A Prayer for the Damned sf-17 Read online

  Eadulf shuddered a little as the old man called upon Hel, the ancient goddess of death. Eadulf had been raised with the old gods and goddesses of his people and even now he sometimes felt the power of the old deities — of Woden, Thunor, Tyr and Freya — and realised that he still feared them. But above all he feared Hel who ruled the land of the dead.

  ‘Do you reject the New Faith?’ he rebuked the old man.

  Ordwulf gave a wheezy laugh. ‘The old faith was good enough for my forefathers and me. When my time comes, let me have my battleaxe in my right hand and Woden’s name on my lips so that I may enter Wael Halla and feast with the gods and heroes of my people.’

  ‘Yet your sons. .’ Eadulf began to protest.

  ‘My sons!’ sneered the old man. ‘They could not protect their own mother from the members of the very Faith they espoused. I curse them! I curse them as I rejoice that he who took my lady Aelgifu from me is now sped to suffer the tortures of the damned. May Hel eat his living flesh!’

  The old man spat over the wall and then turned and hurried away, leaving Eadulf staring after him in horror.

  Fidelma was regarding Muirchertach Nár in astonishment.

  ‘Are you admitting that you went to Abbot Ultán’s chamber to murder him?’ she asked incredulously.

  Muirchertach lowered his head with a deep sigh. ‘I went with that intention but I did not do so. I did not do so for the simple reason that someone else had already killed him.’

  Fidelma sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap, trying to re-form her features to keep the surprise out of her face. She stared long and hard at him.

  ‘Can you tell me why you went with this intention?’

  Muirchertach glanced at his wife. She appeared to shrug indifferently as if she had washed her hands of the matter.

  ‘My wife has told you that she was of the Uí Briúin Aí. Have you heard of the poetess Searc of that clan?’

  Fidelma was unfamiliar with the name and shook her head.

  ‘Searc was the younger Sister of my wife. She was a gentle, affectionate girl, as befitted her name,’ Muirchertach explained. Fidelma was reminded that the name Searc actually meant ‘love’ or ‘affection’.

  ‘I presume that she is dead since you speak in the past tense,’ Fidelma commented.

  ‘She is. Had she lived, she would have become one of the greatest of our poets.’

  ‘Go on,’ Fidelma prompted, after he had paused again.

  ‘Searc had the ability to become as great a poetess as Liadan or Ita. Five years and more have passed since Connacht acknowledged her as among the foremost of its banfilidh, or female poets. So she went on her first circuit to the centres of the five kingdoms to recite her poetry at the great festivals. She attended a gathering at Ard Macha and it was there that she met a young poet called Senach.’

  He paused and Fidelma waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts. She glanced at Aíbnat, who sat staring into the fire. The woman had a controlled expression on her features and it was as if she was not really hearing what was being said.

  ‘They fell in love with each other,’ he continued. ‘Senach was a member of the abbey of Cill Ria and when he returned there after the poetry festival in Ard Macha, Searc followed him.’

  This time when he paused, Fidelma said: ‘I presume that Ultán was abbot of Cill Ria by this time?’

  ‘Ultán was abbot at the time,’ Muirchertach confirmed.

  ‘So, tell me what happened.’

  ‘I think that you know by now of Abbot Ultán’s attitudes. He is one of those reformers who now advocates celibacy among the religious. He made all the members of his abbey swear an oath that they would shun the company of the opposite sex. Cill Ria was once a mixed house, a conhospitae. He divided it into two separate communities. Apparently Senach approached Abbot Ultán wishing to be absolved from his oath to the abbey so that he might transfer to a conhospitae which did not adhere to the rules of celibacy. Ultán refused outright. He went further and had Senach locked in his cell, and when Searc came looking for the boy he had her driven from the locality by monks wielding birch sticks.’

  ‘Such an act is unlawful,’ protested Fidelma, in horror. ‘No one can physically attack a woman with impunity.’

  ‘Abbot Ultán claimed refuge in the Penitentials,’ Muirchertach explained. ‘It was not the first time that he ordered his followers to beat a woman whom he claimed had transgressed against the rules of the Faith. . or his version of them, anyway. I have heard that there were even some who did not recover from the beatings that he had ordered.’

