‘Radoald!’ shouted Aistulf in triumph.
Fidelma, concerned with Brother Wulfila, saw that he hadpassed through the open gate and was running towards the war band of Grasulf, now in disarray. He was shouting to them and continued to run forward, one hand outstretched.
Those on the wall could hear him cry out: ‘Wait! It is I, Wulfila. Wait! I am-’
One of Grasulf’s men turned, a bow already strung in his hand. The arrow transfixed itself through Wulfila’s throat. Without a sound the former steward of the abbey measured his length on the ground outside the gates and lay still.
They had little time to register the fact, before Radoald’s warriors crashed into the bewildered and confused horsemen of Grasulf. The conflict was not longlasting, although it seemed an eternity to Fidelma. Soon the enemy war band was fleeing down the valley, leaving many dead and wounded behind. Among them, she recognised the body of the Lord of Vars.
Sister Gisa stood at Fidelma’s side staring at the bodies, tears streaming from her eyes.
‘He escaped,’ she said flatly. ‘He has fled with the others down the valley.’
It was a week later that Fidelma found herself standing on the quay of the port of Genua. She was at the foot of the gangplank of a ship whose crew were making ready to set sail. Sister Gisa and Wulfoald stood by her side.
‘I cannot say that I am sorry to leave here,’ she announced.
‘However you feel about us, lady,’ Sister Gisa said softly, ‘we shall miss you.’
‘All has ended well, lady, and that is something we can all be grateful for,’ added Wulfoald. ‘Grimoald has driven Perctarit and his rebels back into the lands of the Franks. The conspiracy to fund Grasulf’s uprising to take over the strategic valleyroutes has been thwarted and the Lord of Vars has been slain, his power broken.’
Fidelma nodded absently. ‘And the abbey is richer by a gift of gold from Perctarit. But has it ended well? So many deaths. Poor Brother Ruadán, little Wamba, his mother Hawisa, Lady Gunora, Abbot Servillius … so many deaths — and for what?’
Wulfoald raised a hand to his forehead where there was still a slight scar where the steward had caught him with the wooden bar.
‘Wulfila … there is someone for whom I cannot feel sorry. His blow still pains me. Tell me, did you know he was the third conspirator in this matter before he declared himself?’
‘I suspected, and foolishly did not say so before. The facts added up. I should have challenged him but could not make my assertions before Venerable Ionas and the magister. The very moment I arrived at the abbey I saw an exchange between Brother Faro and Wulfila that was not one between a steward of an abbey and a member of the brethren. On seeing Brother Faro wounded, Wulfila rushed forward like a servant and was sharply rebuked by Faro. I learned that both men came to the abbey two years before, after Perctarit went into exile. Both, I discovered, had previously been warriors.’
‘Faro made no disguise of that,’ agreed Wulfoald.
‘But it was not revealed that Wulfila had served Faro, who was one of Perctarit’s commanders. Aistulf later told me about the Lord of Turbigo whose reputation he had heard of when fighting in the wars two years ago. Faro was a brilliant commander. A good strategist. Faro and Wulfila joined with Eolann at Mailand and came to Bobium to plot Perctarit’s return and campaign against Grimoald.’
‘So it was Wulfila who murdered poor Brother Ruadán?’ queried Sister Gisa.
‘It was. Wulfila heard me say that I had found Brother Ruadán lucid and that I was going to talk to him again. He had to make sure that it did not happen. Wulfila smothered him with a pillow. He had not realised that I had already spoken to Brother Ruadán only minutes before. Brother Hnikar then mentioned that it was Wulfila who had come to tell him that Brother Ruadán had died in his sleep. I knew that not to be so. Wulfila had also to have been outside Lady Gunora’s chamber when she left the abbey with the prince. He alerted his master, Faro, who chased after them and killed Lady Gunora. Finally, Wulfila lied to me when he said Abbot Servillius was in his chamber and would see no one. Wulfila had already killed him.’
‘But why?’
‘He advised Eolann to stage an injury to prevent him accompanying me to see Hawisa and revealing that he had misinterpreted what she had said. He did this just in case Faro failed in killing her before we got to her cabin. The weak point among the conspirators was Eolann. He was a scholar, acting for his beliefs against those he saw as Arians. But he was not a cold-blooded killer like his military-trained co-conspirators. The fact that he could not let me fall to my death on Mount Pénas demonstrated that he still had scruples. He was worried about the lives that were being taken. His Faith could not support it and so he went to confess his sins to Abbot Servillius. We can never be sure how Wulfila found out, or whether Eolann told him what he intended. At that point Wulfila decided that both Eolann and Abbot Servillius had to die. Faro and the conspiracy had to be protected until the time was ready.’
‘You worked it out brilliantly,’ Sister Gisa said in appreciation.
Sister Fidelma frowned with irritation. ‘Not I. I did nothing but allowed myself to be misled by Eolann through my sheer arrogance. I should have known about Wulfila long before. I regard this as a failure of all my training and faculties. I am ashamed.’
‘You are too hard on yourself, lady,’ murmured Sister Gisa. ‘A stranger in a strange land. You discovered the hiding-place of the gold and had it removed for safety into the abbey. That delay allowed Radoald’s men to arrive in time.’
‘When all is said and done, it was nothing but the same old story,’ observed Wulfoald. ‘The search of kings for power and all the bloodshed such ambitions bring with them. I suppose that search will be with us until Judgement Day.’
Fidelma regarded him with mild appreciation. ‘There is the making of a philosopher in you, Wulfoald.’
He grinned. ‘I have no such aspirations, lady. I am a warrior, so I am part of that search for power.’
‘Well, remember, my friend, that force without good sense falls by its own weight.’
Wulfoald chuckled. ‘I too have read Horace, lady. Vis consili expers mole ruit sua. It is a lesson that Perctarit has learned by now.’
‘So you do not think your people have need to fear Perctarit again?’
‘I do not think any such thing, lady. While he is alive, Perctarit will always try to return to what he thinks is rightfully his. Perhaps he will … one day. In the meantime, Grimoald rules fairly and allows both those who follow the Creed of Arian and those who follow the Nicene Creed to dwell in peace, if not in harmony, with each other. Perctaritmay, however, find peace in Frankia or Burgundia and not bother our kingdom again. Who knows? I am a cynic and I follow the way of Epicurus. Dum vivimus vivamus.’
‘While we live, let us live,’ Fidelma echoed. ‘Let us hope that Perctarit and his followers allow that.’
Sister Gisa had been silent all this time and now she stirred herself.
‘There is little in life for me without Faro,’ she sighed. ‘I hate him for what he has done, and yet … All is blackness for me. I don’t understand myself.’
Fidelma felt compassion for the girl. ‘You think it now. Time is a great healer.’
‘Faro,’ breathed Sister Gisa, ignoring her. ‘Did Faro survive that great battle against Grimoald? Has he followed Perctarit’s flight to Frankia? He fooled me — he fooled us all. But he was …’
Fidelma smiled and laid a comforting hand on the girl’s arm. ‘Let me pass on the advice of Ovid in his Remedia Amoris: res age, tute eris.’