Peter Tremayne - Smoke in the Wind

He moved his gaze back to the cave mouth and saw the sky was not really dark but getting lighter all the time. The cacophony from the birds increased. It was time to be moving.

He stirred, moving his muscles gently. Fidelma moaned a little in protest. He reached over with his free arm and shook her gently on the shoulder.

‘Time to be going,’ he said quietly.

She moaned again and then blinked. In a moment she was sitting up staring about her. She shivered in the chill.

‘Have we overslept?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes.

‘No,’ Eadulf assured her. ‘But it will be dawn in a moment or two.’

Fidelma looked at the cave entrance and saw the sky. ‘We’d better make a start then,’ she said, rising to her feet and stretching. She felt chilly and her damp clothes were uncomfortable. The horses were standing patiently, blowing and snorting in the cool air, their breath like little puffs of steam.

‘At least it seems to have stopped raining,’ Eadulf observed as he walked to the cave mouth and looked out. ‘But it is still cold.’

The ground outside had been saturated by the rain and the sky was still filled with menacing heavy clouds. He muttered something in Saxon which sounded like a curse. Fidelma raised an eyebrow in disapproval. Eadulf shrugged and indicated the wet ground with a jerk of his head.

‘It will make our tracks easy to follow, if Clydog is still out looking for us.’

Fidelma began to saddle her horse. ‘He will be,’ she assured him. ‘With luck we can find some rocky trail or perhaps a stream to follow.’

‘I’d give anything for a drink and something to eat,’ Eadulf sighed, following her example and putting the saddle blanket on his mount.

Fidelma was abruptly reminded that they had not eaten since the previous morning. She wished she had eaten the plate of venison she had been offered on the previous night. Eadulf was in the same position, having forsaken his meal to effect his escape.

‘Let’s hope we can find somewhere to refresh ourselves on the journey. We need to find our way to Llanferran,’ she said brightly. ‘Don’t forget our horses are just as miserable as we are. They haven’t been rubbed down or watered and fed either.’

Eadulf led the way out of the cave and back along the small twisting mud path towards the main track from which they had departed on the previous evening. It was a chilly, grey-stone morning. Even the bird song seemed desultory now.

They mounted and began to proceed along the trail. Although they seemed to sit at ease on their horses a close observer would have noticed that their muscles were tensed and now and then they turned their heads as if in expectation of pursuit.

Fidelma wondered how long it had been before Clydog had overtaken the riderless horse and realised how he had been tricked. How long before he had returned to the camp and found that she was gone as well?

They came to a spongy turf clearing among holly and sessile oaks. On one side was a clump of wild pear, leaning together, with their narrow outlines and sparse branches. A few months earlier and they could have eased their hunger with its fruits.

Eadulf was sitting on his horse peering about him. He let out a low exclamation and turned his horse towards a group of trees. Among them he had noticed some tall specimens with deeply furrowed bark. He dismounted and was soon cutting away with his knife.

‘What is it?’ Fidelma called.

‘Hopefully, breakfast,’ he replied. ‘I noticed these elder trees and hoped we might be lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ She was perplexed. She came closer and peered down at what he was cutting away from the tree. ‘Ugh!’ she grunted in repulsion. ‘It looks like a human ear.’

Eadulf grinned up at her. ‘It’s actually called Judas’s Ear.’

Fidelma realised it was a fungus; liver-brown, with translucent flabby flesh.

‘Is it edible?’ she asked uncertainly.

‘It is not a delicacy but I have known people who eat it both cooked and raw. It might take the edge off our hunger.’

‘Or give us indigestion,’ observed Fidelma, examining with distaste the piece he handed her. ‘Why is it called Judas’s Ear?’

‘There is a tradition that Judas Iscariot, who betrayed the Christ for thirty pieces of silver, hanged himself on an elder tree. This fungus only grows on the elder.’

Fidelma nibbled experimentally. The taste was not too unpleasant, and she was hungry. A short time later, they found a small spring and slaked their thirst. Here they were also able to pause and let their horses drink and graze for a while on the wet grasses that surrounded the spring. Then they were on their way again, directed westward by the sun rising against their backs.

Soon the woods began to thin and they found themselves in a small twisting valley through which a small stream gushed, widening occasionally into moderately sized pools. At Fidelma’s suggestion they walked their horses through the shallow waters, whose swirling eddies hid their passing.

After a while the wooded cover ended and low plains of marshy ground stretched before them. They were aware of the plaintive crying of gulls and the noticeable tang of salt in the air.

‘The sea can’t be far away,’ Eadulf observed unnecessarily.

‘So we have to turn north now,’ Fidelma replied. ‘I can see some buildings. .’

‘Maybe we can get a proper meal there.’

Fidelma smiled ruefully at her companion. ‘I confess that if it were a choice between going hungry or having another meal of your Judas’s Ear, I would prefer starvation.’

They rode to some rocky high ground that, to the west, swept down towards a deceptive cliff edge. Below was a broad bay with a sandy beach, backed by shingle. Further up was a deep inlet through which a river came tumbling to the sea. They had to ride around this cleft, with cliffs on one side and marshy land on the other, to find a place to cross.

The buildings appeared to be a small hamlet with a hill rising behind it. Fidelma had noticed several ancient stones including a stone circle not far off. Smoke rose from the hamlet and they could see people moving about.

Eadulf sighed in relief. ‘Civilisation and food.’

‘Let’s find out where we are first.’

As they came closer, Fidelma realised that the place was not even large enough to be called a hamlet. There was only a large smith’s forge and outbuildings and what looked like the sort of hostel that was common in her own land, where people gathered to drink, eat or stay for the night.

An old man carrying a large stack of twigs on his back was approaching them from a path on the inland side of the track along which they were proceeding.

Eadulf decided to try out his improved knowledge of the language.

‘ Shw mae! Pa un yw’r fford i . .?’

The old man stopped and stared at him. His eyes widened. ‘ Saeson? ’

‘I am a Saxon,’ admitted Eadulf.

To their surprise, the old man dropped his bundle of sticks and went scuttling away towards the buildings shouting at the top of his voice.

Fidelma looked grim. ‘It seems that they do not like Saxons in this part of the world.’

Before Eadulf could protest, Fidelma was moving on resolutely in the wake of the old man, who had now halted, waving his arms and still shouting. A broad-shouldered man, who was clearly the smith, and a couple of other men had grabbed what appeared to be weapons and watched them with caution as they approached. There were no expressions of welcome on their faces.

‘What do you want here?’ called the broad-shouldered man as they drew within speaking range.

Fidelma halted, Eadulf by her side. ‘ Pax vobiscum , my brothers. I am Sister Fidelma of Cashel.’