A Prayer for the Damned (21 page)

‘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.

‘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.’

The northern warrior smiled quickly. ‘I would say, lady, that is a fair summary. Now, if you will excuse me, the game has been hard and dirty and I would go and bathe.’

Fidelma made a little gesture that gave him permission to hurry on to the fortress, leaving them to follow at a more leisurely pace.

‘I am more confused than ever,’ complained Eadulf. ‘It seems that many people had cause to hate Bishop Ultán. But when it comes
down to it, Muirchertach was the only one who was seen leaving his chamber at the time he was found dead. He did not report the matter until Caol and Brehon Baithen went to question him. He alone had the opportunity and the motive.’

Fidelma grimaced wryly. ‘I want to learn still more about Ultán. We must talk more to our northern friends and to Brother Drón. We must decide whether Ultán was saint or sinner of the worst order.’

‘How can we judge?’

‘Ex pede Herculem,’
quoted Fidelma.

‘I do not understand,’ replied Eadulf, trying to figure out what ‘From the foot, a Hercules’ meant.

‘From the sample of stories, we may judge the whole,’ explained Fidelma.

‘I have never heard that expression.’

‘There was a Greek mathematician and philosopher named Pythagoras to whom the investigators of crime owe much. Knowing that a person’s height is proportional to the length of their foot, he deduced the height of Hercules from the length of his foot.’

Eadulf frowned. ‘How would he be able to know the length of Hercules’ foot?’ he demanded.

‘He did it by measuring and comparing the length of several stadia in Greece. Since Hercules’ stadium at Olympia was the longest of them all, Pythagoras argued that his foot was longer than those of lesser men.’

Eadulf pulled a sceptical face as he seriously considered the matter. ‘That argument cannot be without flaws.’

Fidelma laughed, and took Eadulf’s arm. ‘It is meant as a concept, not as a concrete fact. By a sample we can see the whole. Let us test a few more sample attitudes to Ultán. But first I think I would like to have another look at the chamber where Ultán was murdered.’

There was still a guard in the corridor outside Ultán’s chamber. It was Enda again, of Colgú’s bodyguard. He greeted them with a weary smile, and Fidelma took pity on him.

‘I do not think that there will be any need for you to remain here after I have made this examination, Enda,’ she told him.

‘The Brehon Barrán told me that I should await your instruction,
lady. However, there have been some who have tried to get access here.’

‘Such as?’

‘Two of the late Bishop Ultán’s entourage. The man, Brother Drón, and one of the women who travel with him. Sister Sétach I think her name is.’

‘Did they give a reason why they needed to enter?’

‘Simply to take charge of his personal belongings.’

‘And you refused them entry?’

‘Of course, lady. Those were my instructions.’ He sounded slightly offended at being asked the question.

‘Of course,’ she said approvingly.

‘Abbot Augaire also came by. He said he was wondering if there was anything he could do. Curiosity was his motive, I think, more than anything else.’

Fidelma glanced at Eadulf but kept her expression impassive. ‘Were there any others?’

‘Brehon Ninnid, of course. Obviously, I allowed him entrance. But there was a strange Saxon … begging your pardon, Brother Eadulf. He said his name was Ord … Ordwool … ?’

‘Ordwulf?’ supplied Eadulf.

‘That’s it. Ordwulf, an elderly man. I think he is a little crazy.’

‘What makes you say that?’ demanded Eadulf.

‘He was saying that he wanted to see where the tyrant died and to make sure that he would not rise again as he had from the sea. I didn’t know what to make of it. I told him that the body had been removed and that Abbot Ultán was clearly dead.’

‘What did he do then?’

‘He wanted to know where the body was. I told him that Brother Conchobhar had removed it to the chapel and that it would be taken at midnight tonight and buried in the graveyard of ecclesiastics as was the custom here. The Saxon’s behaviour was most curious. He did not speak our language well and was difficult to understand.’

Fidelma sighed. ‘Perhaps you would wait here until we have finished, Enda. We will not be long.’

They entered the chamber, which was in darkness. The early dusk had already crept over Cashel and there was a curtain hanging across
the window obscuring what little light might have seeped in. A faint, acrid scent came to Fidelma’s nostrils which she could not momentarily identify. She saw the shadow of Eadulf feeling for a candle and reached out to seize his wrist, preventing him from action.

Eadulf too became aware of the pungent odour from smoke arising from a newly snuffed out candle. Then there was a slight movement, and a shadow moved towards the window.

Fidelma gave a backward kick at the door behind her so that the light from the corridor would throw some illumination into the chamber. At the same time, she shouted for Enda’s help.

Eadulf, however, had thrown himself across the room at the shadow that seemed to be trying to escape through the window. He threw his arms round what he perceived to be the waist of the figure and heaved back with all his might. He realised that it was a slight female form even as his weight caused him and his captive to tumble back into the room, where he measured his length on the floor with the figure on top of him, scratching, kicking and sobbing.

Enda entered, drawn sword in one hand and a lantern from the corridor in the other.

‘Stop or feel the point of my blade!’ he shouted, moving forward.

The figure went limp and Eadulf extracted himself from it and rose to his feet. Enda held up his lamp. The figure rose to its knees. It was a woman in the robes of a religieuse.

‘I’ve seen you before …’ gasped Eadulf, recovering his breath.

‘This is Sister Sétach,’ Enda said. ‘I denied her entry here only a short time ago.’

Fidelma came forward. ‘She does not seem to have obeyed you, Enda,’ she said softly.

Enda glanced at her. ‘Lady, I swear she did not get by me. I told her that she was not allowed here and have been outside ever since.’

‘I believe you,’ Fidelma assured him. She turned to the girl, who was now on her feet, looking shaken but defiant. ‘How did you get in here?’

The girl did not reply but raised her chin pugnaciously.

Fidelma glanced towards the window. She knew that there was a small ledge that ran round the fortress walls just under the windows of these chambers, no more than a footstep in width and with a drop of fifty metres below. She pursed her lips thoughtfully.

‘You are either very brave or very foolish,’ she commented as she pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down.’ She glanced at Enda. ‘Leave the lantern with us and remain outside.’

Reluctantly, Enda sheathed his sword and put down the lantern. He took a candle and lit it from the lantern flame, and then, with an irritated glance at the now seated girl, he withdrew.

Eadulf went to stand by the window, pushing back the curtain and glancing out. Even though the darkness obscured most of the fall, he shuddered. He would not have ventured on to the little ledge unless forced.

Fidelma had taken a seat on the edge of the bed, facing the girl, and now examined her features closely. Initially, she thought that it was the same young girl she had seen at the game of
immán
, the one who had seemed so fascinated by the play. But this religieuse was less slightly built, with darker hair and features and perhaps some years older. There was an odour of scent about her, some fragrance that Fidelma was not familiar with.