‘Gwlyddien is no king of mine. Anyway, would a king of Dyfed employ a woman of your nation, not to mention a Saxon? Saxons are the enemies of our blood.’
One of the bowmen, the man who was covering Eadulf, raised his bow slightly as if in expectation of the order to shoot Eadulf.
‘Look at the commission bearing the king’s seal if you doubt my word,’ Fidelma protested, gesturing to her marsupium. ‘It will go ill with you if you murder a religieux and one employed by the king of Dyfed. Brother Eadulf has done you no harm!’
The man looked at her almost in pity. ‘Ah, I forgot. The Gwyddel like to be friends with the Saxons, don’t you? You are the ones who went to the Saxons to convert them to the Faith, to attempt to teach them to read and write and follow the ways of civilisation. We Britons knew them better. That was why we refused to try to convert them, even when the prelates of Rome came here demanding that we should do so. Have a care, Gwyddel; one day the Saxon will turn on you and do to you what they have done to the Britons who once dwelt all over this land.’
It was a speech which obviously stirred his companions, who grunted in agreement, although their bows never wavered. It was the speech of an educated man who was used to command.
Fidelma did not flinch. ‘I say again, what harm has this man done to you?’
‘Have you not heard how the Saxons slaughtered a thousand religious from Bangor to celebrate their victory over King Selyf of Powys?’ demanded the young warrior.
‘I have. That event happened nearly fifty years ago and none of us were born then. You certainly were not.’
‘Do you think that because your missionaries have now brought Christianity to them, the Saxons have changed their character?’
‘I cannot argue with prejudice, whoever you are. I say again that we are here on a commission from the king of Dyfed. We are in the territory of Dyfed, whether you acknowledge its king or not. Tell us who you are and why you dare ignore the law of this land.’ Fidelma’s voice was sharp and assertive.
The young man regarded her with surprise that this attractive young woman was not in awe of his threats and his obvious ability to carry them out.
‘You seem very sure of yourself, Gwyddel,’ he finally conceded. ‘Have you no fear of death, then? Dyfed or not, it is I who am the law here.’
‘I think not. You might have a transitory power by virtue of your friends with bows, but you are not the law. The law is a more sacred thing than the sword which you carry. As for fear, fear is not a passion that makes for virtue. It weakens the judgment, and I am a dálaigh.’
The man stood for a moment, his blue eyes staring into her fiery green ones. Then his smile returned and he chuckled appreciatively.
‘You are right, Gwyddel. Fear betrays unworthy souls, so I am glad that you do not have any fear. I dislike killing those who are frightened to pass into the Otherworld with courage.’
He turned, raising a hand to his bowmen. Fidelma was determined not to allow her consternation to show, but she realised that the man did not speak simply for effect. He was ruthless.
‘Would you kill religious?’ she cried. ‘If so, then I presume that you must be responsible for this outrage. .’ She gestured with her hand towards the body of the old religieux they had taken down from the beam.
At that moment another man entered the barn. He was clearly a member of the same band. It was hard to discern his age for he wore a war helmet of polished steel which enhanced his height but disguised his features. She had the impression of a handsome face and vivid blue eyes. He stood to one side watching Fidelma and Eadulf. His mouth was thin, and set in a grim expression.
The first man still stood with raised hand, and then one of the bowmen coughed nervously.
‘Lord, what of Sualda? Some of these religious are often physicians.’
The first man hesitated.
‘Kill them now and have done with it,’ snapped the newcomer, vivid blue eyes regarding them coldly. ‘Enough mistakes have been made these last few days.’
The first man glanced at him with an expression of open hostility. ‘That was no fault of mine. I did not evolve so complicated a strategy. My man is right.’ He turned to Fidelma and Eadulf. ‘Are either of you trained in the art of healing?’
Fidelma hesitated, not sure whether Eadulf was able to follow the conversation clearly. ‘Brother Eadulf studied at the medical school of Tuam Brecain,’ she volunteered.
The man examined Eadulf with amusement. ‘Then you have bought the Saxon a longer lease on life than he was about to enjoy. You will both come with us.’
‘You still have not told us who you are,’ Fidelma replied defiantly.
‘My name will mean nothing to you.’
‘Are you ashamed of it?’
For the first time a scowl crossed the young man’s features. His companion with the polished war helmet moved unobtrusively forward and laid a hand on his arm. The movement was not lost on Fidelma. The warrior could be goaded and that knowledge might come in useful at some time. The young man made an effort to regain his composure and the cynical smile returned.
‘My name is Clydog. I am often called Clydog Cacynen.’
‘Clydog the Wasp?’ Fidelma spoke as if placating a child. ‘Tell me, Clydog, why is it that you wear that old symbol of a hero about your neck? Can it be that you have earned that distinction fighting against unarmed religious?’
The young man’s hand automatically went up to touch his torc. Another flush of uncontrollable anger crossed his features.
‘It was worn,’ he replied slowly, ‘at the defeat of King Selyf at Cair Legion. The Saxons will have good cause to remember that crime.’
The man in the war helmet cleared his throat warningly. ‘We have bandied enough words. If you want these religious to look at Sualda, let us go now before another mistake is made. You two, walk in front of the bowmen. No tricks or they will shoot. I do not make vain threats.’
Eadulf felt able to intervene for the first time.
‘Have a care, Welisc,’ he said, using the Saxon word for a foreigner, which Saxons generally used as their name for the Britons. ‘This is Fidelma of Cashel to whom you speak, sister of the king of Cashel.’
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?’
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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.
Smoke in the Wind sf-11 Page 10