Smoke in the Wind

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘An excellent idea!’ agreed Gwlyddien.

  Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Why did this township . . . ?’

  ‘The township of Llanwnda,’ supplied the abbot.

  ‘Why did this township of Llanwnda,’ she stumbled a little over the pronunciation, ‘ask for a judge? I presume that a barnwr occupies the same position as a dálaigh in my country? Is there any connection between that request and the disappearance of the religious community?’

  Abbot Tryffin shook his head firmly. ‘The lord of Pen Caer, whose township it is, sent for a judge on an entirely unrelated matter. A young girl was raped and murdered by her boyfriend. She was a virgin. In such rural townships this is a most serious crime. The boy was apparently lucky not to be beaten to death by the outraged locals. No, there is definitely no connection between the two matters.’

  ‘Then I see no reason to delay. We can be ready to depart for Llanpadern with Brother . . . ?’

  ‘Brother Meurig.’

  ‘. . . with Brother Meurig in the morning. However, you have said that it is a journey of over twenty kilometres and Brother Eadulf has not been well . . .’

  ‘I shall be coming too,’ interrupted Eadulf coldly. ‘I am not so infirm or without talent that I cannot be useful in this matter.’

  ‘Horses can be supplied for the journey,’ Gwlyddien offered, ignoring the ill-temper of Eadulf’s tone.

  ‘Then we are agreed.’ Eadulf looked defiantly at Fidelma, who was wondering why he seemed upset at her attempt to make matters easy for him.

  ‘We are agreed,’ she echoed.

  ‘Excellent. It is well beyond midday and our meal awaits.’ Abbot Tryffin rose from his place. ‘After you have both eaten and rested, we will go in search of Brother Cyngar. Brother Meurig is also in the abbey. Ah . . .’ He turned to look at Fidelma and Eadulf as a thought suddenly struck him. ‘I forgot. Among the nobles and the religious, we can speak the language of Éireann and, indeed, Greek, Latin, and some Hebrew, but the ordinary people speak only the language of the Cymry. You will need an interpreter.’

  ‘Your language presents no problem to me,’ Fidelma replied, lapsing into Cymraeg. ‘I served my novitiate with several sisters from the kingdom of Gwynedd and learnt from them. However, there will be much in the way of your legal language that I might not be able to understand, although I shall try my best.’

  Eadulf was not asked if he understood, nor did he volunteer that he had any knowledge.

  ‘Then there seems no impediment to your progress,’ Abbot Tryffin said in approval. ‘Brother Meurig will be able to advise you if you have difficulties.’

  ‘We should be grateful for that,’ agreed Fidelma.

  ‘Then let us adjourn to our meal.’

  Chapter Four

  It was cold but no frost lay on the ground when the three horses moved out of the gates of the abbey of Dewi Sant. The horses moved in line, led by a tall figure on a grey mare. Brother Meurig rode at a steady walking pace, while behind him came Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf on two spirited cobs, short-legged, strong beasts. Meurig was wrapped against the early morning chill in a great cloak that was almost the colour of the horse he rode. His companions were also enveloped in heavy woollen mantles.

  Abbot Tryffin had sent a man to fetch the travelling bags of Fidelma and Eadulf from Brother Rhodri’s hospice at Porth Clais. This gave them the time to question Brother Cyngar about his visit to Llanpadern and be ready to depart with the barnwr, Brother Meurig, as soon as the early morning light began to appear over the easterly hills.

  Fidelma and Eadulf had both been impressed with the serious and practical attitude of Brother Cyngar. However, the young monk was unable to add much more than they had already been told by Abbot Tryffin. Fidelma had questioned him closely on the detail of what he had observed. He was certainly pragmatic, and showed his eye for detail as he patiently went through a description of the abandoned buildings and their condition.

  The young monk, far from being overwhelmed by the idea of sorcery and evil, simply accepted the idea that what could not be explained by natural means must, therefore, be attributable to supernatural ones.

  After leaving Brother Cyngar, Fidelma and Eadulf had been conducted to the abbey’s scriptorum where Brother Meurig was checking some books of law. Brother Meurig was a tall man, towering even over Fidelma who was considered to be of more than average height. He was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and high cheekbones. His hair was greying and his dark eyes were sunken, the right eye carrying a cast which gave him a slightly sinister appearance. His mournful features were not reflected by the bright friendliness of his greeting.

