The Abbot Laisran gazed down at his feet and uttered a deep sigh as if faced by a hopeless situation.
‘It is advice that your husband is now better able to give,’ he said. ‘Brother Eadulf, you have said it is a choice that Fidelma must make. But yours should be the voice that she listens to.’
Eadulf shrugged. ‘My advice is to let things be. I have already said so. There is no reason why she should make any decision. During this last year, the months of our trial marriage and the birth of little Alchú, very few have remonstrated with us about our relationship, and those few are those whose views are not worth listening to.’
Abbot Laisran smiled quickly.
‘And Abbot Ultán falls into that category,’ he said, turning to Fidelma. ‘Is it that you are really concerned about his protest?’
Fidelma shook her head. ‘I have said it would be wrong to do something simply to avoid confrontation with such a person as Ultán. I simply think that I need to order my life.’
‘Ah! To order your life?’ Abbot Laisran sat back with eyes half closed. His inflection seemed to imply that he had understood a great deal by her remark. ‘And you seek my advice? So, you feel that Eadulf’s advice is not good enough?’
Fidelma looked disappointed.
‘It sounds as if you agree with Eadulf,’ she said truculently.
Abbot Laisran chuckled. ‘And if I do, does that change your mind? If you feel Eadulf gives you such bad advice, then I fear for your future together.’
Fidelma coloured hotly. ‘That is not what I meant. I fully appreciate what Eadulf’s views are. But, forgive me, he is biased. You have given me good advice in the past, Laisran.’
‘And I shall give it to you in the future,’ assured the abbot. ‘For now, even as you listen to him, also listen to your own heart. You might find that you are hearing the same thing.’
Brehon Baithen, with Caol, the youthful commander of the guard, at his side, was making his way towards the chambers set aside for Abbot Ultán. As befitted his rank, Ultán had been given one of the guest chambers in the palace. While religieux guests of lesser rank were assigned to quarters in the town, Abbot Ultán had created such an altercation that a chamber had been allocated to his steward, Brother Drón, nearby. The females of his entourage had been given places in the hostel set aside for them in another part of the palace.
Baithen himself was very aware that he was ultimately responsible for the security of the many distinguished guests who had gathered at Cashel. He had scarcely settled into his new position as brehon of Muman and he realised there were many who resented the fact that he had displaced the old brehon Dathal. But Dathal had needed to be forcibly retired for he had been making too many mistakes in his judgements. It had been hard to allow Dathal to remain in office after the unjustified accusation of the murder of Bisop Petrán against Brother Eadulf.
Bishop Petrán! Brehon Baithen sighed. He had been of the same ilk as Bishop Ultán; firmly set in his beliefs and narrow interpretations, asserting his authority and determined to make people conform without compromise. As a judge of the laws of the Fénechus, Baithen had often come into conflict with Petrán who had wanted to follow the foreign laws and rules of Rome. Baithen could not repress the thought that if he followed the same laws, then he could have had Abbot Ultán thrown out of Cashel immediately without consideration of his rights. The Roman rules, the Penitentials as they were called, which some bishops and abbots wanted to adopt, did not have the same liberality of attitude that the Fénechus law allowed.
It was with these thoughts that Brehon Baithen turned into the quarter where chambers had been assigned for the northern prelate.
As he and Caol entered the gloomy corridor, lit by smoky oil lanterns hanging at strategic points along it, the guard commander said: ‘Abbot Ultán’s chamber is the last one along here.’ He indicated a door that was set in the corner where the corridor turned sharply at a right angle. Whilst the door was set in the corridor along which they were preceding, it actually faced towards that part of the corridor that was hidden from them.
It was at that moment that a figure backed out of the very door Caol was indicating. It was a tall man wrapped in a multi-coloured cloak. His hair was long, black and shoulder-length. There was tension in his stance as he took a step backward into the corridor. He seemed to be staring straight into the room from which he had exited. Then, without noticing Brehon Baithen and Caol, the man turned and disappeared into the other section of the corridor.
