Brother Berrihert closed his eyes in agony. ‘On our journey here, my brothers and I went there because it was blessed by the great apostle of the Faith. We went to sip the sacred water from the well and seek a blessing on our new life here in your land. We took our father.’ He suddenly let out a low moan. ‘My father seemed impressed by the isolation of the glade and apparently noted its location in his mind. He knows it is not far away from here.’
‘The Well of Patrick,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘By the honey fields. An ideal spot for a murder. Once it was a sacred place for the Druids and then Patrick visited it when he baptised my ancestors here on the Rock of Cashel. Patrick went south to purify the well in the name of the New Faith.’ She glanced at the sky. ‘An hour or two before dawn. Get our horses ready, Caol. You will have to come with us.’
‘I must come too,’ declared Brother Berrihert.
Caol looked questioningly at Fidelma for guidance and she nodded. ‘He can mount up behind you.’
Caol went off shouting instructions to the gilla scuir to saddle their horses.
In a short time, the four of them, on three horses, were heading south-east from Cashel along the road towards the field of honey, a small settlement that lay on the banks of the river Siúr. Initially, in the darkness, Caol led the way with a sure determination. It was not long before the grey of the oncoming day lit their path. It was fully light long before they skirted the western bank of the smaller river Mael and then crossed a marshy stream passing below a hill on which stood an ancient pillar stone, rising higher than any man on the hilltop. Eadulf knew it was ancient and that local clerics had carved crosses on both its south and north faces to expunge any pagan spirits that remained there. But some of the ancient customs remained, for Fidelma had told him that it was the habit of the chief of the Déisi to bring his warriors to the spot before they embarked on any hosting against an enemy and to lead them sun-wise round the ancient stone.
Just south of this ancient landmark was the little vale that Fidelma had once told him of, a place where she used to play as a child, and where a spring rose, once sacred to the old religion, but converted by the Blessed Patrick to a Christian Holy Well.
They rode on in grim silence for a while, and when Fidelma judged that they were close enough to the glade she raised a hand and halted.
‘Best to leave the horses here and go on on foot,’ she said quietly. ‘A path leads through those trees there and down into the small dale. Let us hope that Brother Drón is not here before us.’
They tethered their horses and moved off quietly, with Fidelma leading them for she knew the way well. They were just starting down the path into the small hollow when a plaintive cry came to their ears.
‘For the love of God, stranger, spare me. It was not I. Not I!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Fidelma recognised Brother Drón’s voice. Before she had time to consider what to do, Brother Berrihert had pushed by her and gone crashing down the path. She knew enough of the Saxon language to hear him shouting: ‘Father! For God’s sake. Put down your weapon!’
The response was immediate.
‘Stop there, Berrihert! Come closer and this pig dies now.’
Following Berrihert, Fidelma and the others came into the small hollow at whose centre the sacred spring rose. The first thing that she noticed was the figure of Brother Drón tied against a tree trunk, face towards the trunk, arms spread round it as if in an embrace. Behind him, holding a double-edged battleaxe of the type she had been told Angles and Saxons used in warfare, was the old warrior, Ordwulf.
Brother Berrihert had halted at the bottom of the pathway and they came to a stop behind him. Ordwulf did not seem astonished to see them.
‘So you have brought your Christian friends with you, my son?’ he sneered. ‘That is good. They can witness this act of retribution.’
Brother Drón gave another long moaning cry. ‘Save me, save me, I beseech you.’ His voice ended in a sob.
Ordwulf smiled grimly. ‘Tell them what you told me, you unspeakable pig.’
‘It was not I, I told you. It was Ultán who ordered it. Ultán.’
Brother Berrihert cleared his throat nervously.
‘Father,’ he said softly, ‘we all know how our mother died. But Ultán is dead.’
‘Aye, but not by my hand, more is the pity,’ cried the old warrior. ‘It should have been my hand that struck that vermin down. But now it is left to me to strike down his lackey.’
‘Do you think our mother would want this revenge?’ demanded Brother Berrihert.
‘She was Aelgifu, daughter of Aelfric, a noblewoman of Deira who adhered to the old ways of our people. You would have done well to remember that, before you decided to go with these Christians.’ Ordwulf was uncompromising.
