A Prayer for the Damned (23 page)

In spite of the illustrious company, so far as Fidelma was aware, there had been no
fled cro lige
– the feast of the deathbed -performed. And although when a great man died the watching, the
aire
, would usually take several days and nights, while lamentations were sung round the corpse, Ultán’s body had not even been watched over for a minimum full day and night. When Fidelma asked her brother why this was, Colgú had merely shrugged and said it had been the desire of Brother Drón acting on behalf of the community of Cill Ria.

As they stood in the gloom among the graves, ogham-inscribed pillar stones marking the more distinguished burials, there came the
slow rhythmic toll of a handbell approaching down the hill. It was the
clog-estechtae
, the death bell. The bellringer, a young man in dark robes, preceded the shadowy forms of four pallbearers who carried the wooden
fuat
or bier on which the body was laid, wrapped in a
rochell
or winding sheet. The small group entered the graveyard to the ringing of the bell and came to a halt by the head of the dark hole in the ground. The grave had already been measured and dug.

There was a silence.

The bellringer looked round nervously. No one in the crowd was moving. He cleared his throat.

‘Who is delivering the
écnaire?’
he asked, puzzled when no one came forward. ‘Who will deliver the requiem and perform the services?’

There was an uncomfortable shuffling among the religious, and then Brother Drón stepped forward angrily.

‘I will do so!’ he snapped, glaring meaningfully at Abbot Ségdae. ‘My abbot was a great man and deserves better than this.’

‘Your abbot came here as a stranger among us,’ replied Abbot Ségdae, his voice quiet but authoritative. ‘There is no religious of rank here who knew him other than as a man of belligerence and argument. None is therefore fit to deliver the
écnaire
over his grave. So say what you will, Brother Drón, and we will not deny you.’

Brother Drón turned sharply to where the hawk-faced king of Ulaidh stood by, watching the proceedings with dark, bright eyes which sparkled in the lantern light.

‘And you, king of Ulaidh, do you allow this insult to a churchman of your kingdom to go unnoticed?’

The unease among the people grew a little. Blathmac turned mildly to Brother Drón.

‘I see and hear no insult, Brother Drón. I hear a logical reason why no one of this company is qualified to speak of Ultán’s life and work save only yourself. If you do not wish to do so then let the
strophaiss
cover the bier and let it be placed in the ground, for the hour grows late.’

Brother Drón swallowed hard. He stared angrily round at the company and then stepped forward and clapped his hands several times in the traditional way of starting the ceremony.

‘I lament for the departed soul of Ultán, pillar of the church and fist of the Faith, who …’

‘Who was a thief, murderer and man of evil!’ shouted a harsh voice.

A figure pushed itself through the crowd on the far side of the grave from where Fidelma and Eadulf were standing.

It was Brother Berrihert. There was a shocked silence at his intervention.

‘Let the truth be known of the evil that this man has committed. And let no one rhapsodise his misbegotten life by claiming that he may be numbered among the saints.’

Brother Drón was’ speechless for the moment.

‘How dare you,’ he finally gasped. ‘What Saxon sacrilege is this?’

‘Truth is no sacrilege!’ cried Brother Berrihert. ‘Let these people hear the truth. He was evil. He was the murderer of my mother!’

One of the two sisters, Fidelma was not sure whether it was Sétach or Marga, let forth a wailing moan. She saw one of them turn and cling to the other as if for comfort. She glanced at Eadulf and met his astonished gaze. He shook his head as if to say that this was something unknown to him.

Brother Berrihert had advanced with an outstretched hand pointing to Brother Drón.

‘You, too, Drón, have espoused and shared that evil creature’s guilt. I come here to spit on this grave and to curse Ultán’s soul on its journey into everlasting darkness. As for you, Drón, may the
fé
soon measure your own corpse!’

There was a gasp of horror from the assembly. By the time they had recovered from the shock of hearing the curse uttered aloud -for the aspen rod used to measure graves was believed by many to bring evil on any who touched it – Brother Berrihert seemed to have vanished in the darkness.

Eadulf bent towards Fidelma. ‘That outburst might explain the strange encounter I had with Brother Berrihert’s father, Ordwulf, this morning. I knew that the mother had died but I had not realised that the death was claimed as murder.’

Fidelma nodded thoughtfully.

‘We must speak with Berrihert and Ordwulf,’ she replied.

