her by the shoulder. She blinked and tried to focus. Then she started nervously.
Brother Wulfila, the steward, was standing by her bed with a candle.
‘Venus, the morning star, is already clear in the eastern sky. It will soon be dawn, lady. I was told to wake you. Brother Bladulf and some of the brethren have already left on foot for the sanctuary.’
She struggled up in the bed. ‘Dawn already?’ She tried to think.
‘Wulfoald is in the courtyard and has given orders that a horse be saddled ready for you.’
‘Wulfoald?’ She paused for a moment and then groaned as memory came flooding back. ‘I am sorry, Brother Wulfila. Last evening saw me exhausted and my mind is still confused. My apologies. Tell Wulfoald I will join him shortly.’
As he set down the candle for her and turned for the door, she called, ‘Is Brother Eolann already in the courtyard as well?
Brother Wulfila turned back with a frown. ‘Brother Eolann, the scriptor, Sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘No, he is not there.’
‘He might have overslept as I did,’ Fidelma said. ‘Could you make sure he is roused? He is joining Wulfoald and me, so he must be quick.’
The steward looked astonished. ‘You are free to come and go as you will, lady, but the scriptor must have permission from the abbot.’
Fidelma sighed impatiently. ‘Has Abbot Servillius returned then? He rode out last night in answer to a plea from Aistulf the hermit.’
Brother Wulfila was shaking his head. ‘He has not returned, lady.’
‘Very well. If he must secure permission, then seek it from Venerable Ionas but go and make sure Brother Eolann is ready to join us. It is necessary.’
‘Very well, Sister. There are not too many people stirring in the abbey at the moment, for many were up to see the fire earlier.’
Fidelma kept her irritation under control. ‘The fire? What fire?’
‘Oh, there appeared to be a great fire high up on the mountain, on Mount Pénas. It blazed brightly in the darkness. Several of our brethren were roused and went out to stand watching it. It blazed a long time. Sometimes, when the weather is hot, fires start among the trees up there.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Fidelma entered the courtyard, she saw Wulfoald waiting patiently by his pale grey horse. He was holding a second horse, presumably meant for herself. First light was creeping in, but it was still too dark to see clearly up the mountain and there was no sign of the conflagration that Brother Wulfila had mentioned. Fidelma glanced round. There was no sign either of Brother Eolann.
‘Brother Eolann is coming with us,’ she asserted, ‘so we had best get another horse.’
Wulfoald looked surprised. ‘Why is the scriptor coming with us?’
‘Because he is my witness to what the old woman said and which is so contrary to what you told me.’
The warrior’s mouth tightened. ‘This is delaying us, lady. Brother Bladulf and his companions have already left to ascend to the sanctuary with two of my men.’
Before she had time to reply, Brother Wulfila came hurrying across the courtyard. He seemed agitated.
‘Where is Brother Eolann?’ demanded Fidelma before he had time to recover his breath.
‘Sister … er, lady, you had best come with me. He’s in the scriptorium.’
‘What is it?’ she pressed.
However, the steward simply shook his head and waved her to follow him.
With a muttered apology to Wulfoald, she turned and went after him through the small cloisters to the stairs ascending in the tower to the scriptorium. Brother Eolann was seated in a chair, with Brother Hnikar bending over him and dabbing at a wound in his forehead with a wet cloth. Blood had stained his robe and he looked very pale.
‘What happened?’ Fidelma gasped.
Brother Hnikar answered first. ‘I think he fell down the steps and knocked himself out.’
‘Is that so? she demanded of the scriptor, who nodded and then winced at the movement.
‘Truthfully, I do not know, lady,’ he said, resorting to their own language. ‘I was working late here, as you know. Then, when I had finished, I extinguished the lamp, for I am used to finding my way in the twilight. I was crossing the scriptorium when I think I tripped and hit my forehead. ’ He raised a hand to show her: there was bruising and signs of a lump.
Fidelma examined the wound closely, much to Brother Hnikar’s annoyance. ‘You think you tripped?’ she repeated.
‘I am sure I did. But I am confused. I can’t recall much.’
Then the steward, Brother Wulfila, was speaking. ‘When you asked me to find the scriptor I looked for him in his chamber and then came to the scriptorium and found him semi-conscious on the floor in a pool of blood. I sent for our physician and came to find you.’
‘I knew nothing until Brother Wulfila was dabbing water on my head,’ confirmed Brother Eolann. ‘He placed me in this chair and went for the physician.’
Brother Hnikar turned, regarding Fidelma with disapproval.
‘I can allow no more questions until I have administered balms for the wound and allowed the scriptor to rest.’
Brother Eolann glanced up with an unhappy expression. ‘I am sorry, lady. Brother Hnikar will not allow me to join you to see Hawisa this morning.’
Fidelma grimaced sourly. ‘That much is obvious.’ Without someone she could trust to translate Hawisa’s words, the whole exercise of going to see the old woman again was pointless.
‘Be careful, Brother Eolann,’ she said in her own language. ‘I’ll find an alternative translator.’
Brother Hnikar’s features were even more disapproving now.
‘The Rule in this abbey, Sister Fidelma, is that all conversations are carried on in the common language of the abbey — that is, Latin. We, who are one under God, have no secrets from Him, and therefore should have no secrets from one another.’
Fidelma lowered her head, more to hide her irritation than in a sign of submission.
‘Sister Fidelma was merely wishing me a speedy recovery,’ Brother Eolann said hastily in Latin.
‘Indeed, a speedy recovery,’ she added in Latin.
Brother Eolann hesitated and then said: ‘I am truly sorry, Sister Fidelma. I am sorry for everything.’
She left the scriptorium with a slightly puzzled frown at the inflection on his last word. Brother Wulfila came hurrying after her.
‘Has Abbot Servillius returned yet?’ she asked as they came down the tower stairs.
‘Neither he nor Sister Gisa have returned,’ replied the steward.
‘And Brother Faro?’
‘Brother Faro left yesterday to take alms to the poor of a settlement down the valley, and has not returned to the abbey.