A Prayer for the Damned (41 page)

Still saying nothing, Sister Marga was led away.

Half a dozen men with burning brand torches had now gathered on horseback. Everyone remounted and, with Miach leading the way, they set off across the valley floor before beginning to ascend the wood-covered mountains of Sleibhte na gCoillte. They followed one of the gushing streams that rose on the mountainside to tumble down into the river Eatharlaí, the path along the eastern side of this white water stretching up through the trees towards the bare higher slopes.

It was growing dark now. The low black clouds had descended on the mountain tops that rose in front of them. As Miach had said, An Starraicin, as its name indicated, was a small peak, almost a foothill, to the higher peaks behind. They left their horses at the edge of the wooded area and Miach, with his men holding their torches aloft, led the way out on to the bald, open summit of the hill, warning those following where to avoid the boggy ground round which they had to walk. It was a short distance, over the boulder-strewn landscape, to where there was a group of men also holding torches and standing round an already constructed funeral pyre of stacked logs.

To Eadulf, the scene was familiar. Many Saxon warriors had been sent to Wael Halla, the eternal hall of the heroes, to feast for ever with Woden, Thunor, Tiw and the other great warrior gods of his people. He swallowed nervously. The former gods of his people, he corrected himself.

Pecanum and Naovan went forward immediately to greet their brother Berrihert, to exchange embraces and talk for a moment of their father’s death. Ordwulf’s body now lay on top of the pyre, his weapons beside him. His double-edged battleaxe had been placed on top of his body, his lifeless hands clasping its shaft and the blade flat against his chest.

Eadulf and Gormán moved forward to stand beside the chief of the Uí Cuileann while Pecanum and Naovan went forward to the pyre and solemnly raised their hands in salute to their father. It was a traditional gesture of farewell. Then they both stepped back to stand either side of their brother Berrihert.

He started to speak in the Saxon tongue. Eadulf found himself automatically translating for the benefit of Miach and Gormán, so that they could tell the others what was happening.

‘We come not to make the funeral obsequies for a pagan but for our father. He was Ordwulf son of Frithuwulf Churlslayer. He was a noble warrior of his people. He lived and died as a warrior believing in the gods of his childhood and of his people. He came to this land because his sons wanted him to come; he came with his wife, our mother, Aelgifu daughter of Aelfric. Even though he and his sons had parted company in their religion, they had not parted company in their common blood. He was our father. And he died seeking justice against those who slew his wife, Aelgifu, our mother. We will promise him one thing and this we swear by his funeral pyre this night. We swear to achieve justice for our slain mother. We have adopted a new faith, come to a new country and will follow the laws and customs of this country. We will continue to follow these laws that are still strange to us in order to pursue the justice that Ordwulf sought. We swear to bring the punishment of those laws to those who slew his wife, our mother. This we swear.’

Pecanum and Naovan echoed him: ‘This we swear.’

Brother Berrihert turned his face to the darkened sky.

‘Great God, Aelmihtig, you are known to men in many guises and by many names. Our father knew you as Woden. If you are truly he, then take our father into your eternal hall Wael Halla so that he might reside for ever with the heroes he knew and let our mother, Aelgifu, be there as young and beautiful as he knew her once, to serve his mead and bring his meat, according to custom. Aelmihtig, if you are not Woden, then, as we believe, you are more powerful. Soften your stern eye, for being all-knowing, you know that our father was a good man and that he and Aelgifu are deserving of their belief that they may live for ever in whatever Wael Halla you decree for them.’

Berrihert paused, then, turning, he took up one of the burning
brands in his right hand. His brothers, on either side of him, reached forward, so all three grasped the staff of the torch. All three raised their faces to the heavens and gave one long eerie cry. ‘Aelmihtig!’

Across the mountains behind them first one lone wolf and then another and another took up an echo of that cry until the valleys echoed with their ghostly chorus. The three brothers had taken the steps forward to the pyre and thrust the burning torch into it. The dry twigs and fuel that had been placed there caught immediately and within moments great flames were leaping upwards to the sky.

I
t was approaching midday when the sound of a sentinel horn caused Fidelma to look up with relief from the game of
brandubh
that she was playing with her cousin Abbot Laisran of Durrow. The chubby cleric noticed her expression and smiled across the wooden gaming board.

‘I presume that is Brother Eadulf returning.’

Fidelma rose, with a studied leisurely poise, and crossed to the window of the chamber that overlooked the courtyard. She tried not to make her movements seem anxious or hurried. She glanced down and saw the cavalcade of horses entering the fortress courtyard and she tried to disguise her smile of satisfaction.

Eadulf and Gormán rode at the head, while behind them came Sister Marga alongside the warrior whom she had sent to Eatharlaí. Behind them came the three Saxon brothers, Berrihert, Pecanum and Naovan, and behind them rode Miach of the Uí Cuileann and two of his warriors.

She turned back to the abbot and seated herself once more at the
brandubh
board. He stared quizzically at her.

‘It is Eadulf,’ she confirmed, answering his unspoken question.

‘Then we can finish this game later,’ Laisran suggested.

Fidelma smiled confidently. ‘I am not so distracted, my cousin, that I cannot win this game before I go down to greet them.’

Abbot Laisran chuckled in appreciation before glancing down at the board, examining the pieces. ‘I am still in a strong position, Fidelma. I believe that it will take you some time to attempt to weaken me.’

‘I make it three moves before my High King reaches safety from your attack,’ she said.

Abbot Laisran frowned, peering forward. ‘I don’t see …’

‘There is no advantage for you,’ she said. ‘Look, you have to begin your attack from here and I move there and then …’

He saw at once as she indicated the squares on the
brandubh
board. It was logical. But then she was always logical. He sighed, trying to remember the last time he had won a game from his young cousin. He raised his shoulders and let them fall in a gesture of resignation.

