A Prayer for the Damned sf-17

by Peter Tremayne

  Brother Pecanum raised his head and met her gaze. ‘At first we did not know they were here. But when we found out, my father grew angry. Yesterday, at dawn, he went to the fortress, when the gates opened, and his intention was to seek out Ultán.’

  ‘And kill him?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘And kill him,’ confirmed Brother Pecanum.

  Fidelma had been expecting a denial. She was surprised at the frankness of the young man.

  ‘Since you have been so honest, let me ask you whether your family were involved in the death of Abbot Ultán?’

  This time Brother Naovan replied.

  ‘We were not. I speak only for Pecanum and me. I cannot say anything else. Our father raged against us for not being warriors, for not avenging our mother’s death, but we are committed to the New Faith and vengeance is not ours to take. We did not know our father had gone up to the fortress until he returned to say that he had been thwarted and that Ultán was already slain by the hand of the king of Connacht.’

  ‘So you are saying that Ordwulf and Berrihert were not involved in his death?’

  ‘We heard that it was the king of Connacht who killed him. Why do you question us in this fashion?’

  ‘Because I do not believe that the king of Connacht did kill the abbot.’

  The brother exchanged a glance of surprise. ‘Then you suspect. .?’ began Brother Naovan.

  Fidelma interrupted with a sad shake of her head. ‘Do not think that I have no sympathy for you in this tragic tale. However, I must attend to the law. You will have to remain within this town until such time as the matter has been resolved.’

  ‘We understand, sister. But it is hard for us to carry suspicion in our hearts against our brother and our father. God grant that they are not involved, and that you are wrong in your belief that the king of Connacht did not strike down Ultán.’

  ‘There is going to be a price to pay for this!’

  Gormán was peering over Eadulf’s shoulder and was shaking his head in disbelief.

  Eadulf made no comment. He was examining the king’s body for the cause of death. In fact, it was fairly obvious. The killing blow had left a wound just above the heart, although Eadulf had noticed three more such wounds in the neck: deep, plunging, tearing cuts which, of themselves, would not have caused death. These wounds could have been made by sword or knife or. .

  He was about to rise when he noticed a piece of paper tucked into a fold of Muirchertach Nár’s hunting cloak. He reached forward, extracted it and then unfolded it. He drew his breath sharply as he saw what it was. A poem. He knew the words.

  Cold the nights I cannot sleep,

  Thinking of my love, my dear one. .

  He did not know what it could mean but he folded it and put it in his purse. Then he rose to his feet and glanced round.

  A short distance away he saw a discarded hunting spear, Muirchertach’s bir. He moved towards it and looked down at the sharp honed point. It was blood-stained. He picked it up and returned to the body. Then he bent down again and let out a sigh as he measured the wound with the point of the spear.

  ‘He has been stabbed with his own hunting spear,’ he announced. Then, straightening, he added: ‘There is no sign of his horse.’

  Gormán beckoned the dog handler to come forward. ‘Was there any sign of Muirchertach’s horse when you came here?’

  ‘There was not.’

  Eadulf turned to the man. ‘How did you make this discovery. . what is your name?’

  ‘My name is Rónán. I am one of the trackers at Cashel.’

  ‘So, tell me how you came here.’

  ‘We were driving the boars through the forest. I was on the far left of the line. One of the hounds, again to my left, starting giving cry and so I moved towards it through the forest, thinking it had a boar at bay. I was still in the forest when I heard the sound of a frightened horse, then the thud of hooves at a gallop. By the time I came through the undergrowth just there, there was no sign of anything. No horse and no hound.’ The man paused and Eadulf waited patiently. ‘I came to the mound here, it being high ground, to see if I could see anything.’

  ‘And that is when you saw the body?’ Gormán cut in.

  ‘I did so.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Recognising the body as that of Muirchertach Nár, I knew I had to tell someone immediately. I ran back to the main track hoping that someone would be passing and, thanks be, I saw you both immediately. That is all I know.’

  ‘You say that you heard the sound of a horse?’ Gormán asked. ‘The ground is soft here. There should be tracks.’

