A Prayer for the Damned Page 6

  Abbot Ségdae was puzzled. ‘If you would attempt to debate with Abbot Ultán in the middle of a marriage ceremony . . . why, that would be most unseemly. And I must point out that no mean scholar advises him. I mean his hawk-faced companion, Brother Drón. Ultán’s fault is that he tends to bombast when his arguments are blocked by counter-arguments.’

  ‘Such a debate must not take place in the middle of the marriage ceremony.’ Colgú’s voice was determined. ‘I forbid it.’

  Brehon Baithen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Even if we could debate this matter in private, I doubt that any conclusion arrived at would prevent Ultán from standing up during the ceremony and voicing his objections again in public. You cannot forbid his protest.’

  Colgú turned in resignation to Abbot Ségdae. ‘You tell us that this Abbot Ultán is advised by Brother Drón who is no mean scholar. Can you inform us what scholarship he can use to argue his case against my sister’s marriage tomorrow?’

  ‘None that cannot be countered,’ replied the abbot with firmness. ‘As has been said many times, this matter of celibacy among those who serve the Faith is merely a matter of opinion. At the time when our Lord walked upon this earth, his apostles, such as Peter the Rock, on which it was said that the entire church was founded, were married men. All the religions that I have ever heard of contain aesthetes who believe that celibacy, among both male and female, somehow bring them closer to their gods. Our Christian aesthetes had their first victory three centuries ago at a council in Iberia, at a place called Elvira. That council agreed that a priest who slept with his wife the night before Mass could not perform the sacrament. A quarter of a century later, at Nicaea, it was decreed by the council that a priest should not marry after he had been ordained. Nevertheless fifty years later Siricius, the Bishop of Rome, who was married but deserted his wife, ordered that priests should no longer sleep with their wives – clearly demonstrating that they were still marrying.’

  Fidelma gestured impatiently. ‘Most priests and other religious throughout all the kingdoms of the world still marry. I have heard that this inclination towards celibacy seems to be part of a movement emanating from those who seek to denigrate the role of women in the world. We all know that at the Council of Laodicea, three centuries ago, it was agreed that women must no longer be ordained priests. Today there are few women priests to be found.’

  Abbot Ségdae nodded. ‘And it cannot be denied that for the last hundred years the bishops of Rome, who have been accepted by many as the premier bishops of Christendom, have tended to side with those who seek to enforce celibacy. Sons of former bishops and priests no longer take the throne of the Blessed Peter. Homidas, son of the Blessed Silverus, was the last son of a previous bishop of Rome to ascend to his father’s place. Now there are those such as Gregory, who uttered the curious statement that all sexual desire is sinful in itself.’

  Colgú was impatient. ‘Arguments! Precedents! It is like chasing a will o’ the wisp. Is there no law written down by which a judgement can be given and adhered to? Is there no rule given in your religious writings, Ségdae ?’

  Abbot Ségdae shook his head. ‘I am afraid that the sexual ethics and views on marriage in the Faith have been neither uniform nor static enough to be considered law. The decrees of the various councils have never been universally accepted so far.’

  Eadulf coughed nervously. He was well aware that he was a stranger in the kingdom and, according to the social customs and laws, had no right to speak in the presence of a king unless invited. Colgú, however, immediately understood his hesitation and gestured towards him.

  ‘Do not stand on ceremony here, Eadulf. You have something to contribute to this discussion?’

  Eadulf shot him a look of silent gratitude. ‘My experience of those who put forward the argument for celibacy is that they often rely on the writings of Augustine of Hippo.’

  Abbot Ségdae looked interested. ‘I would not have considered Augustine to have much influence in this land, especially in the kingdom of Ulaidh, for his views are so contrary to our laws and way of life. He considered women inferior to men both in morals as well as in physical being.’

  ‘That is true,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘He once wrote . . .’ He shut his eyes to recite from memory. ‘I fail to see what use women can be to man if one excludes the function of bearing children.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘In my estimation, Augustine was a silly, narrow and prejudiced person, and I find it strange others hold him in esteem as a great philosopher.’