  He spoke to Fidelma in her own language, turned to Eadulf and spoke an equally fluent Saxon to him. In fact, it appeared that Brother Meurig spoke several languages and all fairly fluently.

  ‘How do you speak Saxon so well?’ queried Eadulf, surprised by the man’s ability.

  ‘I was a prisoner among the Mercians for several years.’ Brother Meurig pointed to a scar which ran round his throat and had been disguised by the cowled robe he wore. ‘See here, the mark of the Saxon slave collar. That was over ten years ago when Penda ruled that kingdom. He was an evil man, that one. Penda was born a pagan and died a pagan, serving none other than his god Woden.’

  ‘But you escaped?’ Eadulf asked, trying not to feel embarrassed, although Meurig spoke without rancour.

  ‘After Oswy of Northumbria defeated Penda and slew him at Winwaed Field, when Mercia was thrown into disarray, that was when many of the slaves he had taken, particularly Christian monks such as I, were released and allowed to return to their own lands.’

  ‘And now you are a barnwr . . . a judge of the courts of Dyfed,’ Fidelma concluded.

  Brother Meurig smiled in satisfaction. ‘Even as you are a judge, Sister Fidelma,’ he said. ‘A dálaigh is the equivalent of a barnwr. We have much in common.’

  ‘I have heard that many of your laws are similar to the laws of the Brehons of Éireann. I am sure that I will have much to learn from you, Brother Meurig.’

  ‘Your reputation precedes you, Sister. I doubt whether I shall be able to teach you much,’ pointed out the barnwr affably.

  ‘Have you have been told what has happened at Llanpadern?’ Eadulf asked.

  Brother Meurig nodded swiftly. ‘But the matter is not in my hands.’

  ‘Do you have an opinion about it?’ Eadulf pressed.

  ‘An opinion?’ Brother Meurig sniffed deprecatingly. ‘I have heard that Prince Cathen believes that it might be a raid by Ceredigion for hostages. My opinion is that the idea is possible although unlikely.

  ‘Is there another logical explanation?’

  Brother Meurig shook his head.

  ‘No other explanation presents itself to you?’ Fidelma queried.

  ‘None that I can think of.’

  ‘Then you do not believe, as Abbot Tryffin seems to suspect, that the community might have fallen foul of some black art - spirited away by the forces of darkness,’ Eadulf asked in all seriousness.

  Brother Meurig chuckled dryly.

  ‘The forces of darkness have better things to do than waste time in performing conjuring tricks, Brother Eadulf.’

  There was a ghost of a smile on Fidelma’s lips. ‘When you have eliminated all other explanations, whatever remains, no matter how incredible, must be the answer,’ she observed. ‘Even the black arts.’

  ‘From what I have heard of your reputation, I believe that the realms of darkness would be the last place where you would seek answers, Sister.’

  ‘Ah, you are so wrong, Brother Meurig. The realms of darkness are the first place to search when you are dealing with evil. The evil condition of the human mind is such a place of darkness that the entities of the Otherworld are but drifting ethereal smoke by comparison.’

  Brother Meurig seemed amused. ‘I intend to leave for Pen Caer at first light, so that we may be there by dusk. You may spend the night at the township and go on to
Llanpadern in the morning. That would be the safest thing to do.’

  ‘Safest?’ Fidelma caught the word.

  ‘Pen Caer is an area which has been beset by highway thieves of late. Even religious are not immune from their attentions.’

  ‘On our journey tomorrow, you will have to tell me more about the place,’ Fidelma said as they left.

  ‘There it is! That’s Llanwnda! That is the seat of the lord of Pen Caer.’

  They had been riding most of the day, taking the journey in an easy fashion without tiring their mounts, stopping now and then for water and once for the midday meal. The track along which they rode was parallel to the coastline and the countryside offered such a variety of scenery as to be impressive. Moorland and crag, rolling cultivated lands and deep wooded valleys, river gorges and even tidal marshes bordered their road. Now and then they came close to where Meurig pointed out towering sea cliffs lining the shore between the land and the restless seas beyond.