Baithen and Caol had halted in momentary surprise, exchanging glances. Then they hurried to the open door of Abbot Ultán’s chamber.
A lamp lit the interior. The first impression was of a room that was neat and tidy. But the lamp lit the bed and on it sprawled a figure lying on its back, dressed in the robes of a rich religieux. They were darkly stained. The flesh of the face was white, the eyes wide and staring. The whole expression seemed one of comical surprise but there was nothing comical about the scene. The dark stains were blood and the man was dead. The body was that of Ultán, abbot of Cill Ria and bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí, the emissary from Ard Macha.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fidelma had imagined that she had only just gone to sleep but here was Muirgen, her attendant, shaking her arm and urging her to wake immediately.
She blinked and yawned.
‘Surely it is not time yet?’ she protested. Then she realised that the room was still shrouded in darkness with only the flickering light of the lamp that Muirgen held at shoulder level to relieve the gloom. Suddenly, she was wide awake and registering the worried tone in Muirgen’s voice. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘It is urgent, lady. Your brother wishes you to attend him at once.’
Fidelma sat up and stared at the woman.
This was to be her wedding day and she had been expecting to lie in until the first light of dawn before rising to toilet and break her fast and begin the rituals for the ceremony. She blinked again. The chill in the room coupled with the darkness told her that it was long before dawn.
‘There is something wrong,’ she said sharply, rising from her bed. ‘What has happened?’
Muirgen shook her head quickly. ‘I know not, lady, but something stirs. Your brother, the king, has sent to ask for your immediate attendance in his private chamber. I have no idea what this portends.’
‘Is Eadulf all right?’ was her next anxious question.
‘He is still sound asleep in his chamber, lady,’ was the reassuring response.
Fidelma was not one to waste time on further questions that could not be answered. She went to the side table and washed her face and hands in the bowl of cold water which already stood in a corner of the room. It was not the custom to bathe in the morning but to wash one’s face and hands, aided by sléic, a soap, and dry them with a linen cloth. Fidelma hurried through this process, known as indlut, while Muirgen sorted out, a dress and then came to hand her a cíor and the small scáth-derc or mirror. Fidelma did not usually use much in the way of make-up or personal ornaments, so her toilet was quickly accomplished.
Because of the cold of the early morning, Muirgen had wisely chosen an undergarment of linen over which was drawn a woollen dress of sober colouring. As Fidelma slipped into her shoes, Muirgen handed her a small bratt which fitted round the shoulders and came down to just below the waistline.
Fidelma left her chamber and hurried quickly along the corridor. She almost hesitated at the door of the room which had been assigned to Eadulf. It was true that during this last year they had been legally married and shared the same chambers but at this time there was a tradition to be upheld. Yesterday they had formerly separated. That marked the end of their trial marriage and they would not be intimately together again until their new formal contract was agreed under the laws of the lánamnus. She wondered if she should wake Eadulf but immediately decided against it. Whatever the problem that caused her brother to rouse her in the middle of the night, it was up to him to dec
ide if it was Eadulf’s concern or not.
She hurriedly made her way along the corridors to her brother’s private apartments. Two warriors stood on guard in the antechamber, as was usual day and night, and, seeing her coming, one of them immediately went to an inner door and knocked once before opening it for her to pass through. The door was closed behind her.
In the chamber, Colgú came to greet her with a worried look. She glanced swiftly to where Brehon Baithen was struggling to rise from his seat and signalled him to remain seated.
‘There has been a murder,’ blurted Colgú as he waved her to a chair near the fire.
Fidelma composed her astonishment.
‘Who has been murdered?’ she asked quietly, as she seated herself.
‘Abbot Ultán.’
A blink of the eyes was the only registration of the information. Fidelma was already working out the consequences. Abbot Ultán murdered; not only an emissary from the Comarb of the Blessed Patrick at Ard Macha but a guest from the northern kingdom of Ulaidh. These were matters of great concern.
Colgú turned to his brehon and gestured towards him. ‘Tell her the details.
