Smoke in the Wind Read online

  They reached the thick cover of the trees. Clydog obviously knew the tracks for he did not slow down but kept on at a rapid pace, while those following moved quickly into single file behind. Fidelma and Eadulf found that their companions were expert horsemen for they had negotiated their prisoners into a position in the middle of their column without slowing their pace. It was some time before the column of horses burst through a thick entanglement of evergreen undergrowth. Fidelma observed they had entered a clearing where a small stream bubbled into a large pool, not large enough to be called a lake. There was an old burial chamber at one end and some makeshift huts and tents nearby. A cooking pot hung over a central fire. A rail at the far end provided the only stable for the horses, being simply a spot at which the beasts were tethered.

  There were half a dozen more men in the camp, who came forward, examining the prisoners with curiosity.

  ‘Who are they, Clydog?’ demanded one of them, a thickset fellow who appeared well used to the outdoor life.

  ‘We picked them up at Llanpadern,’ Clydog replied, slipping from his horse. ‘This one’s a healer.’ He jerked his thumb at Eadulf.

  ‘Do they know?’ asked the fellow.

  ‘Put a curb on your loose tongue!’ snapped Corryn, joining him. ‘That goes for all of you. No one speaks to the prisoners.’

  The men regarded Fidelma and Eadulf with unconcealed curiosity.

  ‘They are strangers, aren’t they?’ demanded a shrill-voiced youth, hardly old enough to shave.

  ‘A Gwyddel and a Saxon,’ replied Clydog.

  There rose a curious murmur.

  ‘Get down, Saxon,’ ordered Corryn.

  Eadulf dismounted. The outlaw grabbed him by the arm and propelled him towards a hut, thrusting him into its gloomy interior before he could exchange a further word with Fidelma. There was a man lying on the ground.

  ‘If you are a healer, do something,’ snapped Corryn, withdrawing and leaving him alone.

  Eadulf looked down at the man, who appeared to be asleep, and then moved quickly back to the door of the hut.

  Fidelma still sat on her horse surrounded by the dismounted men, but her reins were held tight so that she could not make any sudden moves.

  ‘She asserts that the incompetent fool who claims to be king of Dyfed,’ went on Clydog, ‘gave them a commission to investigate the disappearance of Father Clidro’s community.’

  This raised a shout of laughter.

  ‘Not even old Gwlyddien is senile enough to give a commission to a Saxon,’ cried someone with a shrill voice.

  ‘He gave the commission to me.’ Fidelma’s voice was soft and ice cold but demanded to be heard above the noise of their mirth. They fell silent and looked speculatively at her.

  Clydog chuckled and moved forward. ‘Allow me to present you, lady. This is Fidelma of Cashel, sister to the king of that place.’

  ‘Where in hell is Cashel?’ demanded one man.

  ‘Ignorant fellow!’ smiled Clydog. ‘It is one of the biggest of the five kingdoms of the Éireann. Its territory could swallow this kingdom several times over and not notice it.’

  Eadulf was astonished at the outlaw’s knowledge.

  ‘A rich place, eh?’ demanded the shrill voice.

  ‘Rich enough,’ agreed Clydog.

  ‘Why would old Gwlyddien ask her to investigate Llanpadern?’ demanded another of the men.

  ‘Ah, because she is a dálaigh, my friends.’

  ‘What in the world is a dawlee?’ demanded the man.

  ‘A dálaigh, my ignorant friend, is the same as our barnwr; a judge, a person who investigates crimes and mysteries and pronounces on them.’

  ‘Why send a Gwyddel? Aren’t there barnwr enough in Dyfed?’

  ‘Why, indeed? Perhaps there are none that he can trust,’ grinned Clydog.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Fidelma, her voice still cold, ‘you might like to ask King Gwlyddien yourself? But perhaps you lack the courage to go to Menevia to do so?’

  Clydog smiled up at her. His smile was an almost permanent expression and one that she realised she did not trust at all.

  ‘Enough! Enough!’ snapped Corryn, moving forward. ‘Did I not say that no one should speak with these prisoners?’

  Clydog stood his ground, looking in annoyance at his comrade. ‘Would you deny my men a little fun?’

