Smoke in the Wind sf-11

by Peter Tremayne

  She mentioned this fact to Eadulf, and he looked glum.

  ‘Isn’t it best not to interfere in Brother Meurig’s investigation?’

  Fidelma was vexed by his attitude and showed it. ‘Interference? Eadulf, you know that as a dálaigh I cannot stand aside and ignore crime.’

  ‘But this is not your-’

  ‘Not my country? You have not stood aside in our adventures before and claimed that you should not be involved in them because you were a Saxon! Crime is crime in any land. Justitia omnibus — justice for all.’

  Eadulf blinked at the sharpness of her tone. ‘I meant-’ he began.

  She made a cutting motion with her hand. ‘I know what you meant.’

  They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

  Fidelma often regretted her outbursts of irritation. She knew that her quick temper and sharpness of tongue were faults. Then she remembered that her mentor, Brehon Morann, was fond of saying that the person without a fault is without life. Even so, perhaps she should try to curb her moods.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she suddenly said, surprising Eadulf. ‘Since we came to this place, I have had a curious feeling that there is much evil here. A mystery which is like a complex of threads of which we have been given several. We follow the thread a distance and find another and another but none of them lead to any centre. I think it is important that the mysteries of the death of Mair and the disappearance of the community of Llanpadern are resolved.’

  Eadulf did not respond for a moment.

  Fidelma decided to continue. ‘I know you want to proceed to Canterbury as soon as possible but I could not be at ease with myself if I did not pursue these matters to a conclusion.’

  Eadulf was forced to respond with a resigned smile. ‘I really expected no less. It is just that I am worried for your safety. .’ He hesitated and raised a shoulder, letting it fall eloquently. ‘For our safety,’ he corrected. ‘I have felt danger before but never the hostility that I have encountered here. And the threat from such a person as Clydog is something that causes me concern. If you or I should fall into his hands again. .’ He did not finish the sentence, but his meaning was clear enough.

  ‘Then we must ensure that we do not fall into the hands of that outlaw,’ Fidelma replied brightly, with more assurance than she felt.

  They were entering a small clearing in the wood and saw that it was occupied by a woodsman’s hut.

  ‘Best check that we are on the right track to Llanwnda,’ Eadulf advised.

  They noticed that the door stood partially open and Fidelma drew rein and called a hello. There was no answer.

  The small hut was a tiny affair and outside it was a pile of wood in the process of being cut, for a large-handled axe stood embedded in one of the logs, as if abandoned by the woodsman in the middle of his attempts to sever it.

  It was Eadulf who noticed it and he turned to Fidelma and silently pointed to the axe.

  Fresh blood was dripping from its blade onto the wood.

  Perhaps the woodsman had cut himself while swinging his sharp-bladed axe at the log.

  ‘Hello!’ cried Fidelma again. ‘Are you hurt? Can we help?’

  There was no sound; no movement.

  Eadulf swung down from his horse and moved to the door of the hut. For a moment he stood on the threshold staring in and then he let out an exclamation.

  ‘The man is here and unconscious, so it seems,’ he called to Fidelma, before moving into the dark interior. Fidelma was in the act of dismounting to join him when she heard his voice upraised in surprise.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded, starting forward.

  Eadulf had emerged and was leaning against the door jamb, his face pale. He stared at her for a moment as if unable to form words. ‘He’s in there. .’

  Fidelma frowned. ‘The woodsman?’ she demanded, surprised at his attitude. After all, Eadulf had studied to be an apothecary at Tuam Brecain. He was surely used to injury and violent death. ‘Is it a bad wound? Come on, Eadulf, let us help the poor man. I’ve not known you to be so squeamish before.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ Eadulf breathed.

  Frustrated, Fidelma pushed him aside and entered the small hut. The light from the door spread over the figure on the floor. She bent towards the body which was stretched just inside.

  Three facts came to her in quick succession.

  Firstly, the man’s neck was nearly severed. This had been no accident. Someone had taken the axe and swung its sharp blade with the intention of killing the man. Then, leaving him dead or dying on the floor, the assailant had returned the axe to the woodpile outside, embedding it in the log before departing.

