A Prayer for the Damned sf-17

by Peter Tremayne

  The sharp-faced scribe, seated at Abbot Ultán’s side, cleared his throat. ‘I beg leave to read from a sacred book of Ard Macha.’ He turned quickly to the fair-faced sister of the Faith at his side. ‘Sister Marga, the book, please.’

  Thus addressed, his neighbour reached into a satchel that she was carrying and drew forth a small calf-bound book, which she handed to Brother Dron. The scribe took it and turned to a pre-marked page and began to intone: ‘A celestial messenger appeared before the Blessed Patrick and spoke to him, saying, “The Lord God has given all the territories of the Irish in modum paruchiae to you and to your city, which the Irish call in their language Ard Macha-’ ”

  Abbot Ségdae interrupted. ‘Brother Dron, I presume that you are reading from the book that you call Liber Angeli? It is already known to us; indeed, we have asked Ard Macha for permission to send a scribe to make a copy for our own scriptorium.’

  Brother Drón looked up with a frown. ‘I am, indeed, reading from the Book of the Angel. In virtue of this miraculous appearance to the Blessed Patrick, Ard Macha claims to hold supreme authority over the churches and monasteries of the five kingdoms of Éireann. All the houses of the Faith must defer to the authority of Ard Macha and pay tribute to it both spiritual and material.’ Brother Drón tapped the vellum page with his forefinger. ‘That is what is written here, Abbot Ségdae. This is why we have come to ask your obedience to this sacred instruction.’

  Abbot Ségdae’s smile seemed to broaden as he shook his head.

  ‘When I was a young man, I visited your great abbey at Ard Macha.’ He spoke slowly, almost dreamily. ‘I met with its scribes and scholars.’ He paused and for a few moments they waited in silence, but he did not continue. He seemed to have drifted off into his memories.

  Brother Drón glanced nervously at Abbot Ultán.

  ‘What relevance has this?’ he finally demanded.

  ‘Relevance?’ Abbot Ségdae looked up and frowned as if surprised by the question. Then he smiled again. ‘I was just thinking back to the time before this celestial message was ever known at Ard Macha. This book and its claims appear to have only recently come to light.’

  At that moment, Sister Marga, who had been taking notes, snapped her quill. Brother Drón turned to her with a frown, she muttered a hurried apology.

  Brother Madagan ignored the interruption and added cuttingly: ‘Not even Muirchú maccu Machtheri, the first great biographer of Patrick, argued that Ard Macha was the place wherein Patrick’s earthly remains repose. It is well known that he was buried at Dun Padraig, and he favoured that place above all others as the centre of his church. If you would venerate the Blessed Patrick, then it is to Dun Padraig you must go.’

  There was no mistaking the anger on Abbot Ultán’s face. For a while, he seemed to be physically fighting with himself to prevent a further outburst.

  ‘Am I to take these words back to the archiepiscopus Ségéne, Comarb of the Blessed Patrick?’ he finally demanded, again making it sound as if the words contained some threat.

  Abbot Ségdae inclined his head slightly.

  ‘You may take these words back to the abbot and bishop of Ard Macha,’ he said shortly. ‘Imleach recognises neither his claims to be archiepiscopus nor the seniority of Ard Macha among the churches of the five kingdoms.’

  ‘You should think carefully before you send a final refusal,’ snapped Abbot Ultán.

  Abbot Ségdae sighed. ‘We keep coming to the same end, my dear brother in Christ. How else can we reply when we of Imleach do not recognise the claims of Ard Macha? It is as simple as that. There are many religious houses even in your own northern kingdoms which refuse to accept that Ard Macha is the centre of the paruchia Patricii. Why, then, should we recognise Ard Macha if the houses of Ulaidh do not?’ He held up his hand as if to stop Abbot Ultán from interrupting. ‘I know this for a fact, my dear brother in Christ.’

  ‘Name them,’ challenged Brother Drón irritably. ‘Name those religious houses of the north who would deny the right of Ard Macha to hold primacy in the five kingdoms.’

  Abbot Ultán’s lips compressed into a thin line and he cast an annoyed glance at his scribe. It seemed that he had already realised that Abbot Ségdae was not one to state something without knowing the facts. Brother Dr6n might have thought he could call the abbot’s bluff, but Ultán suspected that his antagonist did not indulge in bluff.

