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. 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?’
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. .’