A Prayer for the Damned

CHAPTER NINE

Fidelma and Eadulf walked back to their own apartments in silence. To their surprise, there was no atmosphere of gloom in the halls and corridors of the fortress in spite of the fact that most people had heard the news of Abbot Ultán’s death. Few people seemed to mourn the passing of the abbot. Attendants were moving quickly here and there to serve the wants of the many guests. Most of them greeted Fidelma and Eadulf with a cheerful countenance. Some guests actually commiserated on the delay in the ceremony in a manner that implied that it should not have been deferred simply because of the abbot’s death. A few warriors of the bodyguard, however, saluted them with doleful expressions as they went by.

The door of their chamber was opened by Muirgen, who cast a disapproving look at Eadulf.

‘Lady, the ceremony has not yet taken place and it is not fitting for. .’ she jerked her head towards Eadulf, ‘for himself to come to the chamber yet.’

Fidelma smiled broadly. ‘Alas, Muirgen, the ceremony may well be delayed quite a while. So we shall return to what the situation was before until this matter of the abbot’s death is resolved. This murder takes precedence over our affairs.’

Muirgen sniffed in dissatisfaction. ‘Nothing should spoil your great day, lady.’

Fidelma patted her on the arm. ‘It is, we hope, but a short delay. How is little Alchú?’

‘As quiet as a lamb.’ She nodded to a corner where, on a rug, the baby was playing happily with some furry toys. Fidelma crossed to the baby, who glanced up at her with a gurgling smile and held out his chubby arms towards her. She bent down and swept him up, giving him a hug and a kiss and making some uncharacteristic cooing sounds. Peering across her shoulder, Alchú waved a baby fist towards Eadulf and uttered a series of chuckling noises. Eadulf crossed to join her and, reaching forward, chucked the child under the chin with perhaps a little air of self-consciousness and muttered ‘there, baby, there.’

As Fidelma turned back, with Alchú in her arms, towards Muirgen, the nurse observed: ‘You look very tired, lady.’

Fidelma realised that she had only had an hour or so of sleep during the night. She glanced at Eadulf. He, too, seemed tired.

‘I think that we both need a short rest,’ she said. ‘But first, something to eat and drink. I have not yet broken my fast.

‘Nor I,’ added Eadulf. ‘I did not feel like eating earlier but I could do with something now.’

Muirgen made a clucking sound, like a mother hen rounding up her young chicks. ‘Sit you both by the fire and I will bring something. Then I can take little Alchú into my chamber while you rest.’

She took Alchú from them, replaced him in his play area and left. Fidelma slumped into a chair. Eadulf, yawning, followed her example and then remarked: ‘Abbot Augaire is a curious man.’

Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘More curious than Brother Drón? It seems to me that most people have curiosities in character. We all have our eccentricities.’

‘True, but for an abbot and bishop to openly wish a fellow bishop dead, and then say that he did not accept one of the basic teachings of our Lord Christ, is surely a matter for some surprise.’

‘When it comes down to it, abbots and bishops are human. They are filled with the same qualities that most people have. They can hate and love in equal measure.’

‘And commit murder?’ Eadulf muttered.

‘And commit murder,’ confirmed Fidelma calmly.

‘So he is a suspect?’

‘There is so much more that I want to find out before I even start saying that this or that person is a suspect.’

‘We need to have a word with this noble from the north whom Augaire mentioned. What was his name — Fergus Fanat? You have already said that the more we can learn about Ultán, the more it might point to his killer.’

‘True enough. We must also confirm Abbot Augaire’s story that he was playing brandubh with Dúnchad Muirisci.’

‘You doubt it?’

‘Not at all. But a good dálaigh never assumes anything. Also, it might help us with the time that Ultán went to his chamber and was seen by Augaire arguing with one of the two religieuse in his party.’

‘Do we know that it was an argument?’ Eadulf said. ‘The abbot said that when the woman entered, he simply heard Ultán’s voice raised in a hectoring tone. It takes two for an argument.’

Fidelma yawned and nodded.

‘I am tired,’ she said, as if by way of apology for her oversight.

