Smoke in the Wind

by Peter Tremayne

  Eadulf screwed his face into a dismissive grimace. ‘We know that there is nothing there. Brother Cyngar looked. He told us.’

  ‘He also told us that he had looked round the community’s buildings and found nothing. Yet we have found a great deal.’

  Eadulf nodded glumly. She was right, of course.

  They left the dormitorium and went outside. ‘The gate seems to have blown open,’ Eadulf remarked.

  ‘Leave it,’ Fidelma advised. ‘It will not take us long to look at the animal enclosures.’

  Brother Cyngar had been right. They were empty. All the livestock had gone. However, Fidelma insisted on looking carefully round, trying to spot the slightest thing that was out of the ordinary. From the enclosures they went to the large barn beyond, next to which stood a smith’s forge. The brazier was filled with grey ash, and cold. It was some time since a fire had been kindled here. The barn doors were open. Fidelma halted and looked inside. Cyngar had said he had gone to the barn and glanced inside but found it empty. Certainly, as they stood on the threshold they could see that there were no animals inside. There was nothing supernatural about their disappearance; the ground was stony and hard and the animals could easily have been driven off without trace.

  ‘Brother Cyngar said that the community possessed two mules. Why are there half a dozen stalls?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Visitors, of course,’ Fidelma responded. ‘The community provided hospitality for travellers and pilgrims passing through here. It would be natural to provide shelter for their horses.’

  She walked inside and carefully peered into each individual stall. When she reached the end of the line of stalls on the left, she turned round. Something caught her eye and she glanced up. Eadulf saw the expression on her face. He was still standing in the doorway and she was looking at something directly above his head inside the door.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded, thinking that the wild cat had slunk back again.

  Fidelma’s features were grim. ‘I think that we have found Father Clidro,’ she said quietly.

  Eadulf quickly walked a few paces inside the barn before he turned and looked up.

  There was a pulley hanging from a rope attached to one of the main beams of the roof. Another rope stretched from a support beam to the pulley and was threaded through it. At the end of this hung the body of a man.

  He wore the tonsure of St John and dark robes which marked him as not an ordinary religieux but a man of rank within the community. But they were ripped, torn and bloodied. The angle of the head showed that the rope had broken his neck. He was an elderly man. A frail man.

  Eadulf exhaled sharply and genuflected.

  ‘Release the rope,’ Fidelma said quietly, pointing to it.

  Eadulf went to where the rope was secured and loosened it, lowering the body gently to the straw-covered floor. It was clear that the man was not long dead, something which surprised Fidelma.

  ‘I think you will find that the old man has been flogged before he was hanged,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘I saw the tears in the back of his robe as I lowered him.’

  With Eadulf’s help, Fidelma rolled the corpse over and checked. ‘A severe flogging,’ she confirmed. ‘What manner of man could do this to such an old one?’

  ‘Do you really think that this is Father Clidro? But if so, he was not killed at the time the community was raided. Look at the way the blood is comparatively fresh! I would say that he was killed not more than a day ago.’

  ‘There is no means of knowing for certain that he is Father Clidro but the odds are certainly in favour of it. He must have been of this community and he wears robes of rank . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  Eadulf became aware that Fidelma’s eyes had widened. She was staring over his shoulder.

  He turned round swiftly.

  There were three men in the doorway of the barn. The man in the centre stood with hands on hips. On either side, his dour-looking companions had bows in their hands. The bows were drawn, arrows ready, and aimed at Fidelma and himself.

  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 u
sed 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.