‘Is what you have said considered to be the main argument of those who advocate celibacy?’ Colgú asked. ‘That suppression of the natural role between the sexes is a path to religious perfection?’
‘There is another argument which, I think, many of the higher priesthood in Rome find more congenial,’ Eadulf replied.
‘Which is?’
‘It is the practical consideration. In these kingdoms you do not have the concept of absolute private ownership in the land, so the argument does not affect you so much. But elsewhere, especially in Rome, property is a great consideration. It is the economic idea that drives the arguments for an unmarried clergy.’
Fidelma regarded Eadulf with some surprise, and he smiled reassuringly at her unasked question.
‘When I was in Rome, I attended many debates and arguments,’ he explained.
‘What is this economic idea, then?’ asked Abbot Ségdae.
‘Married religious are too expensive to maintain. They have to be given housing, food and clothing, not only for themselves but also for their wives and children. And the children of priests can inherit their property, so that assets which the church wants to hold can be left away from it. The church’s resources are therefore spent in catering to the wives and children of the married religious. What is more, in many lands you now find that sacerdotal dynasties are common — indeed, normal. Sons of abbots and bishops become abbots and bishops as well.’
‘Little wrong in that,’ agreed Abbot Ségdae. ‘In the five kingdoms it has always been tradition that the priesthood passes down in certain families. At the abbeys of Cluain Mic Nois, at Lusca and Claine, the abbacy passes down within the family, the abbot being elected by the derbhfine just like the king.’
Eadulf knew this well enough.
‘The difference is that your civil laws provide for this and counter any impropriety by the fact that the abbey is not the sole owner of the land it covers,’ he pointed out. ‘The land is granted to the abbey by the chieftain or king, and the local clan also elects a lay officer to ensure that the land and property are not alienated. This is not so in other cultures where the abbot’s family can seize the property and make it personal to their families. This is what the curia, the papal court in Rome, is concerned with.’
Abbot Ségdae shook his head with an exasperated sigh. ‘I have no understanding of this.’
Colgú shared his perplexity. ‘No more do I, yet I understand that Eadulf is saying that the concerns of Rome have no relevance in this land. What it comes down to is this, and correct me if I am wrong: Abbot Ultán’s views are not supported by any law or rule that must be obeyed by all members of the Faith. Is that so?’
‘That is so,’ agreed Baithen.
‘Then, should Abbot Ultán start protesting, he must be told in front of the assembly that his personal views, no matter who shares them, are not law in this land. He must desist from voicing his protest until some council of the church, which has jurisdiction to do so, makes it into a binding law on members of the Faith. Only when such an ecclesiastical rule is incorporated into our law system can such protests be validly made.’
Brehon Baithen smiled in satisfaction.
‘An excellent summary of the situation,’ he applauded.
Colgú glanced at his sister with a smile. ‘Do you approve of this course of action?’
Fidelma’s expression was solemn.
‘It is the only course,’ she agreed almost reluctantly. ‘I would rather that Abbot Ultán would not raise the matter in the first place, but. .’ She ended with a shrug.
‘Perhaps. .’ began Eadulf, and then paused.
‘Perhaps?’ prompted Colgú immediately, turning to him.
‘I wondered if Abbot Ultán could be informed of the decision in this matter tonight, before the ceremony starts tomorrow, in an effort to persuade him to hold his peace?’
‘A good suggestion,’ agreed the king. ‘Surely that could do no harm?’ Colgú glanced round the company and his eyes came to rest on Abbot Ségdae. ‘But who would speak with him? As senior churchman. .?’
Abbot Ségdae shook his head immediately. ‘Not I. Our discussion at Imleach has made Ultán view me as his prime antagonist and I doubt whether he would listen to a word I said.’
‘Advising on law and procedure is my role,’ Brehon Baithen interposed. ‘I will go to his chambers and have a word with this fiery prelate from the north. Perhaps the commander of the guard will attend me as the person who will have to enforce order in case our northern friend becomes too inflammatory in his protests?’