Muirgen returned carrying a large tray laden with bowls of steaming broth, freshly baked bread and a dish of fruit. She set it down on a table and beamed at them both.

‘Get that down, and then get some rest,’ she advised, turning to scoop Alchú up in her broad arms. The child twisted and gurgled happily. Then, with a quick nod at them, Muirgen left them to their meal and rest.

It was two hours later when Muirgen entered to wake them and tell them that Colgú was waiting outside. They straightened their clothes, rubbed the sleep from their eyes and asked Muirgen to show him in. She did so and then diplomatically withdrew.

Colgú looked anxious but was apologetic for disturbing them.

‘I know that you have not had much sleep, but I wondered how things are progressing?’ he said.

‘We need far more time to investigate, brother,’ Fidelma said, while Eadulf poured cider for each of them.

‘Do you believe Muirchertach is innocent or guilty?’

‘I am prepared to defend him,’ she replied cautiously. ‘We both agree that if he is guilty then he is either a fool or extremely clever. Somehow, I do not think he is either. And as for Abbot Ultán, he certainly seems to have created more than his fair share of enemies and many of them are guests here. There is nothing for it but to postpone the ceremony for as long as it takes.’

Colgú looked unhappy. ‘I know you have a hard task. I know it is your wedding, Fidelma. However, I also have to think of the guests. The High King, the kings of the cóicead and their nobles. They cannot stay here indefinitely.’

‘I cannot force the pace of this inquiry,’ replied Fidelma testily. ‘In spite of the pressure from Brehon Ninnid.’

‘I know that,’ replied her brother. ‘But I must think of distracting the High King and nobles for a while. I have an idea. The weather has been brightening and tomorrow morning at first light I thought that I would entertain our noble guests to a hunt.’

Eadulf looked up in surprise from his mug of cider. ‘A hunt?’

‘A wild boar hunt,’ confirmed the king. ‘There have been reports that a herd of boar are creating havoc in the fields of a farmer about five kilometres east of here. What better way to give some entertainment than to allow our guests to hunt the creatures?’

Fidelma considered the matter. ‘I certainly do not expect the matter to be resolved by tomorrow. Whom do you expect to attend this hunt?’

‘The High King is keen on the idea. In fact, it was he who suggested that something is done to entertain the nobles and their ladies while we wait for a resolution.’

Fidelma pursed her lips.

‘I am sorry that Sechnassach finds this matter of law so tedious,’ she said icily.

‘You cannot ask everyone to be so patient,’ protested Colgú. ‘If you could even give an indication when you might complete this investigation. .?’

Fidelma sighed irritably. She could understand her brother’s predicament but it was too early to form opinions. There was no denying her instinct that Muirchertach was innocent of the murder of Ultán, but that feeling was countered by a further suspicion that he was not being entirely truthful with her. There was something that he was holding back.

‘You know that is impossible, Colgú.’

‘Ninnid tells me that he is ready to prosecute and the Chief Brehon says he is prepared to sit in judgement. They simply await your word.’

‘Well, I am not ready. There is more to this than Ninnid will argue.’

‘Ninnid seems a pompous ass,’ muttered Eadulf.

Colgú glanced at him. ‘Pompous he may be, my friend, but I am told that he has an astute legal mind.’

‘Even with this pressure, we need more time,’ insisted Fidelma.

‘If you delay beyond a reasonable period, Ninnid is within his rights to prosecute without further loss of time.’ Colgú reminded her of the law she knew well. ‘Barrán waits only because of who Muirchertach is and out of courtesy to you. If it had been any lesser person than the king of Connacht accused of this crime, then the trial would have been over by now.’

‘Trial?’ Fidelma retorted. ‘And what sort of trial would that be? Is it unreasonable to allow sufficient time for truth to emerge before a person is rushed to judgement.’

Her brother gave an eloquent shrug.

‘Verbum sat sapienti,’ he said simply. ‘A word to the wise. Barrán and the High King will not wait for ever.’

‘I will not take for ever, brother. But I will not be rushed to trial before I have discovered the truth.’

Colgú sighed softly. ‘Anyway, I presume that you have no objection to my distracting our guests?’

