A Prayer for the Damned

by Peter Tremayne

  The Chief Brehon’s expression became incredulous. ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Why should I not? He is a religious man, a leading churchman of Ulaidh, and he . . . he is . . .’ Brehon Ninnid was suddenly quiet.

  ‘And he is originally’from Laigin. Of the Uí Dróna, as are you, Ninnid,’ Fidelma said softly.

  Brehon Barrán frowned as he considered this. ‘Of course. I had forgotten. Are you related to him?’

  Brehon Ninnid raised his jaw defensively. ‘I am of the Uí Dróna but that is irrelevant.’

  ‘Is it? Drón told you that he was being wrongly imprisoned?’

  ‘Of course. I saw at once that the commander had simply overstepped his authority and made the jailer release him.’

  ‘Further, you took him to the stables where you both took your horses and rode out of the fortress . . . what direction did he take?’

  That something was seriously wrong had finally registered with the arrogant young brehon. He was beginning to look nervous.

  ‘I wanted to see someone staying in a hostel in the township below. We rode to the town together. I stopped at the hostel and Brother Drón rode on. He told me that he was hoping to find Sister Marga, who had fled without his authority.’

  ‘Where did he go? In what direction?’ snapped Fidelma, unable to stay silent any longer.

  Brehon Ninnid looked nervously at her, and when he hesitated Barrán added sharply: ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘I think he took the road that runs west to the great river, the Siúr.’

  Fidelma sighed. ‘That is of no help. We shall still need Rónán to track him.’

  The Chief Brehon gazed sadly at the brehon of Laigin. ‘Know that in your arrogance, Ninnid, you have transgressed the law. Even the fact of releasing a prisoner is as nothing compared to taking the authority of the king without his permission. Did it not occur to you that Drón would not tell you the truth? Did it not occur to you that the warrior was acting with authority and not on some whim of his own? You will be brought before a hearing, Ninnid, and if it is found that you acted out of nepotism because you are of the Uí Dróna you will never hold office again.’

  Ninnid swallowed nervously. ‘But it was not that . . .’ he began.

  Brehon Barrán raised a hand to silence him. ‘Every brehon must bear the responsibility for any mistake he makes,’ he said firmly. ‘As I see it, you are already self-confessed of the mistake of leth-tacrae.’

  It was the legal term used when a brehon gave a judgement after hearing only one side of a case. Such a judgement was considered an injustice against the king and the nobles of the kingdom. It was the most serious breach of duty for a judge and the punishment was that he not only be deprived of his office but also pay his honour-price.

  Ninnid turned pale. ‘I swear that I did not act out of kinship for Brother Drón. The fact that he was of my people might have influenced the way I felt about my decision, but not the way I came to it. I did believe that I was acting out of right.’

  Fidelma suddenly found herself feeling almost sorry for the arrogant young man.

  ‘I am not excusing the enormity of what Ninnid did,’ she said. ‘But perhaps leth-tacrae might be too strong a term for what was, after all, not a legal judgement but a mistaken opinion, an ignorance born of arrogance.’

  The Chief Brehon regarded her in amusement. ‘Are you entering a plea for Ninnid?’

  Fidelma met his amused gaze and her eyes twinkled in answer. ‘I was unaware that this was a duly constituted court but thought it merely a means of questioning Ninnid as to what prompted his actions. That those actions were wrong and without legal authority is in no doubt, but perhaps the lesson that we trust he will learn can be underscored by a fine. After all, is there not an often repeated maxim in the law books cach brithemoin a báegul . . . to every judge his error?’

  Chief Brehon Barrán turned gravely to Colgú. ‘As your sister points out, this is not a properly constituted court hearing of an accusation of misdeed against Ninnid. It is your right, as the injured party, to demand such a hearing before a court of three judges of equal stature to Ninnid. Do you wish to proceed legally against him?’

  Colgú looked at his sister as if for guidance and then shrugged. ‘If Ninnid is willing to admit his error, then I am content.’

  Brehon Barrán turned back to the Laigin brehon whose arrogance had long since deserted him and who now stood with hunched shoulders and bowed head.

