Smoke in the Wind sf-11

by Peter Tremayne

  She shook her head. ‘Feral cats, yes, but not such beasts as that.’

  ‘It probably came in here after rodents. There are plenty about,’ Eadulf said, almost cheerful now.

  Against threats of a tangible nature, Eadulf was fearless. Against anything that smacked of the supernatural, he was as apprehensive as a small child. Fidelma was smiling inwardly. It was almost the reverse with her. What was it that her mentor, the Brehon Morann, used to say? Nature is a strange architect.

  ‘Let us hope that we do not encounter any more such creatures,’ she observed, turning back to the task in hand. ‘Bring the candle again, Eadulf.’

  Once more she bent down to the dried bloodstains. ‘I am sure that someone was stabbed with this knife and bled profusely here.’

  She gestured to Eadulf to keep the candle low to the floor. Then she gave a little intake of breath, denoting satisfaction.

  ‘A trail of blood spots. Let’s see where this will lead us.’

  They followed the occasional blood spot from the refectory. It was not easy, for the spots were few and far between, and in one place it took Fidelma some fifteen minutes of searching before she could find the next spot and thus pick up the elusive trail.

  Eventually, they found themselves in the gloomy chapel.

  ‘I think the trail takes us to that sarcophagus.’ Fidelma paused at the door. The light was gloomy. The sarcophagus was a stone affair standing in the central aisle of the chapel before the high altar. It was an elegant structure made from a blue-grey coarse-grain rock. They could see as much from Eadulf’s raised candle. It was constructed as a long, coffin-shaped affair and raised about a metre above the paved floor of the chapel, with tiny columns at its head and feet. On it was an inscription in Latin: Hic Iacit Paternus.

  ‘The tomb of the Blessed Padern, founder of this community,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘There are certainly some blood spots here.’ She pointed to the surface of the tomb.

  Eadulf saw that it was true. Splashes of blood were visible on the stone slabs and against the side of the structure. He looked inquiringly at Fidelma.

  ‘I suppose we must look inside?’ He inflected the sentence to make it sound like a question.

  Fidelma did not deign to answer. She was examining the lid of the sarcophagus. ‘I think it was constructed to swing back,’ she told him. ‘Do you see where the stone is worn smooth?’

  Eadulf nodded reluctantly. He set his candle aside and reached forward with both hands to test the strength of its resistance to his weight. To his astonishment, the lid of the sarcophagus moved easily. He glanced up in satisfaction.

  Fidelma nodded quickly.

  Eadulf pushed again and the stone swung effortlessly aside.

  A smell of decay came immediately to his nostrils. He actually found it less unpleasant than the harsh odours of the decomposing food in the refectory.

  Fidelma had moved to the side of the sarcophagus and was peering into the tomb. Eadulf, more nervously, joined her in examining the contents.

  Sprawled on the remains of a crumbling skeleton and decayed winding sheet lay a new corpse. A corpse that appeared to have been unceremoniously dumped inside, without ritual, without even the customary shroud. It was the body of a man who, by the state of decomposition, could only have been dead a day or two at the most. He lay on his back, and the dark stains across his chest showed how he had come by his death. He had been stabbed several times.

  Eadulf was startled. ‘This is no religious,’ he observed, stating the obvious.

  The body was that of a short muscular man with full beard, dark and swarthy and physically unlike any Briton that Fidelma had ever seen. His clothes consisted of a sleeveless leather jerkin, and leather-patched pants which were rolled up to the knees. His legs and feet were bare. He wore bronze and copper bracelets on which were curious patterns and a neckpiece with a symbol like a lightning stroke. Around his waist was a belt from which hung an empty sword scabbard.

  Eadulf let out an uncharacteristic whistle.

  Fidelma regarded him with faint surprise. Not only was the whistle uncharacteristic but it was not often that Eadulf departed from deferential behaviour in a church.

  ‘Does the body mean anything to you?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Hwicce.’

  Fidelma looked bewildered.