Brehon Baithen made a helpless gesture with his hand. ‘It is simple enough. A short time ago, Abbot Ultán was stabbed to death in his chamber.’
‘And the perpetrator of this deed?’ asked Fidelma, her voice calm. ‘Is he or she known?’
Brehon Baithen sighed and nodded. ‘As chance would have it, Caol and I were on our way to speak with Ultán, as had been agreed when we met here. Turning into the corridor that led to his chamber, we saw the culprit leaving it. .’ He paused dramatically.
Fidelma suppressed her impatience and waited.
Realising that she was not going to respond to his pause but was awaiting his announcement, Baithen continued: ‘It was Muirchertach Nár of the Uí Fiachracha.’
At the name a troubled frown crossed Fidelma’s brow.
‘The king of Connacht? Are you sure?’
Brehon Baithen looked pained. ‘My eyesight is not at fault. Neither is that of Caol. It was Muirchertach Nár without a doubt. And after we called old Brother Conchobhar, the apothecary, to come and examine the body, we went straightway to the chambers of the Connacht king.’
Fidelma’s eyes widened a little. ‘And?’
‘We challenged him, said that we had seen him hurrying from the chamber and demanded to know his explanation.’
‘What was his response?’
This time Brehon Baithen gave a hint of a shrug. ‘As one would expect from such a noble. He said that he would make no statement nor comment other than that he was not responsible for the death of Abbot Ultán.’
‘This does not bode well, Fidelma,’ Colgú added, his handsome features drawn into a worried frown. ‘An abbot, who is an emissary from Ard Macha, is slain; a king of Connacht is charged, and at the very time when the princes of the five kingdoms are gathered here to witness your wedding. There will be much suspicion among them until this matter is resolved.’
Fidelma did not have to be told why her brother was so concerned but she was not sure why he had summoned her in the middle of the night and said so.
Colgú looked even more uncomfortable. He glanced at Baithen as if imploring his help. The brehon of Muman cleared his throat.
‘As you doubtless know, lady, a king has certain privileges. .’ He hesitated. ‘Muirchertach has. . he has demanded the right to choose his own counsel to prove his innocence.’
Fidelma’s expression was suddenly grimly set. She guessed what was coming.
‘Today is my wedding day,’ she said coldly. She could not feel for the loss of Abbot Ultán; she had never met him, and after what she had heard about him she was not overly concerned about his demise. Her mind only concerned itself with the legal aspect of his death, and the disruption it was causing.
Colgú gestured with his open hands as if in apology. ‘Unless the murder of Abbot Ultán is resolved before the ceremonies, I think our distinguished guests will depart in suspicion and anger. There may even be war among the kingdoms, for many will ask how Ultán came to be slain in Cashel. Why was he not protected by his host?’
Brehon Baithen looked uncomfortable. ‘Caol has admitted that when Abbot Ultán arrived he demanded in front of witnesses that a warrior should be placed at his chamber door. It was not done.’
Fidelma was surprised at that. ‘It is unlike Caol to be irresponsible.’
‘Apparently, he initially asked Dego to fulfil this task, but with so many lords and princes in the fortress there was much to be done, and Dego was needed elsewhere. Besides, very few guests had retired for the night by then. That was why we were on our way to see Abbot Ultán. I have assured Caol that no blame attaches to him,’ the brehon told her.
Colgú’s features were woebegone. ‘This failure of protection lies at my door. Questions will be raised. It will be asked, was there enmity because of my chief bishop, Abbot Ségdae of Imleach? There will be reference to the argument when he refused to comply with Ultán’s demand for recognition of Ard Macha. Was there some conspiracy to silence Ultán because it was known he would raise objections to the wedding of my sister?’
‘That is nonsense!’ exploded Fidelma.
‘You know it,’ conceded Colgú. ‘But will those in the northern kingdoms know it?’
