A Prayer for the Damned

evidence that will have to be answered before the Chief Brehon.’

Aíbnat stared at her in barely controlled irritation. ‘So you do not believe us?’

Fidelma looked sadly at her. ‘My first impression is that if Muirchertach had been guilty as he is accused, he could have made up a far better story than one which actually hands his accusers a motive for the slaughter.’

She rose suddenly to her feet and Muirchertach rose with her. He looked anxiously at her.

‘Will you undertake my defence?’ His tone was almost pleading.

‘I am always prepared to defend the innocent against a false accusation, Muirchertach,’ she said quietly. ‘Let me continue my investigation. It may well be in future that I will want Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham to assist me. Do you have any objection to his presence?’

‘A Saxon?’ snapped Aíbnat querulously.

‘Soon to be my official husband,’ she replied. ‘You may be aware that he has helped me on many investigations in the past.’

‘Of course,’ Muirchertach said at once. ‘Is that not the reason we came to Cashel, to witness the ceremony? I have no objection to speaking in front of Eadulf.’

That is good. We will speak again later.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fidelma encountered Eadulf as she was crossing one of the smaller courtyards. He was coming down the steps from the walkway round the fortress walls. When he asked what she had discovered, she drew him aside and quickly told him of her conversations with Muirchertach and his wife Aíbnat. Eadulf rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘This Muirchertach is either innocent or clever,’ he finally said.

Fidelma followed his train of thought. ‘You think that his willingness to confess to a motive, even to an intention of killing Abbot Ultán, and claiming someone else did it before he had a chance, is a sign of cleverness?’

‘It could well be,’ Eadulf replied. ‘To tell a story which so obviously points to his guilt has the effect of making one believe him innocent.’

‘That is devious thinking.’

‘It is surely so. And who knows better than you what lengths people may go to in order to mislead? If he knew that the story of his wife’s sister would be revealed, then best to confess it so that one could say that he was honest to his own detriment. Therefore, being so, he could not possible have committed the crime.’

‘I will bear it in mind,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘But if Muirchertach is truly innocent? What then?’

‘There are already enough suspects at Cashel.’ Eadulf smiled thinly.

‘You mean Abbot Augaire?’

‘Also Berrihert and his brothers.’

‘I had forgotten them,’ she confessed.

‘I met old Ordwulf on the walls just a short while ago. But I think we might discount them.’

‘Why so?’

‘Because they were in the hostel in the town last night and no one is admitted here without good reason once the fortress gates are closed for the night. None of them could have entered to do the deed. Ordwulf said that he entered only when the gates were opened at first light. From what he said, I think he came to see the abbot and was then told that he was dead. He does not disguise the fact that he is now rejoicing in that death.’

‘Perhaps we should keep an eye on your Saxon friends. Abbot Ultán appears to have upset many people.’

‘We must find out more about him,’ Eadulf said. ‘We could seek information about him from the king of Ulaidh.’

Fidelma shook her head quickly. ‘No need to bother Blathmac just yet. I think we should first question the members of Abbot Ultán’s entourage.’

Eadulf had forgotten the group who was travelling with Abbot Ultán.

‘Who shall we begin with?’

A short while later they were in the library which Fidelma had requested they be allowed to use for examining the witnesses. Eadulf sat at a small table with a tabhall lorga, a wooden frame filled with wax on which he could record notes by the use of a graib or sharp pointed stylus of metal. Fidelma sat by his side, and in front of her sat the thin, elderly scribe of Ultán’s household: a man with sharp features who peered at them with his pale blue eyes, his head moving in a curious birdlike, darting movement.

‘Your name is Drón?’ Fidelma began.

The head darted up and down. ‘I am Brother Drón of Cill Ria. I am told that you are the dálaigh named Sister Fidelma?’ His face was not happy as he peered from her to Eadulf. ‘And you, scribe, who are you?’

‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham in the land of the South Folk,’ Eadulf replied, falling into the form of introduction that he had grown used to using in the land of Éireann.

‘Ah, ah, of course.’ Brother Drón nodded. ‘Of course. This is a terrible thing, terrible. That an abbot should be murdered while under the protection and hospitality of a king. .’

‘I understand that you were Abbot Ultán’s scribe?’ Fidelma cut in when the man appeared to be launching a complaint.

The elderly man lifted his chin a little pugnaciously. ‘Not just scribe but his steward and adviser. I have served him at the abbey of Cill Ria for four years.’

‘But you are not of the Uí Thuirtrí,’ Fidelma said quickly, having listened to the man’s accent. ‘You do not even speak with the accent of the northern people.’

Brother Drón smiled thinly. ‘You have a good ear, Sister,’ he admitted. ‘I am of the Uí Dróna of Laigin — hence my name. We are the descendants of Breasal Bélach, who ruled Laigin. .’

‘And are now a small sept dwelling to the north-west of Ferna,’ Fidelma pointed out sharply when a note of pride entered his voice.

Brother Drón blinked. ‘You seem to know much about my humble clan,’ he muttered.

‘I dwelt at Cill Dara for a time and it would be remiss of me not to know something of the clans of Laigin.’

There was a pause. When Brother Drón made no further comment she went on: ‘So, tell us, how did you become adviser and scribe to the abbot? Cill Ria in the land of the Uí Thuirtrí is a long way from Ferna.’

‘I left Laigin when I was at the age of maturity and entered the religious. I received my training at Ard Macha.’

‘Why in Ulaidh?’ intervened Eadulf. ‘Laigin has many great ecclesiastical universities — Sléibhte, in your own clan territory, or the mixed house at Cill Dara, both of which are closer to your homeland than Ard Macha.’

Brother Drón turned to him with a thinly veiled sneer. ‘Surely, Saxon, you would be better serving in your own land than here in the five kingdoms of Éireann?’

Eadulf flushed. ‘That does not answer my question,’ he snapped.

‘I am sorry that you do not think so. Not all birds have to live their lives in the nest in which they were born. Ard Macha is the foundation of our great patron, the Blessed Patrick. Why shouldn’t one want to go there and tread on the hallowed soil where he founded the greatest church in these lands?’

‘So, how did you become scribe and adviser to Bishop Ultán?’ repeated Fidelma.

‘Abbot Ultán was a close friend and colleague of the Comarb of Patrick, the archiepiscopus Ségéne, and a frequent visitor at Ard Macha. I had become