  ‘The symbols on his bracelets indicate he is a warrior of the Hwicce,’ explained Eadulf, pointing.

  ‘That information leaves me none the wiser, Eadulf. Who-ekka?’ Fidelma tried to pronounce the phonetics.

  ‘The Hwicce comprise a sub-kingdom of Mercia which borders on the kingdoms of the Britons called Gwent and Dumnonia. The Hwicce are a mixture of Angles and Saxons, a fierce warrior people not yet converted to the true faith, and ruled by their own kings. I last heard that Eanfrith was their ruler. They supported the pagan king of Mercia, Penda, when he was alive. He had no time for Christian virtues.’

  ‘So, the report received by Gwnda was correct,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘It does appear that there was a Saxon raid on this place and the community have been taken off as captives.’

  Eadulf was leaning forward. He pointed to the man’s necklet with its engraving of a lightning stroke.

  ‘That is the symbol of Thunor, our pagan god of lightning.’

  Fidelma looked down, her brows drawn together as she examined the lightning flash. Her mind was turning over the facts.

  ‘Here is another mystery. The Saxon warrior is placed in the sarcophagus of the Blessed Padern. He has been stabbed to death. The evidence suggests that he was stabbed in the refectory with a knife being used to carve meat during the meal. If this was done in the course of a Saxon raid, why was he carried here and placed in this sarcophagus? Why didn’t his comrades carry him away?’

  Eadulf was frowning. ‘It would be the normal thing to do,’ he agreed. ‘The Hwicce, especially, do not believe in letting their dead fall into the hands of their enemies if they can avoid it. He should have been removed and buried at sea. The Hwicce are still revered by the Saxon kingdoms.’

  Fidelma examined him curiously. ‘Why so?’

  ‘They still follow the old ways. The dark paths of Frige and Tiw are beset with sacrifice and darkness.’

  Fidelma was scornful. ‘Nothing in that is worthy of reverence.’

  ‘It might be because they are frontiersmen, still carving their kingdom out of the territory of the Britons who were most hostile to the advance of the Angles and Saxons. They have retained their belief in the original gods of the people. Their kings still claim that they are descended from Woden, the chief of the gods.’ Eadulf hesitated.

  ‘And?’ Fidelma was not encouraging.

  ‘In spite of the coming of the Faith, all our kings from the land of the West Saxons to Bernica still claim such a lineal descent from the god Woden.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips cynically. ‘At least my people do not have to claim they descend from gods and goddesses to seek leadership and obedience.’

  Eadulf flushed slightly. While Fidelma was logically right, he still felt that criticism of his culture was implied. He decided to deflect the subject.

  ‘Why would the Hwicce raid this godforsaken coast? We are nearly two hundred kilometres from their kingdom. Why would they raid here? Why leave the place so immaculate and why leave one of their number in a Christian tomb?’

  ‘That is something which we must discover. Let us leave our pagan friend in the sarcophagus for the time being. Our next step is to search for more evidence before we journey to — what was the name of the place where the young boy, Dewi, reported the Saxons had killed some of the brothers?’

  ‘Llanferran.’

  ‘That’s right. Llanferran.’

  Eadulf gave a deep sigh. ‘None of this even begins to make sense to me. It is one unreasonable alternative facing another.’

  ‘When you consider all the possibilities, it is the most reasonable explanation that provides an answer,’ Fidelma assured him.
‘Most things are illogical until you have the information which explains them. Come, let us see what else we can discover in this place.’

  Fidelma helped Eadulf return the lid to its normal position. She was about to lead the way out of the chapel when something else caught her eye and she paused, staring intently at the altar.

  ‘We almost missed that,’ she said, nodding towards it.

  Eadulf looked at the bare altar and frowned. ‘Missed what?’ he demanded.

  Fidelma sighed impatiently. ‘Come, you should know better. Look, observe.’

  Eadulf turned back to the altar. ‘There is nothing there,’ he protested. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Fidelma. ‘That is precisely the matter.’

