Behold a Pale Horse by Peter Tremayne Page A

his family and his entourage passed over Fidelma’s head. Several of them spoke colloquial Latin but it seemed the main language was the more guttural tongue of the Longobards. As she was passed from one group to another with polite meaningless words, she was suddenly confronted by an ornate, carved wood chair on a dais. She presumed it was Radoald’s chair of office. But it was not that which struck her. Above the chair hung a shield. It had a black background with what appeared to be a flaming sword and a laurel wreath painted on it.
    A hand jerked on her sleeve and a high-pitched voice asked, ‘Do you eat human flesh?’
    Shocked, she turned to look down into the ancient face of a woman, bent over, with grey hair and leaning on a stick.
    ‘I do not,’ she replied, wondering if she was about to be offered some horrendous dish of the valley.
    ‘But you must,’ the old woman insisted sharply. ‘People from Hibernia are cannibals. I have read the Blessed Jerome and was he not of the Faith? In Adversus Jovinianum he writes that he witnessed, as a young man, the Irish cutting the buttocks off shepherds and their wives and eating them.’
    ‘I have never heard that Jerome was ever in Hibernia,’ Fidelma replied, trying not to let her temper rise. ‘So no credence can be given to such a ridiculous, malicious and false statement.’
    ‘But he wrote it.’
    ‘People write many things and they are not all true.’
    ‘But he wrote it,’ the old woman repeated as if it were a mantra.
    Radoald appeared at her side and took Fidelma’s arm. He spoke to the old woman roughly in the local language and then guided Fidelma away. ‘Let me show you some of the treasures of my fortress,’ he smiled. Out of earshot of the old woman, he added, ‘She was my mother’s nurse. I keep her here as a retainer, for there is nowhere else for her to go.’
    Fidelma was about to open her mouth when he shook his head and placed a finger against his lips. ‘She reads to occupy her time. Sadly, she believes that if something is written then it must be true. There is no reasoning with her on this matter.’
    ‘Then she must have difficulties when she comes across two accounts that are opposed.’ Fidelma smiled thinly.
    ‘An interesting proposition. Sadly, it seems that eventuality has not yet presented itself.’
    ‘I was looking at your chair when she spoke to me. Is it your chair of office?’
    Radoald nodded assent.
    ‘I noticed the design on the shield above it. Is that your crest?’
    ‘It is one which serves many of the Longobard nobles, for it is the insignia of the Archangel Michael who has become our patron. It is said that he appeared to our armies at Sipontum three years ago when we drove back the armies of the Byzantines. It is Michael’s name which is now our war cry, for he is captain of battle and defender of Heaven.’
    ‘So any one of your people would bear that crest?’
    ‘Only the warriors of our King Grimoald,’ confirmed the young noble. ‘Indeed, my sword arm is at the disposal of Grimoald. Why do you ask?’
    ‘Tell me something of this Grimoald,’ invited Fidelma, ignoring the question. ‘When did he become your King?’
    ‘After he seized the throne from King Godepert and married his sister, Theodota. That was four years ago.’
    ‘I thought you said he succeeded Perctarit …?’
    ‘Ah, you have a sharp memory. Perctarit was a joint king with his brother, Godepert. But the two brothers were at war with each other. Both were as bad as one another. Grimoald was then Duke of Benevento. He assassinated Godepert and eventually drove Perctarit into exile. It is Grimoald who hails Michael as the warrior-protector of our nation. We need that protection for we have many enemies. Even now Grimoald is campaigning against the Byzantines in the south. In his absence, Lupus the Wolf, the Duke of Friuli, is Regent. Friuli is a city far to the east of here.’
    ‘You seem to live in turbulent times,’ Fidelma