In the centre of the courtyard stood a great pyramid of branches and logs piled high as if waiting to be ignited into an immense bonfire. The dry wood was structured so that it stood fully four metres or more in height. The young man rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he examined it.
He suppressed the shiver that threatened to send its icy finger down his spine. He marched across the quadrangle to the chapel door and swung it open. The chapel was shrouded in gloom, in spite of the brightness of the morning. Not even the altar candles were alight. He could discern nothing among the shadows.
Having been a visitor to the community on several occasions, Brother Cyngar knew the layout of the community’s buildings, and turned through a small door which he knew led to the main living quarters. The brethren shared one large dormitory that now stretched before him. The beds were all neat, tidy and undisturbed. Their occupants had either risen very early and made them or not slept in them at all during the previous night.
Brother Cyngar’s lips had become slightly dry and his feeling of disquiet began to grow as he walked between the rows of empty beds. Some unconscious prompting caused him to move lightly on the stone-flagged floors, trying not to let his leather sandals make a sound.
Beyond the dormitory was the refectory, the communal dining room.
It was deserted, as he now expected it would be. But he was not expecting the manner of its desertion. It was lit by several flickering, smoking candles and, to his amazement, Brother Cyngar observed that each place was laid, each platter contained a half-eaten meal. By these platters, knives and spoons were laid down as if the eater had been disturbed. Jugs and beakers containing water and wine stood at each place setting.
A sound made him start nervously and drop his black-thorn stick with a loud clatter on the floor. A few feet away on the table, a black rat dragged a piece of food from a platter and went bounding away with it. With mouth firmly compressed to keep his lips from trembling, Brother Cyngar bent down to retrieve his stick.
There seemed no disarray anywhere to explain why the meal appeared to have been deserted halfway through the eating of it. Stools and benches were pushed back as if everyone had risen, but he saw nothing that indicated any confusion or panic. He walked up and down the tables searching for something to account for the scene that met his incredulous eyes.
He realised that the candles were burning low and deduced that they must have been alight for a long time before he arrived because, in one or two places, the candle grease had spilled onto the wooden table top. This must have been the evening meal and, so it seemed to Brother Cyngar, at a given moment, before the meal had ended, the brethren had simply stood up, leaving everything in an orderly manner, and . . . and vanished! Brother Cyngar exhaled sharply. This time he could not suppress the shiver.
Steeling himself, he turned and began to explore the rest of the buildings of the community, one by one. The quarters of the Father Superior were neat and tidy, the bed not slept in, and, again, there was no sign of any commotion to account for the disappearance of the occupant. The tiny scriptorum was also undisturbed, the books arranged neatly on the shelves. Outside, across the quadrangle, in the storerooms, nothing was out of place, and when Brother Cyngar went to the animal sheds he found all in order.
It was only when he had returned halfway across the flagged courtyard on his way back to the chapel that he realised the significance of this. There were no animals in the barns; no chickens, no pigs, no cows nor sheep, not even one of the two mules which he knew the community kept. They, like the brethren, had vanished.
Brother Cyngar prided himself on being a logical young man and, having been raised as a farmer’s son, he was not frightened of being alone. He was not one given to easy panic. All the possible facts and explanations should be examined and considered before one gave way to fear. He walked carefully to the main gate and gazed intently at the ground in search of any signs indicating a mass exodus of the community with their animals. Cows and mules in particular would leave tracks in the earth outside.
There was no sign of the earth being unnecessarily disturbed by the passage of men or animals. He did note some deep cart ruts, but that was not unusual. Plenty of local farmers traded regularly with the community. The roadways to the north and west were stony, so the tracks soon vanished. He could see a few traces of the flat-soled sandals used by the monks but there were few other signs. Without an alternative to consider, he return to the conclusion that the community had vanished like a wisp of smoke dispersed in the wind.
At this point, Brother Cyngar felt the compulsion to genuflect and he muttered a prayer to keep all evil at bay, for what could not be explained by Nature must be the work of the supernatural. There was no temporal explanation for this desolate scene. At least, none he could think of.
