Smoke in the Wind sf-11 Read online

  He became aware of someone bending towards him.

  He tried to focus but the image was blurred.

  A voice said something. He did not understand. He made a further effort to peer upwards. He felt a firm hand behind his head, lifting it slightly. Felt a hard rim against his lips and then a cold liquid was splashing against his lips and dribbling over his teeth. He gulped eagerly. All too soon, the hard rim was withdrawn, the hand eased his head back to a pillow.

  He lay for a second or two before opening his eyes again and blinking rapidly. The figure seemed to shimmer for a moment and then harden into sharp focus.

  It was a man; short, stocky and clad in the robes of a religieux.

  Eadulf tried hard to think what had happened and where he was. No coherent thoughts came to his mind.

  The voice said something again. Again, he did not understand, but this time he recognised the tone and realised that the voice was speaking in the language of the Britons. He licked his lips and tried to form a sentence in the language which he knew but inadequately.

  ‘Where am I?’ he finally managed to say, realising, as he said it, that the words had actually come out in his own tongue.

  The lips in the round face of the religieux pursed in an expression of disapproval.

  ‘Sacsoneg?’ The man went off into a long, fast torrent of words which was just sound to Eadulf’s ear.

  With an effort of concentration, for his head was still throbbing, he tried to form a sentence in the language of the Britons. It would not come and, finally, he resorted to Latin, realising that he had a better knowledge of it. It was many years since he had spoken any word of the British tongue.

  The religieux looked relieved at the Latin. His round face became wreathed in a smile.

  ‘You are in Porth Clais, Brother Saxon.’

  The man reached forward and again held out the beaker which contained water. Eadulf raised his head by his own efforts and eagerly lapped at it. He fell back on the pillow again and some memories began to return.

  ‘Porth Clais? I was on board a ship out of Loch Garman. Where is Porth Clais, and what happened. .? Fidelma? Where is my companion, Sister Fidelma? Were we shipwrecked? My God! What has happened. .?’

  He was struggling to sit up as memories flooded his mind. The stocky religieux laid a restraining hand, palm downward, on his chest. Eadulf was pressed gently but firmly back onto the bed. He realised that he must be very weak not to be able to counter the strength of the single firm hand that held him.

  ‘All in good time and in good order, Brother Saxon,’ replied the man gently. ‘You have not been shipwrecked. All is well. You are, as I say, in Porth Clais in the kingdom of Dyfed. And you, my friend, have not been so well.’

  Eadulf’s head continued to throb and he raised a hand to it, registering some surprise as he felt a tender swelling at his temple.

  ‘I don’t understand. What happened?’

  ‘What was the last thing that you recall, Brother Saxon?’

  Eadulf tried to dredge the memory from the confused thoughts that swam in his mind.

  ‘I was on board ship. We were hardly a day out from Loch Garman and sailing for the coast of Kent. . Ah, I have it. A squall arose.’

  The memory clarified in a flash. They had been scarcely half a day’s sailing from Loch Garman. The coast of Laigin, the south-easterly of the five kingdoms of Éireann, had dropped below the horizon when a fierce wind hit them from the south-west, sending great waves cascading over the ship. They had been tossed and buffeted without mercy. The sails were shredded by the powerful wind before the captain and his crew were able to haul them down, so unexpected was the onslaught of the storm. Eadulf recalled that he had left Fidelma below deck while he went to see if he could give some assistance.

  The captain had curtly dismissed his offer of help.

  ‘A landlubber is as much use to me as a bucket with a hole to bail out,’ he shouted harshly. ‘Get below and stay there!’

  Eadulf remembered hauling himself back, hurt and disgruntled, across the rocking, sea-swamped decks to the steps which led down to the cabin below. Just as he started down, the mighty seas seemed to lift the vessel up and toss it forward. He lost his hold and his last memory was of being tumbled forward into space and then. . then nothing until he awoke a few moments ago.

  The stocky monk smiled approvingly as Eadulf recited these memories.

  ‘And what is your name?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, emissary of Theodore of Canterbury,’ Eadulf replied immediately and then demanded with irritation: ‘But where is Sister Fidelma, my companion? What has happened to the ship? How did I get here? Where did you say it was?’