  ‘Fun they may have after our purpose is achieved.’

  ‘Yet it is an interesting point, Corryn. Why would the old fool give such a commission to this woman, even if she is a dálaigh? Why to a Gwyddel?’

  His men murmured in support. Eadulf felt obliged to call out from the entrance of the hut, ‘Sister Fidelma has a reputation in the art of solving mysteries.’

  Clydog turned and grinned at him. ‘Our Saxon friend is frugal of speech. As you can tell, lads, he is not an adept in our tongue, unlike the good sister here. However, when he speaks, he imparts no idle information.’ He paused and turned back to Fidelma. ‘Do you know the Satyricon of Petronius, lady?’

  Fidelma was surprised by the question. ‘I have read it,’ she conceded.

  Clydog bowed his head. ‘He wrote, Raram facit misturam cum sapientia forma. This is a rare occasion.’

  Fidelma flushed. The line that he had quoted meant that beauty and wisdom were rarely found together.

  ‘You seem to have some degree of learning, Clydog. And a tongue that can drip honey. I give you a line from Plautus. Ubi mel ibi apes . . . honey attracts bees and you should remember that bees can sting.’

  Clydog slapped his thigh and guffawed with laughter while his men looked on puzzled, not able to understand the nuances of the Latin that passed between their leader and Fidelma.

  ‘It will be my pleasure to entertain you this evening, lady. I shall go personally in search of a deer to put on the spit.’

  ‘How long do you mean to keep us prisoners?’

  ‘For the time being, you are my guests.’

  ‘You have no fear of what the king of Dyfed might do when he hears of this outrage?’

  ‘If he hears of it, lady,’ he replied with emphasis.

  ‘Do you think that you can keep this act from his knowledge?’

  Clydog was imperturbable. ‘Assuredly.’

  Fidelma felt angered by his nonchalance. She tried to stir him into some emotion. ‘Even if Dyfed does not act, then my brother will--’

  ‘Will do what, lady?’ cut in Corryn. ‘If you do not return to Cashel, he will mourn, that is all. Pilgrims vanish and are heard of no more. It is common. Saxons vanish all the time in the border areas between their kingdoms and the Cymry. Now, I think we have had enough banter.’ He looked meaningfully at Clydog.

  Clydog nodded. ‘Have no expectation that you can talk yourself to freedom, or that some rescue party will appear to set you at liberty. You and the Saxon are guests of Clydog Cacynen and that is all you need to know.’ He turned away, issuing orders.

  Corryn swung back to Eadulf with an angry look. ‘Did I not tell you to proceed with your healing art, Saxon?’ he demanded, hand on his sword.

  Eadulf turned back into the hut and bent down. The man who lay on the floor was clearly one of the outlaws, rough-looking and unkempt. He was not asleep, as Eadulf had thought at first, but semi-conscious. There was a flickering candle on a box to one side of the hut and Eadulf reached for it.

  By laying his hand on the man’s brow he realised he was in a fever. Holding the candle up, he drew back the blanket and immediately saw the cause of the man’s illness. He was bleeding profusely from a cut on one side of the stomach. It was not a deep cut but it was jagged and infected.

  Eadulf became aware that Corryn had entered the hut and stood staring down over his shoulder.

  ‘Can you do anything?’ the outlaw demanded.

  ‘What manner of weapon made his wound?’ Eadulf asked, as he examined it. ‘How was it infected?’

  ‘It was done with a meat knife. Hence the jagged tear.’

  ‘Can a
ny of your men be relied on to know hair moss when they see it?’

  Corryn nodded. ‘Of course. There is some growing by the stream.’

  ‘I need some. I also need my saddle bag.’ Eadulf always carried a small medical bag on his travels.

  Corryn hesitated a moment and then turned out of the hut. Eadulf could hear him snapping an order to someone. The feverish man suddenly caught at his wrist. Eadulf found the eyes wide open, locked on him.

  ‘I fixed him, didn’t I?’ The voice was intense.

  Eadulf smiled reassuringly. ‘You lie back. Just relax. You’ll be all right.’