Could Father Clidro, the Father Superior of Llanpadern, and his fellow monks have stood up in the middle of their meal, left their candles burning, gathered all the animals and then . . . then what? Simply disappeared?
As a conscientious young man, Brother Cyngar forced himself to return to the refectory and extinguish the candles before going back to the main gates. He gave a final glance around and then swung them shut behind him. Outside, he paused, uncertain of what he should do next.
He knew that a few kilometres to the north lay the township of Llanwnda. Gwnda, the lord of Pen Caer, was supposed to be a man of action. Brother Cyngar hesitated and wonder if he should proceed in that direction. But, as he recalled, there was no priest at Llanwnda, and what could Gwnda and his people do against the supernatural forces of evil which had caused the brethren of Llanpadern to vanish?
He concluded that there was only one thing to do.
He should continue as quickly as possible to the abbey of Dewi Sant. Abbot Tryffin would know what to do. He must inform the abbot of this catastrophic event. Only the brethren of the great abbey founded by Dewi Sant had the power to combat this enchantment. He found himself wondering what evil sorcery had been unleashed on the poor community of Llanpadern. He shivered almost violently and began to hurry away from the deserted buildings, moving swiftly along the stony road towards the southern hills. The bright, autumnal day now seemed gloomy and heavy with menace. But menace of . . . of what?
Chapter Two
In the few seconds between unconsciousness and awakening, there is a moment of vivid dreams. Eadulf was struggling in dark water, unable to breathe. He was attempting to swim upwards, threshing with his arms and legs, feeling that death by asphyxiation was but a moment away. No matter how desperate his efforts, he had that feeling of complete powerlessness. Just as he had given up all hope, he became conscious; the transition came so abruptly that for a moment he lay shivering, sweat pouring from his forehead, not sure what was reality. Then, slowly - so it seemed - he realised that he had been dreaming. He tried to make a sound, some articulate noise, but succeeded only in making a rasping breath in the back of his throat.
He became aware of someone bending towards him.
He tried to focus but the image was blurred.
A voice said something. He did not understand. He made a further effort to peer upwards. He felt a firm hand behind his head, lifting it slightly. Felt a hard rim against his lips and then a cold liquid was splashing against his lips and dribbling over his teeth. He gulped eagerly. All too soon, the hard rim was withdrawn, the hand eased his head back to a pillow.
He lay for a second or two before opening his eyes again and blinking rapidly. The figure seemed to shimmer for a moment and then harden into sharp focus.
It was a man; short, stocky and clad in the robes of a religieux.
Eadulf tried hard to think what had happened and where he was. No coherent thoughts came to his mind.
The voice said something again. Again, he did not understand, but this time he recognised the tone and realised that the voice was speaking in the language of the Britons. He licked his lips and tried to form a sentence in the language which he knew but i
nadequately.
‘Where am I?’ he finally managed to say, realising, as he said it, that the words had actually come out in his own tongue.
The lips in the round face of the religieux pursed in an expression of disapproval.
‘Sacsoneg?’ The man went off into a long, fast torrent of words which was just sound to Eadulf’s ear.
With an effort of concentration, for his head was still throbbing, he tried to form a sentence in the language of the Britons. It would not come and, finally, he resorted to Latin, realising that he had a better knowledge of it. It was many years since he had spoken any word of the British tongue.
The religieux looked relieved at the Latin. His round face became wreathed in a smile.
‘You are in Porth Clais, Brother Saxon.’
The man reached forward and again held out the beaker which contained water. Eadulf raised his head by his own efforts and eagerly lapped at it. He fell back on the pillow again and some memories began to return.
‘Porth Clais? I was on board a ship out of Loch Garman. Where is Porth Clais, and what happened . . . ? Fidelma? Where is my companion, Sister Fidelma? Were we shipwrecked? My God! What has happened . . . ?’
He was struggling to sit up as memories flooded his mind. The stocky religieux laid a restraining hand, palm downward, on his chest. Eadulf was pressed gently but firmly back onto the bed. He realised that he must be very weak not to be able to counter the strength of the single firm hand that held him.
