Fidelma frowned. ‘The woodsman?’ she demanded, surprised at his attitude. After all, Eadulf had studied to be an apothecary at Tuam Brecain. He was surely used to injury and violent death. ‘Is it a bad wound? Come on, Eadulf, let us help the poor man. I’ve not known you to be so squeamish before.’
‘It’s too late,’ Eadulf breathed.
Frustrated, Fidelma pushed him aside and entered the small hut. The light from the door spread over the figure on the floor. She bent towards the body which was stretched just inside.
Three facts came to her in quick succession.
Firstly, the man’s neck was nearly severed. This had been no accident. Someone had taken the axe and swung its sharp blade with the intention of killing the man. Then, leaving him dead or dying on the floor, the assailant had returned the axe to the woodpile outside, embedding it in the log before departing.
Secondly, the man was not a woodsman. He was wearing the robes of a religieux.
Thirdly, she recognised the twisted, agonised features of the victim. It was Brother Meurig.
Chapter Twelve
They rode into Llanwnda in silence. Fidelma had spoken little on the journey from the woodsman’s hut. As they crossed the bridge over the stream into the township, they heard the clang of metal on metal from the smith’s forge, heard the rasp of the bellows and saw Iorwerth the smith at work, swinging his hammer with his muscular arm. He barely glanced in their direction as they rode by. In the square beyond the bridge, where two nights before they had watched the abortive attempt to hang Idwal, there now stood a tall stack of wood, piled high and obviously ready to be ignited into a gigantic bonfire. Children were playing here and there in groups, unconcerned, riotous, normal. There were a few groups of people in the single street. Some stood gossiping, a few cast glances filled with curiosity in their direction.
Eadulf looked at Fidelma. He could see that she was perturbed. Indeed, the murder of a religieux was a heinous crime. When he had tried to speculate on who might have done this terrible thing, she had simply replied with her customary advice: ‘It is no use speculating without facts.’ She had refused to engage further with him, although he felt that she must be examining possibilities in her own mind as they rode along. That irritated him.
Fidelma was not immune to Eadulf’s frustration but she was in no mood to speculate aloud. She was too busy turning matters over in her head. She had spent some time carefully examining Brother Meurig’s body. She had also inspected the hut, the axe and the surrounding area. She had found nothing at all which could be called a clue. What had Brother Meurig been doing in the woods? Had he been searching for the spot where Mair had been killed? If so, what had he stumbled on to cause him to be killed in such a vicious and maniacal fashion?
It was no use sharing these questions with Eadulf. He would know the questions well enough but it was answers that were needed and there were none — yet. Without further information, questions remained simply questions.
The tranquillity of Llanwnda was in sharp contrast to what they had seen in the woodsman’s hut and their experience at Llanpadern. No one seemed surprised to see them again. No one appeared to be interested in their arrival.
‘We’ll go directly to Gwnda,’ Fidelma said to Eadulf as they walked their horses slowly down the street towards the hall of the lord of Pen Caer.
It was only when they had dismounted and were hitching their mounts to the posts in front of his hall that Gwnda himself appeared. He seemed ill at ease to see them.
‘What news from Llanpadern? You are soon back from there,’ he said in greeting. It was clear that there was no enthusiasm in his voice.
Fidelma examined his features closely. ‘What do you know of Brother Meurig’s whereabouts?’ she asked.
Gwnda’s mouth tightened a little at her response. ‘I don’t know where he is. He left here this morning.’
‘Going where?’
Gwnda shook his head. ‘He did not tell me.’
‘When did he say that he would return?’
‘He did not say.’
Fidelma tried to control her exasperation.
‘Did he tell anyone where he was going?’ Eadulf decided to enter the questioning.
‘A secret man, is the
‘We had to shelter in a cave,’ Eadulf explained shortly. ‘Baths and the possibility of finding some fresh clothing would be a welcome thing.’
‘You are my guests until you depart again for the abbey of Dewi Sant,’ the chieftain acknowledged without enthusiasm.
‘Then we. .’ began Eadulf, and then paused, suddenly catching sight of Fidelma’s warning look. She was not sure what he was about to say but the look expressed her alarm in case he mentioned the finding of Meurig before she was ready. ‘. . we accept,’ he finished lamely.
They followed Gwnda into the hall and he clapped his hands for attention. The tall blonde woman entered and her eyes narrowed a little as she beheld them.
‘Buddog, Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf are once more our guests. See that baths are prepared and refreshment brought. Also see that their horses are cared for and fed.’
The woman inclined her head slightly. ‘It shall be done.’
While Gwnda was issuing his instructions, Fidelma managed to whisper to Eadulf: ‘Let me do the talking about Meurig.’
They were seated before the fire when Buddog brought in their drinks and announced that the bathing preparations were being made. When Gwnda had seated himself and taken his drink, Fidelma said quietly: ‘Father Clidro is dead.’
The lord of Pen Caer stared at her for a moment. ‘So it was a Saxon raid, after all? How many of the brethren have died?’ There was a note of triumph in his voice.
‘Some seven others, so far as we can deduce, and then there is Father Clidro. He was hanged in a barn at Llanpadern while the others were, as was reported to you, slain on the beach near Llanferran.’
Gwnda sighed deeply. ‘Our coastline is vulnerable to Saxon raids.’
‘Do you know of an outlaw called Clydog?’
Gwnda actually started so much that some of his drink spilled on his hand.
Fidelma smiled grimly. ‘It is obvious that you do know of him,’ she observed before the chieftain could compose himself.
‘Most people around Pen Caer know that name and many are acquainted with him to their cost,’ conceded the chieftain, recovering his poise.
‘What do you know of him?’
Gwnda examined them both thoughtfully. ‘Why bring Clydog into this?’ he said slowly.
‘I merely want you to share with me what you know of this Clydog the Wasp.’
Gwnda paused thoughtfully. ‘Clydog Cacynen.’ He almost sneered the name. ‘Six months ago we had reports of wayfarers being robbed in the forests around Ffynnon Druidion. At first, none of them were killed, merely robbed and sent on their way. They spoke of an outlaw named Clydog, who seemed quite cultured and who robbed them with a laugh. He had a small band of warriors, presumably adventurers, thieves and murderers escaping justice. A dozen or so men who took to the forests with Clydog.’
Fidelma was a little impatient. She felt that he was not telling her anything that she did not know. ‘You said that none of his victims were killed at first. That implies that others were killed later.’
Gwnda nodded in confirmation. ‘That is so, Sister. Several people have been killed as Clydog’s raids have become more reckless. King Gwlyddien once sent a band of warriors to scour the woods to destroy Clydog, but
