‘How did they get into the abbey?’ Abbot Cild was demanding. ‘The doors were shut and secured, weren’t they?’
‘I will find out,’ Brother Willibrod replied, almost rubbing his hands together in his anguish. ‘But what should we do?’
‘Do?’ Abbot Cild had turned and was staring at the withe lying at the foot of the altar. ‘First, you may take that and throw it on the fire. Second, you may see to the burial of Brother Botulf. Third, you may ensure that those brothers who will accompany me in the search for Aldhere and his outlaws tomorrow are properly armed. I have a feeling that these Irish bandits will be found with him.’
Eadulf rose and walked across to him. ‘Bandits? It did not sound to me as if the warrior, Garb, was a bandit. I have spent some time in his country and what he was saying was a ritual prescribed by law, although I do not understand most of it.’
Abbot Cild glowered at him. ‘This is none of your business, Brother Eadulf. I advise you not to interfere.’ Cild glanced to where some of the brethren were still banging on the secured doors of the chapel. ‘Stop that nonsense!’ he shouted.
They turned, like frightened children, and stood heads hung before the abbot.
Cild turned to Brother Willibrod. ‘Take one of the brethren through the underground passage beneath the chapel and open the doors. I should imagine that the wretches are long gone by now. It was merely a means to hold us here while they escaped.’
It seemed a long while before the chapel doors were opened. In fact it was probably no more than ten minutes.
‘Where is Brother Willibrod?’ demanded the abbot, striding forward. Eadulf noticed that it had stopped snowing and although the wind was still up it was blowing less strongly than before.
‘He went to see how they were able to enter the abbey,’ said the brother who had opened the doors, backing before the abbot.
At that moment, Brother Willibrod came hurrying up to join them.
‘They came over the wall,’ he began breathlessly. ‘I saw the marks in the snow. Three of them must have climbed up by means of a rope and grappling hook. I went outside and found signs of where half a dozen horses stood, so three others waited outside.’
Abbot Cild rubbed his chin in moody contemplation. ‘Did you notice which way the tracks led or came from?’
‘The wind was swiftly covering them. The snow is powdery and dry.’
Abbot Cild was clearly annoyed. ‘It makes no difference. I am going to my chamber. You may finish the burial rituals for I have much to do. We will deal with these villains tomorrow.’
Brother Willibrod gazed unhappily after the retreating form of the abbot, his one eye blinking rapidly. Then he saw Eadulf looking at him and shrugged.
‘At times,’ he confided, ‘I wish I had courage enough to return to Blecci’s Hill.’
‘Blecci’s Hill?’ queried Eadulf. ‘That’s on the banks of the Ouse, isn’t it?’
‘You know it?’
‘It is just over the border in the kingdom of Mercia. There was a battle there many years ago.’
Willibrod smiled, pleased that Eadulf knew something of the history.
‘That was before I was even born. It was when the Northumbrians raided our territory.’ He sighed deeply and then drew his mindback to the present. ‘One day I shall return, God willing, and set myself in a little hermitage on Blecci’s Hill. But now …’ He turned round and called several of the brethren to him.
‘Resume tolling the funeral bell. We will not insult the memory of our brother Botulf by allowing this incident to shatter the solemnity of the occasion. God willing, on the morrow, we will avenge this insult.’
Eadulf was awake well before dawn. It was still cold, although in the hearth some ash-covered embers seemed to have retained a spark of life. There was a curious grey twilight in the room which was caused by the white reflection of the snow outside.
He arose from his bed, shivering, and moved swiftly across to the fire, making sure to put only brittle, dry twigs on the embers, waiting for them to spark into flame before stacking more substantial pieces of wood on it. It took only a few moments to set the blaze going in a more hearty fashion. Even so, he found himself so affected by the chill room that he had to blow on his hands and stamp his feet to help restore his circulation.
His toilet was perfunctory. He splashed his face and hands in a bowl of cold water, noticing, with a shiver, the tiny particles of ice that had formed around the edge of the bowl. He towelled vigorously, drew on his robes and went softly to the next room.
When he had returned from the chapel, which had been well after midnight, after the burial of Brother Botulf in the small community cemetery which lay alongside the chapel walls, he had gone to report to Fidelma about the curious Irish visitors and their claims about Abbot Cild. But Fidelma had been fast asleep, shivering slightly but sweating profusely as she tossed in an uneasy slumber. He had not disturbed her, realising that she was suffering from a bad ague. Her breathing had been sharp and rasping.
Now, as he moved quietly into the room, he found her still huddled in the bed. Her eyes were shut, although from time to time she uttered a pitiable cough and her nose was red from sneezing. He went straight to the fire and banked it up into a blaze, and then turned to heat some water.
‘I feel awful,’ came a croaking voice that did not bear any resemblance to Fidelma’s usual tones.
Eadulf turned from his task and smiled in sympathy.
‘It looks as though you have caught a bad cold from our journey,’ he observed unnecessarily.
Fidelma eased herself up slightly against the back of her wooden cot. Sweat still stood on her temples and she coughed spasmodically. Eadulf laid the back of his hand on her moist but burning forehead.
‘As soon as I have the water heated, I’ll prepare an infusion for you to make you feel better.’
‘My throat is dry.’
He handed her a beaker of ice-cold water and told her to sip it gently to ease her throat. The water set off a little coughing fit and he took it from her.
‘I will give you an infusion of betony leaf. It will help your headache. It’s a favourite herbal remedy of my people. We’ll try that mixed with some more elder and woodbine.’
‘Eadulf, I don’t care what you give me,’ she moaned. ‘I feel like death.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Eadulf responded brightly. ‘You will be back to normal in a day or two. I’ll guarantee it.’
Fidelma suddenly sneezed and looked ruefully at Eadulf. Something of her old self shone through as she tried to smile.
‘I thought that we didn’t have two days?’
Eadulf frowned and then remembered. ‘You mean the order of Abbot Cild to quit his abbey? Don’t worry about that. I will go to see him and tell him that you cannot be moved. Anyway, there has been a new development here which I must tell you about.’
He turned back to the fire, and while he was preparing the medication for Fidelma he told her about the events of the night before. Fidelma was intrigued, almost forgetting her woe.
‘A troscud? Are you sure he used that word?’
Eadulf nodded, sitting at the edge of her bed and waiting as she sipped the brew that he had prepared.
‘I know that it is some sort of ritual fast,’ he offered.
‘A very serious one,’ she confirmed. ‘It does not happen often, for most people are happy to have arbitration in cases of dispute. The law is considered of importance, so both sides will abide by it and one rarely has to force the other to accept it.’
‘But Abbot Cild is not subject to your laws here, in his own country.’
‘That is true enough,’ Fidelma agreed, interrupting herself with another coughing spasm.
Eadulf handed over another beaker of the infusion. She sipped for a moment.
‘But you say that this man — Garb was his name? — you say that he claimed that Abbot Cild was at the Plain of the Yews when he married his sister?’