Our Lady of Darkness

Fearna was dominated by its two complex buildings. On a small promontory of the hill rose the fortress which was the stronghold of the Laigin kings. It was large but unspectacular, the type of circular citadel which arose in many parts of the five kingdoms of Éireann. Curiously, it was the Abbey of Máedóc that most dominated the countryside; a grey, granite complex, it towered close by the banks of the River Bann. Indeed, it had its own little quay at which boats from the settlementsalong the river moored to trade goods. Fearna had grown to importance as a centre of the river trade.

One might be forgiven, on a first visit to Fearna, for believing that it was the abbey which was the citadel of the Laigin kings. Although scarcely fifty years old, it already looked as if it had stood for centuries, for there was a strange atmosphere of gloom and decay about it. It looked more like a fortress than an abbey. The impression one had was of chill foreboding.

When King Brandubh had decided to build the abbey for his Christian mentor and his followers, the old King decreed that it was to be the most imposing building in his kingdom. Yet instead of a place of worship and joy, which should have been the purpose of such a building, it rose overwhelming and aggressive, like an sinister sore in the countryside.

It was scarcely fifty years ago that the Laigin kings had been converted to the Faith of Christ when Brandubh had accepted baptism from the Blessed Aidan, a man of Breifne, who had settled at Fearna. The Laigin people had called Aidan by the name of Máedóc, a pet form of his name which meant ‘little fire’. The Blessed Máedóc had died forty years before; it was known that the brethren of the abbey jealously guarded his relics there.

Fidelma examined the building critically as they rode to the centre of the township: it was so unlike the habitations of the religious communities that she knew. She felt rather guilty at her thoughts for she knew the Blessed Máedóc was loved and respected throughout the land. Yet she remained firm in her belief that religion should be a matter of joy and not of oppression.

Dego pointed the way to Fianamail’s fortress for he had been at Fearna before. The young warrior confidently led the way up the hill towards the fortress and, at the gates, halted to demand that the bemused guard summon his commander. Almost at once a soldier came forward, frowning as he recognised Dego and his companions as men in the service of the King of Cashel. As he hesitated, undecided what to do, Fidelma edged her horse forward.

‘Find your steward,’ she advised. ‘Tell the rechtaire that it is Fidelma of Cashel who requires an audience with Fianamail.’

The guard commander, recognising the rank of the young religieuse who demanded entrance, was startled. Then he gave a stiff little bow before turning abruptly to send one of his men off to find the rechtaire,the steward, of the King’s household. He politely enquired whether Fidelma and her companions would care to alight from their horses and enter the shelter of the guardroom. At a sharp snap of his fingers, stable boys came running out to take charge of the horses while Fidelma and her companions entered a room with a crackling fire. Their reception had not been overly enthusiastic but everything was done with the minimum amount of courtesy needed to obey the laws of hospitality.

It was only a few moments before the steward of the King’s household came hurrying in.

‘Fidelma of Cashel?’ He was an elderly man with carefully brushed silver hair and his appearance and clothing spoke of someone who was fastidious in personal dress as he was punctilious in court protocol. He wore a silver chain of office. ‘I am told that you the require an audience with the King?’

‘That is so,’ replied Fidelma. ‘It is a matter of some urgency.’

The man’s face remained grave. ‘I am sure that it can be arranged. Perhaps you and …’ his eyes flickered to where Dego, Aidan and Enda stood, ‘and your escort would like to wash and relax while I make the arrangements?’

‘I would prefer the audience to be immediate,’ Fidelma replied, causing the steward to blink rapidly, which indicated his surprise. ‘We have rested on our journey and that journey was necessitated by a matter of exigency, of life and death. I do not use the words without precision.’

The man hesitated. ‘It is unusual …’ he began.

‘The matter is unusual,’ interrupted Fidelma firmly.

‘You are sister to the King of Muman, lady. Also you are a religieuse, and your reputation as a dálaigh is not unknown in Fearna. May I venture to ask in which of these capacities you come hither? The King is always ready to welcome visitors from neighbouring lands, especially the sister of Colgú of Cashel …’

Fidelma cut him short with a swift cutting gesture of her hand. She did not require flattery to camouflage his question.

‘It is not as the sister of the King of Muman that I am here but as a dálaigh of the courts, bearing the rank of anruth.’ Fidelma’s voice was cold and assertive.

The steward raised his arm in an odd gesture which seemed to imply acquiescence.

‘Then, if you will be so good as to wait, I will attend to see the King’s pleasure.’

Fidelma was kept waiting twenty minutes before the steward returned. The captain of the guard, who had been detailed to wait with them, became increasingly embarrassed and stood shuffling his feet as time passed. Fidelma, although annoyed, felt sorry for him. When, after a while, the man cleared his throat and began to apologise, she smiled and told him it was not his fault.

When the steward finally reappeared he, too, looked awkward at the time it had taken to relay the request to the King and return with his answer.

‘Fianamail has expressed himself willing to see you,’ the old man said, dropping his gaze before her impatient glare. ‘Will you follow me?’ He hesitated and looked towards Dego. ‘Your companions must await you here, of course.’

‘Of course,’ snapped Fidelma. She caught Dego’s eye: she did not have to say anything. The young warrior inclined his head at her unspoken instruction.

‘We will await your safe return, lady,’ he called softly. He allowed the slightest inflection to linger on the word ‘safe’.

Fidelma followed the elderly steward across the flagged courtyard and into the main fortress buildings. The palace seemed curiously empty compared with the crowds who usually thronged the castle of her brother. Isolated guards stood here and there. A few men and women, obviously servants, scurried to and fro on their appointed tasks, but there was no chatter, no laughter nor children playing. Of course, Fianamail was young and not yet married, but it was strange to see such a palace lacking in vitality and the warmth of family life and activity.

Fianamail was awaiting her in a small reception room, seated before a blazing log fire. He was not yet twenty years of age; a youth with foxy hair and with an attitude to match it. His eyes were close-set, giving him a cunning, almost furtive expression. He had succeeded his cousin, Faelán, as King of Laigin, when Faelán had died from the Yellow Plague just over a year ago. He was fiery, ambitious and, as Fidelma had judged him at their one and only meeting, nearly a year ago, easily misled by his advisers due to his own arrogance. Foolishly, Fianamail had condoned a plot to wrest control of the sub-kingdom of Osraige from Cashel and annex it to Laigin. Fidelma had revealed thisplot during a hearing before the High King himself at the abbey of Ros Ailithir. The result was that the High King’s Chief Brehon, Barrán, judged that the sub-kingdom, on the borderlands between the Muman kingdom and Laigin, would forever be subject to Cashel. The judgment had enraged Fianamail at the time. Now he let bands of Laigin warriors raid and pillage the borderlands while denying responsibility or knowledge. Fianamail was young and ambitious and determined to make a reputation for himself.

He did not rise when Fidelma entered the room, as courtesy would have dictated, but merely gestured with a limp hand to a seat on the opposite side of the large hearth.

‘I remember you well, Fidelma of Cashel,’ he greeted her. There was no smile or warmth on his thin, calculating features.

‘And I you,’ replied Fidelma with equal coldness.

‘May I offer you refreshment?’ The young man made a languid gesture to a nearby table on which wine and mead were placed.

Fidelma shook her head quickly. ‘The matter I wish to discuss is pressing.’

‘Pressing?’ Fianamail raised his eyebrows interrogatively. ‘What matter would that be?’