Smoke in the Wind

life.

‘We picked them up at Llanpadern,’ Clydog replied, slipping from his horse. ‘This one’s a healer.’ He jerked his thumb at Eadulf.

‘Do they know?’ asked the fellow.

‘Put a curb on your loose tongue!’ snapped Corryn, joining him. ‘That goes for all of you. No one speaks to the prisoners.’

The men regarded Fidelma and Eadulf with unconcealed curiosity.

‘They are strangers, aren’t they?’ demanded a shrill-voiced youth, hardly old enough to shave.

‘A Gwyddel and a Saxon,’ replied Clydog.

There rose a curious murmur.

‘Get down, Saxon,’ ordered Corryn.

Eadulf dismounted. The outlaw grabbed him by the arm and propelled him towards a hut, thrusting him into its gloomy interior before he could exchange a further word with Fidelma. There was a man lying on the ground.

‘If you are a healer, do something,’ snapped Corryn, withdrawing and leaving him alone.

Eadulf looked down at the man, who appeared to be asleep, and then moved quickly back to the door of the hut.

Fidelma still sat on her horse surrounded by the dismounted men, but her reins were held tight so that she could not make any sudden moves.

‘She asserts that the incompetent fool who claims to be king of Dyfed,’ went on Clydog, ‘gave them a commission to investigate the disappearance of Father Clidro’s community.’

This raised a shout of laughter.

‘Not even old Gwlyddien is senile enough to give a commission to a Saxon,’ cried someone with a shrill voice.

‘He gave the commission to me.’ Fidelma’s voice was soft and ice cold but demanded to be heard above the noise of their mirth. They fell silent and looked speculatively at her.

Clydog chuckled and moved forward. ‘Allow me to present you, lady. This is Fidelma of Cashel, sister to the king of that place.’

‘Where in hell is Cashel?’ demanded one man.

‘Ignorant fellow!’ smiled Clydog. ‘It is one of the biggest of the five kingdoms of the Éireann. Its territory could swallow this kingdom several times over and not notice it.’

Eadulf was astonished at the outlaw’s knowledge.

‘A rich place, eh?’ demanded the shrill voice.

‘Rich enough,’ agreed Clydog.

‘Why would old Gwlyddien ask her to investigate Llanpadern?’ demanded another of the men.

‘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