Smoke in the Wind (13 page)

From the box he took a piece of steel and held it in his left hand, the smooth edge above the charred material. Then he struck a sharp glancing blow downwards with the edge of the flintstone he held in his right hand. Tiny fragments flew off, glowing white hot, and fell onto the charred cloth which began to glow. He had a few dried bulrushes impregnated with brimstone and held one of these next to the glowing linen. It burst into flame almost immediately and he lit the candle. He closed the lid of the tinderbox to extinguish the flame in the cloth, reopened it to return the flint and steel, and then carried the candle over to Fidelma.

The operation had taken a little time, but Fidelma waited patiently. She had no other option, for every light in the buildings seemed to have been extinguished. In most houses a lamp or a fire was kept continually alight so that a flame could be passed on without the necessity for the long performance of igniting a fresh one.

By the light of the candle Fidelma examined the blade of the knife and then she bent to the floor, motioning Eadulf to hold the light as low as he could. She drew in her breath sharply.

‘What is it?’ demanded Eadulf.

‘There seems to have been a great effusion of blood here. This was not caused by cutting meat at a meal. I believe someone was cut by a knife . . . this knife.’ She gestured with the hand that held it.

A sudden sound in a dim recess of the refectory caused them to fall instantly quiet. It was like a low growling from the inner depths of the throat. Eadulf slowly turned his head into the darkness.

In a far corner of the room, the candlelight reflected against eyes that glowed like coals. He could barely make out the dark, round-shaped head. It was a silhouette only, the silhouette of a gargoyle.

The growl rose in volume.

Eadulf leant back unobtrusively against one of the tables, his free hand searching blindly for some weapon, for he knew he must not take his gaze from the menacing dark shape with its hell-like glowing eyes. It seemed to be crouching in the corner watching their every move. He could see by the movement of the dark shape that the creature, whatever it was, was gathering to spring. He felt, rather than saw, that Fidelma was trying to hold herself perfectly still. His scrabbling fingers found a metal plate and he picked it up from the table, balancing it in his hand like a discus.

It was at that precise moment that the creature sprang forward, with a terrible scream, directly towards Fidelma’s head.

‘Down!’ shouted Eadulf as he twisted round and let fly with the metal plate. It was almost a perfect discus cast. It impacted with the creature in mid-air. There was a terrible screeching cry, worse than its first scream, and it seemed to perform a twisting motion, changing its direction even in mid-spring.

In the grey light from the window, to which the creature now bounded, they had a momentary vision of a giant cat. It had black and yellowish-grey stripes in a brindle pattern, and was well over a metre in length. It leapt for the sill, paused, and then, with another snarling scream, the creature was through the window and away.

Eadulf set down his candle and turned to Fidelma. She was leaning back against the table, trembling slightly.

‘What was that?’ she demanded, trying to recover her poise.

‘A wild cat.’ Eadulf’s voice was filled with relief. ‘It’s rare that they attack people. They usually live on rabbits, hares and small rodents. It must have thought that it was trapped.’

Fidelma shook her head in disbelief. ‘But the size of it . . . I’ve known cats go wild, but . . .’

Eadulf smiled a little patronisingly, realising he possessed knowledge that Fidelma did not.

‘That was not a domestic cat gone wild. These cats are another breed, larger and more dangerous if cornered. It is rare that they venture out of the forests. They hunt rather than scavenge. Do you not have them in the five kingdoms?’

She shook her head. ‘Feral cats, yes, but not such beasts as that.’

‘It probably came in here after rodents. There are plenty about,’ Eadulf said, almost cheerful now.

Against threats of a tangible nature, Eadulf was fearless. Against anything that smacked of the supernatural, he was as apprehensive as a small child. Fidelma was smiling inwardly. It was almost the reverse with her. What was it that her mentor, the Brehon Morann, used to say? Nature is a strange architect.

‘Let us hope that we do not encounter any more such creatures,’ she observed, turning back to the task in hand. ‘Bring the candle again, Eadulf.’

Once more she bent down to the dried bloodstains. ‘I am sure that someone was stabbed with this knife and bled profusely here.’