  It was late afternoon; the sky was a solid mass of grey-tinged clouds and dusk was not far off. They could feel it in the chill, gloomy air. Brother Meurig brought his mare to a halt on a rise at a crossroads marked by an ancient round-headed stone with a cross inscribed on it, set back in the hedgerow. He gestured towards some buildings which could just be made out through the trees, standing less than a kilometre away.

  ‘That is Llanwnda!’ Brother Meurig called again.

  Eadulf found the name difficult to pronounce. ‘Clanoo’n-da, ’ was the closest he could come. ‘What’s the name mean?’ he asked.

  ‘A llan is an enclosure,’ replied Brother Meurig. ‘The chieftain here is called Gwnda and it takes its name from him.’

  ‘G’oon-da?’ Eadulf tried to repeat the name phonetic-ally.

  ‘That’s right. Gwnda.’

  ‘And the large hill beyond,’ interposed Sister Fidelma. ‘What is that? Is that the hill where the community of Llanpadern is situated?’

  Brother Meurig shook his head. ‘No, that hill is Pen Caer, from which this district takes its name. The community of Llanpadern is on the lower slope of Carn Gelli just to the south of us. Can you see the hill far over to your left?’

  The area was so wooded that it was difficult, but she could just make out the contours.

  ‘We shall find lodgings in the township. Probably Gwnda himself will provide us with hospitality, and then you may be able to pick up some gossip on what people think has happened at Llanpadern.’

  ‘A sound approach,’ conceded Fidelma. ‘I hope we will also have time to observe some of your inquiries on the case that you have come to judge. It would be a good opportunity for me to observe the practice of the law of Dyfed.’

  ‘I would like nothing better than to have you sit alongside me in trying this matter,’ agreed Brother Meurig. ‘But the practice is little different from the one you use.’

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded Eadulf suddenly. He had been watching a strange glow from among the trees surrounding the township. It seemed like a reddish, flickering light.

  ‘It looks like a fire,’ Brother Meurig replied, his eyes widening.

  ‘We must see how we can help!’ Fidelma cried, kicking her horse with her heels, moving quickly forward.

  ‘What if the cause is raiders?’ Brother Meurig yelled desperately after her. ‘Should we not be more circumspect in our approach?’

  But Fidelma was already out of earshot with Eadulf chasing after her. Raising his eyes heavenward in resignation, Brother Meurig urged his own mount forward. They cantered along the track through the woods, for it was dangerous to move more quickly, and came to a bridge leading across a swiftly flowing stream into the township.

  ‘I don’t think it is a building on fire,’ called Eadulf as they halted on the bridge itself.

  It was not.

  Beyond the bridge they saw a square among the buildings. A crowd was gathered there, facing a central tree with their backs towards the newcomers. Men, women and children were standing in a subdued stillness, each male holding aloft a burning brand torch to create the eerie, red glow which was like a large fire. No sound at all arose from them, the flickering flames of their torches the only movement. Then a restless shudder went through the small crowd. Two men appeared out of the shadows. They seemed to be dragging a third man between them; a figure which struggled and writhed in their grip. The sounds of his sobs came clearly to the watching trio. He cried like a baby, in a high-pitched tone, wailing almost hysterically.

  With a muttered oath, unfitting for a religieux, Brother Meurig suddenly sent his horse bounding forward over the bridge and into the square. The people scattered this way and that in surprised terror.

  Eadulf cried a warning to Fidelma but she simply shrugged and urged her mount to emulate Brother Meurig’s example. Reluctantly, Eadulf followed.

  Brother Meurig had halted and Fidelma and Eadulf pulled their mounts up on either side. It suddenly became clear to Eadulf what Meurig had realised was about to happen. The struggling figure was about to be hanged on the tree.

  ‘In the name of God, what do you think you are doing?’ Meurig yelled. ‘Stop this!’

  The people shrank back but a few stood their ground in defiance. The two men who still clung to their unfortunate captive did not move.

  A thickset man, his moon face made red by the light of the burning brand torch he held, came forward to glower up at Brother Meurig. He stood, feet apart, in a belligerent attitude, his free hand resting on the hilt of the knife at his waist.

  ‘This is none of your concern, Brother! Get to your business and leave us alone.’