‘What good will killing this man do?’
‘He and his evil master had Aelgifu beaten to death. They dared lay hands on my lady. I was not there to save her. But I am here to take vengeance as is the right and custom of our people. His master is dead and now he will die. It is a just retribution.’
Ordwulf took a pace forward, his battleaxe raised. Caol went to move, his hand going to his sword hilt.
‘Tell your friends to stop where they are, or this pig’s death will be that much quicker.’
Fidelma laid a restraining hand on Caol’s arm.
‘You would not make it across the clearing before the old man dealt the death blow,’ she pointed out quietly.
‘Father, it is not the way of the Faith,’ Brother Berrihert cried desperately.
‘Do not shame me, boy, with your faith which forgives evil.’
‘You cannot do this!’
‘By what right do you tell me . . . ? You whose faith made you stand by and forgive those who slew your mother? You are worse than a churl. You are not a man and not my son. Your faith peoples the earth with murderers and evildoers. You would have men go to hell while only slaves go to heaven. Well, it is not to be. I am Ordwulf, son of Frithuwulf Churlslayer! My faith is in Vali, archer son of Woden, god of vengeance! Stand back, foreigner, lest you taste my steel as well . . .’
This last was shouted at Caol who had taken another step forward, hand on his sword. The old man raised his double-edged battleaxe and brought it level with his chest, his eyes glinting with some mad fire. Fidelma again motioned Caol to halt. She wanted to end this confrontation without bloodshed.
‘If you will not listen to your son, Ordwulf, then listen to me,’ Eadulf said quietly, his hands held out in a non-threatening fashion.
‘Listen to another betrayer of the manly faith of his people? Why should I listen to you, Eadulf, sometime of Seaxmund’s Ham, sometime of the South Folk, who once followed the true path of Woden and the great gods of our people but who has turned to crawl after a god of weeping slaves.’
‘I am not going to justify my faith to you, Ordwulf. Nor am I going to appeal to you to give up vengeance in the name of that faith, the same faith that your sons now follow. I will simply say, that vengeance taken in this fashion will not soothe your troubled spirit.’
‘Neither will forgiveness, slave follower,’ sneered Ordwulf.
‘No, it will not,’ Eadulf agreed, keeping his voice low and calm. ‘We agree that vengeance is required. But let our vengeance be what we call justice. It is not only desirable but also necessary. The only thing we need to agree on is how this should be achieved. Killing a person is easy. Letting an evildoer live and bringing them to justice so that everyone can see that justice has been served is another matter and more rewarding.’
Ordwulf looked uncertain. ‘I do not understand you . . . it sounds as though you have a honeyed tongue, Christian.’
‘This land that you are exiled in is a country with laws and judges, where a man does not have to seek out vengeance for himself and his family. The laws and judges do that. The killing of your wife should have been brought before the judges so that those responsible could be punished. It was not. Tim
e has passed on. Yet it is not too late and if this man’ – he gestured to where Brother Drón was still bound to the tree – ‘was responsible, let us take him back to Cashel, to the courts, and to the judges, where, if judged guilty, he will be pronounced so throughout the land . . . That is justice and that is proper vengeance.’
‘And will I then be allowed to slay him?’ demanded Ordwulf.
‘There is no such punishment here but the punishment is worse.’
‘What can be worse than being despatched into the arms of the goddess Hel, and taken to a world of eternal darkness and pain?’
‘What is more painful than to live with your guilt proclaimed to all who know you, to live suffering in the knowledge of what you have done, and to spend every waking moment trying to compensate those whom you have injured?’
Ordwulf stood for a moment and shook his head slowly. ‘That is no punishment for the likes of him. Yesterday we entered the month of Solmanath, sacred to our goddess of love Sjofn. It was the month that Aelgifu and I met and when we married. Yesterday, at first light, I took cakes to the foot of an oak near here and offered them to the gods. I swore that in a few days, when the feastday of Vali, the god of vengeance, was celebrated, that thing there’ – he nodded to Brother Drón, now whimpering quietly against the oak – ‘or I should be dead. That he be taken in the arms of Hel or I be feasting in the hall of heroes with Woden. No words, Saxon brother; no more words now.’
