Penance of the Damned (Sister Fidelma)

by Peter Tremayne

  Conrí had ordered some of his warriors to confine Abbot Nannid and Brother Cuineáin in the great hall to await the outcome of what was about to happen.

  Fidelma viewed the scene with some foreboding. There was no way of defending the township or the walled community of Nechta. Already there was panic and confusion as men, women and children ran hither and thither to find shelter. Mothers were screaming at their wandering children, others seemed to be standing, paralysed in despair. There would be nowhere to hide once the marauders crossed the bridge. It was obvious that the township would be attacked first.

  The question of how the marauders had managed to get so close to the town was answered as they scrutinised the lines of mounted raiders on the far side of the bridge across the river. A line of nine men with arms bound behind them were being marched in front of a couple of horsemen across the bridge and into the main square. They were made to turn in a line facing the fortress and halted. Ceit viewed them bitterly. ‘My sentinels, each one surprised and caught. That is why we had no warning. Gláed is obviously mocking us by bringing them here to slaughter them in front of our eyes before he attacks.’

  It became clear that the marauders intended no surprise attack, for three riders now detached themselves from the main body and trotted their horses across the bridge, swinging round to the path that led up to the fortress gates. One of the three riders was a techtaire, a herald, who rode in front of the others. He carried a long blue silk banner dancing in the wind from its staff – and on the blue silk they could make out the figure of a raven. Behind him rode a second man carrying a bronze war trumpet which he now blew several times as they approached. The third rider was obviously their leader.

  ‘That’s unusual,’ Conrí muttered. ‘The ravening wolves of Sliabh Luachra don’t usually announce their presence before they strike.’

  ‘What are they doing?’ Prince Donennach asked, licking at his dry lips.

  ‘I think they want to speak to us,’ replied Conrí in surprise.

  ‘Keep the gates closed.’ Prince Donennach was suspicious. ‘They can talk from below.’

  The three horsemen halted as they came abreast of the tall pillar stone with its ancient Ogham inscription naming Dún Eochair Mháigh as the ‘house of kings’. The riders positioned themselves before the tall wooden gates.

  ‘The leader seems familiar,’ Fidelma started to say when her words were interrupted by another blast on the war trumpet.

  Conrí leaned over the parapet to call down: ‘We can see you. We do not recognise your standard although you proclaim on it the Goddess of Death and Battles; clearly you are men of Sliabh Luachra. What do you seek here?’

  ‘My lord wishes to speak with Prince Donennach of the Uí Fidgente,’ called the trumpet-bearer.

  Prince Donennach moved to Conrí’s side after the warlord made a careful sweep to identify any hidden bowmen; there were none.

  ‘I am he,’ called Prince Donennach.

  The leader moved his horse forward a little. He wore a bright, multi-coloured cloak. He removed his polished metal war helmet, revealing a mass of long black hair which had a shimmer of blue in the early morning sun. The man was handsome, with pale skin, bright blue eyes which stared up, fathomless like the restless blue of a summer sea.

  Fidelma let out a gasp, followed by an exclamation from Eadulf, for it was Deogaire, the nephew of Fidelma’s old mentor Brother Conchobhar. It was Deogaire who had once rescued Aibell from the fortress of Fidaig, father of Gláed of the Sliabh Luachra. But Fidelma knew enough not to intervene in the ritual that was unfolding.

  ‘Who are you, who threatens my fortress?’ called Prince Donennach.

  The young man sat back on his horse and chuckled. ‘I am no threat to you or to your fortress, nor to the township behind me, Donennach, Prince of the Uí Fidgente. I am Deogaire, lord of the people of the Sliabh Luachra.’

  They saw that he held a sack in his left hand, and this he abruptly tossed to the ground so that something bloody and gruesome rolled out of it to lie in the dust of the track before the fortress gates. Heads strained to see what it was.

  ‘In life, my friends,’ Deogaire called up, ‘that was Gláed, brigand chief of the Sliabh Luachra. I bring you his head, Donennach, to show that he is no longer a threat to you.’

  ‘How did Gláed meet his end, and for what cause did he perish?’ questioned the prince.