  Fidelma grimaced in disapproval. ‘If this is true, then how could this man survive among his fellow religious? Indeed, how could he become an emissary of the Comarb of Patrick?’

  ‘He had friends in high places. A friend can be more powerful than an army in some respects. He has been protected.’

  ‘Are we to yield our law to these foreign ideas from Rome without protest?’ muttered Aíbnat.

  ‘We do not know exactly what happened,’ went on Muirchertach, not answering her protest. ‘According to one story, Abbot Ultán had Senach escorted against his will to a pilgrim ship which set out for Abbot Ronan’s monastery at Mazerolles in Gaul. The ship never reached Gaul and there was talk of its having been attacked by Frankish pirates and those on board killed. Such stories reached Searc, who believed them and. . He glanced at Aíbnat.

  ‘My sister killed herself,’ Aíbnat’s voice was harsh.

  Muirchertach compressed his lips for a moment.

  ‘In her desperation, she threw herself from a cliff,’ he added.

  ‘If this action was caused by Abbot Ultán, did you not take action through the law?’ asked Fidelma, trying to examine the matter logically. ‘Your brehon would surely have advised you on that account.’

  Aíbnat laughed harshly. ‘How can one bring another before the law when only one of them recognises it? Ultán prated about the laws of God and quoted strange texts that we had no knowledge of.’

  ‘But you did try to claim compensation from Abbot Ultán?’

  ‘As we have said,’ Muirchertach answered, ‘my emissary and my brehon made the proper applications but Abbot Ultán took refuge in the Penitentials. We protested to the Comarb of Patrick, the abbot and bishop of Armagh. But he would do nothing for he, too, supports the ideas that Abbot Ultán propagates.’

  Fidelma remained silent for a while, then finally said: ‘So last night you went to see Abbot Ultán with the intention of killing him?’

  Muirchertach shrugged eloquently.

  ‘I suppose that was my intention,’ he admitted. ‘Having discovered that Abbot Ultán was here, I went in anger to his chamber, determined to make him pay for what he had done. He had destroyed the lives of two young people.’

  Fidelma looked thoughtfully at Aíbnat. ‘Did you know what your husband intended when he left this chamber last night?’

  ‘My actions have nothing to do with Aíbnat,’ Muirchertach said hurriedly.

  Fidelma ignored him.

  ‘Did you know that your husband was going to see Ultán and that he went in anger to seek recompense for the death of your sister?’ she insisted again.

  The wife of Muirchertach returned her scrutiny with the old belligerent fire in her eyes. ‘My husband is king of Connacht. He should have led a raid against the Uí Thuirtrí and burnt down Abbot Ultán’s abbey many months ago.’

  Fidelma smiled tightly. ‘I will take it that you have answered in the affirmative. Were you and Muirchertach here together in the hour or so before he left to see Abbot Ultán?’

  Aíbnat frowned. ‘I suppose so. Why?’

  ‘I need to understand exactly what happened. You were both here and presumably talking over the fact that Abbot Ultán was here also. How did you find out that he was present?’

  ‘Abbot Augaire of Conga told us.’

  ‘Augaire?’

  ‘He is my chief abbot and bishop.’

  ‘I h
ave heard that he exchanged some angry words with Ultán when he arrived.’

  ‘So he told us,’ Muirchertach agreed.

  ‘Was Abbot Augaire here when you left to see Ultán?’

  ‘He was not. He had retired to his chamber long before.’

  Fidelma made a mental note to find out where all the guests’ chambers were in relation to Abbot Ultán’s room.

  ‘So he left you and the lady Aíbnat alone and you talked of Ultán and your anger increased and you left to confront him?’ she summed up.

  ‘But I did not kill him. As God is my witness, I did not kill him — much as I would have liked to.’

  Aíbnat suddenly laughed bitterly.

  ‘My husband can scarcely kill a man in battle without swooning!’ she sneered. ‘Such a mighty king. All he cares for is his fine wine, good food, dancing and entertainment and women.’

  Muirchertach flushed. ‘I hardly think that. .’

