A Prayer for the Damned sf-17

by Peter Tremayne

  They could hear the game long before they passed the last of the houses and came on the open meadow. The shouts and cheers of the people gathered around the faithche were noisy enough, and the pair moved forward to a point where they could see the action on the field. There were two teams, and the aim was to drive the ball into the opponents’ goal, or berna, with a wooden stick.

  Eadulf found the game exciting, for the swinging ash clubs could easily inflict not just bruises and cuts but serious injuries. For the players it was warfare by another means. The shouts of instruction and curses when a strategy went wrong came thick and fast as the young men pushed sometimes one way and sometimes the other. To Eadulf it looked like a mad uproar with few rules, but when he mentioned this to Fidelma she shook her head.

  ‘Our laws are strict about this game, Eadulf. See, there is Brehon Baithen observing the game to see they are obeyed. To strike a deliberate blow against another player, for example, is punishable by a fine.’

  ‘There are other laws to protect spectators and, indeed, even to protect the field itself,’ a voice echoed behind them.

  They glanced round and found Abbot Augaire standing there, looking amused. ‘I did not think you would have time to watch this diversion,’ he observed.

  Fidelma’s chin came up a little. ‘It is not for diversion that we are here, Abbot Augaire,’ she told him. ‘You suggested that we should speak with Fergus Fanat, who is apparently among the players.’

  Abbot Augaire smiled. ‘Ah, just so. I should have realised that you would not be attracted to this entertainment when there was an abbot’s murder to be resolved.’

  ‘Which of the players is Fergus Fanat?’ pressed Fidelma, ignoring his cynical tone.

  ‘You see the short, muscular man with the long raven-coloured hair? The one now out in front striking at the ball? That is Fergus Fanat. He leads the team from the northern kingdoms against the locals.’

  Fidelma realised that her cousin Finguine mac Cathal, Colgú’s heir apparent or tánaiste, was the leader of the second team.

  ‘How long until the end of the game?’ she demanded.

  ‘Not long,’ replied Augaire. ‘Three times more must the bowl fill with water.’

  He nodded to where Brehon Baithen was standing, another man was sitting before a water clock with which he was timing the progress of the game. The bowl to which Augaire had referred was placed on the surface of a tub of water. It had a small hole in its base so that it gradually filled and sank, after which it was taken out and emptied and the process was repeated. The bowl had to sink a prescribed number of times to measure the length of the game.

  Fidelma’s wandering gaze was suddenly attracted by a figure in the crowd behind Brehon Baithen, a slight female figure wearing a religious robe. The girl looked attractive. Her gaze seemed to be fixed on the players on the field as though she was fascinated by the game. For a moment, Fidelma wondered who she was.

  Just then there was a shout of protest from the field. The players suddenly bunched into a group, shouting at each other. Brehon Baithen quickly hurried on to the faithche.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Eadulf, frowning.

  ‘One of the players is protesting a foul. He says that two opposing players jostled him before he had possession of the ball.’

  The argument seemed short. Brehon Baithen had made some decision and the game recommenced.

  Abbot Augaire gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Do you realise, my Saxon friend,’ he confided to Eadulf, ‘that it was at the site of my own abbey of Conga, on the plain of Maigh Éo, where it is said the very first recorded game of immán was played?’

  ‘I knew it was an ancient game,’ Eadulf replied unenthusiastically, anticipating a lecture.

  ‘It is said that when the Fir Bolg were waging war against the Tuatha Dé Danann it was agreed to settle their differences by playing such a game.’

  ‘There are many such old tales about the game,’ Fidelma put in quickly. ‘Setanta was said to be the greatest player of his day. Wasn’t it with his ball and stick that he slew the hound of Culann so that he had to offer to replace it and thus earned his new name: Cúchulainn — the hound of Culann?’

  There was suddenly a great cheering. The game was apparently over and it became obvious that it was the team from Cashel who had won it.

  With a curt nod to Abbot Augaire, Fidelma led the way through the milling crowd to where she had last seen Fergus Fanat. They found him seated with some colleagues, wiping his face on a linen cloth and taking swallows from a goblet of cider. In spite of their defeat, there was good humour among the northern team and much talk of how this or that point should have been played.

