A Prayer for the Damned

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘And when was that?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Sometime after the evening meal. He had barely entered his room when one of his party brushed by me hurriedly in the corridor in the same direction as I was going. I didn’t hear them before they pushed by. They went straight to his door and entered without knocking. Even as the door was closing, I heard Ultán’s voice raised in a hectoring tone.’

  ‘Which member of his party? Brother Drón?’

  Abbot Augaire shook his head. ‘One of the two women in his party.’

  ‘You did not recognise her, I suppose? Can you describe her?’

  ‘I do not know any of his party except Brother Drón. As for describing her, all I saw was her back as she brushed by. She wore a long cloak with the cabhal pulled up over her head. I recall the odour of some scent. I am not sure what. I am not good on such matters. It was strong. Perhaps honeysuckle. That was early in the evening. I thought Ultán was killed around midnight and I am told that Muirchertach was seen fleeing from his chamber.’

  Fidelma sighed. ‘Much use is made of this word “fleeing”. It is a word that conjures guilt and prevents us from investigating a murder.’

  ‘So far as I am concerned, the person who killed Ultán did a public service,’ Abbot Augaire said firmly.

  ‘Nevertheless, Ultán was murdered, and there is a law to be answered.’

  Abbot Augaire grimaced dismissively. ‘The irony is that Ultán refused to obey the law when he lived. Now that he is dead, others have to answer to a law that he ignored.’

  Fidelma regarded the man carefully. ‘I would like you to tell me What you know of Ultán and how you came by your views of him.’

  ‘Not much to tell. But let me put this to you. If Muirchertach Nár is to be prosecuted, I would not want my words used to condemn him. If you are gathering evidence against him . . .’

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘Muirchertach Nár has asked me to stand in his defence. He claims that he is innocent. It is the Brehon Ninnid who prosecutes.’

  Abbot Augaire seemed to relax a little more and he smiled confidently. ‘Then I will tell you plainly what I know of Muirchertach and Ultán. I was sent as Muirchertach’s representative to demand compensation from Ultán for the death of the sister of Muirchertach’s wife. That was the beginning of our animosity.’

  ‘I have heard that you had a more personal interest in the matter?’

  ‘Personal?’ the response came sharply.

  ‘You saw the girl kill herself.’

  ‘I do not deny it.’

  ‘Tell us how that came about.’

  Abbot Augaire sat back. ‘It was about three or four years ago. I was a member of a community on the shores of the southern borders of Connacht. It was a place not far from Muirchertach’s stronghold of Durlas. I was fishing on a small headland when this girl came along. The next thing I knew she had leapt to her death on the rocks. She was a very beautiful young woman. I could not imagine how such a one, so beautiful, so youthful, with so much life in her and before her, could be forced into such a terrible act.’

  ‘You did not know who she was?’ asked Eadulf.

  ‘Not then. I started to make inquiries and these led me to the fortress of our king at Durlas. I found out that the girl’s name was Searc and that she was the younger sister of the king’s wife Aïbnat. I remembered her ethereal beauty that day on the foreshore. To explain my feelings, I suppose that I was moved by her image – the youth, beauty and femininity that she represented, you understand? I pledged my service to that image, to Aíbnat and Muirchertach, swearing that I would discover the reason for her death and punish those responsible.’

  Fidelma was aware that there was a faint mistiness in his eyes as if he were holding back tears.

  ‘It sounds as if this girl, in death, had touched something in you,’ she said.

  The abbot seemed to pull himself together. ‘Her image still does. How many nights have I not been able to sleep as I run the events of that day through my mind, saying “if only”. If only I had not been so blind as to fail to see the tragedy that was about to unfold; if only I . . . Ah, well. Sic erat in fatis, to quote Juvenal again.’

  ‘So it was fated,’ Eadulf repeated. ‘So you blamed yourself for her death and that is why you took such trouble. Was her involvement with the religieux from Cill Ria known at that time?’

  ‘It was. She was a poetess. I found out about the gathering at Ard Macha from some who had attended. I began to make inquiries about this boy, Senach, with whom she had fallen in love, and traced him to Cill Ria. I then found out what had happened to the boy.’

