A Prayer for the Damned (9 page)

Colgú seemed to sense the air of tension that caused both Fidelma and Eadulf to fall quiet.

‘How is little Alchú?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Your nephew is well,’ answered Fidelma brightly. ‘Muirgen, our nurse, has been a godsend. I have no fears of leaving the child with her and her husband Nessán when my duty as a lawyer bids me spend time away.’

‘He is growing apace,’ commented Colgú. ‘You have a fine son there, Eadulf.’

‘A fine son, indeed,’ Eadulf agreed quietly.

‘So all is ready for tomorrow?’ pressed Fidelma’s brother in a determined fashion.

‘As far as we are concerned,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I think you will forgive us for some trepidation,’ she added. ‘There is, as Eadulf has pointed out, such an illustrious audience for the ceremony. It makes us both very nervous.’

Colgú felt that she was making an excuse for Eadulf’s reticence. He wondered if there was something wrong between them. How could he approach it? Could he ask Eadulf to leave and question his sister directly? While he was hesitating, Fidelma stood up and put her goblet on a side tablet.

‘Brother, forgive us,’ she said. ‘But the hour grows late and we promised Abbot Laisran that we would speak to him before we prepare for tomorrow.’

‘Of course.’ Colgú sighed reluctantly. ‘Meanwhile, let us hope Brehon Baithen has persuaded Abbot Ultán to see some sense about his protest.’

The meeting with Abbot Laisran was a genuine arrangement. Laisran was a distant cousin, an Eóghanacht, who was abbot of the great teaching monastery at Durrow – Darú, the abbey on the oak plain. It was he who had persuaded Fidelma, after she had qualified as an advocate at the law school of Brehon Morann, to enter the religious life at St Brigid’s mixed house at Cill Dara. From the time she was a young girl, Fidelma had been advised and guided by the elderly abbot. Her father, Fáilbe Flann, who had been king of Muman, had died in the year of her birth and Laisran had taken his place.

The abbot was awaiting them in his chamber, seated before the fire and sipping at a goblet of mulled wine. It was a position which Fidelma always associated with him. Laisran rose awkwardly as they entered in answer to his invitation. He was a short, rotund, red-faced man. His face proclaimed a permanent state of jollity, for he had been born with a rare gift of humour and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. When he smiled, it was no faint-hearted parting of the lips but an expression that welled from the depths of his being, bright and all-encouraging. And when he laughed it was as though the whole earth trembled in accompaniment.

‘Fidelma! Eadulf! You are both welcome. Is all well? I received your request to speak to me before the momentous events that are due to take place tomorrow.’

Fidelma took a seat before the fire while Eadulf brought a spare chair and seated himself beside her. Laisran had resumed his seat and was offering them wine from the jug that sat by the glowing hearth. They both declined, much to his surprise, and he refilled his own goblet.

‘Do you know Abbot Ultán?’ Fidelma asked without preamble.

‘Ultán of the Uí Thuirtrí?’ Laisran chuckled sourly. ‘I have met him once or twice at councils. He aspires to be a leader of the Faith – alas, he has no sense of humour and humour is one of the foundations on which saintliness must repose. I have heard strange tales about his life before he entered the religious. But it is not my place to spread rumour.’

‘He has arrived in Cashel to protest at my wedding,’ said Fidelma softly.

Abbot Laisran did not seem surprised. ‘It is just the sort of thing he would do. He sees himself as a great reformer of our churches here in the five kingdoms. He has become a leading advocate of the Roman rules, of the introduction of the
Penitentials
, even arguing them to the exclusion of our native laws. He also seeks to get Ard Macha acknowledged as the primatial church in the five kingdoms. Particularly, he believes in celibacy among the religious and abstinence from wine and other intoxicating beverages. He has picked up strange ideas from the eastern churches concerning self-punishment,
the use of a
flagellum
to suppress impure thoughts. Instead of preaching a word of joy, I fear that he would have the world descend into a sad, grey place.’

Eadulf could not suppress his smile at Abbot Laisran’s vivid description of the man. ‘It seems that you know him well enough, then.’

