A Prayer for the Damned

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘This Muirchertach is either innocent or clever,’ he finally said.

  Fidelma followed his train of thought. ‘You think that his willingness to confess to a motive, even to an intention of killing Abbot Ultán, and claiming someone else did it before he had a chance, is a sign of cleverness?’

  ‘It could well be,’ Eadulf replied. ‘To tell a story which so obviously points to his guilt has the effect of making one believe him innocent.’

  ‘That is devious thinking.’

  ‘It is surely so. And who knows better than you what lengths people may go to in order to mislead? If he knew that the story of his wife’s sister would be revealed, then best to confess it so that one could say that he was honest to his own detriment. Therefore, being so, he could not possible have committed the crime.’

  ‘I will bear it in mind,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘But if Muirchertach is truly innocent? What then?’

  ‘There are already enough suspects at Cashel.’ Eadulf smiled thinly.

  ‘You mean Abbot Augaire?’

  ‘Also Berrihert and his brothers.’

  ‘I had forgotten them,’ she confessed.

  ‘I met old Ordwulf on the walls just a short while ago. But I think we might discount them.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because they were in the hostel in the town last night and no one is admitted here without good reason once the fortress gates are closed for the night. None of them could have entered to do the deed. Ordwulf said that he entered only when the gates were opened at first light. From what he said, I think he came to see the abbot and was then told that he was dead. He does not disguise the fact that he is now rejoicing in that death.’

  ‘Perhaps we should keep an eye on your Saxon friends. Abbot Ultán appears to have upset many people.’

  ‘We must find out more about him,’ Eadulf said. ‘We could seek information about him from the king of Ulaidh.’

  Fidelma shook her head quickly. ‘No need to bother Blathmac just yet. I think we should first question the members of Abbot Ultán’s entourage.’

  Eadulf had forgotten the group who was travelling with Abbot Ultán.

  ‘Who shall we begin with?’

  A short while later they were in the library which Fidelma had requested they be allowed to use for examining the witnesses. Eadulf sat at a small table with a tabhall lorga, a wooden frame filled with wax on which he could record notes by the use of a graib or sharp pointed stylus of metal. Fidelma sat by his side, and in front of her sat the thin, elderly scribe of Ultán’s household: a man with sharp features who peered at them with his pale blue eyes, his head moving in a curious birdlike, darting movement.

  ‘Your name is Drón?’ Fidelma began.

  The head darted up and down. ‘I am Brother Drón of Cill Ria. I am told that you are the dálaigh named Sister Fidelma?’ His face was not happy as he peered from her to Eadulf. ‘And you, scribe, who are you?’

  ‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk,’ Eadulf replied, falling into the form of introduction that he had grown used to using in the land of Éireann.

  ‘Ah, ah, of course.’ Brother Drón nodded. ‘Of course. This is a terrible thing, terrible. That an abbot should be murdered while under the protection and hospitality of a king . . .’

  ‘I understand that you were Abbot Ultán’s scribe?’ Fidelma cut in when the man appeared to be launching a complaint.

  The elderly man lifted his chin a little pugnaciously. ‘Not just scribe but his steward and adviser. I have served him at the abbey of Cill Ria for four years.’

  ‘But you are not of the Uí Thuirtrí,’ Fidelma said quickly, having listened to the man’s accent. ‘You do not even speak with the accent of the northern people.’

  Brother Drón smiled thinly. ‘You have a good ear, Sister,’ he admitted. ‘I am of the Uí Dróna of Laigin – hence my name. We are the descendants of Breasal Bélach, who ruled Laigin . . .’

  ‘And are now a small sept dwelling to the north-west of Ferna,’ Fidelma pointed out sharply when a note of pride entered his voice.

  Brother Drón blinked. ‘You seem to know much about my humble clan,’ he muttered.

  ‘I dwelt at Cill Dara for a time and it would be remiss of me not to know something of the clans of Laigin.’

  There was a pause. When Brother Drón made no further comment she went on: ‘So, tell us, how did you become adviser and scribe to the abbot? Cill Ria in the land of the Uí Thuirtrí is a long way from Ferna.’

