Shroud for the Archbishop by Peter Tremayne Read Free Book Online Page A

had entered.

    Epiphania let forth a low moan.
    ‘What does it mean, sister? Oh, what does it mean?’
    ‘I won’t know until I have dressed and accompanied the custodes to the palace,’ Fidelma replied, trying to sound nonchalant in order to disguise her own apprehension.
    The deaconess looked confused, hesitated and then also withdrew.
    Fidelma stood for a moment feeling cold and very lonely. Then she turned and forced herself to pour water into a basin. Mechanically, she began her toilet, each movement made with a slow deliberation to calm her inner turmoil.
    Ten minutes later, serenely calm on the outside, Fidelma went into the courtyard. The deaconess stood by the gate and Fidelma was aware that the brethren of the house were peering nervously from their rooms. As well as the young officer who had come to her cubiculum, there were two members of the Lateran Guard standing in the courtyard.
    The young man nodded approval at her appearance and took a step forward.
    ‘Before we proceed, I have to ask you formally whether you are Fidelma of Kildare from the kingdom of Ireland?’
    ‘I am,’ Fidelma bowed her head slightly.
    ‘I am the tesserarius Licinius of the Lateran Guard, acting under orders of the Superista, the military governor of the Lateran. I have been ordered to accompany you immediately into the presence of the Superista.’
    ‘I understand,’ Fidelma said, not really understanding at all. ‘Am I accused of some crime?’
    The young officer frowned and contrived to raise a shoulder and let it fall as an indication of his ignorance.
    ‘Once again, I can only say that I am following my orders, sister.’

    ‘I will come,’ sighed Fidelma, there being nothing else for her to do in the circumstances.
    The deaconess opened the gate, her face pale and lips trembling.
    Fidelma, walking side by side with the officer, passed through it followed by the two guards, one of whom had now lit a brand torch to light their way through the dark night streets of the city.
    Apart from the distant yelp of a dog, the city was amazingly silent. There was a crisp stillness to the air, a chill that Fidelma had not noticed before. It was cold, though not as icy as mornings in her native land, but enough for her to be glad of the warmth of her woollen robe. It still lacked an hour before the first streaks of dawn light would thrust their probing fingers into the eastern sky beyond the distant hills. Only the rhythmic hollow slap of the leather soles of her sandals and the heavier soldiers’ studded caligulae on the paved street made any noise.
    They proceeded without speaking down the broad thoroughfare of the Via Merulana, south towards the tall dominating dome of the Basilica of St John, which dwarfed the complex of the Lateran Palace. It was not far, no more than a thousand metres, or so Fidelma had worked out in her daily passage to and from the palace. The gates to the palace were lit by flickering torches and custodes stood ready, swords drawn and held across their breasts in the traditional stance.
    The officer led his charge up the steps and through the atrium where Fidelma had waited for so long in her attempt to see the Holy Father. They immediately crossed the hall and exited through a side door, moving along a bare, stone-paved passageway, whose gauntness seemed at odds with the richness
of the preceding hall. They turned across a small courtyard, in the centre of which an ornate fountain gushed water, and then came to a chamber where two more guards stood. The officer halted and knocked gently on the door.
    At a called instruction from beyond the door, the young man opened it and motioned Fidelma to go inside.
    ‘Fidelma of Kildare!’ he announced, then withdrew, shutting the door behind her.
    Fidelma halted by the door and peered round.
    She was in a large room hung with tapestries, but not so richly furnished as the chamber in which she had met Gelasius. The furnishings were minimal and spoke of utility