Smoke in the Wind

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