  Again Abbot Ségdae responded with a soft smile.

  ‘The Abbey of Ard Sratha, in the territory of the Uí Fiachracha, denies your claims. Did not the Blessed Eógan build that stone church with his own hands over a hundred years and more ago creating one of the most important centres of learning in the north?’

  Brother Madagan, his steward, was nodding in approval.

  ‘The Blessed Patrick himself founded the house at Dumnach hUa nAilello and left three of his disciples there to run its affairs — Macet, Cétgen and Rodan,’ he added. ‘Their works resound throughout the five kingdoms and the bishops there deny that Ard Macha is more important than they are. In the kingdom of Laigin, the house of Brigid at Cill Dara, in the land of the Uí Faéláin, claims that it should be the chief house of the Faith in the five kingdoms. It is Cill Dara that Cogitosus calls the principalem ecclesiam. Why should we not recognise Cill Dara rather than Ard Macha?’

  Abbot Ségdae held up his hand for silence when it seemed that Brother Madagan would continue. He looked directly at Abbot Ultán with a challenging smile.

  ‘I am sure that you do not wish us to continue the listing of all the foundations that do not recognise the claims of Abbot Ségéne to this title archiepiscopus?’

  Abbot Ultán’s face was crimson. He did not reply immediately.

  ‘Although we may dwell here, in the south,’ went on Abbot Ségdae, and his tone was not devoid of a certain satisfactory relish, ‘we are not without eyes to see and ears to hear. We are not unlearned in these matters.’ Abbot Ultán began to clear his throat angrily, and Abbot Ségdae suddenly rose.

  ‘Enough!’ he said sternly, holding his hands as if to cover his ears. ‘Ard Macha may pursue what course it likes, Abbot Ultán. But, as there can be no agreement between us for the moment, let us end this argument now. The day after tomorrow is scheduled as a great occasion in our king’s fortress of Cashel. The sister of our king is going to be married. Tomorrow morning, my steward and I ride for Cashel where I am to preside over the religious rites. It is a time for peace and jubilation. I am told that many kings, even those from the north, as well as the High King himself, will be attending. So come, dear brother in Christ, let us close this day as should true brothers in the Faith: in peace and fraternity. Let us put our differences aside and set out for Cashel together.’

  Abbot Ultán scowled in response to the appeal.

  ‘It was my intention to journey on to Cashel, but not to make merry,’ he replied sourly.

  Abbot Ségdae groaned inwardly. He said nothing; nor did he sit down again even when Abbot Ultán did not rise to join him. Ultán’s three companions had all risen out of deference, for it was not seemly to remain seated when their host, an abbot and bishop himself, was on his feet. Eventually, with reluctance and marked ill manners, Abbot Ultán rose as well.

  ‘I shall be journeying to Cashel to lodge a protest at this marriage,’ he explained when no one spoke.

  For the first time, a look of surprise crossed Abbot Ségdae’s face. ‘A protest? About what?’

  ‘A protest that a sister of the Faith should be marrying at all, let alone marrying a foreigner, a Saxon brother who, of his own volition, should adhere to the decisions of the Council at Witebia and follow the course of the rules laid down by Rome.’

  Abbot Ségdae was frowning. ‘Why would you protest against the marriage of the lady Fidelma?’

  ‘The lady Fidelma?’ There was a sneer in his voice. ‘As I recall, she took vows to serve the Faith in Cill Dara. We believe that it is wrong for the religious to marry. It is a sacred teaching that we
can only hope to serve our Lord through chastity.’

  Abbot Ségdae shook his head quickly.

  ‘That is your interpretation and belief. Not even all those who follow the rules of Rome agree with you. True, there are some who are influential in arguing the path of celibacy, but the concept is not yet universal. Even at Rome celibacy is not a rule. The house of Ard Macha itself, which you claim as your superior, is a mixed house.’

  ‘It will not be for long,’ Abbot Ultán assured him. ‘The archiepiscopus has decided to follow the ruling of the Council of Nicaea, where such marriages were condemned.’

  ‘Condemned but not outlawed,’ Brother Madagan pointed out.

