Smoke in the Wind (33 page)

He raised his axe above his head in salute. ‘Farewell, Eadulf the Christian, sometime
gerefa
.’

Eadulf felt a sudden panic. He was sure that Fidelma would have asked more questions, discovered more facts, but his mind was blank. All he could say was: ‘God send you a good wind home, Osric of the Hwicce.’ He stood watching as the warriors, bearing their load and followed by Osric, went trotting down the hill.

Behind Eadulf, Fidelma emerged from the woods on foot, leading her horse. He turned to meet her. There was relief on her face.

‘It seems that the Saxons were friendly after all,’ she observed.

‘Their ship was demasted and they were looking for a new mast to replace it,’ he explained.

‘That much I could see.’ She smiled. ‘Did you learn anything else? You spoke a long while with the young man who led them.’

‘Osric was his name; thane to Eanfrith, king of the Hwicce.’

Her eyes widened slightly. ‘So these were the Hwicce?’ She stumbled again over the pronunciation. ‘Then it was . . .’

‘It was their ship that Goff the smith told us of. And the dead Hwicce at Llanpadern was one of their crew, a man called Thaec.’

Fidelma said quietly: ‘Then you’d better tell me exactly what passed between you and Osric.’

Eadulf did so, keeping as close to the actual words as he could remember. Fidelma nodded from time to time, asking a question merely to have a point explained. When he had finished she was looking troubled.

‘This information merely adds to our mystery,’ she finally said, unable to keep the frustration from her voice.

There was a mournful smile on Eadulf’s face. ‘The Fidelma I once knew would have said,
Vincit qui patitur
.’

There was an angry flash in Fidelma’s green-grey eyes, gone in a moment. ‘Indeed, he prevails who is patient, Eadulf,’ she replied tightly. ‘I did not know that you judged yourself a paragon of patience?’

Eadulf flushed at the waspishness of her reply. ‘I meant--’ he began, but she interrupted.

‘You have added another small piece of the picture but we do not know where it fits, that is if we are to believe your Saxon friend. We have an Hwicce warship chasing a ship of Gwent. It anchors in a cove at night. A crewman goes ashore to reconnoitre and is captured. The ship continues on its way, abandoning him. He then is found in a sarcophagus at Llanpadern having been stabbed to death. Does knowing this bring us any nearer an explanation?’

Eadulf had never heard Fidelma’s voice filled with such frustration before. He tried to think of something to say that would be helpful, but could not and so retreated into silence. He was troubled on another level. Ever since they had arrived in this land of Dyfed they had been arguing with one another and he could not understand why. What had gone wrong with their relationship since they had left the shores of Laigin? Or had there been something wrong before?

He had persuaded Fidelma to join him on his return to Canterbury. Had he been blind? Had it been against her will? After all, she had left him at Cashel to proceed to the Tomb of St James while he had set out to Canterbury by himself. It was only in order to save him from the unjust accusation of murder that she had returned to defend him. Now he was confused. Anger grew out of his confusion. He realised that she was speaking again.

‘Let’s return to Llanwnda and stop the panic that must have set in among Gwnda’s people.’

He suppressed a sigh as she mounted her horse, expecting him to follow. ‘No,’ he said abruptly. She stared down at him in astonishment.

‘No,’ he repeated, as he mounted his own horse. ‘I shall ride to the point first and check whether they erected their new mast and told me the truth about their intention to sail south.’

She stared at him for a moment or two and then, without speaking, jerked the reins of her horse, turning it to ride off to Llanwnda.

Eadulf sat astride his mount for a few moments, watching until she had disappeared among the trees. Then he turned his horse and headed after the Saxon warriors. When he reached the point overlooking the small bay, the Saxon ship was immediately discernible below. The main mast was indeed missing, and warrior-seamen were hard at work clearing the tangled ropes and rigging, preparing for the new mast to be set in place.

