Smoke in the Wind

Chapter Three

The following day was bright and clear. Eadulf took a few tentative steps out of the hospice building and found, as Brother Rhodri had warned him, that he felt slightly weak and a little dizzy. In spite of that, he felt the better for the sharpness of the fresh air and soon the giddiness vanished.

The harbour of Porth Clais was situated where a river made its way to meet a long narrow inlet of the sea, with hills rising on either side. A few small fishing craft rode at anchor there, rocking gently on the waters, and there were isolated buildings dotted amidst gorse- and heather-covered hills.

Almost at once, Eadulf became aware of the seabirds for whom the inlet seemed a natural haven. Their noise and constant swooping, darting and soaring was all-pervasive. He was also aware of seals splashing in the sheltered waters just below the spot where he was standing. The place seemed almost idyllic. He could see a seal pup scrabbling about on a muddy flat on the opposite side of the inlet. Then, even as he watched, the dark shadow of a bird came, dropping down by curious stages like a falling stone. There came a combination of cries, and the seal pup’s grey head became bloodied where the bird’s talons had raked it. Yet the bird had not succeeded in carrying it off. There was a splashing as the mother seal came anxiously from the waves, crying to the pup to join her. Eadulf saw the russet and brown bird, which he recognised as a kestrel, climbing and turning for a second dive. The pup, encouraged by the mother, had made it into the water. Eadulf was sharply reminded that life was never idyllic.

He turned, walking along the pathway until he found a tree stump and sat down. The sun, though weak compared to summer sunshine, was warm and pleasant. One or two people passed by and greeted him in their own language and he replied, regaining his meagre knowledge of it. During his time studying at Tuam Brecain, two of the brethren there had come from the kingdom of Powys and he had spent time trying to learn their language. He was keenly aware of the antagonism that existed between the Britons and his own people. In moments of calm reflection, Eadulf could clearly understand the roots of the enmity between them.

In his father’s day, the British kingdom of Elmet had been destroyed when Ceretic, its king, had been slain and the population driven westward by a Saxon war chieftain named Snot who had built his township or ham on the west bank of the river that had marked the tiny kingdom’s border. Now Snotingaham was a thriving Saxon town where once Britons had flourished. Of course, he could understand why Britons hated Saxons. And did not most Saxons return that hatred? The conversion of the Saxons to Christianity had, if anything, pushed Briton and Saxon even further apart instead of joining them together.

Eadulf had heard the stories from the old ones of how, just over sixty years before, the Roman cleric Augustine, with forty monks from that city, had settled in the kingdom of Kent to help in the Christianising of it. He found only Irish missionaries, mainly in the north, trying to bring the Faith to the pagan Saxons, teaching them how to read and write. At Canterbury he found a church dedicated to St Martin of Tours, originally built by the Britons before the Jutes drove them out. The Frankish Christian wife of the king of Kent and her chaplain were worshipping there. Knowing that the Britons had been Christian from the time of the Roman occupation, Augustine demanded a meeting with their bishops on the borders between their remaining territories and the Saxons.

By all the accounts which Eadulf had heard, Augustine was a Roman who was still full of the old Roman arrogance. He viewed the Britons in the same manner as had the generals of the Roman legions in the old days of the empire. To him they were worthless barbarians. He had demanded of Deniol, the bishop of Bangor, why the clergy of the Britons had failed in their duty to the Faith by not bothering to convert the Saxons. Deniol had sarcastically pointed out that it was hard to preach love and forgiveness to a man when he was in the process of slaughtering one’s wife and children. Augustine had gone further in his arrogance and blustered that if the Britons did not accept his authority and that of Rome, then he would bless the Saxon arms and they would suffer vengeance. It was a fact that some years later, Bishop Deniol was one of the thousand clerics who died during the wholesale slaughter of monks at Bangor.

