A Prayer for the Damned

CHAPTER FOUR

It was a sombre group that gathered that evening in the private chamber of Colgú, king of Muman. The handsome, red-haired king sprawled moodily in his carved oak chair before the fire. Fidelma sat upright opposite him with Eadulf standing behind her, one hand resting on the back of her chair. Caol, the commander of the bodyguard, stood discreetly with his back to the door, as if on guard, while a chair had been brought for Abbot Ségdae, newly arrived from the abbey of Imleach, and another for Baithen, the brehon of Muman.

‘It is upsetting, I know, lady,’ Baithen finally said, voicing the consensus of the group.

Fidelma returned his concerned gaze with a smile. ‘I had a premonition that the arrival of Abbot Ultán would not bring happiness to this place. Yet we have heard these arguments so many times before. Is that not so, Eadulf?’

The Saxon inclined his head in agreement.

‘You will remember the violent opposition of the old Bishop Petrán to our trial marriage?’ he said. ‘So violent was the argument that when he died a natural death soon after, I was even accused of his murder.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. It had been the prejudice and incompetence of Dathal, the former brehon of Muman, that had caused the mistake that had almost convinced everyone at Cashel that Eadulf was to blame for the old bishop’s death. The discovery of the truth had led to Dathal’s enforced retirement from office and the appointment of Baithen as brehon in his place.

‘We have weathered these objections before and doubtless will do so again,’ observed Fidelma.

Abbot Ségdae sighed, and not for the first time during the conversation. ‘Nevertheless, it is upsetting that Abbot Ultán arrives on the eve of your wedding to seize the opportunity to voice his arguments before the assembled kings of Éireann. It is obviously done deliberately because the opportunity to address such an audience at one time comes infrequently.’

‘A pity that this agitator did not meet with some accident on his journey here,’ muttered Colgú darkly. Then, seeing the look of disapproval from his legal and spiritual advisers, he shrugged apologetically. ‘Quod avertat Deus — which may God avert,’ he added without conviction. ‘However, the abbot tells me he is an envoy from the abbot and bishop Ségéne of Ard Macha. At least he has no authority here.’

‘He has no authority,’ agreed Brehon Baithen. ‘Neither in the law of this land nor, so far as I know them, in the rules of the Faith. Not even Rome enforces celibacy among its religious.’

‘Exactly,’ Fidelma agreed emphatically. ‘If we can ignore Ultán’s prejudice then surely our guests can?’

Colgú glanced at Caol. ‘And our guests have all arrived and are secure in their accommodations?’

The young warrior took a step forward.

‘As you know, Sechnassach, the High King, and his retinue were the last to arrive, at midday,’ he replied. ‘Before him, there arrived Fianamail of Laigin, Blathmac of Ulaidh, and the king of Connacht, Muirchertach Nár. They, with their ladies, and their tánaiste and nobles, are all settled in their quarters.’

‘I see Muirchertach Nár of Connacht is accompanied by Abbot Augaire of Conga.’ Abbot Ségdae smiled grimly. ‘Caol tells me that Abbot Augaire has already engaged in an angry discourse with Abbot Ultán.’

Colgú looked surprised and troubled. ‘Arguments already? About his protest over Fidelma? Caol, what happened?’

‘Not exactly an argument over anything, so far as I witnessed. It seemed that there was an underlying tension. Abbot Augaire’s words were spoken in a civil tone though they were bitter. He did call Ultán an arrogant messenger from an arrogant bishop. But no voice was raised, no specific argument made. It seemed that they had met in the past and that there was still bitterness between them.’

Abbot Ségdae’s features were sorrowful. ‘I presume that the tension arises from the same argument that he had with me at Imleach. It is the claim of Ard Macha to be the primatial seat of the Faith in all the five kingdoms. Abbot Augaire of Conga is one of the many abbots and bishops who reject that claim.’

The king turned his worried gaze towards his brehon. ‘Is there any way that we can exclude Abbot Ultán from the ceremony tomorrow? I fear that there are enough problems without Ultán making public protests.’

