Smoke in the Wind (17 page)

Clydog took a sharp knife from his belt, manipulating it ostentatiously before rising from his seat, moving to the spit and cutting slices of the roasting venison, which he placed on two wooden platters. He turned and handed one of them to her and then reseated himself.

‘I am sure that someone with your intelligence, lady, has read Antisthenes,’ he said, after a moment.

‘You surprise me that common thieves such as yourselves have read the eminent philosophers. First we hear from Virgil and now of Antisthenes.’

Clydog did not respond to her jibe. ‘If, lady, you claim you dislike me, then perhaps you should recall those words of Antisthenes. Pay attention to those you dislike, to your enemies, for they are the first to discover your faults and mistakes.’

Fidelma bowed her head slightly. ‘Publilius Syrus is my favourite philosopher. Perhaps you have read him?’

‘I have some knowledge of his moral maxims.’

‘He said that there was no safety in gaining the favour of an enemy. You may call the enemy your friend only when he is dead.’

‘Publilius Syrus,’ sneered Clydog. ‘Who was he but a slave from Antioch who was brought to Rome and managed to win his freedom by writing plays which pandered to the sensibilities of his masters?’

‘Do you disapprove of his maxims, of his plays, that he was from Antioch, or because he was a Roman slave who won his freedom? Many of your ancestors followed that same path.’

‘Not my ancestors!’ Clydog snapped with an anger which surprised Fidelma.

‘I mean those Britons and Gauls who were taken as slaves to Rome and won their freedom.’

‘Let them speak for themselves. I will speak for myself.’

‘You are obviously an intelligent man, Clydog. Who are you?’ Fidelma suddenly asked. ‘You are too intelligent to be a mere outlaw.’

The young man glanced at her. The shadows caused by the flickering fire disguised the expression on his face.

‘I have told you who I am.’

‘Clydog the Wasp, an outlaw,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘Yet what made you so? You were not born a thief.’

The young man laughed brusquely. ‘I am what I am because I want more in life than it has been my fortune to have been given. But it is not to talk about me that I asked for your company at this feasting.’

There was the sound of raised raucous voices from the other side of the fire. Fidelma was amazed to see that Corryn had been persuaded to take up a stringed instrument which reminded her of a
ceis
, a small, square-shaped harp whose strings were set diagonally, much played in her own land. The voices died away as Corryn struck up a song. His voice was a tenor, melodious and sweet.

Fidelma sniffed deprecatingly. ‘Is that your philosophy, Clydog? Woe to the weak?’

‘What better philosophy?’ agreed the outlaw. ‘It is the strong who shall inherit this earth.’

‘Then you are not a Christian? Our Lord said that those who are blessed with a gentle spirit shall have the earth for their possession. You do not share that sentiment?’

‘I am not a Christian. I do not share the teachings that deny men courage and strength. Your God is a god of slaves and encourages them to remain slaves. He encourages people to remain poor, to be hungry, to be without clothes. Your God is a god invented by the rich to enslave the poor. Away with such nonsense! Away with such teachings of slavery!’

Fidelma examined the young man with interest. His voice was edged with passion.

‘Were you poor and enslaved, Clydog?’

He turned angrily on her. ‘What do you--’ He caught himself. ‘I did not say . . .’

Fidelma smiled gently. ‘I see there is an anger in your heart and you are prepared to forgive nothing. Luke wrote: “Where little has been forgiven, little love is shown.” ’

‘Don’t preach your faith to me, Gwyddel. We do not need it. Anyway, you should approve of sinners like me, being a Christian.’

Fidelma was puzzled and said so.

‘Do not your teachings tell us that the greater the sinner, the better saint he makes? The more he has sinned, the more your Christ will forgive him?’

‘Who taught you that?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘It is there in your Christian writings. Your Christ said, “I tell you, there will be greater joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who do not need to repent.” It is there in your holy writings.’

‘So you are adept at sinning? Is that your path to peace and contentment?’ Fidelma sneered.

Clydog was not put out. ‘You should not provoke me with your intellectual games, Gwyddel, although I am told that in your religious houses in Éireann your people practise such things.’

‘Surely the honing of the mind is not confined to my land. I am told that the Cymry even play a game similar to our
fidchell
, the wooden wisdom, as a means of training a sharp mind.’

Clydog nodded absently. ‘
Gwyddbwyll
, we call it. Our great warrior, Arthur, was a master of the game.’

‘Therefore, you should be as adept at intellectual sport as any Gwyddel,’ Fidelma said waspishly.

Clydog reached for the jug of mead and made to fill her beaker again. Fidelma shook her head. He filled his own, staring speculatively at her.

‘You are an attractive woman,’ he finally said.

Fidelma shifted with an abrupt feeling of unease at the change in his tone.

‘Why is such an attractive woman a member of the religious?’

‘Attraction is relative. Is there a reason why one’s physical appearance should preclude one from following a particular calling in life? One’s outward appearance often disguises what is inside. You, for example, Clydog, ought to be a rough, ugly little man with warts and blackened, broken teeth.’

Clydog hesitated and then chuckled appreciatively. ‘A good answer, Gwyddel. A good answer. Beauty often hides a black soul, eh? So what does your beauty hide, Fidelma of Cashel?’

