A Prayer for the Damned

matters.’ Abbot Ultán began to clear his throat angrily, and Abbot Ségdae suddenly rose.

‘Enough!’ he said sternly, holding his hands as if to cover his ears. ‘Ard Macha may pursue what course it likes, Abbot Ultán. But, as there can be no agreement between us for the moment, let us end this argument now. The day after tomorrow is scheduled as a great occasion in our king’s fortress of Cashel. The sister of our king is going to be married. Tomorrow morning, my steward and I ride for Cashel where I am to preside over the religious rites. It is a time for peace and jubilation. I am told that many kings, even those from the north, as well as the High King himself, will be attending. So come, dear brother in Christ, let us close this day as should true brothers in the Faith: in peace and fraternity. Let us put our differences aside and set out for Cashel together.’

Abbot Ultán scowled in response to the appeal.

‘It was my intention to journey on to Cashel, but not to make merry,’ he replied sourly.

Abbot Ségdae groaned inwardly. He said nothing; nor did he sit down again even when Abbot Ultán did not rise to join him. Ultán’s three companions had all risen out of deference, for it was not seemly to remain seated when their host, an abbot and bishop himself, was on his feet. Eventually, with reluctance and marked ill manners, Abbot Ultán rose as well.

‘I shall be journeying to Cashel to lodge a protest at this marriage,’ he explained when no one spoke.

For the first time, a look of surprise crossed Abbot Ségdae’s face. ‘A protest? About what?’

‘A protest that a sister of the Faith should be marrying at all, let alone marrying a foreigner, a Saxon brother who, of his own volition, should adhere to the decisions of the Council at Witebia and follow the course of the rules laid down by Rome.’

Abbot Ségdae was frowning. ‘Why would you protest against the marriage of the lady Fidelma?’

‘The lady Fidelma?’ There was a sneer in his voice. ‘As I recall, she took vows to serve the Faith in Cill Dara. We believe that it is wrong for the religious to marry. It is a sacred teaching that we can only hope to serve our Lord through chastity.’

Abbot Ségdae shook his head quickly.

‘That is your interpretation and belief. Not even all those who follow the rules of Rome agree with you. True, there are some who are influential in arguing the path of celibacy, but the concept is not yet universal. Even at Rome celibacy is not a rule. The house of Ard Macha itself, which you claim as your superior, is a mixed house.’

‘It will not be for long,’ Abbot Ultán assured him. ‘The archiepiscopus has decided to follow the ruling of the Council of Nicaea, where such marriages were condemned.’

‘Condemned but not outlawed,’ Brother Madagan pointed out.

‘You quibble over words,’ snapped Abbot Ultán. ‘I will make my protest known in Cashel.’ He turned suddenly, without the courtesy of a reconciliatory farewell, and left the chamber, followed by his small entourage.

Abbot Ségdae stood for a moment looking after him as if deep in thought. The others stood round him waiting nervously. He sighed, and then dismissed the scholars. After they had left, he said softly to Brother Madagan: ‘Make sure that Abbot Ultán and his companions are treated with the utmost respect while they are our guests and, indeed, if they journey to Cashel with us tomorrow, that they continue to be treated with courtesy. I regret that Abbot Ultán is not the most diplomatic envoy that Ard Macha has sent us.’

Brother Madagan’s expression was anxious. ‘I do not like this. I have a feeling that all will not be well at Cashel. I feel it like a chill within me. I feel it and I do fear it.’

Abbot Ségdae shook his head with a smile. ‘Abbot Ultán threatens wrath and damnation. Yet he is of the Faith and would not dare make physical threats. There is no need to fear him.’

Brother Madagan remained unhappy. ‘I feel like a sailor who stands aboard his ship on a quiet sea and is aware of the lack of wind, the silence in the air, and the dark clouds gathering on the horizon. The sailor knows that something destructive is approaching. I know it. Is it not right to fear it? Storm clouds are gathering. I pray they will pass over Cashel without breaking.’