She gestured to Eadulf to keep the candle low to the floor. Then she gave a little intake of breath, denoting satisfaction.

‘A trail of blood spots. Let’s see where this will lead us.’

They followed the occasional blood spot from the refectory. It was not easy, for the spots were few and far between, and in one place it took Fidelma some fifteen minutes of searching before she could find the next spot and thus pick up the elusive trail.

Eventually, they found themselves in the gloomy chapel.

‘I think the trail takes us to that sarcophagus.’ Fidelma paused at the door. The light was gloomy. The sarcophagus was a stone affair standing in the central aisle of the chapel before the high altar. It was an elegant structure made from a blue-grey coarse-grain rock. They could see as much from Eadulf’s raised candle. It was constructed as a long, coffin-shaped affair and raised about a metre above the paved floor of the chapel, with tiny columns at its head and feet. On it was an inscription in Latin:
Hic Iacit Paternus
.

‘The tomb of the Blessed Padern, founder of this community,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘There are certainly some blood spots here.’ She pointed to the surface of the tomb.

Eadulf saw that it was true. Splashes of blood were visible on the stone slabs and against the side of the structure. He looked inquiringly at Fidelma.

‘I suppose we must look inside?’ He inflected the sentence to make it sound like a question.

Fidelma did not deign to answer. She was examining the lid of the sarcophagus. ‘I think it was constructed to swing back,’ she told him. ‘Do you see where the stone is worn smooth?’

Eadulf nodded reluctantly. He set his candle aside and reached forward with both hands to test the strength of its resistance to his weight. To his astonishment, the lid of the sarcophagus moved easily. He glanced up in satisfaction.

Fidelma nodded quickly.

Eadulf pushed again and the stone swung effortlessly aside.

A smell of decay came immediately to his nostrils. He actually found it less unpleasant than the harsh odours of the decomposing food in the refectory.

Fidelma had moved to the side of the sarcophagus and was peering into the tomb. Eadulf, more nervously, joined her in examining the contents.

Sprawled on the remains of a crumbling skeleton and decayed winding sheet lay a new corpse. A corpse that appeared to have been unceremoniously dumped inside, without ritual, without even the customary shroud. It was the body of a man who, by the state of decomposition, could only have been dead a day or two at the most. He lay on his back, and the dark stains across his chest showed how he had come by his death. He had been stabbed several times.

Eadulf was startled. ‘This is no religious,’ he observed, stating the obvious.

The body was that of a short muscular man with full beard, dark and swarthy and physically unlike any Briton that Fidelma had ever seen. His clothes consisted of a sleeveless leather jerkin, and leather-patched pants which were rolled up to the knees. His legs and feet were bare. He wore bronze and copper bracelets on which were curious patterns and a neckpiece with a symbol like a lightning stroke. Around his waist was a belt from which hung an empty sword scabbard.

Eadulf let out an uncharacteristic whistle.

Fidelma regarded him with faint surprise. Not only was the whistle uncharacteristic but it was not often that Eadulf departed from deferential behaviour in a church.

‘Does the body mean anything to you?’ she asked quickly.

‘Hwicce.’

Fidelma looked bewildered.

‘The symbols on his bracelets indicate he is a warrior of the Hwicce,’ explained Eadulf, pointing.

‘That information leaves me none the wiser, Eadulf. Who-ekka?’ Fidelma tried to pronounce the phonetics.

‘The Hwicce comprise a sub-kingdom of Mercia which borders on the kingdoms of the Britons called Gwent and Dumnonia. The Hwicce are a mixture of Angles and Saxons, a fierce warrior people not yet converted to the true faith, and ruled by their own kings. I last heard that Eanfrith was their ruler. They supported the pagan king of Mercia, Penda, when he was alive. He had no time for Christian virtues.’

‘So, the report received by Gwnda was correct,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘It does appear that there was a Saxon raid on this place and the community have been taken off as captives.’

Eadulf was leaning forward. He pointed to the man’s necklet with its engraving of a lightning stroke.

‘That is the symbol of Thunor, our pagan god of lightning.’

Fidelma looked down, her brows drawn together as she examined the lightning flash. Her mind was turning over the facts.

