Smoke in the Wind sf-11

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘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 daughter! 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.

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘It is the barnwr,’ the smith explained curtly, jerking his head towards Brother Meurig.

  ‘Where is your lord?’ demanded Meurig, still seated on his horse.

  The man glanced towards the house and then, surprisingly, his companion turned and ran off. The remaining man called a curse after him. Brother Meurig ordered him in a sharp tone: ‘Bring forth your lord. Quickly! And woe betide you if he has been harmed.’

  The man went to the door and knocked upon it. It did not seem to have been secured. There was a movement inside and the man turned and scurried off into the darkness.

  A moment later a thickset man with a dark full beard appeared in the doorway. He carried a sword in his right hand as if ready to defend himself from attack.

  ‘What does this mean?’ he growled, glancing suspiciously around. ‘I, Gwnda, demand to know!’

  Brother Meurig bent forward in his saddle. ‘Are you Gwnda, lord of Pen Caer?’

  ‘I am he,’ the man responded, not lowering his sword. Then his eyes narrowed suddenly as he recognised the robes of the religieux.

  ‘I am Brother Meurig of the abbey of Dewi Sant, the barnwr for whom you have sent. These are my companions, Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf. They travel under special commission of Gwlyddien of Dyfed.’

  Gwnda looked startled for a moment. Then he saw Iorwerth and the two men holding the boy. He rested the point of his sword lightly on the step before him, hands on the pommel. His features relaxed but it was hardly a smile of greeting.

  ‘I wish I could bid you welcome to my hall in happier circumstances.’

  Brother Meurig swung down from his horse. ‘These circumstances will suffice, Gwnda, providing that they are explained to us.’

  Gwnda regarded Iorwerth with a sour expression. ‘Does this mean that your rebellion is over, Iorwerth?’ he asked.

  ‘It was never meant as rebellion,’ replied the man, defensively. ‘My aim was justice.’

  ‘Revenge was your aim and rebellion it was; rebellion against your lord. Yet I am kindly disposed to you and will forgive your transgression against the law because you let your emotions misguide you. Get to your home and we will discuss reparation for your act later.’ Gwnda turned to Brother Meurig as an afterthought: ‘That is, if this has your permission?’

  ‘You appear to be a man of liberal judgment, Gwnda,’ said Brother Meurig. ‘I see no reason to object until I have an explanation. And if everyone has now come to their senses, perhaps these two men will remove this boy to some secure place where he may be confined until I can question him?’

  Gwnda turned to the two men and his voice was sharp: ‘Return Idwal to my stables. When you have done that, you may take the horses of our guests here and see that they are well cared for.’ He smiled briefly to encompass them all. ‘Come into my hall, my friends, and I will do my best to explain the sorrow of this evening.’

  ‘Lord Gwnda. .’ One of the two men still stood hesitating.

  ‘Well?’ snapped Gwnda.

  ‘Shall I. . shall we be punished?’

  Gwnda nodded towards Brother Meurig. ‘You will have the opportunity to present your defence. I shall leave the subject of punishment to the judgment of the barnwr here.’

  ‘But it was Iorwerth the smith. He told us. . told everyone. . that we should support him. He said it was justice.’

  ‘Everyone?’ jeered Gwnda. ‘Enough. You will have time to justify yourself later. Now get about the task that I have set you, unless you wish to compound your rebellion?’

  The two men, heads hung morosely, moved off with the youth while Meurig, Fidelma and Eadulf dismounted and hooked their reins to a nearby post. Gwnda was ushering them into his hall. Inside, some women, looking apprehensively at the newcomers, were huddled in the corner.

  ‘Have no fear,’ called Gwnda cheerfully as he hung up his sword. ‘This is the barnwr and his companions. They come directly from the court of Gwlyddien.’

  A young girl, about seventeen years old, dark-haired and attractive, came forward with an eager look on her face.

  ‘This is my daughter, Elen,’ Gwnda announced.

  The girl spoke immediately to Brother Meurig. ‘Is the boy, Idwal, safe?’ she asked. Fidelma registered the concern in her voice.

  ‘He is. Are you a friend of his?’ asked the barnwr.

  Gwnda snorted indignantly. ‘My daughter is no friend of the boy!’

  Brother Meurig continued to look at the girl. He made no comment but simply raised his eyebrow
s in interrogation.

  ‘I was a friend of Mair,’ the girl said hesitantly, the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Everyone here knew Idwal.’

  ‘You should be more concerned with Mair’s fate and in seeking justice for her,’ muttered Gwnda sourly. ‘Now, you may leave us to discuss matters.’ He turned, raising his voice. ‘Buddog! Where is Buddog?’

  A handsome, blonde-haired woman of middle years, her features still bearing what must have been the stunning beauty of her youth, came forward.

  ‘Bring refreshments for the barnwr and his companions. Quickly now!’ Gwnda’s tone was one of an arrogant master to a servant.

  The woman, Buddog, stood for a moment, glaring at Gwnda. Fidelma noticed the intensity of her stare, which seemed to her to be one of malignancy, and realised that her companions had not observed it. Neither had Gwnda, who was occupied in showing Brother Meurig to a comfortable seat. Only then did he notice that Buddog had not obeyed him. He frowned, momentarily puzzled that his order had not been obeyed.

  ‘Our guests need refreshment now, not tomorrow!’ he snapped sharply.

  Buddog paused for a fraction of a second before she dropped her gaze and moved away without saying anything.

  Fidelma then noticed that Elen was also standing at the door, observing the scene. As Buddog brushed by her, the two seemed to exchange a meaningful look, and then Elen turned and closed the door behind them. Fidelma was intrigued by the veiled drama. There was tension in the household of the lord of Pen Caer and its mystery drew her like a moth to a candle.

  Gwnda indicated that Fidelma and Eadulf should join Brother Meurig before the roaring log fire. One of the serving girls, not the woman Buddog, entered bearing a jug of local mead, which she served to them.

  ‘We seemed to have arrived at an opportune moment,’ Fidelma said, as she sipped the honey-sweet mead. ‘It appears that you were a prisoner of your own people.’

  Gwnda gave her a swift glance of appraisal and then nodded slowly. ‘Rebellion, no less,’ he confirmed with irritation. ‘I can understand why some have allowed anger to mislead them. Feelings are running high on this matter.’

  Brother Meurig regarded him with a serious expression. ‘Your understanding is most commendable, Gwnda. But rebellion is still a grave matter. How did this revolt manifest itself?’