A Prayer for the Damned

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘I will not disagree with your philosophy. But what I want to know is what Fergus Fanat could say to you, in these circumstances, to prevent your flight to Laigin?’

  ‘It is what I told him. I told him everything. The truth about my life at Cill Ria, why I felt too ashamed to continue to see him, and my reason for accompanying Abbot Ultán on this embassy to Imleach and Cashel. And he accepted me as I am. We mean to marry. He told me to come here and stand up to Brother Drón and Sister Sétach and that he would support and protect me.’

  ‘And have you stood up to them?’ Fidelma asked.

  Sister Marga shook her head. ‘Not yet. We shall see them together. Then I shall travel back with Fergus Fanat to Ulaidh and be his wife.’

  There was no mistaking the happiness in the girl’s features as she said this. Then she glanced nervously round. ‘Do not say anything until Fergus and I have that meeting. We desire to stand up to them together.’

  Fidelma was reassuring. ‘Have no fear, I will not speak about this for the time being.’

  Eadulf nodded his assent as he saw the girl’s face turned imploringly towards him.

  ‘When is this confrontation with Drón and Sétach to be?’ he asked.

  ‘This evening, after the meal.’

  It was just before the evening meal when Fidelma and Eadulf received another summons to Colgú’s private chamber. The High King, Sechnassach, sat in the chair usually occupied by Colgú. He wore a worried expression.

  Colgú sat beside him, and also present in the chamber were the brehons Barrán, Baithen and Ninnid. As Fidelma and Eadulf entered the room, the High King himself bade Fidelma to be seated. Eadulf, as a foreigner of lower rank who was not entitled to sit in the presence of the High King, stood up in a position behind Fidelma’s chair. Finguine, Colgú’s tánaiste, and Caol, commander of Colgú’s guard, stood at the door.

  It was Brehon Barrán who spoke first.

  ‘Brehon Ninnid informs us that you have released Brother Drón, thus apparently admitting that Ninnid was correct when he told you that a churchman could not have taken part in a vengeance killing. Further, he says that he has found that the obvious suspect is Muirchertach’s heir apparent and that you know this but are delaying the charges to be heard against him.’

  Fidelma remained impassive, although Eadulf sensed stiffening in her body.

  ‘There is no evidence to bring charges,’ she replied tersely.

  ‘An abbot is murdered and now a king. In each case it seems that the evidence against one person is overwhelming and yet you seem to be delaying a hearing on both matters. We must bring things to a resolution and quickly,’ Brehon Barrán insisted.

  ‘We have already discussed this. I thought that it had been agreed that more time was needed,’ Fidelma said, speaking directly to Sechnassach. The High King looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Brehon Ninnid has asked for this meeting to make a plea that, after the unilateral release of Brother Drón and his discovery of the evidence against Dúnchad Muirisici, charges should be brought against Muirchertach’s tánaiste.’

  At this, Brehon Ninnid coughed nervously and rose from his seat.

  ‘With due respect, I think Sister Fidelma is making this matter complicated when it is simple in its resolution,’ he said. ‘Abbot Ultán was slain by Muirchertach Nár.’

  ‘For what reason?’ demanded the High King.

  ‘I think that the lady Fidelma will agree with me on the reason. I have learned that he blamed Ultán for the death of his wife’s younger sister and had once sought compensation from him. The compensation was refused. Everything was done within the law, although Muirchertach Nár claimed that it was not so. That gave him a cause for anger and resentment.’

  Sechnassach glanced to where Fidelma was seated. Her face was impassive. ‘Do you agree with this?’

  ‘I agree that there was an enmity between Muirchertach Nár and Ultán over the death of this girl,’ Fidelma replied.

  Brehon Ninnid smiled triumphantly. ‘There is the motive. That makes sense of those distinguished witnesses’ – he inclined his head in swift succession to Brehon Baithen and Caol – ‘who saw Muirchertach Nár flee from the bedchamber at the time of Ultán’s murder.’

  ‘It makes sense, but it does not prove beyond dispute that Muirchertach Nár was the killer,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘And now Muirchertach Nár is slain himself and cannot make a proper defence.’