  Fidelma was aware again of the young female religieuse, who appeared to be waiting on the edge of the group of players. She saw that Eadulf was also examining her with curiosity.

  ‘Do you recognise her?’ she whispered.

  ‘I can’t be sure. I think it is one of the two religieuse who accompanied Ultán. I saw them briefly when they arrived.’

  While it was not unusual to find a woman so fascinated by the game and with the players, Fidelma found it odd that a member of Ultán’s entourage would have forsaken the mourning of her murdered superior to come down to watch the contest. Then she dismissed the matter from her mind.

  Fergus Fanat looked up as Fidelma and Eadulf approached. He rose to his feet, apparently recognising her.

  ‘I am surprised to see you here, lady.’ He smiled uncertainly, handing his goblet to one of his fellow players.

  ‘Do you know me, Fergus Fanat?’ she asked.

  ‘You were pointed out to me when we arrived at your brother’s fortress yesterday.’ He glanced at Eadulf. ‘And you must be Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’

  There was something likeable in the open-featured, friendly scrutiny of the young man. Eadulf smiled back. ‘I am.’

  ‘I am sorry that the plans for this day have had to be delayed, lady.’ The northern noble turned back to Fidelma. ‘I have heard that Muirchertach Nár has demanded that you conduct his defence. It seems a selfish thing to do in the circumstances.’

  Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Selfish?’

  ‘Knowing that this was to be your wedding day, he could have chosen another to represent him in law.’

  ‘It is his right to demand whom he pleases in his defence,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘When a man, even a king, is accused of murder, then he is entitled to some degree of selfishness.’

  Fergus Fanat chuckled. ‘You are right, lady. I suppose that I am not overly concerned at the death of Ultán.’

  ‘That is precisely why I have sought you out.’

  A look of surprise crossed Fergus Fanat’s features. ‘To talk of my lack of concern?’ He gestured around him. ‘I think you will be hard pressed to find many who will mourn him.’

  ‘To talk of the reasons why that is so. Why is there this unconcern over the murder of an abbot from your own territory?’ She glanced at the man’s fellow players, several of whom were standing within hearing of their conversation, and added: ‘I am sorry. Perhaps you would like to walk with us awhile?’

  Fergus Fanat put down his towel and nodded.

  ‘I need to return to the fortress to bathe,’ he said. ‘The game was quite arduous. Let us go back.’

  They fell in step, Fergus Fanat walking between Fidelma and Eadulf, as they crossed the field. The spectators were quickly vanishing but for a few people here and there engaged in talk. No one bothered them. Again Fidelma was aware of the young religieuse. The girl stood hesitantly and then, noticing that Fidelma had glanced at her, turned and hurried away after the crowd.

  ‘I presume that you did not like Abbot Ultán?’ Fidelma began.

  ‘I did not kill him, if that is where your questions are leading, lady,’ replied Fergus Fanat quickly and with assurance.

  ‘They are not. . as yet.’ She smiled. ‘Why didn’t you like him?’

  ‘He was not a likeable person.’


  ‘Surely that depends on an individual’s subjective view? Even the worst people are often liked, even loved, by someone,’ Eadulf pointed out.

  Fergus Fanat laughed with good humour. ‘Forgive me, Brother Eadulf. I am no philosopher. I am a simple warrior.’

  ‘In the service of Blathmac, king of Ulaidh?’

  ‘In the service of my cousin,’ confirmed the young man, laying slight emphasis on his relationship to the king.

  ‘So can you be more specific as to why you disliked Ultán?’

  The northern noble grimaced. ‘Indeed I can. Perhaps I should start with a story told me by my father, who was Bressal, brother of Máel Coba, who was then king of Ulaidh. He knew of Ultán when he was a young man, Ultán was a wild, profane and wayward youth.’

  Fidelma’s brow rose slightly. ‘This same Abbot Ultán who was emissary of the Comarb of Patrick at Ard Macha?’ Her voice was slightly sceptical.