Fidelma lowered her head as she thought through the implications. Colgú was right. Under the laws of hospitality, it was his duty to resolve the matter. All the guests who had come to Cashel, including Abbot Ultán, were under the protection of the king. The death of a guest was the crime of díguin, violation of protection. If the matter was not resolved and the culprit made known, then Colgú himself could lose his honour price, be removed as king and be forced into paying the appropriate fines and compensation. Restitution had to be made. Fidelma realised that the Eóghanacht — indeed, Cashel itself-could become mallachtach — accursed. Colgú must be seen to be beyond reproach in this matter.
‘So Muirchertach has demanded that I should be his advocate?’ she finally asked, her voice resigned. ‘Where is he now?’
‘A king has rights and he has the liberty of Cashel until the hearing is held. As king of Connacht he has given his parole’ — Colgú used the term gell, meaning the ‘word of honour’ usually given by noble prisoners of war and hostages — ‘that he will not leave before the hearing exonerates him, as he says. I am afraid that we are in no position to refuse his request for us to defend him.’
Fidelma smiled faintly at Colgú’s attempt to shoulder responsibility with her by the use of the plural form. ‘I understand. Who will sit in judgement when the hearing is convened?’
‘Who else but Barrán, Chief Brehon of the Five Kingdoms? I have asked him to attend us and perhaps it is fortunate that he is here with the High King because none of the northern kings or princes will be able to argue with his decisions.’
Fidelma nodded slightly in agreement. ‘If I am to defend the king of Connacht, who will prosecute him?’
At that moment, there was a tap on the door and it was swung open by one of the guards to allow a tall man of indiscernible age, clad in robes that denoted high rank, to pass into the chamber. The man halted in mid-chamber and inclined his head in token deference to Colgú. His bright eyes, unblinking, set close to his prominent nose, gave him a stern expression. But as they alighted on Fidelma, his thin lips parted in a smile of greeting.
‘I have heard your reputation has much increased since our last meeting at Ferna, in the kingdom of Laigin, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he said.
‘A reputation that is undeserved, Barran,’ replied Fidelma. ‘Only my few successes seem to be talked about and not my many failures.’
The Chief Brehon’s smile broadened. ‘Your success at Ferna and our previous encounter at Ros Alithir was a clear demonstration that your reputation is well deserved. However, I did not expect to meet you before I was due to congratulate you after your wedding.’ He glanced to Co
lgú and Baithen, whom he had already encountered on his arrival. His mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘Your messenger has informed me of the matter in hand.’
Colgú waved Barrán to a chair.
‘Have you been told why I have asked you to join us?’ he asked.
Barrán made an affirmative gesture. ‘You wish me to preside at the hearing of Muirchertach Nár for the murder of Abbot Ultán of Cill Ria?’
‘Exactly so.’
‘I accept, of course. As Muirchertach Nár is king of the cóicead of Connacht it is, perhaps, lucky that I am here for reasons that have more to do with politics than with justice.’
Colgú smiled.
‘An observation already made, Barrán,’ he said. ‘Muirchertach Nár has demanded his right to choose his advocate and he has chosen Fidelma.’
Barrán glanced quickly at her. ‘Have you responded to this request?’
‘I have agreed, although Muirchertach Nár is not yet informed of that decision,’ Fidelma replied.
‘Again, that is good from a political viewpoint so far as Connacht is concerned. It is also good for justice so far as Muirchertach Nár is personally concerned, for he is now assured of an able advocate. Now, who is to prosecute this matter?’
‘I asked that same question before you arrived, Barrán,’ Fidelma replied.
Baithen stirred uneasily. ‘The crime was committed here in Cashel and in the palace of the king. Even though I am a witness, it behoves me to prosecute as brehon of Muman.’
Fidelma looked thoughtful.
‘Would you not be excluded from one role or the other?’ she asked mildly. ‘I would have thought the berrad airechta, the law on persons excluded from giving evidence, would be the basis for challenging you on this.’
Baithen was surprised. ‘Are you challenging my right to prosecute? On what point of law?’
‘If you are a witness, it conflicts with your role as prosecutor, for as prosecutor it is to your advantage to secure a conviction. A man cannot give evidence if it could bring advantage to himself. That is the law.’
A Prayer for the Damned sf-17 Page 7