Smoke in the Wind

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘On the contrary, things have been made abundantly clear.’

  ‘Clear?’

  ‘It is now clear that Prince Cathen’s suspicions about Dyfed’s neighbour, King Artglys of Ceredigion, have a firm foundation. Ceredigion is trying to create a situation where Gwlyddien and his army are persuaded to attack the Hwicce. While they are away, Artglys will march into Dyfed to set up a puppet ruler answerable to him.’

  ‘Do you mean Clydog?’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘So what you are saying is that the affair of Llanpadern was staged to force Gwlyddien’s hand? That this Morgan marched on Llanpadern because Gwlyddien’s son Rhun was a religieux in that community?’

  ‘Precisely so.’

  ‘I still do not understand the details . . . why take all the members of the community prisoner and then wait a day or two before killing some of them and staging that first elaborate charade of an Hwicce attack?’

  Fidelma was nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘I think that might be explained. Brother Cyngar and the boy Idwal were not expected to arrive at Llanpadern that morning. Whoever did the deed did not even know that they had visited Llanpadern and found the community missing. Why the wait before starting to kill their prisoners? Because whoever took the community had to wait until the Saxon ship was sighted before staging the first “attack”. Cyngar and Idwal upset the plan from the first by arriving on the scene too early.’

  ‘But what of the death of the girl Mair?’

  ‘We still have to work that into the scheme of things.’ She stood up. ‘There are a couple of people we need to question before we can clarify matters there. Come.’

  She led the way into the township. A few people were beginning to drift back to their houses, having been assured that the Saxon ship had sailed.

  ‘Should we try to stop Iestyn taking some townsfolk to see the Hwicce leaving?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Are you sure that the bodies of the religieux are well hidden?’ Eadulf asserted they were, and Fidelma went on: ‘Then we will leave that matter for a while and finish our other business.’

  They had halted before a small building by which stood a stone statuette of a woman on horseback with a basket of fruit. Fidelma knew it was the old pagan horse goddess Epona, whom the ancients regarded as the symbol of fertility and health. The building was clearly the township’s apothecary shop. There was light and movement behind the thick, opaque glass windows.

  Fidelma went inside. Eadulf followed, mystified. An elderly man was sitting at a bench pounding some herbs in a mortar with a wooden pestle. He looked up as they entered.

  ‘Ah, you are the dálaigh from Cashel, eh? Exciting times, eh? But not the first time we have had to abandon our township and take to the forests. The Ceredigion have sailed into the bay more than once in my lifetime, not to mention the Saxons.’ The old man was clearly of a loquacious temperament.

  ‘I presume that you are Elisse the apothecary?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘I am. How can I be of service?’

  ‘Did Brother Meurig seek you out before he was killed?’

  ‘Ah, that was a sad death. Sadder that the people lost their senses and killed that young boy. Justice should not be an act of mere vengeance.’

  ‘Did Brother Meurig ask your opinion on the death of Mair?’

  The apothecary shook his head. ‘He did not, although I was told that he wanted to speak with me. However . . . his time was short.’

  ‘Then will you answer a couple of questions for me? I know what he wanted to ask you.’

  The apothecary regarded her expectantly. ‘I am at your service, Sister. Ask away,’ he invited with gravity.

  ‘You were called to examine the body of the girl Mair, weren’t you?’

  Elisse nodded in affirmation. ‘Sad when one so young departs this life. Sad indeed.’

  ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘I would say that she was strangled first. Bruising and abrasions around her neck showed that.’

  ‘Strangled first?’ Fidelma picked up on the word.

  ‘The other wounds were made after death, as if in some frenzy.’

  Fidelma was leaning forward eagerly. ‘Other wounds? What other wounds?’

  Elisse regarded her in surprise for a moment. ‘You were surely told about the knife wounds?’

  Fidelma glanced at Eadulf. ‘We have heard no mention of knife wounds. I heard that there was blood on her lower clothing. But we were told that this indicated that she had been raped and that she was a virgin.’

