Time passed. Slowly the air grew chill and the shadows of early evening began to darken. They could see the glimmer of the fire outside and hear the noisy laughter of the men.
Fidelma stirred anxiously. ‘One thing we can learn from that fire, Eadulf,’ she observed quietly.
‘Which is?’ came Eadulf’s response from the other side of the darkened hut.
‘That Clydog and his men are not afraid that their fire will attract unwelcome attention. They must be pretty confident of the security of their position.’
She finished abruptly as a man’s shadow appeared in the doorway of the hut. They could not see his features but it was the voice of Clydog which came out of the gloom.
‘There, now, as I promised, the feast is ready and we are ready to welcome you, as our chief guest, to join us, my lady.’
Chapter Nine
Clydog came into the hut, bent down and untied Fidelma’s bonds from the support post in the wall of the hut but did not loosen her hands. He drew her to her feet and gently pushed her before him towards the door. She stopped at the threshold when it appeared that he was ignoring Eadulf.
‘What of my companion?’ she demanded.
‘The Saxon? He can remain where he is.’
‘Doesn’t he deserve food and drink?’
‘I’ll have something sent to him.’ Clydog dismissed the subject of Eadulf. ‘It was you to whom I extended the invitation to my feast. I would speak with you and not the Saxon.’
Fidelma found herself firmly propelled outside. A fire was glowing and above its fierce heat a deer carcass was being turned on a great spit. Two men were overseeing the roasting of the meat while others sat round drinking and engaging in boisterous talk.
Away from the fire, the evening air was chill and Fidelma was almost thankful for the warmth of the burning wood. Clydog led her to a log on the far side of the fire before an isolated tent made up of skins. It was one of a number which she had noticed were dotted about the clearing and presumably sheltered Clydog and his men at night.
‘We offer but rough hospitality here, princess of Cashel,’ Clydog said, pointing to the log and motioning her to sit. When she had done so, he reached to untie her wrists.
‘There now. You can eat and drink in more relaxed form. But, lady, remember that my men are all about you and it would be futile to attempt to escape.’
‘I would not leave my companion to the mercy of your company,’ she said acidly.
Clydog grinned broadly and seated himself beside her. ‘Very wise, too. We have no liking for Saxons, especially for Saxon religious.’
Corryn came forward. His thin features remained partially hidden by his war helmet, which he had not removed. He handed her a beaker of a pungent-smelling mead. She noted that his hands were rather soft and well cared for, unlike the rough hands of a warrior or one used to manual work. Fidelma took the beaker but did not drink.
‘This is not wise, Clydog,’ Corryn muttered, turning to his comrade.
Clydog glanced up angrily. ‘Each to his business, my friend.’
‘Isn’t our business the same?’
The outlaw leader laughed dryly. ‘Not in this matter.’
Corryn stifled a sigh and turned back to the fire to rejoin the others. Clydog had noticed that Fidelma had not touched her drink.
‘Do you not like our forest mead, lady?’ he inquired, taking a swallow from the beaker he held in his own hand. ‘It is warming on a night such as this.’
‘You said that you would send food and drink to my companion.’ Fidelma’s quite tone was resolute. ‘When he is able to eat and drink then so shall I.’
‘The Saxon can wait,’ Clydog replied nonchalantly. ‘Our needs come first.’
‘Not mine.’ Fidelma rose so abruptly that Clydog was too surprised to stop her. ‘I shall take this to him,’ she announced, taking a pace forward before she was stopped. It was Corryn. He caught her arm in a grip that was like a powerful vice, in spite of his soft, well-kept hands. She gasped in surprise. Corryn’s grin broadened.
‘Varium et mutabile semper femina, eh, Clydog? You should watch out for this one. I told you that this was unwise.’
‘Wait!’ Clydog came to his feet. His face mirrored his annoyance. ‘I will send food and drink to your Saxon friend if it means so much to you.’
Fidelma stood, unmoving, in Corryn’s vice-like grip. There was nothing else she could do.
Clydog turned to Corryn with an angry gesture. ‘Release her and see that food and drink are taken to the Saxon.’
The man did not immediately let go of her arm. ‘What use is feeding a man who will die anyway?’
‘Do it now,’ snapped the outlaw leader, ‘or we will have a falling out.’
Corryn suddenly pushed her away and she spun round to face him. She saw the blaze of anger and resentment in the man’s vivid blue eyes. Then he controlled his features. He shrugged and turned to his companions at the fire, barking out orders. One of them reluctantly arose and cut off some portions of the roasting venison, and put them on a wooden platter. Then he took a beaker of mead and went to the hut.
Satisfied, Fidelma returned her gaze to Clydog, who had reseated himself but was watching Corryn with a strange expression on his pale face.
‘So you mean to kill us?’ Fidelma demanded quietly, standing before him.
‘I am no friend to Saxons,’ he replied shortly.
‘Nor to anyone else, so it seems.’ She glanced again to where Corryn was seated at the fire.
Clydog shook his head slowly. ‘You are a determined lady, aren’t you? Anyway, I am not responsible for the views of my men. It is I who give the orders here and so far I have not ordered anyone to be killed. So come and sit down again.’
Fidelma did not bother to respond.
‘Sit down, Gwyddel!’ The order was issued in a sharper tone. ‘Be grateful that I saved you from Corryn. He would have killed you both at Llanpadern. I was only able to spare the Saxon’s life because he was a healer.’
Fidelma sat down stiffly, her face expressionless. She was trying to work out Clydog’s implication that he was somehow accountable to Corryn for his actions. Her captor chuckled in appreciation.
‘I can see that you will be an excellent guest,’ he mocked.
‘What do you want of me, Clydog?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you wish to hold Brother Eadulf and myself as prisoners?’
‘Should I want anything more than your company at this meal? Come, eat your fill and enjoy the conversation. You will find that I am an educated person who is sometimes starved for intellectual discourse.’
‘You can surely speak to your companion there,’ she sneered, nodding towards Corryn. ‘One who can quote Virgil must be educated.’
Clydog frowned. Her comment seemed to worry him.
‘Anyone can pick up Latin here and there,’ he said, almost defensively. ‘Now, relax and let us enjoy the meal.’
‘I would rather be starving in the forest,’ she replied spiritedly. ‘At least the wild animals would be better company.’
‘Can it be that you dislike me so much?’ mused the young man, still smiling. ‘Dislike is but a dismal reflection of your own desire.’
Fidelma could not suppress the smile which shaped her lips. ‘I do not know you well enough to hate you, Clydog,’ she informed him with amusement. ‘But I certainly dislike you and that does have something to do with desire.’ His eyes widened but she went on: ‘My desire is that you should be a thousand miles from this place.’
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.