‘All in good time and in good order, Brother Saxon,’ replied the man gently. ‘You have not been shipwrecked. All is well. You are, as I say, in Porth Clais in the kingdom of Dyfed. And you, my friend, have not been so well.’
Eadulf’s head continued to throb and he raised a hand to it, registering some surprise as he felt a tender swelling at his temple.
‘I don’t understand. What happened?’
‘What was the last thing that you recall, Brother Saxon?’
Eadulf tried to dredge the memory from the confused thoughts that swam in his mind.
‘I was on board ship. We were hardly a day out from Loch Garman and sailing for the coast of Kent . . . Ah, I have it. A squall arose.’
The memory clarified in a flash. They had been scarcely half a day’s sailing from Loch Garman. The coast of Laigin, the south-easterly of the five kingdoms of Éireann, had dropped below the horizon when a fierce wind hit them from the south-west, sending great waves cascading over the ship. They had been tossed and buffeted without mercy. The sails were shredded by the powerful wind before the captain and his crew were able to haul them down, so unexpected was the onslaught of the storm. Eadulf recalled that he had left Fidelma below deck while he went to see if he could give some assistance.
The captain had curtly dismissed his offer of help.
‘A landlubber is as much use to me as a bucket with a hole to bail out,’ he shouted harshly. ‘Get below and stay there!’
Eadulf remembered hauling himself back, hurt and disgruntled, across the rocking, sea-swamped decks to the steps which led down to the cabin below. Just as he started down, the mighty seas seemed to lift the vessel up and toss it forward. He lost his hold and his last memory was of being tumbled forward into space and then . . . then nothing until he awoke a few moments ago.
The stocky monk smiled approvingly as Eadulf recited these memories.
‘And what is your name?’ he asked.
‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, emissary of Theodore of Canterbury,’ Eadulf replied immediately and then demanded with irritation: ‘But where is Sister Fidelma, my companion? What has happened to the ship? How did I get here? Where did you say it was?’
The round-faced monk grinned and held up his hand to halt the rapid succession of questions. ‘It seems that the blow to your head has damaged neither your mental faculties nor your lack of patience, Brother Saxon.’
‘My patience is wearing thin with each passing second, ’ snapped Eadulf, attempting to sit up in bed and ignoring his throbbing temples. ‘Answer my question, or I shall not answer for my lack of patience.’
The stocky man shook his head in mock sorrow, making a disapproving noise with his tongue. ‘Have you never heard the saying, Vincit qui patitur, Brother Saxon?’
‘It is not one of my maxims, Brother. Often patience does not bring results. Sometimes it is merely an excuse for doing nothing. Now I require some explanations.’
The monk raised his eyes to the ceiling and spread his hands as if in surrender to greater forces. ‘Very well. I am Brother Rhodri and this, as I have explained, is Porth Clais in the kingdom of Dyfed.’
‘On the west coast of Britain?’
Brother Rhodri made an affirmative gesture. ‘You are in the land of the Cymry, the true Britons. Your ship ran in here yesterday in the late afternoon to shelter from the storm. We are a little port in which many a ship from Éireann make their first landfall. You were, as you now recall, knocked unconscious in the storm and could not be roused. So you were carried off the ship when it harboured here. You were placed in this little hospice which I run. You have been lying unconscious nearly a day.’
Eadulf lay back against the pillows and swallowed. ‘Unconscious for a day?’ he echoed.
Brother Rhodri was serious. ‘We were worried for you. But, deo juvante, you have recovered.’
Eadulf sat up again with an abruptness which made him dizzy. He realised that one of his questions had not been answered.
‘My companion, Sister Fidelma . . . what of her?’
Brother Rhodri grimaced wryly. ‘She was very worried for you, Brother Saxon. She and I shared your nursing. This morning, however, she was summoned to go to our mother house to see Abbot Tryffin.’
‘Abbot Tryffin? Mother house?’
‘This is the peninsula known in Latin as Menevia where the abbey of Dewi Sant is situated.’
