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.
‘No! No harm is to come to her yet. She might still have a use.’ His mouth split in a mirthless grin. ‘You will regret what you have done, Gwyddel,’ he told her between clenched teeth.
‘I only regret not having taught you a harsher lesson,’ she responded acidly, hiding her relief that she had been reprieved from immediate death.
Corryn was frowning. ‘Do you insist on continuing this charade?’ he demanded.
Clydog ignored him. ‘Take her back to the hut. Bind her.’
She felt rough hands grab her arms and twist them behind her back, the rope drawn so tightly round her wrists that she gasped with the pain. The unkind hands propelled her towards the hut. Then came Clydog’s voice.
‘Bring out the Saxon! We’ll have some sport with him before we dispatch him to meet his true god, Woden.’
‘You can’t!’ Fidelma screamed, twisting in her captors’ grasp. ‘Why punish Eadulf for what I have done? Can’t you take defeat like a man?’
‘Maybe you would like to watch?’ sneered Clydog. ‘Ah, but your presence may give the Saxon courage enough to face his death with stoicism. I have seen such things before. Saxons run to meet death with the name of their god on their lips, believing they will be accepted in their immortal Hall of Heroes. No, you may console yourself by listening to his pitiful cries for mercy. Bring him out now!’
They pushed her into the darkness of the hut. She was thrown to the ground, the breath driven from her body. Even so, she was in an agony of torment as she was bound in her former place against the wall of the hut.
‘Hurry!’ she heard Clydog yelling from outside. ‘Don’t take all night. Bring the Saxon to me. I am impatient for the fun to begin.’
‘Eadulf!’ Fidelma finally managed to gasp.
Then she heard an astonished cry from one of the robbers. She blinked and tried to focus as the man raised a torch high to illuminate the interior of the hut.