  ‘The very same. In his younger days he was a godless man. He was a thief and murderer, a dissolute and a womaniser.’

  ‘It is hard to believe,’ said Eadulf. ‘I thought he was one of the great reformers of the church — one who welcomes the strict rules of Rome.’

  ‘I will tell you the story,’ Fergus Fanat went on. ‘In his youth, Ultán was named Uallgarg, the proud and fierce. That’s what he was. He cared nothing for anyone and answered to no authority. He was caught several times by the king’s bodyguard and brought before the brehons for judgement. He refused their justice and went on his way as before. Then he fell in with a beautiful young girl whom he debauched. He shamed her by making her pregnant and then abandoning her.’

  ‘You are repeating the story told you by your father,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘In law this is inadmissible. How do you know that this was a true account?’

  Fergus Fanat glanced at her for a moment and then grimaced sadly.

  ‘The girl in question was my aunt,’ he said softly. ‘Her child was stillborn and she never recovered. Her mind fled her body and she lived in a world of her own — I remember her. I was fifteen summers old. She became a simpleton and died before her time.’ He sighed deeply. ‘To be truthful, I let out a shout of joy when I heard that someone had killed Ultán. My only regret was that it was not I.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Fidelma and Eadulf both paused in mid-stride at the quiet vehemence in the young man’s voice. Then they resumed their pacing alongside him.

  ‘In view of what you have just said,’ Fidelma said quietly, ‘perhaps, before we continue further, it might be best to tell us what you were doing when Ultán was killed last night.’

  Fergus Fanat was not offended. In fact, he gave a deep chuckle.

  ‘If I had any sense I would have been in bed, for I am told it was around midnight that Ultán was killed in his chamber: However, I confess that I was drinking with some comrades of mine who serve in the Fianna of the High King.’

  The Fianna were the High King’s élite bodyguards, just as the kings of Cashel boasted their élite warriors, the Nasc Niadh. Each king of a cóicead, one of the five kingdoms, had his warrior élite.

  ‘And these comrades can vouch for that?’

  The dark-haired man grinned at her. ‘If any were sober enough to remember. I barely made it back to my bed.’

  ‘What puzzles me,’ Eadulf intervened, ‘is how this man, Uallgarg as you call him, could transform himself into Ultán, the pious abbot and bishop who was so trusted by the Comarb of Patrick at Ard Macha? Brother Drón sings his praises as a great church reformer.’

  ‘That is easy to answer, my friend,’ replied Fergus Fanat. ‘As I said, Uallgarg was a godless and intemperate man who won himself many enemies. He pushed the brehons to the limits and Fínally to the farthest limit of all. They deemed that he was so incorrigible that nothing more could be done with him except that he be given to the judgement of the sea.’

  Eadulf noticed that Fidelma actually shivered.

  ‘The cinad ó muir?’ she whispered.

  ‘What is this judgement of the sea?’ he queried, not having heard the term before.

  ‘In extreme cases,’ she explained, ‘after continued breaking of the law in crimes involving death, the offender, after due hearing, is put into a boat with food and water for one day. Then he is towed out of sight of land and left to the judgement of the wind and the waves. . in other words, to the judgement of the sea, or, as the Faith would say, that of God.’

  Fergus Fanat nodded quickly in agreement. ‘That was exactly how it was. Uallgarg was towed far out to sea and left.’

  ‘And survived?’ The answer to Eadulf’s question was obvious.

  ‘Three days later his boat was cast ashore on the coast not far from the spot where he had been towed out. He was alive,’ confirmed Fergus Fanat.

  ‘Surely, then, he could have been killed by those who found him?’ Eadulf asked.

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘There were two ways in which he could have been treated. Because God had given His judgement, the culprit’s kin could have taken him back into their family as a duine dligthech, a lawful person. But if they did not wish to do so, then he would have lost all rights and become a fuidir.’

  Eadulf knew that this was the lowest class in society: ‘non-freemen’ who were usually criminals of the worst order, cowards who deserted their clan when needed, men who no longer had the right to bear arms or take any political part within the clan, who were restricted in their movements and had to redeem themselves by work.