  ‘I left Laigin when I was at the age of maturity and entered the religious. I received my training at Ard Macha.’

  ‘Why in Ulaidh?’ intervened Eadulf. ‘Laigin has many great ecclesiastical universities – Sléibhte, in your own clan territory, or the mixed house at Cill Dara, both of which are closer to your homeland than Ard Macha.’

  Brother Drón turned to him with a thinly veiled sneer. ‘Surely, Saxon, you would be better serving in your own land than here in the five kingdoms of Éireann?’

  Eadulf flushed. ‘That does not answer my question,’ he snapped.

  ‘I am sorry that you do not think so. Not all birds have to live their lives in the nest in which they were born. Ard Macha is the foundation of our great patron, the Blessed Patrick. Why shouldn’t one want to go there and tread on the hallowed soil where he founded the greatest church in these lands?’

  ‘So, how did you become scribe and adviser to Bishop Ultán?’ repeated Fidelma.

  ‘Abbot Ultán was a close friend and colleague of the Comarb of Patrick, the archiepiscopus Ségéne, and a frequent visitor at Ard Macha. I had become a scribe at Ard Macha and one day, acknowledging my abilities, he asked me if I would join him at his abbey of Cill Ria in the land of the Uí Thuirtrí. I did so and have served him to the best of those abilities for these last four years.’

  ‘And we presume that you shared the abbot’s view that Ard Macha should be recognised as the primatial seat of the Faith in the five kingdoms?’ Fidelma spoke gently.

  ‘Of course. Not only that but I provided him with all the salient arguments in support of the contention.’ Brother Drón did not lack pride.

  ‘And it was as a matter of course, as his adviser, that you accompanied Abbot Ultán when he embarked on this embassy to the southern kingdoms? Tell us how that came about.’

  Brother Drón shrugged quickly. ‘It was at the request of the Comarb of the Blessed Patrick . . .’

  ‘Abbot Ségéne?’

  ‘The archiepiscopus,’ corrected Brother Drón heavily. ‘He sought an emissary to visit the southern abbeys and churches to argue the case for the recognition of Ard Macha. As it was something that I . . . that Abbot Ultán had long argued, he undertook the mission with great joy.’

  ‘As well as Abbot Ultán and yourself, who else is in this embassy?’

  ‘Two of our religieuse: Sister Marga and Sister Sétach. We were accompanied by two attendants to look after our wagon and horses.’

  ‘What is the role of your two religieuse companions?’

  ‘They were record keepers and had care of the documents we were presenting in argument.’

  ‘I see,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘And having worked with Abbot Ultán for four years, you must have had a good knowledge of him?’

  Brother Drón frowned. ‘A knowledge of him?’

  ‘Of what kind of man he was, what his hopes and fears were, and whose enmity he aroused,’ Fidelma explained.

  Brother Drón sat back with his thin smile and folded his hands in front of him. ‘I would have said that he was a man without faults, unless a passion for his cause be called a fault.’

  ‘To some that may very well be a fault,’ Eadulf pointed out, looking up from his notes. ‘A man may believe so much in his cause that he becomes intolerant and despotic towards others.’

  Brother Drón appeared shocked. ‘You are speaking of the Abbot Ultán, brother.’

  ‘But a man like any other man,’ Eadulf replied
calmly. ‘Being an abbot does not make a man any more or less human, with all the faults that humans have.’

  ‘I will admit that Abbot Ultán was resolute in his faith and turned a harsh face and a firm hand to those who were enemies to it.’

  Eadulf smiled without humour.

  ‘Fortiter in re, suaviter in modo . . .’ he commented softly. Resolutely in action, gently in manner.

  ‘Apart from these views,’ Fidelma cut in hurriedly, ‘which you have described as “resolute”, would Abbot Ultán have garnered enemies?’

  Brother Drón shrugged. ‘His enemies were the enemies of the Faith. Perhaps there are many such enemies still in this land. Abbot Ultán, to my mind, was a great leader of men. Stern and forceful. He was much admired by archiepiscopus Ségéne.’