  ‘He died because he was a usurper; a murderer of his own father and his own brother. He raided, raped and murdered, and led his people into suffering and slaughter. He died because I recently returned to Sliabh Luachra seeking justice for myself and all those he had wronged. I wished to seek account of the effusion of blood that he had caused and the lives made wretched by him. When I caught up with him at the Hill of Truth, I challenged him to the fír cómlainn, the truth of combat. One man and one sword pitted against another. The gods were on my side.’

  ‘The gods?’ exclaimed Brother Tuamán with an exaggerated expression of shock. ‘Deus salva nos! This man is not a Christian! We cannot trust him.’

  ‘I do not hold to the New Faith,’ Deogaire called back, overhearing the steward’s exclamation. ‘I adhere to the ancient Faith and am possessed of the imbas foronsai, the gift of prophecy which sustains and comforts me.’

  Fidelma grimaced at Eadulf. ‘At least that is the Deogaire we know of old,’ she whispered.

  ‘So why do you approach this fortress with the ravening wolves of Sliabh Luachra?’ demanded Prince Donennach.

  ‘To show you that these are now my ravening wolves and they will return to their lairs. The gods helped me defeat the pretensions of Gláed in token of which, I bring you his head to dispose of as you will, in respect or contempt. If you have memory of our old religion, it is believed that the soul resides in the head. Thus our ancestors, when they slew their enemies, cut off the head so that the soul might freely speed to the Otherworld and no longer haunt the living.’

  ‘I have heard of the custom, Deogaire of Sliabh Luachra, and so we accept your token,’ replied the prince. ‘But I see you hold nine of my warriors bound in the square behind you. What is your intention with them?’

  Deogaire raised his hand. One of the horsemen guarding the prisoners leaped from his horse, drew his sword and went along the line, swiftly cutting their bonds before remounting. The former sentinels stood rubbing their sore wrists and looking around in confusion and shame.

  ‘Poor sentinels though they may be,’ Deogaire called, amusement in his voice, ‘I return them to you so that you may train them more thoroughly.’ Then he untied a smaller bag from his saddle bow and this he also threw to the ground as he had Gláed’s head.

  ‘This is for the community of this township. It is the gold and silver pieces paid for the person of Gormán by an unscrupulous cleric. It is returned to show that no longer will those who now serve me accept blood money. Had I reached the Hill of Truth earlier, it would not have been paid in the first place and Gormán of Cashel would simply have been freed. You may also rest assured that the men who supported Gláed and were responsible for the death and destruction visited by his raids have met the consequences of their actions. One of them was once a guard in your fortress. Your trust in him was wrongly placed. Truly, Prince of the Uí Fidgente, what with your useless sentinels and your treacherous guards, there is a lack of judgement in your fortress. I do not need the gift of prophecy, the imbas forasnai, to tell you that you should have a care of those you deem close to you.’

  Prince Donennach was speechless. It took him a few moments before he called down to Deogaire: ‘The gold and silver is accepted and will be returned to those it belongs to.’

  ‘Then I will depart with my men, but before I do …’ Deogaire drew his sword from his sheath and held it aloft. ‘This is the sword of Deogaire of Sliabh Luahcra, by which I have claimed the chieftainship of all the people who dwell there.’

  Still holding aloft the sword, Deogaire nudged his horse close to the Ogham-i
nscribed stone pillar and with a quick downwards sweep, he smashed the broad blade against it. The blade snapped in two. Deorgaire then dropped the half that remained in his hand.

  ‘Witness, Prince Donennach of the Uí Fidgente – witness that I have broken my war sword against the pillar of your fortress and declare the cáirde chlaidib … the agreement of the sword. This is done in symbolic act to show that there is a pact of peace between us. Is it peace?’

  Prince Donennach had understood the ancient ritual. ‘Let it be peace,’ he echoed gladly.

  Deogaire lifted his hand in salute. He seemed about to turn away, then, as if in afterthought, he raised his head back to those looking down on him.

  ‘I see that the lady Fidelma is with you.’

