A Prayer for the Damned

by Peter Tremayne

  Fidelma was nodding slowly. ‘In other words, you are saying that we should take notice that the killer was physically weak?’

  Brother Conchobhar pursed his lips in a cynical expression. ‘I am thinking that a strong man would not have struck so many blows which made superficial wounds.’

  Eadulf grimaced. ‘But emotion could explain the weakness,’ he observed quickly. ‘Rage can often reduce even the strongest men to momentary inability and render them weak with the emotion.’

  ‘Has a knife been recovered?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘Whoever killed the abbot took the weapon with him.’

  Fidelma was examining the coverlet on the bed and she pointed at a spot near the body. ‘Indeed, after having wiped the blade clean on the coverlet.’

  It was true that there were signs that something broad and bloody had been wiped on the cloth by the side of the body.

  ‘That contradicts the idea of an emotional killer, Fidelma,’ Eadulf muttered. ‘That shows the action of someone in control and thinking. Yet why the number of wounds?’

  Fidelma did not reply immediately. She cast another look over the body. Then she moved forward and carefully lifted aside part of the abbot’s robe.

  ‘There seems to be a piece of paper under the robe . . .’ she began, as she bent down and extracted a small piece of folded paper smudged with blood. She unfolded it, glanced at it and handed it to Eadulf. He took it, read it and then chuckled.

  ‘Well, well, perhaps Abbot Ultán was not the unfeeling and arrogant person we hear about after all. This seems to be a piece of poetry. Love poetry at that.’

  He scanned it once more, reading aloud.

  Cold the nights I cannot sleep,

  Thinking of my love, my dear one,

  Of the nights we spent together,

  Myself and my love from Cill Ria.

  ‘It shows that Ultán was not without some softness if he could write such poetry,’ offered Brother Conchobhar.

  Fidelma refolded the paper and placed it in her marsupium before glancing back to the body. ‘At least, we can rule out robbery for financial gain. He still wears his necklet of semi-precious stone, and his bishop’s ring of gold.’

  Brother Conchobhar pointed to a small chest standing on a table to one side. It was half open.

  ‘It was open when I was here. The chest is full of precious baubles. Perhaps the bishop was going to dispense them as gifts.’

  Fidelma glanced in the small chest for confirmation. It was certainly full of valuable stones. But she had heard the inflection in Brother Conchobhar’s voice and turned to him.

  ‘Do you imply another meaning?’

  Brother Conchobhar shrugged indifferently. ‘I had heard that the abbot’s mission here was not merely to attend your wedding, lady, but to persuade others to support the claims of Ard Macha as primatial seat of Christendom in the five kingdoms. If argument could not do so, perhaps the abbot’s thinking was that financial tokens might help change people’s minds.’

  ‘And where did this story come from?’ queried Fidelma.

  Brother Conchobhar hesitated and then said: ‘Abbot Augaire of Conga. I was speaking to him last night. He was telling me that such financial tokens have been distributed to the prelates of some of the northern abbeys to get their support.’

  ‘Tokens? The term is a bribe, old friend.’ Fidelma used the term duais do chionn chomaine, which literally meant ‘a gift in return for kindness’ but generally carried the connotation of an enticement – something for something.

  ‘Well, that is what he told me,’ agreed Brother Conchobhar gravely.

  ‘And is there anything else you noticed or heard in connection with the abbot’s death?’

  Brother Conchobhar paused for a moment. ‘It is not up to me to form deductions. But if it is observations you want . . . well, I can say that Abbot Ultán liked comfort.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘For one thing, he wore silk next to his skin under the rough woollen robes of his calling.’

  ‘Many do so who can afford it,’ Eadulf pointed out.

  ‘Yet I have heard it said of this Abbot Ultán, that he claimed to live according to rules of austerity, chastity and poverty of spirit. He advocated the rule of the Penitentials.’

  ‘You hear a lot in your apothecary, my friend,’ observed Eadulf wryly.

  Brother Conchobhar was complacent.

  ‘I do,’ he acknowledged lightly. ‘But then I am old and find myself predisposed to listen to gossip whereas younger people rush hither and thither lest they miss a moment of time. By doing so they often find that the important things in life have passed them by altogether.’