  ‘He was slain by his heir in order to seize the throne of Connacht,’ went on Brehon Ninnid. ‘We have the evidence of Brother Eadulf there, who, with the warrior Gormán, having been called to the scene of the king of Connacht’s death, followed the tracks of two horses from that very spot. One was the riderless mount of Muirchertach Nár found by Brother Drón. The other was the horse that had a split horsehoe and belonged to Dúnchad Muirisci. But now Sister Fidelma, having claimed that Muirchertach Nár was innocent and demanded time to investigate, has released Brother Drón from confinement. Yet she has not put forward charges against Dúnchad Muirisci. I say that she is delaying a hearing unnecessarily.’

  ‘As a point of correction, tracks of three horses were observed by Rónán the tracker. We have not identified the third set of tracks.’

  Sechnassach sighed. ‘Even so, it seems very logical. There is much speculation and unrest among our people, Fidelma. A quick hearing of these facts could stop it.’

  ‘Except,’ Fidelma’s voice cut in coldly as she rose from her seat, ‘except that it would not be justice. Not justice to Bishop Ultán nor justice to Muirchertach Nár nor even justice to Dúnchad Muirisci or Brother Drón.’

  Brehon Ninnid glanced at her, shrugged eloquently and sat down. ‘You have contrary evidence then?’ he said, almost with a smirk.

  Fidelma hesitated.

  ‘Well, Fidelma? Do you?’ prompted Sechnassach gently.

  ‘I have only inconsistencies to put forward at this time. However, such as they are they do cause concern.’

  Sechnassach glanced at Brehon Barrán as if seeking help.

  ‘We all are aware of Fidelma’s reputation,’ Brehon Barrán said. ‘There is none here who does not respect her knowledge of law and the sharp penetration of her questions. I certainly would not dismiss her arguments lightly without some consideration of them.’

  Fidelma bowed slightly towards him. ‘If there is one thing that irritates me about this whole matter it is that we have circumstantial evidence pointing to two people. And in their defence, both of them – I am speaking of Muirchertach Nár and Dúnchad – have put forward curious tales, which seem to confirm some guilt. But, by his own weak tale, even Brother Drón is also a prime suspect.’

  ‘Why does circumstantial evidence irritate you, Fidelma?’ asked Brehon Barrán. ‘It is still acceptable in law.’

  ‘Because if any or all of them had really undertaken these acts of murder they would have prepared better stories to elude suspicion. They tell stories that are so impossible to believe that they actually speak of innocence.’

  Brehon Ninnid laughed aloud in scepticism, but Brehon Barrán’s face was grave.

  ‘You have made a point that needs consideration, Fidelma, but it comes back to what the High King Sechnassach says. The people are growing restless. Two deaths in two days – an abbot and a king. We cannot keep everyone confined here for ever during this search for the truth.’

  Fidelma’s tone was unemotional. ‘You’ll recall that yesterday was meant to be my wedding celebration. If anyone is suffering by this delay, as Brehon Ninnid calls it, it is Eadulf and I.’

  Sechnassach grimaced with a wry expression at Brehon Barrán, who gave a a ghost of a nod in the High King’s direction.

  ‘I am afraid that a decision has to be made, Fidelma. I thought earlier today that I could allow you what freedom you wanted. But the members of my council have made representations about the growing unrest. So I have decided. One further night and a day can pass. Then we shall meet again. The matter must then be pronoun
ced capable of resolution. Is that clear?’

  Brehon Ninnid stood up and both he and Fidelma bowed towards the High King in acquiescence.

  Outside the chamber, Eadulf could see that Fidelma was unhappy.

  ‘Justice is not served by pandering to people because they are restless or want to get home.’ Her voice was quiet but angry as they walked back to their chamber.

  ‘Or get married.’ Eadulf grinned, trying to introduce some humour into the conversation.

  Fidelma’s face softened for a moment. ‘Even brehons seem to forget the purpose of the law – jus est ars boni et aequi.’

  ‘Law is the art of the good and the just,’ Eadulf translated. ‘I think our friend Ninnid believes it to be the art of gaining reputation. Anyway, what now? It is already dark. There is only this night and tomorrow in which to find a solution.’

  ‘You go on to our chambers, check to see that all is well with little Alchú and Muirgen. Have something to eat. I will be along shortly. I want to have a word with Abbot Laisran.’