  ‘No, that was the conclusion that Gwnda leapt to when he pointed the blood out to me. He and Iorwerth claimed that the girl must have been raped before death. Iorwerth believed his daughter to be a virgin.’

  ‘What are you saying exactly? That she was not?’

  ‘I am afraid not. I paid particular attention to the matter for when my wife was cleaning her body for burial she was troubled by wounds made on the upper inner thigh. I realised that two wounds had been made by a broad-bladed knife. This was the source of the heavy bleeding.’

  Fidelma was silent as she contemplated what she had been told.

  ‘I explained that there’ - the apothecary gave an embarrassed shrug - ‘there was no sign of sexual molestation. And I would guarantee that she was no virgo intacta.’

  ‘Could you tell by examination?’

  ‘My wife did that. She also told me that she was not surprised, for a year ago the girl had approached her and asked about ways to prevent pregnancy. I speak boldly, Sister, but you must know how women hand down such lore.’

  ‘Mair asked your wife this question?’

  ‘You may ask her yourself.’ The apothecary turned as if to call her but Fidelma restrained him with a shake of her head.

  ‘There is no need. Your word as an apothecary is good enough. That is all I want to know. It makes things very clear.’

  They left the apothecary shop and Eadulf noticed that Fidelma was walking with a light step and smiling to herself. There were many more people in the street now. It seemed that everyone had returned and there was no longer any fear of a Saxon attack. To Eadulf’s surprise, Fidelma turned back in the direction of Iorwerth’s forge.

  ‘Where now?’ he asked.

  She indicated the forge at the end of the street. ‘A final link to be put in place,’ she said mysteriously.

  They could hear Iorwerth at work before they reached the forge. He was rekindling his fire and they could hear the rasping of his bellows as he tried to get the wood to catch. He looked up with a scowl as they hitched their horses to the fence and entered the forge.

  ‘What now?’ he demanded ungraciously. ‘Are your Saxon friends going to attack us?’

  ‘There are just a few points that we need clarification on.’ Fidelma responded to his brusque manner with a pleasant smile.

  Iorwerth set down the bellows and folded his arms, glaring defiantly from one to the other. ‘Gwnda claims that you have no right to ask questions about the death of my daughter. I shall not answer those questions.’

  ‘That is fair enough,’ agreed Fidelma easily.

  Iorwerth started in surprise at her ready agreement. ‘If not my daughter’s death, then what do you want to speak to me about?’

  ‘Yesterday you had a visitor to your forge.’

  Iorwerth’s jaw clenched. ‘I have many come to the forge. It is my business.’

  ‘This man was a warrior and, I am told, a stranger to this district.’

  The smith was frowning. ‘I do not usually have warriors . . .’ He paused, and his expression told them that he had recalled the man. ‘Why do you inquire after that man?’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘As you say, he was a stranger, a warrior. His horse had loosed a shoe. I fixed it.’

  ‘You had never seen him before?’

  ‘Never. He spent a short time here. He asked for mead to drink, for which he paid, and spent
a pleasant time exchanging some gossip while I fixed his horse’s shoe. That was all.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Fidelma pressed, ‘did Elen, Gwnda’s daughter, pass by at that time?’

  ‘How did you know that?’ demanded Iorwerth, slightly surprised at the recollection. ‘She did. I remember that because the warrior asked me who she was.’

  ‘You told him, of course?’

  ‘I said that she was the daughter of Gwnda, lord of Pen Caer.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he wanted to know?’

  ‘I think he said something like, “There’s a fine-looking girl, who is she?” ’

  ‘Nothing else passed between you?’

  Iorwerth shook his head. ‘Nothing, as I recall. He passed the time of day while I fixed his horse’s shoe. We exchanged a few jokes and gossiped. That is all.’

  ‘Did he mention his name by any chance?’

  Again, Iorwerth made a negative gesture.

  ‘Nor where he came from?’

  ‘No, although I could guess.’

  ‘Really? And what was your guess?’

  ‘He was either from Ceredigion or somewhere along its borders.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Smiths are a close-knit community. It is easy to recognise types of work. From what I saw of his horse and his weapons, I could swear that the work was done in Ceredigion.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Why do you ask about this man?’

