Smoke in the Wind

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.’

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 outstretched 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.