  Fidelma was about to snap that no one outside Ard Macha recognised this new title archiepiscopus, for in the five kingdoms the Comarb of Patrick and the Comarb of Ailbe stood in equal status in matters of ecclesiastical respect. No bishop was superior to another. Then she shrugged. Let Brother Drón call Ségéne of Ard Macha what he may, it did not make it a reality.

  ‘Sometimes the qualities that you boast of sit ill on a man of religious calling,’ she mused.

  Brother Drón frowned, not quite understanding.

  ‘Firm and forceful, stern and harsh,’ she pointed out. ‘These are not the qualities of someone bringing a message of joy, of peace and love among humankind.’

  ‘Sister, our movement – the Faith – is like an army on the march,’ Brother Drón argued earnestly. ‘We must conquer souls for Christ. Abbot Ultán was a great general in the crusade to convert the heathen to the one true faith.’

  ‘Conquer souls?’ Fidelma shook her head immediately. ‘It is not a concept I could ascribe to. It means that you have vanquished the soul, subjugated it and become its master.’ Eadulf nodded supportively as she made the variations of meaning on the old word buad. ‘Is it not better to persuade, by reason and logic, to come to an understanding, than to simply conquer?’

  Brother Drón grimaced angrily. ‘It matters not how people come to submit themselves to the true religion. They have to bend their necks before the master.’

  ‘Submit? Master? Bend their necks? These are words that fit ill in our tongue, Brother Drón. Not even the old gods and goddesses would claim that they were masters, or that we had to bend the knee or submit to them. Nor do I think Christ ever taught that we should. If God gave people free will then we have the will to choose and choice should be made freely – not by conquest, fear or force.’

  Brother Drón was tight lipped with ill-concealed anger. ‘I need no lessons in theology from you, Fidelma of Cashel. Abbot Ultán was right to come here to protest against your marriage. You are not deserving of a place in the ranks of the religious. Stick to your law and leave matters of faith to those who are qualified to speak of it.’

  Fidelma blinked at the vehemence in the man’s voice. Then her voice grew brittle.

  ‘Very well, Brother Drón. I will speak to you of the law. I am a dálaigh and you are a fíadu, a witness. As such you have certain obligations, not just of honesty but of respect for the law and its officers. If you do not meet such obligations, then you must bear in mind that you will be liable to certain strictures and fines. Do you understand this?’

  Brother Drón seemed abashed at being addressed in such a manner. He swallowed audibly.

  ‘At Cill Ria no woman would dare speak in such a fashion. We are governed by the Penitentials and . . . .’

  ‘You are not at Cill Ria,’ snapped Fidelma. ‘The law of this land is, and has been from time immemorial, the law of the Fénechus. That is the law you will now answer to. If you refuse to do so, I will call one of my brother’s guards to take you to a place where you may reflect on your position. Now, where were you last night?’ She shot the question at him before he had time to recover his poise.

  ‘Where was I?’ Brother Drón sounded as if he could not believe his ears at being asked.

  ‘I think that you heard the question,’ she snapped.

  ‘I was in the chamber which the good abbot had acquired for me. Originally, I was going to be placed in some dormitory with the other religious, but Abbot Ultán protested to your steward that I needed to be within call, being his scribe and adviser.’

  ‘And where was this chamber?’

  ‘My chamber? The abbot’s room was in a corner where two corridors formed a right angle. My chamber was ten metres along the corridor from which one could see the door to his chamber.’

  ‘Were you there at the time of the abbot’s death?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘I retired early as it is my custom to be up several hours before dawn to pray and prepare myself for the day.’

  ‘And when were you told of Abbot Ultán’s death?’

  ‘I had arisen and gone to the chapel and was at prayer when other brothers entered and spoke of the event. Horrified, I went immediately to Abbot Ultán’s chamber but was not allowed to enter by some officious young warrior. I was told – no, ordered – to go back to my chamber and await a summons from the dálaigh in charge. I said I would protest at this treatment and went to see Blathmac mac Mael Coba, who is staying here.’

  ‘I presume King Blathmac of Ulaidh instructed you as to your position under the law?’ Fidelma said almost sweetly.

  Brother Drón grimaced in annoyance. ‘He told me that I had to wait until the dálaigh summoned me.’

  ‘A wise king,’ muttered Eadulf, staring at the ceiling.