  ‘A matter of curiosity,’ smiled Fidelma. ‘Let me ask you something else. Were you ever a warrior?’

  Iorwerth looked startled. ‘Never. I have always been a smith.’

  ‘I understand that you learnt your craft in Dinas?’

  The bolt went home. Iorwerth blinked rapidly. He did not reply for a moment or two. Then he said, slowly: ‘It is many years since I was last in Dinas.’

  ‘Twenty years ago?’

  ‘That is about right. How did you know this?’

  Fidelma had taken something from her marsupium. She suddenly held it before his eyes. It was the red gold chain with the bejewelled image of the hare hanging from it.

  ‘Have you ever seen that before?’ she demanded.

  A paleness crept over Iorwerth’s features as he stared at the pendant.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘Do you recognise it?’ she insisted.

  ‘I last saw that twenty years ago. Where did you get it?’

  ‘Iolo the shepherd, before he died, gave it to Idwal. Iolo told the boy that it belonged to his mother.’

  Iorwerth stepped back as if he had received a body blow. His eyes widened and his mouth had opened slightly. He was looking at them but not seeing them. Then his features seemed to dissolve.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ he cried.

  Then, before either of them could react, he had turned, grabbed the mane of an unsaddled horse, swung himself up and gone racing away over the bridge and into the woods.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eadulf turned with grim humour. ‘Well, he certainly recognised the necklet. But what does that tell us? Indeed, what can we deduce from anything?’

  Fidelma was smiling with a dreamy satisfied air. ‘The deduction is simple, Eadulf. I believe that we have now all the pieces to set up the picture of what has happened in this place.’

  Eadulf’s surprise was only slightly less than that displayed by Iorwerth. ‘Surely you cannot mean that?’

  ‘Surely I can,’ replied Fidelma with dry mischief. ‘Let us hope our young friend Dewi returns from the abbey of Dewi Sant soon.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Then we can explain this puzzle, apportion the blame, and return to Porth Clais in search of a ship. I am sure that you urgently want to continue the journey to Canterbury?’

  Eadulf did not reply.

  ‘Good,’ went on Fidelma as if he had spoken. ‘Tonight is a chance to enjoy ourselves. The eve of All Hallows Day. The ancient pagan festival of the dead. We can join in the feasting and bonfires.’

  ‘Are you sure that you have a solution to this riddle?’ Eadulf seemed unconvinced.

  ‘I would not have said so otherwise,’ replied Fidelma quietly.

  The evening meal, served by the taciturn Buddog, was eaten in a gloomy atmosphere. Gwnda sat moodily at the head of the table, drumming his fingers occasionally on the table top. He seemed preoccupied with his thoughts. The main savoury dishes had been cleared away when Buddog brought in a plate of small cakes speckled with currants from the gooseberry bushes.

  ‘These are good,’ Eadulf said desperately, trying to ease the brooding ambience.

  ‘Have you not seen them before?’ asked Fidelma, feeling sorry for him. ‘We call them speckled bread at home and also serve them at this time of year--’

  Eadulf had bitten deeply and a spasm of agony distorted his face. He put his hand to his mouth and drew out a small metal finger ring which he held up, staring at it in surprise.

  ‘What in the name . . . ?’

  Fidelma was chuckling. ‘Don’t worry, you are not being poisoned. It is merely a tradition.’

  Eadulf turned the ring over curiously. ‘What does it mean?’ he demanded.

  He did not notice Fidelma colour a little.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ she said. ‘It is a tradition of the feast at this time of year.’

  From outside came the sound of music and voices, especially children’s, raised in singing. Eadulf’s expression clearly asked a question.

  ‘It is for the eve of All Hallows,’ Gwnda replied morosely.

  ‘Oh, the new celebration.’ Eadulf remembered that Fidelma had explained the bonfire to him.

  ‘New?’ said Fidelma sharply. ‘Come, Eadulf, surely you know of the antiquity of the feast? You have been in the five kingdoms long enough, even if you did not realise that the Britons also celebrated it.’

