Peter Tremayne - Smoke in the Wind

Clydog rolled over and came to his feet again, shaking his head in bewilderment. His men’s raucous laughter rang in his ears.

‘Some warrior! He cannot even defeat an unarmed woman!’ cried one of them.

‘Do you want some help to tame her?’ called another.

‘Let me at her,’ jeered a third, ‘I won’t need any help.’

Clydog was provoked beyond reason now. ‘I’m going to teach you a lesson, Gwyddel,’ he growled.

‘You think that you are man enough to teach it?’ sneered Fidelma. ‘Your men believe that you are in need of being taught yourself.’

She was being deliberately provocative, for she knew that anger caused mistakes. With a cry of rage, Clydog ran at her again. She realised that surprise was no longer on her side and that, angry as he might be, he was now prepared to counter her movements. She could not repeat herself. As he ran, he lurched to the side as a feint. She was prepared for such a tactic and stepped quickly back, balancing on one leg and bringing her other foot sharply upwards as he lunged back to his previous position. There he was met with a sharp springing kick straight at his genitals.

Clydog screamed in anguish and fell back writhing on the ground.

Fidelma hoped to seize the advantage but Clydog’s men were now standing in a menacing semicircle around her. There was no escape. Two of them had drawn their swords. Another ran forward to help Clydog, who was vomiting on the ground.

‘He’s in a bad way.’ The man turned to his companions.

‘Kill the bitch,’ Corryn ordered unemotionally. ‘And the Saxon. They should both have been killed at Llanpadern. Sualda will recover on his own.’

One of the men raised his sword.

Fidelma tried not to flinch.

‘No!’

The cry came from Clydog. Even in the shadows of the flickering firelight, Fidelma could see his face, white and pain-racked. He had been helped to his feet and now staggered forward, leaning on one of his comrades’ arm.

‘No! No harm is to come to her yet. She might still have a use.’ His mouth split in a mirthless grin. ‘You will regret what you have done, Gwyddel,’ he told her between clenched teeth.

‘I only regret not having taught you a harsher lesson,’ she responded acidly, hiding her relief that she had been reprieved from immediate death.

Corryn was frowning. ‘Do you insist on continuing this charade?’ he demanded.

Clydog ignored him. ‘Take her back to the hut. Bind her.’

She felt rough hands grab her arms and twist them behind her back, the rope drawn so tightly round her wrists that she gasped with the pain. The unkind hands propelled her towards the hut. Then came Clydog’s voice.

‘Bring out the Saxon! We’ll have some sport with him before we dispatch him to meet his true god, Woden.’

‘You can’t!’ Fidelma screamed, twisting in her captors’ grasp. ‘Why punish Eadulf for what I have done? Can’t you take defeat like a man?’

‘Maybe you would like to watch?’ sneered Clydog. ‘Ah, but your presence may give the Saxon courage enough to face his death with stoicism. I have seen such things before. Saxons run to meet death with the name of their god on their lips, believing they will be accepted in their immortal Hall of Heroes. No, you may console yourself by listening to his pitiful cries for mercy. Bring him out now!’

They pushed her into the darkness of the hut. She was thrown to the ground, the breath driven from her body. Even so, she was in an agony of torment as she was bound in her former place against the wall of the hut.

‘Hurry!’ she heard Clydog yelling from outside. ‘Don’t take all night. Bring the Saxon to me. I am impatient for the fun to begin.’

‘Eadulf!’ Fidelma finally managed to gasp.

Then she heard an astonished cry from one of the robbers. She blinked and tried to focus as the man raised a torch high to illuminate the interior of the hut.

She looked across to where Eadulf had been bound. He was not there. His severed bonds lay discarded, and nearby, a wooden platter on which the slices of venison still lay uneaten. Her heart lurched with a quick beat of hope.

There came to her ears the whinny of a distant horse, and the receding sound of the animal crashing along the trail beyond the clearing.

Then there came a cacophony of several voices crying at once.

‘One of the horses has broken loose!’

‘The Saxon! He is escaping!’

She heard Clydog’s almost hysterical cry: ‘The Saxon? Is it true? Has he gone?’

The outlaw came pushing into the hut, saw the severed bonds, and glanced down at Fidelma. His teeth clenched.

‘Have no fear, Gwyddel. We will find him. These woods are well known to us; we know them like the backs of our hands. When we bring him back you will both enjoy a pain so exquisite that you will be pleading for me to kill you in order to put an end to it. Death will come as a merciful release.’

‘First you will have to catch Eadulf,’ she spat back angrily. ‘So far, Clydog, you have not been able to fulfil any of your boasts. I doubt whether you can fulfil this one.’

She saw murder in his eyes there and then. As she braced herself, Corryn suddenly appeared at his side and caught his arm.

‘The Saxon is escaping!’ he hissed. ‘No time for this now. Your personal vengeance can wait.’

Clydog hesitated, eyes blazing. It seemed several moments before he had his temper under control. Then he turned out of the hut, shouting orders. Fidelma heard a movement in the clearing, the sounds of horses being mounted, and the snap of undergrowth as they departed. She was left alone in the darkness of the hut.

One part of her rejoiced that Eadulf had managed to escape and hoped that he would be able to avoid his pursuers. The other part of her mind sank into a troubled feeling of gloomy isolation as she realised that she was now alone and helpless at the hands of Clydog and his band of cut-throats. Clydog’s temper would be uncontrollable when he returned. She lay listening to the sound of the receding horses, and wondered where Eadulf would make for. She presumed that he would try to head for Llanwnda and seek help from either Brother Meurig or Gwnda, the lord of Pen Caer. But, even if he succeeded, it would be some time before he could bring rescuers back to this place, even if he could find it again, and provided Clydog did not move camp in the meantime.

She tugged futilely at her bonds. They were firm enough. She wondered how much time she had before Clydog and his men returned.

She prayed that Eadulf would elude them.

Then, in the darkness, she heard a sound. Turning, she saw the shadow of a man enter the hut.

Fidelma tried to struggle up to defend herself as best she could.

‘Quiet!’ hissed a voice.

Fidelma gasped in disbelief. ‘Eadulf!’ she whispered, partly in relief and partly in consternation. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were long gone.’

Eadulf dropped to his knees beside her. She felt his hands working quickly at her bonds.

‘My hope is Clydog and his carrion thought the same as you; that I had escaped on horseback,’ came back his cheery voice.

‘How did you manage to free yourself?’

‘Simple. When the man brought me the venison, I asked him to loose one hand so that I could lift the food to my mouth. The idiot did so, thinking that he had restricted me enough, but I was soon able to pick at the knots and-’

‘Clydog will kill us both if he captures us again,’ she interrupted.

‘I know. I heard what was happening. Are you harmed at all?’ His voice was slightly embarrassed.

‘I am not hurt. But Clydog is hurt in more than his pride,’ she replied with grim satisfaction.