  Fidelma looked carefully at Brother Drón. It was certainly hard to deflate the man’s ego.

  ‘Did you go to find Sister Marga or Sister Sétach to tell them the news?’

  ‘I had no time.’

  ‘You slept well during the night? You were not disturbed at all?’

  ‘I would have mentioned that,’ snapped the religieux.

  ‘Not even when the body was discovered and there would have been many people in the corridor or going into the abbot’s chamber?’

  ‘I slept soundly.’

  ‘Very well. And, once again, you know of no particular enemies that Abbot Ultán had?’

  Brother Drón sniffed. ‘I did not say that. I said that his only enemies were the enemies of the Faith. When I heard that Muirchertach of Connacht was being spoken of as the culprit, I was not surprised.’

  Fidelma lifted her head quickly.

  ‘Really? Not surprised?’ she asked.

  ‘For some years he has been threatening Abbot Ultán.’

  ‘Threatening? In what form were these threats made?’

  ‘He demanded compensation on behalf of his wife’s family. The honour price for his wife’s sister. Ten seds, he claimed, because she was a poet.’

  Fidelma’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Was the demand for this sum made through a brehon?’

  For a moment Brother Drón looked bewildered.

  ‘Of course,’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘A demand for compensation made through a brehon is hardly a threat. But you said that he had been threatening. Why was this claim, which had to go through the law, seen as a threat? Explain the matter.’

  The scribe looked annoyed. ‘It was the whole manner of the approach. The sister of Muirchertach’s wife was a girl named Searc. She was a poetess, supposedly of the class of a cli. Therefore her honour price was ten seds. The situation was simple. We had, in the abbey of Cill Ria, a young religieux who was also a poet. Bishop Ultán had allowed him to take part in a gathering of bards at Ard Macha. It was there he met this Connacht woman. The woman, Searc, tried to ensnare him with feminine wiles and when he returned to Cill Ria she followed, like a siren, trying to lure him to his doom.’

  Fidelma sat without expression as Brother Drón gave his account.

  ‘Abbot Ultán decided to send the boy, whose name was Senach, to safety. He arranged passage for him to Gaul. There was a religious house looking for young members to help in the task of conver
ting the Franks. As it happened, the ship did not arrive and there were stories that it had been attacked by Frankish pirates who had killed those on board or carried them off into slavery.’

  Fidelma nodded slowly. It was a story not so different from Muirchetach’s own version. The differences were simply in the motivations ascribed to the protagonists.

  ‘So that was the end of the story, so far as Abbot Ultán was concerned?’

  Brother Drón shook his head. ‘After a while, we received a formal messenger from Muirchertach of Connacht. It was then that we discovered that this same Searc was the sister to Muirchertach’s wife.’

  ‘I see. You did not know before? What then?’

  ‘This messenger . . .’

  ‘Do you recall the name of the messenger?’ interrupted Eadulf suddenly.

  ‘Of course. It was the religieux who is now Abbot Augaire.’

  ‘Augaire?’ queried Eadulf. ‘How do you mean, “who is now Abbot Augaire”?’

  Brother Drón sniffed. ‘He was Brother Augaire at the time. He received his office through the influence he secured with Muirchertach by representing him.’

  ‘So Augaire came to the Abbey of Cill Ria? Presumably he accompanied the brehon?’

  ‘He did, but it was Augaire who made the demands. He said that the girl had committed suicide and that he had been a witness to it. Well, Abbot Ultán said that proved the evil that was in the girl, to become guilty of kin-slaying, for which there is no forgiveness in this world.’

  ‘But hopefully there is in the next,’ muttered Eadulf.

  Brother Drón glanced angrily at him but Fidelma quickly intervened.

  ‘What exactly did Augaire tell you?’

  ‘That he had discovered from Muirchertach that the girl, Searc, had heard the news of Senach’s death and killed herself, a crime that is heinous in law,’ he added in defiance, looking at Eadulf.

  Fidelma grimaced. It was true that suicide was classed in law as kin-slaying and was regarded as a terrible crime.

  ‘But was it explained why Muirchertach blamed Abbot Ultán for the girl’s death?’ she pressed.