  ‘I know that it was Boniface, the fourth of his name to be Bishop of Rome, who introduced the celebration of All Saints’ Day fifty years ago,’ Eadulf replied stubbornly.

  ‘Because he could not stop the Gauls, Britons and Irish from celebrating the ancient festival of the New Year, the feast of Samhain. So he merely gave it a Christian guise. Isn’t that so, Gwnda?’

  The lord of Pen Caer was still moody. ‘What’s that? Oh, yes. Our people have celebrated the Calan Gaeaf since the days beyond time.’

  ‘We still call it Samhain,’ Fidelma said. ‘Many still believe it is the true start of the new year, for the old ones believed that darkness must come before rebirth and so we enter the period of darkness in these winter months before the rebirth of life. In fact,’ she smiled briefly, ‘the old ones used to say that this was the best time for women to conceive so that the baby could be born within the period of light.’

  ‘I thought it was a ceremony of the dead,’ Eadulf pointed out.

  ‘In a way,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘Because the feast marks an end and a beginning. It is thought by the ancient wise men that this was a night suspended in time when the borders of natural and supernatural become blurred. It is the period when the Otherworld becomes visible to this world . . . a time when those departed souls to whom you had done wrong in this life might return to wreak vengeance on you . . . to even the balance of good and evil . . .’

  With a crash, Gwnda pushed back his chair, and strode from the room.

  Eadulf smiled uneasily. ‘He seems to have a problem with that,’ he observed wryly.

  ‘I think that many people have a problem with it, if they truly believe it. It was the old way of trying to ensure that everyone behaved in a moral fashion towards their friends and neighbours in this life.’ She paused and held her head to one side, listening to the sounds of music and shouting from outside. ‘Let’s go and look at these celebrations. The bonfire will probably be lit by now.’

  It was a black night. The moon was still hanging low on the horizon whenever it could poke out between the clouds, but across the hills they could see s
everal bonfires here and there, bright specks in the distance. Already the township bonfire was alight and the shouts and cries of the children could be heard over the wild notes of the pipes, the beating of goatskin drums and the blare of horns. Some of the older people were dancing in a circle before the bonfire. Fidelma and Eadulf walked down to join the crowd watching the ascending flames.

  The straw figure they had seen in Iorwerth’s forge had been burnt away to almost nothing. A few remains could still be discerned on top of the fire.

  ‘Human sacrifice?’ Eadulf grinned cynically.

  Fidelma took the question seriously. ‘In olden times, it was the custom to offer a god called Taranis, the god of thunder, offerings in a wooden vessel, some say in the figure of a man made of wood. The figure symbolised the messenger to the gods.’

  Eadulf’s attention had been distracted and he seemed to be searching the crowd by the bonfire.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘I was trying to see if I could spot Iorwerth or our friend Iestyn,’ he replied. ‘I would have expected their attendance at such a celebration.’

  Fidelma agreed. She turned, and abruptly found herself facing the grinning figure of Iestyn standing behind her.

  ‘Not gone yet, Gwyddel?’ he sneered.

  ‘As you can see,’ she replied evenly. ‘However, it is to be hoped that tomorrow may be a good day for our departure.’

  ‘Tomorrow? Are you leaving tomorrow?’ His tone rose to a sharp interrogative.

  Fidelma merely moved away, drawing Eadulf with her and leaving the farmer staring suspiciously after them.

  Out of earshot, Eadulf turned to her with a worried frown. ‘Why did you say that to him? You know he will tell his friend Clydog. They’ll be waiting for us on the road.’

  ‘I just wanted to add some fuel to the simmering pot, Eadulf,’ she replied calmly. ‘Tomorrow we will have reached a resolution to this matter. I am just hoping that your trust in young Dewi is not misplaced. He should have returned here by today or tomorrow at the latest.’

  ‘I can’t see what Dewi’s arrival will do to help us now. I don’t think the authority of Gwlyddien will count for much here. Clydog has many fighting men at his disposal.’