  ‘You hardly think!’ snapped Aíbnat. ‘Return to your wine and leave the rulership of Connacht to your cousin. He is twice the man you will ever be.’

  Fidelma knew that Muirchertach’s tánaiste was Dúnchad Muirisci of the Uí Fiachracha Muaide. There certainly did not seem to be any love lost between Muirchertach and his wife. She coughed slightly to bring their attention back to the matter in hand.

  ‘So, what you are saying, Muirchertach, is that you left here just before midnight and went to confront Abbot Ultán but found him dead. Is that so?’

  She looked carefully into his eyes and he did not drop them before her bright quizzical gaze. His cheeks were flushed by his wife’s insults.

  ‘I did,’ he replied firmly.

  ‘But the only witnesses were those who saw you hurrying from his chamber?’

  ‘You have the word of a king, even though he is but a poor specimen of one,’ snapped Aíbnat. ‘His word should take precedence over anyone else’s.’

  Fidelma could not help the pitying look that came to her features as she gazed at him.

  Muirchertach shrugged defensively. ‘My word is all I have.’

  Fidelma turned slightly. ‘Now, Aíbnat, did you remain here after Muirchertach had left?’

  Aíbnat flushed.

  ‘What are you implying?’ she snapped.

  ‘I never imply,’ replied Fidelma waspishly. ‘I am asking a question. I do it for your own sake. After all, Searc was your sister. You blamed Abbot Ultán for her death and that was the reason why your husband, presumably on your behalf, went to see Ultán with the intention of doing him harm, even if he did not do so. At the moment, her death provides a strong motivation for Abbot Ultán’s killing. It could be argued that you both had an equal hand in this murder.’

  ‘It could be as you say,’ Aíbnat responded coldly after a few moments’ thought. ‘However, I was in this chamber the whole time. After my husband left, I did not stir.’

  Fidelma sat in silence thinking over things for a few moments. Then she sighed.

  ‘I have to say, although the evidence is circumstantial, it is good enough to create real problems. It is evidence that will have to be answered before the Chief Brehon.’

  Aíbnat stared at her in barely controlled irritation. ‘So you do not believe us?’

  Fidelma looked sadly at her. ‘My first impression is that if Muirchertach had been guilty as he is accused, he could have made up a far better story than one which actually hands his accusers a motive for the slaughter.’

  She rose suddenly to her feet and Muirchertach rose with her. He looked anxiously at her.

  ‘Will you undertake my defence?’ His tone was almost pleading.

  ‘I am always prepared to defend the innocent against a false accusation, Muirchertach,’ she said quietly. ‘Let me continue my investigation. It may well be in future that I will want Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham to assist me. Do you have any objection to his presence?’

  ‘A Saxon?’ snapped Aíbnat querulously.

  ‘Soon to be my official husband,’ she replied. ‘You may be aware that he has helped me on many investigations in the past.’

  ‘Of course,’ Muirchertach said at once. ‘Is that not the reason we came to Cashel, to witness the ceremony? I have no objection to speaking in front of Eadulf.’

  That is good. We will speak again later.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fidelma encountered Eadulf as she was crossing one of the smaller courtyards. He was coming down the steps from the walkway round the fortress walls. When he asked what she had discovered, she drew him aside and quickly told him of her conversations with Muirchertach and his wife Aíbnat. Eadulf rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘This Muirchertach is either innocent or clever,’ he finally said.

  Fidelma followed his train of thought. ‘You think that his willingness to confess to a motive, even to an intention of killing Abbot Ultán, and claiming someone else did it before he had a chance, is a sign of cleverness?’

  ‘It could well be,’ Eadulf replied. ‘To tell a story which so obviously points to his guilt has the effect of making one believe him innocent.’

  ‘That is devious thinking.’

  ‘It is surely so. And who knows better than you what lengths people may go to in order to mislead? If he knew that the story of his wife’s sister would be revealed, then best to confess it so that one could say that he was honest to his own detriment. Therefore, being so, he could not possible have committed the crime.’

  ‘I will bear it in mind,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘But if Muirchertach is truly innocent? What then?’