Eadulf stirred uncomfortably from his reflections as a tall Briton, clad in the robes of a religious, walked by and greeted him with a smile and some unintelligible word. Eadulf automatically returned the smile and gave such greeting as he could remember in the language. Eadulf had no wish to be an enemy to anyone, but what was the proverb of his people which came to mind? There is no safety in trying to make a friend of one’s enemy. Surely that could not be right? There were the teachings of the Faith to take account of. What was it that the Blessed James had written? ‘What causes conflicts and quarrels among you? Do they not spring from the aggressiveness of your bodily desires? You want something which you cannot have, and so you are bent on murder; you are envious, and cannot attain your ambition, and so you quarrel and fight.’ Was that the main reason behind the last two centuries of war and bloodshed since the Saxons had landed in Britain? He shuddered. What was it that Christ had said? ‘I give you a new commandment; love one another.’ Well, so far as the decision rested with him, that is what he was prepared to do. However, it did not calm his mind; calm his fears of being in a strange land surrounded by a people whom he mistrusted.

Some hours later, when Fidelma came to find him and ask him if he thought himself fit to accompany her on the walk to the abbey of Dewi Sant, he found that the few hours in the fresh air had renewed his vigour. He answered in the affirmative. The giddiness had vanished and apart from a tenderness around the bruising on his forehead, which was still painful to touch, he felt revived.

The great abbey dedicated to Dewi Sant lay not more than a kilometre and a half to the north-east of the small port. They left Porth Clais walking at an easy pace, maintaining a steady gait, along the bracken-covered banks of the river. According to Fidelma, who had traversed the path the day before, it was called the Alun. Along this track came cargoes of gold, mined in Ireland, landed by ship at the port. The gold was taken to the abbey to be constructed by the goldsmiths there into sacred objects for veneration. Further upriver, the track ran into moorland, but Fidelma was able to pick her way through the boggy ground with confident ease. The day was still generally bright and, although the wind was rising, not too chill for the time of year. The journey was an easy one.

In no time at all the great abbey complex came in sight. Eadulf had to admit that it was an impressive collection of buildings, equal to any he had seen anywhere except in Rome. The buildings were a combination of grey granite and local woods.

They were greeted at the gates by one of the brethren, who seemed to have been expecting their arrival for he led them, without delay, directly to the chambers of Abbot Tryffin himself.

The abbot rose from his chair and came forward to greet them warmly in Fidelma’s native tongue. He obviously spoke the language as fluently as Brother Rhodri did. His tonsure was in the fashion of St John, the manner adopted by the churches of the Britons as well as those of Éireann. The head was shaved from the front to a line running from ear to ear, which some said was but a continuation of the tonsure adopted by the Druids, the wise men and sages of old. In his late forties, he was gaunt of face, thin-lipped and with a large nose, crisscrossed by tiny red veins, like a spider’s web. He smiled readily and there seemed a genuine warmth in the greeting. Yet his dark eyes held an anxious expression.

They were seated before a fire and served with mulled wine which Eadulf found welcome and comforting.

‘Are you in good health now, Brother Eadulf?’ the abbot asked as he settled in his chair. ‘Are you none the worse for your accident on board ship?’

‘None the worse,’ affirmed Eadulf solemnly.

‘And I suppose, as you informed me yesterday, Sister, that you are still both anxious to continue your journey to Canterbury? Is that so?’

‘We are,’ replied Fidelma. ‘As soon as we can find a ship sailing there, of course.’

The abbot nodded absently, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair without apparently being aware of his action. It was obvious that some matter of importance was distracting him and he was having difficulty in articulating it.

‘However. .’ he began.

‘However,’ interposed Fidelma, ‘there is some problem which you require our help with.’

The abbot glanced at her in surprise. His eyes quickly narrowed. ‘How did you know? Has someone told you?’

‘Your concern is quite obvious,’ replied Fidelma.

Abbot Tryffin gave the answer some thought, relaxed and shrugged. ‘I suppose it is. It is true that we are confronted by a mystery which needs the advice of such an expert as yourself to explain it.’

Irritated, Eadulf looked up from contemplating the goblet of mulled wine.

‘Before I say more about this matter, may I ask you a question, Sister?’ asked the abbot.

Fidelma glanced towards Eadulf and replied with solemn humour: ‘Not every question deserves an answer.’

The abbot shifted uncomfortably. ‘That is truly said, Sister. I will ask, anyway. If I were to show you a mystery which intrigued you, would you remain a few days in this kingdom seeking an explanation of it?’

