A Prayer for the Damned (26 page)

The brothers glanced uneasily at each other.

‘There have been many stories among the people here,’ said Brother Naovan. ‘Many have condemned the curse that our brother put on a fellow religious.’

‘Can you explain why he did so?’

‘Although we would have preferred our brother not to have given way to his anger, there was a reason. But reaction in anger can bring no resolution.’

‘Wise words,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘So, if I have understood right, your mother died as the direct result of some action of Abbot Ultán?’

‘Perhaps you should be speaking to Berrihert,’ Brother Naovan replied hesitantly.

‘You have been in this country since the great Council of Witebia, have you not? That is nearly four years or so.’

‘That is so, Sister Fidelma.’

‘Then you know of our laws, the laws of the Fénechus? You know that I am a
dálaigh
, qualified to the level of
anruth
. I have been charged to make an investigation. I require information and you are duty bound to answer my questions.’

The brothers were uncomfortable.

‘We do not wish to go against the laws and customs of the land that has given us refuge, sister,’ Brother Pecanum agreed. ‘We will do our best to answer you.’

‘So tell me exactly what happened to your mother.’

By some silent consent between the two of them it was Brother Naovan who told the story.

‘You know that our family did not accept the decision of Oswy, made at the Council of Witebia, as binding on us? We decided to follow Abbot Colmán to this land and enter a religious community that he had established on Inis Bó Finne, a little island …’

Fidelma gestured impatiently with her hand. ‘Eadulf has told me
the story as he heard it from Berrihert. But he also told me, and you have just confirmed, that your father Ordwulf, who came with you, is not a Christian.’

For a moment the younger brothers’ expressions shared sadness.

‘It is true that our parents came with us, though not of our faith. It was because we were their only means of protection in their old age. We could not abandon them to their certain deaths when they were no longer able to fend for themselves.’

Fidelma was momentarily surprised but then remembered that the Angles and Saxons had different views on age from her own people. The law texts of the Fénechus were absolute. ‘Old age is rewarded by the people.’ When men and women became too elderly or infirm to take care of themselves, the law stipulated the rules by which they were to be taken care of. No elderly person was allowed to become destitute or in need. The legal text of the
Crith Gabhlach
decreed that a special officer called the
úaithne
, the name meant a pillar or support of the society, be appointed by every clan to ensure all the elderly were looked after. They were to receive proper allowances and care and were protected from any harm or insults. The
Senchus Mór
stated, of the elderly, that it was the duty of the clan to support every member.

When the head of a family became too old or infirm to manage his affairs, the laws allowed him to retire and hand over to his next of kin. He and his wife or widow was then to be maintained for the rest of their lives. They could live with their next of kin if that was their desire or, if they wished to live in a separate house, that house, called an
inchis
, was maintained for them. Even if they had no children or close relatives to help them, this was done under the supervision of the
úaithne
. The elderly, if infirm, had to be washed a minimum of once a week, especially their hair, and to have a full bath a minimum of every twenty days. Provisions and fuel allowances were also stipulated in law.

Fidelma, widely read and travelled as she was, was sometimes shocked at the lack of provision in other cultures for the sick, the elderly and the poor.

‘So your parents would have had no help from their tribe once they became elderly or infirm?’

The two brothers shook their heads.

‘No one respects age. What can the elderly contribute to the good of the people?’

Fidelma made a noise that signified irritation. ‘One can argue that they have already contributed. However, it is surely their wisdom that is their greatest gift. When the old cock crows, the young ones learn,’ she added, using an ancient expression of her people.

Brother Naovan shrugged.

‘We could not abandon them,’ he repeated. ‘So we brought them with us. They were firmly set in their ways, in the ways of the Old Faith, and continued as such.’

‘There are still many in the five kingdoms who have not wholly endorsed the New Faith,’ Fidelma replied. ‘It is of no great consequence.’

‘The consequence was very great,’ muttered Brother Pecanum darkly.