  Fidelma moved to the side of Prince Donennach and called down: ‘I am here, Deogaire.’

  ‘I heard that you were here to defend Gormán from the charge of which he is unjustly accused. I know it is unjust for I knew Gormán at Cashel and my imbas foronsaí tells me that he is innocent.’

  ‘Unfortunately, prophecy is not a witness,’ Fidelma returned with a wan smile.

  ‘But it tells me that you will triumph in your defence. Word has reached me that he is safe from the unscrupulous cleric. Is Aibell also safe with you?’

  ‘She is safe.’

  ‘I heard that she had married Gormán. She deserves a good life after the anguish and ordeals suffered as a bond-servant in Sliabh Luachra. Gormán is a good man and they have chosen well of each other. Give them my good wishes and, when you have secured Gormán’s innocence, should their paths come to Sliabh Luachra they will find mention of my name will ensure hospitality.’

  Fidelma hesitated, wondering whether to explain the situation, but then decided against it, for she felt that the situation would not be resolved.

  ‘I will do this,’ she promised him.

  ‘Then give my salutations also to my venerable uncle, Conchobhar. Tell him how things fare with his sister’s son, who will no longer be an embarrassment to him.’

  With that, Deogaire turned, and with his trumpeter and standard-bearer at his sides, he trotted back down the slope to the township square. The three rode back over the bridge across the river. The waiting men of the Sliabh Luachra moved aside to let them through and then joined their horses in a column behind them. Inside the fortress, no one said anything until the band of men had finally disappeared along the track to the south-western hills.

  Eadulf was shaking his head. ‘I hardly imagined young Deogaire as a noble and leader of men. I looked on him as just a mischief-making mystic.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ Fidelma commented. ‘Although we should have had some fore-knowledge of his capabilities after Aibell told us how he had rescued her from the slavery of Fidaig’s house.’

  ‘Is what he said about souls and heads truly your ancient belief before the New Faith?’ Eadulf asked.

  ‘It was central to the belief of life in the Otherworld. Some in remote places still cling to the old beliefs. We are told that our great heroes in ancient times would ride into battle with the heads of their foes dangling from their war chariots. But those days are long distant.’

  ‘Not so long ago, it seems,’ observed Eadulf as Conrí was ordering one of his men to go and collect Gláed’s head. ‘And is there truly meaning in that agreement of the sword business?’

  Fidelma nodded. ‘Some of the ancient rituals of our past are still there to remind us of what we were. At least the threat from Sliabh Luachra is no longer a problem.’

  Brehon Faolchair overheard her. ‘That is so,’ he said, ‘but there is still the matter of Gormán to be resolved. You might have diminished Abbot Nannid’s authority but you have not eliminated his influence. There is the question of Gormán’s guilt remaining and how he should be punished. As Abbot Nannid has said, he may no longer be the Abbot of Mungairit, but now he claims to be Abbot of Nechta. More importantly, he is still of the Uí Fidgente bloodline and influential in this territory.’

  Fidelma glanced up at the summer sky.

  ‘When the sun reaches its zenith, call all those with an interest in this matter to assemble in the great hall. It should be declared that a Brehon court is convened. At that time and place I will argue the truth of what really happened in Abbot Ségdae’s chamber, how he met his death and why.’

  Brehon Faolchair stood in astonishment for a moment. ‘Are you ready to put forward such arguments?’

  ‘I knew how the killing was done almost immediately.’ Fidelma sounded positive, and Eadulf knew she would not sound so without good cause. ‘The real problem was also trying to show why, as well as identifying who else was involved, apart from the killer.’

  ‘Who else?’ The Brehon frowned.

  ‘Do not worry. I presume that Gormán can attend as the accused protected by the court and without fear of harm from Nannid?’

  ‘So you do know where Gormán is?’

  ‘Let us just say that I will pass the word that he should attend and I am sure he will.’

  ‘I understand,’ the Brehon acknowledged. ‘And yes, he will be protected.’

  ‘I’ll go to fetch him,’ Eadulf offered.

