A Prayer for the Damned

your allegiance.’

‘You might be right.’ Eadulf laughed. ‘Who was this abbot from Ard Macha who put you so out of sorts, Berrihert?’

‘I remember his name well — he reminded me so much of Wilfrid and his arrogance. His name was Ultán. Abbot Ultán of Cill Ria.’

It was well after dark when Eadulf and Caol returned to Cashel, but night came early at this time of year. It had not been long after they had crossed the great swirling river Siúr, the ‘sister’ river, at the Ford of the Ass, that the dark clouds had begun to roll more menacingly and the rumble of distant thunder was heard. Then the deluge began. Both riders were soaked within moments.

‘Do you want to seek shelter, Brother Eadulf?’ yelled Caol, leaning across as he held his shying mount on a tight reign.

Eadulf shook his head. ‘What point in that when we are drenched already? Let us press on. It is not far to Cashel.’

At that moment a bright bolt of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating the great plain before them, and in the distance they saw the spectacular mound of limestone on whose precipitous crown rose the fortress of the Eóghanacht kings of Muman. It was a natural stronghold, dominating the countryside in all directions.

Crouching low on their horses, they headed through the blustery, whipping rain, ignoring now the flashes of white lightning that every so often lit the countryside before the accompanying crash of thunder. It was not long, though it seemed an eternity to Eadulf, before they entered the township that had grown up at the foot of the limestone rock and passed through its almost deserted square, barely lit with a few dim swinging lanterns. The pleasant pungent odour of turf fires came to Eadulf’s nostrils and he sighed in anticipation of a warm fire, a goblet of wine and even a hot bath. The Irish had their main wash, a full body wash, before their evening meal. It was a habit that Eadulf could never get used to — this daily ritual of washing, called fothrucud, in a large tub or vat called a dabach. Every hostel and guest house had to be provided with a bath house for visitors by law. In his native land, Eadulf reflected, a quick plunge in a river — and that not very often — was considered to discharge one’s duty to cleanliness.

A sharp challenge brought his mind back from his reverie to the present. A watchful warrior emerged from a corner of the square and Caol responded. The man disappeared again.

They moved up the track from the town, winding their way up to the top of the rocky prominence where the great man-made stone walls merged with the limestone rock to form impregnable fortifications. The tall wooden gates were closed, but at a shout from Caol they swung open and the riders passed inside where the gilla scuir, stable lads, came running forward to help them down and take charge of their horses. Eadulf exchanged a brief word with Caol, and then he departed for the chambers that he shared with Fidelma.

Muirgen, their nurse, opened the door and surveyed his sodden form with disapproval.

‘You need to be out of those rags, Brother Eadulf, before you catch a chill. I will get my man to prepare a bath.’

She had barely finished speaking when Fidelma came forward and smiled ruefully at his bedraggled appearance.

‘Muirgen is right. Get out of those clothes immediately while she prepares a bath.’

Muirgen had hurried off to find her husband, Nessán, who for some months now had been devoted to the charge of taking care of them and their little boy, Alchú. Eadulf shuffled to the blazing fire while Fidelma went in search of a towel and a woollen cloak. Within a short time, Eadulf was seated by the fire wrapped in the cloak and sipping mulled wine, explaining to Fidelma the nature of the business that Miach of the Uí Cuileann had summoned him for.

Fidelma listened more or less in silence, only asking a question here and there for clarification’s sake. When he had finished, Eadulf noticed that her face wore a thoughtful expression.

‘You seem pensive,’ he ventured.

‘It just seems strange that these Saxons have arrived here at this particular time.’

‘Strange? In what way?’

‘They said that they had come south because of the problems in Abbot Colmán’s community on Inis Bó Finne. That this abbot from Ard Macha had created dissension among them, causing some of the community to break away and start a new community on Maigh Eo, the plain of the yew?’

‘That is so.’

‘Did they tell you what made them come here, to the glen of Eatharlaí of all places, and at this time?’

Eadulf shook his head. ‘To be truthful, I think Caol asked the question.’

‘And their reply?’

‘Only that God had guided their footsteps here.’

‘Which is no reply at all. Are you sure Abbot Ultán was the name of this influential abbot from Ard Macha?’

Eadulf was puzzled by her questions.

‘I may be guilty of many faults but my hearing is still good,’ he replied testily. ‘Ultán is such a simple name that I could not mistake it. Why do you ask?’

Fidelma sighed, deep in thought.

‘This is either coincidence or something else,’ she said finally.

Eadulf was still irritable. ‘Perhaps I might agree if I knew what you were talking about.’

‘There is only one Abbot Ultán linked with Ard Macha — Ultán of Cill Ria, who is also bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí. He acts as envoy to the Comarb of the Blessed Patrick, one of the two premier abbots of the five kingdoms. I have seen him once, at the council where it was agreed that I become part of the Cill Dara delegation to Witebia to offer advice on law. He is, as your Saxon friends described him, a man of arrogance, and somewhat overbearing.’

Eadulf shrugged. ‘I still do not understand what you mean by a coincidence.’

‘A rider from Imleach came here this afternoon and among the news he brought to my brother was that Abbot Ultán of Cill Ria had arrived at Imleach with a small delegation. He is demanding recognition for Ard Macha as the primatial seat of the Faith in all the five kingdoms. Furthermore, Abbot Ultán and his delegation are coming here — here to Cashel — to protest against our marriage.’

Eadulf stared at her in astonishment. ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘I mean, what is there to protest about?’

Fidelma lifted a shoulder and let it fall eloquently. ‘He is of the small group that believes that there should be no marriage among the religious.’

Eadulf relaxed and chuckled. ‘Well, I do not think the day will come when that will become a reality. Why does he think God created men and women?’

‘Now do you see why I think it is odd, that, at the same time, these Saxons have arrived here?’

‘Quam saepe forte temere eveniut,’ quoted Eadulf. ‘How often things occur by mere chance.’

‘I had no idea that you had read Terence,’ Fidelma exclaimed.

‘I found a copy of Phormio in the library here,’ he replied complacently.

‘So how well do you know these Saxons?’

Eadulf was suddenly thoughtful. ‘I cannot say that I can place my hand on my heart and declare that I truly know them. I met Berrihert when I was studying at Tuam Brecain — he was a pupil there too. In fact, he is not really a Saxon but an Angle from Deira, which is part of the kingdom of Northumbria,’ he added with tribal fastidiousness, knowing full well that all Angles and Saxons were deemed Saxons in Irish eyes. ‘Then when I was sent to Witebia to attend the great council, where I met you, I saw him again. He had returned to his homeland and converted his younger brothers. I have no reason to doubt their motives. After all, they did leave their homeland to follow Colmán to this country so that they might practise the Faith in the way that they had been taught.’

Fidelma did not seem reassured, but she shrugged. ‘Perhaps I am being overly suspicious.’

‘Because they are strangers in your land? I have heard a saying: “Cold is the wind that brings strangers.’