The same wind that moaned round the grey buildings of the abbey of Imleach was blowing over the great limestone peak of Cashel, an outcrop of rock which dominated the plains around it and whose tall fortress walls enclosed the many buildings which composed the palace of the ancient kings of Muman. Sharing the rock was the church, the cathedra or seat of the bishop of Cashel, a tall circular building with connecting corridors to the palace. There was a system of stables, outhouses, hostels for visitors and quarters for the bodyguard of the kings as well as a monastic cloister for the religious who served the cathedral. Below the rock, sheltered in its shadow, was the market town that had grown under its protection to be the hub of the largest and most south-westerly kingdom of Éireann.

The wind was bringing icy showers of sleet with it, cold and hard like little darts, painful to the exposed flesh of the face. The elderly Brother Conchobhar, sheltering as best he could from the treacherous blasts, knew that snow had lain on the distant mountains since that afternoon and a thin layer had draped itself over Cashel and the surrounding plain. The sleet would soon drive the snow layer away, but the old man preferred snow to sleet.

The religieux shivered and pressed back against the wall as he gazed with narrowed eyes into the darkness of the sky above. He was an astrologer as well as the apothecary at the palace and did not need a clear sky to know the position of the heavenly bodies above him. He knew that the moon was waxing gibbous; that it was in the house of an Partán, the sign of the Crab, and it was opposing the warlike planet of an Cosnaighe, the Defender. Brother Conchobhar shook his head sadly.

‘Ah, Fidelma, Fidelma,’ he whispered. ‘Did I not teach you better than this? Did I not show you the ancient art of nemgnacht, the study of the heavens? Why did you agree to marry on this feast of Imbolc when a few days later the new moon would rise and the evil signs diminish?’ He paused and drew his cloak more firmly round his bent shoulders. ‘There is some evil in the air, I swear it. Have a care, Fidelma of Cashel. Have a care.’

CHAPTER TWO

Although it was nearly noon, the day was dark and cold. The low clouds were sooty grey, and here and there scudding patches came even closer to the ground indicating that rain was imminent. Brother Eadulf stirred uncomfortably in the saddle of his plodding horse and glanced anxiously upwards to the heavens. As he rode uneasily beside Caol, commander of the bodyguard of Colgú, king of Muman, he noticed that already some of the winter flowers, which should have been displaying their pale colours, were closing their leaves to protect them against the coming onslaught. He examined the sky again with a shiver and identified one or two of the anvil-headed clouds — thunderheads — that were the harbingers of storm.

‘Is it much farther?’ he called to the youthful guide who was riding just ahead of Caol and himself.

At his side, Caol glanced at him with a sympathetic smile. He knew that Eadulf was not fond of riding and would rather any other means of transportation than horseback. But determination was the Saxon’s strength. He had managed the journey without complaint since leaving Cashel just after first light, although Caol would have preferred to canter the horses along the easier stretches of track that led westward across the swollen river of the Siúr via the Ass’s Ford, and across the lesser rivers Fidgachta and Ara, towards the great glen beyond.

‘Not far now,’ confirmed their young guide. ‘The river Eatharlaí runs beyond that forest and you can see the rise in the trees that marks the hill. That is where we are making for. It is called the Little Height.’

Eadulf tried to gauge the distance. ‘Is that where the chief of the Uí Cuileann dwells?’

‘It is not,’ came the prompt reply. ‘His rath rises on the northern slopes at the beginning of the valley.’

Eadulf was puzzled. ‘So why are we to meet him at this place. . Ardane, you say it is? The Little Height?’

The young guide shrugged. ‘I am but a messenger, Brother Eadulf. I am not privy to the thoughts of my chieftain. All I know is what I have already told you. Miach, the chief of the Uí Cuileann, sent me to Cashel to ask if you would come to meet him at Ardane at midday to advise him on a matter of importance.’

Eadulf was troubled. The request had filled him with many questions. It was only two days before the