Free Smoke in the Wind by Peter Tremayne

than to have you sit alongside me in trying this matter,’ agreed Brother Meurig. ‘But the practice is little different from the one you use.’
    ‘What’s that?’ demanded Eadulf suddenly. He had been watching a strange glow from among the trees surrounding the township. It seemed like a reddish, flickering light.
    ‘It looks like a fire,’ Brother Meurig replied, his eyes widening.
    ‘We must see how we can help!’ Fidelma cried, kicking her horse with her heels, moving quickly forward.
    ‘What if the cause is raiders?’ Brother Meurig yelled desperately after her. ‘Should we not be more circumspect in our approach?’
    But Fidelma was already out of earshot with Eadulf chasing after her. Raising his eyes heavenward in resignation, Brother Meurig urged his own mount forward. They cantered along the track through the woods, for it was dangerous to move more quickly, and came to a bridge leading across a swiftly flowing stream into the township.
    ‘I don’t think it is a building on fire,’ called Eadulf as they halted on the bridge itself.
    It was not.
    Beyond the bridge they saw a square among the buildings. A crowd was gathered there, facing a central tree with their backs towards the newcomers. Men, women and children were standing in a subdued stillness, each male holding aloft a burning brand torch to create the eerie, red glow which was like a large fire. No sound at all arose from them, the flickering flames of their torches the only movement. Then a restless shudder went through the small crowd. Two men appeared out of the shadows. They seemed to be dragging a third man between them; a figure which struggled and writhed in their grip. The sounds of his sobs came clearly to the watching trio. He cried like a baby, in a high-pitched tone, wailing almost hysterically.
    With a muttered oath, unfitting for a religieux, Brother Meurig suddenly sent his horse bounding forward over the bridge and into the square. The people scattered this way and that in surprised terror.
    Eadulf cried a warning to Fidelma but she simply shrugged and urged her mount to emulate Brother Meurig’s example. Reluctantly, Eadulf followed.
    Brother Meurig had halted and Fidelma and Eadulf pulled their mounts up on either side. It suddenly became clear to Eadulf what Meurig had realised was about to happen. The struggling figure was about to be hanged on the tree.
    ‘In the name of God, what do you think you are doing?’ Meurig yelled. ‘Stop this!’
    The people shrank back but a few stood their ground in defiance. The two men who still clung to their unfortunate captive did not move.
    A thickset man, his moon face made red by the light of the burning brand torch he held, came forward to glower up at Brother Meurig. He stood, feet apart, in a belligerent attitude, his free hand resting on the hilt of the knife at his waist.
    ‘This is none of your concern, Brother! Get to your business and leave us alone.’
    ‘This is my business,’ replied Brother Meurig calmly, his voice stentorian, showing authority. ‘Let Gwnda, the lord of Pen Caer, step forward.’
    A second man had come to join the first. He carried a cudgel which he held carelessly in one hand but with such obviousness that he clearly meant it as a threat.
    ‘You’ll find the lord Gwnda probably praying in his hall should you wish to join him, Brother.’
    The man punctuated his statement with a curious barking aggressive laugh.
    Fidelma, following this conversation, caught the word llys and realised that it was the equivalent of the word lios in her own language. It meant more than a simple dwelling, more of a courtly place where a chieftain dwelt. Perhaps ‘hall’ was the best translation.
    Brother Meurig looked down at the man with an expression of repugnance.
    ‘In his hall, while anarchy rules in this place? He will answer to Gwlyddien, the king, if harm comes to any person without cause.’
    The moon-faced man blinked and glanced towards his companion