A Prayer for the Damned

to mention the provincial kings, nobles and envoys from other lands,’ Eadulf said, with a shake of his head.

Fidelma had been unusually subdued all evening and now she stirred.

‘My brother will tell you why they are here,’ she said softly.

Colgú smiled encouragingly at Eadulf. ‘Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that you have not learnt everything there is to know about our family and our kingdom. The attendance of the High King and the others is out of respect to our family, the Eóghanacht. Our ancients tell us that when our ancestors first came to this island, so long ago that time has no meaning, two great warriors named Eibhear Fionn and Ererrion led them. They were brothers, the sons of Golamh, the progenitor of our people who died on the voyage here. Having fought the ancient gods and goddesses who dwelt here, and driven them underground into the sídhe, the hills, Eremon was given the northern half of the island to rule while Eibhear Fionn was given the southern half. From Eibhear Fionn are descended the Eóghanacht, our family, while from Eremon are descended the Uí Néill, which is the family of the current High King Sechnassach. Only our two families — the descendants of Eremon and Eibhear Fionn — are allowed to contest for the High Kingship. We sing the praises of twenty-four of the Eóghanacht who have sat in the seat of the High King until the days of Duach Donn Dalta Deagha, who was the last of our family to hold that office. The point is that the kingdom of Muman is the largest in this island and its kings are second to none, not even to the High King, although we pay homage to the concept of his office. It is out of respect for our ancestry, our traditions of kingship and our current strength in this land, that the High King comes to visit on the occasion of my sister’s wedding day. Likewise, that is why the other kings and nobles come to pay their respects at Cashel.’ He paused, and then his serious expression dissolved into a mischievous grin that marked his relationship to Fidelma, for Eadulf had seen that same grin on her features many times. ‘But I would like to think they also come out of respect for my sister as well, because her reputation as a dálaigh, an advocate of our law courts, is known in all the five kingdoms.’

Fidelma frowned and glanced quickly at Eadulf.

‘A reputation that is inseparably linked to that of Eadulf, without whom many a riddle would have remained unsolved,’ she added quickly.

‘What. .?’ Colgú seemed puzzled for the moment before he realised his implied offence. ‘Of course, of course. It is a shame that none of your Saxon kinsmen will be attending, although I hear some compatriots of yours — exiled religious — seek to settle in this kingdom and will be present. I understand that Cerball, the bard, has spoken to you so that he might compose a forsundud, a praise-poem, about your own ancestry. A wedding is not seemly unless the genealogy of both parties can be recited before the company.’

Eadulf did not reply. He could not boast that he knew more than three or so generations of his family. That was nothing compared to the Eóghanacht who boasted fifty-nine generations between Colgú and Eibhear Fionn son of Golamh. In spite of Brother Conchobhar’s assurances, an hereditary gerefa or magistrate of his people was hardly the equal to an Eóghanacht princess. Not for the first time did Eadulf experience a feeling of insecurity. He was very much a stranger in a strange land.

Colgú seemed to sense the air of tension that caused both Fidelma and Eadulf to fall quiet.

‘How is little Alchú?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘Your nephew is well,’ answered Fidelma brightly. ‘Muirgen, our nurse, has been a godsend. I have no fears of leaving the child with her and her husband Nessán when my duty as a lawyer bids me spend time away.’

‘He is growing apace,’ commented Colgú. ‘You have a fine son there, Eadulf.’

‘A fine son, indeed,’ Eadulf agreed quietly.

‘So all is ready for tomorrow?’ pressed Fidelma’s brother in a determined fashion.

‘As far as we are concerned,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I think you will forgive us for some trepidation,’ she added. ‘There is, as Eadulf has pointed out, such an illustrious audience for the ceremony. It makes us both very nervous.’

Colgú felt that she was making an excuse for Eadulf’s reticence. He wondered if there was something wrong between them. How could he approach it? Could he ask Eadulf to leave and question his sister directly? While he was hesitating, Fidelma stood up and put her goblet on a side tablet.

‘Brother, forgive us,’ she said. ‘But the hour grows late and we promised Abbot Laisran that we would speak to him before we prepare for tomorrow.’

‘Of course.’ Colgú sighed reluctantly. ‘Meanwhile, let us hope Brehon Baithen has persuaded Abbot Ultán to see some sense about his protest.’

The meeting with Abbot Laisran was a genuine arrangement. Laisran was a distant cousin, an Eóghanacht, who was abbot of the great teaching monastery at Durrow — Darú, the abbey on the oak plain. It was he who had persuaded Fidelma, after she had qualified as an advocate at the law school of Brehon Morann, to enter the religious life at St Brigid’s mixed house at Cill Dara. From the time she was a young girl, Fidelma had been advised and guided by the elderly abbot. Her father, Fáilbe Flann, who had been king of Muman, had died in the year of her birth and Laisran had taken his place.

The abbot was awaiting them in his chamber, seated before the fire and sipping at a goblet of mulled wine. It was a position which Fidelma always associated with him. Laisran rose awkwardly as they entered in answer to his invitation. He was a short, rotund, red-faced man. His face proclaimed a permanent state of jollity, for he had been born with a rare gift of humour and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. When he smiled, it was no faint-hearted parting of the lips but an expression that welled from the depths of his being, bright and all-encouraging. And when he laughed it was as though the whole earth trembled in accompaniment.

‘Fidelma! Eadulf! You are both welcome. Is all well? I received your request to speak to me before the momentous events that are due to take place tomorrow.’

Fidelma took a seat before the fire while Eadulf brought a spare chair and seated himself beside her. Laisran had resumed his seat and was offering them wine from the jug that sat by the glowing hearth. They both declined, much to his surprise, and he refilled his own goblet.

‘Do you know Abbot Ultán?’ Fidelma asked without preamble.

‘Ultán of the Uí Thuirtrí?’ Laisran chuckled sourly. ‘I have met him once or twice at councils. He aspires to be a leader of the Faith — alas, he has no sense of humour and humour is one of the foundations on which saintliness must repose. I have heard strange tales about his life before he entered the religious. But it is not my place to spread rumour.’

‘He has arrived in Cashel to protest at my wedding,’ said Fidelma softly.

Abbot Laisran did not seem surprised. ‘It is just the sort of thing he would do. He sees himself as a great reformer of our churches here in the five kingdoms. He has become a leading advocate of the Roman rules, of the introduction of the Penitentials, even arguing them to the exclusion of our native laws. He also seeks to get Ard Macha acknowledged as the primatial church in the five kingdoms. Particularly, he believes in celibacy among the religious and abstinence from wine and other intoxicating beverages. He has picked up strange ideas from the eastern churches concerning self-punishment, the use of a flagellum to suppress impure thoughts. Instead of preaching a word of joy, I fear that he would have the world descend into a sad, grey place.’

Eadulf could not suppress his smile at Abbot Laisran’s vivid description of the man. ‘It seems that you know him well enough, then.’

Abbot Laisran nodded solemnly. ‘I shall be doing my best to avoid him while he is in Cashel. He would certainly disapprove of me.’ He paused and looked at Fidelma thoughtfully. ‘Surely you are not worried about Ultán? You have heard the arguments about celibacy a thousand times. You cannot let his prejudices ruin tomorrow. Spoken words vanish in the air.’

‘Though there is no bone in the tongue, it has often broken a person’s head,’ she replied, using an old proverb.

Abbot Laisran grinned and shook his head. ‘When Ultán stands up and speaks, he is recognised for what he is. One should feel sorrow for a person who is so unhappy that he needs must make others join him in