Clydog, who seemed to be the leader of the band, also appeared to be well educated. There was the torc which he wore round his neck and the mysterious response he had made about it. Neither Clydog nor Corryn seemed to be typical of robbers and outlaws. But whatever the mystery was it was an infernal nuisance that their paths had crossed at this time. The first task was to escape. All told there were nine riders with them, including Clydog and Corryn. It would be hopeless to attempt to escape now because most of the outlaws carried bows of the type that were four feet in length and when strung would send an arrow over a great range. They would have to wait until they reached their destination and hope an opportunity would present itself there.
She glanced surreptitiously at Eadulf. She could see the grim lines of worry on her friend’s face. She knew that Eadulf had only gone along with her decision to undertake this investigation to please her. He had been apprehensive; he had been apprehensive even before he accompanied her to the abbey of Dewi Sant to see Abbot Tryffin. Perhaps she should have respected his reservations, for Eadulf did not worry without reason. She would never forgive herself if her vanity, her arrogance, led to some harm’s befalling him. They should have waited in Porth Clais and continued their journey to Canterbury without interruption. She set her jaw firmly. It was no use indulging in repentance now.
They reached the thick cover of the trees. Clydog obviously knew the tracks for he did not slow down but kept on at a rapid pace, while those following moved quickly into single file behind. Fidelma and Eadulf found that their companions were expert horsemen for they had negotiated their prisoners into a position in the middle of their column without slowing their pace. It was some time before the column of horses burst through a thick entanglement of evergreen undergrowth. Fidelma observed they had entered a clearing where a small stream bubbled into a large pool, not large enough to be called a lake. There was an old burial chamber at one end and some makeshift huts and tents nearby. A cooking pot hung over a central fire. A rail at the far end provided the only stable for the horses, being simply a spot at which the beasts were tethered.
There were half a dozen more men in the camp, who came forward, examining the prisoners with curiosity.
‘Who are they, Clydog?’ demanded one of them, a thickset fellow who appeared well used to the outdoor 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.