Osric and his men were already rowing their small boats towards the vessel, bearing their newly cut mast with them. Eadulf admired the ease, born of a lifetime at sea, with which they propelled their craft towards the long, low warship. He could admire their skill, for he considered himself something of an expert on seamanship. Not that he had ever been a seaman, but he had made many voyages now. Four times he had crossed the great sea between Britain and the land of Éireann; four times had he crossed the seas on his pilgrimages to Rome. And he had sailed along the turbulent eastern shores of Britain to attend the great Council of Whitby.

Eadulf liked the sea and yet, at the same time, he feared it. Was fear the right word? No; he did not take the sea for granted. He respected it. The sea was cruel and had no charity. Yet without the sea man would be insignificant, for the sea was like a great road between peoples and without contact with one another men would be isolated and there would be no progress between them. But the sea was patient, watching and waiting and ready, like a murderer on a dark night, hiding in an unilluminated lane with a knife to strike at the unexpected moment.

Eadulf broke off his thoughts with an impatient sigh. He dismounted and tethered his horse, seating himself on a boulder from which he could observe the warriors repairing their ship. The late autumnal sun was lukewarm in the cloudless sky. For the first time in days Eadulf felt that he could relax and give his thoughts to the matter which was worrying him.

Fidelma.

Where lay the fault for the deterioration of their relationship? What was it that he had once been taught by a sage of the South Folk? No one can understand anyone else unless, while being true to his own nature, he respects the free will of the other. Well, he had once thought, perhaps arrogantly, that he understood Fidelma. Yet he had to admit that seven languages were more easily mastered than the understanding of the woman.

He heard a distant shouting and looked up from his revelry, glancing down to the bay. Something moved in the corner of his eye. He looked towards the northern headland and saw a second ship under full sail sweeping round into the bay. It was a sleek-looking fighting ship, and across its taut sails was the image of a large red dragon.

Eadulf leapt to his feet.

The shouting had come from the Saxons, who had spied the oncoming vessel. There was no mistaking the intention of the other ship, nor that it was manned by
Welisc
. The dragon battle flag seemed common to most of the Britons. It had been the symbol of the great Macsen Wledig, whom the Romans had called Magnus Maximus when he was declared emperor of the western empire by the legions stationed in Britain. It was curious what thoughts came in moments of adversity. Macsen was betrayed and put to death. His wife, Elen, returned to Britain to become the most influential figure in the Christian movement, her sons and daughters founding many kingdoms of the Britons.

Eadulf watched the oncoming
Welisc
vessel with consternation. It was clear that the Saxon ship would have no chance to escape or manoeuvre. The new mast had only just been lifted on board and it would take a while to put it in place, let alone hoist the rigging and sails. Osric’s ship was lying helpless.

Eadulf found himself squeezing his hands into fists in his frustration, so tightly that the nails dug into the flesh of his palms. Osric’s men had grabbed their shields and weapons and rushed to the side of their vessel in a desperate attempt to repel boarders. And then a curious thing happened.

When there was still several metres between the high prow of the
Welisc
ship and the side of the Saxon vessel, the red dragon ship turned aside and almost slewed round, still moving rapidly, so that it passed swiftly away from the Saxons. Eadulf heard shouting and saw several burning brand torches being thrown across by the Britons, landing on the Saxon deck and starting several small fires which were quickly extinguished by Osric’s men.

Eadulf was baffled. He had been expecting a barrage of arrows from the bows which the Britons often used, or a boarding party with sword and shield. Yet the
Welisc
ship passed swiftly on, the sailing master obviously knowing the currents of this bay. Even as the vessel swung away, Eadulf saw several dark objects fall from its stern. Even from this distance he could recognise the shapes as human beings, and from the way they fell and floated in the water he realised that they were dead.

Bewildered, he watched the
Welisc
ship race out of the bay back the way it had come, round the headland. He waited for quite a long time, fully expecting to see the vessel reappear. When it did not, he decided to make his way down to the shore.

The Saxons were back at work on their ship, hoisting the newly cut mast into position. Others were clearly on watch, for he heard a shout and saw someone gesturing at him as he walked down the shingle. A couple of bodies lay in the surf, face down, moving gently to and fro as the waves washed ashore.

He had been recognised, for he saw Osric and a couple of his men climbing down into a boat and pulling away from the ship towards the shore.