‘As I say, we brought them with us,’ his brother continued. ‘When we settled in the community of Colmán, we built them a small house, the
inchis
you call it? Yes, we helped them with a small house nearby where they could live out their days in peace. All went well, until, as Berrihert told Brother Eadulf, this arrogant prelate from Cill Ria came to demand that our community recognise Ard Macha as the primatial seat of the churches. What did we Angles and Saxons know of this? Nothing. But Abbot Colmán argued against such recognition, as did most of those men of your country who were in our community. But others argued in favour of the demands of this Abbot Ultán.

‘The arguments were angry. Finally, Brother Gerald left our island and took his followers, who were mainly Saxons, to Maigh Éo on the mainland and formed a new community. That did not stop Abbot Ultán, who came again and provoked further arguments.’

Fidelma was puzzled. ‘How did that affect either your father or your mother? They were not part of the community. They were not even part of the Faith.’

Brother Pecanum suddenly groaned in anguish and Naovan leaned forward and gripped him comfortingly by the arm. He turned to Fidelma. There was pain on his features.

‘It happened when Abbot Ultán, who had been accompanied by
Brother Drón and a dozen men, warriors or mercenaries perhaps from his own land whom he had hired as bodyguards on his trip, was leaving our island. I believe he needed those bodyguards otherwise he would not long have been allowed the arrogance with which he conducted himself. They made their way down to the inlet where their boat was waiting to take them back to the mainland. The way lay past the house of our parents. My father was not there, for he was out fishing on the far side of the island.’

He paused for a moment, his hand still gripping his brother’s arm. Pecanum’s eyes were watering.

‘My mother, Aelgifu, was outside, kneeling under a tree. There she had set up an altar to the old gods that she worshipped. Knowing that my father had gone out to sea fishing, she had sacrificed a hare to the goddess Ran, seeking her protection.’

‘Ran?’ queried Fidelma.

‘In the old religion, Ran was wife to Aegir, the god of the sea. When seafarers drowned, she would take them to her palace beneath the waves where her nine daughters would look after them. Ran was protector of those who sacrificed to her.’ The young man hesitated and coloured. ‘That was what was taught in the old religion to which our parents clung steadfastly. There was no harm in them, for they were good people, but just a little old and set in their ways.’

‘I understand,’ Fidelma replied. ‘Continue.’

‘Abbot Ultán came walking by as she was making her sacrifice and demanded to know what she was doing. She did not speak your language well but one of the men with him, one of the warriors, who had been a mercenary among the Saxons, interpreted. Abbot Ultán was beside himself to learn that a foreign woman, in the shadow of a Christian monastery, was carrying out a pagan ceremony. He raged and stormed and told the warrior to beat my mother for her sacrilege.’

There was a silence. Brother Naovan raised his chin defiantly.

‘He ordered an elderly woman to be beaten?’ Fidelma was incredulous.

‘God’s curse on his soul,’ muttered Brother Pecanum. ‘He deserved his death.’

‘What happened then?’

‘They left my mother senseless and smashed her little altar under the tree. They left. We never saw Ultán or Drón again until we heard that they were here at Cashel.’

‘How did you learn what had happened to your mother?’

‘Someone came running to the community to say they had found her. Berrihert, Pecanum and I went down to her. She was still living but her life was ebbing fast with the shock. She told us what had happened as best as she could. She struggled to remain alive until evening so that she could say farewell to my father on his return, but before dusk descended her spirit had fled her body. May she rest with her own gods in peace.’

Fidelma sat regarding the two brothers carefully. ‘Tell me, and tell me truthfully, did Berrihert, your father Ordwulf, and yourselves, come here with the intention of seeking vengeance on Ultán and Drón?’

Brother Pecanum raised his head and met her gaze. ‘At first we did not know they were here. But when we found out, my father grew angry. Yesterday, at dawn, he went to the fortress, when the gates opened, and his intention was to seek out Ultán.’

‘And kill him?’ pressed Fidelma.

‘And kill him,’ confirmed Brother Pecanum.

Fidelma had been expecting a denial. She was surprised at the frankness of the young man.

‘Since you have been so honest, let me ask you whether your family were involved in the death of Abbot Ultán?’