  ‘This is my business,’ replied Brother Meurig calmly, his voice stentorian, showing authority. ‘Let Gwnda, the lord of Pen Caer, step forward.’

  A second man had come to join the first. He carried a cudgel which he held carelessly in one hand but with such obviousness that he clearly meant it as a threat.

  ‘You’ll find the lord Gwnda probably praying in his hall should you wish to join him, Brother.’

  The man punctuated his statement with a curious barking aggressive laugh.

  Fidelma, following this conversation, caught the word llys and realised that it was the equivalent of the word lios in her own language. It meant more than a simple dwelling, more of a courtly place where a chieftain dwelt. Perhaps ‘hall’ was the best translation.

  Brother Meurig looked down at the man with an expression of repugnance.

  ‘In his hall, while anarchy rules in this place? He will answer to Gwlyddien, the king, if harm comes to any person without cause.’

  The moon-faced man blinked and glanced towards his companion with the cudgel before turning back to Brother Meurig.

  ‘There is cause enough, Brother,’ he cried in an angry voice. ‘But who are you to make threats against our lord in the name of our king?’

  ‘I am sent here by the king at the request of your lord, Gwnda. I am the barnwr from the abbey of Dewi Sant.’

  This time the moon-faced man seemed less certain of his position. It showed in a slight dropping of the shoulders, a rapid blink and a quick shifting of his weight. His companion, with the cudgel, also looked less sure of himself now. Brother Meurig took the advantage.

  ‘Bring that man here!’

  He beckoned sharply to the two men who were holding the prisoner. They glanced at the moon-faced man but, receiving no counter-instruction, they moved slowly forward with their captive still held between them. He was sobbing more quietly now, head hung low.

  ‘He is hardly more than a boy,’ muttered Fidelma, observing the prisoner closely. She had addressed Brother Meurig in her own language, but the moon-faced man glanced at her distrustfully. It was clear that he also understood her tongue.

  ‘Boy or not, he is a killer and will be punished,’ he stated in the local speech.

  ‘This is not our way of punishment,’ returned Brother Meurig. ‘What do you mean by it?’

  ‘This boy raped and killed my da
ughter! I will have my vengeance!’ the moon-faced man said determinedly.

  ‘You will not have vengeance.’ Brother Meurig’s tone was biting. ‘However, you may see justice done. What is your name?’

  ‘I am Iorwerth the smith.’

  ‘And this boy’s name?’

  ‘He is Idwal.’

  ‘Very well, Iorwerth the smith. You will lead us to Gwnda’s hall. You two men, bring the boy, and see that he is not harmed otherwise you will answer to me.’ His sharp commands allowed for no dissent. Brother Meurig glared at the crowd who had retreated some yards away as if to distance themselves from Iorwerth and his friends. ‘The rest of you will disperse to your homes.’ He glanced towards the man who held the cudgel, who now appeared crestfallen. ‘And what is your name, my friend?’

  The man’s eyes were still sullen. ‘I am Iestyn. I am a farmer here.’

  ‘Well, Iestyn, what justification do you have for your involvement in this affair?’

  ‘I am a friend to Iorwerth.’

  ‘Well, friend to Iorwerth, I shall make it your duty to ensure that these people disperse to their homes in safety. If there is any sign of unrest or further rebellion here . . . why, I would hold you personally responsible. You would not like that, I am sure.’

  Without another glance, Brother Meurig turned his back and motioned the man called Iorwerth to lead the way. There was a hesitation and then the moon-faced man shrugged and began to move forward. Brother Meurig started after him, still on his horse, while the two men followed, propelling the boy before them.

  Bringing up the rear, Eadulf glanced towards Fidelma and smiled grimly. ‘It seems that Brother Meurig has more of a commanding personality than I gave him credit for,’ he whispered.

  Fidelma grimaced. ‘He is what he is; a barnwr,’ she replied in a tone which implied rebuke.

  The procession wound its way along the short distance between the buildings towards a large enclosure of barns and outhouses. Among these stood one tall edifice whose imposing structure marked it as the hall of the lord of the area. Two men stood outside the door. They seemed surprised by the arrival of the procession. One of them came forward as he recognised Iorwerth.