Free Smoke in the Wind by Peter Tremayne Page A

with the cudgel before turning back to Brother Meurig.
    ‘There is cause enough, Brother,’ he cried in an angry voice. ‘But who are you to make threats against our lord in the name of our king?’
    ‘I am sent here by the king at the request of your lord, Gwnda. I am the barnwr from the abbey of Dewi Sant.’
    This time the moon-faced man seemed less certain of his position. It showed in a slight dropping of the shoulders, a rapid blink and a quick shifting of his weight. His companion, with the cudgel, also looked less sure of himself now. Brother Meurig took the advantage.
    ‘Bring that man here!’
    He beckoned sharply to the two men who were holding the prisoner. They glanced at the moon-faced man but, receiving no counter-instruction, they moved slowly forward with their captive still held between them. He was sobbing more quietly now, head hung low.
    ‘He is hardly more than a boy,’ muttered Fidelma, observing the prisoner closely. She had addressed Brother Meurig in her own language, but the moon-faced man glanced at her distrustfully. It was clear that he also understood her tongue.
    ‘Boy or not, he is a killer and will be punished,’ he stated in the local speech.
    ‘This is not our way of punishment,’ returned Brother Meurig. ‘What do you mean by it?’
    ‘This boy raped and killed my daughter! I will have my vengeance!’ the moon-faced man said determinedly.
    ‘You will not have vengeance.’ Brother Meurig’s tone was biting. ‘However, you may see justice done. What is your name?’
    ‘I am Iorwerth the smith.’
    ‘And this boy’s name?’
    ‘He is Idwal.’
    ‘Very well, Iorwerth the smith. You will lead us to Gwnda’s hall. You two men, bring the boy, and see that he is not harmed otherwise you will answer to me.’ His sharp commands allowed for no dissent. Brother Meurig glared at the crowd who had retreated some yards away as if to distance themselves from Iorwerth and his friends. ‘The rest of you will disperse to your homes.’ He glanced towards the man who held the cudgel, who now appeared crestfallen. ‘And what is your name, my friend?’
    The man’s eyes were still sullen. ‘I am Iestyn. I am a farmer here.’
    ‘Well, Iestyn, what justification do you have for your involvement in this affair?’
    ‘I am a friend to Iorwerth.’
    ‘Well, friend to Iorwerth, I shall make it your duty to ensure that these people disperse to their homes in safety. If there is any sign of unrest or further rebellion here . . . why, I would hold you personally responsible. You would not like that, I am sure.’
    Without another glance, Brother Meurig turned his back and motioned the man called Iorwerth to lead the way. There was a hesitation and then the moon-faced man shrugged and began to move forward. Brother Meurig started after him, still on his horse, while the two men followed, propelling the boy before them.
    Bringing up the rear, Eadulf glanced towards Fidelma and smiled grimly. ‘It seems that Brother Meurig has more of a commanding personality than I gave him credit for,’ he whispered.
    Fidelma grimaced. ‘He is what he is; a barnwr ,’ she replied in a tone which implied rebuke.
    The procession wound its way along the short distance between the buildings towards a large enclosure of barns and outhouses. Among these stood one tall edifice whose imposing structure marked it as the hall of the lord of the area. Two men stood outside the door. They seemed surprised by the arrival of the procession. One of them came forward as he recognised Iorwerth.
    ‘What has happened?’
    ‘It is the barnwr ,’ the smith explained curtly, jerking his head towards Brother Meurig.
    ‘Where is your lord?’ demanded Meurig, still seated on his horse.
    The man glanced towards the house and then, surprisingly, his companion turned and ran off. The remaining man called a curse after him. Brother Meurig ordered him in a sharp tone: ‘Bring forth your lord. Quickly! And woe betide you if he