A PRAYER
FOR THE DAMNED
Also by Peter Tremayne
Works featuring Fidelma of Cashel
NOVELS
Absolution by Murder
Shroud for the Archbishop
Suffer Little Children
The Subtle Serpent
The Spider’s Web
Valley of the Shadow
The Monk Who Vanished
Act of Mercy
Our Lady of Darkness
Smoke in the Wind
The Haunted Abbot
Badger’s Moon
The Leper’s Bell
Master of Souls
STORY COLLECTIONS
Hemlock at Vespers
Whispers of the Dead
A PRAYER
FOR THE DAMNED
A Mystery of Ancient Ireland
PETER TREMAYNE
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A PRAYER FOR THE DAMNED. Copyright © 2006 by Peter Tremayne. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tremayne, Peter.
A prayer for the damned : a mystery of ancient Ireland / Peter Tremayne.—1st. St. Martin’s Minotaur pbk ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-37789-2
ISBN-10: 0-312-37789-4
1. Fidelma, Sister (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Nuns—Fiction.
3. Women detectives—Ireland—Fiction. 4. Ireland—History—To 1172—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6070.R366 P73 2007
823'.914—dc22
2007024874
First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing,
a division of Hodder Headline.
First St. Martin’s Minotaur Paperback Edition: October 2008
1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Paul and Wendy
and the next generation of the Ellis family
Declan and Caleb
but not forgetting Jamie
AD 668: Muircetach Nár rí Connacht .i .mac Guaire moritur
Chronicon Scotorum
AD 668: Muirchertach Nár, King of Connacht, the son of Guaire, died
Vigilate et orate ut non intretis in dammnare aeternitas . . .
Gelasius I, Decretum, AD 494
Watch and pray that you enter not into eternal damnation
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
Sister Fidelma of Cashel, a dáaigh or advocate of the law courts of seventh-century Ireland
Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk, her companion
At the Abbey of Imleach
Ségdae, abbot and bishop of Imleach
Brother Madagan, steward of Imleach
Ultán, abbot of Cill Ria and bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí
Brother Dróon, scribe and steward of Cill Ria
Sister Sétach of Cill Ria
Sister Marga of Cill Ria
At Ardane in the Valley of Eatharlaí
Miach, chief of the Uí Cuileann
Brother Berrihert, a Saxon religieux
Brother Pecanum, his brother
Brother Naovan, their brother
Ordwulf, their elderly father and a pagan Saxon warrior
At Cashel
Colgú, king of Muman, Fidelma’s brother
Finguine, his tánaiste or heir apparent, cousin to Colgú and Fidelma
Brehon Baithen, brehon of Muman
Caol, commander of the king’s bodyguard
Gormán, a warrior of the guard
Dego, a warrior of the guard
Enda, a warrior of the guard
Brother Conchobhar, an apothecary at Cashel
Muirgen, nurse to Alchú, son of Fidelma and Eadulf
Nessán, her husband
Rónán, a hunter and tracker
Della, friend of Fidelma and mother of Gormán
Guests at Cashel
Sechnassach, High King of Ireland
Brehon Barrán, Chief Brehon of the Five Kingdoms
Muirchertach Nár of the Uí Fiachracha Aidni, king of Connacht
Aíbnat, his wife
Dúnchad Muirisci of the Uí Fiachracha Muaide, his tánaiste or heir apparent
Augaire, abbot of Conga
Laisran, abbot of Durrow
Ninnid, brehon of Laigin
Blathmac mac Mael Coba, king of Ulaidh
Fergus Fanat of Ulaidh, Blathmac’s cousin
The main action of this story takes place in the period known as dubh-luacran, the darkest period of the year, coming up to the feast of Imbolc (1 February) when the ewes came into lamb. The year is AD 668 and the main events take place immediately after those related in Master of Souls.
It would help for a better understanding of the period, and references in this novel, to remind the reader that in seventh-century Ireland a bishop was subordinate in rank to an abbot. Indeed, many abbots held the title of bishop as a secondary rank. It was not until the ninth century in Ireland that bishops slowly started to rise in prominence over abbots.
One other word of clarification: the great river that runs through Tipperary, near Cashel, into Waterford, is called the ‘sister river’ – the Siúr. In the Anglicised form it is spelt as Suir. I have maintained the original Irish spelling. It is not a misprint.
A PRAYER
FOR THE DAMNED
PROLOGUE
The young girl was beautiful. The adjective was not one that Brother Augaire freely bestowed on any object, let alone a person of the opposite sex. However, he could think of no other word to describe the quality that awakened such sensuous delight in his mind. It aroused no carnal desire; Brother Augaire’s piety would not acknowledge that. It was a beauty that inspired admiration for beauty’s sake and excited only homage.
It had been some time before he had become aware of her presence. He had been sitting in the sunshine on some rocks by the shore of the bay, fully absorbed in his fishing. This was always a good spot to catch bass as it came in to spawn in the estuaries and inshore waters, and he had already brought in a couple of the fish with his rod and line. Then something had made him glance up to his side and he had seen her, appearing as if out of thin air, standing silently on the shell sand of the short beach area and staring out across the calm waters of the bay.