‘None,’ she replied, ‘if the guests want to be distracted. Do they include Blathmac, the king of Ulaidh? I would have thought that he at least, among the nobles, would want to mourn one of his kingdom’s abbots.’

‘I do not think Ultán had any friends to mourn him outside his entourage who came here with him. Even Blathmac seemed to share the common dislike of the abbot. And Muirchertach has offered to extend his parole, his gell, so that he may accompany the hunt. I see no objection to that. I shall go ahead with it. The thought of the sport will at least occupy our guests for another day.’

‘Muirchertach wants to join the hunt?’ Fidelma was astonished. ‘He seems very confident in my ability to exonerate him. Ah well, entertain the guests by all means, brother, but in spite of Muirchertach’s parole, I would advise that you keep a close watch on him.’

‘So you do suspect Muirchertach?’ Colgú said quickly.

‘Not at all. But there may be some who do and wish him harm. It would be foolish to let our guests wander too freely.’

Colgú grinned. ‘We can hardly make the High King a suspect.’

‘I would just prefer that a sharp eye was kept on this hunt. .’ She glanced suddenly at Eadulf, who jerked his head up in dismay. ‘I need to remain here to continue the investigation. .’

‘I would prefer. .’ he began to protest.

Colgú caught her thought and clapped Eadulf on the shoulder with a chuckle.

‘An excellent idea. I do not think that you have taken part in one of our boar hunts, have you, Eadulf? You will find it an excellent education.’

Eadulf’s expression was positively woebegone. ‘I am not a good horseman. .’

‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Colgú. ‘Anyway, the huntsmen lead the way on foot with their dogs. Only the nobles, who are the spearmen, follow on horse. Then behind them come the ladies on horseback. So you have a choice. You can go on foot with the huntsmen, of course.’

Fidelma took pity on Eadulf’s alarmed expression.

‘Let young Gormán ride with you to assist you in the task. He can also explain what is happening during the hunt. But keep close to Muirchertach.’

Eadulf was resigned. ‘What will you be doing?’ he asked moodily.

‘We will not be able to speak to everyone today. There are several people that I still need to question, such as the two young religious who accompanied Ultán. They might be able to give more details of the man and his enemies. I also want to speak with Fergus Fanat of Ulaidh and Dúnchad Muirisci before the end of today.’

Colgú was surprised. ‘What is their involvement?’ he demanded.

‘Perhaps none, but their word is needed as witnesses in clarifying some matters.’

‘Then be as diplomatic as you can, sister,’ Colgú advised her. ‘These are nobles with much power.’

‘And you are not?’ she asked mockingly.

Colgú shook his head. ‘The art of kingship is to maintain the peace but not to stir up antagonisms.’

‘Do not fear, my brother. My intention is merely to search for the truth.’

Colgú grimaced wryly. ‘There was a line in that play by Terence that was performed here last year — The Girl from Andros — what was it now?’

‘Veritas odium parit’ muttered Eadulf.

‘Exactly. Truth breeds hate. Be careful when you search for truth that you do not stir up hate.’

‘While I am asked to function as a dálaigh, I cannot be stopped from that search,’ Fidelma said firmly.

Colgú turned for the door, saying over his shoulder: ‘I will go to draw up the list of those who will attend the hunt tomorrow. I’ll let you have it later.’

Fidelma had decided that they should first follow up the intriguing reference that Abbot Augaire had made to Fergus Fanat of Ulaidh but, by chance, they encountered Dúnchad Muirisci, the tánaiste to the king of Connacht, as they were crossing one of the courtyards. He was young, sandy-haired and handsome, with a ready smile and large blue eyes. He carried himself with the bearing of a warrior.

‘Abbot Augaire? Indeed he was with me last evening for some time. He left late. We were playing brandubh. He is a very determined player. Eventually I had to accept the loss of the High King.’

Brandubh, black raven, was one of the most popular board games in the five kingdoms. The board was divided into forty-nine squares, the centre square symbolising Tara, the centre of the cosmos, and the four squares round it the capitals of the provincial kings. Here the four defending kings had to keep the invading force at bay without leaving the High King on the centre square unprotected. Eadulf found it too slow and cerebral for his taste.

