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on a grey mare. Brother Meurig rode at a steady walking pace, while behind him came Sister Fidelma and Brother Eadulf on two spirited cobs, short-legged, strong beasts. Meurig was wrapped against the early morning chill in a great cloak that was almost the colour of the horse he rode. His companions were also enveloped in heavy woollen mantles.
    Abbot Tryffin had sent a man to fetch the travelling bags of Fidelma and Eadulf from Brother Rhodri’s hospice at Porth Clais. This gave them the time to question Brother Cyngar about his visit to Llanpadern and be ready to depart with the barnwr , Brother Meurig, as soon as the early morning light began to appear over the easterly hills.
    Fidelma and Eadulf had both been impressed with the serious and practical attitude of Brother Cyngar. However, the young monk was unable to add much more than they had already been told by Abbot Tryffin. Fidelma had questioned him closely on the detail of what he had observed. He was certainly pragmatic, and showed his eye for detail as he patiently went through a description of the abandoned buildings and their condition.
    The young monk, far from being overwhelmed by the idea of sorcery and evil, simply accepted the idea that what could not be explained by natural means must, therefore, be attributable to supernatural ones.
    After leaving Brother Cyngar, Fidelma and Eadulf had been conducted to the abbey’s scriptorum where Brother Meurig was checking some books of law. Brother Meurig was a tall man, towering even over Fidelma who was considered to be of more than average height. He was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and high cheekbones. His hair was greying and his dark eyes were sunken, the right eye carrying a cast which gave him a slightly sinister appearance. His mournful features were not reflected by the bright friendliness of his greeting.
    He spoke to Fidelma in her own language, turned to Eadulf and spoke an equally fluent Saxon to him. In fact, it appeared that Brother Meurig spoke several languages and all fairly fluently.
    ‘How do you speak Saxon so well?’ queried Eadulf, surprised by the man’s ability.
    ‘I was a prisoner among the Mercians for several years.’ Brother Meurig pointed to a scar which ran round his throat and had been disguised by the cowled robe he wore. ‘See here, the mark of the Saxon slave collar. That was over ten years ago when Penda ruled that kingdom. He was an evil man, that one. Penda was born a pagan and died a pagan, serving none other than his god Woden.’
    ‘But you escaped?’ Eadulf asked, trying not to feel embarrassed, although Meurig spoke without rancour.
    ‘After Oswy of Northumbria defeated Penda and slew him at Winwaed Field, when Mercia was thrown into disarray, that was when many of the slaves he had taken, particularly Christian monks such as I, were released and allowed to return to their own lands.’
    ‘And now you are a barnwr . . . a judge of the courts of Dyfed,’ Fidelma concluded.
    Brother Meurig smiled in satisfaction. ‘Even as you are a judge, Sister Fidelma,’ he said. ‘A dálaigh is the equivalent of a barnwr . We have much in common.’
    ‘I have heard that many of your laws are similar to the laws of the Brehons of Éireann. I am sure that I will have much to learn from you, Brother Meurig.’
    ‘Your reputation precedes you, Sister. I doubt whether I shall be able to teach you much,’ pointed out the barnwr affably.
    ‘Have you have been told what has happened at Llanpadern?’ Eadulf asked.
    Brother Meurig nodded swiftly. ‘But the matter is not in my hands.’
    ‘Do you have an opinion about it?’ Eadulf pressed.
    ‘An opinion?’ Brother Meurig sniffed deprecatingly. ‘I have heard that Prince Cathen believes that it might be a raid by Ceredigion for hostages. My opinion is that the idea is possible although unlikely.
    ‘Is there another logical explanation?’
    Brother Meurig shook his head.
    ‘No other explanation presents itself to you?’