‘Then I resign and acknowledge you have the game,’ he said, his chubby face almost mournfully comic.

She hesitated, wondering whether she had not been diplomatic, but the abbot was suddenly smiling again.

‘Does the arrival of Eadulf mean that you are now close to resolving this riddle?’

‘I believe so,’ she replied. ‘Now we have all those concerned back at Cashel, I think that we will be able to resolve this by midday as I promised Brehon Barrán.’

Abbot Laisran’s eyes widened a little. ‘So you already know who killed Bishop Ultán and Muirchertach Nár?’

Fidelma rose again from her seat. ‘I am sure I do, but to reveal the truth in such matters is very much like a game of
brandubh
.’

‘I don’t follow.’

She pointed to the board. ‘Let us merely substitute the roles. We have the board, which is seven squares by seven squares – forty-nine squares in all. That is the board on which the murderer and suspects can move this way and that. The High King piece represents the murderer. The four protecting pieces are the false leads, those suspects who will eventually be cleared of wrongdoing. Our inquiries begin from the four corners of the board; the investigators are represented by the four attacking pieces. As you know, these attacking pieces can only move in logical lines whereas the defending pieces, our suspects, can move in any direction they choose. The murderer is at the centre of the board and can move in various directions but not as far as the suspects can. He can only move one square at a time. The murderer is slow and encumbered.’

Abbot Laisran looked at the board game, trying to follow her logic. ‘Very well, I accept your symbolism. But then what?’

Fidelma bent over the board. ‘The attacking pieces have to be relentless and corner each defender and eliminate it before moving on to the High King piece, finally trapping it. So, the investigators have to corner each suspect and eliminate them from the inquiry before moving on to trap the murderer.’

‘I understand.’ Abbot Laisran smiled. ‘So where is your analogy leading?’

Fidelma straightened up. ‘The
brandubh
board will now become the great hall here where all the players and pieces will be gathered. Before the Chief Brehon Barrán, I shall commence my attack, eliminating each suspect before cornering the murderer.’ She turned for the door and then paused. ‘But before I do that, I have a few things to sort out with Eadulf.’

An hour later, in their chambers, with Muirgen fussing over them, Fidelma and Eadulf had brought each other up to date on the developments since they had parted on the previous afternoon.

‘Where is Sister Marga now?’ demanded Fidelma.

‘Because of her inclination to keep running away, I have had her placed in a locked chamber. Do you want to question her now?’

‘Not at once.’ She looked up to where Muirgen was playing with Alchú, and called to the nurse to go to the chamber where Sister Marga was held.

‘After her journey from Eatharlaí, I fear that she must be in need of a bath. Provide all her wants, perfumes and the like, so that she may bathe. Tell her that, should she require it, Brother Conchobhar has many scents for her bath and she may ask for anything she desires. When she has done, I will come and question her. Is that clear?’

Muirgen was a simple soul and did not question Fidelma’s instructions, but Eadulf was looking at her as if she had lost her reason. Fidelma merely returned his gaze with solemn features and did not answer his unasked question.

‘And send an attendant to take care of Alchú while you are gone,’ she added as Muirgen left.

‘Now we will have a word, at long last, with Brother Drón,’ she said when the attendant arrived. She explained how Caol and his
warriors had picked up the surprised northern religious at the inn at Rath na Drínne on the previous evening and returned him to the fortress.

Brother Drón scowled as they entered the room where he was confined.

‘You are a fool, Sister Fidelma! I have been chasing Marga because I know that she killed Abbot Ultán, as doubtless she also killed Muirchertach when he found out what she had done.’

Fidelma took a chair and said: ‘You’d better tell me how you know that.’

Brother Drón scowled and looked as if he was about to argue, but Fidelma urged him to continue.

‘Sister Marga was a temptress, a siren conjured to seduce that God-fearing man. She forced an unnatural liaison with the abbot.’

Fidelma looked solemn. ‘Are you admitting that there was a sexual relationship between the abbot and Sister Marga?’

‘The fault lay entirely with Sister Marga,’ Brother Drón replied. ‘Why else would he have succumbed had she not tempted him?’

‘From what I have learned,’ said Fidelma pointedly, ‘I doubt whether he needed any temptation. Is your preamble necessary to the reason why you assert that Marga killed him?’

‘Marga came to hate him. Probably because he finally rejected her advances. That’s why she killed him.’

‘A lot of people hated Abbot Ultán with more reason.’

‘I was a witness that night. A witness to the killing.’

‘A witness?’ For the first time, Fidelma was genuinely surprised.

‘I went to Bishop Ultán’s chamber late that night …’

‘For what reason?’ demanded Eadulf.

Brother Drón blinked at the interruption. ‘Why?’ He hesitated. ‘Because Abbot Ultán was preparing a protest against your wedding on the following day. He needed my advice.’

‘Go on,’ urged Fidelma.

‘He asked me to go to his room about midnight to run through some of the arguments that he was going to put forward. I had just left my room when I saw Abbot Ultán’s door open. His door faces the corridor where my room is. Then Sister Marga emerged. She did
not see me and I pressed back into my room, for, at that time, I thought it unseemly that either Abbot Ultán or Sister Marga know that I shared their dark secret.’

‘You display a curious sense of proprieties, Brother Drón,’ Eadulf observed dryly. ‘You knew about his penchant for women, you knew even darker secrets such as his taste for sadism, the beating to death of his victims … like the poor Saxon woman at Colmán’s island. You ignored that. Yet you ask us to believe that you were concerned for his sensitivities or Marga’s feelings? Come. What game were you playing?’

Brother Drón coloured hotly. ‘I was not playing a game. I …’

‘Perhaps you were thinking of how best to extort something from the situation?’