  ‘You quibble over words,’ snapped Abbot Ultán. ‘I will make my protest known in Cashel.’ He turned suddenly, without the courtesy of a reconciliatory farewell, and left the chamber, followed by his small entourage.

  Abbot Ségdae stood for a moment looking after him as if deep in thought. The others stood round him waiting nervously. He sighed, and then dismissed the scholars. After they had left, he said softly to Brother Madagan: ‘Make sure that Abbot Ultán and his companions are treated with the utmost respect while they are our guests and, indeed, if they journey to Cashel with us tomorrow, that they continue to be treated with courtesy. I regret that Abbot Ultán is not the most diplomatic envoy that Ard Macha has sent us.’

  Brother Madagan’s expression was anxious. ‘I do not like this. I have a feeling that all will not be well at Cashel. I feel it like a chill within me. I feel it and I do fear it.’

  Abbot Ségdae shook his head with a smile. ‘Abbot Ultán threatens wrath and damnation. Yet he is of the Faith and would not dare make physical threats. There is no need to fear him.’

  Brother Madagan remained unhappy. ‘I feel like a sailor who stands aboard his ship on a quiet sea and is aware of the lack of wind, the silence in the air, and the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. The sailor knows that something destructive is approaching. I know it. Is it not right to fear it? Storm clouds are gathering. I pray they will pass over Cashel without breaking.’

  The same wind that moaned round the grey buildings of the abbey of Imleach was blowing over the great limestone peak of Cashel, an outcrop of rock which dominated the plains around it and whose tall fortress walls enclosed the many buildings which composed the palace of the ancient kings of Muman. Sharing the rock was the church, the cathedra or seat of the bishop of Cashel, a tall circular building with connecting corridors to the palace. There was a system of stables, outhouses, hostels for visitors and quarters for the bodyguard of the kings as well as a monastic cloister for the religious who served the cathedral. Below the rock, sheltered in its shadow, was the market town that had grown under its protection to be the hub of the largest and most south-westerly kingdom of Éireann.

  The wind was bringing icy showers of sleet with it, cold and hard like little darts, painful to the exposed flesh of the face. The elderly Brother Conchobhar, sheltering as best he could from the treacherous blasts, knew that snow had lain on the distant mountains since that afternoon and a thin layer had draped itself over Cashel and the surrounding plain. The sleet would soon drive the snow layer away, but the old man preferred snow to sleet.

  The religieux shivered and pressed back against the wall as he gazed with narrowed eyes into the darkness of the sky above. He was an astrologer as well as the apothecary at the palace and did not need a clear sky to know the position of the heavenly bodies above him. He knew that the moon was waxing gibbous; that it was in the house of an Partán, the sign of the Crab, and it was opposing the warlike planet of an Cosnaighe, the Defender. Brother Conchobhar shook his head sadly.

  ‘Ah, Fidelma, Fidelma,’ he whispered. ‘Did I not teach you better than this? Did I not show you the ancient art of nemgnacht, the study of the heavens? Why did you agree to marry on this feast of Imbolc when a few days later the new moon would rise and the evil signs diminish?’ He paused and drew his cloak more firmly round his bent shoulders. ‘There is some evil in the air, I swear it. Have a care, Fidelma of Cashel. Have a care.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Although it was nearly noon, the day was dark and cold. The low clouds were sooty grey, and here and there scudding patches came even closer to the ground indicating that rain was imminent. Brother Eadulf stirred uncomfortably in the saddle of his plodding horse and glanced anxiously upwards to the heavens. As he rode uneasily beside Caol, commander of the bodyguard of Colgú, king of Muman, he noticed that already some of the winter flowers, which should have been displaying their pale colours, were closing their leaves to protect them against the coming onslaught. He examined the sky again with a shiver and identified one or two of the anvil-headed clouds — thunderheads — that were the harbingers of storm.

  ‘Is it much farther?’ he called to the youthful guide who was riding just ahead of Caol and himself.

  At his side, Caol glanced at him with a sympathetic smile. He knew that Eadulf was not fond of riding and would rather any other means of transportation than horseback. But determination was the Saxon’s strength. He had managed the journey without complaint since leaving Cashel just after first light, although Caol would have preferred to canter the horses along the easier stretches of track that led westward across the swollen river of the Siúr via the Ass’s Ford, and across the lesser rivers Fidgachta and Ara, towards the great glen beyond.