Brehon Baithen exchanged a quick glance with the Abbot Ségdae.

‘There is no legal excuse,’ he said. ‘He is entitled to stand up and voice his objections to the marriage. We all acknowledge that he is, after all, the emissary from Ard Macha, which is very influential. Any discourtesy to Abbot Ultán may be interpreted as an insult to Blathmac, the king of Ulaidh, in whose kingdom Ard Macha is the chief religious house.’

Colgú drummed his fingers for a moment on the arm of his chair.

‘This was to have been an occasion of unity and serenity,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Kings and nobles and many of distinction have all come as our guests to witness this ceremony. Even the Uí Fidgente. That alone is a great tribute to my sister’s diplomacy in attempting to heal the wounds created at the battle of Cnoc Áine. That dissension sown by a firebrand prelate from outside this kingdom should now threaten the day. .’ He ended with a helpless shake of his head.

There was a pause before Brehon Baithen cleared his throat.

‘I have a suggestion.’

They turned to him expectantly. The brehon grimaced as if a little undecided whether to continue.

‘The objection of this Abbot Ultán is based solely on the fact that the lady Fidelma took vows to serve the Faith. Is that not so?’

‘Obviously so,’ agreed Abbot Ségdae. ‘And, as we continually point out, not even Rome lays strictures on the marriage of the religious. The idea that all who serve the Faith must remain celibate is only argued by a particular school of philosophers.’

‘It would end all argument if the lady Fidelma simply withdrew from those vows. You, Ségdae, as senior abbot and bishop of the kingdom, could pronounce on it. After all, since she left Cill Dara, Fidelma has not served in any religious house. There is no need for it. She follows her primary calling as an advocate of our laws.’

Fidelma leaned forward slightly from her chair. Her voice was sharp.

‘That would be admitting the validity of Ultán’s protests — that religious should not get married,’ she pointed out. ‘It is true that I only joined the house at Cill Dara at the suggestion of my cousin, Abbot Laisran. I have never been a religieuse in the strict sense. But, having said that, I will not withdraw when there is no need. When there is no rule that would force me to do so, why should I? No,’ she continued decisively, ‘since Abbot Ultán is determined to make an issue of this matter by interrupting the ceremony in the chapel, I think we should face his arguments rather than seek to avoid them.’

Abbot Ségdae was puzzled. ‘If you would attempt to debate with Abbot Ultán in the middle of a marriage ceremony. . why, that would be most unseemly. And I must point out that no mean scholar advises him. I mean his hawk-faced companion, Brother Drón. Ultán’s fault is that he tends to bombast when his arguments are blocked by counter-arguments.’

‘Such a debate must not take place in the middle of the marriage ceremony.’ Colgú’s voice was determined. ‘I forbid it.’

Brehon Baithen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Even if we could debate this matter in private, I doubt that any conclusion arrived at would prevent Ultán from standing up during the ceremony and voicing his objections again in public. You cannot forbid his protest.’

Colgú turned in resignation to Abbot Ségdae. ‘You tell us that this Abbot Ultán is advised by Brother Drón who is no mean scholar. Can you inform us what scholarship he can use to argue his case against my sister’s marriage tomorrow?’

‘None that cannot be countered,’ replied the abbot with firmness. ‘As has been said many times, this matter of celibacy among those who serve the Faith is merely a matter of opinion. At the time when our Lord walked upon this earth, his apostles, such as Peter the Rock, on which it was said that the entire church was founded, were married men. All the religions that I have ever heard of contain aesthetes who believe that celibacy, among both male and female, somehow bring them closer to their gods. Our Christian aesthetes had their first victory three centuries ago at a council in Iberia, at a place called Elvira. That council agreed that a priest who slept with his wife the night before Mass could not perform the sacrament. A quarter of a century later, at Nicaea, it was decreed by the council that a priest should not marry after he had been ordained. Nevertheless fifty years later Siricius, the Bishop of Rome, who was married but deserted his wife, ordered that priests should no longer sleep with their wives — clearly demonstrating that they were still marrying.’