  Eadulf was approving. ‘It sounds as though you would make a good investigator, Augaire. So it was you who discovered the details. Searc had not told her sister, or Muirchertach?’

  ‘It seems not.’

  ‘Having discovered this information, what then?’ asked Fidelma.

  He replied with quiet vehemence: ‘I swore vengeance on those who had prevented that young girl from achieving happiness, and in her grief had compelled her to her death . . .’

  ‘But what did you do in practical terms?’

  Abbot Augaire seemed to shake himself and resume his normal demeanour. ‘I went to Muirchertach and Aíbnat and told them what I had discovered. Muirchertach was pleased . . .’

  ‘Pleased? That is an odd way to react to this tragic tale.’

  Abbot Augaire thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps I have used the wrong word? He was pleased by the revelation of the truth about Searc. I had resolved the mystery as to why she had killed herself.’

  ‘Was Aíbnat also, er, pleased?’

  Abbot Augaire suddenly grimaced. ‘Aíbnat is a fine noble lady of the Uí Briúin but her main emotions are irritation and anger and those she has in abundance. She made no comment, not even gratitude for the resolution of this mystery. She is a dour, sombre soul.’

  ‘Perhaps with reason?’ queried Fidelma. ‘Her young sister killed herself. That is reason enough to be sombre.’

  Abbot Augaire leaned forward as if confiding something. ‘Truth to tell, Fidelma of Cashel, I do not think that she was overly upset by the death of her sister. I heard rumours during my . . . er, investigations. It was said that there was n6 love lost between them. Indeed, I heard that Aíbnat showed some jealousy at her sister’s beauty.’

  ‘But she was angry enough to start this demand for compensation against Ultán of Cill Ria?’ Eadulf pointed out.

  Abbot Augaire glanced at him and then shook his head. ‘That was Muirchertach’s idea. He said it would please his wife. But the idea was put to me without consultation with Aíbnat. I found out later that she was against the idea.’

  ‘How did that come about?’ asked Fidelma.

  ‘Well, at first, as I said, Muirchertach was pleased with what I had done. He wanted to reward me. He had the power to make me abbot in one of the kingdom’s abbeys.’

  Fidelma nodded. It was not an unusual matter for kings who had great influence in their territories to offer ecclesiastical rewards.

  ‘Only a few months before, the Blessed Féchin, the abbot of Conga, just north of Loch Corrib, had succumbed to the Yellow Plague. These events, you understand, happened, in fact, about the same time of the great council at Witebia.’

  ‘I had heard that Abbot Féchin had fallen sick and died of the Yellow Plague,’ Fidelma affirmed.

  ‘To be offered such an abbey was a great thing for a poor monk such as I. Truly was the Blessed Féchin and his work renowned through the five kingdoms. Muirchertach’s senior bishop was summoned and I was ordained both bishop and abbot of Conga.’

  ‘And was this reward because you discovered the reason why Searc took her own life?’ demanded Eadulf cynically.

  Abbot Augaire gave a lopsided grin. ‘I think politics played a part.’

  ‘Politics?’

  ‘You know that the lady Aíbnat was the daughter of Rogallach mac Uatach of the Uí Briúin Ai, who are rivals to the Uí Fiachracha for the
kingship of Connacht?’

  Eadulf looked helpless.

  ‘Rogallach was king of Connacht and died nearly twenty years ago,’ Fidelma explained quickly. ‘But when he died, through the influence of Féchin and other leading churchmen, it was first Laidgnen and then his brother Guaire Aidne of the Uí Fiachracha who became kings. Guaire was Muirchertach’s father.’

  Abbot Augaire was nodding. ‘Muirchertach wanted to keep the abbey of Conga in the hands of someone who owed him a debt and therefore allegiance.’

  ‘Which you do?’ queried Fidelma.

  ‘I make no secret of it. My father was a huntsman, a tracker. From a humble beginning, now, as abbot and bishop, I control lands that make Ultán’s miserable house at Cill Ria look poverty-stricken. From the river of the Uí Briúin northward to Sliabh Neimhtheann and from the Ford of the Sanctuary west to the great sea coast, these are the lands of the abbey of Conga.’

