abbot’s close scrutiny as the latter waited with barely concealed impatience for the answer.
‘There would be a remuneration for your services,’ the abbot said quickly, as if payment were Eadulf’s concern.
‘Why would you seek our help? Surely there are enough wise heads in the kingdom of Dyfed to resolve the problem without calling in strangers?’ Eadulf’s tone indicated his vexation.
There was a movement beyond a screen at the far end of the room, and a tall, elderly man emerged from behind it. He had the build of a warrior, despite his age, and his features still retained the handsome mould of his youth. His white hair was tightly curled and beset by a gold circlet. His eyes were a striking, vivid blue, almost violet, with, at first glance, no discernible pupils. He wore clothes of rich satin and woven linen and wool. It was clear that he was a man of rank.
Eadulf noticed that Fidelma was rising from her seat and so he rose reluctantly as well.
The abbot coughed nervously. ‘You stand in the presence of-’
‘Of Gwlyddien, king of Dyfed,’ interrupted Fidelma, bowing her head in acknowledgment.
The elderly king came forward, smiling broadly, his hand held out in greeting. ‘You have a discerning eye, Fidelma of Cashel, and a quick wit, for I am sure that we have not met before.’
‘We have not, but the son of Nowy has been spoken of with respect among the religious of these islands. Was not your father also famed for the support he gave to the Church?’
Gwlyddien inclined his head. ‘Yet such as my reputation is, it provides little enough information by which to recognise me.’
‘True enough.’ Fidelma’s eyes held a twinkle. ‘It was by the royal symbol of Dyfed which you have embroidered on your cloak and by the gold signet on your finger that I inferred your identity. It was an elementary deduction.’
Gwlyddien slapped his thigh in appreciation and chuckled. ‘All I have heard of you seems true, Fidelma of Cashel.’ He turned with outstretched hand to Eadulf, who stood slightly alienated by this exchange. ‘And, of course, where Fidelma goes, one hears of her companion, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Our bards tell us that two centuries ago the land of the South Folk, the very place from where you come, was once the kingdom of those Britons called the Trinovantes. From that tribe came one of the greatest of our kings — Cunobelinos, the Hound of Belinos, against whom not even the Roman emperors would dare to wage war.’
Eadulf shifted his weight nervously. ‘
Gwlyddien stared disapprovingly at him for a moment. Then he sighed and bowed his head as though accepting the inevitable.
‘Indeed, time does devour all things. Yet does not Virgil say that the Fates will find a way? What was once may yet be again.’
Eadulf restrained a shiver. He had heard that the Britons had not lost hope that one day they would drive the Saxons back again into the sea. He wondered how to respond but the moment had passed. Gwlyddien had seated himself in the chair vacated by the abbot, who took another.
‘Sit down,’ the king instructed with an impatient gesture. Fidelma and Eadulf resumed their seats. ‘The answer to our Saxon friend’s previous question is simple. Among the stories that we hear from travellers passing through this kingdom from Éireann, and the many brothers and sisters from your country who come to study here at this abbey, are tales of how Fidelma of Cashel has solved this riddle or unravelled that mystery. Having discussed the matter with Abbot Tryffin, I believe that God himself put you on a course to this place so that you may help us.’
Eadulf tried to suppress his feeling of annoyance that the king did not include him. It was clear that it was only Fidelma’s reputation that had prompted this summons to the abbey of Dewi Sant. The Britons barely tolerated him. He tried to keep his features impassive.
Fidelma was sitting back, regarding Gwlyddien with a studied expression. ‘My mentor, the Brehon Morann, used to say that compliments cost nothing, yet many pay dear for them. What cost follows these compliments you now bestow on me and on Brother Eadulf?’ The slight emphasis on Eadulf’s name implied a rebuke at their exclusion of him.
Gwlyddien was obviously not accustomed to being questioned so directly and the abbot was looking anxious. However, Gwlyddien kept his humour.
‘Believe me, Fidelma of Cashel, I am not an idle flatterer.’
‘Of that I am sure,’ Fidelma replied quickly. ‘So let us get down to what it is that you want of us rather than proceed with the inconsequential matters.’
At a gesture from the king, Abbot Tryffin took charge of the narrative.
‘Some twenty or more kilometres to the north of here is one of our sub-houses, the abbey of Llanpadern. Abbey is, perhaps, too important a title to give the little community that dwells there.’
When he paused, Gwlyddien exhaled in exasperation. The abbot continued hurriedly.
‘One of our brethren, Brother Cyngar, was journeying here from his community. His route took him to Llanpadern where he had planned to ask for hospitality on his way. Brother Cyngar arrived here yesterday in a state of great consternation and anxiety. He is young and impressionable. It appears, from what he tells us, that when he arrived at Llanpadern it was deserted. Completely deserted.’
He sat back as if expecting some reaction to his statement.
After a pause, Fidelma asked casually: ‘How many normally live in this abbey of Llanpadern?’
‘It is a male house of twenty-seven brothers. They work the land and run a small farm and are thus self- sustaining. ’
Fidelma’s eyes widened a little. ‘Twenty-seven? Was that figure chosen deliberately?’
Abbot Tryffin was puzzled and said so.
‘Then it is of no consequence if it needs to be explained,’ Fidelma said dismissively. In her culture, the number had a mystic symbolism. ‘So Brother Cyngar found the abbey deserted and, presumably, could discover no explanation which accounted for its being abandoned?’
‘He could not.’
‘Did he examine all the buildings thoroughly?’
‘He did. He found that candles were lit, food was on the tables, half eaten, but the place had been deserted for some hours. The rats were quite noticeable. But even the livestock were all gone.’
Fidelma turned to Gwlyddien with a sharp look of interrogation. ‘And why is it that this case particularly interests you?’
The elderly king blinked in surprise. ‘What makes you say that it does?’ he demanded.
‘I am interested in why the king of Dyfed is so concerned with this small religious community and its fate. Such inquiries could easily be left to your abbot here. But you seem overly concerned in soliciting our help.’
The king sat back, blinking a little at her directness. ‘You have a sharp mind; a keen perception. It is true, Fidelma of Cashel, that I am particularly interested in the fate of this community.’ He hesitated, as if trying to organise his thoughts into an articulate form.
‘I have a son, my eldest son, Rhun. Rhun decided to enter the community of Llanpadern about six months ago. He was a bright lad. I once thought him ambitious for this kingdom, ambitious to succeed me one day. But then he became frustrated with his life and decided to join the religious.’
Fidelma leant forward a little in her chair. ‘And your son, Rhun, is among the brethren who are now missing from Llanpadern?’
‘That is so.’
There was a brief silence and then Fidelma asked: ‘Do you have any thoughts on this matter, Gwlyddien?’
The elderly man shook his head. ‘I do not believe in sorcery, Sister Fidelma. I have to ask the question: other than sorcery, how else can an entire community vanish into thin air?’
Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘And do you think you have an answer to that question?’
‘There is an answer.’
They all turned at the strange commanding voice that interrupted. A young man stood at the door, which he had opened unobserved. He was tall, with fair hair fixed in place by a silver circlet. The handsome features echoed those of Gwlyddien, the eyes reflected the striking colour of those of the king. Gwlyddien indicated him with