Caol smiled broadly and signified his agreement.
‘Then we are satisfied as to this course?’ asked Colgú, glancing round. There was a murmuring of assent and the king sighed and sat back. ‘Remain with me, Fidelma, and you also, Eadulf.’
He waited until Abbot Ségdae, Brehon Baithen and Caol had departed, and then he rose to pour three goblets of wine, handing one each to his sister and Eadulf before taking the third for himself.
‘To a peaceful day tomorrow,’ he toasted. They drank dutifully.
There was a pause and then Eadulf commented: ‘Abbot Ultán apart, it should be anything but peaceful, judging from the distinguished visitors that have flocked to Cashel and the festival that is being prepared in the town. All this for what is no more than a confirmation of our wedding vows. We have already been married a year.’
Colgú laughed with good nature. ‘You may have lived as ben charrthach and fer comtha for a year and a day but this is the significant ceremony whereby my sister becomes your true cétmuintir. It is an important step.’
‘Well, I had not expected a ceremony so elaborate as to bring the High King and his Chief Brehon here, not to mention the provincial kings, nobles and envoys from other lands,’ Eadulf said, with a shake of his head.
Fidelma had been unusually subdued all evening and now she stirred.
‘My brother will tell you why they are here,’ she said softly.
Colgú smiled encouragingly at Eadulf. ‘Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that you have not learnt everything there is to know about our family and our kingdom. The attendance of the High King and the others is out of respect to our family, the Eóghanacht. Our ancients tell us that when our ancestors first came to this island, so long ago that time has no meaning, two great warriors named Eibhear Fionn and Ererrion led them. They were brothers, the sons of Golamh, the progenitor of our people who died on the voyage here. Having fought the ancient gods and goddesses who dwelt here, and driven them underground into the sídhe, the hills, Eremon was given the northern half of the island to rule while Eibhear Fionn was given the southern half. From Eibhear Fionn are descended the Eóghanacht, our family, while from Eremon are descended the Uí Néill, which is the family of the current High King Sechnassach. Only our two families — the descendants of Eremon and Eibhear Fionn — are allowed to contest for the High Kingship. We sing the praises of twenty-four of the Eóghanacht who have sat in the seat of the High King until the days of Duach Donn Dalta Deagha, who was the last of our family to hold that office. The point is that the kingdom of Muman is the largest in this island and its kings are second to none, not even to the High King, although we pay homage to the concept of his office. It is out of respect for our ancestry, our traditions of kingship and our current strength in this land, that the High King comes to visit on the occasion of my sister’s wedding day. Likewise, that is why the other kings and nobles come to pay their respects at Cashel.’ He paused, and then his serious expression dissolved into a mischievous grin that marked his relationship to Fidelma, for Eadulf had seen that same grin on her features many times. ‘But I would like to think they also come out of respect for my sister as well, because her reputation as a dálaigh, an advocate of our law courts, is known in all the five kingdoms.’
Fidelma frowned and glanced quickly at Eadulf.
‘A reputation that is inseparably linked to that of Eadulf, without whom many a riddle would have
remained unsolved,’ she added quickly.
‘What. .?’ Colgú seemed puzzled for the moment before he realised his implied offence. ‘Of course, of course. It is a shame that none of your Saxon kinsmen will be attending, although I hear some compatriots of yours — exiled religious — seek to settle in this kingdom and will be present. I understand that Cerball, the bard, has spoken to you so that he might compose a forsundud, a praise-poem, about your own ancestry. A wedding is not seemly unless the genealogy of both parties can be recited before the company.’
Eadulf did not reply. He could not boast that he knew more than three or so generations of his family. That was nothing compared to the Eóghanacht who boasted fifty-nine generations between Colgú and Eibhear Fionn son of Golamh. In spite of Brother Conchobhar’s assurances, an hereditary gerefa or magistrate of his people was hardly the equal to an Eóghanacht princess. Not for the first time did Eadulf experience a feeling of insecurity. He was very much a stranger in a strange land.