  Fidelma sighed and gave a final glance around the room. ‘I think we have seen enough. We will have to speak to the abbot’s entourage later. There is no more to be done here. The body can be taken and prepared for burial after Brehon Ninnid makes his investigation.’

  Brother Conchobhar inclined his head.

  Outside, Fidelma paused to say to Enda, ‘I do not want any member of the abbot’s entourage to enter the room without my personal approval.’

  ‘Very well, my lady.’

  ‘What now?’ asked Eadulf, as he followed her along the passage.

  ‘Now I must discuss matters with Muirchertach Nár,’ she replied. ‘I would get some rest now, Eadulf, or break your fast. I will return and tell you all that Muirchertach has to say . . . that I promise.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Muirchertach Nár, king of Connacht, had been allowed to remain in his own chambers with his wife, the lady Aíbnat. Fidelma found only Gormán, another of her brother’s bodyguard, standing as a solitary sentinel outside. She greeted him with a smile. He was the son of her friend Delia who dwelt in the town below the fortress of Cashel. Gormán was a tall, handsome youth with dark hair. He raised his left hand in a half salute.

  ‘I was told to expect you, lady,’ he said, his voice low but expressing relief. ‘I am sorry that this day has been marred for you. My mother was looking forward to it.’

  It was only recently that Gormán had felt able to acknowledge Delia as his mother for she had once been a bé taide, a prostitute, who had been shunned by many even after Fidelma had successfully represented her in a claim for compensation when she had been raped. More recently, suspicion had fallen on Delia of being responsible for the abduction of Fidelma’s own child, Alchú, a charge that Fidelma had rapidly dispensed with.

  ‘Thank you. It is to be hoped that matters will not long be delayed.’ She inclined her head towards the guest chamber. ‘Is all quiet here?’

  Gormán looked troubled. ‘I have had no real bother, lady. In truth, I am glad that you have come. It is hard to act as jailer to a king. Even so, Muirchertach Nár has been a courteous prisoner as befits his nobility. However, his wife, the lady Aíbnat, more than makes up for his courtesy by her discourtesy. She has anger and resentment enough for both.’

  Fidelma grimaced in sympathy. ‘In the circumstances one should not expect sweet dispositions from everyone.’

  She squared her shoulders slightly and faced the chamber door. Gormán moved forward and rapped quickly on it. A voice called out and the young warrior answered loudly: ‘The lady Fidelma!’ Almost at once the door swung open and Fidelma passed inside.

  Muirchertach Nár of the Uí Fiachracha Aidne, king of Connacht, was a tall, slimly built man with dark hair and light eyes that seemed expressionless and unblinking. There were dark shadows under them and he had a pale, strangely sallow skin that stretched tightly over his bony face. As he came towards her with hand held out, he carried himself with the curious rolling gait of a seafarer which, indeed, matched his name, which meant ‘skilled in seacraft’. In spite of his appearance, his grip was firm.

  In the five years that Muirchertach had been king of Connacht, he had tried hard to acquire a reputation that would bring him out of the shadow of his father. But he had a lot to live up to. His father had b
een Guaire Aidne, king of Connacht, a man much celebrated as a paragon of generosity and hospitality. At least Muirchertach had achieved the addition to his name of the epithet Nár, which meant not only noble, but courteous, honest and knowledgeable. But there was something about Muirchertach that made Fidelma think of the other stories she had heard about his father Guaire. There were tales of his ambitious and wily nature and stories that he had instigated the murder of his rivals. One story had it that he had killed some who were guests attending a feast at his own fortress at Durlas. Fidelma was reminded that her own father had fought Guaire in battle and defeated him. Yet when Guaire had died, he had been taken to the great abbey of Cluain Mic Nois, with many lamentations among the abbots and bishops of the land, to be buried with all honour. Perhaps, in such circumstances, the stories of his evil were simply stories.

  Muirchertach Nár’s features, unfortunately, were moulded with a crafty expression which would make anyone wonder, as Fidelma had momentarily done, just how trustworthy he was. Well might Juvenal say that ‘no reliance can be placed on appearance’, but she had found that many a person could be condemned by their physical demeanour.

