Smoke in the Wind

Chapter Eight

Fidelma and Eadulf did not move from their positions. They froze as they saw the arrows pointing unwaveringly at them.

The man in the middle, standing with hands on hips, was smiling at them. He was a slim, youthful-looking man, quite handsome in a way. His hair was a tousled bushy crop of red-brown, his eyes blue and piercing. He was clad in the dress of a warrior, a close-fitting leather jerkin over a woollen shirt, and tight leather trousers and boots. A sword hung from his right side and a hunter’s knife from his left.

Fidelma’s eyes widened slightly as she beheld the gold torc which he wore round his neck. Years ago, in her own country, it had been the symbol of a hero, usually a princely warrior. The torc was a ring of fashioned gold, curved to fit closely round the neck. It was, she observed, highly decorative, ending in terminals which were the focus of elaborate engravings. Torcs were now old-fashioned in the five kingdoms and no one wore them any more except on some state occasions, and then only rarely. She knew from experience that the torc was common to many peoples in Britain and Gaul.

She also saw that he was wearing a more delicately wrought red gold chain which fell to his chest. It was of beautiful workmanship, exquisitely made and of some value. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Wearing two such valuable and delicate objects detracted from the impact of each and created only an impression of ostentation and little taste.

‘Well, well,’ the young man finally intoned, regarding them with his smile still in place, ‘what have we here?’

Fidelma slowly straightened up, keeping her hands slightly away from her body so that the bowmen could see that she posed no threat. Eadulf hesitated a moment and then followed her lead. The sounds of horses on the paved courtyard outside came to their ears. Clearly, the man and his two archer companions had an escort.

‘I am Sister Fidelma and this is Brother Eadulf,’ she began.

The young man’s smile broadened. It was an expression that caused Fidelma to feel uncomfortable. The smile was cold, merciless; the sort of expression with which a hunter might observe the helplessness of his prey.

‘A Gwyddel and another Saxon, from your names?’ He glanced at his companions. ‘Well, lads, here are strange companions.’ He turned back to them, still wearing his sinister smile. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I am a dálaigh, what you call a barnwr-’

‘I did not ask who you were,’ interrupted the young man sharply. ‘I asked what you were doing here.’

‘I am answering you. My companion and I are acting under the commission of your king, Gwlyddien, to investigate the report of the disappearance of this community. .’

To her surprise the young man burst out laughing. It was a laugh without mirth.

‘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?’

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.

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 because 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.’