  ‘I will go also, lady,’ said Conrí, who had been listening. ‘Don’t forget that Nannid still has two of Gláed’s men in the abbey complex. There were four of them and two were slain, so we must find the others. I’ll get some of my men to flush them out.’

  ‘I had forgotten that,’ Fidelma confessed.

  ‘What do you want done with them?’

  ‘Just strip them of their weapons, and send them along the track in the direction of Sliabh Luachra,’ Fidelma instructed. ‘You can inform them that they have a new chieftain in Deogaire.’

  ‘Then we will deal with them first and I will inform friend Eadulf once it is safe to show us where Gormán is.’ Conrí raised his hand in acknowledgement and called to some warriors to attend him before setting off to the Abbey of Nechta.

  ‘Do you really know what happened?’ Eadulf asked Fidelma as they headed back to the great hall.

  ‘I can show that Gormán is innocent,’ she replied confidently.

  ‘Although Nannid is no longer Abbot of Mungairit, can you prove he is behind this conspiracy?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Fidelma replied with a slight smile. ‘Nannid is not at the centre of this web of intrigue.’

  ‘What? You mean there is someone else?’

  ‘Of that, I was never more certain,’ she replied with emphasis.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The great hall of Prince Donennach was not exactly crowded, but those who attended made up for the numbers with vociferous excitement. Ceit the commander of the household guard had placed ten of his men in strategic places throughout the hall. He and two of his men were stationed behind the official carved oak chairs of office on the dais. The right-hand one was for the prince, and the left-hand one for Airmid, his sister in her role as tanaise.

  Just below the dais, Brehon Faolchair sat as usual. He would formally conduct the business of the gathering as it was now a court of law.

  The long table reserved for the feasting had been removed to one side and benches had been placed to the left of the hall. On these were gathered the potential witnesses and behind them, observers. The elderly Étromma had taken her seat alongside an anxious-looking Aibell. In the same group of seats sat Prior Cuán, his steward Brother Tuamán, the scribe Brother Mac Raith, a scowling Abbot Nannid, his steward Brother Cuineáin and Brother Éladach, the doorkeeper of the Abbey of Nechta. Next to him was the young Brother Feradach of Mungairit and the warrior, Lachtna. On the right hand of the hall, Fidelma and Eadulf were seated at a small table alongside a scribe appointed by Brehon Faolchair to record the hearing.

  Gormán, looking pale and strained, had been escorted from his hiding place. His appointed seat was directly opposite Brehon Faolchair. Conrí and Enda stood on either side of him, with Socht behind. Aibell kept looking
towards him with a desperate combination of love and fear. Apart from an initial reassuring glance to her when he had entered, Gormán now stood with his gaze fixed on Brehon Faolchair.

  Brehon Faolchair scrutinised the occupants of the hall before he had a whispered exchange with Prince Donennach. The latter, looking tense, raised a hand in signal and a trumpeter at the far end of the hall put his instrument to his lips and gave three resounding blasts. The clamour of the gathering died almost immediately. Brehon Faolchair then rose to his feet.

  ‘May I remind all present that this is a legal hearing which has been called according to the law of the Five Kingdoms. The first business of the court is to hear the charge against Gormán of Cashel as to his guilt or otherwise of the murder of Abbot Ségdae of Imleach and any other matters arising from that death such as the deaths of Ciarnat of this place and Brother Máel Anfaid of Imleach. This court has admitted that its preliminary hearing of Gormán for the murder of Abbot Ségdae was not constituted in the proper manner and hence we have accepted Fidelma of Cashel’s plea for this retrial. All legal niceties have now been made and agreed upon.’

  At once Abbot Nannid rose in protest. ‘If we must go through this farce again, there are two other deaths connected with this matter that need to be considered. The accused killed two guards when he escaped from the custody of my abbey last night.’

  Brehon Faolchair was not sympathetic.

  ‘Since Gormán was being held illegally under the law of the Five Kingdoms, it has been rightfully argued that the killing of the two brigands from Sliabh Luachra who held him was an act of self-defence. Should Gormán be judged guilty, there may be a possibility of appealing this matter later. Are you ready to state your case, Fidelma?’