The young man laughed brusquely. ‘I am what I am because I want more in life than it has been my fortune to have been given. But it is not to talk about me that I asked for your company at this feasting.’
There was the sound of raised raucous voices from the other side of the fire. Fidelma was amazed to see that Corryn had been persuaded to take up a stringed instrument which reminded her of a ceis, a small, square-shaped harp whose strings were set diagonally, much played in her own land. The voices died away as Corryn struck up a song. His voice was a tenor, melodious and sweet.
‘Winter’s day, thin are the stags,
swift and sturdy is the black raven,
the wind is as swift as a storm cloud,
woe to him who trusts a stranger,
woe to the weak, woe to the weak.’
Fidelma sniffed deprecatingly. ‘Is that your philosophy, Clydog? Woe to the weak?’
‘What better philosophy?’ agreed the outlaw. ‘It is the strong who shall inherit this earth.’
‘Then you are not a Christian? Our Lord said that those who are blessed with a gentle spirit shall have the earth for their possession. You do not share that sentiment?’
‘I am not a Christian. I do not share the teachings that deny men courage and strength. Your God is a god of slaves and encourages them to remain slaves. He encourages people to remain poor, to be hungry, to be without clothes. Your God is a god invented by the rich to enslave the poor. Away with such nonsense! Away with such teachings of slavery!’
Fidelma examined the young man with interest. His voice was edged with passion.
‘Were you poor and enslaved, Clydog?’
He turned angrily on her. ‘What do you-’ He caught himself. ‘I did not say. .’
Fidelma smiled gently. ‘I see there is an anger in your heart and you are prepared to forgive nothing. Luke wrote: “Where little has been forgiven, little love is shown.” ’
‘Don’t preach your faith to me, Gwyddel. We do not need it. Anyway, you should approve of sinners like me, being a Christian.’
Fidelma was puzzled and said so.
‘Do not your teachings tell us that the greater the sinner, the better saint he makes? The more he has sinned, the more your Christ will forgive him?’
‘Who taught you that?’ demanded Fidelma.
‘It is there in your Christian writings. Your Christ said, “I tell you, there will be greater joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who do not need to repent.” It is there in your holy writings.’
‘So you are adept at sinning? Is that your path to peace and contentment?’ Fidelma sneered.
Clydog was not put out. ‘You should not provoke me with your intellectual games, Gwyddel, although I am told that in your religious houses in Éireann your people practise such things.’
‘Surely the honing of the mind is not confined to my land. I am told that the Cymry even play a game similar to our fidchell, the wooden wisdom, as a means of training a sharp mind.’
Clydog nodded absently. ‘Gwyddbwyll, we call it. Our great warrior, Arthur, was a master of the game.’
‘Therefore, you should be as adept at intellectual sport as any Gwyddel,’ Fidelma said waspishly.
Clydog reached for the jug of mead and made to fill her beaker again. Fidelma shook her head. He filled his own, staring speculatively at her.
‘You are an attractive woman,’ he finally said.
Fidelma shifted with an abrupt feeling of unease at the change in his tone.
‘Why is such an attractive woman a member of the religious?’
‘Attraction is relative. Is there a reason why one’s physical appearance should preclude one from following a particular calling in life? One’s outward appearance often disguises what is inside. You, for example, Clydog, ought to be a rough, ugly little man with warts and blackened, broken teeth.’
Clydog hesitated and then chuckled appreciatively. ‘A good answer, Gwyddel. A good answer. Beauty often hides a black soul, eh? So what does your beauty hide, Fidelma of Cashel?’
The question was sharp, and confused Fidelma for the moment.
‘I would debate that I am-’ she began but he interrupted.
‘I hear that there are some of your faith who claim that all religious should live lives of celibacy. You are not celibate, are you?’
The question caused Fidelma to flush.
‘Your face seems to have betrayed you,’ he went on, when she did not answer.
‘It is none of your business,’ she snapped. ‘But it is not commanded by the Faith as well you know. Rome would prefer that abbots and bishops did not marry but there is no law which states that this should generally be so.’