  Eadulf was about to question her further when the realisation finally came to him. ‘There is no crucifix there. No altar candles; no icons.’

  ‘Precisely. Just as we may expect after a raid, the valuables are gone.’

  As they turned to leave, just behind the chapel door they discovered another curious object. It was the figure of a man made from twists of straw bound together with pieces of string.

  Fidelma was examining it with a thoughtful expression when Eadulf interrupted.

  ‘I can see no reason why the Hwicce would raid this place,’ he commented. ‘Surely the missing icons and treasures here would not constitute great wealth?’

  ‘Your people keep slaves, don’t you? Perhaps the incentive lay in the sale of the community.’

  They found their way to the dormitorium and conducted a more thorough examination. It took them but a few moments, searching the sleeping quarters, to ascertain that nothing was missing from the personal belongings of the brothers. Toilet articles, a breviary and other small items remained at each separate bed.

  In the chamber which was clearly that of the Father Superior, Fidelma’s sharp eyes noticed that one small, iron-bound box lay discarded in an alcove. It was the sort of box that one might expect to find valuables in, but it was open and empty. Nor, as she pointed out, was there a crucifix in the room. The chamber of a Father Superior would usually contain a fairly valuable cross. That one had hung in the room until recently was evident by the dusty shadow marks outlining its position on the wall.

  However, the Father Superior’s personal belongings, toiletries and other items, and a collection of books in Greek, Latin and Hebrew, showing that Father Clidro had been something of a scholar, were all neatly stacked on a shelf. One volume even lay open on his desk with a metal page marker indicating the spot where he had left off reading.

  ‘This is truly a strange affair,’ observed Eadulf.

  ‘That I’ll grant you,’ agreed Fidelma, but she could not help adding mischievously, ‘but certainly not one that is sinister in the sense of any dark forces at work.’

  ‘We have looked through all the buildings. Let us find our way to Llanferran. Our horses are restless.’

  They could hear a protesting whinny from the animals they had left tethered outside.

  ‘They remind me that we have not looked in the stables or animal pens,’ replied Fidelma. ‘We must be thorough.’

  Eadulf screwed his face into a dismissive grimace. ‘We know that there is nothing there. Brother Cyngar looked. He told us.’

  ‘He also told us that he had looked round the community’s buildings and found nothing. Yet we have found a great deal.’

  Eadulf nodded glumly. She was right, of course.

  They left the dormitorium and went outside. ‘The gate seems to have blown open,’ Eadulf remarked.

  ‘Leave it,’ Fidelma advised. ‘It will not take us long to look at the animal enclosures.’

  Brother Cyngar had been right. They were empty. All the livestock had gone. However, Fidelma insisted on looking carefully round, trying to spot the slightest thing that was out of the ordinary. From the enclosures they went to the large barn beyond, next to which stood a smith’s forge. The brazier was filled with grey ash, and cold. It was some time since a fire had been kindled here. The barn doors were open. Fidelma halted and looked inside. Cyngar had said he had gone to the barn and glanced inside but found it empty. Certainly, as they stood on the threshold they could see that there were no animals inside. There was nothing supernatural about their disappearance; the ground was stony and hard and the animals could easily have been driven off without trace.

  ‘Brother Cyngar said that the community possessed two mules. Why are there half a dozen stalls?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Visitors, of course,’ Fidelma responded. ‘The community provided hospitality for travellers and pilgrims passing through here. It would be natural to provide shelter for their horses.’

  She walked inside and carefully peered into each individual stall. When she reached the end of the line of stalls on the left, she turned round. Something caught her eye and she glanced up. Eadulf saw the expression on her face. He was still standing in the doorway and she was looking at something directly above his head inside the door.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded, thinking that the wild cat had slunk back again.

  Fidelma’s features were grim. ‘I think that we have found Father Clidro,’ she said quietly.

  Eadulf quickly walked a few paces inside the barn before he turned and looked up.