  ‘There are already enough suspects at Cashel.’ Eadulf smiled thinly.

  ‘You mean Abbot Augaire?’

  ‘Also Berrihert and his brothers.’

  ‘I had forgotten them,’ she confessed.

  ‘I met old Ordwulf on the walls just a short while ago. But I think we might discount them.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because they were in the hostel in the town last night and no one is admitted here without good reason once the fortress gates are closed for the night. None of them could have entered to do the deed. Ordwulf said that he entered only when the gates were opened at first light. From what he said, I think he came to see the abbot and was then told that he was dead. He does not disguise the fact that he is now rejoicing in that death.’

  ‘Perhaps we should keep an eye on your Saxon friends. Abbot Ultán appears to have upset many people.’

  ‘We must find out more about him,’ Eadulf said. ‘We could seek information about him from the king of Ulaidh.’

  Fidelma shook her head quickly. ‘No need to bother Blathmac just yet. I think we should first question the members of Abbot Ultán’s entourage.’

  Eadulf had forgotten the group who was travelling with Abbot Ultán.

  ‘Who shall we begin with?’

  A short while later they were in the library which Fidelma had requested they be allowed to use for examining the witnesses. Eadulf sat at a small table with a tabhall lorga, a wooden frame filled with wax on which he could record notes by the use of a graib or sharp pointed stylus of metal. Fidelma sat by his side, and in front of her sat the thin, elderly scribe of Ultán’s household: a man with sharp features who peered at them with his pale blue eyes, his head moving in a curious birdlike, darting movement.

  ‘Your name is Drón?’ Fidelma began.

  The head darted up and down. ‘I am Brother Drón of Cill Ria. I am told that you are the dálaigh named Sister Fidelma?’ His face was not happy as he peered from her to Eadulf. ‘And you, scribe, who are you?’

  ‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk,’ Eadulf replied, falling into the form of introduction that he had grown used to using in the land of Éireann.

  ‘Ah, ah, of course.’ Brother Drón nodded. ‘Of course. This is a terrible thing, terrible. That an abbot should be murdered while under the protection and hospitality of a king. .’

  ‘I understand that you were
Abbot Ultán’s scribe?’ Fidelma cut in when the man appeared to be launching a complaint.

  The elderly man lifted his chin a little pugnaciously. ‘Not just scribe but his steward and adviser. I have served him at the abbey of Cill Ria for four years.’

  ‘But you are not of the Uí Thuirtrí,’ Fidelma said quickly, having listened to the man’s accent. ‘You do not even speak with the accent of the northern people.’

  Brother Drón smiled thinly. ‘You have a good ear, Sister,’ he admitted. ‘I am of the Uí Dróna of Laigin — hence my name. We are the descendants of Breasal Bélach, who ruled Laigin. .’

  ‘And are now a small sept dwelling to the north-west of Ferna,’ Fidelma pointed out sharply when a note of pride entered his voice.

  Brother Drón blinked. ‘You seem to know much about my humble clan,’ he muttered.

  ‘I dwelt at Cill Dara for a time and it would be remiss of me not to know something of the clans of Laigin.’

  There was a pause. When Brother Drón made no further comment she went on: ‘So, tell us, how did you become adviser and scribe to the abbot? Cill Ria in the land of the Uí Thuirtrí is a long way from Ferna.’

  ‘I left Laigin when I was at the age of maturity and entered the religious. I received my training at Ard Macha.’

  ‘Why in Ulaidh?’ intervened Eadulf. ‘Laigin has many great ecclesiastical universities — Sléibhte, in your own clan territory, or the mixed house at Cill Dara, both of which are closer to your homeland than Ard Macha.’

  Brother Drón turned to him with a thinly veiled sneer. ‘Surely, Saxon, you would be better serving in your own land than here in the five kingdoms of Éireann?’

  Eadulf flushed. ‘That does not answer my question,’ he snapped.

  ‘I am sorry that you do not think so. Not all birds have to live their lives in the nest in which they were born. Ard Macha is the foundation of our great patron, the Blessed Patrick. Why shouldn’t one want to go there and tread on the hallowed soil where he founded the greatest church in these lands?’