  ‘The king and the lady Fidelma have been lenient in this matter. As Chief Brehon, I cannot be so lenient, so I will say that you will not only pay five ounces of silver, which would have been the pledge in support of your position of prosecutor of Muirchertach Nár had he lived, but a fine of a cumal, the value of three milch cows, which would have been your fee. Furthermore, you will have no further involvement in the case of either the death of Abbot Ultán or that of Muirchertach Nár. Nor can you be the chief brehon in Laigin but will return to the lower order of judges. Do you accept this ruling or do you wish to appeal?’

  Ninnid’s shoulders seemed to sink even lower.

  ‘I accept,’ he said softly.

  When Ninnid had left the Chief Brehon relaxed a little. ‘A vain and silly man. He is talented in his knowledge of law but his arrogance makes him defective in his judgement. Yet perhaps he will learn from this event.’ He suddenly turned to Fidelma. ‘Are you close to a solution to these matters now?’

  ‘You may tell the High King that tomorrow at midday, either we will have the answers to these deaths or we may have to assume that the culprit has escaped us.’

  ‘Ah, you mean Brother Drón?’

  Fidelma would not comment but made her excuses and left. Colgú stood up, moved to a side table and waved the Chief Brehon to a chair near the fire.

  ‘A goblet of wine, Barrán?’

  The Chief Brehon smiled. ‘Corma would be better still,’ he said.

  Colgú poured the drinks and settled in a chair opposite Barrán. They both sipped appreciatively for a moment.

  ‘I hope my sister will be able to sort out this puzzle,’ Colgú finally commented. ‘It is a bad business, with everyone ready to condemn Cashel if there is no resolution.’

  ‘I have confidence in Fidelma.’ The Chief Brehon was reassuring. ‘Her reputation has not been won merely by luck. If I had influence with her, I would try to persuade her to separate entirely from the religious and become a brehon instead of just a dálaigh. She has the ability to make such sound judgements that she is often wasted in pleading cases before others . . . especially when they are so inferior in judgement as Ninnid.’

  ‘I know that she has been considering her position in the religious,’ Colgú confided. ‘However, she feels uncomfortable about it because she places such reliance on our cousin’s advice . . .’

  ‘Abbot Laisran of Durrow?’

  Colgú nodded. ‘He was the one who persuaded her to enter the religious in the first place. He argued that it would make her independent of a reliance on her work in law. But monastic life was not to her taste. Her first interest and commitment is to the law and, as you know, for the last few years now she has been her own mistress. However, I know that she feels that any severance from the religious will be a betrayal of Laisran.’

  ‘Do you think her marriage to the Saxon will alter her attitudes?’

  ‘I think Eadulf is a good man. A stable man. I would, of course, have preferred her to wed one of our own, but he shares her enthusiasm for her work. He is not qualified in our laws, but he seems to have a natural aptitude in helping her to solve these conundrums. I have often suggested that he should study our law, for he was an hereditary . . . gerefa, I think is the word. It means a magistrate of his own people in the Saxon lands.’

  Barrán sighed deeply. ‘I share your view of Eadulf. A good man, even though he is a Saxon. Perhaps you are right, Colgú. Maybe he will help steer her away from the stormy waters that this new faith is bringing with it. The debates bet
ween our native forms and these foreign ways that emanate from Rome are becoming more vicious. Truly, I do fear for the future.’

  Fergus Fanat was sitting up with a bandage round his head and looking rueful as Fidelma entered the little room where old Brother Conchobhar nursed his patients. Fidelma had been informed that the warrior had recovered consciousness as she was about to leave the fortress with Caol and Rónán. She told them to continue down to the town to begin the search for Brother Drón and that she would catch up with them later.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked as she dropped into a seat beside his bed.

  The warrior managed a brief smile. ‘As if someone has hit me over the head with a cudgel.’

  ‘At least they have not repressed your humour,’ she commented. She paused and then went on: ‘You know that Sister Marga has left the fortress? And Drón, in spite of our best efforts, has escaped and we think he is in pursuit of her.’