Colgú seemed to sense the air of tension that caused both Fidelma and Eadulf to fall quiet.
‘How is little Alchú?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Your nephew is well,’ answered Fidelma brightly. ‘Muirgen, our nurse, has been a godsend. I have no fears of leaving the child with her and her husband Nessán when my duty as a lawyer bids me spend time away.’
‘He is growing apace,’ commented Colgú. ‘You have a fine son there, Eadulf.’
‘A fine son, indeed,’ Eadulf agreed quietly.
‘So all is ready for tomorrow?’ pressed Fidelma’s brother in a determined fashion.
‘As far as we are concerned,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I think you will forgive us for some trepidation,’ she added. ‘There is, as Eadulf has pointed out, such an illustrious audience for the ceremony. It makes us both very nervous.’
Colgú felt that she was making an excuse for Eadulf’s reticence. He wondered if there was something wrong between them. How could he approach it? Could he ask Eadulf to leave and question his sister directly? While he was hesitating, Fidelma stood up and put her goblet on a side tablet.
‘Brother, forgive us,’ she said. ‘But the hour grows late and we promised Abbot Laisran that we would speak to him before we prepare for tomorrow.’
‘Of course.’ Colgú sighed reluctantly. ‘Meanwhile, let us hope Brehon Baithen has persuaded Abbot Ultán to see some sense about his protest.’
The meeting with Abbot Laisran was a genuine arrangement. Laisran was a distant cousin, an Eóghanacht, who was abbot of the great teaching monastery at Durrow — Darú, the abbey on the oak plain. It was he who had persuaded Fidelma, after she had qualified as an advocate at the law school of Brehon Morann, to enter the religious life at St Brigid’s mixed house at Cill Dara. From the time she was a young girl, Fidelma had been advised and guided by the elderly abbot. Her father, Fáilbe Flann, who had been king of Muman, had died in the year of her birth and Laisran had taken his place.
The abbot was awaiting them in his chamber, seated before the fire and sipping at a goblet of mulled wine. It was a position which Fidelma always associated with him. Laisran rose awkwardly as they entered in answer to his invitation. He was a short, rotund, red-faced man. His face proclaimed a permanent state of jollity, for he had been born with a rare gift of humour and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. When he smiled, it was no faint-hearted parting of the lips but an expression that welled from the depths of his being, bright and all-encouraging. And when he laughed it was as though the whole earth trembled in accompaniment.
‘Fidelma! Eadulf! You are both welcome. Is all well? I received your request to speak to me before the momentous events that are due to take place tomorrow.’
Fidelma took a seat before the fire while Eadulf brought a spare chair and seated himself beside her. Laisran had resumed his seat and was offering them wine from the jug that sat by the glowing hearth. They both declined, much to his surprise, and he refilled his own goblet.
‘Do you know Abbot Ultán?’ Fidelma asked without preamble.
‘Ultán of the Uí Thuirtrí?’ Laisran chuckled sourly. ‘I have met him once or twice at councils. He aspires to be a leader of the Faith — alas, he has no sense of humour and humour is one of the foundations on which saintliness must repose. I have heard strange tales about his life before he entered the religious. But it is not my place to spread rumour.’
‘He has arrived in Cashel to protest at my wedding,’ said Fidelma softly.
Abbot Laisran did not seem surprised. ‘It is just the sort of thing he would do. He sees himself as a great reformer of our churches here in the five kingdoms. He has become a leading advocate of the Roman rules, of the introduction of the Penitentials, even arguing them to the exclusion of our native laws. He also seeks to get Ard Macha acknowledged as the primatial church in the five kingdoms. Particularly, he believes in celibacy among the religious and abstinence from wine and other intoxicating beverages. He has picked up strange ideas from the eastern churches concerning self-punishment, the use of a flagellum to suppress impure thoughts. Instead of preaching a word of joy, I fear that he would have the world descend into a sad, grey place.’