  ‘There are,’ replied the man. ‘Come with me.’

  They followed him to a place beyond the body.

  ‘Can you read the signs?’ Eadulf asked.

  The man crouched down to point at the hoofprints.

  ‘So far as I can see, two riders came to this spot here by different paths.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘A third horse was here, with a split shoe. It went off in that direction.’ He pointed. ‘The other two horses followed it, but neither appears to have had a rider. The one with the split shoe seems to be the only one that was ridden away.

  Eadulf smiled a little sceptically. ‘Is that guesswork?’

  Rónán was not offended.

  ‘It is observation, Brother Eadulf. I am a tracker. I can see when horses bear the weight of riders and when they don’t. The hooves do not sink so deeply into the mud as when they have the added weight of their riders. Therefore, you can see those horses were carrying less weight when they left than when they came.’ He shrugged and added: ‘A hunter has to be observant. It is often a matter of eating or starving or, indeed, of life or death.’

  Eadulf inclined his head in apology. ‘So Muirchertach rode to this spot. Why? This was on the far left of the hunt. And how did he come to be on his own?’

  Rónán shrugged slightly. ‘Perhaps they wanted to circle the main body of the hunt, thinking that the boars would break through the undergrowth in this direction.’

  ‘It can happen,’ agreed Gormán. ‘The boar is a clever animal. With the hunt moving over there, to the right, and the drivers and their hounds trying to push the boars towards the spears, a clever tusker can decide to break left and escape the encirclement. It has been known many times.’

  ‘Say that you are right. Muirchertach has decided to move in this direction to outsmart the boar. Then he meets someone else, riding from which direction?’

  Rónán pointed back to the forest. ‘Muirchertach came through the forest more or less in the direction from which we came. The other rider — presumably his killer — came from the far left, round the edge of the forest,’ he said. ‘The horse with the split shoe seems to have been following the second horse, but the tracks are rather muddled there and it is difficult to tell.’

  Eadulf was puzzled. ‘From the left? Not from the right where the main body of hunters were?’

  Rónán shook his head.

  ‘Then we are developing a mystery,’ Eadulf sighed.

  It was Gormán’s turn to frown. ‘A mystery?’

  ‘How did the person who met Muirchertach Nár know that he would be here?’

  ‘A chance meeting?’

  ‘Perhaps. But why would Muirchertach allow this stranger to take his hunting spear and kill him?’

  ‘A fight? Perhaps he was overpowered?’ suggested Gormán.

  ‘There is no sign of that. If he had been knocked down from his horse, or set upon and disarmed with physical violence, there would have been some evidence of it. Bruises, torn or disarranged clothing. Look at the way he lies. It is as if he just fell back, arms slightly outstretched. Also,’ he instructed, ‘examine the expression on his face.’

  ‘People in their death throes often show distortions of the face,’ Gormán pointed out.

  ‘That is true. Yet very rarely is the expression fixed as one of apparent surprise or even shock. That seems to be the last reaction he registered i
n life. And then there is the mystery of the third horse.’

  There was something reminiscent of Abbot Ultán about the manner of the king’s death. Eadulf turned to Rónán who was standing awaiting instruction.

  ‘You’d better find some others and have the king’s body removed to Cashel. Take it to Brother Conchobhar the apothecary. Wait!’ he called as the other turned. ‘Get some cloth and make sure the body is covered before you transport it. The more discreetly it is done the better.’

  ‘It shall be as you say, Brother Eadulf.’

  Eadulf turned to Gormán. ‘We shall try to follow the horses’ tracks and see where they lead.’

  ‘The one with the rider should not be hard to follow,’ Rónán called, overhearing. ‘Look for an imprint of an uneven shoe. I think the metal was badly cast and has split. The left foreleg will be the one to look for.’

  Eadulf raised his hand in acknowledgement, and then turned to where Gormán was examining the hoofprints.

  ‘They seem to be leading through those woods to the north-west,’ the warrior called, mounting his horse.

  ‘That would bring them back to Cashel, surely.’ Eadulf frowned as he climbed back on his mount.