  Fergus Fanat sighed deeply but said nothing.

  ‘You do not appear surprised?’

  He glanced up at her and then shrugged. ‘I am not exactly surprised,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Sister Marga when I first questioned you after the game of immán?’

  ‘You did not ask me,’ he countered.

  ‘That is true,’ she agreed. ‘But you did not volunteer the information even though she was standing on the field waiting to speak to you.’

  ‘At that time, our last parting had not been in the best spirit. I wasn’t sure whether I was going to speak to her anyway.’

  ‘When did you first meet Sister Marga?’

  Fergus Fanat frowned. The contraction of his muscles resonated on his injury and he winced, raising a hand to his bandaged forehead.

  ‘She must have told you,’ he said.

  ‘I am asking you to tell me,’ Fidelma said firmly.

  He made a resigned gesture with his shoulders. ‘I was visiting the abbey of Ard Stratha on behalf of Blathmac and Sister Marga had come there to investigate some old manuscripts . . . I cannot remember precisely. The story is not complicated. I fell in love; she said that she reciprocated my feelings. When she went back to her own abbey at Cill Ria, I contrived to meet her many times . . .’

  ‘You contrived?’ Fidelma emphasised the word.

  ‘You will recall that I knew all about Abbot Ultán, his background and his pious prejudices. He had already separated what used to be a conhospitae into separate houses for the males and females. He did not sanction any fraternisation between the sexes and our meetings were very difficult to arrange. Then she stopped meeting me at all, and through an intermediary she told me that the relationship was over and that she no longer wanted to see me.’

  Fidelma raised her head with interest. ‘Who was the intermediary?’

  ‘The same woman who is her companion now.’

  ‘Sister Sétach?’

  Fergus Fanat nodded. ‘I was forced to accept it, though I could not understand it. I saw no more of Marga until the very day you mention, in the township here when I was playing immán.’

  ‘And when was the first time that you spoke to her after that?’

  ‘In the woods, during the hunt.’

  ‘Tell me about that,’ Fidelma said, sitting back.

  Once more Fergus Fanat gave her a quick examination from under lowered brows. ‘I suppose you know that she was running away from Cashel?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, we had encountered the boars, a whole pride of them with a large male tusker who had already caught one of the hounds and injured it badly. Then this boar espied us and did it run off? It did not, but came and charged our horses. Boars are fighting animals and do not searc easily – but to charge at the spearmen? Incredible. That was when I managed to prick it with my bir. Anyway, some of the horses were frightened. Some took off. I was separated in that charge and started looking for the main body. It was then that I came across Marga.’

  Fidelma leaned forward. ‘So your meeting was not prearranged?’

  He shook his head quickly, confirming the story that Marga had told Fidelma. ‘I knew that she was a good horsewoman. She told me her family bred horses up on the Sperrins. Those are the mountains in Uí Thuirtrí country. So I was not surprised when I found her.’

  ‘You had not known that she was in the party of women following the hunt?’

  ‘Not until then.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘She halted and we exchanged a few awkward words. Then she began to cry and we dismounted and began to talk. She told me why she had decided that we should stop seeing each other.’

  ‘Which was to do with the way she had been treated by Abbot Ultán?’

  Fergus looked shocked. ‘You know that?’

  ‘She told me. Go on. What was your response?’

  ‘The response of any man who loves a woman,’ he replied vehemently. ‘I said that it was of no consequence to me. I loved her still and wanted her to be my wife.’

  ‘In spite of what she had been made to suffer?’

  ‘In spite of it and because of it. It was not her fault. She told me that she was on her way to Laigin. She had wanted to escape from Ultán for a long time. She had come on this trip with Ultán only as a means of finding the right opportunity. She was afraid that even with Ultán dead, Brother Drón, who was Ultán’s friend and the heir apparent to the abbacy, would force her to go back to Cill Ria.’

  Fidelma had not realised that Drón would be the successor to Ultán, but she supposed it made sense. The heads of the abbeys and religious houses of Éireann were elected in the same way as the clan chiefs, nobles and kings: by the derbhfine. In the case of the abbeys and monastic houses, the derbhfine consisted of the familia or the religious.