She was becoming aware that this man’s temper was like dry tinder. The smallest and most innocuous spark could set off the flame of his changeable personality. His temperament was unstable. The more she could moderate his swings of humour the more chance she stood of extricating Eadulf and herself from this captivity.
Clydog was grinning lewdly at her. ‘Of course you have had lovers. The only chaste woman is one who has not been asked. Is the Saxon your lover, eh?’
Fidelma felt her face reddening again. Once again she paused, trying to find the right words.
‘You are intelligent, Clydog. You appear cultured. You would know that there are some topics of conversation that it ill behoves civilised people to engage in. Let us turn to some other subject.’
Clydog laughed harshly. ‘You mistake me, Gwyddel, if you think that I am civilised. You forget that I am only an outlaw. That you are my captive and that we are alone in this forest where you are subject to my power. Does that not excite your senses?’
‘Excite?’ Fidelma thrust out her bottom lip. ‘That is a curious word. Certainly it makes me apprehensive, but not for myself. . for you.’
For a moment Clydog seemed bewildered, unable to grasp the meaning of what she had said.
‘Apprehensive for me?’ His smile was forced. ‘I have had women weep and cry for mercy but I have not come across one who is apprehensive for me.’
Fidelma tried to suppress a shiver as she began to recognise the warning signs. ‘You have denied the law and you have denied the Faith. Should I, a religieuse, not be apprehensive for your fate in this world and the next?’ she replied gravely.
‘Your apprehension for me is gratifying. It means that there must be some feeling in you for me.’
‘Indeed. It is the same feeling that I would have for a leper or a blind beggar who refuses charity,’ she returned quickly.
Clydog suddenly exploded with an oath. He came to his feet, towering over her. ‘Enough of this. Let us get down to the reality. There is my tent. Precede me. You know why you are here.’
Fidelma heard the breathless note of pent-up passion in his voice. She found herself unable to move as her mind raced, trying to find a way to escape.
‘That is something you have so far avoided telling me,’ she found herself parrying weakly. ‘Tell me why I am here?’
Clydog was frustrated by her obstructive wordplay. He had never encountered a woman who had withstood him in this matter.
‘Don’t be obtuse, lady,’ he snarled. ‘You are too intelligent to pretend ignorance. Does the Saxon receive all your favours?’
Fidelma met his licentious eye. ‘You are impertinent, Clydog. I will accept that you have had too much mead and lay the blame on that. Now. .’ She rose. ‘I shall go back to the hut to join my companion.’
Clydog lurched forward, grabbing at her. ‘No you don’t, lady. You are coming to my tent to entertain me this night!’
One or two of his men at the fire had turned to watch and now called out a few ribald remarks, laughing in lascivious fashion.
‘Having trouble taming her, Clydog? Take a stick to her!’
‘His night tonight, mine tomorrow!’ yelled out another.
Fidelma took a swift step backward to avoid Clydog’s outs
tretched hands.
‘So you are merely an animal after all, Clydog?’ she sneered. ‘An animal without morals? You would force your sexuality on a religieuse? Then you are but the recrement of animal dung; no more, no less.’
Clydog stood breathing heavily now. ‘You think to try to shame me with insults, Gwyddel? I am afraid you will not succeed. My blood is as good as yours. The difference is that I know what I am. I am inured from the frothings of prelates and their acolytes. There is no place you can escape to, so you may as well drop your cold pose. A woman as attractive as you cannot pretend to be indifferent to the attentions of a real man.’
Fidelma’s mouth was tight and dry as she regarded him through narrow eyes. ‘A real man? No, I might not be indifferent to a real man. But as you are not such a one, I merely pity you for a pathetic animal.’
Clydog’s men were laughing. Some clapped their hands together, shouting encouragement to Clydog to teach the foreign woman a lesson. Fidelma could see that Clydog’s expression had hardened. She had pricked his vanity.
He suddenly lunged forward again, swearing at her.