The old man’s grip on his battleaxe tightened.
‘Mark me, boy,’ he called to Berrihert, ‘mark me well, and see what a warrior should do when his mother is violated. This is for you, my love, my Aelgifu, this is for you . . .’
He raised the great battleaxe high over his head.
Brother Drón let out a wailing scream.
Everyone seemed unable to move, as if rooted to the spot by the terrible inevitability of the scene.
Then Ordwulf’s eyes grew wide, as if in startled surprise. An expression of pain re-formed his features for a moment. He gasped and lurched forward a step and then dropped to his knees, the axe falling to the ground at his side.
No one, it seemed, could move as they stared at him, not understanding what was happening.
A low shuddering breath came from the old man.
Eadulf took a pace forward as if to go to his aid.
The pain-stricken eyes flared at him.
‘No!’ came the old man’s cry. His features had turned grey. He was on his knees, resting back on his heels, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The eyes turned to the young man at Eadulf’s side. ‘Berrihert . . . my son . . .’
The old man was fumbling blindly for the haft of his battleaxe, unable to make contact with it. His voice was pleading.
‘My son . . .’
Brother Berrihert swallowed and then stepped forward to his father. He bent down and picked up the axe and placed it in his father’s trembling hands.
The old man looked up at him with misty eyes and, even in pain, he smiled.
‘Thank you, my son.’
Berrihert nodded and stepped back to Eadulf, who was the only other who knew what was about to happen. Fidelma gazed at them uncertainly, wondering whether to order Caol to rush forward and seize the axe, but she saw Eadulf shake his head warningly at her.
Ordwulf, by some amazing feat, using the axe as a fulcrum, had struggled to his feet. He took several deep breaths.
‘So soon?’ the old man gasped. ‘Yet it is time.’
Then, with a swift motion, fuelled by an inner strength that came they knew not whence, he raised the battleaxe once more over his head, a swift upward thrusting movement, his head going back, eyes staring at the heavens.
Ordwulf’s voice rang out in the tiny glen, one last long, loud shout of defiance.
‘Woden!’
Then he fell abruptly backwards, stretching out on the green grass by the tiny stream, the axe falling uselessly to his side.
Eadulf was hurrying forward even while the body was falling.
A moment’s examination and then he looked up to Fidelma and shook his head. ‘Some seizure, I think,’ he muttered. ‘He was elderly and the exertion . . . well, his heart was old.’ He glanced to Brother Berrihert, who stood silently with bowed head, and smiled sadly. ‘At least his death was one a warrior would wish. He has gone to his hall of heroes, standing on his feet, weapon in hand and the name of Woden on his lips. It would be as he would have wanted it, Brother Berrihert.’
The young man nodded sadly. ‘I will light a candle for his soul and pray that God looks kindly on Woden’s hall of heroes.’
Eadulf reached forward and laid a hand on the young man’s arm. ‘Who knows but that any god whose followers believe in truth, justice and doing good to one’s fellows in this life, is but another manifestation of the one God we of the Faith believe in?’
He had been speaking in Saxon the while and now he turned, while Berrihert bent down to his father’s body, and swiftly explained matters to Fidelma and Caol.
Caol cut Brother Drón free.
Finding himself still alive and Ordwulf dead, it was surprising how swiftly Brother Drón recovered his arrogance.
‘That foreigner was a maniac,’ he shouted. ‘I shall demand compensation for this indignity. I am a guest beneath the roof of your brother, lady, and it is your task to protect me as it was your task to protect the abbot. You have failed and I shall demand . . .’
Before anyone knew what was happening, Brother Berrihert had risen from his father’s body, taken a few swift strides to the outraged Brother Drón and, with an open hand, smacked him hard across the right cheek, so that the man staggered a few paces and the cringing fear returned to his face. Caol moved forward to intervene but Brother Berrihert made no further aggressive movement.
‘You are an unspeakable pig. My vows forbid me to do more, Drón, than to smite you and that I do willingly for my mother’s memory and for my father. I did not agree with my father’s concept of vengeance. We have moved on from the old ways, the old gods of Woden and Vali. But I will welcome the ways of the laws of this land and I will pursue you through those paths so that you will answer for the scourging of my mother which led to her death.’