  ‘So why did you prevent her going to Laigin? Why bring her back? It seems illogical behaviour if you were concerned for her welfare.’

  Fergus Fanat was silent for a moment. ‘Not so illogical. I understood why she wanted to escape from Brother Drón and Cill Ria and she had seized the first opportunity. But I realised that it would do her no good in the long run.’

  Fidelma put her head on one side thoughtfully. ‘Why not?’

  The young warrior smiled without humour. ‘I do not need to tell you that.’

  ‘I think you do. Whatever I know or can guess, I need you to tell me what thoughts are in your mind.’

  ‘As I say, it is obvious. Ultán is murdered. Marga hated him and had every reason to hate him. She takes Ultán’s own horse and flees from Cashel. It takes no great leap of the imagination to guess what people would think. They would believe that she was the killer and she would soon be overtaken and tried for his murder.’

  ‘Two questions then,’ Fidelma rejoined. ‘First, how did you know it was Ultán’s horse she was riding?’

  Fergus Fanat smiled briefly. ‘Simple enough. She told me.’

  ‘Second, why would you think that once it was known that Marga had fled from Cashel a hue and cry would be raised and she would be soon overtaken and the murder of Ultán laid at her feet?’

  ‘Because . . .’ began Fergus Fanat confidently, and then he paused, staring at her.

  ‘Exactly,’ murmured Fidelma. ‘So far as you would have known at the time you met her in the forest, Muirchertach was still alive and Muirchertach was the person charged with the murder of Ultán. Even though you knew I was defending him, there was no reason to think that Marga was under any suspicion.’

  Fergus met her penetrating blue-green eyes with his black defiant ones.

  ‘You were trying to be protective?’ she suggested, when he failed to reply.

  ‘Of course I was.’

  ‘But only because you believed that she had killed Abbot Ultán. You believed that Marga had killed Ultán and that she was probably justified. But you feared that if she continued her flight to Laigin, then I – who did not believe Muirchertach Nár was guilty – would immediately be suspicious ab
out her; that I would raise that hue and cry. That is why you persuaded her to come back to Cashel.’

  Fergus thrust out his jaw pugnaciously.

  ‘She had every right to kill that swine,’ he said stubbornly. ‘She is a poor frightened girl, trying desperately to survive. That beast has made her change from a beautiful, intelligent young woman into someone who can only act out of instinct and who thinks the entire world is against her.’

  ‘Does she know that you believe she killed Ultán? When I spoke to her before she disappeared this time, she thought that you supported her.’

  ‘I would have done so,’ Fergus said, suddenly avoiding her eyes.

  ‘Even though you believe she killed Ultán? What makes you so certain that she killed him?’

  Fergus Fanat raised a hand slowly to his bandaged skull. ‘Because on the night that Ultán was killed, I was passing along the corridor and saw Marga entering his chamber . . .’

  ‘When was this?’ pressed Fidelma quickly.

  ‘Close to midnight, I suppose.’

  ‘Think carefully, man,’ snapped Fidelma. ‘Describe the scene. Where were you?’

  ‘I didn’t see her face,’ he admitted. ‘I was coming up the corridor which faces Ultán’s door. In fact, Brother Drón had just come out of his chamber a little way in front of me just as Marga came out of Ultán’s chamber . . .’

  ‘How did you know it was Ultán’s chamber?’

  ‘It was pointed out to me earlier. All the representatives of Ulaidh were placed in apartments close together.’

  ‘Go on. Did Brother Drón say anything to you?’

  ‘He did not see me. He was too busy looking at Marga and then he went back into his room. Marga did not glance in our direction but went directly along the other corridor. I went on to my own chamber which was close by that of Brother Drón.’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘So you saw her leaving Ultán’s chamber. I still do not understand what makes you so sure it was Marga who killed him.’

  Fergus Fanat stared at her for a few moments and then shrugged with a sad expression.

  ‘I am sure because . . . Marga tried to kill me,’ he said simply.