  ‘Not far now,’ confirmed their young guide. ‘The river Eatharlaí runs beyond that forest and you can see the rise in the trees that marks the hill. That is where we are making for. It is called the Little Height.’

  Eadulf tried to gauge the distance. ‘Is that where the chief of the Uí Cuileann dwells?’

  ‘It is not,’ came the prompt reply. ‘His rath rises on the northern slopes at the beginning of the valley.’

  Eadulf was puzzled. ‘So why are we to meet him at this place. . Ardane, you say it is? The Little Height?’

  The young guide shrugged. ‘I am but a messenger, Brother Eadulf. I am not privy to the thoughts of my chieftain. All I know is what I have already told you. Miach, the chief of the Uí Cuileann, sent me to Cashel to ask if you would come to meet him at Ardane at midday to advise him on a matter of importance.’

  Eadulf was troubled. The request had filled him with many questions. It was only two days before the celebration in Cashel when he and Fidelma would finally be officially united. He knew that there were many against the union of a princess of Muman with a Saxon. At first, he had wondered whether this was some plot to lure him away. Yet Fidelma had vouched for the integrity of Miach, chief of the Uí Cuileann. His people were an important sept of the Eóghanacht Áine, closely related to her own house of the Eóghanacht of Cashel. The Uí Cuileann dwelt in the great glen through which the Eatharlaí flowed. The name meant the river between the two highlands, indicating mountains to the north and to the south. Fidelma knew the area well but it was not Fidelma that Miach had sent for.

  Caol, Cashel’s foremost warrior, had agreed to accompany Eadulf after Fidelma, unbeknown to Eadulf, had suggested it. The glen of Eatharlaí was not a long ride from Cashel, but at walking pace progress was necessarily slow and should a problem arise the summons might mean an overnight stay.

  The young guide eventually led them off the track into a shady grove by a large pond-like spring, deep within the great oak forest that spread through the glen. The trees were ancient, with broad trunks pushing their massive crooked branches up to their spreading crowns. If the open track had been dark and oppressive because of the low clouds, the grove was even more so. It was almost like night. Eadulf could not suppress a shiver as the musty, cold air caught at his body. He was aware that the path was gently ascending now. So this was the Little Height.

  A hoarse challenge suddenly rang out and their guide drew rein and answered immediately. A moment passed before a short, stocky man came striding through the trees accompanied by two others. All three wore the accoutrements of warriors. T
he leader was dark and wore his hair long with a full beard. He had stern but not displeasing features. From the way his guide and Caol dismounted and greeted him, Eadulf knew that this must be the chief of the Uí Cuileann.

  Eadulf slid from his horse without grace or dignity but recovered to turn and face the now smiling chieftain as he approached with his hand held out.

  ‘You are well come to this place, Brother Eadulf.’

  ‘I presume that you are Miach?’ Eadulf did not mean to sound surly, and the man took no offence.

  ‘I know these are busy times for you, Eadulf, but I stand in need of good counsel.’ He paused and added: ‘I am, indeed, Miach, chieftain of the Uí Cuileann. It is I who sent to ask for your help.’

  Eadulf tried to make up for his ungracious greeting. ‘How can I advise you?’

  The chief turned and gestured up the path. ‘Come with me and I will show you.’

  Leading their horses, the three travellers followed Miach and his men up the woodland track and into another, larger clearing where several wooden buildings stood. There were more warriors standing or seated in the clearing. Among them, Eadulf noticed three men in religious robes and an elderly man whose dress proclaimed him to be a foreigner. The group sat near a fire in the centre of the clearing at which one of the warriors was cooking something in a steaming cauldron.

  Miach halted and Eadulf paused by his side, frowning and wondering what mystery was afoot.

  ‘Do you recognise anyone?’ Miach asked.

  ‘Am I expected to?’ Eadulf replied, frowning.

  ‘Come forward, brother,’ the chief called to one of the seated religious.

  The man glanced up and rose. He was tall; a handsome man of middle years. As he approached, Eadulf felt he seemed curiously familiar. He glanced at Miach but the man’s face was without expression. Eadulf turned back and saw that the religieux was smiling. His greeting was in Saxon.