The assembly was now in disarray. Colgú stepped forward, taking control.

‘Let the
fuat
be lowered into the grave,’ he instructed sharply. ‘Let those who wish to say a prayer for the repose of this man’s soul do so. But there are many here who feel that there are questions that have to be asked and answered before we can praise or condemn this man. God will forgive us if we delay until that time.’

The High King Sechnassach had been speaking to Blathmac of Ulaidh and now turned, nodding approval.

‘It is well ordered, Colgú,’ he said loudly, so that Brother Drón could be left in no doubt of his approval. ‘Let us retire.’

The crowd began to disperse with the exception of the pallbearers, Brother Drón, and his female companions, Marga and Sétach. Eadulf was about to move when Fidelma stayed him with her hand.

‘It would be unseemly to leave,’ she whispered.

Eadulf suddenly realised that the brehons were remaining too. It was their duty also to do so.

Fidelma waited while Brother Drón quickly intoned a series of prayers for the dead. She noticed that it was Sister Marga, who looked fairly young, who seemed to be sobbing uncontrollably. Sister Sétach had her arms round the slighter girl and was giving her what comfort she could, almost like a mother comforting a child. Finally, Brother Drón had finished and the pallbearers lowered the
fuat
into the ground. The traditional branches of birch and broom were laid over it before they began to fill in the earth.

Fidelma and Eadulf waited until Brother Drón and his party had left in the company of Brehon Ninnid. Then they moved across to join Barrán and Baithen and walk with them back up the hill to the fortress gates.

‘I have attended many a funeral,’ were Brehon Barrán’s opening words, ‘but this was the most bizarre.’

‘If proof were needed that Abbot Ultán was not well liked, it has been amply demonstrated,’ replied Fidelma mildly.

‘Yet only Muirchertach was seen leaving his chamber,’ chimed in Brehon Baithen, obviously thinking that Fidelma would use the almost universal feeling against the abbot in her defence of the Connacht king.

‘It is true. Yet we cannot proceed without knowing all the facts about the enmities that Abbot Ultán stirred up.’

‘No matter what anger he created,’ Brehon Baithen said, ‘it does not excuse his murder. We are dealing with law.’

‘Let us also hope that we are also dealing with justice,’ responded Fidelma sharply.

‘Well, I shall ensure that after what we have witnessed, a guard is placed outside Brother Drón’s chamber,’ remarked Brehon Baithen. ‘We would not want that curse to become reality. I thought this Saxon Brother Berrihert was a friend of yours, Eadulf? Does he not know that he has offended against our law of hospitality?’

‘I never said he or his family were friends,’ corrected Eadulf. ‘I said that I knew them. I studied with Berrihert and later met his brothers at the great Council of Witebia.’

‘Did you not persuade Miach of the Uí Cuileann to give them asylum in his territory?’

‘I did not,’ replied Eadulf with irritation. ‘Miach made up his own mind.’

Fidelma made a clucking noise of disapproval.

‘What are you implying, Baithen?’ she admonished. ‘Eadulf admits to knowing Berrihert but that does not make him responsible for his actions or those of his relatives. In our lives we rub shoulders with many who turn out to be beyond redemption. Does that mean that we ourselves are beyond redemption?’

Brehon Baithen took refuge in silence. Brehon Barrán’s face was impassive in the gloom.

‘You do not have long, Fidelma,’ he reminded her. ‘I have to return to Tara within the week.’

After they had bidden a good night to the brehons at the gates of the fortress, Eadulf asked: ‘Shall I attempt to find Brother Berrihert and ask the meaning of that scene in the graveyard?’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘The hour is late, the gates will be closed soon and, besides, you have the boar hunt to contend with first thing tomorrow.’

‘I have been thinking,’ Eadulf said slowly, ‘there really is no need for me to attend it. I am sure Muirchertach will keep to his word of honour. Our time may be more usefully spent here questioning witnesses.’

‘Many people will be attending the hunt tomorrow,’ Fidelma replied patiently. ‘Even the ladies will follow it. I want someone I can trust watching our guests.’

‘Are you telling me all you know?’ Eadulf asked accusingly.

Fidelma laughed. ‘What I know is very little, unfortunately. What I suspect is beyond the counting. Now, let us retire, for you especially need to be refreshed for the morning.’.