  There was a pulley hanging from a rope attached to one of the main beams of the roof. Another rope stretched from a support beam to the pulley and was threaded through it. At the end of this hung the body of a man.

  He wore the tonsure of St John and dark robes which marked him as not an ordinary religieux but a man of rank within the community. But they were ripped, torn and bloodied. The angle of the head showed that the rope had broken his neck. He was an elderly man. A frail man.

  Eadulf exhaled sharply and genuflected.

  ‘Release the rope,’ Fidelma said quietly, pointing to it.

  Eadulf went to where the rope was secured and loosened it, lowering the body gently to the straw-covered floor. It was clear that the man was not long dead, something which surprised Fidelma.

  ‘I think you will find that the old man has been flogged before he was hanged,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘I saw the tears in the back of his robe as I lowered him.’

  With Eadulf’s help, Fidelma rolled the corpse over and checked. ‘A severe flogging,’ she confirmed. ‘What manner of man could do this to such an old one?’

  ‘Do you really think that this is Father Clidro? But if so, he was not killed at the time the community was raided. Look at the way the blood is comparatively fresh! I would say that he was killed not more than a day ago.’

  ‘There is no means of knowing for certain that he is Father Clidro but the odds are certainly in favour of it. He must have been of this community and he wears robes of rank. .’ Her voice trailed off.

  Eadulf became aware that Fidelma’s eyes had widened. She was staring over his shoulder.

  He turned round swiftly.

  There were three men in the doorway of the barn. The man in the centre stood with hands on hips. On either side, his dour-looking companions had bows in their hands. The bows were drawn, arrows ready, and aimed at Fidelma and himself.

  Chapter Eight

  Fidelma and Eadulf did not move from their positions. They froze as they saw the arrows pointing unwaveringly at them.

  The man in the middle, standing with hands on hips, was smiling at them. He was a slim, youthful-looking man, quite handsome in a way. His hair was a tousled bushy crop of red-brown, his eyes blue and piercing. He was clad in the dress of a warrior, a close-fitting leather jerkin over a woollen shirt, and tight leather trousers and boots. A sword hung from his right side and a hunter’s knife from his left.

  Fidelma’s eyes widened slightly as she beheld the gold torc which he wore round his neck. Years ago, in her own country, it had been the symbol of a hero, usually a princely warrior. The torc was a ring of fashioned gold, curved to fit closely round the neck. It was, she observed, highly
decorative, ending in terminals which were the focus of elaborate engravings. Torcs were now old-fashioned in the five kingdoms and no one wore them any more except on some state occasions, and then only rarely. She knew from experience that the torc was common to many peoples in Britain and Gaul.

  She also saw that he was wearing a more delicately wrought red gold chain which fell to his chest. It was of beautiful workmanship, exquisitely made and of some value. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Wearing two such valuable and delicate objects detracted from the impact of each and created only an impression of ostentation and little taste.

  ‘Well, well,’ the young man finally intoned, regarding them with his smile still in place, ‘what have we here?’

  Fidelma slowly straightened up, keeping her hands slightly away from her body so that the bowmen could see that she posed no threat. Eadulf hesitated a moment and then followed her lead. The sounds of horses on the paved courtyard outside came to their ears. Clearly, the man and his two archer companions had an escort.

  ‘I am Sister Fidelma and this is Brother Eadulf,’ she began.

  The young man’s smile broadened. It was an expression that caused Fidelma to feel uncomfortable. The smile was cold, merciless; the sort of expression with which a hunter might observe the helplessness of his prey.

  ‘A Gwyddel and another Saxon, from your names?’ He glanced at his companions. ‘Well, lads, here are strange companions.’ He turned back to them, still wearing his sinister smile. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I am a dálaigh, what you call a barnwr-’

  ‘I did not ask who you were,’ interrupted the young man sharply. ‘I asked what you were doing here.’

  ‘I am answering you. My companion and I are acting under the commission of your king, Gwlyddien, to investigate the report of the disappearance of this community. .’

  To her surprise the young man burst out laughing. It was a laugh without mirth.