Fidelma gestured impatiently. ‘Most priests and other religious throughout all the kingdoms of the world still marry. I have heard that this inclination towards celibacy seems to be part of a movement emanating from those who seek to denigrate the role of women in the world. We all know that at the Council of Laodicea, three centuries ago, it was agreed that women must no longer be ordained priests. Today there are few women priests to be found.’

Abbot Ségdae nodded. ‘And it cannot be denied that for the last hundred years the bishops of Rome, who have been accepted by many as the premier bishops of Christendom, have tended to side with those who seek to enforce celibacy. Sons of former bishops and priests no longer take the throne of the Blessed Peter. Homidas, son of the Blessed Silverus, was the last son of a previous bishop of Rome to ascend to his father’s place. Now there are those such as Gregory, who uttered the curious statement that all sexual desire is sinful in itself.’

Colgú was impatient. ‘Arguments! Precedents! It is like chasing a will o’ the wisp. Is there no law written down by which a judgement can be given and adhered to? Is there no rule given in your religious writings, Ségdae?’

Abbot Ségdae shook his head. ‘I am afraid that the sexual ethics and views on marriage in the Faith have been neither uniform nor static enough to be considered law. The decrees of the various councils have never been universally accepted so far.’

Eadulf coughed nervously. He was well aware that he was a stranger in the kingdom and, according to the social customs and laws, had no right to speak in the presence of a king unless invited. Colgú, however, immediately understood his hesitation and gestured towards him.

‘Do not stand on ceremony here, Eadulf. You have something to contribute to this discussion?’

Eadulf shot him a look of silent gratitude. ‘My experience of those who put forward the argument for celibacy is that they often rely on the writings of Augustine of Hippo.’

Abbot Ségdae looked interested. ‘I would not have considered Augustine to have much influence in this land, especially in the kingdom of Ulaidh, for his views are so contrary to our laws and way of life. He considered women inferior to men both in morals as well as in physical being.’

‘That is true,’ Eadulf agreed. ‘He once wrote. .’ He shut his eyes to recite from memory. ‘I fail to see what use women can be to man if one excludes the function of bearing children.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘In my estimation, Augustine was a silly, narrow and prejudiced person, and I find it strange others hold him in esteem as a great philosopher.’

‘What arguments would Abbot Ultán put forward from this authority, Brother Eadulf?’ asked Brehon Baithen.

‘Augustine believed that Adam and Eve were innocent of sexual temptation or feelings when they lived in the Garden of Eden,’ Eadulf began. ‘Augustine wrote that prior to their fall and expulsion, their sexual impulses had been under conscious control. But because they rebelled against God, the genitals of their descendants rebelled against their will. Humans then became incapable of controlling either their sexual desires or the physical reactions of their gonads, so the only way to achieve a holy life and salvation was to abjure all form of dealings with women.’

‘Is what you have said considered to be the main argument of those who advocate celibacy?’ Colgú asked. ‘That suppression of the natural role between the sexes is a path to religious perfection?’

‘There is another argument which, I think, many of the higher priesthood in Rome find more congenial,’ Eadulf replied.

‘Which is?’

‘It is the practical consideration. In these kingdoms you do not have the concept of absolute private ownership in the land, so the argument does not affect you so much. But elsewhere, especially in Rome, property is a great consideration. It is the economic idea that drives the arguments for an unmarried clergy.’

Fidelma regarded Eadulf with some surprise, and he smiled reassuringly at her unasked question.

‘When I was in Rome, I attended many debates and arguments,’ he explained.

‘What is this economic idea, then?’ asked Abbot Ségdae.

‘Married religious are too expensive to maintain. They have to be given housing, food and clothing, not only for themselves but also for their wives and children. And the children of priests can inherit their property, so that assets which the church wants to hold can be left away from it. The church’s resources are therefore spent in catering to the wives and children of the married religious. What is more, in many lands you now find that sacerdotal dynasties are common — indeed, normal. Sons of abbots and bishops become abbots and bishops as well.’