This time Brother Naovan replied.

‘We were not. I speak only for Pecanum and me. I cannot say anything else. Our father raged against us for not being warriors, for not avenging our mother’s death, but we are committed to the New Faith and vengeance is not ours to take. We did not know our father had gone up to the fortress until he returned to say that he had been thwarted and that Ultán was already slain by the hand of the king of Connacht.’

‘So you are saying that Ordwulf and Berrihert were not involved in his death?’

‘We heard that it was the king of Connacht who killed him. Why do you question us in this fashion?’

‘Because I do not believe that the king of Connacht did kill the abbot.’

The brother exchanged a glance of surprise. ‘Then you suspect … ?’ began Brother Naovan.

Fidelma interrupted with a sad shake of her head. ‘Do not think that I have no sympathy for you in this tragic tale. However, I must attend to the law. You will have to remain within this town until such time as the matter has been resolved.’

‘We understand, sister. But it is hard for us to carry suspicion in our hearts against our brother and our father. God grant that they are not involved, and that you are wrong in your belief that the king of Connacht did not strike down Ultán.’

‘There is going to be a price to pay for this!’

Gormán was peering over Eadulf’s shoulder and was shaking his head in disbelief.

Eadulf made no comment. He was examining the king’s body for the cause of death. In fact, it was fairly obvious. The killing blow had left a wound just above the heart, although Eadulf had noticed three more such wounds in the neck: deep, plunging, tearing cuts which, of themselves, would not have caused death. These wounds could have been made by sword or knife or …

He was about to rise when he noticed a piece of paper tucked into a fold of Muirchertach Nár’s hunting cloak. He reached forward, extracted it and then unfolded it. He drew his breath sharply as he saw what it was. A poem. He knew the words.

Cold the nights I cannot sleep,
Thinking of my love, my dear one …

He did not know what it could mean but he folded it and put it in his purse. Then he rose to his feet and glanced round.

A short distance away he saw a discarded hunting spear, Muirchertach’s
bir
. He moved towards it and looked down at the sharp honed point. It was blood-stained. He picked it up and returned to the body. Then he bent down again and let out a sigh as he measured the wound with the point of the spear.

‘He has been stabbed with his own hunting spear,’ he announced. Then, straightening, he added: ‘There is no sign of his horse.’

Gormán beckoned the dog handler to come forward. ‘Was there any sign of Muirchertach’s horse when you came here?’

‘There was not.’

Eadulf turned to the man. ‘How did you make this discovery … what is your name?’

‘My name is Rónán. I am one of the trackers at Cashel.’

‘So, tell me how you came here.’

‘We were driving the boars through the forest. I was on the far left of the line. One of the hounds, again to my left, starting giving cry and so I moved towards it through the forest, thinking it had a boar at bay. I was still in the forest when I heard the sound of a frightened horse, then the thud of hooves at a gallop. By the time I came through the undergrowth just there, there was no sign of anything. No horse and no hound.’ The man paused and Eadulf waited patiently. ‘I came to the mound here, it being high ground, to see if I could see anything.’

‘And that is when you saw the body?’ Gormán cut in.

‘I did so.’

‘Then what?’

‘Recognising the body as that of Muirchertach Nár, I knew I had to tell someone immediately. I ran back to the main track hoping that someone would be passing and, thanks be, I saw you both immediately. That is all I know.’

‘You say that you heard the sound of a horse?’ Gormán asked. ‘The ground is soft here. There should be tracks.’

‘There are,’ replied the man. ‘Come with me.’

They followed him to a place beyond the body.

‘Can you read the signs?’ Eadulf asked.

The man crouched down to point at the hoofprints.

‘So far as I can see, two riders came to this spot here by different paths.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘A third horse was here, with a split shoe. It went off in that direction.’ He pointed. ‘The other two horses followed it, but neither appears to have had a rider. The one with the split shoe seems to be the only one that was ridden away.

Eadulf smiled a little sceptically. ‘Is that guesswork?’

Rónán was not offended.