‘So Abbot Augaire won the game?’ he said. ‘Do you know, roughly, when the abbot came to your chambers?’

‘Not long after the evening meal. Many of the nobles continued to drink and listen to the bards and storytellers. But Augaire and I had agreed to match our minds across the gaming board. Indeed, we had a wager on it, and’ — he shrugged ruefully — ‘I confess I lost and he has my silver piece to prove it.’

‘When did he leave?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Towards midnight, I think. I know that I had retired to bed sometime after he left but was disturbed by shouting in the corridor. I had already been disturbed once that evening so I ignored it. It was only this morning that I realised that it must have been when the body of Ultán was discovered.’

‘What did you think when your king, Muirchertach, was accused?’

‘Shall I be honest?’

Fidelma gazed at him with steely eyes.

‘That is the purpose of my questioning,’ she said sharply.

‘I was excited. I am his heir apparent and if he were to be guilty of this murder, then I would automatically succeed and be king of Connacht.’

‘That is being honest indeed,’ muttered Eadulf.

Dúnchad Muirisci laughed as if it were a joke.

‘You cannot make emotions illegal,’ he said.

Fidelma’s lips thinned for a moment. ‘So long as they remain emotions and hidden rather than being given physical substance.’

Dúnchad Muirisci continued to smile. ‘Come, lady, you do not suspect that I slunk into Abbot Ultán’s chamber to kill him, then put the blame on Muirchertach in order that I could succeed as king?’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘In this case, I do not suspect that. However, how well did you know Abbot Ultán?’

‘Not at all.’

Fidelma raised her eyebrows. ‘With all the intercourse between the court of Muirchertach and the abbey of Ultán on behalf of the queen’s sister, Searc, that comes as a surprise.’

‘Yet it is true. The business was between Muirchertach and Aíbnat and later involved Cathal of the Uí Briúin Aí. But I never once laid eyes on Ultán and would have passed him by in the corridor without knowing him. It was Augaire and one of our brehons who conducted the intercourse with Cill Ria.’

‘So what did you think of Muirchertach’s attempt to seek compensation for his wife, Aíbnat, over this matter?’

Dúnchad Muirisci considered for a moment. ‘I will admit that I found it strange. Aíbnat was never really close to her young sister and, in truth, I did not think she was much affected by the poor girl’s death. But the fact that she pressed the claim against Ultán. .’

‘Aíbnat did not insist on seeking compensation, according to Augaire. It was your cousin Muirchertach who was the instigator of the claim.’

Dúnchad Muirisci’s eyes suddenly widened. ‘Muirchertach?’ he demanded sharply.

‘You did not know?’

‘I did not. I assumed it was Aíbnat for she was the next of kin.’

‘How well did you know Searc?’

‘Not well at all. I met her only a few times at Durlas. She was a dreamy, romantic young girl. I was not surprised when people started to acclaim her poetry. It was of the dántaigecht grádh variety, love poetry. That is not really my style. You know the sort of thing?’ He screwed up his face and recited in a falsetto voice:

Cold are the nights I cannot sleep,

Thinking of you, my love, my dear. .

‘How well is not well?’ interrupted Fidelma with some irritability in her tone.

‘When she came to stay with her sister Aíbnat at Muirchertach’s fortress at Durlas, I saw her more. . that was in the weeks before her death.’

‘Did she give any indication that she would take her own life when she came back from Cill Ria having found that her love had been sent to his death at sea?’

Dúnchad Muirisci shook his head. ‘In fact, while she was upset, she did not really believe that this lad — what was his name? Senach? — she did not believe that he was really dead. She was determined to pursue him.’

Fidelma exchanged a sharp look with Eadulf. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.

‘When she came back she talked about finding a ship to go to Gaul and to the abbey to which the lad had been sent. She even knew the name of it. She believed that he would be waiting there for her.’

Fidelma leaned forward in surprise. ‘How long was this before she took her life?’

‘I saw her about three days before it happened. Augaire witnessed the event, you know. He didn’t know who it was — it took him a day or so to discover it and so come to Durlas. Muirchertach was called upon to identify the body.’ He paused and rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘It is strange, now I think of it. She was talking about sailing after Senach and then, shortly after, she tosses herself from a cliff.’