She half twisted so that his momentum caused him to stumble by her. He caught himself, whirled round to face her again. This time his eyes were evil in the firelight. He launched himself forward once more, hands outstretched to grab her.
Fidelma balanced herself and seemed to reach out her hands to meet him but then, hardly appearing to move at all, she pulled Clydog past her, over one hip, using his momentum to throw him stumbling to the ground.
She positioned herself in a defensive attitude. It appeared that Clydog had no knowledge of the old art of her country. When missionaries journeyed far and wide through many lands, taking the word of the Faith, they were vulnerable to attacks by thieves and bandits. It was believed wrong to carry arms to protect themselves, and so they developed a technique which was called ‘battle through defence’ — troid-sciathaigid. Fidelma had been taught this method of defending herself without the use of weapons from an early age.
Clydog rolled over and came to his feet again, shaking his head in bewilderment. His men’s raucous laughter rang in his ears.
‘Some warrior! He cannot even defeat an unarmed woman!’ cried one of them.
‘Do you want some help to tame her?’ called another.
‘Let me at her,’ jeered a third, ‘I won’t need any help.’
Clydog was provoked beyond reason now. ‘I’m going to teach you a lesson, Gwyddel,’ he growled.
‘You think that you are man enough to teach it?’ sneered Fidelma. ‘Your men believe that you are in need of being taught yourself.’
She was being deliberately provocative, for she knew that anger caused mistakes. With a cry of rage, Clydog ran at her again. She realised that surprise was no longer on her side and that, angry as he might be, he was now prepared to counter her movements. She could not repeat herself. As he ran, he lurched to the side as a feint. She was prepared for such a tactic and stepped quickly back, balancing on one leg and bringing her other foot sharply upwards as he lunged back to his previous position. There he was met with a sharp springing kick straight at his genitals.
Clydog screamed in anguish and fell back writhing on the ground.
Fidelma hoped to seize the advantage but Clydog’s men were now standing in a menacing semicircle around her. There was no escape. Two of them had drawn their swords. Another ran forward to help Clydog, who was vomiting on the ground.
‘He’s in a bad way.’ The man turned to his companions.
‘Kill the bitch,’ Corryn ordered unemotionally. ‘And the Saxon. They should both have been killed at Llanpadern. Sualda will recover on his own.’
One of the men raised his sword.
Fidelma tried not to flinch.
‘No!’
The cry came from Clydog. Even in the shadows of the flickering firelight, Fidelma could see his face, white and pain-racked. He had been helped to his feet and now staggered forward, leaning on one of his comrades’ arm.
‘No! No harm is to come to her yet. She might still have a use.’ His mouth split in a mirthless grin. ‘You will regret what you have done, Gwyddel,’ he told her between clenched teeth.
‘I only regret not having taught you a harsher lesson,’ she responded acidly, hiding her relief that she had been reprieved from immediate death.
Corryn was frowning. ‘Do you insist on continuing this charade?’ he demanded.
Clydog ignored him. ‘Take her back to the hut. Bind her.’
She felt rough hands grab her arms and twist them behind her back, the rope drawn so tightly round her wrists that she gasped with the pain. The unkind hands propelled her towards the hut. Then came Clydog’s voice.
‘Bring out the Saxon! We’ll have some sport with him before we dispatch him to meet his true god, Woden.’
‘You can’t!’ Fidelma screamed, twisting in her captors’ grasp. ‘Why punish Eadulf for what I have done? Can’t you take defeat like a man?’
‘Maybe you would like to watch?’ sneered Clydog. ‘Ah, but your presence may give the Saxon courage enough to face his death with stoicism. I have seen such things before. Saxons run to meet death with the name of their god on their lips, believing they will be accepted in their immortal Hall of Heroes. No, you may console yourself by listening to his pitiful cries for mercy. Bring him out now!’
They pushed her into the darkness of the hut. She was thrown to the ground, the breath driven from her body. Even so, she was in an agony of torment as she was bound in her former place against the wall of the hut.
‘Hurry!’ she heard Clydog yelling from outside. ‘Don’t take all night. Bring the Saxon to me. I am impatient for the fun to begin.’