  ‘What arguments would Abbot Ultán put forward from this authority, Brother Eadulf?’ asked Brehon Baithen.

  ‘Augustine believed that Adam and Eve were innocent of sexual temptation or feelings when they lived in the Garden of Eden,’ Eadulf began. ‘Augustine wrote that prior to their fall and expulsion, their sexual impulses had been under conscious control. But because they rebelled against God, the genitals of their descendants rebelled against their will. Humans then became incapable of controlling either their sexual desires or the physical reactions of their gonads, so the only way to achieve a holy life and salvation was to abjure all form of dealings with women.’

  ‘Is what you have said considered to be the main argument of those who advocate celibacy?’ Colgú asked. ‘That suppression of the natural role between the sexes is a path to religious perfection?’

  ‘There is another argument which, I think, many of the higher priesthood in Rome find more congenial,’ Eadulf replied.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘It is the practical consideration. In these kingdoms you do not have the concept of absolute private ownership in the land, so the argument does not affect you so much. But elsewhere, especially in Rome, property is a great consideration. It is the economic idea that drives the arguments for an unmarried clergy.’

  Fidelma regarded Eadulf with some surprise, and he smiled reassuringly at her unasked question.

  ‘When I was in Rome, I attended many debates and arguments,’ he explained.

  ‘What is this economic idea, then?’ asked Abbot Ségdae.

  ‘Married religious are too expensive to maintain. They have to be given housing, food and clothing, not only for themselves but also for their wives and children. And the children of priests can inherit their property, so that assets which the church wants to hold can be left away from it. The church’s resources are therefore spent in catering to the wives and children of the married religious. What is more, in many lands you now find that sacerdotal dynasties are common – indeed, normal. Sons of abbots and bishops become abbots and bishops as well.’

  ‘Little wrong in that,’ agreed Abbot Ségdae. ‘In the five kingdoms it has always been tradition that the priesthood passes down in certain families. At the abbeys of Cluain Mic Nois, at Lusca and Claine, the abbacy passes down within the family, the abbot being elected by the derbhfine just like the king.’

  Eadulf knew this well enough.

  ‘The difference is that your civil laws provide for this and counter any impropriety by the fact that the abbey is not the sole owner of the land it covers,’ he pointed out. ‘The land is granted to the abbey by the chieftain or king, and the local clan also elects a lay officer to ensure that the land and property are not alienated. This is not so in other cultures where the abbot’s family can seize the property and make it personal to their families. This is what the curia, the papal court in Rome, is concerned with.’

  Abbot Ségdae shook his head with an exasperated sigh. ‘I have no understanding of this.’

  Colgú shared his perplexity. ‘No more do I, yet I understand that Eadulf is saying that the concerns of Rome have no relevance in this land. What it comes down to is this, and correct me if I am wrong: Abbot Ultán’s views are not supported by any law or rule that must be obeyed by all members of the Faith. Is that so?’

  ‘That is so,’ agreed Baithen.

  ‘Then, should Abbot Ultán start protesting, he must be told in front of the assembly that his personal vi
ews, no matter who shares them, are not law in this land. He must desist from voicing his protest until some council of the church, which has jurisdiction to do so, makes it into a binding law on members of the Faith. Only when such an ecclesiastical rule is incorporated into our law system can such protests be validly made.’

  Brehon Baithen smiled in satisfaction.

  ‘An excellent summary of the situation,’ he applauded.

  Colgú glanced at his sister with a smile. ‘Do you approve of this course of action?’

  Fidelma’s expression was solemn.

  ‘It is the only course,’ she agreed almost reluctantly. ‘I would rather that Abbot Ultán would not raise the matter in the first place, but . . .’ She ended with a shrug.

  ‘Perhaps . . .’ began Eadulf, and then paused.

  ‘Perhaps?’ prompted Colgú immediately, turning to him.

  ‘I wondered if Abbot Ultán could be informed of the decision in this matter tonight, before the ceremony starts tomorrow, in an effort to persuade him to hold his peace?’

