It was an ancient landscape with a variety of cairns, cromlechs, standing stones and abandoned hillforts. Fidelma had noticed that there were also a fair number of burial chambers where only chieftains or men and women of high rank would be laid to rest. It was a landscape that showed signs of a wealth of wild flowers amidst the gorse and various species of ferns and heather. At the moment there were only a few patches of white blossoms, such as shepherd’s purse and white deadnettle, which displayed any relief against the green. Generally the countryside was sinking into its drab, almost colourless winter appearance.

High above them, the occasional kestrel flew in lazy circles, keen eyes watching for prey among the dying brownish bracken and evergreen gorse. A flash of red moved quickly as a fox went dashing for cover, more out of habit than fear of a kestrel, for its size made it quite safe. It was field mice, voles and hatchlings that the bird of prey was seeking.

As they rode along the track, it was the first time that Fidelma and Eadulf had been alone for some days. Eadulf had been watching his companion keenly.

‘You are worried about the youth, Idwal, aren’t you?’ he said finally, breaking the silence.

She glanced at him and smiled briefly. ‘You have a discerning eye.’

‘You believe he is innocent?’

Fidelma pouted thoughtfully. ‘I believe that there are many questions to be answered.’

‘I think that you would have liked to take charge of Brother Meurig’s investigation,’ Eadulf observed in gentle accusation.

‘As the Blessed Ambrose said - Quando hic sum, non ieuiuno Sabbato.’

Eadulf frowned for a moment. ‘You mean . . .’

‘I mean, I follow the local law and custom. I do not have the right to dictate to a barnwr of this country. I have no wish to take over from Brother Meurig.’

Even as she spoke, Fidelma realised, with an inward sense of annoyance, that she was lying. She flushed and hoped that Eadulf did not notice.

‘Well, Brother Meurig seems competent enough.’

‘So long as Brother Meurig asks the right questions, there is an end to it. No one can dictate his interpretation of the answers. We, however, must concentrate on our commission. The sooner we resolve this matter, the sooner we can continue to Canterbury.’

They fell silent for a while.

The road from the township to the community of Llanpadern was an easy one, hardly more than three kilometres. They soon came within sight of the complex of buildings below the hill which Brother Meurig had identified as Carn Gelli. The buildings seemed isolated; even had Fidelma not been informed of the disappearance of the community, she would have felt that something was amiss simply by the atmosphere emanating from the buildings. That inexplicable aura of solitude seemed menacing. Fidelma was sensitive to atmosphere. Perhaps that very intuitiveness was the reason why she excelled in her profession. It gave her the ability to sense liars. She felt the twinge of guilt again. She had wanted to take charge of the investigation into Mair’s death for her instinct made her feel that Idwal was speaking the truth.

They continued to ride along the path to the gates and Eadulf leant forward from his mount and pushed against them. They were not secured from the inside and swung open. The courtyard beyond was deserted. Eadulf halted his horse and the breath hissed between his teeth in a nervous whistle. His eye was immediately caught by the great stack of wood which was clearly laid for a bonfire. Fidelma walked her horse to a tethering pole and dismounted, hitching the animal’s reins to it.

Eadulf found that he could not suppress a shiver as he glanced around at the silent buildings. Fidelma noticed his movement but said nothing. Things unseen did not cause her apprehension. It was things manifest and physical that brought danger. She waited until Eadulf had dismounted before she walked slowly back to the gates and stood looking down. Eadulf joined her. She glanced up at him.

‘There are too many tracks here, too much coming and going, and there has also been rain over the last few days which has obscured anything which might tell us about movements here.’

‘You do not trust Brother Cyngar’s word when he told you that he examined the area for traces which would indicate how the community departed?’ Eadulf asked.

Fidelma was irritated by the question. ‘I accept that he spoke his truth. It is always a good thing to check whether it coincides with your own. We won’t find much in the way of tracks. See the road by which we came from Llanwnda? And that other one to the west? Mostly stone-strewn tracks. We shall not be able to pick up traces on those roads unless we have good luck.’

She swung the gates shut before turning back into the courtyard and examining the scene thoughtfully.

‘If this place was subjected to a raid by Saxons,’ Eadulf said, reading her thoughts, ‘then they were very neat and tidy. Nothing destroyed, nothing burnt, no bodies . . .’

‘Yet this boy Dewi said there were bodies left on the beach where the Saxon ship anchored,’ she pointed out. ‘Now, where shall we start? Somewhere in this deserted place must be a clue to what happened here.’

