Peter Tremayne - Smoke in the Wind

‘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.’