  ‘I am told that you desire me to defend you against the charge of murdering Abbot Ultán.’ Fidelma was direct.

  ‘That is why you have been sent for!’ The voice had a hectoring shrillness and it belonged to a woman who had emerged into the room from the adjoining bedchamber. Fidelma turned to regard her with a slightly raised eyebrow.

  The woman was still attractive although her figure was matronly, with tell-tale little fleshy folds round her neck. Her hair was still red-gold, her eyes light blue, and the fair skin dashed with freckles, but the rounded features were spoiled by thin lips and harsh, disapproving lines at the corners of the mouth. Her body seemed to exude aggression. There was no disguising the belligerence in her manner.

  Fidelma returned her gaze for a moment without expression. Then she turned back to Muirchertach with a look as if asking him a silent question.

  The king coloured a little. ‘This is my wife, the lady Aíbnat.’

  Only then did Fidelma turn and incline her head slightly in acknowledgement.

  ‘It would be pointless to bid you welcome to Cashel, lady,’ she said softly, ‘although in other circumstances it would have been my duty as sister to Colgú to do so. Nevertheless, let us hope we can resolve this matter quickly, so that I may offer you hospitality later.’

  Aíbnat sniffed. It was an irritating habit that Fidelma was soon to become familiar with.

  ‘I have come in obedience to my husband,’ Aíbnat replied coldly, ‘and not because of deference to the Eóghanacht. I am of the Uí Briúin Aí. We have nothing to do with the Eóghanacht, nor do we want anything of them.’

  Fidelma smiled tightly. ‘Then I hope to welcome you as part of the courtesy that your husband, the king, extends to us,’ she replied waspishly, before returning her face to Muirchertach. ‘And now perhaps we can get down to the matter that brings me here.’

  Muirchertach looked unhappily towards his wife. She had taken a seat close to the fire and seemed to be ignoring them. Fidelma promptly crossed to the other comfortable seat by the fire and sat down. Aíbnat stiffened immediately.

  ‘You are sitting in the presence of a king,’ she protested. ‘Not even the sister of a king of a cóicead may do that.’

  Fidelma smiled thinly. ‘You may know, lady, that I am a dálaigh, qualified to the level of anruth. Under our custom and law I may seat myself in the presence of a king of a cóicead without seeking permission. I may even sit in the presence of the High King if so invited by him. Perhaps you did not know this?’

  Muirchertach coughed nervously, at the same time taking a less comfortable chair from the corner of the room and bringing it near the fire.

  ‘I am sure my wife had overlooked that fact, Fidelma,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Let us to this business.’

  There was a soft hissing sound as the breath whistled through Aíbnat’s teeth but the woman said nothing further.

  ‘Very well. Tell me what happened.’

  Muirchertach looked disconcerted. ‘You don’t know?’

  Fidelma frowned irritably. ‘What I have been told is beside the point. If I am to defend you, I need to know from your own words how you perceive the matter.’

  ‘How can he defend himself in detail, if he does not know the accusations?’ Aíbnat broke in with a sarcastic tone.

  Fidelma did not even bother to glance in her direction.

  ‘I thought that you were aware that you have been charged with the murder of Abbot Ultán of Cill Ria, the bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí?’ she said quietly.

  ‘I am aware,’ admitted Muirchertach.

  ‘Then that is all you need to be aware of. If you are innocent of the matters charged, you do not need to know the details of the accusation. But a guilty man can often use the details given by his accusers to find a path out of their accusations. Tell me your story first.’

  Muirchertach glanced swiftly at his wife and then nodded quickly.

  ‘My story is simple. I went to Abbot Ultán’s chambers . . .’ He glanced towards the window and saw it was already dawn. ‘It was last night. The door was closed. I knocked lightly on it but, receiving no answer, I tried the handle and found it unlocked. I went in and the first thing I saw was Ultán. He was sprawled on his back on his bed. I thought he was asleep even though he was fully clothed. I went to his side, calling to him to wake up. Then I noticed the dark stains on his robes, and that his eyes were wide and staring. I have seen too many men in death not to realise that he was dead – and not only that, but death had come to him with violence. Horrified, I turned and fled from the room. I think that panic overcame me. I came straight back here wondering what to do. That is all I know.’