Eadulf had heard of the great abbey of Dewi Sant. He knew that those Britons who dwelt in the west of the island which they now shared with the Angles and Saxons regarded the abbey as almost as important as Iona, the Holy Island, in the northern kingdom of Dál Riada. It was accepted that two pilgrimages to the abbey was the equivalent of one pilgrimage to Rome and a pilgrim could acquire enough indulgences - pardons of temporal punishment due for sins committed - to last them for many years. Eadulf realised that he was thinking in terms of the teachings of Rome, where the Holy Father granted indulgences out of the Treasury of Merit won for the Church by Christ and the Saints. Eadulf knew well enough that the churches of the Irish and the Britons did not believe in such things as indulgences nor in absolving oneself from one’s responsibility by their acquisition.
He suddenly pulled his wandering thoughts sharply back to the present.
‘She was summoned there? Sister Fidelma? Is the abbey near here, then?’ he asked.
‘Near? It is within walking distance, less than two kilometres. The good sister will return by this evening.’
‘And you say that we are on that peninsula of Dyfed known as Menevia?’
‘In our language, it is called Moniu,’ Brother Rhodri confirmed.
‘Why was Fidelma . . . Sister Fidelma summoned there?’
Brother Rhodri raised his shoulders and let them fall expressively. ‘That is something that I cannot help you with, Brother Saxon. Now, perhaps, as you are in a better state, you might like to sip some herbal tea or some broth?’
Eadulf realised that he was feeling famished. ‘I could eat something more substantial, Brother,’ he ventured.
Brother Rhodri grinned approvingly. ‘Ah, a sure sign that you are recovering, my friend. However, it may be unwise to have more than a broth for the time being. Nor should you move. Lie there and relax for a while.’
Some hours later, Eadulf felt more himself. He had sipped a meaty broth and his headache was diminishing thanks to a poultice which Brother Rhodri had placed on his forehead. It appeared that Brother Rhodri was a trained apothecary and Eadulf, who had him
self studied at the great medical centre of Tuam Brecain, had identified the poultice as being comprised of foxglove leaves which, he knew, were excellent for calming headaches. He had gradually dropped into a soporific state and then fallen into a natural sleep.
He awoke to the sound of Fidelma’s voice and came to his senses as she entered the room. The concern on her face lessened as Eadulf rose up on his bed. She came swiftly to him, both hands held out, and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘How do you feel? Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously, examining him quickly. ‘The swelling on your temple seems to be going down.’
Eadulf returned a wry smile. ‘I suppose I feel as right as anyone who has been knocked unconscious for a day.’
She gave a sigh of relief but she did not let go of his hands, making a careful visual examination of his wound. When she was satisfied, she visibly relaxed and a smile crossed her features.
‘I was worried, but the swelling is definitely diminishing, ’ she said simply. Then, becoming aware that Brother Rhodri had appeared in the doorway, she let go her grip on his hands and sat back. ‘Has Brother Rhodri explained to you where you are and what happened? ’
‘I gather the ship put into Porth Clais to escape the storm.’
‘A harbour on the coast of Dyfed,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘It really was a bad storm. I insisted that you be brought ashore to this hospice as soon as we came into harbour, for there was no telling what injuries you might have sustained in your fall.’
‘I seem to have had a good nurse.’ Eadulf smiled. ‘We can return aboard the ship and continue our journey as soon as you like.’
To his surprise, Fidelma shook her head. ‘Our ship sailed on this morning’s tide. The captain was impatient to be away as soon as the storm passed and he had replaced his shredded sails.’
‘What?’ Eadulf pushed himself up stiffly into a sitting position. ‘He has marooned us in this place? We paid him to take us to the kingdom of Kent. You mean he went away and left us stranded here?’
Fidelma pouted her lips in reproof. Her eyes flicked quickly to Brother Rhodri. They had been speaking in Fidelma’s native tongue, which Eadulf spoke as fluently as his own, perhaps more fluently than Latin. Was there a warning in her eyes?
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