Eadulf did not appear convinced. ‘What if that which happened here is inexplicable?’ he muttered.

Fidelma actually laughed, low and musically. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico est.’

Eadulf recognised the line from Agricola by Tacitus. He had heard it used several times before when his mentors had mocked his Saxon superstitions. ‘Everything unknown is thought magnificent.’ It was often used to point out that the unknown was thought to be supernatural when, in reality, it could easily be interpreted once the facts were known. He felt hurt by her remark, for he felt it was aimed at his Saxon background, so he did not respond.

She was already striding towards a door. It led into the sleeping quarters of the community.

Like Brother Cyngar before them, they found the beds neat and tidy, nothing disturbed. The same was true of the chamber of the Father Superior.

It was when they entered the gloomy refectory that Eadulf found the noxious odours in the deserted room almost overpowering. The food was still mouldering on the tables.

‘Must we?’ he muttered, raising a hand to cover his nose, as Fidelma moved resolutely into the hall.

Fidelma’s glance was one of rebuke. ‘If we are to uncover the mystery, then we must be prepared to examine everything in case we miss something which would give an indication of the cause.’

Reluctantly, Eadulf followed Fidelma as she walked slowly between tables on which lay the remains of the last meal that had been served to the brethren of the community of Llanpadern. There was evidence that scavengers had entered and made free with the food on the tables after it had been deserted. The mouldering bread and rotting cheese had clearly been attacked by the sharp teeth of rodents. Yet it was not this that Fidelma was concentrating on.

She was observing the knives and spoons, laid often carefully aside. A knife left halfway through cutting a loaf, still in the bread itself. A meat knife left lying on the floor. Fidelma halted suddenly, looking down. Nearby was a plate which had once contained a roast joint, judging from what little remained of it. The plate seemed to have been dragged out of place for it had pushed several other plates into an untidy heap. Fidelma’s sharp eye caught sight of a knucklebone on the floor some way away. Her gaze then returned to the knife on the floor. Its slightly rusting blade was discoloured and she realised it was stained with dried blood.

Bending forward, she picked it up and examined it closely. Unless the meat had been exceptionally rare, the profusion of blood which had caused the staining must have come from some other source. But what?

‘Eadulf, can you find a candle and light it?’

Although it was a bright morning outside, in here, in these buildings, all was shadowy gloom and it was difficult to see in any real detail.

Eadulf glanced round. Most of the candles had burnt away to streams of tallow. Brother Cyngar had told them that when he had entered the buildings, the candles, or most of them at least, had been alight. Eadulf spied one that had been toppled from its holder. A good few inches of unmelted tallow remained. Eadulf always carried a tinderbox with him: a small round metal box about three inches in diameter in which he carried charred linen cloth instead of wood chips, for he found it was a more combustible material, taking a spark better than dry wood.

From the box he took a piece of steel and held it in his left hand, the smooth edge above the charred material. Then he struck a sharp glancing blow downwards with the edge of the flintstone he held in his right hand. Tiny fragments flew off, glowing white hot, and fell onto the charred cloth which began to glow. He had a few dried bulrushes impregnated with brimstone and held one of these next to the glowing linen. It burst into flame almost immediately and he lit the candle. He closed the lid of the tinderbox to extinguish the flame in the cloth, reopened it to return the flint and steel, and then carried the candle over to Fidelma.

The operation had taken a little time, but Fidelma waited patiently. She had no other option, for every light in the buildings seemed to have been extinguished. In most houses a lamp or a fire was kept continually alight so that a flame could be passed on without the necessity for the long performance of igniting a fresh one.

By the light of the candle Fidelma examined the blade of the knife and then she bent to the floor, motioning Eadulf to hold the light as low as he could. She drew in her breath sharply.

‘What is it?’ demanded Eadulf.

‘There seems to have been a great effusion of blood here. This was not caused by cutting meat at a meal. I believe someone was cut by a knife . . . this knife.’ She gestured with the hand that held it.

A sudden sound in a dim recess of the refectory caused them to fall instantly quiet. It was like a low growling from the inner depths of the throat. Eadulf slowly turned his head into the darkness.

In a far corner of the room, the candlelight reflected against eyes that glowed like coals. He could barely make out the dark, round-shaped head. It was a silhouette only, the silhouette of a gargoyle.

The growl rose in volume.