‘Little wrong in that,’ agreed Abbot Ségdae. ‘In the five kingdoms it has always been tradition that the priesthood passes down in certain families. At the abbeys of Cluain Mic Nois, at Lusca and Claine, the abbacy passes down within the family, the abbot being elected by the derbhfine just like the king.’

Eadulf knew this well enough.

‘The difference is that your civil laws provide for this and counter any impropriety by the fact that the abbey is not the sole owner of the land it covers,’ he pointed out. ‘The land is granted to the abbey by the chieftain or king, and the local clan also elects a lay officer to ensure that the land and property are not alienated. This is not so in other cultures where the abbot’s family can seize the property and make it personal to their families. This is what the curia, the papal court in Rome, is concerned with.’

Abbot Ségdae shook his head with an exasperated sigh. ‘I have no understanding of this.’

Colgú shared his perplexity. ‘No more do I, yet I understand that Eadulf is saying that the concerns of Rome have no relevance in this land. What it comes down to is this, and correct me if I am wrong: Abbot Ultán’s views are not supported by any law or rule that must be obeyed by all members of the Faith. Is that so?’

‘That is so,’ agreed Baithen.

‘Then, should Abbot Ultán start protesting, he must be told in front of the assembly that his personal views, no matter who shares them, are not law in this land. He must desist from voicing his protest until some council of the church, which has jurisdiction to do so, makes it into a binding law on members of the Faith. Only when such an ecclesiastical rule is incorporated into our law system can such protests be validly made.’

Brehon Baithen smiled in satisfaction.

‘An excellent summary of the situation,’ he applauded.

Colgú glanced at his sister with a smile. ‘Do you approve of this course of action?’

Fidelma’s expression was solemn.

‘It is the only course,’ she agreed almost reluctantly. ‘I would rather that Abbot Ultán would not raise the matter in the first place, but. .’ She ended with a shrug.

‘Perhaps. .’ began Eadulf, and then paused.

‘Perhaps?’ prompted Colgú immediately, turning to him.

‘I wondered if Abbot Ultán could be informed of the decision in this matter tonight, before the ceremony starts tomorrow, in an effort to persuade him to hold his peace?’

‘A good suggestion,’ agreed the king. ‘Surely that could do no harm?’ Colgú glanced round the company and his eyes came to rest on Abbot Ségdae. ‘But who would speak with him? As senior churchman. .?’

Abbot Ségdae shook his head immediately. ‘Not I. Our discussion at Imleach has made Ultán view me as his prime antagonist and I doubt whether he would listen to a word I said.’

‘Advising on law and procedure is my role,’ Brehon Baithen interposed. ‘I will go to his chambers and have a word with this fiery prelate from the north. Perhaps the commander of the guard will attend me as the person who will have to enforce order in case our northern friend becomes too inflammatory in his protests?’

Caol smiled broadly and signified his agreement.

‘Then we are satisfied as to this course?’ asked Colgú, glancing round. There was a murmuring of assent and the king sighed and sat back. ‘Remain with me, Fidelma, and you also, Eadulf.’

He waited until Abbot Ségdae, Brehon Baithen and Caol had departed, and then he rose to pour three goblets of wine, handing one each to his sister and Eadulf before taking the third for himself.

‘To a peaceful day tomorrow,’ he toasted. They drank dutifully.

There was a pause and then Eadulf commented: ‘Abbot Ultán apart, it should be anything but peaceful, judging from the distinguished visitors that have flocked to Cashel and the festival that is being prepared in the town. All this for what is no more than a confirmation of our wedding vows. We have already been married a year.’

Colgú laughed with good nature. ‘You may have lived as ben charrthach and fer comtha for a year and a day but this is the significant ceremony whereby my sister becomes your true cétmuintir. It is an important step.’