The day was bright. There were no clouds in the sky and a white veil of frost shrouded the landscape. The sun was already a pale golden slash over the eastern hills but it promised no future warmth. In the courtyard the gathered hunters with the pack of hunting hounds, and the spearmen on their horses, seemed to exist in a cloud of rising steam, but it was merely their collective breath vaporising as it encountered the cold morning air.

Eadulf came into the yard to find that Gormán, who was to ride with him, had already saddled his horse and was holding it ready. The hunters, holding the long leashes of a dozen yelping hounds, were already moving off through the gates. It had been explained to Eadulf that their function was to spread out through the dark forests to the east of the town and drive the wild pigs into open country beyond. It would take them an hour or so to reach the point where it was thought the herd was to be found, and then the mounted nobles would be waiting with their spears.

In the meanwhile, attendants were handing round goblets of
corma
to the gathered nobles as they waited for the hunters and their dogs to reach their positions. Eadulf reflected that a similar custom prevailed among his own people where the stirrup cup, what the Irish called
deog an dorais
, a drink for the gate, was enjoyed before the start of the hunt. Gormán was handing him a goblet.
‘Milsem cacha corma a cétdeog,’
he said, grinning. It was a moment before Eadulf had translated the ancient proverb – the sweetest of all ales is the first drink.

He took a sip of the fiery spirit and glanced round. Colgú was chatting with Sechnassach, the High King, and there were many other nobles and chiefs about. He immediately spotted the king of Connacht, Muirchertach Nár, clad in a royal blue woollen hunting cloak, among
the group. The king looked unconcerned and was speaking to Dúnchad Muirisci, his heir apparent. They seemed to be sharing a joke. Eadulf was surprised when another familiar figure joined them on horseback, also prepared for the hunt. It was Abbot Augaire. His surprise lasted but a few moments before he realised that there was no reason why Augaire or any other religious should not be attending. The Faith did not forbid its members to desist from the chase and he knew many prelates boasted of their prowess in the hunt.

At the far end of the courtyard Eadulf saw some of the wives of the nobles gathering ready to mount their horses. He scanned their faces quickly, recognising few of them. There was the lady Gormflaith, wife to the High King, surrounded by her entourage, and many other finely dressed ladies. As his gaze swept over them, he realised with momentary surprise, that Aibnat, the wife of Muirchertach Nar, was among them. But then, if her husband was attending the hunt, why should Eadulf be surprised if she was there?

‘The ladies will follow the hunt after we have moved off,’ Gormán explained, as if guessing his thoughts. ‘Have you been on a boar hunt before, brother?’

Eadulf shook his head. Herds of wild pigs roamed his own land but he was not particularly fond of hunting. It had to be done because people had to eat but he was prepared to leave it to others to bring the food to his table unless it became a necessity.

‘I have heard that boars can be very aggressive and dangerous,’ he ventured mildly.

Gormán chuckled. ‘There is an old saying here that the boar can send you home in a handcart but it is only the stag who will despatch you to your home in a coffin. A tenacious boar can wound but you need to be unlucky or lacking skill to be killed by one. However, it does happen. A friend of mine was killed by a boar. They are very strong and possessed of great courage. When they are cornered they will put up an heroic defence, but that does not often happen for they are very mobile and you need great skill in the chase to trap them. They are as tall, fast and strong as any hunting hound.’

‘So the idea is for those on foot with the hounds to drive them into an open space where they can be killed by the nobles with spears?’

Gormán gave an affirmative gesture. ‘Today’s chase should be a
good one. We have heard stories of a
torc eochraide
, a tusked boar, which is damaging the crops of a farmer on hills beyond the forest to the east. Our hounds will drive it and its pride through the forest and into the open.’

One of the men abruptly raised a horn to his lips and blew a short blast. At once the attendants came forward to take the swiftly drained goblets and help the nobles to their horses. They were all mounting now, laughing, and several boasting that it would be they who would encounter the wild boar first. Attendants handed each hunter his spear, the special sharp-bladed hunting spear called a
bir
. Colgú, at the side of the High King Sechnassach, began to lead the column of riders out of the courtyard of the great fortress and down the slope towards the track that led eastward towards the wooded hills. Muirchertach Nár was mounted on a distinctive-looking piebald mare, its irregularly shaped black and white patterning singling him out from the mass of his fellow riders. At least, thought Eadulf, it would not be easy to lose sight of the man.