A Prayer for the Damned (36 page)

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 not.’

‘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.’

Brother Berrihert impulsively reached forward and took her hand.

‘Bless you, lady. For your understanding and for your trust.’

Fidelma smiled wryly. ‘I do not think it will be displaced.’

‘Yet I know that my father, indeed, myself and my brothers, could be suspect of killing Abbot Ultán just as my father attempted to kill his lackey Drón.’

‘I do not think that you or your brothers had a hand in it,’ replied Fidelma.

‘You may rest assured, lady, that, having observed the obsequies for our father this night, we shall return to Cashel after dawn
tomorrow, there to await your judgements on the matters of Abbot Ultán’s death and my father’s attack on Drón.’

Eadulf helped Brother Berrihert to carry the body of Ordwulf, with his battleaxe, up the path to where they had left their horses. He helped Berrihert secure the body on Ordwulf’s horse and Berrihert mounted behind it. Fidelma pointed to the track he must follow which was easy enough as the great Mountains of the Woods were visible. They rose to the north-west and once round their most easterly end, the mouth of the valley of Eatharlaí opened up and Ardane was near.

They watched him set off along the track and then mounted their own horses. Fidelma was a little saddened.

‘Let us pray that the blessed glade of Patrick’s Well will extend its healing quality to the poor lost soul of Ordwulf.’

Eadulf grimaced sceptically. ‘It seems to me that Brother Drón stands more in need of its healing and calming qualities than did Ordwulf.’

Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Drón and all his ilk are trouble,’ she said as they turned their horses back towards Cashel. ‘Eadulf, I am sorry to place this extra journey on you and Gormán when we return. While I trust the Saxons, I would prefer it if you both accompanied Berrihert’s brothers to attend this funeral of Ordwulf.’

Eadulf gave her a quick glance. ‘You expect some problem?’

‘Not exactly. I want to ensure that there are no problems. Ninnid is always looking for easy solutions and there is a growing impatience among the guests at Cashel which might substitute expediency for justice.’

‘You mean that some will blame Ordwulf for Ultán’s death now that he has attempted the life of Drón? But then who killed Muirchertach? Dúnchad Muirisci?’

‘As I say,’ Fidelma replied, without answering his question, ‘some at Cashel want quick solutions which will probably not be the right ones.’

They arrived back at Cashel by mid-morning and immediately Fidelma sought out Caol to ensure that he and his prisoner had arrived back safely.

The young warrior was rubbing down his horse in the stables.

‘There were no problems on your journey back?’

Caol grinned crookedly. ‘How did you guess that there would be problems, lady?’

‘I did not think that Brother Drón was the type to be a docile companion and come here under your guidance without creating a problem.’

‘Well, he did once try to elude me. But I would not be fit to be commander of your brother’s bodyguard if I had allowed him to be successful.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Eadulf.

‘I gently stroked him on the head with the blunt part of my sword, and while he was stunned I tied his hands with some cord.’

Fidelma grimaced. ‘He will doubtless complain of ill treatment but you did the right thing. Where is he now?’

‘Well, I know he is a guest here but, judging by his behaviour, he needed to be placed somewhere secure until you can decide what to do with him. I had him placed in the Duma na nGiall.’

At the back of the fortress was an area that was separated from the rest of the palace buildings by a high wall through which only someone with authority or special permission could enter. It was know by the ancient name Duma na nGiall – the mound of hostages. Nobles who had been taken prisoner in battle, who would not give their
gell
, their word of honour, not to escape, were imprisoned there. Until recently it was where the Uí Fidgente chieftains had been held until the peace with the new Uí Fidgente prince Donennach was concluded.

‘Has my brother been informed of this?’

Caol nodded quickly. ‘I explained the circumstances. The king said that he would inform Blathmac of Ulaidh because Drón was theoretically under his protection. Colgú does not want any arguments to arise …’

Fidelma held up her hand, nodding.

‘… over such a sensitive matter,’ she concluded. ‘He is punctilious.’

‘But Colgú agreed to allow Drón’s incarceration until your return.’