Eadulf leant back unobtrusively against one of the tables, his free hand searching blindly for some weapon, for he knew he must not take his gaze from the menacing dark shape with its hell-like glowing eyes. It seemed to be crouching in the corner watching their every move. He could see by the movement of the dark shape that the creature, whatever it was, was gathering to spring. He felt, rather than saw, that Fidelma was trying to hold herself perfectly still. His scrabbling fingers found a metal plate and he picked it up from the table, balancing it in his hand like a discus.

It was at that precise moment that the creature sprang forward, with a terrible scream, directly towards Fidelma’s head.

‘Down!’ shouted Eadulf as he twisted round and let fly with the metal plate. It was almost a perfect discus cast. It impacted with the creature in mid-air. There was a terrible screeching cry, worse than its first scream, and it seemed to perform a twisting motion, changing its direction even in mid-spring.

In the grey light from the window, to which the creature now bounded, they had a momentary vision of a giant cat. It had black and yellowish-grey stripes in a brindle pattern, and was well over a metre in length. It leapt for the sill, paused, and then, with another snarling scream, the creature was through the window and away.

Eadulf set down his candle and turned to Fidelma. She was leaning back against the table, trembling slightly.

‘What was that?’ she demanded, trying to recover her poise.

‘A wild cat.’ Eadulf’s voice was filled with relief. ‘It’s rare that they attack people. They usually live on rabbits, hares and small rodents. It must have thought that it was trapped.’

Fidelma shook her head in disbelief. ‘But the size of it . . . I’ve known cats go wild, but . . .’

Eadulf smiled a little patronisingly, realising he possessed knowledge that Fidelma did not.

‘That was not a domestic cat gone wild. These cats are another breed, larger and more dangerous if cornered. It is rare that they venture out of the forests. They hunt rather than scavenge. Do you not have them in the five kingdoms?’

She shook her head. ‘Feral cats, yes, but not such beasts as that.’

‘It probably came in here after rodents. There are plenty about,’ Eadulf said, almost cheerful now.

Against threats of a tangible nature, Eadulf was fearless. Against anything that smacked of the supernatural, he was as apprehensive as a small child. Fidelma was smiling inwardly. It was almost the reverse with her. What was it that her mentor, the Brehon Morann, used to say? Nature is a strange architect.

‘Let us hope that we do not encounter any more such creatures,’ she observed, turning back to the task in hand. ‘Bring the candle again, Eadulf.’

Once more she bent down to the dried bloodstains. ‘I am sure that someone was stabbed with this knife and bled profusely here.’

She gestured to Eadulf to keep the candle low to the floor. Then she gave a little intake of breath, denoting satisfaction.

‘A trail of blood spots. Let’s see where this will lead us.’

They followed the occasional blood spot from the refectory. It was not easy, for the spots were few and far between, and in one place it took Fidelma some fifteen minutes of searching before she could find the next spot and thus pick up the elusive trail.

Eventually, they found themselves in the gloomy chapel.

‘I think the trail takes us to that sarcophagus.’ Fidelma paused at the door. The light was gloomy. The sarcophagus was a stone affair standing in the central aisle of the chapel before the high altar. It was an elegant structure made from a blue-grey coarse-grain rock. They could see as much from Eadulf’s raised candle. It was constructed as a long, coffin-shaped affair and raised about a metre above the paved floor of the chapel, with tiny columns at its head and feet. On it was an inscription in Latin: Hic Iacit Paternus.

‘The tomb of the Blessed Padern, founder of this community,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘There are certainly some blood spots here.’ She pointed to the surface of the tomb.

Eadulf saw that it was true. Splashes of blood were visible on the stone slabs and against the side of the structure. He looked inquiringly at Fidelma.

‘I suppose we must look inside?’ He inflected the sentence to make it sound like a question.

Fidelma did not deign to answer. She was examining the lid of the sarcophagus. ‘I think it was constructed to swing back,’ she told him. ‘Do you see where the stone is worn smooth?’

Eadulf nodded reluctantly. He set his candle aside and reached forward with both hands to test the strength of its resistance to his weight. To his astonishment, the lid of the sarcophagus moved easily. He glanced up in satisfaction.

Fidelma nodded quickly.

Eadulf pushed again and the stone swung effortlessly aside.

A smell of decay came immediately to his nostrils. He actually found it less unpleasant than the harsh odours of the decomposing food in the refectory.