‘Here is another mystery. The Saxon warrior is placed in the sarcophagus of the Blessed Padern. He has been stabbed to death. The evidence suggests that he was stabbed in the refectory with a knife being used to carve meat during the meal. If this was done in the course of a Saxon raid, why was he carried here and placed in this sarcophagus? Why didn’t his comrades carry him away?’

Eadulf was frowning. ‘It would be the normal thing to do,’ he agreed. ‘The Hwicce, especially, do not believe in letting their dead fall into the hands of their enemies if they can avoid it. He should have been removed and buried at sea. The Hwicce are still revered by the Saxon kingdoms.’

Fidelma examined him curiously. ‘Why so?’

‘They still follow the old ways. The dark paths of Frige and Tiw are beset with sacrifice and darkness.’

Fidelma was scornful. ‘Nothing in that is worthy of reverence.’

‘It might be because they are frontiersmen, still carving their kingdom out of the territory of the Britons who were most hostile to the advance of the Angles and Saxons. They have retained their belief in the original gods of the people. Their kings still claim that they are descended from Woden, the chief of the gods.’ Eadulf hesitated.

‘And?’ Fidelma was not encouraging.

‘In spite of the coming of the Faith, all our kings from the land of the West Saxons to Bernica still claim such a lineal descent from the god Woden.’

Fidelma pursed her lips cynically. ‘At least my people do not have to claim they descend from gods and goddesses to seek leadership and obedience.’

Eadulf flushed slightly. While Fidelma was logically right, he still felt that criticism of his culture was implied. He decided to deflect the subject.

‘Why would the Hwicce raid this godforsaken coast? We are nearly two hundred kilometres from their kingdom. Why would they raid here? Why leave the place so immaculate and why leave one of their number in a Christian tomb?’

‘That is something which we must discover. Let us leave our pagan friend in the sarcophagus for the time being. Our next step is to search for more evidence before we journey to - what was the name of the place where the young boy, Dewi, reported the Saxons had killed some of the brothers?’

‘Llanferran.’

‘That’s right. Llanferran.’

Eadulf gave a deep sigh. ‘None of this even begins to make sense to me. It is one unreasonable alternative facing another.’

‘When you consider all the possibilities, it is the most reasonable explanation that provides an answer,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Most things are illogical until you have the information which explains them. Come, let us see what else we can discover in this place.’

Fidelma helped Eadulf return the lid to its normal position. She was about to lead the way out of the chapel when something else caught her eye and she paused, staring intently at the altar.

‘We almost missed that,’ she said, nodding towards it.

Eadulf looked at the bare altar and frowned. ‘Missed what?’ he demanded.

Fidelma sighed impatiently. ‘Come, you should know better. Look, observe.’

Eadulf turned back to the altar. ‘There is nothing there,’ he protested. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘Nothing,’ said Fidelma. ‘That is precisely the matter.’

Eadulf was about to question her further when the realisation finally came to him. ‘There is no crucifix there. No altar candles; no icons.’

‘Precisely. Just as we may expect after a raid, the valuables are gone.’

As they turned to leave, just behind the chapel door they discovered another curious object. It was the figure of a man made from twists of straw bound together with pieces of string.

Fidelma was examining it with a thoughtful expression when Eadulf interrupted.

‘I can see no reason why the Hwicce would raid this place,’ he commented. ‘Surely the missing icons and treasures here would not constitute great wealth?’

‘Your people keep slaves, don’t you? Perhaps the incentive lay in the sale of the community.’

They found their way to the
dormitorium
and conducted a more thorough examination. It took them but a few moments, searching the sleeping quarters, to ascertain that nothing was missing from the personal belongings of the brothers. Toilet articles, a breviary and other small items remained at each separate bed.

In the chamber which was clearly that of the Father Superior, Fidelma’s sharp eyes noticed that one small, iron-bound box lay discarded in an alcove. It was the sort of box that one might expect to find valuables in, but it was open and empty. Nor, as she pointed out, was there a crucifix in the room. The chamber of a Father Superior would usually contain a fairly valuable cross. That one had hung in the room until recently was evident by the dusty shadow marks outlining its position on the wall.