  ‘The fuidir cinad ó muir,’ agreed Fergus Fanat.

  ‘So what happened to Uallgarg?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘No one wanted him except the old abbot of Cill Ria, which is near the coast. The old man wanted a servant who would do all the really hard work of the abbey. He made Uallgarg an offer. The only offer — to be driven out to sea again or to enter the abbey and work. Uallgarg made his choice for life but then threw himself into the part with great piety. He claimed that he had seen a vision on the sea and henceforth was a changed man. He said that he was born again — renamed himself Ultán, which, as you may know, Brother Saxon, simply means a man of Ulaidh. For a few years he did all the tasks at Cill Ria that he was asked to perform. He was more pious than any of his fellows. The old abbot, who was also bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí, was convinced that a real change had come over him and not only accepted him as a member of the community but ordained him as a priest.’

  Eadulf was shaking his head. ‘It sounds improbable.’

  ‘Nevertheless, there have been some examples of this happening before,’ said Fidelma. ‘There was another case in Ulaidh. That of a man named Mac Cuill.’

  ‘You know of him?’ Fergus Fanat seemed surprised. ‘That was many, many years ago.’ He glanced to the puzzled face of Eadulf and explained: ‘He, too, was a thief and murderer who was likewise cast into the sea in a boat. The wind and tide washed him ashore in Elian Vannin, the island of Manannán Mac Lir — the old god of the oceans — which is situated between this island and that of Britain. He, too, claimed that he had seen a vision and converted to the Faith and eventually became a bishop on the island, where they venerate him down to this day.’

  ‘So Uallgarg, or Ultán, repented and became a devout Christian?’ said Eadulf.

  Fergus Fanat sniffed disparagingly. ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘But the Comarb of Patrick, the abbot of Ard Macha, placed him in a favoured position,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘He was the emissary of Ard Macha.’

  ‘Uallgarg or Ultán certainly did well for himself. From a humble fuidir working to save his life in the abbey of Cill Ria, in a few years he had become abbot. The old abbot wrote a fulsome letter of praise just before he died to Ard Macha about his prodigy.’

  ‘Was there anything suspicious about the old abbot’s death?’ Eadulf queried sceptically.

  The warrior grimaced. ‘Some people seemed to think so.’

  ‘Do you have any facts to establish that?’ Fidelma asked quickly.<
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  ‘It was just gossip at the time,’ replied Fergus Fanat with a shake of his head. ‘But given his past record, it fits in with his ambition and ruthlessness. A wolf in lamb’s clothing is still a wolf,’ he added, resorting to an old saying. ‘There were many stories that he had not really departed from his old ways.’

  ‘Are you claiming that Ultán — we will stick to the name by which he is now accepted — was still a thief and murderer?’

  Fergus Fanat shrugged indifferently. ‘Obviously, he did not need to be the type of thief that he once was. Cill Ria is a wealthy community. Once he had control of it he did not need to take to the highways. But as for the rest, his women and. .’

  ‘I thought he didn’t believe in mixed houses, or relationships among the religious?’ Fidelma said quickly. ‘He was supposed to be a strict follower of the Penitentials.’

  ‘That!’ Fergus Fanat grimaced. ‘What he says, he does for show. Cill Ria was a conhospitae. Then he divided it into separate buildings, a community for males and one for females a short distance away. He claims the community of Cill Ria is a community of celibates. I doubt it.’

  Fidelma was looking troubled. ‘These are very grave charges that you bring against Ultán. I have to ask you, are you alone in holding these views, or do they have some currency with your cousin the king, Blathmac? Presumably the abbot of Ard Macha does not believe in them, otherwise Ultán would not have been his emissary.’

  ‘You will have to ask them,’ Fergus Fanat said dismissively. ‘I merely give my own views, which are based on what I know.’

  ‘What you are saying is that Ultán was a fraud and liar. That these reforms and demands from the Comarb of Ard Macha meant nothing to him except as a means to reinforce his position of power.’