‘They are mysteries ordained by God!’ pointed out Cathen defensively.
‘And are you the judge of what is ordained by God and what is not?’ Fidelma said quietly.
Cathen opened his mouth as if to disagree but snapped it shut as he found no ready answer would come. He stood flushed-faced for a moment and then said stiffly: ‘Your pardon. I have duties to attend to.’ He turned and left the room.
Gwlyddien stirred uncomfortably as the door slammed.
‘I beg your pardon, I appear to have upset Prince Cathen,’ Fidelma said, although her tone was far from apologetic.
‘He is my youngest son and is inclined to be hot-headed, ’ muttered the elderly king. ‘He means no disrespect. ’
‘There is none taken,’ replied Fidelma. ‘But, considering what has been said, I am intrigued by this mystery. It seems that we have a few days before the likely appearance of a ship by which to continue our journey to Canterbury, so perhaps we may usefully occupy our time.’
King Gwlyddien’s face brightened. ‘Then you will undertake the task?’
Fidelma glanced at Eadulf. He had already realised that Fidelma would not refuse; almost as soon as he heard the nature of the mystery and the conflict of interpretation between Prince Cathen, his father and the abbot. Mysteries to Fidelma were like the addiction of wine to another person. He grimaced with resignation, hoping that she could not read the resentment and jealous anger in his eye.
‘We will,’ Fidelma confirmed, apparently not observing anything amiss.
‘Then it is a commission of the king,’ Gwlyddien said with relief in his voice. ‘All your expenses shall be met and whatever fee you demand shall be paid in gold or silver, as you wish.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘But we must have some token to show we act on your authority, something bearing your seal; plus a sufficient sum to cover our expenses during our stay in this kingdom. If we succeed in finding a solution, we will accept ten gold pieces. If we do not succeed, we will accept five gold pieces. Agreed?’
‘It is agreed.’
‘Then we shall want to speak with Brother Cyngar. We would also need a guide to take us to this abbey of Llanpadern.’
Eadulf suppressed a groan at the enthusiasm in her voice.
‘That presents no problem,’ Abbot Tryffin agreed. ‘Would you be able to leave for Llanpadern tomorrow morning?’
‘Why so soon?’ queried Eadulf, not wishing to be rushed into decisions.
Abbot Tryffin was apologetic. ‘I mentioned two townships that might have raised the alarm had warriors of Ceredigion landed on the shores near Llanpadern. It so happens that one of these townships has asked me to send them a barnwr, a judge. Tomorrow morning, Brother Meurig, who holds that position, is setting out to the township. You could go with him and he could act as your guide.’
‘An excellent idea!’ agreed Gwlyddien.
Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Why did this township. .?’
‘The township of Llanwnda,’ supplied the abbot.
‘Why did this township of Llanwnda,’ she stumbled a little over the pronunciation, ‘ask for a judge? I presume that a barnwr occupies the same position as a dálaigh in my country? Is there any connection between that request and the disappearance of the religious community?’
Abbot Tryffin shook his head firmly. ‘The lord of Pen Caer, whose township it is, sent for a judge on an entirely unrelated matter. A young girl was raped and murdered by her boyfriend. She was a virgin. In such rural townships this is a most serious crime. The boy was apparently lucky not to be beaten to death by the outraged locals. No, there is definitely no connection between the two matters.’
‘Then I see no reason to delay. We can be ready to depart for Llanpadern with Brother. .?’
‘Brother Meurig.’
‘. . with Brother Meurig in the morning. However, you have said that it is a journey of over twenty kilometres and Brother Eadulf has not been well. .’
‘I shall be coming too,’ interrupted Eadulf coldly. ‘I am not so infirm or without talent that I cannot be useful in this matter.’
‘Horses can be supplied for the journey,’ Gwlyddien offered, ignoring the ill-temper of Eadulf’s tone.
‘Then we are agreed.’ Eadulf looked defiantly at Fidelma, who was wondering why he seemed upset at her attempt to make matters easy for him.
‘We are agreed,’ she echoed.
‘Excellent. It is well beyond midday and our meal awaits.’ Abbot Tryffin rose from his place. ‘After you have both eaten and rested, we will go in search of Brother Cyngar. Brother Meurig is also in the abbey. Ah. .’ He turned to look at Fidelma and Eadulf as a thought suddenly struck him. ‘I forgot. Among the nobles and the religious, we can speak the language of Éireann and, indeed, Greek, Latin, and some Hebrew, but the ordinary people speak only the language of the Cymry. You will need an interpreter.’
‘Your language presents no problem to me,’ Fidelma replied, lapsing into Cymraeg. ‘I served my novitiate with several sisters from the kingdom of Gwynedd and learnt from them. However, there will be much in the way of your legal language that I might not be able to understand, although I shall try my best.’
Eadulf was not asked if he understood, nor did he volunteer that he had any knowledge.
‘Then there seems no impediment to your progress,’ Abbot Tryffin said in approval. ‘Brother Meurig will be able to advise you if you have difficulties.’
‘We should be grateful for that,’ agreed Fidelma.
‘Then let us adjourn to our meal.’
Chapter Four
It was cold but no frost lay on the ground when the three horses moved out of the gates of the abbey of Dewi Sant. The horses moved in line, led by a tall figure on a grey mare. Brother Meurig rode at a steady walking pace, while behind him came Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf on two spirited cobs, short-legged, strong beasts. Meurig was wrapped against the early morning chill in a great cloak that was almost the colour of the horse he rode. His companions were also enveloped in heavy woollen mantles.
Abbot Tryffin had sent a man to fetch the travelling bags of Fidelma and Eadulf from Brother Rhodri’s hospice at Porth Clais. This gave them the time to question Brother Cyngar about his visit to Llanpadern and be ready to depart with the barnwr, Brother Meurig, as soon as the early morning light began to appear over the easterly hills.
Fidelma and Eadulf had both been impressed with the serious and practical attitude of Brother Cyngar. However, the young monk was unable to add much more than they had already been told by Abbot Tryffin. Fidelma had questioned him closely on the detail of what he had observed. He was certainly pragmatic, and showed his eye for detail as he patiently went through a description of the abandoned buildings and their condition.
The young monk, far from being overwhelmed by the idea of sorcery and evil, simply accepted the idea that what could not be explained by natural means must, therefore, be attributable to supernatural ones.
After leaving Brother Cyngar, Fidelma and Eadulf had been conducted to the abbey’s scriptorum where Brother Meurig was checking some books of law. Brother Meurig was a tall man, towering even over Fidelma who was considered to be of more than average height. He was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and high cheekbones. His hair was greying and his dark eyes were sunken, the right eye carrying a cast which gave him a slightly sinister appearance. His mournful features were not reflected by the bright friendliness of his greeting.
He spoke to Fidelma in her own language, turned to Eadulf and spoke an equally fluent Saxon to him. In fact, it appeared that Brother Meurig spoke several languages and all fairly fluently.
‘How do you speak Saxon so well?’ queried Eadulf, surprised by the man’s ability.
‘I was a prisoner among the Mercians for several years.’ Brother Meurig pointed to a scar which ran round his throat and had been disguised by the cowled robe he wore. ‘See here, the mark of the Saxon slave collar. That was over ten years ago when Penda ruled that kingdom. He was an evil man, that one. Penda was born a pagan and died a pagan, serving none other than his god Woden.’