The man stood for a moment, his blue eyes staring into her fiery green ones. Then his smile returned and he chuckled appreciatively.
‘You are right, Gwyddel. Fear betrays unworthy souls, so I am glad that you do not have any fear. I dislike killing those who are frightened to pass into the Otherworld with courage.’
He turned, raising a hand to his bowmen. Fidelma was determined not to allow her consternation to show, but she realised that the man did not speak simply for effect. He was ruthless.
‘Would you kill religious?’ she cried. ‘If so, then I presume that you must be responsible for this outrage. .’ She gestured with her hand towards the body of the old religieux they had taken down from the beam.
At that moment another man entered the barn. He was clearly a member of the same band. It was hard to discern his age for he wore a war helmet of polished steel which enhanced his height but disguised his features. She had the impression of a handsome face and vivid blue eyes. He stood to one side watching Fidelma and Eadulf. His mouth was thin, and set in a grim expression.
The first man still stood with raised hand, and then one of the bowmen coughed nervously.
‘Lord, what of Sualda? Some of these religious are often physicians.’
The first man hesitated.
‘Kill them now and have done with it,’ snapped the newcomer, vivid blue eyes regarding them coldly. ‘Enough mistakes have been made these last few days.’
The first man glanced at him with an expression of open hostility. ‘That was no fault of mine. I did not evolve so complicated a strategy. My man is right.’ He turned to Fidelma and Eadulf. ‘Are either of you trained in the art of healing?’
Fidelma hesitated, not sure whether Eadulf was able to follow the conversation clearly. ‘Brother Eadulf studied at the medical school of Tuam Brecain,’ she volunteered.
The man examined Eadulf with amusement. ‘Then you have bought the Saxon a longer lease on life than he was about to enjoy. You will both come with us.’
‘You still have not told us who you are,’ Fidelma replied defiantly.
‘My name will mean nothing to you.’
‘Are you ashamed of it?’
For the first time a scowl crossed the young man’s features. His companion with the polished war helmet moved unobtrusively forward and laid a hand on his arm. The movement was not lost on Fidelma. The warrior could be goaded and that knowledge might come in useful at some time. The young man made an effort to regain his composure and the cynical smile returned.
‘My name is Clydog. I am often called Clydog Cacynen.’
‘Clydog the Wasp?’ Fidelma spoke as if placating a child. ‘Tell me, Clydog, why is it that you wear that old symbol of a hero about your neck? Can it be that you have earned that distinction fighting against unarmed religious?’
The young man’s hand automatically went up to touch his torc. Another flush of uncontrollable anger crossed his features.
‘It was worn,’ he replied slowly, ‘at the defeat of King Selyf at Cair Legion. The Saxons will have good cause to remember that crime.’
The man in the war helmet cleared his throat warningly. ‘We have bandied enough words. If you want these religious to look at Sualda, let us go now before another mistake is made. You two, walk in front of the bowmen. No tricks or they will shoot. I do not make vain threats.’
Eadulf felt able to intervene for the first time.
‘Have a care, Welisc,’ he said, using the Saxon word for a foreigner, which Saxons generally used as their name for the Britons. ‘This is Fidelma of Cashel to whom you speak, sister of the king of Cashel.’
Fidelma turned to him with a frown of disapproval. ‘Remember the adage, Redime te captum quam queas minimo!’ she muttered.
The man with the war helmet glanced from Eadulf to Fidelma and burst out laughing. ‘Well now! We find that the Saxon has a tongue, after all. Thank you for your information. A princess of the Gwyddel, eh? Well, lady, you need not remind your Saxon friend that one should strive to pay as little ransom as possible when one is taken prisoner. I doubt whether we shall trouble your esteemed brother with a ransom demand even though we now know your rank. He is too far away and such negotiations are troublesome.’
‘So you are common outlaws?’ Fidelma regarded her captors with defiance.
There was an angry flush on the cheek of the man who called himself Clydog. ‘An outlaw? In Dyfed, I would not deny it. But not common; not I. I am-’
‘Clydog!’ The word came like a sharp explosion from the man with the war helmet. He turned abruptly to Fidelma and Eadulf. ‘Enough chatter. Precede us!’ He indicated towards the courtyard.
‘Do you have a name also?’ Fidelma was not to be intimidated. In fact, she was pleased that she was causing dissension among their captors.
The man with the war helmet regarded her for a moment. ‘Among this band, you may call me Corryn,’ he replied without humour.
‘It is the first time I have heard of a wasp and a spider coexisting,’ Fidelma said humorously, knowing that corryn was the word for spider.
‘You might be surprised,’ came the man’s rejoinder. ‘Now, shall we proceed?’
Outside, Fidelma was surprised to see half a dozen mounted men, all well armed and astride good horses. With them were two more men seated on a large farm cart which seemed to be filled but whose contents were covered with tarpaulin. She rebuked herself for not paying closer attention to the warning from their own horses, and the open gates.
‘I see that you have come with your own mounts,’ observed Clydog, examining their horses. ‘Those beasts are richly accoutred thoroughbreds. You religious are well provided for.’
‘They were provided for us by King Gwlyddien,’ Eadulf pointed out defensively.
‘Ah. Then the old man will not miss them. Still, as we have a distance to ride, you may still use them.’
‘Where do we ride for?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘And why are you taking us as prisoners if you do not expect to ransom us?’
‘Mount up!’ snapped the man who called himself Corryn. ‘Do not ask questions!’
Eadulf mounted. There was little point in doing anything else.
Clydog had turned to the two men on the cart. ‘You know what to do? Rejoin us as soon as you have finished. ’
He walked his horse to the head of the band as they closed in around Fidelma and Eadulf, and with a wave of his hand led them off at a brisk pace. They seemed to be heading directly towards the large mass of forest to the south. Fidelma was sure that at some point on their journey to Llanwnda Brother Meurig had referred to the name of this woodland. What had he called it? The forest of Ffynnon Druidion?
Of all the ill-luck. To fall in with a band of cut-throats. Brother Meurig had mentioned that there were robbers in the area but not such a large, well-armed band as this. Had she realised, then she would have demanded that Gwlyddien or even Gwnda provide them with an escort of warriors. In truth, she was now more concerned about Eadulf’s safety than her own. Perhaps she should have listened more closely to Eadulf when he was talking about his feeling of discomfort at being a Saxon isolated in the lands of the Britons. It was not that she did not understand the depth of historical animosity between the two peoples but that she had thought good sense would prevail. She had forgotten that prejudice was often reason enough to inflict harm on someone.
She examined the figure of Corryn, riding beside Clydog at the head of the band of men. She had that curious feeling that his features were familiar. Had they met before? Or did he merely remind her of someone? If so, who?
He seemed intelligent and of good education. He spoke Latin; certainly enough to pick up on her warning to Eadulf that he should be circumspect about revealing her identity because robbers would set a high price on a woman of rank whereas they might let a simple religieuse go without ransom.