Fidelma indicated Eadulf, making it clear that the answer lay with him. ‘I am here merely accompanying the emissary of Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury. Your question is best put to him.’

Eadulf set down his wine, considering the matter. It was true that he had delayed in Muman for nearly a year before finally deciding to return to Canterbury. What difference would a delay of a few more days in the kingdom of Dyfed make on this return journey? It would probably take a few days before they could find a ship anyway. But what mystery was there to so distract the abbot that he would invite strangers to solve it, and a Saxon at that? Eadulf was still acutely mindful that he was in the land of the Britons. He became aware of the abbot’s close scrutiny as the latter waited with barely concealed impatience for the answer.

‘There would be a remuneration for your services,’ the abbot said quickly, as if payment were Eadulf’s concern.

‘Why would you seek our help? Surely there are enough wise heads in the kingdom of Dyfed to resolve the problem without calling in strangers?’ Eadulf’s tone indicated his vexation.

There was a movement beyond a screen at the far end of the room, and a tall, elderly man emerged from behind it. He had the build of a warrior, despite his age, and his features still retained the handsome mould of his youth. His white hair was tightly curled and beset by a gold circlet. His eyes were a striking, vivid blue, almost violet, with, at first glance, no discernible pupils. He wore clothes of rich satin and woven linen and wool. It was clear that he was a man of rank.

Eadulf noticed that Fidelma was rising from her seat and so he rose reluctantly as well.

The abbot coughed nervously. ‘You stand in the presence of-’

‘Of Gwlyddien, king of Dyfed,’ interrupted Fidelma, bowing her head in acknowledgment.

The elderly king came forward, smiling broadly, his hand held out in greeting. ‘You have a discerning eye, Fidelma of Cashel, and a quick wit, for I am sure that we have not met before.’

‘We have not, but the son of Nowy has been spoken of with respect among the religious of these islands. Was not your father also famed for the support he gave to the Church?’

Gwlyddien inclined his head. ‘Yet such as my reputation is, it provides little enough information by which to recognise me.’

‘True enough.’ Fidelma’s eyes held a twinkle. ‘It was by the royal symbol of Dyfed which you have embroidered on your cloak and by the gold signet on your finger that I inferred your identity. It was an elementary deduction.’

Gwlyddien slapped his thigh in appreciation and chuckled. ‘All I have heard of you seems true, Fidelma of Cashel.’ He turned with outstretched hand to Eadulf, who stood slightly alienated by this exchange. ‘And, of course, where Fidelma goes, one hears of her companion, Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham. Our bards tell us that two centuries ago the land of the South Folk, the very place from where you come, was once the kingdom of those Britons called the Trinovantes. From that tribe came one of the greatest of our kings — Cunobelinos, the Hound of Belinos, against whom not even the Roman emperors would dare to wage war.’

Eadulf shifted his weight nervously. ‘Tempus edax rerum,’ he muttered, remembering the line from Ovid.

Gwlyddien stared disapprovingly at him for a moment. Then he sighed and bowed his head as though accepting the inevitable.

‘Indeed, time does devour all things. Yet does not Virgil say that the Fates will find a way? What was once may yet be again.’

Eadulf restrained a shiver. He had heard that the Britons had not lost hope that one day they would drive the Saxons back again into the sea. He wondered how to respond but the moment had passed. Gwlyddien had seated himself in the chair vacated by the abbot, who took another.

‘Sit down,’ the king instructed with an impatient gesture. Fidelma and Eadulf resumed their seats. ‘The answer to our Saxon friend’s previous question is simple. Among the stories that we hear from travellers passing through this kingdom from Éireann, and the many brothers and sisters from your country who come to study here at this abbey, are tales of how Fidelma of Cashel has solved this riddle or unravelled that mystery. Having discussed the matter with Abbot Tryffin, I believe that God himself put you on a course to this place so that you may help us.’

Eadulf tried to suppress his feeling of annoyance that the king did not include him. It was clear that it was only Fidelma’s reputation that had prompted this summons to the abbey of Dewi Sant. The Britons barely tolerated him. He tried to keep his features impassive.