Eadulf could not suppress his smile at Abbot Laisran’s vivid description of the man. ‘It seems that you know him well enough, then.’
Abbot Laisran nodded solemnly. ‘I shall be doing my best to avoid him while he is in Cashel. He would certainly disapprove of me.’ He paused and looked at Fidelma thoughtfully. ‘Surely you are not worried about Ultán? You have heard the arguments about celibacy a thousand times. You cannot let his prejudices ruin tomorrow. Spoken words vanish in the air.’
‘Though there is no bone in the tongue, it has often broken a person’s head,’ she replied, using an old proverb.
Abbot Laisran grinned and shook his head. ‘When Ultán stands up and speaks, he is recognised for what he is. One should feel sorrow for a person who is so unhappy that he needs must make others join him in that sad world.’
‘There is something else I wish to speak of to you,’ Fidelma said. ‘Indeed, I have been giving it much thought.’ She paused for a moment and Abbot Laisran waited politely for her to continue. ‘As you know, when I left the school of Brehon Morann, I followed your advice to enter into the religious life. Do you recall the reasons why you gave me that advice?’
Abbot Laisran nodded thoughtfully.
‘You wanted independence from your family,’ he replied. ‘Independence to practise law. In these days most of the professions can be found within the abbeys and ecclesiastical schools throughout the land, just as in the old days it was the Druids and their colleges who took over all the professional and intellectual functions of society. I advised that if you entered into the religious it would provide you with security and the base to practise law. I have been proved right.’
‘I do not understand,’ Eadulf said, leaning forward. ‘Why would Fidelma lack security by not entering the religious? She is the daughter of a king and the sister of a king.’
‘And she would have become reliant on the status of her family and, as I understood it, Fidelma wanted to rely on her own talent,’ replied Abbot Laisran. ‘Is that not so?’
Fidelma smiled quickly in response. ‘To enter a religious house in order to pursue a career in law was but a stepping stone for me. I cannot say that I was really an advocate of the Faith.’
‘So what troubles you now?’
‘I find a conflict between my commitment to the law and what many people see as my lack of commitment to the institutions of the religious. In fact, the matter was underscored only a short while ago when Brehon Baithen suggested that a way of dealing with Abbot Ultán’s protests would be to simply disclaim my vow to serve’ the Faith.’
Abbot Laisran’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘But that would mean that Eadulf also would have to disclaim his vow. Is that what you both want?’
Eadulf leaned forward.
‘Would you advise me to withdraw from the religious?’ Fidelma interrupted.
‘Withdraw?’ echoed Abbot Laisran as if he had not heard aright.
‘Resign from the religious,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘My profession is law, not the propagating of the Faith. There are many others who are better advocates in that field. I have no calling to do so, as you would say.’
Abbot Laisran glanced at Eadulf.
‘And what do you say to this, Brother Eadulf?’ he asked with a slight emphasis on the title Bráthair.
‘It is a choice that Fidelma must make first. I am content as things are at present. There are many religious who live life as we do without being forced to make such decisions. Many an abbot, many a bishop as well, marry and raise children, and pursue their interests in areas where the question of whether they should resign their ecclesiastical offices never occurs.’
‘This is entirely my own idea, Laisran,’ Fidelma added. ‘Even before Brehon Baithen suggested it tonight.’
‘And how did you answer him?’
‘I answered him that to withdraw from the religious simply to stop Abbot Ultán’s protest would be wrong. I should withdraw because it was my wish, and Eadulf’s wish, that I do so.’
Abbot Laisran pouted a little. His usually cherubic face saddened.
‘We must all follow our own path. I do not see that you need take this final step. After all, your current position is more or less that of a lay person. It is well known that you have already left your mother house at Cill Dara and dissociated yourself from it.’
‘Left it but not resigned from the religious,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Marriage and motherhood are difficult at the best of times. I am also a dálaigh, but to be a religieuse as well is too difficult. I need advice, Laisran.’
A Prayer for the Damned sf-17 Page 6