  The man continued to clutch at his wrist. ‘He took me unawares. Chased him into . . . into . . . took the meat knife. Got me. I . . . had to kill him . . . fixed him, didn’t I?’

  ‘Surely you did, my friend,’ muttered Eadulf. The man suddenly fell back exhausted, as Corryn re-entered and put down the saddle bag.

  ‘What’s the man’s name?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘Sualda,’ replied Corryn. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sometimes it reassures patients if their physicians know who they are,’ Eadulf pointed out sarcastically. He took up his bag and began to busy himself, asking for hot water. The water and the hair moss arrived at the same time.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Corryn, after Eadulf had cleaned the wound.

  ‘An infusion of valerian to decrease the fever and then, on the clean wound, a poultice from hair moss soaked in a distillation of red clover blossom, comfrey and burdock. Then there will be nothing left but prayer.’

  Corryn went away, calling one of the outlaws to watch Eadulf. The man waited until Eadulf had finished his ministrations before escorting him roughly from the hut. His wrists were secured behind him and he was taken to a larger, darker hut, pushed inside and secured to the support post in one of the walls. As he left, the man suddenly punched Eadulf full in the mouth. Eadulf’s head jerked back.

  ‘That’s for my brother, Saxon! He was killed by your people on a slave raid. Your death will be slow, I’ll warrant you.’

  The man went out, and Eadulf heard a movement on the opposite side of the hut. Fidelma’s voice came out of the gloom.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘It could have been worse,’ Eadulf replied stoically, licking his lips and tasting the salty blood. ‘No broken teeth.’

  ‘We’ve been in worse situations.’ She attempted to sound reassuring as she tested her bonds. They had been expertly tied. She had resorted to speaking in their common language. ‘What did they want with you?’

  Eadulf told her briefly. ‘I think we can be sure of one thing,’ he said. ‘Whatever fate he has in store for you, to him and his men I am a mere Saxon. As soon as it is known whether this man, Sualda, will live or die, I will become expendable.’

  Fidelma gave a troubled sigh. ‘Bear up, Eadulf. We have escaped from dangers before and will do so again.’

  Eadulf had been struggling with his bonds, feeling them tight against his wrists and vainly searching for something which might assist in his loosening them. Fidelma listened to his ineffective efforts for some time before saying reprovingly: ‘Eadulf, there is no use contesting with the inevitable until you have a choice.’

  ‘What of the advice of your much-quoted friend, Publilius Syrus?’ demanded Eadulf in annoyance.

  ‘Syrus?’ Fidelma was confused.

  ‘You are always quoting lines from Publilius Syrus. Don’t you recall where he said that necessity can turn any weapon to advantage? Shouldn’t we be searching for what weapons we can to aid us in our necessity?’

  There was silence between them for a moment or two.

  ‘It is no use arguing between ourselves, Eadulf,’ Fidelma replied at last. ‘Show me a weapon and I will turn it to advantage. As we have no weapon and no means of obtaining freedom at this moment, we can use the opportunity to reflect on our situation.’

  Eadulf groaned inwardly. He could not argue with Fidelma’s logic. ‘There is little that actually makes sense,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I believe that Clydog and his men already knew that the community had deserted those buildings. They might even have known that we were inside.’

  ‘That’s absolutely--’

  ‘Ridiculous?’ Fidelma broke in. ‘Perhaps. But the only way they can have entered, without us knowing, is that they rode quietly up. They did not ring the bell. They came through the gates and across to the barn where they surprised us. I think they had been there before.’

  ‘Well, for what purpose?’

  ‘Solutions do not come as easily as questions arising from a contemplation of the facts, Eadulf. Was Clydog warned that we would be there? If so, by whom? How many people would know? And then, again, why would they want Clydog to come and take us away? To prevent us finding out the truth of what happened there? Was the old man the Father Superior, Father Clidro? How did he come to be hanged only a few hours before we found him?’

  ‘You forget about the Hwicce in the sepulchre,’ muttered Eadulf mournfully.

  Fidelma smiled in the darkness. ‘The Hwicce. No, I am not forgetting him. Indeed, if Clydog and his men had been at Llanpadern before, then his presence begins to make sense.’