‘Eadulf!’ Fidelma finally managed to gasp.
Then she heard an astonished cry from one of the robbers. She blinked and tried to focus as the man raised a torch high to illuminate the interior of the hut.
She looked across to where Eadulf had been bound. He was not there. His severed bonds lay discarded, and nearby, a wooden platter on which the slices of venison still lay uneaten. Her heart lurched with a quick beat of hope.
There came to her ears the whinny of a distant horse, and the receding sound of the animal crashing along the trail beyond the clearing.
Then there came a cacophony of several voices crying at once.
‘One of the horses has broken loose!’
‘The Saxon! He is escaping!’
She heard Clydog’s almost hysterical cry: ‘The Saxon? Is it true? Has he gone?’
The outlaw came pushing into the hut, saw the severed bonds, and glanced down at Fidelma. His teeth clenched.
‘Have no fear, Gwyddel. We will find him. These woods are well known to us; we know them like the backs of our hands. When we bring him back you will both enjoy a pain so exquisite that you will be pleading for me to kill you in order to put an end to it. Death will come as a merciful release.’
‘First you will have to catch Eadulf,’ she spat back angrily. ‘So far, Clydog, you have not been able to fulfil any of your boasts. I doubt whether you can fulfil this one.’
She saw murder in his eyes there and then. As she braced herself, Corryn suddenly appeared at his side and caught his arm.
‘The Saxon is escaping!’ he hissed. ‘No time for this now. Your personal vengeance can wait.’
Clydog hesitated, eyes blazing. It seemed several moments before he had his temper under control. Then he turned out of the hut, shouting orders. Fidelma heard a movement in the clearing, the sounds of horses being mounted, and the snap of undergrowth as they departed. She was left alone in the darkness of the hut.
One part of her rejoiced that Eadulf had managed to escape and hoped that he would be able to avoid his pursuers. The other part of her mind sank into a troubled feeling of gloomy isolation as she realised that she was now alone and helpless at the hands of Clydog and his band of cut-throats. Clydog’s temper would be uncontrollable when he
returned. She lay listening to the sound of the receding horses, and wondered where Eadulf would make for. She presumed that he would try to head for Llanwnda and seek help from either Brother Meurig or Gwnda, the lord of Pen Caer. But, even if he succeeded, it would be some time before he could bring rescuers back to this place, even if he could find it again, and provided Clydog did not move camp in the meantime.
She tugged futilely at her bonds. They were firm enough. She wondered how much time she had before Clydog and his men returned.
She prayed that Eadulf would elude them.
Then, in the darkness, she heard a sound. Turning, she saw the shadow of a man enter the hut.
Chapter Ten
Fidelma tried to struggle up to defend herself as best she could.
‘Quiet!’ hissed a voice.
Fidelma gasped in disbelief. ‘Eadulf!’ she whispered, partly in relief and partly in consternation. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were long gone.’
Eadulf dropped to his knees beside her. She felt his hands working quickly at her bonds.
‘My hope is Clydog and his carrion thought the same as you; that I had escaped on horseback,’ came back his cheery voice.
‘How did you manage to free yourself?’
‘Simple. When the man brought me the venison, I asked him to loose one hand so that I could lift the food to my mouth. The idiot did so, thinking that he had restricted me enough, but I was soon able to pick at the knots and-’
‘Clydog will kill us both if he captures us again,’ she interrupted.
‘I know. I heard what was happening. Are you harmed at all?’ His voice was slightly embarrassed.
‘I am not hurt. But Clydog is hurt in more than his pride,’ she replied with grim satisfaction.
‘I knew that you would be able to keep him entertained with your defensive techniques. I was going to wait inside the hut and then release you. But when I heard Clydog had decided to make me a martyr in the fullness of my youth, I decided not to encourage such an ambition. I slipped into the woods unobserved and watched them take you back to the hut. Then I let loose one of the horses and gave it a slap on the flanks to encourage it to gallop off down the trail.’
Smoke in the Wind sf-11 Page 12