  The round-faced monk grinned and held up his hand to halt the rapid succession of questions. ‘It seems that the blow to your head has damaged neither your mental faculties nor your lack of patience, Brother Saxon.’

  ‘My patience is wearing thin with each passing second, ’ snapped Eadulf, attempting to sit up in bed and ignoring his throbbing temples. ‘Answer my question, or I shall not answer for my lack of patience.’

  The stocky man shook his head in mock sorrow, making a disapproving noise with his tongue. ‘Have you never heard the saying, Vincit qui patitur, Brother Saxon?’

  ‘It is not one of my maxims, Brother. Often patience does not bring results. Sometimes it is merely an excuse for doing nothing. Now I require some explanations.’

  The monk raised his eyes to the ceiling and spread his hands as if in surrender to greater forces. ‘Very well. I am Brother Rhodri and this, as I have explained, is Porth Clais in the kingdom of Dyfed.’

  ‘On the west coast of Britain?’

  Brother Rhodri made an affirmative gesture. ‘You are in the land of the Cymry, the true Britons. Your ship ran in here yesterday in the late afternoon to shelter from the storm. We are a little port in which many a ship from Éireann make their first landfall. You were, as you now recall, knocked unconscious in the storm and could not be roused. So you were carried off the ship when it harboured here. You were placed in this little hospice which I run. You have been lying unconscious nearly a day.’

  Eadulf lay back against the pillows and swallowed. ‘Unconscious for a day?’ he echoed.

  Brother Rhodri was serious. ‘We were worried for you. But, deo juvante, you have recovered.’

  Eadulf sat up again with an abruptness which made him dizzy. He realised that one of his questions had not been answered.

  ‘My companion, Sister Fidelma. . what of her?’

  Brother Rhodri grimaced wryly. ‘She was very worried for you, Brother Saxon. She and I shared your nursing. This morning, however, she was summoned to go to our mother house to see Abbot Tryffin.’

  ‘Abbot Tryffin? Mother house?’

  ‘This is the peninsula known in Latin as Menevia where the abbey of Dewi Sant is situated.’

  Eadulf had heard of the great abbey of Dewi Sant. He knew that those Britons who dwelt in the west of the island which they now shared with the Angles and Saxons regarded the abbey as almost as important as Iona, the Holy Island, in the northern kingdom of Dál Riada. It was accepted that two pilgrimages to the abbey was the equivalent of one pilgrimage to Rome and a pilgrim could acquire enough indulgences — pardons of temporal punishment due for sins committed — to last them for many years. Eadulf realised that he was thinking in terms of the teachings of Rome, where the Holy Father granted indulgences out of the Treasury of Merit won for the Church by Christ and the Saints. Eadulf knew well enough that the churches of the Irish and the Britons did not believe in such things as indulgences nor in absolving oneself from one’s responsibility by their acquisition.

  He suddenly pulled his wandering thoughts sharply back to the present.

  ‘She was summoned there? Sister Fidelma? Is the abbey near here, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Near? It is within walking distance, less than two kilometres. The good sister will return by this evening.’


  ‘And you say that we are on that peninsula of Dyfed known as Menevia?’

  ‘In our language, it is called Moniu,’ Brother Rhodri confirmed.

  ‘Why was Fidelma. . Sister Fidelma summoned there?’

  Brother Rhodri raised his shoulders and let them fall expressively. ‘That is something that I cannot help you with, Brother Saxon. Now, perhaps, as you are in a better state, you might like to sip some herbal tea or some broth?’

  Eadulf realised that he was feeling famished. ‘I could eat something more substantial, Brother,’ he ventured.

  Brother Rhodri grinned approvingly. ‘Ah, a sure sign that you are recovering, my friend. However, it may be unwise to have more than a broth for the time being. Nor should you move. Lie there and relax for a while.’

  Some hours later, Eadulf felt more himself. He had sipped a meaty broth and his headache was diminishing thanks to a poultice which Brother Rhodri had placed on his forehead. It appeared that Brother Rhodri was a trained apothecary and Eadulf, who had himself studied at the great medical centre of Tuam Brecain, had identified the poultice as being comprised of foxglove leaves which, he knew, were excellent for calming headaches. He had gradually dropped into a soporific state and then fallen into a natural sleep.

