‘What is it?’ he demanded, thinking that the wild cat had slunk back again.
Fidelma’s features were grim. ‘I think that we have found Father Clidro,’ she said quietly.
Eadulf quickly walked a few paces inside the barn before he turned and looked up.
There was a pulley hanging from a rope attached to one of the main beams of the roof. Another rope stretched from a support beam to the pulley and was threaded through it. At the end of this hung the body of a man.
He wore the tonsure of St John and dark robes which marked him as not an ordinary religieux but a man of rank within the community. But they were ripped, torn and bloodied. The angle of the head showed that the rope had broken his neck. He was an elderly man. A frail man.
Eadulf exhaled sharply and genuflected.
‘Release the rope,’ Fidelma said quietly, pointing to it.
Eadulf went to where the rope was secured and loosened it, lowering the body gently to the straw-covered floor. It was clear that the man was not long dead, something which surprised Fidelma.
‘I think you will find that the old man has been flogged before he was hanged,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘I saw the tears in the back of his robe as I lowered him.’
With Eadulf’s help, Fidelma rolled the corpse over and checked. ‘A severe flogging,’ she confirmed. ‘What manner of man could do this to such an old one?’
‘Do you really think that this is Father Clidro? But if so, he was not killed at the time the community was raided. Look at the way the blood is comparatively fresh! I would say that he was killed not more than a day ago.’
‘There is no means of knowing for certain that he is Father Clidro but the odds are certainly in favour of it. He must have been of this community and he wears robes of rank. .’ Her voice trailed off.
Eadulf became aware that Fidelma’s eyes had widened. She was staring over his shoulder.
He turned round swiftly.
There were three men in the doorway of the barn. The man in the centre stood with hands on hips. On either side, his dour-looking companions had bows in their hands. The bows were drawn, arrows ready, and aimed at Fidelma and himself.
Chapter Eight
Fidelma and Eadulf did not move from their positions. They froze as they saw the arrows pointing unwaveringly at them.
The man in the middle, standing with hands on hips, was smiling at them. He was a slim, youthful-looking man, quite handsome in a way. His hair was a tousled bushy crop of red-brown, his eyes blue and piercing. He was clad in the dress of a warrior, a close-fitting leather jerkin over a woollen shirt, and tight leather trousers and boots. A sword hung from his right side and a hunter’s knife from his left.
Fidelma’s eyes widened slightly as she beheld the gold torc which he wore round his neck. Years ago, in her own country, it had been the symbol of a hero, usually a princely warrior. The torc was a ring of fashioned gold, curved to fit closely round the neck. It was, she observed, highly decorative, ending in terminals which were the focus of elaborate engravings. Torcs were now old-fashioned in the five kingdoms and no one wore them any more except on some state occasions, and then only rarely. She knew from experience that the torc was common to many peoples in Britain and Gaul.
She also saw that he was wearing a more delicately wrought red gold chain which fell to his chest. It was of beautiful workmanship, exquisitely made and of some value. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Wearing two such valuable and delicate objects detracted from the impact of each and created only an impression of ostentation and little taste.
‘Well, well,’ the young man finally intoned, regarding them with his smile still in place, ‘what have we here?’
Fidelma slowly straightened up, keeping her hands slightly away from her body so that the bowmen could see that she posed no threat. Eadulf hesitated a moment and then followed her lead. The sounds of horses on the paved courtyard outside came to their ears. Clearly, the man and his two archer companions had an escort.
‘I am Sister Fidelma and this is Brother Eadulf,’ she began.
The young man’s smile broadened. It was an expression that caused Fidelma to feel uncomfortable. The smile was cold, merciless; the sort of expression with which a hunter might observe the helplessness of his prey.
‘A Gwyddel and another Saxon, from your names?’ He glanced at his companions. ‘Well, lads, here are strange companions.’ He turned back to them, still wearing his sinister smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I am a dálaigh, what you call a barnwr-’
‘I did not ask who you were,’ interrupted the young man sharply. ‘I asked what you were doing here.’
‘I am answering you. My companion and I are acting under the commission of your king, Gwlyddien, to investigate the report of the disappearance of this community. .’
To her surprise the young man burst out laughing. It was a laugh without mirth.
‘Gwlyddien is no king of mine. Anyway, would a king of Dyfed employ a woman of your nation, not to mention a Saxon? Saxons are the enemies of our blood.’
One of the bowmen, the man who was covering Eadulf, raised his bow slightly as if in expectation of the order to shoot Eadulf.
‘Look at the commission bearing the king’s seal if you doubt my word,’ Fidelma protested, gesturing to her marsupium. ‘It will go ill with you if you murder a religieux and one employed by the king of Dyfed. Brother Eadulf has done you no harm!’
The man looked at her almost in pity. ‘Ah, I forgot. The Gwyddel like to be friends with the Saxons, don’t you? You are the ones who went to the Saxons to convert them to the Faith, to attempt to teach them to read and write and follow the ways of civilisation. We Britons knew them better. That was why we refused to try to convert them, even when the prelates of Rome came here demanding that we should do so. Have a care, Gwyddel; one day the Saxon will turn on you and do to you what they have done to the Britons who once dwelt all over this land.’
It was a speech which obviously stirred his companions, who grunted in agreement, although their bows never wavered. It was the speech of an educated man who was used to command.
Fidelma did not flinch. ‘I say again, what harm has this man done to you?’
‘Have you not heard how the Saxons slaughtered a thousand religious from Bangor to celebrate their victory over King Selyf of Powys?’ demanded the young warrior.
‘I have. That event happened nearly fifty years ago and none of us were born then. You certainly were not.’
‘Do you think that because your missionaries have now brought Christianity to them, the Saxons have changed their character?’
‘I cannot argue with prejudice, whoever you are. I say again that we are here on a commission from the king of Dyfed. We are in the territory of Dyfed, whether you acknowledge its king or not. Tell us who you are and why you dare ignore the law of this land.’ Fidelma’s voice was sharp and assertive.
The young man regarded her with surprise that this attractive young woman was not in awe of his threats and his obvious ability to carry them out.
‘You seem very sure of yourself, Gwyddel,’ he finally conceded. ‘Have you no fear of death, then? Dyfed or not, it is I who am the law here.’
‘I think not. You might have a transitory power by virtue of your friends with bows, but you are not the law. The law is a more sacred thing than the sword which you carry. As for fear, fear is not a passion that makes for virtue. It weakens the judgment, and I am a dálaigh.’