It was the profile that had caught his attention first. While she wore a bratt, a flowing cloak of dyed purple wool edged with badger’s fur, the hood was thrown back off her shoulders, allowing her golden tresses to shimmer and sparkle in the morning sunlight. He could see the intelligent forehead, the unobtrusive nose, the fullness of her lips, the firm jaw and the slenderness of her neck. Yet no words could express the way those features blended together into a form that surpassed even the great sculptures of Greece and Rome. Brother Augaire was in a position to judge, for he had been on pilgrimage to both those distant lands.
She did not appear to have noticed him and so he took his time with his observation. His eyes fell to her slim figure, a pleasing form even though shrouded somewhat by the cloak. He could make out that she was wearing a tight-fitting purple tunic and a flowing skirt of blue, fashioned from either sída, the expensive silk bought from foreign merchants, or sróll, a shimmering satin. A patterned criss or girdle merely accentuated the girl’s slim waist and the shape of her hips. The sun was glancing on a necklace of red jasper that she wore at her neck and, for a moment, she lifted a pale hand to it, showing a bracelet of beaten gold. Brother Augaire even noticed that her shoes were of
decorated untanned hide.
Here, indeed, was a girl from a noble family; from a wealthy family.
Brother Augaire glanced round, half expecting to see some companion or a bodyguard nearby. But there was not even a horse waiting patiently along the shore. It was as if she had suddenly materialised there.
He wondered whether to call out a greeting but the girl was looking intently out to sea with an expression of sorrowful yearning that forbade any intrusion into her inner world. Brother Augaire shifted uncomfortably on his rock. He suddenly felt like a trespasser. He knew an impulse to remove himself from a place where he was not wanted.
Then the girl turned and stared momentarily at him; or rather stared through him, because he felt that those deep, dark melancholy eyes did not really see him. But in that moment, Brother Augaire also saw the depth of the suffering on the girl’s features. It was an expression that was beyond grief. Its terrible beauty was hardened into a pale mask as if the girl had come to some fearful moment in her life when her very life’s blood had frozen and never afterwards resumed its regular flow. Even the tears that had obviously been shed had long dried, but the fearsome abyss in her soul, the dark, cavernous well from which they had sprung, was still there. He could see it in those dark haunted eyes.
Brother Augaire dropped his gaze for a moment. When he looked up again, the girl was walking carefully and deliberately away from the shore and ascending the rocky path to the rising headland beyond. Behind the boulders on which Brother Augaire was sitting, a finger of high rocks stretched out into the sea for over a kilometre. It was called Rinn Carna, the Point of Cairns, because the sharp standing rocks round the small peninsula looked like the mounds which marked the resting places of the departed.
Watching her ascending the path, Brother Augaire felt like an idiot because he had not greeted her. He licked his tongue over his dried lips and called out: ‘Take care on the footpath there, my daughter. The path is steep and the rocks are sharp.’
The girl did not bother to answer him or had not heard. She passed on in her self-absorbed melancholia.
Just then, Brother Augaire felt a sharp tug on his line and was soon playing a large bass that claimed his immediate attention. When he had finally brought it to shore, to place in his basket with his other catches, he heard the crunch of footsteps on shingle and glanced up. A younger member of his community was coming down to the seashore.
‘Dominus tecum, Brother Augaire,’ said the newcomer. ‘How goes the fishing?’
‘Another three fish on my line, Deo volente, and we will have supper for all the community,’ replied Brother Augaire piously. He paused and glanced round towards Rinn Carna with a frown. ‘Tell me, Brother Marcán, did you see any strangers on your walk here?’
‘Strangers?’ The young man shook his head.
‘No sign of a tethered horse, or other conveyance? No one who appeared to be waiting for someone?’
Brother Marcán smiled and shook his head again. ‘Why would there be? Apart from our small community, there is no settlement or rath anywhere near here.’
Brother Augaire frowned slightly. ‘You did not see a young girl passing by the community? I was sure that she must have come here on horseback and with a bodyguard.’
‘A young girl? I have seen no sign of anyone near here this morning. What do you mean?’
‘It is just that . . .’
He stopped when he became aware that Brother Marcán was staring over his shoulders, looking upwards, with an expression of utter surprise.
Brother Augaire turned his head.
High up, yet not so far away that he was unable to pick out details, he saw the figure of the girl that he had seen on the shore. She was standing on the edge of the cliff, high above the crashing waves. Her pale arms were held up as if in supplication.
‘A strange place to choose for prayer . . .’ Brother Marcán began.
But Brother Augaire was already throwing aside his fishing rod and springing to his feet. The shout of ‘Stop!’ died on his lips as the girl seemed to throw herself outwards, as if taking a dive, her hands still held out before her as if in some entreaty.
‘Deus misereatur . . .’ Brother Marcán began to mumble but his fellow religieux was already scrambling across the boulders along the shore.