  He awoke to the sound of Fidelma’s voice and came to his senses as she entered the room. The concern on her face lessened as Eadulf rose up on his bed. She came swiftly to him, both hands held out, and sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘How do you feel? Are you all right?’ she asked anxiously, examining him quickly. ‘The swelling on your temple seems to be going down.’

  Eadulf returned a wry smile. ‘I suppose I feel as right as anyone who has been knocked unconscious for a day.’

  She gave a sigh of relief but she did not let go of his hands, making a careful visual examination of his wound. When she was satisfied, she visibly relaxed and a smile crossed her features.

  ‘I was worried, but the swelling is definitely diminishing, ’ she said simply. Then, becoming aware that Brother Rhodri had appeared in the doorway, she let go her grip on his hands and sat back. ‘Has Brother Rhodri explained to you where you are and what happened? ’

  ‘I gather the ship put into Porth Clais to escape the storm.’

  ‘A harbour on the coast of Dyfed,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘It really was a bad storm. I insisted that you be brought ashore to this hospice as soon as we came into harbour, for there was no telling what injuries you might have sustained in your fall.’

  ‘I seem to have had a good nurse.’ Eadulf smiled. ‘We can return aboard the ship and continue our journey as soon as you like.’

  To his surprise, Fidelma shook her head. ‘Our ship sailed on this morning’s tide. The captain was impatient to be away as soon as the storm passed and he had replaced his shredded sails.’

  ‘What?’ Eadulf pushed himself up stiffly into a sitting position. ‘He has marooned us in this place? We paid him to take us to the kingdom of Kent. You mean he went away and left us stranded here?’

  Fidelma pouted her lips in reproof. Her eyes flicked quickly to Brother Rhodri. They had been speaking in Fidelma’s native tongue, which Eadulf spoke as fluently as his own, perhaps more fluently than Latin. Was there a warning in her eyes?

  ‘We are not stranded, Eadulf. The kingdom of Dyfed has good links with other lands and kingdoms. Anyway, the captain refunded some of our passage fee.’

  Eadulf followed her glance towards Brother Rhodri. It seemed that Brother Rhodri knew something of the language, for he seemed to be following their exchange.

  ‘I only meant that we are a long way from Canterbury,’ Eadulf pointed out. ‘It is vexing that the captain did not have time to wait.’

  ‘The wood will renew the foliage it sheds,’ Fidelma reassured him, quoting an old proverb.

  Eadulf shrugged reluctantly. ‘We are not so well endowed with money that we can afford to lose any,’ he admonished. ‘We have to find a new ship and will have to pay more for the journey to Canterbury.’

  Fidelma made a dismissive gesture. ‘What we have to do now,’ she corrected him with emphasis, ‘is for you to rest and regain your strength, Eadulf. Remember the saying that there is always another tide in the sea.’ She made to rise.

  ‘Stay awhile,’ Eadulf urged. ‘I am not sleepy.’

  Fidelma glanced at Brother Rhodri, who was lighting a lamp, for the dusk had crept up while they had been talking.

  ‘It is time for the evening meal,’ he said. ‘Shall I bring some food to you here on a tray, Sister?’

  ‘Thank you, Brother. It would be most kind of you.’

  The monk smiled briefly and turned to Eadulf. ‘You seem well enough to take a little more broth, Brother. I shall see to it.’

  When he had gone, Eadulf grinned sheepishly at Fidelma. ‘I am sorry that I have precipitated you into this predicament.’

  ‘Predicament?’ She paused and shook her head. ‘It is always fascinating to see a new land, even when it is done without intention.’

  Eadulf’s features dissolved into a glum expression. ‘The land of the Britons may be fascinating for you but not for me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Saxons are not exactly welcome among Britons in spite of Brother Rhodri’s Christian charity.’

  ‘Do Britons have a reason to dislike Saxons?’

  Eadulf glanced at her sharply. Was she mocking him? She was well acquainted with the recent history of these islands.