  ‘A good suggestion,’ agreed the king. ‘Surely that could do no harm?’ Colgú glanced round the company and his eyes came to rest on Abbot Ségdae. ‘But who would speak with him? As senior churchman . . . ?’

  Abbot Ségdae shook his head immediately. ‘Not I. Our discussion at Imleach has made Ultán view me as his prime antagonist and I doubt whether he would listen to a word I said.’

  ‘Advising on law and procedure is my role,’ Brehon Baithen interposed. ‘I will go to his chambers and have a word with this fiery prelate from the north. Perhaps the commander of the guard will attend me as the person who will have to enforce order in case our northern friend becomes too inflammatory in his protests?’

  Caol smiled broadly and signified his agreement.

  ‘Then we are satisfied as to this course?’ asked Colgú, glancing round. There was a murmuring of assent and the king sighed and sat back. ‘Remain with me, Fidelma, and you also, Eadulf.’

  He waited until Abbot Ségdae, Brehon Baithen and Caol had departed, and then he rose to pour three goblets of wine, handing one each to his sister and Eadulf before taking the third for himself.

  ‘To a peaceful day tomorrow,’ he toasted. They drank dutifully.

  There was a pause and then Eadulf commented: ‘Abbot Ultán apart, it should be anything but peaceful, judging from the distinguished visitors that have flocked to Cashel and the festival that is being prepared in the town. All this for what is no more than a confirmation of our wedding vows. We have already been married a year.’

  Colgú laughed with good nature. ‘You may have lived as ben charrthach and fer comtha for a year and a day but this is the significant ceremony whereby my sister becomes your true cétmuintir. It is an important step.’

  ‘Well, I had not expected a ceremony so elaborate as to bring the High King and his Chief Brehon here, not to mention the provincial kings, nobles and envoys from other lands,’ Eadulf said, with a shake of his head.

  Fidelma had been unusually subdued all evening and now she stirred.

  ‘My brother will tell you why they are here,’ she said softly.

  Colgú smiled encouragingly at Eadulf. ‘Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that you have not learnt everything there is to know about our family and our kingdom. The attendance of the High King and the others is out of respect to our family, the Eóghanacht. Our ancients tell us that when our ancestors first came to this island, so long ago that time has no meaning, two great warriors named Eibhear Fionn and Ererrion led them. They were brothers, the sons of Golamh, the progenitor of our people who died on the voyage here. Having fought the ancient gods and goddesses who dwelt here, and driven them underground into the sídhe, the hills, Eremon was given the northern half of the island to rule while Eibhear Fionn was given the southern half. From Eibhear Fionn are descended the Eóghanacht, our family, while from Eremon are descended the Uí Néill, which is the family of the current High King Sechnassach. Only our two families – the descendants of Eremon and Eibhear Fionn – are allowed to contest for the High Kingship. We sing the praises of twenty-four of the Eóghanacht who have sat in the seat of the High King until the days of Duach Donn Dalta Deagha, who was the last of our family to hold that office. The point is that the kingdom of Muman is the largest in this island and its kings are second to none, not even to the High King, although we pay homage to the concept of his office. It is out of respect for our ancestry, our traditions of kingship and our current strength in this land, that the High King comes to visit on the occasion of my sister’s wedding day. Likewise, that is why the other kings and nobles come to pay their respects at Cashel.’ He paused, and then his serious expression dissolved into a mischievous grin that marked his relationship to Fidelma, for Eadulf had seen that same grin on her features many times. ‘But I would like to think they also come out of respect for my sister as well, because her reputation as a dálaigh, an advocate of our law courts, is known in all the five kingdoms.’

  Fidelma frowned and glanced quickly at Eadulf.

  ‘A reputation that is inseparably linked to that of Eadulf, without whom many a riddle would have remained unsolved,’ she added quickly.