Abbot Laisran nodded solemnly. ‘I shall be doing my best to avoid him while he is in Cashel. He would certainly disapprove of me.’ He paused and looked at Fidelma thoughtfully. ‘Surely you are not worried about Ultán? You have heard the arguments about celibacy a thousand times. You cannot let his prejudices ruin tomorrow. Spoken words vanish in the air.’

‘Though there is no bone in the tongue, it has often broken a person’s head,’ she replied, using an old proverb.

Abbot Laisran grinned and shook his head. ‘When Ultán stands up and speaks, he is recognised for what he is. One should feel sorrow for a person who is so unhappy that he needs must make others join him in that sad world.’

‘There is something else I wish to speak of to you,’ Fidelma said. ‘Indeed, I have been giving it much thought.’ She paused for a moment and Abbot Laisran waited politely for her to continue. ‘As you know, when I left the school of Brehon Morann, I followed your advice to enter into the religious life. Do you recall the reasons why you gave me that advice?’

Abbot Laisran nodded thoughtfully.

‘You wanted independence from your family,’ he replied. ‘Independence to practise law. In these days most of the professions can be found within the abbeys and ecclesiastical schools throughout the land, just as in the old days it was the Druids and their colleges who took over all the professional and intellectual functions of society. I advised that if you entered into the religious it would provide you with security and the base to practise law. I have been proved right.’

‘I do not understand,’ Eadulf said, leaning forward. ‘Why would Fidelma lack security by not entering the religious? She is the daughter of a king and the sister of a king.’

‘And she would have become reliant on the status of her family
and, as I understood it, Fidelma wanted to rely on her own talent,’ replied Abbot Laisran. ‘Is that not so?’

Fidelma smiled quickly in response. ‘To enter a religious house in order to pursue a career in law was but a stepping stone for me. I cannot say that I was really an advocate of the Faith.’

‘So what troubles you now?’

‘I find a conflict between my commitment to the law and what many people see as my lack of commitment to the institutions of the religious. In fact, the matter was underscored only a short while ago when Brehon Baithen suggested that a way of dealing with Abbot Ultán’s protests would be to simply disclaim my vow to serve’ the Faith.’

Abbot Laisran’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘But that would mean that Eadulf also would have to disclaim his vow. Is that what you both want?’

Eadulf leaned forward.

‘We have spoken about this, Fidelma and I,’ he said quickly. ‘We feel …’

‘Would you advise me to withdraw from the religious?’ Fidelma interrupted.

‘Withdraw?’ echoed Abbot Laisran as if he had not heard aright.

‘Resign from the religious,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘My profession is law, not the propagating of the Faith. There are many others who are better advocates in that field. I have no calling to do so, as you would say.’

Abbot Laisran glanced at Eadulf.

‘And what do you say to this,
Brother
Eadulf?’ he asked with a slight emphasis on the title
Bráthair
.

‘It is a choice that Fidelma must make first. I am content as things are at present. There are many religious who live life as we do without being forced to make such decisions. Many an abbot, many a bishop as well, marry and raise children, and pursue their interests in areas where the question of whether they should resign their ecclesiastical offices never occurs.’

‘This is entirely my own idea, Laisran,’ Fidelma added. ‘Even before Brehon Baithen suggested it tonight.’

‘And how did you answer him?’

‘I answered him that to withdraw from the religious simply to stop Abbot Ultán’s protest would be wrong. I should withdraw because it was my wish, and Eadulf’s wish, that I do so.’

Abbot Laisran pouted a little. His usually cherubic face saddened.

‘We must all follow our own path. I do not see that you need take this final step. After all, your current position is more or less that of a lay person. It is well known that you have already left your mother house at Cill Dara and dissociated yourself from it.’

‘Left it but not resigned from the religious,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Marriage and motherhood are difficult at the best of times. I am also a
dálaigh
, but to be a religieuse as well is too difficult. I need advice, Laisran.’

The Abbot Laisran gazed down at his feet and uttered a deep sigh as if faced by a hopeless situation.

‘It is advice that your husband is now better able to give,’ he said. ‘Brother Eadulf, you have said it is a choice that Fidelma must make. But yours should be the voice that she listens to.’