  ‘Unless whoever it is turns off the track.’

  ‘I don’t think they will do so,’ Eadulf replied. ‘I have a feeling we shall find that whoever killed Muirchertach Nár is heading back to Cashel.’

  Fidelma had left the two brothers in the hostel and returned to the main gates of the fortress in search of her cousin Finguine. He was crossing the courtyard to the stables when she caught up with him.

  ‘Apart from the nobles, do you know who else went out on the hunt this morning?’ she asked without preamble.

  Finguine shrugged. ‘Practically everyone who is anyone,’ he replied, then added with a grin: ‘With the exception of myself.’

  Fidelma was in no mood for his humour. ‘I was thinking of Brother Berrihert?’

  Finguine considered for a moment before shaking his head. ‘Apart from Eadulf, the only religious on the hunt were Abbot Augaire, Sister Marga and Brother Drón.’

  ‘Brother Drón?’ snapped Fidelma in surprise. ‘He went on this hunt?’

  ‘Brother Drón,’ confirmed Finguine. ‘That unpleasant man who came with Abbot Ultán.’

  ‘I know Brother Drón well enough,’ she said irritably. ‘Did he and Sister Marga ride off together?’

  ‘They did not. Sister Marga, as I told you earlier, went off with the ladies. It was some time after that that Brother Drón went after them. . I don’t think he intended to go on the hunt at first.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, he came hurrying to the gate with his horse and asked one of the warriors where some place was and how long would it take him to get there. The guard told me afterwards. I forget where it was, a ride to the south, anyway. He kept looking at some paper in his hand. Then, as he was mounting his horse, the other girl who was in his party came hurrying up. She said something and pointed eastward. That was the direction in which the hunt had gone. I was told that Brother Drón looked really angry, mounted his horse and rode off in that direction at a gallop. Unseemly for a religious,’ her cousin added.

  A guard at the gates suddenly called a challenge to someone outside and then a solitary rider came through into the courtyard. Fidelma recognised him as Dúnchad Muirisci, the heir apparent to Muirchertach, King of Connacht.

  Finguine had called an order and a gilla scuir, a stable boy, hurried forward to help the man from his horse. Fidelma moved leisurely to greet him.

  ‘You are back early from the hunt, Dúnchad Muirisci.’

  The noble glanced moodily at her. His features showed none of the humour they had displayed when she had questioned him the previous day.

  ‘You are perceptive, lady,’ he replied sarcastically, automatically reaching with his left hand to hold his right. Fidelma saw that the latter was splashed with blood.

  ‘I am sorry. You are hurt, Dúnchad Muirisci.’

  The man grimaced in annoyance. ‘It is nothing, just a scratch.’

  ‘A scratch does not bleed with such profusion,’ she reproved him. ‘You had best let someone see it. Brother Conchobhar’s shop is just behind that building there. He is our best apothecary.’

  Dúnchad Muirisci grunted and began to move off, holding his arm.

  She fell in step with him. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘A stupid accident. A boar charged my horse and it moved to avoid it. It pushed into a thorn bush and I reached out my hand to protect myself and the thorns scratched it. That is all.’

  ‘You rode back alone, bleeding?’

  ‘There was no one else about. I was on my own and the boar came out of nowhere.’

  ‘Then you were lucky that a worse injury did not befall you, Dúnchad Muirisci. Do you know how the rest of the hunt is faring?’

  The tánaiste shook his head. ‘I told you that I was on my own. I became separated from the main body once the hue and cry was raised.’

  Finguine caught them up. ‘There is no sign of your bir, Dúnchad Muirisci.’

  ‘I dropped it when the thorns dug into my flesh. It hurt so much that I forgot to pick it up. It must be still lying where it fell.’

  ‘The boy tells me that one of your horse’s shoes seems to have been badly miscast and has cracked. He will take it to our blacksmith’s forge and get it replaced for you.’

  Dúnchad Muirisci frowned and seemed about to refuse, and then nodded. ‘I should be grateful for it.’

  He turned and hurried off towards the apothecary. Fidelma and Finguine did not bother to follow.