Fidelma was sitting back, regarding Gwlyddien with a studied expression. ‘My mentor, the Brehon Morann, used to say that compliments cost nothing, yet many pay dear for them. What cost follows these compliments you now bestow on me and on Brother Eadulf?’ The slight emphasis on Eadulf’s name implied a rebuke at their exclusion of him.

Gwlyddien was obviously not accustomed to being questioned so directly and the abbot was looking anxious. However, Gwlyddien kept his humour.

‘Believe me, Fidelma of Cashel, I am not an idle flatterer.’

‘Of that I am sure,’ Fidelma replied quickly. ‘So let us get down to what it is that you want of us rather than proceed with the inconsequential matters.’

At a gesture from the king, Abbot Tryffin took charge of the narrative.

‘Some twenty or more kilometres to the north of here is one of our sub-houses, the abbey of Llanpadern. Abbey is, perhaps, too important a title to give the little community that dwells there.’

When he paused, Gwlyddien exhaled in exasperation. The abbot continued hurriedly.

‘One of our brethren, Brother Cyngar, was journeying here from his community. His route took him to Llanpadern where he had planned to ask for hospitality on his way. Brother Cyngar arrived here yesterday in a state of great consternation and anxiety. He is young and impressionable. It appears, from what he tells us, that when he arrived at Llanpadern it was deserted. Completely deserted.’

He sat back as if expecting some reaction to his statement.

After a pause, Fidelma asked casually: ‘How many normally live in this abbey of Llanpadern?’

‘It is a male house of twenty-seven brothers. They work the land and run a small farm and are thus self-sustaining. ’

Fidelma’s eyes widened a little. ‘Twenty-seven? Was that figure chosen deliberately?’

Abbot Tryffin was puzzled and said so.

‘Then it is of no consequence if it needs to be explained,’ Fidelma said dismissively. In her culture, the number had a mystic symbolism. ‘So Brother Cyngar found the abbey deserted and, presumably, could discover no explanation which accounted for its being abandoned?’

‘He could not.’

‘Did he examine all the buildings thoroughly?’

‘He did. He found that candles were lit, food was on the tables, half eaten, but the place had been deserted for some hours. The rats were quite noticeable. But even the livestock were all gone.’

Fidelma turned to Gwlyddien with a sharp look of interrogation. ‘And why is it that this case particularly interests you?’

The elderly king blinked in surprise. ‘What makes you say that it does?’ he demanded.

‘I am interested in why the king of Dyfed is so concerned with this small religious community and its fate. Such inquiries could easily be left to your abbot here. But you seem overly concerned in soliciting our help.’

The king sat back, blinking a little at her directness. ‘You have a sharp mind; a keen perception. It is true, Fidelma of Cashel, that I am particularly interested in the fate of this community.’ He hesitated, as if trying to organise his thoughts into an articulate form.

‘I have a son, my eldest son, Rhun. Rhun decided to enter the community of Llanpadern about six months ago. He was a bright lad. I once thought him ambitious for this kingdom, ambitious to succeed me one day. But then he became frustrated with his life and decided to join the religious.’

Fidelma leant forward a little in her chair. ‘And your son, Rhun, is among the brethren who are now missing from Llanpadern?’

‘That is so.’

There was a brief silence and then Fidelma asked: ‘Do you have any thoughts on this matter, Gwlyddien?’

The elderly man shook his head. ‘I do not believe in sorcery, Sister Fidelma. I have to ask the question: other than sorcery, how else can an entire community vanish into thin air?’

Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘And do you think you have an answer to that question?’

‘There is an answer.’

They all turned at the strange commanding voice that interrupted. A young man stood at the door, which he had opened unobserved. He was tall, with fair hair fixed in place by a silver circlet. The handsome features echoed those of Gwlyddien, the eyes reflected the striking colour of those of the king. Gwlyddien indicated him with impatience as the young man entered.

‘This is my younger son, Cathen.’

Abbot Tryffin completed the formalities by introducing Fidelma and Eadulf.

‘You say that there is an answer to the question which your father posed?’ Fidelma queried.

‘Do you know anything of the politics of this land?’ Cathen replied with a question, as he sprawled into a chair.

‘Little enough,’ conceded Fidelma.