  Secondly, the man was not a woodsman. He was wearing the robes of a religieux.

  Thirdly, she recognised the twisted, agonised features of the victim. It was Brother Meurig.

  Chapter Twelve

  They rode into Llanwnda in silence. Fidelma had spoken little on the journey from the woodsman’s hut. As they crossed the bridge over the stream into the township, they heard the clang of metal on metal from the smith’s forge, heard the rasp of the bellows and saw Iorwerth the smith at work, swinging his hammer with his muscular arm. He barely glanced in their direction as they rode by. In the square beyond the bridge, where two nights before they had watched the abortive attempt to hang Idwal, there now stood a tall stack of wood, piled high and obviously ready to be ignited into a gigantic bonfire. Children were playing here and there in groups, unconcerned, riotous, normal. There were a few groups of people in the single street. Some stood gossiping, a few cast glances filled with curiosity in their direction.

  Eadulf looked at Fidelma. He could see that she was perturbed. Indeed, the murder of a religieux was a heinous crime. When he had tried to speculate on who might have done this terrible thing, she had simply replied with her customary advice: ‘It is no use speculating without facts.’ She had refused to engage further with him, although he felt that she must be examining possibilities in her own mind as they rode along. That irritated him.

  Fidelma was not immune to Eadulf’s frustration but she was in no mood to speculate aloud. She was too busy turning matters over in her head. She had spent some time carefully examining Brother Meurig’s body. She had also inspected the hut, the axe and the surrounding area. She had found nothing at all which could be called a clue. What had Brother Meurig been doing in the woods? Had he been searching for the spot where Mair had been killed? If so, what had he stumbled on to cause him to be killed in such a vicious and maniacal fashion?

  It was no use sharing these questions with Eadulf. He would know the questions well enough but it was answers that were needed and there were none — yet. Without further information, questions remained simply questions.

  The tranquillity of Llanwnda was in sharp contrast to what they had seen in the woodsman’s hut and their experience at Llanpadern. No one seemed surprised to see them again. No one appeared to be interested in their arrival.

  ‘We’ll go directly to Gwnda,’ Fidelma said to Eadulf as they walked their horses slowly down the street towards the hall of the lord of Pen Caer.

  It was only when they had dismounted and were hitching their mounts to the posts in front of his hall that Gwnda himself appeared. He seemed ill at ease to see them.

  ‘What news from Llanpadern? You are soon back from there,’ he said in greeting. It was clear that there was no enthusiasm in his voice.

  Fidelma examined his features closely. ‘What do you know of Brother Meurig’s whereabouts?’ she asked.

  Gwnda’s mouth tightened a little at her response. ‘I don’t know where he is. He left here this morning.’

  ‘Going where?’

  Gwnda shook his head. ‘He did not tell me.’

  ‘When did he say that he would return?’

  ‘He did not say.’

  Fidelma tried to control her exasperation.

  ‘Did he tell anyone where he was going?’ Eadulf decided to enter the questioning.


  ‘A secret man, is the barnwr.’ Gwnda smiled without humour. Then he noticed the condition of their clothes and their tired and dishevelled appearance. ‘You appear to have slept rough. Could you not find shelter at Llanpadern? There was a bad storm last night.’

  ‘We had to shelter in a cave,’ Eadulf explained shortly. ‘Baths and the possibility of finding some fresh clothing would be a welcome thing.’

  ‘You are my guests until you depart again for the abbey of Dewi Sant,’ the chieftain acknowledged without enthusiasm.

  ‘Then we. .’ began Eadulf, and then paused, suddenly catching sight of Fidelma’s warning look. She was not sure what he was about to say but the look expressed her alarm in case he mentioned the finding of Meurig before she was ready. ‘. . we accept,’ he finished lamely.

  They followed Gwnda into the hall and he clapped his hands for attention. The tall blonde woman entered and her eyes narrowed a little as she beheld them.

  ‘Buddog, Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf are once more our guests. See that baths are prepared and refreshment brought. Also see that their horses are cared for and fed.’

  The woman inclined her head slightly. ‘It shall be done.’

