A Prayer for the Damned

laid her down.

‘There is nothing to be done, brother,’ muttered Brother Marcán as he watched his fellow trying to arrange the girl and her clothing with some dignity. ‘Deus vult.’

‘God wills it?’ muttered Brother Augaire. ‘You are wrong, brother. He cannot have willed this. He was but preoccupied a moment, for He surely would not have allowed this.’

Brother Marcán stirred uneasily. ‘She leapt from the headland, brother. It was no accident. She meant to take her life. That is a sin in the eyes of God. Is it not written that human life is sacrosanct because of its relationship to the divine and to take one’s own life must bring on oneself the severest punishment in the next world? The girl must go to an unquiet grave.’

Brother Augaire was gazing at the white face of the girl. The melancholy set of the features appeared to have softened and relaxed in death. Their expression was almost peaceful. He felt a spasm of anguished guilt.

‘I saw her look — the despair crying out from her suffering. I should have spoken but I let her pass by in her fearful isolation. God forgive me, but I could have helped her.’

Brother Marcán compressed his lips for a moment and then pointed to where the girl’s cíorbholg, the ‘comb-bag’ in which women kept small toilet articles and other personal items, still hung from the girdle at her waist.

‘There might be something there that will identify her. She is certainly richly attired.’

Brother Augaire undid the strap of the bag and brought out the contents. Most items were predictable — a mirror, a comb. . a piece of vellum. This was unusual. He unfolded it with curiosity.

‘What is it?’ demanded Brother Marcán. ‘Some means to identify her?’

Brother Augaire read the words on the vellum and then shook his head. ‘They appear to be some lines of poetry. .’ he said.

He handed the scrap to Brother Marcán who held out his hand for it. The young man glanced at it and murmured aloud:

‘A cry of pain

And the heart within was rent in two,

Without him never beats again.’

He paused and sniffed. ‘It seems some sentimental verse.’

‘The girl is dead,’ Brother Augaire rebuked him.

‘And by her own determination. The rule of our faith aside, suicide is a heinous crime under our native law: the ultimate form of fingal — of kin-slaying — which can neither be forgiven nor forgotten in a society such as ours that owes its very existence to the bond of kinship.’

‘But surely it must be understood?’ cried Brother Augaire.

‘What is there to understand?’

‘That this young girl, with her life before her, must have been robbed of all hope.’ He glanced down again at the pale features of the girl. ‘Who could force such a one as you to take your own life? Was it a man who caused you such sorrow?’ he asked softly. ‘What man could have such power over you?’

Beside him Brother Marcán coughed nervously. ‘Whoever such a man might be, the teaching of the Faith is clear. The girl’s soul is lost unless there is forgiveness beyond the grave. Come, brother, let us raise our voices in a prayer for the damned. Canticum graduum de profundis clamavi ad te Domine. . Out of the depths have I cried to thee, O Lord. .’

CHAPTER ONE

‘Have a care, Ségdae of Imleach, lest you be faced with death and eternal damnation!’

As he spoke, Abbot Ultán smote the table in front of him with a balled fist.

There was an audible gasp from those seated on the opposite side of the dark oak boards. Only the man to whom the words were addressed seemed unconcerned. Ségdae, the tall, silver-haired abbot and bishop of Imleach, sat relaxed in his chair with a smile on his face.

There were six men and two women seated at the table in the sanctum of the abbot of Imleach. On one side was Abbot Ségdae with his steward and two of the venerable scholars of the abbey. Facing them was Ultán, abbot of Cill Ria and bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí, who sat with his scribe and two female members of his abbey.

Now, in the flickering candlelight which lit the gloomy chamber, even Abbot Ultán’s companions began to look concerned at the intemperance of his language.

There was but a moment’s pause after Abbot Ultán’s outburst before Abbot Ségdae’s steward, the rechtaire of the abbey of Imleach, Brother Madagan, leaned forward from his chair at the abbot’s side with an angry scowl on his face.

‘Do you dare to use threats, Ultán of the Uí Thuirtrí? Do you know to whom you speak? You speak to the Comarb, the successor of the Blessed Ailbe, chief bishop of the Faith in this kingdom of Muman. Imleach has never recognised the claims of Ard Macha. Indeed, is it not accepted that the Blessed Ailbe brought the Word of Christ to this place even before Patrick was engaged on his mission to the northern kingdoms? So have a care with your bombast and threats lest your words rebound on your own head.’

The animosity in Brother Madagan’s voice was controlled, the words coldly spoken but none the less threatening for that.

Abbot Ségdae reached forward and laid a restraining hand on his steward’s arm. His soft blue eyes remained fixed upon Bishop Ultán’s flushed, wrathful features and he let forth a sigh.

‘Aequo animo, Brother Madagan,’ he admonished his steward, urging him to calmness. ‘Aequo animo. I am sure that Abbot Ultán did not mean to imply a physical threat to me. That would be unthinkable in one who has been granted the hospitality of this house.’ Was there a slight emphasis, a gentle rebuke in that sentence? “The abbot was but giving voice to his conviction of the righteousness of his cause. Yet perhaps he was a little over-zealous in his choice of words?’

Abbot Ségdae paused, clearly waiting for the response.

There was a silence broken only by the crackle of the dry logs burning in the hearth at the far end of the chamber and by the winter wind moaning round the grey stones of the abbey walls. Even though it was late afternoon, it could have been midnight for it was dubhluacran, the darkest part of the year. Within a few days it would be the phase of the moon anciently called ‘the period of rest’, mi faoide, which started in contrary fashion with the feast of Imbolc, when the ewes began to come into lamb. It was a long, anxious time in the country.

That very noon Abbot Ultán and his three followers had arrived at the abbey and announced that he was a special emissary from Ségéne, abbot and bishop of Ard Macha, the Cormarb or heir to the Blessed Patrick. Ségéne was regarded by many as the senior churchman in the northern kingdom of Ulaidh. Having been granted hospitality, Abbot Ultán and his companions had presented themselves in Abbot Seégdae’s sanctum to deliver their message.

The proposal put forward by Abbot Ultán was simple. Abbot Ségdae, as the most senior churchman in Muman, was to recognise Ségéne of Ard Macha as archiepiscopus, chief bishop of all the kingdoms of Éireann. To support the claim, Abbot Ultán pointed out that the Blessed Patrick the Briton had received the pallium from the bishop of Rome, who was regarded as the chief bishop of the Faith. Patrick had then proceeded to convert the people of Éireann. He had made Ard Macha his primary seat and it was therefore argued that the bishops of that place should hold religious governance over all the five kingdoms and their sub-kingdoms.

Abbot Ségdae had listened in polite silence while the northern cleric had put forward his argument, which was delivered in such blunt terms as almost to constitute a demand. When the envoy had sat back, Abbot Ségdae had pointed out, politely but with firmness, that churchmen and scholars from the other kingdoms of Éireann would argue that Patrick the Briton, blessed as he was, was not the first who had preached the New