  ‘Laisran? Why?’

  Fidelma smiled. ‘He is often a good counsel in times of stress.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Abbot Laisran’s cherubic countenance was unusually glum as he welcomed his cousin. ‘I am truly sorry that what should have been a time of happiness for you has been cursed, Fidelma.’

  ‘Even these days will pass,’ Fidelma said reassuringly. ‘Indeed, by tomorrow evening, it seems that I must have a solution.’

  Abbot Laisran waved her to a seat.

  ‘And are you near one?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Not exactly. I have many questions but cannot find the right people to answer them. That is why I have come to you.’

  Abbot Laisran sat back before the fire and folded his hands across his broad stomach. He smiled complacently.

  ‘As you know, it is my privilege to be abbot at Durrow, whose students not only come from all the corners of the world but, after their training, return to those four corners. There is little gossip that does not eventually reach my ears. How might I be of help? You have doubtless discovered that Ultán of the Uí Thuirtrí was not always the pious religious that he pretended. That surely gives you some scope in your investigation?’

  ‘It complicates things. I know that many hated him.’

  ‘Just so. He was not a likeable person.’

  ‘But that being so, it means that many desired to kill him.’

  ‘And, from what I hear, many with justification,’ agreed Abbot Laisran. ‘Though I was not surprised when the finger of suspicion fell on Muirchertach Nár.’

  Fidelma regarded him with interest. ‘What do you know of Muirchertach Nár?’

  ‘Ah, poor Muirchertach.’ Laisran shook his head, his features in an expression of mock sorrow. ‘I have heard that he is no longer of this earthly realm. They do say de mortuis nihil nisi bonum . . . of the dead speak nothing but good. But, in justice, when good and bad mingle, one should speak truthfully. He was a sad man. Overshadowed by his father, King Guaire. When he became king of Connacht, he tried his best to emulate him. I’ll wager that you have no liking for his wife . . . his widow,’ he corrected himself. ‘The lady Aíbnat. Truly, she is a strange lady. There is a saying among her servants that if you put her in an empty chamber, she would pick a fight in it within seconds.’

  Fidema chuckled appreciatively. ‘I can agree with that.’

  ‘I am not sure why she and Muirchertach married. She, of course, is of the Uí Briúin Aí – they are rival families for the kingship of Connacht. I do not think mutual feelings had anything to do with their relationship. Muirchertach found his carnal pleasures elsewhere, by all accounts. I think it was a marriage of convenience. The two families trying to patch up their quarrels. A marriage of politics.’

  Fidelma had gathered that much from Dúnchad Muirisci.

  ‘You have heard of Muirchertach’s clash with Bishop Ultán over Aíbnat’s younger sister Searc? Was that to do with a desire to pacify the Uí Briúin family rather than any regard for his wife?’

  ‘I have heard about this matter,’ agreed Abbot Laisran. ‘It seems a little out of character for Muirchertach to pursue such a course unless he were doing it for politics rather than out of personal affection. That might make sense.’ He rubbed his chin reflectively and seemed to fall into deep thought.

  ‘Do you have another conclusion?’ she prompted.

  ‘I have heard that Searc was a beautiful girl and, as I say, Muirchertach was disposed to forming attachments to young women.’

  Fidelma shook her head immediately. ‘But Searc was in love with the young man named Senach of Cill Ria.’

  ‘Just so. But there were stories that Muirchertach was attracted to her. I understand that she initially went to live at his fortress at Durlas to be companion to her sister Aíbnat.’

  ‘Before she met Senach?’

  ‘I don’t know. However, there is certainly no question that the attraction was mutual. She rejected Muirchertach’s advances. At least, that is what I have heard.’

  Fidelma looked at the leaping flames in the fire for a few moments. ‘Are you saying that Muirchertach tried to seduce Aíbnat’s sister?’

  Abbot Laisran’s chubby face was not exactly serious. ‘It would not be the first time that such a thing has happened. Whether of the nobility or the Faith, men are often led by their desires. Myself now, I am too old to desire anything more than a good jug of wine, a nicely cooked repast and perhaps the entertainment of a good horse race.’

  Fidelma broke into a smile. ‘I know your faults only too well, Laisran. You should add to them the fascination of the gaming board.’

