Peter Tremayne - Smoke in the Wind

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.