A Prayer for the Damned

‘Not until the matter has been resolved. The chest will remain here.’

The girl moved reluctantly to the door. Outside, the warrior Enda was barring the way and Fidelma called on him to let the girl pass.

After she had gone and Fidelma and Eadulf were alone in the chamber again, it was Eadulf who uttered the first words.

‘You can’t really believe what the girl said? Holy relics? That’s ridiculous.’

Fidelma smiled without humour. ‘We could have sat here until the next feast day of Imbolc and not extracted more information out of the girl. Of course, she was lying.’

‘Then why didn’t you search her?’ protested Eadulf.

‘Because she did not have anything on her. If she had, she would not have been so quick to challenge me to search her.’

‘She could have been bluffing.’

‘I believe not. She had not found what she was looking for. We might have interrupted her before she discovered whatever it was she wanted. Let’s have a look at this chest.’

Eadulf dragged forward the small travelling chest. It was not heavy. He opened the lid while Fidelma held the lantern.

‘Items of clothing, robes,’ Eadulf muttered as he lifted them out one by one.

Fidelma leaned forward. ‘Some leather bags and underneath some papers. What’s in the leather bags?’

Eadulf checked through them. ‘Various coins and some nuggets of gold in this one, and in the other. .’ He took out a piece of exquisite jewellery. ‘It seems that our abbot had good taste in necklaces,’ he said, holding it up.

‘It could be that you were right, Eadulf, when you asked the girl if she had come looking for mercenary wealth. I don’t think that it was relics to be venerated that she was after.’

‘You mean that she was after the jewels and money?’

‘Unless it was the records that she and Sister Marga were making of the meetings.’

Eadulf started thumbing through the papers.

‘You might be right,’ he said ruefully. ‘They appear to be reports on leading churchmen of the abbeys that Ultán has visited.’ He pulled a face. ‘Those who favour recognition of Ard Macha as primatial seat get good marks, those who don’t are marked with disfavour. There is also a Latin book here. . Liber Angeli, something to do with the history of Ard Macha.’

‘Well, there is little else here which might indicate what Sister Sétach was looking for.’

‘It would be a little ironic, if it were jewels that she was after. A thief stealing from a man who had been a famous thief.’

‘And murderer,’ added Fidelma. ‘Don’t forget that.’

‘A connection between the two?’

Fidelma considered and then shook her head. ‘Alis volat propriis, as Publilius. .’

‘. . Syrus said,’ finished Eadulf, who knew of Fidelma’s fondness for the Maxims of the former slave from Antioch. ‘She flies by her own wings. So Sister Sétach is an independent thief?’

‘We would do well to watch her, that is all I am saying.’

Eadulf replaced the papers in the box.

‘We’ll get Enda to take the box and lock it in my brother’s strong-room,’ Fidelma said. ‘It will be safe there.’

They called Enda in and gave him the instruction. Then, taking a last look around the chamber in which Ultán had met his death, they left.

‘What now?’ asked Eadulf as they settled in chairs before their own hearth and stretched towards its warming glow.

‘Now?’ Fidelma smiled. ‘Now it is time to bathe and prepare for the evening meal. This was to have been our marriage feast so I will expect we shall have to eat with our guests in lieu of it.’

Eadulf wrinkled his nose in distaste.

Fidelma stood up suddenly. ‘I am going to call Muirgen to start preparing the baths. After the feasting there is another thing that we must do.’

Eadulf raised his head wearily. ‘What is that?’

‘We must attend the funeral of Abbot Ultán at midnight. It will be interesting to see who attends that ceremony and why.’

‘Attend it?’ Eadulf had not been expecting that. This Irish custom of committing the body into the grave at midnight was one he found curious. ‘It will be late,’ he protested, ‘and don’t I have to be up at dawn to go on this boar hunt?’

Fidelma grinned mischievously at him. ‘Then it is lucky that dawn arrives late on a winter morning.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A small crowd had gathered in the lantern-lit graveyard that was known as Relig na nGall, the graveyard of strangers, within the dark shadows of the towering rock of Cashel. It was where distinguished strangers who died in Cashel were laid to rest. Fidelma and Eadulf had accompanied Colgú to the place. The High King Sechnassach and the Chief Brehon, Barrán, were in attendance with the other nobles, among whom was Blathmac, the king of Ulaidh. It was obvious that most of them were attending out of diplomatic courtesy, although Muirchertach, king of Connacht, was not surprisingly absent. Also attending were Abbot Ségdae of Imleach, Abbot Laisran of Durrow, Abbot Augaire of Conga and several other members of the religious. Most of these had come out of duty rather than respect. The brehons Baithen and Ninnid also were present, and the chief mourners were Brother Drón and the two religieuse, Sisters Sétach and Marga.

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,