  ‘You know that nothing happens without reason, Fidelma. And you know your history as well as anyone I know. You will be aware that the Britons once lived all over this land but two centuries ago the ancestors of my people came from beyond the eastern sea to conquer and colonise — the Jutes, Angles and Saxons. They began to push the Britons westward and northwards and take over their lands. I can understand the feelings of the dispossessed. My people are a warrior people who have only just accepted Christian values. I think, behind their professed acceptance of the new faith, they continue to fear Woden, the old god of war. They still believe that the true way to immortality is to die with a sword in their hand and Woden’s name on their lips. Only along that path do they think they have a chance to pass into the Hall of Heroes, where all the immortals live.’

  Fidelma was puzzled at the intensity in his voice. ‘You sound as if you also believe this, Eadulf?’

  Eadulf regarded her with a sour expression. ‘I was a young man when I was converted to the new faith by missionaries from Éireann, Fidelma. I went to study it in your lands before I went on to Rome. You know that before my conversion I was the hereditary gerefa of Seaxmund’s Ham. It is hard to forget the culture in which one has been brought up. Within living memory did King Eadbald of Kent revert to the worship of Woden. People are alive today who can remember when the East Saxons killed or chased into exile all Christian missionaries there.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘But most of the Saxon kingdoms are now firmly converted to the Faith.’

  Eadulf sighed and shook his head.

  ‘There are still many kingdoms where the Christian faith is only tolerated. Mercia, for example, is still not entirely Christian. Even with the acceptance of the Faith there has been a constant war between my people and the Britons. Since we carved out our kingdoms with the sword there has always been such warfare. Christian Briton against Christian Saxon. It is also within living memory how Athelfrith of the Saxons defeated the Briton, King Selyf son of Cynan. After that battle, Athelfrith went to the great abbey of the Britons at Bangor and slaughtered one thousand Christian monks to celebrate his victory. Do the Britons forgive us such slaughter, Fidelma? I think not. I cannot rest easy all the while that I am in the kingdom of the Britons.’

  Fidelma considered his fears with some sympathy. ‘You are not to blame for the misdeeds of your people, Eadulf. I think that you should reflect on the fact that the Britons are not so narrow-minded that they would blame all Saxons for the
events caused by previous generations. The Britons have adhered to the Faith for many centuries, even during the time when the Romans occupied their lands. They do not inflict harm without just cause. The massacre of the monks at Bangor took place in the kingdom of Gwynedd in the north and we are in the kingdom of Dyfed, which is in the south. Dyfed has close links to Éireann. And tomorrow Abbot Tryffin of Dewi Sant has invited us to break bread with him.’

  Eadulf looked at her in surprise. ‘We have both been invited?’

  Fidelma grimaced. ‘Well, the invitation was primarily to me but it was made clear that if you were sufficiently recovered then you would accompany me. I believe that something is worrying the abbot. He seems a kindly soul. I think that he wants to ask for help but did not feel comfortable about doing so at our meeting this afternoon.’

  Eadulf was bewildered. ‘Why would the Britons ask for your aid?’

  ‘As I said, there are close links between Dyfed and Éireann.’

  ‘Such as?’ Eadulf, always keen to learn some new knowledge, asked her to explain.

  Brother Rhodri entered at that moment bearing a tray with bowls of steaming broth and bread. He set it down on a table beside the bed.

  Eadulf regarded the broth wryly. ‘I could eat a side of venison,’ he sighed, glancing at Fidelma, still speaking in their common tongue.

  Brother Rhodri regarded him in disapproval. ‘You may try some cuts of cold meat and cheese on the morrow, Brother Saxon, but I would advise you not to fully indulge your appetite for a day or so.’

  Eadulf grinned a little in embarrassment at the man, now realising just how fluent the Briton’s knowledge of the language of Éireann was. Perhaps he should have been more circumspect in his utterances.

  ‘I am grateful both for your nursing and for your advice, Brother Rhodri.’

  The round-faced man smiled suddenly. It seemed his natural expression. ‘God never ordained a mouth to be without food,’ he quoted as he left the room. ‘So remember that advice is never the law.’