‘Well, I had not expected a ceremony so elaborate as to bring the High King and his Chief Brehon here, not 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 that sad world.’

‘There is something else I wish to speak of to you,’ Fidelma said. ‘Indeed, I have been giving it much thought.’ She paused for a moment and Abbot Laisran waited politely for her to continue. ‘As you know, when I left the school of Brehon Morann, I followed your advice to enter into the religious life. Do you recall the reasons why you gave me that advice?’

Abbot Laisran nodded thoughtfully.

‘You wanted independence from your family,’ he replied. ‘Independence to practise law. In these days most of the professions can be found within the abbeys and ecclesiastical schools throughout the land, just as in the old days it was the Druids and their colleges who took over all the professional and intellectual functions of society. I advised that if you entered into the religious it would provide you with security and the base to practise law. I have been proved right.’

‘I do not understand,’ Eadulf said, leaning forward. ‘Why would Fidelma lack security by not entering the religious? She is the daughter of a king and the sister of a king.’

‘And she would have become reliant on the status of her family and, as I understood it, Fidelma wanted to rely on her own talent,’ replied Abbot Laisran. ‘Is that not so?’

Fidelma smiled quickly in response. ‘To enter a religious house in order to pursue a career in law was but a stepping stone for me. I cannot say that I was really an advocate of the Faith.’

‘So what troubles you now?’

‘I find a conflict between my commitment to the law and what many people see as my lack of commitment to the institutions of the religious. In fact, the matter was underscored only a short while ago when Brehon Baithen suggested that a way of dealing with Abbot Ultán’s protests would be to simply disclaim my vow to serve’ the Faith.’

Abbot Laisran’s eyes widened in dismay. ‘But that would mean that Eadulf also would have to disclaim his vow. Is that what you both want?’

Eadulf leaned forward.

‘We have spoken about this, Fidelma and I,’ he said quickly. ‘We feel. .’

‘Would you advise me to withdraw from the religious?’ Fidelma interrupted.

‘Withdraw?’ echoed Abbot Laisran as if he had not heard aright.

‘Resign from the religious,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘My profession is law, not the propagating of the Faith. There are many others who are better advocates in that field. I have no calling to do so, as you would say.’

Abbot Laisran glanced at Eadulf.

‘And what do you say to this, Brother Eadulf?’ he asked with a slight emphasis on the title Bráthair.

‘It is a choice that Fidelma must make first. I am content as things are at present. There are many religious who live life as we do without being forced to make such decisions. Many an abbot, many a bishop as well, marry and raise children, and pursue their interests in areas where the question of whether they should resign their ecclesiastical offices never occurs.’

‘This is entirely my own idea, Laisran,’ Fidelma added. ‘Even before Brehon Baithen suggested it tonight.’

‘And how did you answer him?’

‘I answered him that to withdraw from the religious simply to stop Abbot Ultán’s protest would be wrong. I should withdraw because it was my wish, and Eadulf’s wish, that I do so.’

Abbot Laisran pouted a little. His usually cherubic face saddened.

‘We must all follow our own path. I do not see that you need take this final step. After all, your current position is more or less that of a lay person. It is well known that you have already left your mother house at Cill Dara and dissociated yourself from it.’

‘Left it but not resigned from the religious,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Marriage and motherhood are difficult at the best of times. I am also a dálaigh, but to be a religieuse as well is too difficult. I need advice, Laisran.’

The Abbot Laisran gazed down at his feet and uttered a deep sigh as if faced by a hopeless situation.

‘It is advice that your husband is now better able to give,’ he said. ‘Brother Eadulf, you have said it is a choice that Fidelma must make. But yours should be the voice that she listens to.’

Eadulf shrugged. ‘My advice is to let things be. I have already said so. There is no reason why she should make any decision. During this last year, the months of our trial marriage and the birth of little Alchú, very few have remonstrated with us about our relationship, and those few are those whose views are not worth listening to.’

Abbot Laisran smiled quickly.

