Free The Haunted Abbot by Peter Tremayne Page B

in the doorway, feet wide apart, a naked sword in one hand, his shield ready on the other arm in a defensive position. That he was a warrior was easy to see but who or what manner of warrior was more difficult to recognise. He wore a burnished helmet on which was fashioned the head and wings of a goose. The goose had its beak open in a warning; its neck was curved and low while its wings were swept back on either side of the helmet. It was a truly frightening image. Eadulf vaguely recalled hearing that in some cultures the goose was an emblem of battle. It seemed so now, for below this helmet was a faceguard and only the bright eyes of the warrior glinted in the candlelight from the chapel, emanating a threatening malignancy.
    A long black fur cloak hid the body, although Eadulf saw the glint of a breastplate underneath. The arm that held the menacing sword was muscular. For several long seconds there was absolute silence in the chapel. Then the man spoke, or rather his voice was raised so that it reverberated throughout the building. His Saxon was stilted and accented.
    ‘Know me, Cild, abbot of Aldred’s Abbey. Look upon me and know me.’

Chapter Four
    There was a moment of utter silence in the chapel.
    Abbot Cild must have been a man of iron control for he did not seem perturbed at all by the threatening appearance of the warrior. When he replied it was in a sneering tone.
    ‘I do not recognise men who come armed into Christ’s house with their features disguised by war helmets.’
    The warrior responded with a fierce smack of his sword across his shield. The sound was like a thunderclap.
    ‘You who pretend not to know the crest I wear on my helmet, you who pretend not to know my voice … you know me well. I am Garb son of Gadra. Tell your brethren - do I lie?’
    Abbot Cild hesitated.
    ‘If you say so, so you are,’ he responded tightly.
    ‘I am Garb of the Plain of the Yew Trees.’
    ‘And if you are,’ rejoined the abbot, still not cowed, ‘then you commit sacrilege in the manner of your coming. Put down your sword.’
    The Irish warrior, for Eadulf had identified the man by his accent as well as the name he had given, gave a sharp laugh.
    ‘I value my life too much to put down my weapon in this place. I will keep my sword.’
    ‘Then tell us what you want and be gone.’
    ‘I will—’ The man stopped short and turned quickly to the side. ‘Cild, tell your brethren they are dead men if they come further!’
    Two men with drawn bows suddenly appeared at the Irish warrior’s sides. Eadulf, too, had noticed that several of the Saxon brethren had been edging along the side aisle of the chapel. To Eadulf’s surprise, they carried short swords in their hands. Their obvious intention was to disarm or close with the intruder. Cild rapped out an order. They halted, realising that the arrows were aimed unerringly at them.
    Abbot Cild waved them back. ‘Return to your places, Brothers. Let us deal with this madman peacefully.’
    The Irish warrior turned back to him. ‘Madman? That is good, coming from your mouth, Cild. But it is wise that you tell your men to desist for it is not my intention to join poor Botulf there in an early grave.’
    Eadulf started at the use of his friend’s name on the lips of this warrior who called himself Garb.
    ‘Don’t profane his name by uttering it!’ cried Abbot Cild, his voice filled with an angry emotion for the first time.
    ‘Botulf was a good friend to my family, Cild, as well you know,’ went on the warrior in a calm tone. ‘It is in your mouth that his name is profaned. It was convenient for you that he was killed on this day of all days. Maybe it is another debt to be added to your account?’
    Abbot Cild stared at the man woodenly.
    ‘Brother Botulf was killed by a thief,’ he finally said. ‘An outlaw breaking into this abbey. He will soon be caught and dealt with.’
    ‘A thief? Perhaps. I still call it convenient.’ There was irony in the man’s