  ‘What . . . ?’ Colgú seemed puzzled for the moment before he realised his implied offence. ‘Of course, of course. It is a shame that none of your Saxon kinsmen will be attending, although I hear some compatriots of yours – exiled religious – seek to settle in this kingdom and will be present. I understand that Cerball, the bard, has spoken to you so that he might compose a forsundud, a praise-poem, about your own ancestry. A wedding is not seemly unless the genealogy of both parties can be recited before the company.’

  Eadulf did not reply. He could not boast that he knew more than three or so generations of his family. That was nothing compared to the Eóghanacht who boasted fifty-nine generations between Colgú and Eibhear Fionn son of Golamh. In spite of Brother Conchobhar’s assurances, an hereditary gerefa or magistrate of his people was hardly the equal to an Eóghanacht princess. Not for the first time did Eadulf experience a feeling of insecurity. He was very much a stranger in a strange land.

  Colgú seemed to sense the air of tension that caused both Fidelma and Eadulf to fall quiet.

  ‘How is little Alchú?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Your nephew is well,’ answered Fidelma brightly. ‘Muirgen, our nurse, has been a godsend. I have no fears of leaving the child with her and her husband Nessán when my duty as a lawyer bids me spend time away.’

  ‘He is growing apace,’ commented Colgú. ‘You have a fine son there, Eadulf.’

  ‘A fine son, indeed,’ Eadulf agreed quietly.

  ‘So all is ready for tomorrow?’ pressed Fidelma’s brother in a determined fashion.

  ‘As far as we are concerned,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I think you will forgive us for some trepidation,’ she added. ‘There is, as Eadulf has pointed out, such an illustrious audience for the ceremony. It makes us both very nervous.’

  Colgú felt that she was making an excuse for Eadulf’s reticence. He wondered if there was something wrong between them. How could he approach it? Could he ask Eadulf to leave and question his sister directly? While he was hesitating, Fidelma stood up and put her goblet on a side tablet.

  ‘Brother, forgive us,’ she said. ‘But the hour grows late and we promised Abbot Laisran that we would speak to him before we prepare for tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course.’ Colgú sighed reluctantly. ‘Meanwhile, let us hope Brehon Baithen has persuaded Abbot Ultán to see some sense about his protest.’

  The meeting with Abbot Laisran was a genuine arrangement. Laisran was a distant cousin, an Eóghanacht, who was abbot of the great teaching monastery at Durrow – Darú, the abbey on the oak plain. It was he who had persuaded Fidelma, after she had qualified as an advocate at the law school of Brehon Morann, to enter the religious life at St Brigid’s mixed house at Cill Dara. From the time she was a young girl, Fidelma had been
advised and guided by the elderly abbot. Her father, Fáilbe Flann, who had been king of Muman, had died in the year of her birth and Laisran had taken his place.

  The abbot was awaiting them in his chamber, seated before the fire and sipping at a goblet of mulled wine. It was a position which Fidelma always associated with him. Laisran rose awkwardly as they entered in answer to his invitation. He was a short, rotund, red-faced man. His face proclaimed a permanent state of jollity, for he had been born with a rare gift of humour and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. When he smiled, it was no faint-hearted parting of the lips but an expression that welled from the depths of his being, bright and all-encouraging. And when he laughed it was as though the whole earth trembled in accompaniment.

  ‘Fidelma! Eadulf! You are both welcome. Is all well? I received your request to speak to me before the momentous events that are due to take place tomorrow.’

  Fidelma took a seat before the fire while Eadulf brought a spare chair and seated himself beside her. Laisran had resumed his seat and was offering them wine from the jug that sat by the glowing hearth. They both declined, much to his surprise, and he refilled his own goblet.

  ‘Do you know Abbot Ultán?’ Fidelma asked without preamble.

  ‘Ultán of the Uí Thuirtrí?’ Laisran chuckled sourly. ‘I have met him once or twice at councils. He aspires to be a leader of the Faith – alas, he has no sense of humour and humour is one of the foundations on which saintliness must repose. I have heard strange tales about his life before he entered the religious. But it is not my place to spread rumour.’