A Prayer for the Damned

frightened and wild. It would probably have run off anyway. The hunters were close by.’ He drew rein and looked around, then cursed softly. ‘Begging your pardon, Brother Eadulf, but I think we may have lost the other party. I see no sign of a large body of horsemen passing along here. That is the trouble in these hunts — people often tend to scatter all over the place.’

‘Do you think that we should turn back again?’ Eadulf was beginning to when, once again, the sound of horses came to their ears, but muted this time by the rich tone of a man’s laughter.

‘Hóigh!’ shouted Gormán to attract attention. ‘Hóigh!’

There came an answering call and a few moments later two horses emerged through the woods from their left. One of the riders was the smiling Abbot Augaire and behind him came the sharp-featured lady Aíbnat.

‘Brother Eadulf,’ the abbot said in jovial fashion. ‘Are you lost?’

Gormán immediately answered for him. ‘Not lost, but we have become separated from the main hunt.’

Abbot Augaire shook his head with a smile. ‘Well, my friend, we are definitely lost. I think the main hunt went in that direction.’ He pointed back the way they had come. ‘We were actually thinking of returning to Cashel, if we can find the way.’

Gormán nodded. ‘In that case, if you follow the path along here as far as a fairly large clearing back there and then turn to the west, that track brings you to the main road back to Cashel.’

Abbot Augaire and lady Aíbnat were about to move off when Eadulf stayed them with a sudden thought.

‘Have you seen anything of your husband, lady?’ he asked politely.

She frowned irritably at him. ‘I presume that he is with the main body of the hunt.’

‘I thought that he and another group had moved further that way.’ Eadulf pointed to the direction from which the two had come.

Abbot Augaire shook his head. ‘We have seen nothing of anyone there. But I was part of the body separated from the High King’s group. We tried to get round behind the boars but in the excitement we lost each other. I don’t think you’ll see anyone back there.’

Eadulf acknowledged the information and they separated, Abbot Augaire and the lady Aíbnat riding off towards the clearing.

Gormán looked after them with a puzzled expression. ‘I find it strange,’ he muttered.

‘Strange?’ queried Eadulf with a smile. ‘What is strange, my friend?’

‘That people no longer seem to take notice of conventionality in their behaviour.’

‘You mean Sister Marga going on a hunt when her abbot has just been buried after being murdered? Even to the extent of using his horse?’

‘That, and Muirchertach Nár and his wife Aíbnat being part of the hunt when he is charged with murder.’

‘It is a distraction,’ explained Eadulf. ‘No one is going anywhere until this matter is cleared up so why not let them have their diversions? And a king is hardly likely to flee from justice in these circumstances.’

They rode on in silence for a while and then another cry cut through the still forest air.

‘Hóigh! Hóigh!’

This time it sounded like a man shouting for help. Eadulf and Gormán drew rein immediately and peered through the trees, turning in the direction of the sound.

One of the dog handlers emerged from the trees. He was red-faced and breathless but when his eyes alighted on Gormán a look of relief crossed his features. He gave another shout and came running forward, speaking rapidly. Gormán moved towards him, bending down. The man spoke so quickly that Eadulf was unable to hear what was said. Gormán turned in his saddle and waved Eadulf forward. He seemed troubled.

‘What is it?’ Eadulf demanded.

‘Something that I think requires your attention,’ replied the young warrior. He turned to the man on foot. ‘How far?’

The man gestured with his outstretched hand behind him.

‘Not far, through the trees there. There is a clearing beyond called Cúil Rathan — the brook of the ferns. I’ll show you the way. You’ll have to dismount and lead your horses along here for the path is overgrown. The branches are too low for riders.

Eadulf and Gormán slid from their mounts and followed.

The man led them quickly along a narrow winding path through the dark forest of oaks, beeches and chestnuts, through a covert of broom, bramble and ferns dressed in the brown-white sheen of winter. Then they were in open shrubland. There was a small mound ahead and the man trotted up it and pointed downwards without speaking.

Eadulf and Gormán left their horses and scrambled up the mound to join him.

He was pointing down into the gully where the tall figure of a man was sprawled on his back, a rich blue embroidered cloak rumpled from his shoulders.

Eadulf’s mouth went suddenly dry. The blue cloak was familiar.

He moved to the side of the man and knelt down. There was no mistaking the strangely sallow, now deathly pale features, the skin tightly stretching over the bony face, the long dark hair surrounding it. Two things registered with Eadulf immediately. The man was Muirchertach Nár, the king of Connacht, and he was dead.

Deep in thought, Fidelma walked down to the accommodation for male members of the religious that had been set up beyond the town square below the fortress. She found the hostel steward, the brugaid, supervising the delivery of some straw palliasses by two men in a cart. He greeted Fidelma with a sad smile.

‘I am sorry that the ceremony has had to be delayed, lady.’

Fidelma stifled an inward sigh. Everyone was sorry. She was sorry most of all. She had a wild desire to take her horse and ride away across the plains, ride and forget all the sad faces and the anger and confusion.

‘Can I help you, lady?’

She came back to the present quickly. ‘I believe that you have a Saxon named Brother Berrihert lodging here?’

The brugaid nodded confirmation. ‘He and his two brothers — blood brothers, not only brothers in the Faith — and his old father.’

‘I would like to see Brother Berrihert.’

‘Alas, lady, he is not there. He went out before dawn. I know not whither he has gone.’

Fidelma felt disappointed. She had wanted to clear up several things before Eadulf returned. She was about to turn away when the hostel steward went on: ‘But his two brothers are inside, lady. They might know where he went.’

Fidelma turned back with a word of thanks and entered the large tent. There were only two men inside. They were fairly young and both had fair hair. They came to their feet as she entered and crossed to them. She noticed that they wore religious robes and had their hair cut in the tonsure of St John, shaved at the front to a line from ear to ear, with the hair, worn long and flowing at the back.

‘Are you the brothers of Berrihert?’ she asked.

The young men exchanged glances and one of them inclined his head slightly.

‘We are brothers in flesh as well as brothers in Christ, sister,’ he said.

‘I am Fidelma. What are your names?’

The younger of the two smiled. ‘We recognise you, sister, for we saw you at the Council of Witebia. I am Naovan. My brother is Pecanum.’

‘Those are not Saxon names.’ She had decided to assume no prior knowledge as a means of clarifying the information she wanted.

Brother Naovan smiled. ‘Since we left our own land to sojourn in foreign fields, lady, we have adopted