Peter Tremayne - Smoke in the Wind

‘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.’

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.