The question was sharp, and confused Fidelma for the moment.

‘I would debate that I am--’ she began but he interrupted.

‘I hear that there are some of your faith who claim that all religious should live lives of celibacy. You are not celibate, are you?’

The question caused Fidelma to flush.

‘Your face seems to have betrayed you,’ he went on, when she did not answer.

‘It is none of your business,’ she snapped. ‘But it is not commanded by the Faith as well you know. Rome would prefer that abbots and bishops did not marry but there is no law which states that this should generally be so.’

She was becoming aware that this man’s temper was like dry tinder. The smallest and most innocuous spark could set off the flame of his changeable personality. His temperament was unstable. The more she could moderate his swings of humour the more chance she stood of extricating Eadulf and herself from this captivity.

Clydog was grinning lewdly at her. ‘Of course you have had lovers. The only chaste woman is one who has not been asked. Is the Saxon your lover, eh?’

Fidelma felt her face reddening again. Once again she paused, trying to find the right words.

‘You are intelligent, Clydog. You appear cultured. You would know that there are some topics of conversation that it ill behoves civilised people to engage in. Let us turn to some other subject.’

Clydog laughed harshly. ‘You mistake me, Gwyddel, if you think that I am civilised. You forget that I am only an outlaw. That you are my captive and that we are alone in this forest where you are subject to my power. Does that not excite your senses?’

‘Excite?’ Fidelma thrust out her bottom lip. ‘That is a curious word. Certainly it makes me apprehensive, but not for myself . . . for you.’

For a moment Clydog seemed bewildered, unable to grasp the meaning of what she had said.

‘Apprehensive for me?’ His smile was forced. ‘I have had women weep and cry for mercy but I have not come across one who is apprehensive for me.’

Fidelma tried to suppress a shiver as she began to recognise the warning signs. ‘You have denied the law and you have denied the Faith. Should I, a religieuse, not be apprehensive for your fate in this world and the next?’ she replied gravely.

‘Your apprehension for me is gratifying. It means that there must be some feeling in you for me.’

‘Indeed. It is the same feeling that I would have for a leper or a blind beggar who refuses charity,’ she returned quickly.

Clydog suddenly exploded with an oath. He came to his feet, towering over her. ‘Enough of this. Let us get down to the reality. There is my tent. Precede me. You know why you are here.’

Fidelma heard the breathless note of pent-up passion in his voice. She found herself unable to move as her mind raced, trying to find a way to escape.

‘That is something you have so far avoided telling me,’ she found herself parrying weakly. ‘Tell me why I am here?’

Clydog was frustrated by her obstructive wordplay. He had never encountered a woman who had withstood him in this matter.

‘Don’t be obtuse, lady,’ he snarled. ‘You are too intelligent to pretend ignorance. Does the Saxon receive all your favours?’

Fidelma met his licentious eye. ‘You are impertinent, Clydog. I will accept that you have had too much mead and lay the blame on that. Now . . .’ She rose. ‘I shall go back to the hut to join my companion.’

Clydog lurched forward, grabbing at her. ‘No you don’t, lady. You are coming to my tent to entertain me this night!’

One or two of his men at the fire had turned to watch and now called out a few ribald remarks, laughing in lascivious fashion.

‘Having trouble taming her, Clydog? Take a stick to her!’

‘His night tonight, mine tomorrow!’ yelled out another.

Fidelma took a swift step backward to avoid Clydog’s outstretched hands.

‘So you are merely an animal after all, Clydog?’ she sneered. ‘An animal without morals? You would force your sexuality on a religieuse? Then you are but the recrement of animal dung; no more, no less.’

Clydog stood breathing heavily now. ‘You think to try to shame me with insults, Gwyddel? I am afraid you will not succeed. My blood is as good as yours. The difference is that I know what I am. I am inured from the frothings of prelates and their acolytes. There is no place you can escape to, so you may as well drop your cold pose. A woman as attractive as you cannot pretend to be indifferent to the attentions of a real man.’

Fidelma’s mouth was tight and dry as she regarded him through narrow eyes. ‘A real man? No, I might not be indifferent to a real man. But as you are not such a one, I merely pity you for a pathetic animal.’

Clydog’s men were laughing. Some clapped their hands together, shouting encouragement to Clydog to teach the foreign woman a lesson. Fidelma could see that Clydog’s expression had hardened. She had pricked his vanity.

He suddenly lunged forward again, swearing at her.

She half twisted so that his momentum caused him to stumble by her. He caught himself, whirled round to face her again. This time his eyes were evil in the firelight. He launched himself forward once more, hands outstretched to grab her.

Fidelma balanced herself and seemed to reach out her hands to meet him but then, hardly appearing to move at all, she pulled Clydog past her, over one hip, using his momentum to throw him stumbling to the ground.

She positioned herself in a defensive attitude. It appeared that Clydog had no knowledge of the old art of her country. When missionaries journeyed far and wide through many lands, taking the word of the Faith, they were vulnerable to attacks by thieves and bandits. It was believed wrong to carry arms to protect themselves, and so they developed a technique which was called ‘battle through defence’ -
troid-sciathaigid
. Fidelma had been taught this method of defending herself without the use of weapons from an early age.

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.