‘Strange, indeed,’ muttered Eadulf.

‘Did she tell anyone else about the voyage to Gaul she was planning?’

‘I would have presumed that she told her sister Aíbnat as well as Muirchertach.’

‘It seems strange that it was not mentioned,’ Fidelma said thoughtfully. ‘I will see what Muirchertach and his wife have to say later.’

Dúnchad Muirisci smiled knowingly.

‘I am not sure that the truth will come out,’ he said. ‘Muirchertach never did like people knowing what was in his mind. Not even me.’

‘But you are his tánaiste — his heir apparent. Who runs the kingdom if he will not discuss the affairs of the day with you?’ inquired Eadulf.

‘The truth? The tribes of Connacht are descended into anarchy. Muirchertach has brought the line of Fiachra into disrespect. Thank God that I am only a cousin, for I am of the tribe of Muaide.’

‘If this is so, has no one recourse to the law, to declare Muirchertach incapable of his office?’ Fidelma asked.

Dúnchad Muirisci shrugged. ‘The time will come. He has few friends now, not even his own wife.’

‘That is why I am interested in the reason he pursued this affair of compensation with Ultán,’ Fidelma replied.

‘Well, if Aíbnat did not press for it, then I cannot say. Maybe he wanted to impress her by doing so in order to win back her regard?’

‘Perhaps. Yet if Aíbnat was not close to her young sister, as we have been told, it does not appear to be a sufficient reason.’

Dúnchad Muirisci shook his head. ‘That is a matter that you’d best pursue with Muirchertach.’

‘And I shall do so.’

The tánaiste suddenly looked seriously at Fidelma. ‘I said that I would be honest. There is no love lost between Muirchertach and myself. I even avoided him as a child. He had a spiteful nature and later he had a reputation among women. I was surprised when Aíbnat and he were married, but then Aíbnat was of the Uí Briúin Aí and ambitious.’ He stopped speaking when he caught sight of a woman crossing the courtyard. ‘Ah, the lady Fína. You will excuse me? I have promised to go riding with her this afternoon while the light is still with us.’ He hurried after the figure that was disappearing towards the stables.

Fidelma turned to Eadulf with a long face. ‘This is irritating,’ she said. ‘There is something here which does not seem right.’

‘You have said that before,’ commented Eadulf.

‘And I say it again now. Alas, I think we still have much to learn.’

‘And much to do. We’d better go in search of Fergus Fanat.’

It was the commander of the guard who told them that Fergus Fanat was in the town below the fortress playing immán, or driving, with two groups that had been formed from the more active guests. Caol seemed more cheerful now that he had been assured by Colgú that he was not being blamed for removing the guard from Ultán’s chamber.

Although the day continued to be cloudy, at least it was dry and Fidelma suggested they walked down to the playing field, the faithche, a level grassy meadow just beyond the last buildings in the town that was set aside for such games. Eadulf made no objection, so they walked down into the town, aware of some stares as people recognised them. Most were aware that this should be the day of their official wedding and some seemed to wish to commiserate while others were embarrassed as to how to acknowledge them. Fidelma seemed oblivious of the little huddled groups that formed in their wake, the whispered conversations and the looks of sympathy, as if it were some funeral cortége that had passed.

They could hear the game long before they passed the last of the houses and came on the open meadow. The shouts and cheers of the people gathered around the faithche were noisy enough, and the pair moved forward to a point where they could see the action on the field. There were two teams, and the aim was to drive the ball into the opponents’ goal, or berna, with a wooden stick.

Eadulf found the game exciting, for the swinging ash clubs could easily inflict not just bruises and cuts but serious injuries. For the players it was warfare by another means. The shouts of instruction and curses when a strategy went wrong came thick and fast as the young men pushed sometimes one way and sometimes the other. To Eadulf it looked like a mad uproar with few rules, but when he mentioned this to Fidelma she shook her head.

‘Our laws are strict about this game, Eadulf. See, there is Brehon Baithen observing the game to see they are obeyed. To strike a deliberate blow against another player, for example, is punishable by a fine.’

