‘You said that he did not know about the Saxon in the crypt.’
‘Yes. Otherwise he would have made some remark when he knew I was a Saxon.’
‘He did.’
Eadulf stared at her in the darkness, although he could see nothing but the deeper blackness of her head against his chest. ‘Well, I did not hear it,’ he said defensively.
‘His first words when I told him who we were. Don’t you remember?’
‘He simply made some remark like “A Gwyddel and a Saxon.” ’
‘He did not. What he said was “A Gwyddel and another Saxon.” Who was the other Saxon if not-’
‘The Hwicce?’ supplied Eadulf quickly.
‘Who-wicca.’ Fidelma struggled again with the pronunciation. ‘Why do you Saxons have such unpronounceable names?’
‘Because,’ Eadulf snapped testily, ‘we are a different people. Every language is easy to pronounce to those who speak it. Every language is phonetic once you know the phonetics!’
‘Absit invidia,’ Fidelma murmured pacifyingly. ‘There is no offence intended. I simply make a statement as it appears from my own viewpoint.’
‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Eadulf. ‘A curse on languages, anyway. They are twisty things, words upon words, with sly meaning and never any precision.’
‘On the contrary, Eadulf, the only thing that creates an enemy of language is insincerity. Language can only be our friend if it is in accordance with the truth of the speaker.’
Eadulf groaned softly. ‘Is this the time and place for philosophy?’
‘All times and all places are conducive. Language has betrayed Clydog’s knowledge. Clydog knew the Hwicce was in the tomb. When he heard that you were a Saxon, unconsciously it slipped out — another Saxon.’
Eadulf was silent as he considered the matter. Then he said: ‘So he must have known that the body was in the tomb?’ Suddenly he gave an audible groan. ‘What a fool I am. Sualda!’
‘Exactly. I think that the Hwicce was cornered by Sualda in the refectory. He picked up that meat knife and stabbed Sualda, who in turn killed him.’
‘But why hide the body in the sarcophagus?’
‘That is a question that we cannot answer yet.’ Eadulf clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘I would place a wager that Clydog knows something about this mystery. If only I had tried to make sense of Sualda’s ramblings.’
He heard Fidelma yawn sleepily, and glanced towards the cave mouth. It was still dark and raining outside.
‘We’d better try to sleep a while,’ he advised. ‘At first light we must try to pick up the road to Llanferran and hope we don’t encounter our friend Clydog again.’
There was no sound except the regular rise and fall of his companion’s breathing. Fidelma was already asleep.
The noisy chorus of birds woke Eadulf. It was still dark but one could feel the onset of the dawn. He was surprised that he had even fallen asleep. It seemed only a few moments ago that he had been thinking that sleep would be impossible as he half lay, uncomfortable in his damp clothes, against the hard rock on the cave floor with Fidelma nestled in the crook of his left arm.
He tried not to make too sudden a movement but turned his head slightly and looked down at her still sleeping form. She seemed so vulnerable, so unlike the Fidelma he was used to seeing; the face so confident and, perhaps, a little arrogant.
He moved his gaze back to the cave mouth and saw the sky was not really dark but getting lighter all the time. The cacophony from the birds increased. It was time to be moving.
He stirred, moving his muscles gently. Fidelma moaned a little in protest. He reached over with his free arm and shook her gently on the shoulder.
‘Time to be going,’ he said quietly.
She moaned again and then blinked. In a moment she was sitting up staring about her. She shivered in the chill.
‘Have we overslept?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes.
‘No,’ Eadulf assured her. ‘But it will be dawn in a moment or two.’
Fidelma looked at the cave entrance and saw the sky. ‘We’d better make a start then,’ she said, rising to her feet and stretching. She felt chilly and her damp clothes were uncomfortable. The horses were standing patiently, blowing and snorting in the cool air, their breath like little puffs of steam.
‘At least it seems to have stopped raining,’ Eadulf observed as he walked to the cave mouth and looked out. ‘But it is still cold.’
The ground outside had been saturated by the rain and the sky was still filled with menacing heavy clouds. He muttered something in Saxon which sounded like a curse. Fidelma raised an eyebrow in disapproval. Eadulf shrugged and indicated the wet ground with a jerk of his head.
‘It will make our tracks easy to follow, if Clydog is still out looking for us.’
Fidelma began to saddle her horse. ‘He will be,’ she assured him. ‘With luck we can find some rocky trail or perhaps a stream to follow.’
‘I’d give anything for a drink and something to eat,’ Eadulf sighed, following her example and putting the saddle blanket on his mount.
Fidelma was abruptly reminded that they had not eaten since the previous morning. She wished she had eaten the plate of venison she had been offered on the previous night. Eadulf was in the same position, having forsaken his meal to effect his escape.
‘Let’s hope we can find somewhere to refresh ourselves on the journey. We need to find our way to Llanferran,’ she said brightly. ‘Don’t forget our horses are just as miserable as we are. They haven’t been rubbed down or watered and fed either.’
Eadulf led the way out of the cave and back along the small twisting mud path towards the main track from which they had departed on the previous evening. It was a chilly, grey-stone morning. Even the bird song seemed desultory now.
They mounted and began to proceed along the trail. Although they seemed to sit at ease on their horses a close observer would have noticed that their muscles were tensed and now and then they turned their heads as if in expectation of pursuit.
Fidelma wondered how long it had been before Clydog had overtaken the riderless horse and realised how he had been tricked. How long before he had returned to the camp and found that she was gone as well?
They came to a spongy turf clearing among holly and sessile oaks. On one side was a clump of wild pear, leaning together, with their narrow outlines and sparse branches. A few months earlier and they could have eased their hunger with its fruits.
Eadulf was sitting on his horse peering about him. He let out a low exclamation and turned his horse towards a group of trees. Among them he had noticed some tall specimens with deeply furrowed bark. He dismounted and was soon cutting away with his knife.
‘What is it?’ Fidelma called.
‘Hopefully, breakfast,’ he replied. ‘I noticed these elder trees and hoped we might be lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ She was perplexed. She came closer and peered down at what he was cutting away from the tree. ‘Ugh!’ she grunted in repulsion. ‘It looks like a human ear.’
Eadulf grinned up at her. ‘It’s actually called Judas’s Ear.’
Fidelma realised it was a fungus; liver-brown, with translucent flabby flesh.
‘Is it edible?’ she asked uncertainly.
‘It is not a delicacy but I have known people who eat it both cooked and raw. It might take the edge off our hunger.’
‘Or give us indigestion,’ observed Fidelma, examining with distaste the piece he handed her. ‘Why is it called Judas’s Ear?’
‘There is a tradition that Judas Iscariot, who betrayed the Christ for thirty pieces of silver, hanged himself on an elder tree. This fungus only grows on the elder.’
Fidelma nibbled experimentally. The taste was not too unpleasant, and she was hungry. A short time later, they found a small spring and slaked their thirst. Here they were also able to pause and let their horses drink and graze for a while on the wet grasses that surrounded the spring. Then they were on their way again, directed westward by the sun rising against their backs.