  ‘He seems slightly agitated,’ remarked Fidelma.

  Finguine smiled knowingly. ‘He has good reason to be so. The heir presumptive of Connacht is out hunting- and he winds up in a thorn bush, cuts his hand badly on the thorns, loses his hunting spear, and, in addition, one of the shoes on his horse cracks. . wouldn’t you be agitated in his place? Imagine what a satirist would do with that information. It is a question of protecting one’s honour.’

  Fidelma laughed. ‘Thankfully I do not have to protect this strange male honour that you speak of, Finguine.’

  Her cousin chuckled. ‘Even so, it is enough to put Dúnchad Muirisci in a bad humour.’

  Fidelma glanced up at the sky. It was nearly midday. ‘I suppose the hunt should be returning soon?’

  Finguine pursed his lips. ‘If it has gone well,’ he replied. ‘At least it was a distraction for the guests while they are waiting for a resolution.’ He glanced quickly at Fidelma. ‘I presume your inquiry has not gone well this morning?’

  ‘You are correct in your presumption,’ Fidelma admitted. ‘I should have drawn up a list of those I wanted to see and ensured that they remained here in the fortress. But that would have given them warning of the intended interrogation. I’d much sooner question people when they are taken off guard.’

  Finguine looked thoughtful. ‘Then you have other suspects for the slaying of Abbot Ultán, and not only the king of Connacht?’

  ‘Suspects?’ Fidelma gave a wry smile. ‘That is the one thing I am not short of, cousin, for it seems that everyone hated the man and everyone wished him dead.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Eadulf and Gormán had been trying to follow the trail but had eventually given up. They had come to a stretch of stony ground where the tracks had disappeared and even though Gormán had circled the area several times he had been unable to pick them up again.

  ‘Let’s continue to head in the direction of Cashel,’ suggested Eadulf. ‘If our suspicion is right and the killer is heading back there, we should soon be able to pick up some signs again. The split horseshoe is easy to spot where the ground is soft.’

  Gormán agreed and they turned their horses along the track. They had travelled but a short distance, traversing a copse of beech and aspen ringed round wi$i clumps of thorn bushes and broom, and moving across a small
hillock, when Gormán gave a stifled gasp. Eadulf followed his extended hand.

  A little distance in front of them and slightly below, as the hill inclined into a small valley, was a single rider, leading a second horse by the reins. Eadulf recognised the piebald. It was the animal that he had last seen being ridden by Muirchertach Nár.

  Gormán had already given a grunt of satisfaction and was digging his heels into his mount, sending it cantering forward down the slope. Eadulf gave an inward groan and followed the warrior’s example.

  Ahead of them, the rider must have heard the sound of their approach because he turned in the saddle to look back. The thought crossed Eadulf’s mind that their quarry might fly but the figure drew rein, rested in the saddle, and in an unperturbed fashion watched their approach.

  It was a few moments before Eadulf realised who the rider was. He gasped in surprise. It was Brother Drón. And now that they drew close, Eadulf knew there was no doubt that the horse he was leading was the animal that Muirchertach Nár had been riding.

  They reined in as they came abreast of him.

  ‘You have a lot of explaining to do,’ was Eadulf’s greeting.

  Brother Drón stared at him as if he were insane. ‘Explaining? For what?’ he demanded.

  ‘Where did you get that horse?’ Eadulf said, gesturing to the piebald.

  Brother Drón’s lip curled in disdain. ‘What business is it of yours, Saxon?’ he demanded. ‘You have no authority to demand answers of me.’

  Gormán was leaning forward on his saddlebow. ‘But I do, brother.’ He raised his hand to touch the golden necklet round his throat with a significant gesture. The necklet signified that he was of the Nasc Niadh, the élite warrior guard of the king of Muman.

  ‘If you must know, I am taking it back to the fortress,’ snapped Brother Drón

  ‘That is not what I asked,’ replied Eadulf coldly. ‘I asked where you found the animal, not where you are taking it.’

  Brother Drón looked as though he was going to refuse but Gormán said: ‘It would be better if you answered.’