A Prayer for the Damned

names in the language of the chief city of the Faith.’

‘Then let us be seated. I am told that your brother, Berrihert, is not here?’

Brother Pecanum shook his head as they sat on the camp beds. ‘He left early this morning. We do not know where he went but he assured us that he would be back this evening. It was some. . some pilgrimage to make reparation, he said.’

Fidelma was puzzled. ‘A pilgrimage of reparation made within a day’s travel from Cashel?’

‘That is what he said,’ affirmed Brother Naovan.

Fidelma shook her head as she thought of the sites around Cashel where one could make what could be described as a pilgrimage.

‘And has your father also gone on this pilgrimage?’

‘He is not of our faith, lady,’ replied Brother Naovan. ‘But he is not here. We are not sure where he has gone.’

She paused a moment and then asked: ‘I presume that you are aware of what happened at the funeral ceremony of Abbot Ultán last night?’

The brothers glanced uneasily at each other.

‘There have been many stories among the people here,’ said Brother Naovan. ‘Many have condemned the curse that our brother put on a fellow religious.’

‘Can you explain why he did so?’

‘Although we would have preferred our brother not to have given way to his anger, there was a reason. But reaction in anger can bring no resolution.’

‘Wise words,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘So, if I have understood right, your mother died as the direct result of some action of Abbot Ultán?’

‘Perhaps you should be speaking to Berrihert,’ Brother Naovan replied hesitantly.

‘You have been in this country since the great Council of Witebia, have you not? That is nearly four years or so.’

‘That is so, Sister Fidelma.’

‘Then you know of our laws, the laws of the Fénechus? You know that I am a dálaigh, qualified to the level of anruth. I have been charged to make an investigation. I require information and you are duty bound to answer my questions.’

The brothers were uncomfortable.

‘We do not wish to go against the laws and customs of the land that has given us refuge, sister,’ Brother Pecanum agreed. ‘We will do our best to answer you.’

‘So tell me exactly what happened to your mother.’

By some silent consent between the two of them it was Brother Naovan who told the story.

‘You know that our family did not accept the decision of Oswy, made at the Council of Witebia, as binding on us? We decided to follow Abbot Colmán to this land and enter a religious community that he had established on Inis Bó Finne, a little island. .’

Fidelma gestured impatiently with her hand. ‘Eadulf has told me the story as he heard it from Berrihert. But he also told me, and you have just confirmed, that your father Ordwulf, who came with you, is not a Christian.’

For a moment the younger brothers’ expressions shared sadness.

‘It is true that our parents came with us, though not of our faith. It was because we were their only means of protection in their old age. We could not abandon them to their certain deaths when they were no longer able to fend for themselves.’

Fidelma was momentarily surprised but then remembered that the Angles and Saxons had different views on age from her own people. The law texts of the Fénechus were absolute. ‘Old age is rewarded by the people.’ When men and women became too elderly or infirm to take care of themselves, the law stipulated the rules by which they were to be taken care of. No elderly person was allowed to become destitute or in need. The legal text of the Crith Gabhlach decreed that a special officer called the úaithne, the name meant a pillar or support of the society, be appointed by every clan to ensure all the elderly were looked after. They were to receive proper allowances and care and were protected from any harm or insults. The Senchus Mór stated, of the elderly, that it was the duty of the clan to support every member.

When the head of a family became too old or infirm to manage his affairs, the laws allowed him to retire and hand over to his next of kin. He and his wife or widow was then to be maintained for the rest of their lives. They could live with their next of kin if that was their desire or, if they wished to live in a separate house, that house, called an inchis, was maintained for them. Even if they had no children or close relatives to help them, this was done under the supervision of the úaithne. The elderly, if infirm, had to be washed a minimum of once a week, especially their hair, and to have a full bath a minimum of every twenty days. Provisions and fuel allowances were also stipulated in law.

Fidelma, widely read and travelled as she was, was sometimes shocked at the lack of provision in other cultures for the sick, the elderly and the poor.

‘So your parents would have had no help from their tribe once they became elderly or infirm?’

The two brothers shook their heads.

‘No one respects age. What can the elderly contribute to the good of the people?’

Fidelma made a noise that signified irritation. ‘One can argue that they have already contributed. However, it is surely their wisdom that is their greatest gift. When the old cock crows, the young ones learn,’ she added, using an ancient expression of her people.

Brother Naovan shrugged.

‘We could not abandon them,’ he repeated. ‘So we brought them with us. They were firmly set in their ways, in the ways of the Old Faith, and continued as such.’

‘There are still many in the five kingdoms who have not wholly endorsed the New Faith,’ Fidelma replied. ‘It is of no great consequence.’

‘The consequence was very great,’ muttered Brother Pecanum darkly.

‘As I say, we brought them with us,’ his brother continued. ‘When we settled in the community of Colmán, we built them a small house, the inchis you call it? Yes, we helped them with a small house nearby where they could live out their days in peace. All went well, until, as Berrihert told Brother Eadulf, this arrogant prelate from Cill Ria came to demand that our community recognise Ard Macha as the primatial seat of the churches. What did we Angles and Saxons know of this? Nothing. But Abbot Colmán argued against such recognition, as did most of those men of your country who were in our community. But others argued in favour of the demands of this Abbot Ultán.

‘The arguments were angry. Finally, Brother Gerald left our island and took his followers, who were mainly Saxons, to Maigh Éo on the mainland and formed a new community. That did not stop Abbot Ultán, who came again and provoked further arguments.’

Fidelma was puzzled. ‘How did that affect either your father or your mother? They were not part of the community. They were not even part of the Faith.’

Brother Pecanum suddenly groaned in anguish and Naovan leaned forward and gripped him comfortingly by the arm. He turned to Fidelma. There was pain on his features.

‘It happened when Abbot Ultán, who had been accompanied by Brother Drón and a dozen men, warriors or mercenaries perhaps from his own land whom he had hired as bodyguards on his trip, was leaving our island. I believe he needed those bodyguards otherwise he would not long have been allowed the arrogance with which he conducted himself. They made their way down to the inlet where their boat was waiting to take them back to the mainland. The way lay past the house of our parents. My father was not there, for he was out fishing on the far side of the island.’

He paused for a moment, his hand still gripping his brother’s arm. Pecanum’s eyes were watering.

‘My mother, Aelgifu, was outside, kneeling under a tree. There she had set up an altar to the old gods that she worshipped. Knowing that my father had gone out to sea fishing, she had sacrificed a hare to the goddess Ran, seeking her protection.’

‘Ran?’ queried Fidelma.