Holding his stinging cheek, Brother Drón recovered his anger.
‘Warrior, strike the foreigner!’ he yelled at Caol. ‘Strike him, I say, for the outrage he has committed!’
Caol glanced helplessly at Fidelma, who shook her head. ‘You will compose yourself, Brother Drón,’ she said.
‘You would stand up for this foreigner?’ snarled the northern cleric. ‘Ah yes, I forget, you would support them.’ He glanced in derision at Eadulf. ‘You prefer to be with them rather than with your own kind?’
Fidelma coloured hotly. ‘You are only compounding your transgressions, Brother Drón,’ she replied quietly. ‘I would take refuge in the teaching of the religion that you claim to represent.’
‘What do you mean?’ snapped the man.
A smile played on Fidelma’s lips for a moment. ‘Having been struck on the right cheek, turn to Brother Berrihert the left.’
Brother Drón took a quick pace back, his face angry. ‘I shall bring your conduct before the Abbot Ségdae, before the High King and his Chief Brehon. You shall answer for this outrage.’
‘We all have to answer for our actions sooner or later, Brother Drón, just as you will eventually answer for what happened at Colmán’s island of Inis Bó Finne. I will make sure that the matter is investigated and the truth is known. Now, tell me where Sister Marga is.’
Brother Drón’s anger increased. ‘If I knew where she was, do you think I would have been chasing her into this cursed glade?’ he demanded. ‘I was told that she had come here to meet her lover.’
‘Did you met Sister Marga and Fergus Fanat last night?’ Fidelma asked.
‘Fergus Fanat? Is that whom she ran off with?’
‘You did not meet Fergus Fanat?’
‘I did no
t.’
‘Do you claim that you know nothing of the attack on Fergus Fanat?’
Brother Drón began to speak but then gazed at her incredulously. ‘Attack?’
Fidelma sighed shortly. ‘When did you last see Sister Marga?’
‘At the meal last night. Then she and Sister Sétach left for their hostel.’
‘So what brought you here?’
‘Sister Sétach told me that Marga was missing sometime around midnight. For the second time a message had been brought to the fortress telling me that she was meeting a lover in this glade.’
‘So you came here, and found the message was from Ordwulf. Why are you so anxious to pursue and keep control of Marga?’
‘She took an oath to serve at Cill Ria. An oath is not lightly taken and she must maintain it.’
‘Even as Senach did,’ Fidelma observed.
Brother Drón blinked rapidly. Before he could respond she turned to Caol. ‘Take Brother Drón back to Cashel and make sure that he does not leave the fortress again.’
‘What of you, lady?’ demanded Caol.
‘We will follow on shortly. Brother Berrihert will ride the horse Ordwulf came here on.’
Caol acknowledged her instruction with a slight bow of his head and then turned and pointed up the narrow path out of the small glade. Angrily, Brother Drón preceded him, prompted by the way Gaol’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
Fidelma looked questioningly at Brother Berrihert. ‘How do you wish to bury your father?’ she asked gently.
‘He was not a Christian,’ Brother Berrihert replied. ‘Therefore, I would like to send him to his hall of heroes in the traditional manner on a funeral pyre. It must be done tonight and it should be in some place apart that will not offend anyone. Would Miach give permission to have it raised on the hills near where we hope to dwell?’
‘I’m sure he would,’ Fidelma said at once. ‘You will want your brothers to attend as well?’
‘It is their right.’
‘Very well. If you take the track from here which leads north-west, within twenty kilometres you will find yourself back in the great valley of Eatharlaí, which you have made your new home. Wait there at Ardane and I will send your brothers to you. To the south you will see the wooded mountains rising above you – Sleibhte na gCoillte, the mountains of the woods. Tell Miach that I have requested this. When you are ready, proceed up into them; you may build your pyre there. It is isolated up there and you will not offend anyone. Miach will tell you the best path. That will be a fitting place for your father. Eadulf and Gormán will bring your brothers to you at Ardane by this evening.’
A Prayer for the Damned Page 27