Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [88]
That was so, too, they said.
“Then what about my dad?” he asked, with genuine concern. “That means he’ll be going to the fire.” And after a few moments of consultation with his brother, they both agreed. Their logic might be a little strange, but it was held with conviction. Their father was resting with the family’s gods. Right or wrong in the visitors’ eyes, those gods had always been there and, somehow, would protect their own. But if Dubh Linn and the rath of Fergus became Christian, then the family would have turned their backs on the gods. Insulted them. Fergus would be left, as it were, stranded. The old gods would probably want nothing more to do with him, while the Christian God, apparently, would consign him to hellfire.
“We can’t let that happen to him,” he protested. His brother, Ronan, was looking worried, too.
Yet if Deirdre felt embarrassed, she observed that none of the priests seemed in the least surprised.
For this was by no means an uncommon problem for Christian missionaries. If we are to be saved, their converts would ask, then what is the fate of our revered ancestors? Are you telling us they were wicked? The normal answer to this question was that God would make at least a partial dispensation for those who, through no fault of their own, had not the opportunity of accepting Christ. Only for those hearing Christ’s message and then refusing it could there be no salvation. It was a reasonable explanation, but it did not always satisfy. And it was typical of the great northern bishop that he had, upon occasion, employed a method of dealing with this problem which was all his own.
“How long is he dead?” he asked.
“Five days,” they replied.
“Then dig the man up,” he ordered. “I’ll baptise him now.”
And that is what they did. With the help of the slaves, the brothers disinterred their father from his mound down by the Liffey’s edge. While the pale form of Fergus lay stiffly on the ground, looking remarkably dignified in death, Bishop Patrick splashed some water upon him and, with the sign of the cross, brought him into the Christian world.
“I cannot promise you he will reach heaven,” he told the brothers with a kindly smile, “but his chances have greatly improved.”
They reburied the old man in his mound, and Larine placed two pieces of wood, joined in the sign of the cross, above it.
They had returned to the rath and were about to enter the big thatched hall where the fire was burning, when Bishop Patrick stopped and turned to the members of the family.
“There is now,” he announced, “a small kindness that you can do for me.” They asked him only to tell them what it might be. He smiled. “You may not like it. I am speaking of your slaves.” At these words the slaves standing around looked up hopefully.
“Your British slaves.” He smiled. “My fellow countrymen. They are Christians, you know. Part of my flock.” He turned to Deirdre. “The life of a slave is hard, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus. I know because I was one myself. Seized from their homes. Stolen from their families and their Church. I wish you to set your British slaves free.” He smiled again. “They do not always leave, you know. I see you treat your slaves well. But they must be free to return to their homes if they wish. It’s a barbarous trade,” he added with sudden feeling.
Deirdre saw Larine and the priests nod automatically. Obviously they were used to these strange proceedings. For herself, she wasn’t sure what to say. Morna looked astonished. It was Ronan who spoke up.
“Are you saying we should set them free without payment?”
Patrick turned to him. “How many slaves have you?”
“There are six.”
“The raids produce so many. They cannot have cost you much.”
Her brother thought a moment.
“But three of those are women,” he pointed out. “They do all the heavy work.”
“Lord preserve us,” the bishop murmured, and turned up his eyes to heaven. A silence followed. With a sigh, Bishop Patrick nodded to Larine, who reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt and produced a Roman coin.
“Will that do?” Larine enquired. It