‘There are other laws to protect spectators and, indeed, even to protect the field itself,’ a voice echoed behind them.

They glanced round and found Abbot Augaire standing there, looking amused. ‘I did not think you would have time to watch this diversion,’ he observed.

Fidelma’s chin came up a little. ‘It is not for diversion that we are here, Abbot Augaire,’ she told him. ‘You suggested that we should speak with Fergus Fanat, who is apparently among the players.’

Abbot Augaire smiled. ‘Ah, just so. I should have realised that you would not be attracted to this entertainment when there was an abbot’s murder to be resolved.’

‘Which of the players is Fergus Fanat?’ pressed Fidelma, ignoring his cynical tone.

‘You see the short, muscular man with the long raven-coloured hair? The one now out in front striking at the ball? That is Fergus Fanat. He leads the team from the northern kingdoms against the locals.’

Fidelma realised that her cousin Finguine mac Cathal, Colgú’s heir apparent or tánaiste, was the leader of the second team.

‘How long until the end of the game?’ she demanded.

‘Not long,’ replied Augaire. ‘Three times more must the bowl fill with water.’

He nodded to where Brehon Baithen was standing, another man was sitting before a water clock with which he was timing the progress of the game. The bowl to which Augaire had referred was placed on the surface of a tub of water. It had a small hole in its base so that it gradually filled and sank, after which it was taken out and emptied and the process was repeated. The bowl had to sink a prescribed number of times to measure the length of the game.

Fidelma’s wandering gaze was suddenly attracted by a figure in the crowd behind Brehon Baithen, a slight female figure wearing a religious robe. The girl looked attractive. Her gaze seemed to be fixed on the players on the field as though she was fascinated by the game. For a moment, Fidelma wondered who she was.

Just then there was a shout of protest from the field. The players suddenly bunched into a group, shouting at each other. Brehon Baithen quickly hurried on to the faithche.

‘What is it?’ demanded Eadulf, frowning.

‘One of the players is protesting a foul. He says that two opposing players jostled him before he had possession of the ball.’

The argument seemed short. Brehon Baithen had made some decision and the game recommenced.

Abbot Augaire gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Do you realise, my Saxon friend,’ he confided to Eadulf, ‘that it was at the site of my own abbey of Conga, on the plain of Maigh Éo, where it is said the very first recorded game of immán was played?’

‘I knew it was an ancient game,’ Eadulf replied unenthusiastically, anticipating a lecture.

‘It is said that when the Fir Bolg were waging war against the Tuatha Dé Danann it was agreed to settle their differences by playing such a game.’

‘There are many such old tales about the game,’ Fidelma put in quickly. ‘Setanta was said to be the greatest player of his day. Wasn’t it with his ball and stick that he slew the hound of Culann so that he had to offer to replace it and thus earned his new name: Cúchulainn — the hound of Culann?’

There was suddenly a great cheering. The game was apparently over and it became obvious that it was the team from Cashel who had won it.

With a curt nod to Abbot Augaire, Fidelma led the way through the milling crowd to where she had last seen Fergus Fanat. They found him seated with some colleagues, wiping his face on a linen cloth and taking swallows from a goblet of cider. In spite of their defeat, there was good humour among the northern team and much talk of how this or that point should have been played.

Fidelma was aware again of the young female religieuse, who appeared to be waiting on the edge of the group of players. She saw that Eadulf was also examining her with curiosity.

‘Do you recognise her?’ she whispered.

‘I can’t be sure. I think it is one of the two religieuse who accompanied Ultán. I saw them briefly when they arrived.’

While it was not unusual to find a woman so fascinated by the game and with the players, Fidelma found it odd that a member of Ultán’s entourage would have forsaken the mourning of her murdered superior to come down to watch the contest. Then she dismissed the matter from her mind.

Fergus Fanat looked up as Fidelma and Eadulf approached. He rose to his feet, apparently recognising her.

‘I am surprised to see you here, lady.’ He smiled uncertainly, handing his goblet to one of his fellow players.

‘Do you know me, Fergus Fanat?’ she asked.

‘You were pointed out to me when we arrived at your brother’s fortress yesterday.’ He glanced at Eadulf. ‘And you must be Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham.’

