A Prayer for the Damned (35 page)

‘You let a stranger out into the countryside in the middle of the night?’ thundered Caol.

‘But I had no orders not to. I did seek the advice of the noble Finguine when one of the religieuse earlier sought permission to leave to go to visit someone in the township. But that was before the gates were closed for the night.’

Fidelma stared at him. ‘A religieuse? Do you know her name?’

‘She gave it as Sister Marga, lady,’ replied the unhappy man.

Fidelma stifled a groan. ‘Was she on horseback?’

‘I don’t think so, lady.’

Fidelma was already hurrying across the cobbled patch to the stables.

The
gilla scuir
was seated on a hay bale with another of the guards and a
fidchell
board between them. They rose guiltily as Fidelma entered.

‘Is Abbot Ultán’s horse still here?’ she asked.

The stable lad nodded immediately and pointed.

‘Still here, lady,’ he confirmed.

‘Is there any other horse missing?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘Any other horse?’ The stable lad was bemused for a moment and then shook his head. ‘They are all accounted for with the exception of Brother Drón’s horse. He rode off on it some time ago. Is there something wrong?’

But Fidelma was frowning. ‘So Marga is on foot and Drón on horseback.’

‘Do you think it was Marga who attacked Fergus?’ asked Eadulf. ‘Do we go after them?’

Fidelma was about to reply when there was shouting from outside the gates. The guard said something in response, then swung the gate open a fraction to let a figure enter. To their surprise, Brother Berrihert pushed his way in, halted, saw them by the stables in the light of the
lanterns and came hurrying across. He barely acknowledged Fidelma but let forth a flood of Saxon to Eadulf, speaking quickly and with emphasis. Fidelma had a working knowledge but could not follow all that was said by the intense, pale-faced religieux.

‘Eadulf, I need your help. My father is missing.’

‘Ordwulf?’

‘I fear my father plans to kill Brother Drón. When I found him gone tonight I came here to warn you. The guard has just told me that Brother Drón has already left the fortress. I should have told you before that Ordwulf has thought of nothing else but vengeance killing. But he is my father, you understand. I cannot tell you the full story but he blamed Abbot Ultán and still blames Brother Drón for the death of my mother. I need your help, and …’

Fidelma interrupted. ‘You mention Drón and death. What do you mean? My Saxon is not good enough to understand everything you say. Speak in Latin if it is more comfortable than Irish.’

Berrihert frowned in annoyance. ‘We have no time …’he began.

‘There is always time for a clear explanation,’ snapped Fidelma.

Brother Berrihert took a deep breath. ‘My father says that Ultán and Drón were responsible for my mother’s death, his wife’s death. It is …’

Fidelma made a gesture with her hand. ‘I have heard the story from your brothers. I understand it. You say that your father is about to kill Drón? Where are they?’

Brother Berrihert lifted his arms helplessly. ‘I do not know, lady. I had a feeling that my father had something planned yesterday, but it seemed that Drón went off with the hunt. I heard my father cursing to himself about Drón going in the wrong direction and thwarting him.’

‘The wrong direction?’ Fidelma frowned.

‘I did not understand what he meant. But now I think that my father sent a message to Drón asking him to go to some spot where my father planned to kill him.’

Fidelma turned and beckoned the guard to join them. ‘You said that Brother Drón mentioned some place where he was going? A religious place? Can you remember anything else?’

‘I cannot remember, lady. It was some place of pilgrimage, I think.’

Fidelma closed her eyes and groaned. ‘Fool!’

The guard looked shocked. She opened her eyes.

‘Not you. Me!’ She turned to Eadulf. ‘It’s the Well of Patrick, just south of here. Marga told me that Sétach had told her that Drón had received a message before he set out on the hunt, telling him that Marga was meeting her lover at this place. He was about to ride there when Sétach told him Marga was following the hunt in the other direction. That message came from Ordwulf, I’ll wager it.’ She turned to Brother Berrihert. ‘Would your father know about the Well of Patrick?’

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!’

F
idelma 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. Time 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?’