  ‘Ah.’ The abbot nodded reflectively. ‘I had not forgotten. I fail to mention that because I have learned never to challenge you to bran-dubh or fidchell, either board game would spell disaster for me against one of your wit.’

  Fidelma suddenly frowned again. ‘Are you saying that Muirchertach had a reputation with women and that his wife Aíbnat knew about it?’

  ‘It is what I have heard. I cannot bear witness to it.’

  ‘But where did you hear this? Durrow is a long way from Muirchertach’s fortress at Durlas.’

  ‘As Virgil said: fama malum quo non aliud velocius ullum,’ Laisran replied with a wink.

  ‘It is true that nothing travels faster than scandal,’ Fidelma agreed, ‘but one has to separate mere rumour and mischief-making.’

  ‘Often there is truth in rumour,’ the abbot replied. ‘Tales told from different sources may be treated with less suspicion than a tale told by a single source. There were several religious arriving at Durrow and each told a similar tale.’

  Fidelma grimaced disapprovingly. ‘For Virgil I give you Horace – say nothing in case what you say hurt another or bring down on us an unfavourable act of the gods.’

  The abbot smiled broadly. ‘You cannot believe that,’ he rebuked humorously. ‘Otherwise, where would you be? You could not function if people obeyed the favete linguis that Horace suggested we obey. Without gossip, without speculation, without people talking to you, your investigations would hardly lead anywhere.’

  Fidelma thought for a moment and shrugged. ‘I agree that there is truth in that, Laisran. I suppose the secret is knowing where to look for the nuggets of truth among the silt of hearsay, calumny and defamation.’

  ‘I am afraid that is your task in life, Fidelma. You chose your profession.’

  ‘So,’ Fidelma returned to a more practical issue, ‘these rumours that religious wanderers from Connacht brought to you at Durrow had a consistency? They spoke of Muirchertach as a libertine, profligate in his behaviour to women?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Even in his behaviour to Searc, the sister of his wife Aíbnat?’

  ‘It is so.’

  ‘Even if this were just scandal without substantiation, something is strange,’ she said with a shake of her head. Then she rose to her feet. Abbot Laisran looked up w
ith a questioning expression.

  ‘Have I been of help?’

  ‘I think so,’ she replied, after a moment’s thought. ‘At least you have prompted an interesting question in my mind. Unfortunately, there are many pieces that seem to form patterns but I am not sure whether they are the right patterns. I don’t think, as yet, that I have all the pieces.’

  ‘With both Ultán and Muirchertach dead, is there any reason to seek any more pieces?’ queried Abbot Laisran. ‘After all,’ he waved a hand, an odd little gesture as though unsure of himself, ‘it does make a resolution to the matter, doesn’t it? Ultán killed and no great loss to anyone. Muirchertach was blamed and now Muirchertach dead, perhaps in revenge.’

  ‘But who killed Muirchertach?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘Does it serve anyone to find out?’

  ‘It serves justice and that is what we are about or we are about nothing at all in life.’

  ‘I have heard that one learned brehon would prefer not to implicate anyone from Laigin,’ he said softly. Fidelma gazed sharply at him. ‘It is just a thought that I heard expressed.’

  ‘I think I know where that thought came from. Sometimes I forget that the abbey of Durrow lies across the border in the kingdom of Laigin.’

  ‘You have a sharp mind, Fidelma,’ sighed Abbot Laisran. ‘I always thought that you were a great lawyer.’

  ‘When you see Brehon Ninnid of Laigin you might say that you heard that I was as determined to track down whoever killed Muirchertach as I was to clear Muirchertach Nár’s name of the murder of Abbot Ultán by discovering who really killed him.’

  ‘I shall tell Brehon Ninnid. Perhaps, if I were looking for Muirchertach’s killer, I would be thinking of the type of man that Muirchertach Nár was. If the rumours that he was a libertine are true, who might be the one to suffer from his behaviour?’

  ‘Aíbnat?’ Fidelma grimaced dismissively. ‘I should not think that she would care one way or another.’

  ‘Yet with her own sister?’

  Fidelma thought a moment and then inclined her head, turning for the door. ‘I will bear in mind what you say, Laisran.’