Smoke in the Wind Read Online Free PDF Page A

so it seemed - he realised that he had been dreaming. He tried to make a sound, some articulate noise, but succeeded only in making a rasping breath in the back of his throat.
    He became aware of someone bending towards him.
    He tried to focus but the image was blurred.
    A voice said something. He did not understand. He made a further effort to peer upwards. He felt a firm hand behind his head, lifting it slightly. Felt a hard rim against his lips and then a cold liquid was splashing against his lips and dribbling over his teeth. He gulped eagerly. All too soon, the hard rim was withdrawn, the hand eased his head back to a pillow.
    He lay for a second or two before opening his eyes again and blinking rapidly. The figure seemed to shimmer for a moment and then harden into sharp focus.
    It was a man; short, stocky and clad in the robes of a religieux.
    Eadulf tried hard to think what had happened and where he was. No coherent thoughts came to his mind.
    The voice said something again. Again, he did not understand, but this time he recognised the tone and realised that the voice was speaking in the language of the Britons. He licked his lips and tried to form a sentence in the language which he knew but inadequately.
    ‘Where am I?’ he finally managed to say, realising, as he said it, that the words had actually come out in his own tongue.
    The lips in the round face of the religieux pursed in an expression of disapproval.
    ‘ Sacsoneg? ’ The man went off into a long, fast torrent of words which was just sound to Eadulf’s ear.
    With an effort of concentration, for his head was still throbbing, he tried to form a sentence in the language of the Britons. It would not come and, finally, he resorted to Latin, realising that he had a better knowledge of it. It was many years since he had spoken any word of the British tongue.
    The religieux looked relieved at the Latin. His round face became wreathed in a smile.
    ‘You are in Porth Clais, Brother Saxon.’
    The man reached forward and again held out the beaker which contained water. Eadulf raised his head by his own efforts and eagerly lapped at it. He fell back on the pillow again and some memories began to return.
    ‘Porth Clais? I was on board a ship out of Loch Garman. Where is Porth Clais, and what happened . . . ? Fidelma? Where is my companion, Sister Fidelma? Were we shipwrecked? My God! What has happened . . . ?’
    He was struggling to sit up as memories flooded his mind. The stocky religieux laid a restraining hand, palm downward, on his chest. Eadulf was pressed gently but firmly back onto the bed. He realised that he must be very weak not to be able to counter the strength of the single firm hand that held him.
    ‘All in good time and in good order, Brother Saxon,’ replied the man gently. ‘You have not been shipwrecked. All is well. You are, as I say, in Porth Clais in the kingdom of Dyfed. And you, my friend, have not been so well.’
    Eadulf’s head continued to throb and he raised a hand to it, registering some surprise as he felt a tender swelling at his temple.
    ‘I don’t understand. What happened?’
    ‘What was the last thing that you recall, Brother Saxon?’
    Eadulf tried to dredge the memory from the confused thoughts that swam in his mind.
    ‘I was on board ship. We were hardly a day out from Loch Garman and sailing for the coast of Kent . . . Ah, I have it. A squall arose.’
    The memory clarified in a flash. They had been scarcely half a day’s sailing from Loch Garman. The coast of Laigin, the south-easterly of the five kingdoms of Éireann, had dropped below the horizon when a fierce wind hit them from the south-west, sending great waves cascading over the ship. They had been tossed and buffeted without mercy. The sails were shredded by the powerful wind before the captain and his crew were able to haul them down, so unexpected was the onslaught of the storm. Eadulf recalled that he had left Fidelma below deck while he went to see if