  Abbot Augaire sounded as if he were boasting. Fidelma was looking disapproving.

  ‘And what did you have to give in return for this?’

  ‘Loyalty and service to Muirchertach,’ he replied simply.

  ‘Which included being his envoy to Ultán?’

  ‘That, indeed, has been the extent of my service. I made the trip to Cill Ria seven times during two years. I was accompanied by a brehon to add to my authority. After which, these last two years, I have not been called upon for any service. I was glad when my journeys to Cill Ria ended. Each trip to Ultán made me want to forget that we both served God and were brothers in Christ. His refusal to concede any wrongdoing and even any involvement in the deaths of Senach and Searc made me, frankly, want to lay hands on him in a physical sense.’

  ‘When compensation was demanded, he refused?’

  Abbot Augaire grimaced irritably. ‘Did that slimy little scribe Drón tell you that? He was usually at our meetings and bleating on about the Penitentials overriding the rule of our law. It became monotonous.’

  ‘To sum up,’ Fidelma said, ‘Ultán refused to accept judgement by a brehon under our law.’

  ‘Saying that he ruled by the Penitentials and would hear no more of the laws of the brehons in his abbey,’ agreed Augaire.

  Fidelma sat back thoughtfully and folded her hands.

  ‘There is one thing that puzzles me,’ she said softly.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The law is plain. There is a course that could have been taken to pressurise Ultán into submitting to the justice of a brehon.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘If a defendant is of the nemed rank, that is a privileged person or noble – and Ultán certainly came into the class of privilege – then the plaintiff could, if willing, proceed to the troscud, the ritual fast to ensure the defendant accepts judgement. Several times this has been used against the óes ecalso – churchmen of rank – to ensure they accept civil judgement.’

  Abbot Augaire smiled sadly. ‘Such a ritual fast was discussed and even attempted.’

  ‘The apad was properly made?’ Fidelma asked. ‘The notification to all concerned parties?’

  ‘So far as I know, it was.’

  ‘Who undertook the troscud? Muirchertach was not blood kin and therefore he was excluded. So was it Aíbnat?’

  ‘She was not concerned in the matter at all.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Muirchertach persuaded a cousin of Searc, a youth named Cathal, to undertake the troscud on behalf of the blood kindred.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘An evil sleight of hand, so far as I could see, and this is why I came to hate Ultán so much.’

  ‘You’d best explain.’

  ‘Cathal and his brehon went to a small chapel within sight of the walls of Cill Ria. The notices were given and the fast began. You will correct me on the law, Fidelma, but I have been told that if the plaintiff, that is Cathal, persists in his fast even though the defendant, Ultán, has offered to settle the case, the case automatically lapses. The defendant is exonerated and no further action can be taken.’

  Fidelma looked thoughtful. “This is true. But are you saying that Ultán offered to settle the matter and this was refused by Cathal who continued the ritual fast?’

  Abbot Augaire leaned forward. ‘What I am saying is that was how it was represented.’

  ‘But the witnesses? There have to been witnesses to the offer and its refusal?’

  Abbot Augaire shrugged. ‘Oh yes. The brehon of Ulaidh had been invited to Cill Ria. Ultán said he would pay compensation as a token of goodwill to Muirchertach and his wife even though he still felt he was not responsible. The brehon of Ulaidh agreed that this was a noble thing. So the offer was inscribed on hazel wands and given to Brother Drón to take to the chapel where Cathal was fasting. What happened then is a matter of argument.’

  ‘What happened according to Cathal and his brehon?’

  ‘Cathal said that Drón had not come to the chapel. Three days later, as was the required time, the brehon of Ulaidh and Brother Drđn came to the chapel and found Cathal still engaged in his troscud and denounced him, claiming that he had refused to give up his ritual fast even when compensation was offered. Therefore, according to law, he no longer had a claim.

  ‘Cathal protested that no one had come to him with this offer. Then Brother Drón came forward and swore that he had done so. He said that he had found Cathal alone, and pressed the offer into his hands.’

  ‘What did Cathal’s brehon say?’ queried Fidelma. ‘As witness, he could not leave the one engaged in the troscud alone so he must have seen what happened.’