  While Gwnda was issuing his instructions, Fidelma managed to whisper to Eadulf: ‘Let me do the talking about Meurig.’

  They were seated before the fire when Buddog brought in their drinks and announced that the bathing preparations were being made. When Gwnda had seated himself and taken his drink, Fidelma said quietly: ‘Father Clidro is dead.’

  The lord of Pen Caer stared at her for a moment. ‘So it was a Saxon raid, after all? How many of the brethren have died?’ There was a note of triumph in his voice.

  ‘Some seven others, so far as we can deduce, and then there is Father Clidro. He was hanged in a barn at Llanpadern while the others were, as was reported to you, slain on the beach near Llanferran.’

  Gwnda sighed deeply. ‘Our coastline is vulnerable to Saxon raids.’

  ‘Do you know of an outlaw called Clydog?’

  Gwnda actually started so much that some of his drink spilled on his hand.

  Fidelma smiled grimly. ‘It is obvious that you do know of him,’ she observed before the chieftain could compose himself.

  ‘Most people around Pen Caer know that name and many are acquainted with him to their cost,’ conceded the chieftain, recovering his poise.

  ‘What do you know of him?’

  Gwnda examined them both thoughtfully. ‘Why bring Clydog into this?’ he said slowly.

  ‘I merely want you to share with me what you know of this Clydog the Wasp.’

  Gwnda paused thoughtfully. ‘Clydog Cacynen.’ He almost sneered the name. ‘Six months ago we had reports of wayfarers being robbed in the forests around Ffynnon Druidion. At first, none of them were killed, merely robbed and sent on their way. They spoke of an outlaw named Clydog, who seemed quite cultured and who robbed them with a laugh. He had a small band of warriors, presumably adventurers, thieves and murderers escaping justice. A dozen or so men who took to the forests with Clydog.’

  Fidelma was a little impatient. She felt that he was not telling her anything that she did not know. ‘You said that none of his victims were killed at first. That implies that others were killed later.’

  Gwnda nodded in confirmation. ‘That is so, Sister. Several people have been killed as Clydog’s raids have become more reckless. King Gwlyddien once sent a band of warriors to scour the woods to destroy Clydog, but without success. Clydog knows the forests of Ffynnon Druidion like the back of his hand.’

  ‘Gwlyddien had to send warriors? You are lord of Pen Caer. Why couldn’t you raise your own band of warriors to flush him out?’

  Gwnda chuckled without humour. ‘If I searched all Pen Caer I doubt whether I could find a dozen trained warriors. Most of the young menfolk are already serving with the Lord Rhodri to protect our borders with Ceredigion.’

  ‘So, apart from this one attempt, nothing has been done about Clydog since?’

  ‘So long as Clydog does not strike at any of the major settlements of Pen Caer and confines himself to the highways, he is no great threat to the peace of the area.’

  ‘So your policy is to let Clydog alone and hope he lets you alone?’ Fidelma was disapproving. ‘What if he were responsible for Llanpadern?’

  Gwnda started in astonishment. ‘Are you saying that it was not a Saxon raid? Are you saying Clydog was responsible for killing Father Clidro and the others? That is nonsense. What purpose would it serve?’

  ‘I am asking, what if he were responsible?’ she pressed.

  ‘Then I suppose that King Gwlyddien would have to raise men to go against him. Send warriors in such numbers that he would be flushed out. But it would take a fair number to comb the woods of Ffynnon Druidion, and the kingdom cannot spare many trained warriors. Not at this time.’

  ‘Cannot?’ Fidelma emphasised the word.

  ‘Artglys, the king of Ceredigion, is pressing on our borders, searching for weaknesses in the hope of taking over this land. Our borders are long and our warriors stretched to maintain the peace along them.’

  Fidelma sat for a moment considering the information. ‘We know what Clydog is, but I would like to know who he is.’

  Gwnda was puzzled. ‘Who?’

  ‘Surely this outlaw did not suddenly appear from nowhere?’

  The lord of Pen Caer surprised them by nodding slowly. ‘That is precisely what he did.’

  ‘You mean that he is not a local man?’

  ‘Not so far as we know.’