‘Follow me closely!’ he cried over his shoulder. ‘There is a small path under the rock face here and we may get to the spot where she fell. The tide is not at its highest as yet.’
Gasping, slipping, stumbling and tearing their robes, the two men darted and scrambled through the rocks and pools that lined the area at the foot of the jagged walls of rock that formed Rinn Carna. They moved quickly, thanks to Brother Augaire’s fisherman’s knowledge of that stretch of shoreline. Even so, it took a while to come to where the body of the girl lay floating, face down, rocking gently on the whispering wavelets.
The body was bloodied and smashed. There was no need for Brother Augaire to check for a pulse in the slender broken neck, though he did so automatically. She had plunged directly into the rocks, and glancing upwards, with dreadful realisation, he knew that she had not slipped, not fallen by accident, nor even attempted to dive into the water. She had cast herself with deliberation on to the jagged rocks below.
Gently, he raised the fragile body in his arms, and motioned to Brother Marcán to precede him. Slowly and carefully, they made their way back along the bottom of the cliff face towards the shell-sand beach where he laid her down.
‘There is nothing to be done, brother,’ muttered Brother Marcán as he watched his fellow trying to arrange the girl and her clothing with some dignity. ‘Deus vult.’
‘God wills it?’ muttered Brother Augaire. ‘You are wrong, brother. He cannot have willed this. He was but preoccupied a moment, for He surely would not have allowed this.’
Brother Marcán stirred uneasily. ‘She leapt from the headland, brother. It was no accident. She meant to take her life. That is a sin in the eyes of God. Is it not written that human life is sacrosanct because of its relationship to the divine and to take one’s own life must bring on oneself the severest punishment in the next world? The girl must go to an unquiet grave.’
Brother Augaire was gazing at the white face of the girl. The melancholy set of the features appeared to have softened and relaxed in death. Their expression was almost peaceful. He felt a spasm of anguished guilt.
‘I saw her look – the despair crying out from her suffering. I should have spoken but I let her pass by in her fearful isolation. God forgive me, but I could have helped her.’
Brother Marcán compressed his lips for a moment and then pointed to where the girl’s cíorbholg, the ‘comb-bag’ in which women kept small toilet articles and other personal items, still hung from the girdle at her waist.
‘There might be something there that will identify her. She is certainly richly attired.’
Brother Augaire undid the strap of the bag and brought out the contents. Most items were predictable – a mirror, a comb . . . a piece of vellum. This was unusual. He unfolded it with curiosity.
‘What is it?’ demanded Brother Marcán. ‘Some means to identify her?’
Brother Augaire read the words on the vellum and then shook his head. ‘They appear to be some lines of poetry . . .’ he said.
He handed the scrap to Brother Marcán who held out his hand for it. The young man glanced at it and murmured aloud:
‘A cry of pain
And the heart within was rent in two,
Without him never beats again.’
He paused and sniffed. ‘It seems some sentimental verse.’
‘The girl is dead,’ Brother Augaire rebuked him.
‘And by her own determination. The rule of our faith aside, suicide is a heinous crime under our native law: the ultimate form of fingal – of kin-slaying – which can neither be forgiven nor forgotten in a society such as ours that owes its very existence to the bond of kinship.’
‘But surely it mu
st be understood?’ cried Brother Augaire.
‘What is there to understand?’
‘That this young girl, with her life before her, must have been robbed of all hope.’ He glanced down again at the pale features of the girl. ‘Who could force such a one as you to take your own life? Was it a man who caused you such sorrow?’ he asked softly. ‘What man could have such power over you?’
Beside him Brother Marcán coughed nervously. ‘Whoever such a man might be, the teaching of the Faith is clear. The girl’s soul is lost unless there is forgiveness beyond the grave. Come, brother, let us raise our voices in a prayer for the damned. Canticum graduum de profundis clamavi ad te Domine . . . Out of the depths have I cried to thee, O Lord . . .’
CHAPTER ONE
‘Have a care, Ségdae of Imleach, lest you be faced with death and eternal damnation!’
As he spoke, Abbot Ultán smote the table in front of him with a balled fist.
There was an audible gasp from those seated on the opposite side of the dark oak boards. Only the man to whom the words were addressed seemed unconcerned. Ségdae, the tall, silver-haired abbot and bishop of Imleach, sat relaxed in his chair with a smile on his face.
There were six men and two women seated at the table in the sanctum of the abbot of Imleach. On one side was Abbot Ségdae with his steward and two of the venerable scholars of the abbey. Facing them was Ultán, abbot of Cill Ria and bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí, who sat with his scribe and two female members of his abbey.
Now, in the flickering candlelight which lit the gloomy chamber, even Abbot Ultán’s companions began to look concerned at the intemperance of his language.
There was but a moment’s pause after Abbot Ultán’s outburst before Abbot Ségdae’s steward, the rechtaire of the abbey of Imleach, Brother Madagan, leaned forward from his chair at the abbot’s side with an angry scowl on his face.
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