A Prayer for the Damned

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘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.’

  The man hesitated, frowning in annoyance. ‘I was riding by the woods back there and saw it standing with its reins caught in a thorn bush. It probably tossed its rider and then got caught up. I am taking it back to . . .’

  ‘You have said that,’ Eadulf interrupted irritably. ‘Are you telling us that you simply found the horse riderless?’

  ‘I thought that was precisely what I said.’

  ‘What are you doing out here, brother?’ demanded Gormán. ‘You were not with the main hunting party when we left the fortress this morning.’

  Brother Drón shrugged. ‘I do not see how that concerns you, even if you are a member of the king of Muman’s bodyguard,’ he countered.

  Gormán’s mouth tightened and he clapped a hand on the hilt of his sword. Brother Drón did not miss the gesture. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘If it means so much to you,’ he said tightly, ‘I was not with the hunt. I came riding on my own. Satisfied?’

  ‘For what purpose?’ demanded Eadulf. ‘Why did you come riding here on your own?’

  ‘I was looking for someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Really . . .’ began Brother Drón.

  ‘Who were you looking for?’ Eadulf’s voice was a sharp crack, making Brother Drón blink.

  ‘I was looking for one of my charges, if you must know. One who scandalously rode off to follow the hunt without permission. A shameful act. An affront to the abbey she serves since her superior, the abbot, is only newly dead.’

  ‘Are you saying that you were looking for one of the two sisters who accompanied Abbot Ultán?’ asked Eadulf, exchanging a glance with Gormán. He recalled that they had seen Sister Marga riding through the forest not so long before.

  ‘I am, for it is the truth.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘If you will have it, I was looking for Sister Marga. I was told that she had ridden out with the others, and on Abbot Ultán’s very own horse. She will be punished for such an affront to his sacred memory.’

  Eadulf was silent for a moment.

  ‘Do you have any idea whose horse that is?’ Gormán asked quietly. ‘Whose horse it is that you claim to have found?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Oh, indeed you should.’ Eadulf smiled thinly. ‘That is the horse of Muirchertach Nár.’

  Brother Drón’s eyes widened a fraction.

  ‘And Muirchertach Nár now lies dead,’ added Gormán.

  Whatever reaction they were expecting, neither man hid their surprise when Brother Drón threw
back his head and laughed.

  ‘That is God’s justice,’ he chuckled. ‘God’s punishment for his killing of Abbot Ultán.’

  Fidelma was about to leave her cousin at the gates of Cashel when there came a shout from one of the guards.

  ‘Looks as if the rest of the hunters are beginning to return!’ Finguine observed.

  In fact, it was only Abbot Augaire in the company of Aibnat, the wife of Muirchertach Nár. Fidelma’s eyes narrowed in disapproval at the sight of the latter. The woman had not endeared herself to Fidelma. In fact, Fidelma was surprised to see the usually sour-faced Aibnat smiling and apparently sharing a joke with the abbot of Conga. It did not seem appropriate for the wife of a man who had been charged with the heinous crime of murder.

  As the abbot dismounted, he caught sight of Fidelma, and hailed her with a smile. ‘What news, lady? Have you gathered all your evidence in defence of Muirchertach Nár?’

  Fidelma ignored his question and answered with one of her own. ‘I presume that the hunting was good?’

  Abbot Augaire shrugged indifferently. ‘I’m afraid that I was separated from the main party early on. I was lost in your forest. Then, by chance, I encountered the lady Aibnat who was in a similar plight and, thankfully, we fell in with Brother Eadulf and a warrior who put us on the right path back to Cashel.’

  Attendants had helped Aibnat dismount and the horses were being led away.

  ‘So you became lost as well?’ Fidelma said to her. ‘I understood attendants were supposed to ride with the ladies to ensure that you all kept together to prevent such misadventures.’

  The woman was disparaging. ‘The attendants who were supposed to be looking after the ladies allowed them all to scatter like sheep when the threat of the boars came close. In trying to find my companions, I became lost. Either your attendants need better training or your brother stands in need of knowing how to choose better servants.’

  Abbot Augaire came forward to act as a peacemaker. ‘It is easy to get lost in these dark woods of Muman. People are often scattered in the best controlled of boar hunts.’

  Aíbnat’s features were unforgiving. She looked round in disapproval. ‘Has my husband returned?’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘Dúnchad Muirisci was the first to return. No one else has as yet.’

  ‘Where is Dúnchad Muirisci?’ demanded Aibnat. Fidelma tried to ignore the arrogance in her voice.

  ‘Across the courtyard and beyond that arched doorway you will find Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary. He is being treated there.’

  ‘Treated?’ snapped Aíbnat. ‘What ails the fellow?’

  ‘A slight misfortune. He is bleeding a little.’

  Aíbnat frowned and mumbled something before turning and hurrying in the direction Fidelma had indicated.

  Abbot Augaire stood for a moment, looking after her, before glancing at Fidelma.

  ‘What was the nature of the misfortune?’ he asked quickly.

  Fidelma grimaced indifferently. ‘He says that he fell into a thorn bush, that’s all.’

  Once again a call from the guard at the gate told her that others were returning from the hunt. She recognised the short, dark figure of Fergus Fanat immediately. He was carrying his bir loosely in one hand, and Fidelma saw that the point of it had been bloodied. His companion was none other than Sister Marga. For the first time, she could observe the girl carefully. Her assessment of her when she had espied her at the game of immán on the previous day had been correct. She was attractive. Her robe and headdress, the cabhal, had been thrown back, and the form that was revealed was young and pleasing to the eye. The girl had fair skin and dark hair, and the features in the heart-shaped face were moulded into a happy expression. The smile had transformed her from the sombre maiden of the previous day. As she watched them ride through the gates into the courtyard, Fidelma had the impression of closeness between the two young people, almost of a courting couple.

