The Long Laird had swung his pony and ridden back to the screaming prisoner. ‘In the name of Taranis!’ he thundered. ‘Can you not even be a man in the hour of your death?’
‘Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me!’ whimpered Senecal. The Long Laird ordered him gagged.
His legs bound with chain, Senecal had been thrown into the swamp, hands and legs tied. The murky waters had swiftly closed over his head, his body floating down to join the other murderers in the silt below.
In the sitting room Brother Solstice finished his uisge. The Long Laird was lost in thought, staring into the fire. Brother Solstice looked at him, seeing the weariness in the time-worn face. ‘By the gods, it makes you think,’ whispered the Laird. ‘All my life I have believed the Rigante to be a special people, quite unlike the murderous foreigners. We’re not, though, are we?’
‘Yes we are,’ insisted the druid. ‘I have travelled as far as Stone. Everywhere there are criminals and outlaws, killers, rapists, seducers. Everywhere. In the large cities crimes against people take place almost hourly. Here in the mountains a murder such as this is still – thankfully – a rare occurrence. In the main we care for one another, and we live in relative harmony with our neighbours. I have seen little that is base or cruel among the Rigante.’
The Long Laird glanced at his friend. ‘You can say that after putting to death a man who connived in the butchering of his parents?’
‘Maggots will always enter some fruit – even on the finest tree.’
For a little while both sat in silence, lost in their thoughts. Brother Solstice wondered at the wisdom of his words. Yes, he believed the Rigante to be special, but how much of that uniqueness lay in the mountain lifestyle, where neighbours were forced to rely one upon another, and where every man and woman had a part to play in the life of the tribe? And how much was in the hands of the Seidh? According to druid teachings there was magic in the land, magic born of Spirit. The Seidh, so the druids believed, were the guardians of that Spirit. Solstice had felt the power many times in his life, climbing to high peaks and staring out over the landscape, his own spirits soaring as the magic of the mountains flowed through him.
Nursing his uisge he studied the face of the old man sitting by the fire. The Long Laird had ruled the Northern Rigante for almost forty years, with wisdom, with love, with cunning and subtlety, and – as today – with ruthless regard for the law. The years had not been kind to the Long Laird. His huge torso was now stripped of flesh, his joints creaking and painful, his heart close to its final beat.
‘Another winter coming,’ whispered the Long Laird. ‘The years are passing by too swiftly.’ The old man rubbed his shoulder.
‘You should drink more nettle tea – and less uisge,’ said Brother Solstice. ‘It will help ease the pain.’
The Long Laird grinned. ‘It won’t make me young again.’
‘Is that what you want? To make all those foolish mistakes once more?’
The Long Laird stroked his silver beard. ‘I’ve had my life, my friend, and I’ve lived it to the full. I have no regrets. Most of my enemies are dead. Most of my friends are too, come to think of it. But I walked through this life as a man of pride. No, I don’t want to do it all again, but I miss the heady joy of youth, the running, the fighting, the whoring.’
‘You have seen an earth maiden three times this week,’ observed Brother Solstice. ‘So you are not missing the whoring.’
The old man chuckled. ‘You are right. But I mainly ask her here now for the company, for the warmth in my bed. I miss my wife. Sometimes in the night I think I hear Llysona call my name.’ He shivered and held out his good hand to the fire.
‘You speak of her as if she is dead, my friend.’
‘I am dead to her. There is no doubt of that.’ The Long Laird looked into the druid’s eyes. ‘You think if I went to her she would forgive me and come back?’