A Prayer for the Damned

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Aíbnat did not insist on seeking compensation, according to Augaire. It was your cousin Muirchertach who was the instigator of the claim.’

  Dúnchad Muirisci’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘Muirchertach?’ he demanded sharply.

  ‘You did not know?’

  ‘I did not. I assumed it was Aíbnat for she was the next of kin.’

  ‘How well did you know Searc?’

  ‘Not well at all. I met her only a few times at Durlas. She was a dreamy, romantic young girl. I was not surprised when people started to acclaim her poetry. It was of the dántaigecht grádh variety, love poetry. That is not really my style. You know the sort of thing?’ He screwed up his face and recited in a falsetto voice:

  Cold are the nights I cannot sleep,

  Thinking of you, my love, my dear . . .

  ‘How well is not well?’ interrupted Fidelma with some irritability in her tone.

  ‘When she came to stay with her sister Aíbnat at Muirchertach’s fortress at Durlas, I saw her more . . . that was in the weeks before her death.’

  ‘Did she give any indication that she would take her own life when she came back from Cill Ria having found that her love had been sent to his death at sea?’

  Dúnchad Muirisci shook his head. ‘In fact, while she was upset, she did not really believe that this lad – what was his name? Senach? – she did not believe that he was really dead. She was determined to pursue him.’

  Fidelma exchanged a sharp look with Eadulf. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.

  ‘When she came back she talked about finding a ship to go to Gaul and to the abbey to which the lad had been sent. She even knew the name of it. She believed that he would be waiting there for her.’

  Fidelma leaned forward in surprise. ‘How long was this before she took her life?’

  ‘I saw her about three days before it happened. Augaire witnessed the event, you know. He didn’t know who it was – it took him a day or so to discover it and so come to Durlas. Muirchertach was called upon to identify the body.’ He paused and rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘It is strange, now I think of it. She was talking about sailing after Senach and then, shortly after, she tosses herself from a cliff.’

  ‘Strange, indeed,’ muttered Eadulf.

  ‘Did she tell anyone else about the voyage to Gaul she was planning?’

  ‘I would have presumed that she told her sister Aíbnat as well as Muirchertach.’

  ‘It seems strange that it was not mentioned,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘I will see what Muirchertach and his wife have to say later.’

  Dúnchad Muirisci smiled knowingly.

  ‘I am not sure that the truth will come out,’ he said. ‘Muirchertach never did like people knowing what was in his mind. Not even me.’

  ‘But you are his tánaiste – his heir apparent. Who runs the kingdom if he will not discuss the affairs of the day with you?’ inquired Eadulf.

  ‘The truth? The tribes of Connacht are descended into anarchy. Muirchertach has brought the line of Fiachra into disrespect. Thank God that I am only a cousin, for I am of the tribe of Muaide.’

  ‘If this is so, has no one recourse to the law, to declare Muirchertach incapable of his office?’ Fidelma asked.

  Dúnchad Muirisci shrugged. ‘The time will come. He has few friends now, not even his own wife.’

  ‘That is why I am interested in the reason he pursued this affair of compensation with Ultán,’ Fidelma replied.

  ‘Well, if Aíbnat did not press for it, then I cannot say. Maybe he wanted to impress her by doing so in order to win back her regard?’

  ‘Perhaps. Yet if Aíbnat was not close to her young sister, as we have been told, it does not appear to be a sufficient reason.’

  Dúnchad Muirisci shook his head. ‘That is a matter that you’d best pursue with Muirchertach.’

  ‘And I shall do so.’

  The tánaiste suddenly looked seriously at Fidelma. ‘I said that I would be honest. There is no love lost between Muirchertach and myself. I even avoided him as a child. He had a spiteful nature and later he had a reputation among women. I was surprised when Aíbnat and he were married, but then Aíbnat was of the Uí Briúin Aí and ambitious.’ He stopped speaking when he caught sight of a woman crossing the courtyard. ‘Ah, the lady Fína. You will excuse me? I have promised to go riding with her this afternoon while the light is still with us.’ He hurried after the figure that was disappearing towards the stables.

  Fidelma turned to Eadulf with a long face. ‘This is irritating,’ she said. ‘There is something here which does not seem right.’

  ‘You have said that before,’ commented Eadulf.

  ‘And I say it again now. Alas, I think we still have much to learn.’

  ‘And much to do. We’d better go in search of Fergus Fanat.’

  It was the commander of the guard who told them that Fergus Fanat was in the town below the fortress playing immán, or driving, with two groups that had been formed from the more active guests. Caol seemed more cheerful now that he had been assured by Colgú that he was not being blamed for removing the guard from Ultán’s chamber.

  Although the day continued to be cloudy, at least it was dry and Fidelma suggested they walked down to the playing field, the faithche, a level grassy meadow just beyond the last buildings in the town that was set aside for such games. Eadulf made no objection, so they walked down into the town, aware of some stares as people recognised them. Most were aware that this should be the day of their official wedding and some seemed to wish to commiserate while others were embarrassed as to how to acknowledge them. Fidelma seemed oblivious of the little huddled groups that formed in their wake, the whispered conversations and the looks of sympathy, as if it were some funeral cortége that had passed.

  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.’<
br />
  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.’