There was something likeable in the open-featured, friendly scrutiny of the young man. Eadulf smiled back. ‘I am.’

‘I am sorry that the plans for this day have had to be delayed, lady.’ The northern noble turned back to Fidelma. ‘I have heard that Muirchertach Nár has demanded that you conduct his defence. It seems a selfish thing to do in the circumstances.’

Fidelma was thoughtful. ‘Selfish?’

‘Knowing that this was to be your wedding day, he could have chosen another to represent him in law.’

‘It is his right to demand whom he pleases in his defence,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘When a man, even a king, is accused of murder, then he is entitled to some degree of selfishness.’

Fergus Fanat chuckled. ‘You are right, lady. I suppose that I am not overly concerned at the death of Ultán.’

‘That is precisely why I have sought you out.’

A look of surprise crossed Fergus Fanat’s features. ‘To talk of my lack of concern?’ He gestured around him. ‘I think you will be hard pressed to find many who will mourn him.’

‘To talk of the reasons why that is so. Why is there this unconcern over the murder of an abbot from your own territory?’ She glanced at the man’s fellow players, several of whom were standing within hearing of their conversation, and added: ‘I am sorry. Perhaps you would like to walk with us awhile?’

Fergus Fanat put down his towel and nodded.

‘I need to return to the fortress to bathe,’ he said. ‘The game was quite arduous. Let us go back.’

They fell in step, Fergus Fanat walking between Fidelma and Eadulf, as they crossed the field. The spectators were quickly vanishing but for a few people here and there engaged in talk. No one bothered them. Again Fidelma was aware of the young religieuse. The girl stood hesitantly and then, noticing that Fidelma had glanced at her, turned and hurried away after the crowd.

‘I presume that you did not like Abbot Ultán?’ Fidelma began.

‘I did not kill him, if that is where your questions are leading, lady,’ replied Fergus Fanat quickly and with assurance.

‘They are not. . as yet.’ She smiled. ‘Why didn’t you like him?’

‘He was not a likeable person.’

‘Surely that depends on an individual’s subjective view? Even the worst people are often liked, even loved, by someone,’ Eadulf pointed out.

Fergus Fanat laughed with good humour. ‘Forgive me, Brother Eadulf. I am no philosopher. I am a simple warrior.’

‘In the service of Blathmac, king of Ulaidh?’

‘In the service of my cousin,’ confirmed the young man, laying slight emphasis on his relationship to the king.

‘So can you be more specific as to why you disliked Ultán?’

The northern noble grimaced. ‘Indeed I can. Perhaps I should start with a story told me by my father, who was Bressal, brother of Máel Coba, who was then king of Ulaidh. He knew of Ultán when he was a young man, Ultán was a wild, profane and wayward youth.’

Fidelma’s brow rose slightly. ‘This same Abbot Ultán who was emissary of the Comarb of Patrick at Ard Macha?’ Her voice was slightly sceptical.

‘The very same. In his younger days he was a godless man. He was a thief and murderer, a dissolute and a womaniser.’

‘It is hard to believe,’ said Eadulf. ‘I thought he was one of the great reformers of the church — one who welcomes the strict rules of Rome.’

‘I will tell you the story,’ Fergus Fanat went on. ‘In his youth, Ultán was named Uallgarg, the proud and fierce. That’s what he was. He cared nothing for anyone and answered to no authority. He was caught several times by the king’s bodyguard and brought before the brehons for judgement. He refused their justice and went on his way as before. Then he fell in with a beautiful young girl whom he debauched. He shamed her by making her pregnant and then abandoning her.’

‘You are repeating the story told you by your father,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘In law this is inadmissible. How do you know that this was a true account?’

Fergus Fanat glanced at her for a moment and then grimaced sadly.

‘The girl in question was my aunt,’ he said softly. ‘Her child was stillborn and she never recovered. Her mind fled her body and she lived in a world of her own — I remember her. I was fifteen summers old. She became a simpleton and died before her time.’ He sighed deeply. ‘To be truthful, I let out a shout of joy when I heard that someone had killed Ultán. My only regret was that it was not I.’