Fidelma had moved to the side of the sarcophagus and was peering into the tomb. Eadulf, more nervously, joined her in examining the contents.

Sprawled on the remains of a crumbling skeleton and decayed winding sheet lay a new corpse. A corpse that appeared to have been unceremoniously dumped inside, without ritual, without even the customary shroud. It was the body of a man who, by the state of decomposition, could only have been dead a day or two at the most. He lay on his back, and the dark stains across his chest showed how he had come by his death. He had been stabbed several times.

Eadulf was startled. ‘This is no religious,’ he observed, stating the obvious.

The body was that of a short muscular man with full beard, dark and swarthy and physically unlike any Briton that Fidelma had ever seen. His clothes consisted of a sleeveless leather jerkin, and leather-patched pants which were rolled up to the knees. His legs and feet were bare. He wore bronze and copper bracelets on which were curious patterns and a neckpiece with a symbol like a lightning stroke. Around his waist was a belt from which hung an empty sword scabbard.

Eadulf let out an uncharacteristic whistle.

Fidelma regarded him with faint surprise. Not only was the whistle uncharacteristic but it was not often that Eadulf departed from deferential behaviour in a church.

‘Does the body mean anything to you?’ she asked quickly.

‘Hwicce.’

Fidelma looked bewildered.

‘The symbols on his bracelets indicate he is a warrior of the Hwicce,’ explained Eadulf, pointing.

‘That information leaves me none the wiser, Eadulf. Who-ekka?’ Fidelma tried to pronounce the phonetics.

‘The Hwicce comprise a sub-kingdom of Mercia which borders on the kingdoms of the Britons called Gwent and Dumnonia. The Hwicce are a mixture of Angles and Saxons, a fierce warrior people not yet converted to the true faith, and ruled by their own kings. I last heard that Eanfrith was their ruler. They supported the pagan king of Mercia, Penda, when he was alive. He had no time for Christian virtues.’

‘So, the report received by Gwnda was correct,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘It does appear that there was a Saxon raid on this place and the community have been taken off as captives.’

Eadulf was leaning forward. He pointed to the man’s necklet with its engraving of a lightning stroke.

‘That is the symbol of Thunor, our pagan god of lightning.’

Fidelma looked down, her brows drawn together as she examined the lightning flash. Her mind was turning over the facts.

‘Here is another mystery. The Saxon warrior is placed in the sarcophagus of the Blessed Padern. He has been stabbed to death. The evidence suggests that he was stabbed in the refectory with a knife being used to carve meat during the meal. If this was done in the course of a Saxon raid, why was he carried here and placed in this sarcophagus? Why didn’t his comrades carry him away?’

Eadulf was frowning. ‘It would be the normal thing to do,’ he agreed. ‘The Hwicce, especially, do not believe in letting their dead fall into the hands of their enemies if they can avoid it. He should have been removed and buried at sea. The Hwicce are still revered by the Saxon kingdoms.’

Fidelma examined him curiously. ‘Why so?’

‘They still follow the old ways. The dark paths of Frige and Tiw are beset with sacrifice and darkness.’

Fidelma was scornful. ‘Nothing in that is worthy of reverence.’

‘It might be because they are frontiersmen, still carving their kingdom out of the territory of the Britons who were most hostile to the advance of the Angles and Saxons. They have retained their belief in the original gods of the people. Their kings still claim that they are descended from Woden, the chief of the gods.’ Eadulf hesitated.

‘And?’ Fidelma was not encouraging.

‘In spite of the coming of the Faith, all our kings from the land of the West Saxons to Bernica still claim such a lineal descent from the god Woden.’

Fidelma pursed her lips cynically. ‘At least my people do not have to claim they descend from gods and goddesses to seek leadership and obedience.’

Eadulf flushed slightly. While Fidelma was logically right, he still felt that criticism of his culture was implied. He decided to deflect the subject.

‘Why would the Hwicce raid this godforsaken coast? We are nearly two hundred kilometres from their kingdom. Why would they raid here? Why leave the place so immaculate and why leave one of their number in a Christian tomb?’

‘That is something which we must discover. Let us leave our pagan friend in the sarcophagus for the time being. Our next step is to search for more evidence before we journey to - what was the name of the place where the young boy, Dewi, reported the Saxons had killed some of the brothers?’

‘Llanferran.’

‘That’s right. Llanferran.’

