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 All too soon, the hard rim was withdrawn, the hand eased his head back to a pillow.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 inadequately.
‘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.
‘
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,
‘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,
Eadulf sat up again with an abruptness which made him dizzy. He realised that one of his questions had not