  Eadulf shifted his position so far as his bonds allowed. ‘Well, for the love of Christ, do not mention the Hwicce in front of these fellows. They might think that I was connected with him. My span on earth is already more tenuous than I care to contemplate.’

  Fidelma was still thoughtful. ‘Perhaps Clydog already knows about the body in the chapel sepulchre.’

  ‘Of course he does not.’ Eadulf was emphatic.

  ‘Why of course?’

  ‘Because if he had known he would have made some remark about the fact. Once he knew that I was a Saxon, he would have made the obvious comment.’

  She was quiet for a while and then she sighed deeply again.

  Eadulf continued now and then to pull at his bonds without success. It irritated him to be so helpless. Having recently spent weeks in a grim cell in the abbey of Fearna awaiting death, he felt an uncontrollable rage, a frustration, at being a helpless prisoner again in so short a space of time.

  From the silence across the hut, Eadulf surmised that Fidelma had retreated into meditation. It was the art of the dercad by which countless generations of Irish mystics had achieved the state of sitcháin or peace, calming extraneous thought and mental irritations. Eadulf wished he could accomplish this art. In the time that he had been with Fidelma, he had learnt that she was a regular practitioner of the ancient art in times of stress. But the Blessed Patrick himself had once expressly forbidden some of the meditative arts of self-enlightenment because they had been practised in pagan times. However, the churches of the five kingdoms tolerated the dercad, not forbidding it but not really approving of it. Fidelma had told him that it was a means of relaxing and calming the riot of thoughts within a troubled mind.

  Time passed. Slowly the air grew chill and the shadows of early evening began to darken. They could see the glimmer of the fire outside and hear the noisy laughter of the men.

  Fidelma stirred anxiously. ‘One thing we can learn from that fire, Eadulf,’ she observed quietly.

  ‘Which is?’ came Eadulf’s response from the other side of the darkened hut.

  ‘That Clydog and his men are not afraid that their fire will attract unwelcome attention. They must be pretty confident of the security of their position.’

  She finished abruptly as a man’s shadow appeared in the doorway of the hut. They could not see his features but it was the voice of Clydog which came out of the gloom.

  ‘There, now, as I promised, the feast is ready and we are ready to welcome you, as our chief guest, to join us, my lady.’

  Chapter Nine

  Clydog came into the hut, bent down and untied Fidelma’s bonds from the support post in the wall of the hut but did not loosen her hands. He drew her to her feet and gently pushed her before him towards the do
or. She stopped at the threshold when it appeared that he was ignoring Eadulf.

  ‘What of my companion?’ she demanded.

  ‘The Saxon? He can remain where he is.’

  ‘Doesn’t he deserve food and drink?’

  ‘I’ll have something sent to him.’ Clydog dismissed the subject of Eadulf. ‘It was you to whom I extended the invitation to my feast. I would speak with you and not the Saxon.’

  Fidelma found herself firmly propelled outside. A fire was glowing and above its fierce heat a deer carcass was being turned on a great spit. Two men were overseeing the roasting of the meat while others sat round drinking and engaging in boisterous talk.

  Away from the fire, the evening air was chill and Fidelma was almost thankful for the warmth of the burning wood. Clydog led her to a log on the far side of the fire before an isolated tent made up of skins. It was one of a number which she had noticed were dotted about the clearing and presumably sheltered Clydog and his men at night.

  ‘We offer but rough hospitality here, princess of Cashel,’ Clydog said, pointing to the log and motioning her to sit. When she had done so, he reached to untie her wrists.

  ‘There now. You can eat and drink in more relaxed form. But, lady, remember that my men are all about you and it would be futile to attempt to escape.’

  ‘I would not leave my companion to the mercy of your company,’ she said acidly.

  Clydog grinned broadly and seated himself beside her. ‘Very wise, too. We have no liking for Saxons, especially for Saxon religious.’

  Corryn came forward. His thin features remained partially hidden by his war helmet, which he had not removed. He handed her a beaker of a pungent-smelling mead. She noted that his hands were rather soft and well cared for, unlike the rough hands of a warrior or one used to manual work. Fidelma took the beaker but did not drink.