Eadulf gave a deep sigh. ‘None of this even begins to make sense to me. It is one unreasonable alternative facing another.’

‘When you consider all the possibilities, it is the most reasonable explanation that provides an answer,’ Fidelma assured him. ‘Most things are illogical until you have the information which explains them. Come, let us see what else we can discover in this place.’

Fidelma helped Eadulf return the lid to its normal position. She was about to lead the way out of the chapel when something else caught her eye and she paused, staring intently at the altar.

‘We almost missed that,’ she said, nodding towards it.

Eadulf looked at the bare altar and frowned. ‘Missed what?’ he demanded.

Fidelma sighed impatiently. ‘Come, you should know better. Look, observe.’

Eadulf turned back to the altar. ‘There is nothing there,’ he protested. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘Nothing,’ said Fidelma. ‘That is precisely the matter.’

Eadulf was about to question her further when the realisation finally came to him. ‘There is no crucifix there. No altar candles; no icons.’

‘Precisely. Just as we may expect after a raid, the valuables are gone.’

As they turned to leave, just behind the chapel door they discovered another curious object. It was the figure of a man made from twists of straw bound together with pieces of string.

Fidelma was examining it with a thoughtful expression when Eadulf interrupted.

‘I can see no reason why the Hwicce would raid this place,’ he commented. ‘Surely the missing icons and treasures here would not constitute great wealth?’

‘Your people keep slaves, don’t you? Perhaps the incentive lay in the sale of the community.’

They found their way to the dormitorium and conducted a more thorough examination. It took them but a few moments, searching the sleeping quarters, to ascertain that nothing was missing from the personal belongings of the brothers. Toilet articles, a breviary and other small items remained at each separate bed.

In the chamber which was clearly that of the Father Superior, Fidelma’s sharp eyes noticed that one small, iron-bound box lay discarded in an alcove. It was the sort of box that one might expect to find valuables in, but it was open and empty. Nor, as she pointed out, was there a crucifix in the room. The chamber of a Father Superior would usually contain a fairly valuable cross. That one had hung in the room until recently was evident by the dusty shadow marks outlining its position on the wall.

However, the Father Superior’s personal belongings, toiletries and other items, and a collection of books in Greek, Latin and Hebrew, showing that Father Clidro had been something of a scholar, were all neatly stacked on a shelf. One volume even lay open on his desk with a metal page marker indicating the spot where he had left off reading.

‘This is truly a strange affair,’ observed Eadulf.

‘That I’ll grant you,’ agreed Fidelma, but she could not help adding mischievously, ‘but certainly not one that is sinister in the sense of any dark forces at work.’

‘We have looked through all the buildings. Let us find our way to Llanferran. Our horses are restless.’

They could hear a protesting whinny from the animals they had left tethered outside.

‘They remind me that we have not looked in the stables or animal pens,’ replied Fidelma. ‘We must be thorough.’

Eadulf screwed his face into a dismissive grimace. ‘We know that there is nothing there. Brother Cyngar looked. He told us.’

‘He also told us that he had looked round the community’s buildings and found nothing. Yet we have found a great deal.’

Eadulf nodded glumly. She was right, of course.

They left the dormitorium and went outside. ‘The gate seems to have blown open,’ Eadulf remarked.

‘Leave it,’ Fidelma advised. ‘It will not take us long to look at the animal enclosures.’

Brother Cyngar had been right. They were empty. All the livestock had gone. However, Fidelma insisted on looking carefully round, trying to spot the slightest thing that was out of the ordinary. From the enclosures they went to the large barn beyond, next to which stood a smith’s forge. The brazier was filled with grey ash, and cold. It was some time since a fire had been kindled here. The barn doors were open. Fidelma halted and looked inside. Cyngar had said he had gone to the barn and glanced inside but found it empty. Certainly, as they stood on the threshold they could see that there were no animals inside. There was nothing supernatural about their disappearance; the ground was stony and hard and the animals could easily have been driven off without trace.

‘Brother Cyngar said that the community possessed two mules. Why are there half a dozen stalls?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Visitors, of course,’ Fidelma responded. ‘The community provided hospitality for travellers and pilgrims passing through here. It would be natural to provide shelter for their horses.’

She walked inside and carefully peered into each individual stall. When she reached the end of the line of stalls on the left, she turned round. Something caught her eye and she glanced up. Eadulf saw the expression on her face. He was still standing in the doorway and she was looking at something directly above his head inside the door.

‘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.