  Fidelma waited for a moment or two before commenting. Then she said: ‘Realising the abbot’s death was violent, you left the scene and came back here without informing anyone?’

  ‘I told you, my mind was confused. I was wondering what to do.’

  ‘And the lady Aíbnat was here when you returned?’

  ‘Of course.’ The reply came quickly.

  ‘And did you tell her what had happened?’

  ‘Of course.’ Again it was a sharp response.

  ‘So why didn’t you raise the alarm then?’

  Muirchertach flushed and glanced nervously at his wife. ‘She said . . .’

  ‘I said,’ intervened Aíbnat sharply, ‘that the matter was no concern of ours. Abbot Ultán’s body would be found soon enough without our being involved.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘A poor piece of advice, for it merely endorses the suspicion that your husband was involved in the matter. It was counsel, Muirchertach, that you would have done better to ignore. But the milk has been spilt and there is no mopping it up now. We must proceed. So you and the lady Aíbnat were here, hoping that someone else would find the body and raise the alarm and that you would not be involved.’

  Lady Aíbnat’s expression was one of malignant dislike but Fidelma simply ignored her.

  ‘I do not understand?’ Muirchertach frowned.

  ‘No matter. What happened next?’

  ‘Brehon Baithen and the commander of Colgú’s guard came here soon after. Baithen told me that I had been seen fleeing from Abbot Ultán’s chamber moments before they had discovered his body. He accused me of the murder and of fleeing from the scene.’

  Fidelma’s expression did not change. ‘Did Baithen claim that he had witnessed the murder?’

  Muirchertach gave her a hard look. ‘How could he?’ he demanded. ‘I did not do it.’

  ‘So you would argue that all he saw was you leaving the chamber?’

  ‘I do not dispute that he saw me leave the abbot’s chamber. What I do dispute is the claim that I killed Ultán.’

  ‘And all you know of the circumstances of the death of Abbot Ultán is that you went to his chamber and found
him dead and left?’

  ‘That is all I know,’ agreed Muirchertach.

  Fidelma eyed him thoughtfully. ‘There is surely something more to tell me?’

  Muirchertach looked uncertain.

  ‘The most important thing,’ prompted Fidelma. ‘Why did you go to see Abbot Ultán in his chamber at that time? It was close to midnight.’

  ‘Why?’ Muirchertach blinked as if he had not expected the question.

  ‘You must have had a reason,’ she pointed out.

  Once again Fidelma saw the king glance helplessly towards his wife. It was as if he was seeking her permission to speak. Fidelma swung round to the woman, meeting her hostile gaze levelly.

  ‘Was it a matter that concerned you, lady Aíbnat?’ Her tone was abrupt.

  Aíbnat’s expression told her that her guess had hit home. Muirchertach’s wife made no reply. The corners of her mouth tightened in defiance.

  Fidelma heaved a sigh. ‘This matter can be dealt between us in a sympathetic way now or it can be extracted in the legal proceedings before the Chief Brehon of the Five Kingdoms . . .’

  Muirchertach frowned and broke in: ‘What has Brehon Barrán to do with this matter?’

  ‘Have you not been told?’ Fidelma asked softly. ‘When it comes to a hearing, then it is Brehon Barrán who will sit in judgement and the High King himself will sit with him.’

  ‘When it comes to a hearing?’ snapped Aíbnat. ‘You mean if!’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘Unless you can provide me with evidence of facts to counter the accusation, it is definitely when.’

  Muirchertach looked confused for a moment or two before his shoulders slumped and he nodded.

  ‘I suppose that is logical,’ he commented in a low voice. Once more he gave his wife an almost pleading look.

  Aíbnat suddenly said, ‘Does that mean that there is a chance that it will not come to a public hearing?’

  Fidelma glanced at her. ‘There is always a chance in these matters. If I am told the truth and can persuade both the prosecutor and the Chief Brehon that this truth is such that the guilt must lie elsewhere, then there is no need for a hearing before the courts. It depends on your husband and yourself, as a witness to his defence, as to how I am to proceed.’