Smoke in the Wind (15 page)

Fidelma turned to him with a frown of disapproval. ‘Remember the adage,
Redime te captum quam queas minimo
!’ she muttered.

The man with the war helmet glanced from Eadulf to Fidelma and burst out laughing. ‘Well now! We find that the Saxon has a tongue, after all. Thank you for your information. A princess of the Gwyddel, eh? Well, lady, you need not remind your Saxon friend that one should strive to pay as little ransom as possible when one is taken prisoner. I doubt whether we shall trouble your esteemed brother with a ransom demand even though we now know your rank. He is too far away and such negotiations are troublesome.’

‘So you are common outlaws?’ Fidelma regarded her captors with defiance.

There was an angry flush on the cheek of the man who called himself Clydog. ‘An outlaw? In Dyfed, I would not deny it. But not common; not I. I am--’

‘Clydog!’ The word came like a sharp explosion from the man with the war helmet. He turned abruptly to Fidelma and Eadulf. ‘Enough chatter. Precede us!’ He indicated towards the courtyard.

‘Do you have a name also?’ Fidelma was not to be intimidated. In fact, she was pleased that she was causing dissension among their captors.

The man with the war helmet regarded her for a moment. ‘Among this band, you may call me Corryn,’ he replied without humour.

‘It is the first time I have heard of a wasp and a spider coexisting,’ Fidelma said humorously, knowing that
corryn
was the word for spider.

‘You might be surprised,’ came the man’s rejoinder. ‘Now, shall we proceed?’

Outside, Fidelma was surprised to see half a dozen mounted men, all well armed and astride good horses. With them were two more men seated on a large farm cart which seemed to be filled but whose contents were covered with tarpaulin. She rebuked herself for not paying closer attention to the warning from their own horses, and the open gates.

‘I see that you have come with your own mounts,’ observed Clydog, examining their horses. ‘Those beasts are richly accoutred thoroughbreds. You religious are well provided for.’

‘They were provided for us by King Gwlyddien,’ Eadulf pointed out defensively.

‘Ah. Then the old man will not miss them. Still, as we have a distance to ride, you may still use them.’

‘Where do we ride for?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘And why are you taking us as prisoners if you do not expect to ransom us?’

‘Mount up!’ snapped the man who called himself Corryn. ‘Do not ask questions!’

Eadulf mounted. There was little point in doing anything else.

Clydog had turned to the two men on the cart. ‘You know what to do? Rejoin us as soon as you have finished. ’

He walked his horse to the head of the band as they closed in around Fidelma and Eadulf, and with a wave of his hand led them off at a brisk pace. They seemed to be heading directly towards the large mass of forest to the south. Fidelma was sure that at some point on their journey to Llanwnda Brother Meurig had referred to the name of this woodland. What had he called it? The forest of Ffynnon Druidion?

Of all the ill-luck. To fall in with a band of cut-throats. Brother Meurig had mentioned that there were robbers in the area but not such a large, well-armed band as this. Had she realised, then she would have demanded that Gwlyddien or even Gwnda provide them with an escort of warriors. In truth, she was now more concerned about Eadulf’s safety than her own. Perhaps she should have listened more closely to Eadulf when he was talking about his feeling of discomfort at being a Saxon isolated in the lands of the Britons. It was not that she did not understand the depth of historical animosity between the two peoples but that she had thought good sense would prevail. She had forgotten that prejudice was often reason enough to inflict harm on someone.

She examined the figure of Corryn, riding beside Clydog at the head of the band of men. She had that curious feeling that his features were familiar. Had they met before? Or did he merely remind her of someone? If so, who?

He seemed intelligent and of good education. He spoke Latin; certainly enough to pick up on her warning to Eadulf that he should be circumspect about revealing her identity because robbers would set a high price on a woman of rank whereas they might let a simple religieuse go without ransom.

Clydog, who seemed to be the leader of the band, also appeared to be well educated. There was the torc which he wore round his neck and the mysterious response he had made about it. Neither Clydog nor Corryn seemed to be typical of robbers and outlaws. But whatever the mystery was it was an infernal nuisance that their paths had crossed at this time. The first task was to escape. All told there were nine riders with them, including Clydog and Corryn. It would be hopeless to attempt to escape now because most of the outlaws carried bows of the type that were four feet in length and when strung would send an arrow over a great range. They would have to wait until they reached their destination and hope an opportunity would present itself there.

She glanced surreptitiously at Eadulf. She could see the grim lines of worry on her friend’s face. She knew that Eadulf had only gone along with her decision to undertake this investigation to please her. He had been apprehensive; he had been apprehensive even before he accompanied her to the abbey of Dewi Sant to see Abbot Tryffin. Perhaps she should have respected his reservations, for Eadulf did not worry without reason. She would never forgive herself if her vanity, her arrogance, led to some harm’s befalling him. They should have waited in Porth Clais and continued their journey to Canterbury without interruption. She set her jaw firmly. It was no use indulging in repentance now.

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 any 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.