A Prayer for the Damned

Eadulf came into the yard to find that Gormán, who was to ride with him, had already saddled his horse and was holding it ready. The hunters, holding the long leashes of a dozen yelping hounds, were already moving off through the gates. It had been explained to Eadulf that their function was to spread out through the dark forests to the east of the town and drive the wild pigs into open country beyond. It would take them an hour or so to reach the point where it was thought the herd was to be found, and then the mounted nobles would be waiting with their spears.

In the meanwhile, attendants were handing round goblets of corma to the gathered nobles as they waited for the hunters and their dogs to reach their positions. Eadulf reflected that a similar custom prevailed among his own people where the stirrup cup, what the Irish called deog an dorais, a drink for the gate, was enjoyed before the start of the hunt. Gormán was handing him a goblet. ‘Milsem cacha corma a cétdeog,’ he said, grinning. It was a moment before Eadulf had translated the ancient proverb — the sweetest of all ales is the first drink.

He took a sip of the fiery spirit and glanced round. Colgú was chatting with Sechnassach, the High King, and there were many other nobles and chiefs about. He immediately spotted the king of Connacht, Muirchertach Nár, clad in a royal blue woollen hunting cloak, among the group. The king looked unconcerned and was speaking to Dúnchad Muirisci, his heir apparent. They seemed to be sharing a joke. Eadulf was surprised when another familiar figure joined them on horseback, also prepared for the hunt. It was Abbot Augaire. His surprise lasted but a few moments before he realised that there was no reason why Augaire or any other religious should not be attending. The Faith did not forbid its members to desist from the chase and he knew many prelates boasted of their prowess in the hunt.

At the far end of the courtyard Eadulf saw some of the wives of the nobles gathering ready to mount their horses. He scanned their faces quickly, recognising few of them. There was the lady Gormflaith, wife to the High King, surrounded by her entourage, and many other finely dressed ladies. As his gaze swept over them, he realised with momentary surprise, that Aibnat, the wife of Muirchertach Nar, was among them. But then, if her husband was attending the hunt, why should Eadulf be surprised if she was there?

‘The ladies will follow the hunt after we have moved off,’ Gormán explained, as if guessing his thoughts. ‘Have you been on a boar hunt before, brother?’

Eadulf shook his head. Herds of wild pigs roamed his own land but he was not particularly fond of hunting. It had to be done because people had to eat but he was prepared to leave it to others to bring the food to his table unless it became a necessity.

‘I have heard that boars can be very aggressive and dangerous,’ he ventured mildly.

Gormán chuckled. ‘There is an old saying here that the boar can send you home in a handcart but it is only the stag who will despatch you to your home in a coffin. A tenacious boar can wound but you need to be unlucky or lacking skill to be killed by one. However, it does happen. A friend of mine was killed by a boar. They are very strong and possessed of great courage. When they are cornered they will put up an heroic defence, but that does not often happen for they are very mobile and you need great skill in the chase to trap them. They are as tall, fast and strong as any hunting hound.’

‘So the idea is for those on foot with the hounds to drive them into an open space where they can be killed by the nobles with spears?’

Gormán gave an affirmative gesture. ‘Today’s chase should be a good one. We have heard stories of a torc eochraide, a tusked boar, which is damaging the crops of a farmer on hills beyond the forest to the east. Our hounds will drive it and its pride through the forest and into the open.’

One of the men abruptly raised a horn to his lips and blew a short blast. At once the attendants came forward to take the swiftly drained goblets and help the nobles to their horses. They were all mounting now, laughing, and several boasting that it would be they who would encounter the wild boar first. Attendants handed each hunter his spear, the special sharp-bladed hunting spear called a bir. Colgú, at the side of the High King Sechnassach, began to lead the column of riders out of the courtyard of the great fortress and down the slope towards the track that led eastward towards the wooded hills. Muirchertach Nár was mounted on a distinctive-looking piebald mare, its irregularly shaped black and white patterning singling him out from the mass of his fellow riders. At least, thought Eadulf, it would not be easy to lose sight of the man.

Eadulf swung up on his horse with an ease that surprised even himself.

‘Come,’ he told Gormán, ‘I don’t want to be too far away from Muirchertach Nár.’

Gormán joined him and they set off through the gate, attaching themselves to the end of the column of mounted spearmen.

‘We’ll keep our eyes on Muirchertach,’ Gormán said, ‘but I think we should stay behind the main body of spearmen. You have experience neither as a horseman nor as a hunter to be in the midst of a chase, Brother Eadulf.’

At another time, Eadulf might have been irritated, knowing that the young man was right. Now, however, he was merely determined not to lose sight of the king of Connacht.

Fidelma had gone out on to the balcony of her chamber to watch the departure of the hunters. She, too, had seen Muirchertach depart and observed with approval as Eadulf and Gormán rode off with the main hunt. Then, with swift instructions to Muirgen and a smile and a kiss to young Alchú, who was happily absorbed with his toys, she left her chamber and hurried to the first of her self-appointed tasks.

Her cousin Finguine, the tánaiste, told her that he had not seen anything of Brother Drón that morning and, in response to a second question, directed her to the dormitory where the female members of the Faith were staying. When Fidelma inquired of the hostel’s stewardess for Sister Marga and Sister Sétach she was told that they might be found at prayer in the chapel. However, Fidelma found the chapel apparently deserted and was about to leave again when she saw a small familiar figure in a corner.

‘Ah, Sister Sétach.’

The girl turned towards her. Even in the gloom of the chapel, a beam of light coming through the window showed her tense and fatigued features.

‘You look exhausted, sister,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Did you not sleep well last night?’

Sister Sétach was defensive. ‘I often suffer from an inability to sleep.’

‘We have an apothecary, Brother Conchobhar, who is able to supply herbs that can help.’

‘I have my own remedies,’ replied the girl curtly. ‘I suppose you have reported me for breaking into the abbot’s chamber yesterday evening?’ she added belligerently.

Fidelma was not put out. ‘That is something between you and your superior, Brother Drón. At this time I am concerned with the death of the abbot and not about his personal belongings.’ She glanced around. ‘I was also looking for your companion, Sister Marga. Where is she?’

Sister Sétach looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know. Why do you seek her?’

‘I need to speak to her as I need to speak to you. Why do you think so many people hated your abbot when Brother Drón and you have praised him so much?’

The girl sniffed irritably. ‘They are jealous, small-minded people, who cannot understand greatness.’

‘There are some who would quote Horace. Naturam expelles furca tamen usque recurret. Do you know what that means?’

Sister Sétach shook her head. ‘I know the literal meaning but I am uncertain how you are applying it.’

‘You may drive nature out with a pitchfork, but it will still return,’ translated Fidelma. ‘Some say that if Abbot Ultán was once a thief and a murderer and a great womaniser, then perhaps he remained one. Would you say that was incorrect?’

‘It is untrue,’ snapped the girl.

‘However, they will say,’ went on Fidelma, ‘quoting Horace’s Epistles, as I have said, that you cannot change a person’s nature. Once a thief and murderer, always a thief and murderer.’

The girl coloured hotly. She stared defiantly at Fidelma.

‘That is untrue,’ she repeated. ‘Was not Paul reformed after his experience on the road to Damascus? Do we say that because he was one of those who consented to the execution of the Blessed Stephen, the first to suffer martyrdom for our faith, and stood by as a witness, holding the coats of those who were stoning him to death, he was not able to change his heart and that his conversion and work for the Faith was but a sham?’