  Abbot Augaire watched them in disapproval before turning and following in Aíbnat’s steps towards Brother Conchobhar’s apothecary shop.

  ‘Good hunting, Fergus Fanat?’ called Fidelma as the pair halted and attendants came forward.

  ‘A good chase but, alas, I cannot claim a victory,’ replied the northern warrior cheerfully as he slid from his horse.

  ‘Yet I see your spear point is bloodied,’ Fidelma observed.

  ‘Ah, indeed. The boar received a sharp prick as it sped by me, but that is about all. After that quick thrust, I never saw hide nor hair of it again. By the time I had finished looking for it, the hunt had moved on. It is a hunter’s saying that you are allowed only one shot at taking the prize. I heard the cry further through the woods but I decided that I had had my chance and should return. It was fortunate that I did, for I was able to help a lady in distress.’ He half bowed courteously to Sister Marga, who had also dismounted, and now blushed but stood without speaking while their horses were led away.

  Fidelma looked quizzically at the girl. ‘You were in distress?’

  ‘I became separated from the other ladies and was lost in the wood for a while until Fergus . . .’ She hesitated, blushing.

  ‘Fergus Fanat in the train of Blathmac of Ulaidh,’ said the young warrior quickly.

  Fidelma frowned. Was the northern noble trying to cover up the fact that Sister Marga already knew his name? She addressed the girl.

  ‘You may know that I am Fidelma of Cashel. You surprise me, sister. I have already noticed that you are interested in immán . . .’ Sister Marga coloured hotly. The point had been scored, ‘but I had not expected you to be interested in following the hunt. I was looking for you earlier. Even Sister Sétach had not realised that you had gone.’

  The girl hesitated a moment and then tried to regain her composure.

  ‘Sétach would have disapproved,’ she said quietly. ‘I could not resist the temptation of following the hunt, for my father was a hunter. He was one of the trackers of the Uí MacUais. I suddenly felt that I needed just one more time of freedom, of riding with the hounds and the sound of the hunters’ horns. A good horse under me and . . .’

  ‘Even Abbot Ultán’s horse?’ Fidelma observed quietly.

  ‘The beast is not responsible for the rider,’ she replied. Then a worried look came to her face. ‘Does Brother Drón know that I took the abbot’s horse?’

  ‘I think so. The stable lads knew that you had requested a saddle to be put on the beast. In fact, I was informed that Brother Drón rode off after the hunt as well.’

  Fergus Fanat was laughing uproariously. ‘Well, if Brother Drón can seek solace in the hunt, you are surely not going to condemn Sister Marga for doing so? As for Ultán’s horse, she only borrowed it for a few hours.’

  ‘It is no concern of mine if she borrows Ultán’s horse,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘She has now explained to me why she went on the hunt. However, I still would like a word with you, Marga . . . alone.’

  The girl looked a little defensive. ‘What about?’

  ‘I want to speak to you about Abbot Ultán.’

  A shadow seemed to cross Sister Marga’s features, casting them as in grey stone. ‘I have nothing to say.’

  Fergus Fanat was still smiling. ‘Come now, everyone within the vicinity of the lands of the Uí Thuirtrí has something to say about Ultán. Usually nothing good, though.’

  Fidelma cast him a disapproving glance.

  ‘Obviously now is not the time to discuss this,’ she said to the girl. ‘I will come to see you later on. Make yourself available for me and do not leave the fortress unless I say so.’

  ‘You have no right . . .’ protested the girl.

  ‘I have every right,’ Fidelma assured her grimly. She glanced at Fergus Fanat. ‘I am sure that you will be able to instruct Sister Marga about the powers of a dálaigh?’

  Fergus Fanat’s expression changed to one of seriousness.

  The lady Fidelma is right. You’d best do as she says,’ he advised.

  T
he girl hesitated before agreeing. They moved away across the courtyard just as one of the guards in the gate tower blew a blast on a horn, signifying that the High King and his retinue were returning.

  Finguine came hurrying over to join her.

  ‘The hunt returns, your brother and the High King,’ he announced unnecessarily. ‘The attendants are carrying three boars, so the hunt has been good.’

  Eadulf and Gormán were staring in disbelief at Brother Drón as he sat on his horse chuckling to himself at the news of Muirchertach Nár’s death.

  ‘God’s justice,’ he repeated. ‘God’s punishment for his slaughter of Abbot Ultán.’

  ‘God had little to do with it,’ Eadulf replied grimly, ‘unless you are claiming to be the hand of God.’

  The coldness in his voice caused Brother Drón to pause uncertainly.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Muirchertach Nár was murdered, killed with his own hunting spear. The killer, according to the tracker who found him, rode off with his horse. We have found you riding with Muirchertach Nár’s horse.’

  Brother Drón stared at him for a moment and then swallowed.

  ‘I did not kill him,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You want us to believe this story you tell about finding the horse?’ Eadulf replied sarcastically.

  ‘It is the truth.’

  ‘You have blamed Muirchertach Nár for the death of Bishop Ultán. You wanted revenge and now here you are – the king dead and you riding with his horse.’ Eadulf smiled grimly. ‘It seems the facts are unequivocal.’

  Gormán’s hand was resting gently on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘It is obvious, Brother Drón,’ he said. ‘We will return to Cashel and put this matter before the brehons.’

  ‘I swear by the holy . . .’

  ‘Save your protestations for the brehons,’ Gormán replied sternly. ‘There will be time enough to plead your case.’

  Brother Drón looked visibly shaken and Eadulf had a moment of unease. The man was either a very good actor or he was telling the truth. Then Eadulf decided that the circumstances could bear no other interpretation.