‘During the last decade this kingdom had been under constant attack from the ambitions of our northern neighbours, the kings of Ceredigion. Their current king, Artglys, is an ambitious and ruthless man. His son and heir is hardly any better. The pair of them are evil. Once Ceredigion was ruled by the kings of Gwynedd but there was an internal struggle among its ruling dynasty. A generation or so ago King Artbodgu managed to unite Ceredigion as an independent kingdom. Since the rise of Artglys, the son of Artbodgu, Ceredigion have endeavoured to expand by raiding the territories of their neighbours. To annex the kingdom of Dyfed to Ceredigion is Artglys’s dearest ambition.’

‘How does that explain the disappearance of the community at Llanpadern?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘Ceredigion have raided our territory before and taken hostages.’

‘So you are saying that Artglys of Ceredigion is somehow responsible for what has happened? That the entire community were seized in a raid?’

‘I do not know for certain. I merely say that it is possible that the Ceredigion raided Llanpadern in order to take my brother, Rhun, as a hostage.’

‘Possible but not likely,’ his father added. ‘When Rhun went into the religious, he gave up all claim to the kingship. Why take him hostage? To use as an emotional lever against me? My enemies know that I am not so weak. My oath of kingship and the good of my people come first. As for Ceredigion raids, why, Saxon ships have also been known to raid along our shores.’

‘What is it that you expect of us?’ Fidelma asked quickly to hide Eadulf’s embarrassment at the mention of Saxon raids. ‘Solving the politics of warfare is not what we are best at.’

Abbot Tryffin appeared uncomfortable. He also did not seem to agree with Prince Cathen’s views.

‘I believe that this affair has absolutely nothing to do with Ceredigion nor with Artglys’s raids across the border. .’ He glanced at Cathen and his voice trailed off.

Fidelma intervened, seeing Cathen tensing himself for an argument. ‘You say that this place — Llanpadern — is north of here? How far from the border with Artglys’s kingdom of Ceredigion?’

‘At least another twenty kilometres or more.’

‘A raid coming some forty kilometres into your territory is a long distance for an enemy host to move unnoticed,’ Fidelma observed.

‘This might be a raid by sea; they could have come ashore on the coast which is only a few kilometres away from Llanpadern,’ Cathen insisted.

‘There is much power in the word “could”,’ Fidelma said reflectively.

The abbot had compressed his lips as if wishing to say something but uncertain whether to contradict his prince. Fidelma noticed his expression.

‘I am sure that your contribution to this matter would be welcomed, Abbot Tryffin. What point do you wish to make?’

The abbot looked even more uncomfortable but seemed to summon his courage. ‘The abbey is situated at the foot of the western slopes of Carn Gelli. If the warriors of Ceredigion made a raid on the abbey by sea, there are only a couple of places they could land. They would still have to march three kilometres from either landing place to the abbey. There are two townships on these routes and such a force would have raised some alarm. Indeed, Father Clidro and his community would have been warned of the arrival of hostile raiders in the territory long before they could reach the abbey. From the way Brother Cyngar describes the orderly way in which the abbey buildings were left, I cannot believe it was the work of warriors carrying off protesting prisoners. There was no sign of an attack, no bodies, nothing to indicate violence.’

Cathen gave a grunt of derision only to be silenced by a gesture from his father.

Fidelma waited for a moment, but as the king said nothing further she asked the abbot: ‘Then to what do you ascribe this disappearance?’

The abbot of Dewi Sant was clearly worried. His eyes were slightly haunted as he stared at her. ‘As Christ is my witness, Sister, I cannot think of any explanation in keeping with natural law that would account for it.’

Cathen let out a derisive hoot. ‘Sorcery! Are you saying that it comes back to magic? I will not have that, Abbot Tryffin. There is no such thing as supernatural forces. You are as bad as that young Brother Cyngar! Evil forces do not exist.’

‘I would disagree.’

They all looked at Fidelma in surprise at her softly spoken interjection. Her glance embraced them all.

‘The supernatural is the natural which is not yet understood. And what of the mysteries of our faith? Are they not supernatural to us? If we recognise that there is good then we must accept that there is evil.’

‘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.’