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.
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 becaus
e 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 door. 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.
‘This is not wise, Clydog,’ Corryn muttered, turning to his comrade.
Clydog glanced up angrily. ‘Each to his business, my friend.’
‘Isn’t our business the same?’
The outlaw leader laughed dryly. ‘Not in this matter.’
Corryn stifled a sigh and turned back to the fire to rejoin the others. Clydog had noticed that Fidelma had not touched her drink.
‘Do you not like our forest mead, lady?’ he inquired, taking a swallow from the beaker he held in his own hand. ‘It is warming on a night such as this.’
‘You said that you would send food and drink to my companion.’ Fidelma’s quite tone was resolute. ‘When he is able to eat and drink then so shall I.’
‘The Saxon can wait,’ Clydog replied nonchalantly. ‘Our needs come first.’
‘Not mine.’ Fidelma rose so abruptly that Clydog was too surprised to stop her. ‘I shall take this to him,’ she announced, taking a pace forward before she was stopped. It was Corryn. He caught her arm in a grip that was like a powerful vice, in spite of his soft, well-kept hands. She gasped in surprise. Corryn’s grin broadened.
‘Varium et mutabile semper femina, eh, Clydog? You should watch out for this one. I told you that this was unwise.’
‘Wait!’ Clydog came to his feet. His face mirrored his annoyance. ‘I will send food and drink to your Saxon friend if it means so much to you.’
Fidelma stood, unmoving, in Corryn’s vice-like grip. There was nothing else she could do.
Clydog turned to Corryn with an angry gesture. ‘Release her and see that food and drink are taken to the Saxon.’
The man did not immediately let go of her arm. ‘What use is feeding a man who will die anyway?’
‘Do it now,’ snapped the outlaw leader, ‘or we will have a falling out.’
Corryn suddenly pushed her away and she spun round to face him. She saw the blaze of anger and resentment in the man’s vivid blue eyes. Then he controlled his features. He shrugged and turned to his companions at the fire, barking out orders. One of them reluctantly arose and cut off some portions of the roasting venison, and put them on a wooden platter. Then he took a beaker of mead and went to the hut.
Satisfied, Fidelma returned her gaze to Clydog, who had reseated himself but was watching Corryn with a strange expression on his pale face.
‘So you mean to kill us?’ Fidelma demanded quietly, standing before him.
‘I am no friend to Saxons,’ he replied shortly.
‘Nor to anyone else, so it seems.’ She glanced again to where Corryn was seated at the fire.
Clydog shook his head slowly. ‘You are a determined lady, aren’t you? Anyway, I am not responsible for the views of my men. It is I who give the orders here and so far I have not ordered anyone to be killed. So come and sit down again.’
Fidelma did not bother to respond.
‘Sit down, Gwyddel!’ The order was issued in a sharper tone. ‘Be grateful that I saved you from Corryn. He would have killed you both at Llanpadern. I was only able to spare the Saxon’s life because he was a healer.’
Fidelma sat down stiffly, her face expressionless. She was trying to work out Clydog’s implication that he was somehow accountable to Corryn for his actions. Her captor chuckled in appreciation.
‘I can see that you will be an excellent guest,’ he mocked.
‘What do you want of me, Clydog?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you wish to hold Brother Eadulf and myself as prisoners?’
‘Should I want anything more than your company at this meal? Come, eat your fill and enjoy the conversation. You will find that I am an educated person who is sometimes starved for intellectual discourse.’
‘You can surely speak to your companion there,’ she sneered, nodding towards Corryn. ‘One who can quote Virgil must be educated.’
Clydog frowned. Her comment seemed to worry him.
‘Anyone can pick up Latin here and there,’ he said, almost defensively. ‘Now, relax and let us enjoy the meal.’
‘I would rather be starving in the forest,’ she replied spiritedly. ‘At least the wild animals would be better company.’
‘Can it be that you dislike me so much?’ mused the young man, still smiling. ‘Dislike is but a dismal reflection of your own desire.’
Fidelma could not suppress the smile which shaped her lips. ‘I do not know you well enough to hate you, Clydog,’ she informed him with amusement. ‘But I certainly dislike you and that does have something to do with desire.’ His eyes widened but she went on: ‘My desire is that you should be a thousand miles from this place.’
Clydog took a sharp knife from his belt, manipulating it ostentatiously before rising from his seat, moving to the spit and cutting slices of the roasting venison, which he placed on two wooden platters. He turned and handed one of them to her and
then reseated himself.
‘I am sure that someone with your intelligence, lady, has read Antisthenes,’ he said, after a moment.
‘You surprise me that common thieves such as yourselves have read the eminent philosophers. First we hear from Virgil and now of Antisthenes.’
Clydog did not respond to her jibe. ‘If, lady, you claim you dislike me, then perhaps you should recall those words of Antisthenes. Pay attention to those you dislike, to your enemies, for they are the first to discover your faults and mistakes.’
Fidelma bowed her head slightly. ‘Publilius Syrus is my favourite philosopher. Perhaps you have read him?’
‘I have some knowledge of his moral maxims.’
‘He said that there was no safety in gaining the favour of an enemy. You may call the enemy your friend only when he is dead.’
‘Publilius Syrus,’ sneered Clydog. ‘Who was he but a slave from Antioch who was brought to Rome and managed to win his freedom by writing plays which pandered to the sensibilities of his masters?’
‘Do you disapprove of his maxims, of his plays, that he was from Antioch, or because he was a Roman slave who won his freedom? Many of your ancestors followed that same path.’
‘Not my ancestors!’ Clydog snapped with an anger which surprised Fidelma.
‘I mean those Britons and Gauls who were taken as slaves to Rome and won their freedom.’
‘Let them speak for themselves. I will speak for myself.’
‘You are obviously an intelligent man, Clydog. Who are you?’ Fidelma suddenly asked. ‘You are too intelligent to be a mere outlaw.’
The young man glanced at her. The shadows caused by the flickering fire disguised the expression on his face.
‘I have told you who I am.’
‘Clydog the Wasp, an outlaw,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘Yet what made you so? You were not born a thief.’
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