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 sobbing more quietly now, head hung low.
‘He is hardly more than a boy,’ muttered Fidelma, observing the prisoner closely. She had addressed Brother Meurig in her own language, but the moon-faced man glanced at her distrustfully. It was clear that he also understood her tongue.
‘Boy or not, he is a killer and will be punished,’ he stated in the local speech.
‘This is not our way of punishment,’ returned Brother Meurig. ‘What do you mean by it?’
‘This boy raped and killed my daughter! I will have my vengeance!’ the moon-faced man said determinedly.
‘You will not have vengeance.’ Brother Meurig’s tone was biting. ‘However, you may see justice done. What is your name?’
‘I am Iorwerth the smith.’
‘And this boy’s name?’
‘He is Idwal.’
‘Very well, Iorwerth the smith. You will lead us to Gwnda’s hall. You two men, bring the boy, and see that he is not harmed otherwise you will answer to me.’ His sharp commands allowed for no dissent. Brother Meurig glared at the crowd who had retreated some yards away as if to distance themselves from Iorwerth and his friends. ‘The rest of you will disperse to your homes.’ He glanced towards the man who held the cudgel, who now appeared crestfallen. ‘And what is your name, my friend?’
The man’s eyes were still sullen. ‘I am Iestyn. I am a farmer here.’
‘Well, Iestyn, what justification do you have for your involvement in this affair?’
‘I am a friend to Iorwerth.’
‘Well, friend to Iorwerth, I shall make it your duty to ensure that these people disperse to their homes in safety. If there is any sign of unrest or further rebellion here. . why, I would hold you personally responsible. You would not like that, I am sure.’
Without another glance, Brother Meurig turned his back and motioned the man called Iorwerth to lead the way. There was a hesitation and then the moon-faced man shrugged and began to move forward. Brother Meurig started after him, still on his horse, while the two men followed, propelling the boy before them.
Bringing up the rear, Eadulf glanced towards Fidelma and smiled grimly. ‘It seems that Brother Meurig has more of a commanding personality than I gave him credit for,’ he whispered.
Fidelma grimaced. ‘He is what he is; a barnwr,’ she replied in a tone which implied rebuke.
The procession wound its way along the short distance between the buildings towards a large enclosure of barns and outhouses. Among these stood one tall edifice whose imposing structure marked it as the hall of the lord of the area. Two men stood outside the door. They seemed surprised by the arrival of the procession. One of them came forward as he recognised Iorwerth.
‘What has happened?’
‘It is the barnwr,’ the smith explained curtly, jerking his head towards Brother Meurig.
‘Where is your lord?’ demanded Meurig, still seated on his horse.
The man glanced towards the house and then, surprisingly, his companion turned and ran off. The remaining man called a curse after him. Brother Meurig ordered him in a sharp tone: ‘Bring forth your lord. Quickly! And woe betide you if he has been harmed.’
The man went to the door and knocked upon it. It did not seem to have been secured. There was a movement inside and the man turned and scurried off into the darkness.
A moment later a thickset man with a dark full beard appeared in the doorway. He carried a sword in his right hand as if ready to defend himself from attack.
‘What does this mean?’ he growled, glancing suspiciously around. ‘I, Gwnda, demand to know!’
Brother Meurig bent forward in his saddle. ‘Are you Gwnda, lord of Pen Caer?’
‘I am he,’ the man responded, not lowering his sword. Then his eyes narrowed suddenly as he recognised the robes of the religieux.
‘I am Brother Meurig of the abbey of Dewi Sant, the barnwr for whom you have sent. These are my companions, Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf. They travel under special commission of Gwlyddien of Dyfed.’
Gwnda looked startled for a moment. Then he saw Iorwerth and the two men holding the boy. He rested the point of his sword lightly on the step before him, hands on the pommel. His features relaxed but it was hardly a smile of greeting.
‘I wish I could bid you welcome to my hall in happier circumstances.’
Brother Meurig swung down from his horse. ‘These circumstances will suffice, Gwnda, providing that they are explained to us.’
Gwnda regarded Iorwerth with a sour expression. ‘Does this mean that your rebellion is over, Iorwerth?’ he asked.
‘It was never meant as rebellion,’ replied the man, defensively. ‘My aim was justice.’
‘Revenge was your aim and rebellion it was; rebellion against your lord. Yet I am kindly disposed to you and will forgive your transgression against the law because you let your emotions misguide you. Get to your home and we will discuss reparation for your act later.’ Gwnda turned to Brother Meurig as an afterthought: ‘That is, if this has your permission?’
‘You appear to be a man of liberal judgment, Gwnda,’ said Brother Meurig. ‘I see no reason to object until I have an explanation. And if everyone has now come to their senses, perhaps these two men will remove this boy to some secure place where he may be confined until I can question him?’