  ‘Under fierce questioning from Brother Drón it was discovered that at dusk on the day Drón claimed to have delivered the offer, the brehon had been persuaded to go to the aid of a girl who had come tearfully to the chapel pleading for help with a sick mother who had collapsed. There was, of course, no sick mother and the girl had disappeared. I suspect it was one of the females at Cill Ria.’

  ‘That in itself could have been legally challenged as an enticement to pervert the law.’

  ‘True, but the brehon of Ulaidh – again it seems prompted by Drón – caused the chapel to be searched . . .’

  ‘And the hazel wands were found in Cathal’s belongings?’ guessed Fidelma.

  ‘Just so.’

  Eadulf, who had been quiet for some time, snorted. ‘It is possible that Brother Drón came that day, waited until Cathal’s witness was lured elsewhere, then placed the hazel wands in the chapel and disappeared back to his master with this tale of having delivered the notice. But how can one prove it?’

  Abbot Augaire nodded. ‘That is how I would see it. Moreover, I am sure that it was at the specific behest of Ultán, who was not going to pay compensation in any form.’

  ‘And Cathal? Did he challenge this?’

  ‘There was no evidence against Drón or Ultán. The girl could not be found. Ultán magnanimously’ – he sneered the word – ‘suggested that Cathal be allowed to return to Connacht and no more need be said. Cathal came back, a broken young man.’

  ‘So no one has prospered?’

  ‘Except Ultán.’

  ‘I do not think he prospered much last night.’

  Abbot Augaire shrugged. ‘It was not before time that his sins caught up with him.’

  ‘Even so . . .’ protested Eadulf. ‘An abbot has been murdered.’

  ‘You condemn me for not following the teaching of our Faith and forgiving and loving Ultán?’ the abbot asked in amusement.

  ‘It is not my place to condemn you,’ replied Eadulf, ‘but isn’t it the cornerstone of our Faith to love one’s enemies? . . . diligite inimicos vestros benefacite his qui vos oderunt . . .’

  ‘I am well acquainted with the words of Luke,’ snapped Abbot Augaire.

  ‘Reporting the instructions of Christ,’ Eadulf reminded him.

  ‘Sometimes I am led to wonder whether his words were reported and translated correctly.’

  Fidelma ra
ised an eyebrow slightly. ‘You doubt it?’

  ‘When men like Ultán rise up and we are told we must all respect and obey him, then I believe we should rebel at such a teaching. When we are oppressed, it is our duty to deal with the oppressor. Was that not the faith of our forefathers?’

  ‘That was before the Word reached us and told us to tread a different path.’

  ‘Beati pauperes spiritu quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum,’ Abbot Augaire quoted, unconsciously echoing Eadulf. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

  ‘It sounds as if you do not believe in those words,’ Fidelma pointed out.

  ‘I am no longer young and idealistic,’ replied Abbot Augaire. ‘I have seen man’s evil nature. Why should poverty of spirit be the great virtue of the Faith? Indeed, I doubt it is a virtue at all. I believe poverty of spirit is a crime.’

  Eadulf exhaled deeply. This was an argument against all that he had been taught of the Faith.

  Fidelma was considering the abbot thoughtfully. ‘A crime? Perhaps you will explain that reasoning.’

  ‘When people are poor in spirit, do not the proud and haughty in spirit emerge to dominate them and oppress them? If you do not resist evil, if you do not resist wrong, then you encourage further evil and injury at the hands of those who have the other cheek turned to them. Ego autem dico vobis non resistere malo sed so quis te percusserit in dextera maxilla tua praebe illi et alterant. As Matthew reports the words of Christ – “I say to you, resist not evil and who strikes you on the right cheek, offer him the other.” But to do what? To strike you a second time? Better, should he strike you on the right cheek, that you firmly prevent him from being able to inflict that hurt a second time.’

  Fidelma was quiet for a moment and then she sighed. ‘Perhaps you are right in what you are saying, Abbot Augaire. I remember the words of my mentor, the Brehon Morann. He would often point out an ancient saying: “He who encourages the oppressor shares the crime.” I can understand your fear that poverty of spirit can lead people into bondage. But the New Faith makes demands and we must do the best we can.’