Eadulf walked over to the nearest body.

It was that of a young man, clad in the brown woollen robe of a religieux. The young man’s hair was cut in the tonsure of St John, the style worn by the religious of the Britons as well as the five kingdoms of Éireann. He was but recently dead, perhaps killed at the moment he had been thrown overboard. The wound - his neck had been cut - was still bleeding.

Eadulf bent down, grabbed the young man’s shoulders, and heaved him out of the surf further onto the shingled beach. In doing so, he saw something which had been looped round the man’s left wrist and arm. To a quick examination, it might appear that he had grabbed something from his assailant. It was a piece of cloth on which was embroidered one of the symbols which pagan Saxons still affected. Eadulf recognised it immediately as an Hwicce emblem, and exhaled sharply.

The crunch of shingle trodden underfoot made him look up. Osric came hurrying across to him while his two men stood guarding their small boat, ready to push off back to their ship if danger threatened. The eorl appeared angry.

‘Did you have anything to do with that?’ he demanded immediately, gesturing towards the headland round which the
Welisc
ship had disappeared. Eadulf realised that Osric was holding his sword menacingly in his pointing hand. ‘You said that there were no
Welisc
warriors in the vicinity.’

‘I did,’ Eadulf said, raising himself up. ‘The appearance of that ship was as much a surprise to me as to you.’ He pointed down to the corpse. ‘Did
you
have anything to do with this?’

Osric, disconcerted, glanced down. ‘You saw the
Welisc
throw those bodies overboard from their ship, didn’t you? Why would we have anything to do with this?’

‘Look at the object looped round the arm of this man.’

Osric bent down. ‘By the blood of Woden!’ he swore. He looked back to Eadulf with a frown. ‘What does this mean?’

‘It means,’ Eadulf said quietly, ‘that anyone who examines these bodies will presume that they were killed by Hwicce.’

Osric was silent. Eadulf turned and went to the other body that had been washed ashore, drawing it also out of the reach of the waves. It, too, was a religieux, not as young as the first one. In his back, quite deeply embedded, was an Hwicce dagger. As Eadulf was laying the body down on the shingle, a groan came from its lips.

‘
Deus misereatur!
’ cried Eadulf, bending closer. ‘This one is still alive.’

Osric came over and bent down by his side. ‘Not for long, my friend,’ he muttered. ‘I have seen wounds like this and no man recovers. Stop!’ Eadulf had been about to remove the Hwicce dagger from the man’s back. ‘If you remove the dagger he will die immediately. Turn him slightly so that he may speak before he dies.’

Eadulf turned the body on its side. ‘Can you hear me, Brother?’ he asked, in the language of the Cymry. He had been speaking to Osric in Saxon.

The man’s eyelids fluttered and he gave a sound like a barely audible moan.

‘Can you speak?’ urged Eadulf. ‘Who did this thing to you?’

The man’s mouth moved slightly. Eadulf bent his ear to the lips.

‘Break . . . break up the bronze . . . bronze serpent that Moses made,’ came the painful whisper.

Eadulf did not understand. ‘Who did this to you?’ he whispered again, more urgently.

‘Evil in our midst . . . the creature of the damned, the evil spider . . . casting his net . . . ensnared us all . . . He was one . . . of us!’ The man abruptly coughed blood and was still.

Osric stated the obvious: ‘He’s dead, my friend. Did you learn anything?’

Eadulf shook his head. ‘I think he was rambling. In a fever, perhaps.’ He rose and glanced at Osric. ‘I don’t suppose that you recognised the ship which attacked you?’

The young Saxon thane nodded. ‘That was the ship of Morgan, the one we had chased from the mouth of the River Saeferne out along the coast of these kingdoms.’

‘They could have destroyed your ship.’

Osric did not demur. ‘They could have done so. They might still, if they have courage to come back to match our mettle.’

Eadulf was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘I do not think they lack courage. Yet it is hard to understand why they did not finish off the job. Why simply dump these poor bodies overboard?’

‘Who are they?’

‘Religious. I have a suspicion that they might be part of the missing community of Llanpadern. Though why that should be I do not know.’