Eadulf shrugged. ‘My advice is to let things be. I have already said so. There is no reason why she should make any decision. During this last year, the months of our trial marriage and the birth of little Alchú, very few have remonstrated with us about our relationship, and those few are those whose views are not worth listening to.’

Abbot Laisran smiled quickly.

‘And Abbot Ultán falls into that category,’ he said, turning to Fidelma. ‘Is it that you are really concerned about his protest?’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘I have said it would be wrong to do something simply to avoid confrontation with such a person as Ultán. I simply think that I need to order my life.’

‘Ah! To
order
your life?’ Abbot Laisran sat back with eyes half closed. His inflection seemed to imply that he had understood a great deal by her remark. ‘And you seek my advice? So, you feel that Eadulf’s advice is not good enough?’

Fidelma looked disappointed.

‘It sounds as if you agree with Eadulf,’ she said truculently.

Abbot Laisran chuckled. ‘And if I do, does that change your mind? If you feel Eadulf gives you such bad advice, then I fear for your future together.’

Fidelma coloured hotly. ‘That is not what I meant. I fully appreciate what Eadulf’s views are. But, forgive me, he is biased. You have given me good advice in the past, Laisran.’

‘And I shall give it to you in the future,’ assured the abbot. ‘For now, even as you listen to him, also listen to your own heart. You might find that you are hearing the same thing.’

Brehon Baithen, with Caol, the youthful commander of the guard, at his side, was making his way towards the chambers set aside for Abbot Ultán. As befitted his rank, Ultán had been given one of the guest chambers in the palace. While religieux guests of lesser rank were assigned to quarters in the town, Abbot Ultán had created such an altercation that a chamber had been allocated to his steward, Brother Drón, nearby. The females of his entourage had been given places in the hostel set aside for them in another part of the palace.

Baithen himself was very aware that he was ultimately responsible for the security of the many distinguished guests who had gathered at Cashel. He had scarcely settled into his new position as brehon of Muman and he realised there were many who resented the fact that he had displaced the old brehon Dathal. But Dathal had needed to be forcibly retired for he had been making too many mistakes in his judgements. It had been hard to allow Dathal to remain in office after the unjustified accusation of the murder of Bisop Petrán against Brother Eadulf.

Bishop Petrán! Brehon Baithen sighed. He had been of the same ilk as Bishop Ultán; firmly set in his beliefs and narrow interpretations, asserting his authority and determined to make people conform without compromise. As a judge of the laws of the Fénechus, Baithen had often come into conflict with Petrán who had wanted to follow the foreign laws and rules of Rome. Baithen could not repress the thought that if he followed the same laws, then he could have had Abbot Ultán thrown out of Cashel immediately without consideration of his rights. The Roman rules, the
Penitentials
as they were called, which some bishops and abbots wanted to adopt, did not have the same liberality of attitude that the Fénechus law allowed.

It was with these thoughts that Brehon Baithen turned into the quarter where chambers had been assigned for the northern prelate.

As he and Caol entered the gloomy corridor, lit by smoky oil lanterns hanging at strategic points along it, the guard commander said: ‘Abbot Ultán’s chamber is the last one along here.’ He indicated a door that was set in the corner where the corridor turned sharply at a right angle. Whilst the door was set in the corridor along which they were preceding, it actually faced towards that part of the corridor that was hidden from them.

It was at that moment that a figure backed out of the very door Caol was indicating. It was a tall man wrapped in a multi-coloured cloak. His hair was long, black and shoulder-length. There was tension in his stance as he took a step backward into the corridor. He seemed to be staring straight into the room from which he had exited. Then, without noticing Brehon Baithen and Caol, the man turned and disappeared into the other section of the corridor.

Baithen and Caol had halted in momentary surprise, exchanging glances. Then they hurried to the open door of Abbot Ultán’s chamber.

A lamp lit the interior. The first impression was of a room that was neat and tidy. But the lamp lit the bed and on it sprawled a figure lying on its back, dressed in the robes of a rich religieux. They were darkly stained. The flesh of the face was white, the eyes wide and staring. The whole expression seemed one of comical surprise but there was nothing comical about the scene. The dark stains were blood and the man was dead. The body was that of Ultán, abbot of Cill Ria and bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí, the emissary from Ard Macha.