‘And Abbot Ultán falls into that category,’ he said, turning to Fidelma. ‘Is it that you are really concerned about his protest?’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘I have said it would be wrong to do something simply to avoid confrontation with such a person as Ultán. I simply think that I need to order my life.’

‘Ah! To order your life?’ Abbot Laisran sat back with eyes half closed. His inflection seemed to imply that he had understood a great deal by her remark. ‘And you seek my advice? So, you feel that Eadulf’s advice is not good enough?’

Fidelma looked disappointed.

‘It sounds as if you agree with Eadulf,’ she said truculently.

Abbot Laisran chuckled. ‘And if I do, does that change your mind? If you feel Eadulf gives you such bad advice, then I fear for your future together.’

Fidelma coloured hotly. ‘That is not what I meant. I fully appreciate what Eadulf’s views are. But, forgive me, he is biased. You have given me good advice in the past, Laisran.’

‘And I shall give it to you in the future,’ assured the abbot. ‘For now, even as you listen to him, also listen to your own heart. You might find that you are hearing the same thing.’

Brehon Baithen, with Caol, the youthful commander of the guard, at his side, was making his way towards the chambers set aside for Abbot Ultán. As befitted his rank, Ultán had been given one of the guest chambers in the palace. While religieux guests of lesser rank were assigned to quarters in the town, Abbot Ultán had created such an altercation that a chamber had been allocated to his steward, Brother Drón, nearby. The females of his entourage had been given places in the hostel set aside for them in another part of the palace.

Baithen himself was very aware that he was ultimately responsible for the security of the many distinguished guests who had gathered at Cashel. He had scarcely settled into his new position as brehon of Muman and he realised there were many who resented the fact that he had displaced the old brehon Dathal. But Dathal had needed to be forcibly retired for he had been making too many mistakes in his judgements. It had been hard to allow Dathal to remain in office after the unjustified accusation of the murder of Bisop Petrán against Brother Eadulf.

Bishop Petrán! Brehon Baithen sighed. He had been of the same ilk as Bishop Ultán; firmly set in his beliefs and narrow interpretations, asserting his authority and determined to make people conform without compromise. As a judge of the laws of the Fénechus, Baithen had often come into conflict with Petrán who had wanted to follow the foreign laws and rules of Rome. Baithen could not repress the thought that if he followed the same laws, then he could have had Abbot Ultán thrown out of Cashel immediately without consideration of his rights. The Roman rules, the Penitentials as they were called, which some bishops and abbots wanted to adopt, did not have the same liberality of attitude that the Fénechus law allowed.

It was with these thoughts that Brehon Baithen turned into the quarter where chambers had been assigned for the northern prelate.

As he and Caol entered the gloomy corridor, lit by smoky oil lanterns hanging at strategic points along it, the guard commander said: ‘Abbot Ultán’s chamber is the last one along here.’ He indicated a door that was set in the corner where the corridor turned sharply at a right angle. Whilst the door was set in the corridor along which they were preceding, it actually faced towards that part of the corridor that was hidden from them.

It was at that moment that a figure backed out of the very door Caol was indicating. It was a tall man wrapped in a multi-coloured cloak. His hair was long, black and shoulder-length. There was tension in his stance as he took a step backward into the corridor. He seemed to be staring straight into the room from which he had exited. Then, without noticing Brehon Baithen and Caol, the man turned and disappeared into the other section of the corridor.

Baithen and Caol had halted in momentary surprise, exchanging glances. Then they hurried to the open door of Abbot Ultán’s chamber.

A lamp lit the interior. The first impression was of a room that was neat and tidy. But the lamp lit the bed and on it sprawled a figure lying on its back, dressed in the robes of a rich religieux. They were darkly stained. The flesh of the face was white, the eyes wide and staring. The whole expression seemed one of comical surprise but there was nothing comical about the scene. The dark stains were blood and the man was dead. The body was that of Ultán, abbot of Cill Ria and bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí, the emissary from Ard Macha.