  ‘If he is not from the area, how does he have such a good local knowledge that he can avoid the warriors of the king when they search for him?’ Eadulf asked.

  Gwnda sniffed deprecatingly. ‘A good point, Brother Saxon. A good point. But no one who has seen Clydog has been able to identify him as being related to anyone in this area. Perhaps it is one of his men who has the local knowledge.’

  Fidelma was disappointed. She had been sure that Clydog must have some local connection; a connection which she was hoping would link him to the mystery.

  Buddog re-entered. ‘The baths are ready for our guests, lord,’ she announced. ‘Alas, we have no robes suitable for religious. However, if the sister and the brother will consent to put on ordinary garments for a day, we will wash their own robes and return them.’

  Fidelma slowly rose. ‘That will be acceptable. Your hospitality is most welcome, Gwnda.’

  As Buddog left the chieftain also rose, along with Eadulf. ‘It is my earnest hope that the affairs that have brought you here are speedily resolved,’ he said.

  ‘It is our hope also, Gwnda,’ Fidelma replied with the same solemnity. ‘However, it may take some time. You see. . Brother Meurig has been murdered.’

  Eadulf had been waiting to see what dramatic moment Fidelma would choose to reveal the find in the forest.

  The expression on Gwnda’s face changed only slowly. Then he shook himself like a shaggy dog. ‘Are you saying that Brother Meurig is dead?’

  ‘His body lies in the forest,’ confirmed Fidelma.

  Gwnda let out a long, whistling sigh. ‘Murdered, you say? Why did you not tell me immediately?’

  ‘You said that you did not know where Brother Meurig had gone or when he would return. What could you have told me if you had known before?’

  ‘Nothing, but. .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Only that his death hangs heavily on my conscience. Perhaps I should have warned him more insistently before he left. I might have prevented this catastrophe.’

  Fidelma exchanged a quick glance with Eadulf. ‘Warned him? Prevented his murder? It sounds as though you knew far more than you have revealed to us about where Brother Meurig’s investigation was leading?’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Not that? You maintain that you did not know where he was going but that you could have warned him not to go and thus prevented his murder?’
There was a cynical tone in Fidelma’s voice.

  Gwnda’s expression was defensive. ‘I might have prevented it,’ he insisted. ‘I’d better take some men to the woodsman’s hut and retrieve Brother Meurig’s body.’

  ‘Before you go, I think that you should explain,’ Fidelma said quietly.

  ‘Explain? When Brother Meurig left here, I could have demanded that he go alone, that’s all.’

  ‘Go alone?’ Fidelma frowned quickly. ‘You mean he left here in the company of someone else?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I am telling you?’

  Fidelma let out a sharp breath of exasperation. ‘In the name of the Holy Saints, man, tell us in whose company Brother Meurig left and why you think that person was responsible for his death?’

  ‘He left with Mair’s killer, that’s who.’

  ‘Mair’s killer?’ echoed Eadulf.

  ‘The young boy, Idwal. He left with Idwal.’

  An hour later Fidelma and Eadulf had emerged from their baths both refreshed and wearing more comfortable clothing. Buddog informed them that Gwnda was waiting in the main hall and a meal had been prepared for them.

  It was gloomy and dark now and Fidelma realised that it would soon be evening, for autumnal darkness descended early.

  Gwnda was, indeed, waiting for them.

  ‘I have sent two of my best huntsmen and trackers to see if they can pick up signs of Idwal,’ he reported. ‘But he will have most of this day’s start on us and we will not be able to set out in pursuit before tomorrow’s first light. In death, it seems, Brother Meurig has proved the guilt of the boy, at least.’

  Fidelma admonished him with a look. ‘That the boy left with Brother Meurig is not certain proof of his guilt either in Mair’s case or in the death of Meurig.’

  Gwnda stared at her for a moment and then chuckled grimly. ‘Surely, Sister, you can entertain no doubt about the boy’s guilt now?’

  ‘There are questions to be asked still. But you are right, Idwal must be found. I hope that the men you sent out are instructed not to harm him but to bring him back here if they find him?’

  ‘They know that they are tracking a killer. They will act accordingly,’ replied Gwnda.