Peter Tremayne - A Prayer for the Damned

‘One of the stab wounds would be fatal in itself,’ agreed Brother Conchobhar. ‘That one entered the body between the ribs.’ He indicated. ‘The rest were more or less superficial wounds that caused much blood to flow. They seem to have been struck at haphazard as if someone had thrown himself on the abbot with sudden fury. Eadulf rightly says that he fell backwards upon the assault but once that one blow, was struck there would have been no defence. You will perceive the superficial nature of those other wounds. . you see that they were not struck deeply. That means the hand that delivered these blows did not have strength behind it. . probably surprise more than anything caused the abbot to be thrown backwards on the bed.’

Fidelma was nodding slowly. ‘In other words, you are saying that we should take notice that the killer was physically weak?’

Brother Conchobhar pursed his lips in a cynical expression. ‘I am thinking that a strong man would not have struck so many blows which made superficial wounds.’

Eadulf grimaced. ‘But emotion could explain the weakness,’ he observed quickly. ‘Rage can often reduce even the strongest men to momentary inability and render them weak with the emotion.’

‘Has a knife been recovered?’ Fidelma asked.

‘Whoever killed the abbot took the weapon with him.’

Fidelma was examining the coverlet on the bed and she pointed at a spot near the body. ‘Indeed, after having wiped the blade clean on the coverlet.’

It was true that there were signs that something broad and bloody had been wiped on the cloth by the side of the body.

‘That contradicts the idea of an emotional killer, Fidelma,’ Eadulf muttered. ‘That shows the action of someone in control and thinking. Yet why the number of wounds?’

Fidelma did not reply immediately. She cast another look over the body. Then she moved forward and carefully lifted aside part of the abbot’s robe.

‘There seems to be a piece of paper under the robe. .’ she began, as she bent down and extracted a small piece of folded paper smudged with blood. She unfolded it, glanced at it and handed it to Eadulf. He took it, read it and then chuckled.

‘Well, well, perhaps Abbot Ultán was not the unfeeling and arrogant person we hear about after all. This seems to be a piece of poetry. Love poetry at that.’

He scanned it once more, reading aloud.

Cold the nights I cannot sleep,

Thinking of my love, my dear one,

Of the nights we spent together,

Myself and my love from Cill Ria .

‘It shows that Ultán was not without some softness if he could write such poetry,’ offered Brother Conchobhar.

Fidelma refolded the paper and placed it in her marsupium before glancing back to the body. ‘At least, we can rule out robbery for financial gain. He still wears his necklet of semi-precious stone, and his bishop’s ring of gold.’

Brother Conchobhar pointed to a small chest standing on a table to one side. It was half open.

‘It was open when I was here. The chest is full of precious baubles. Perhaps the bishop was going to dispense them as gifts.’

Fidelma glanced in the small chest for confirmation. It was certainly full of valuable stones. But she had heard the inflection in Brother Conchobhar’s voice and turned to him.

‘Do you imply another meaning?’

Brother Conchobhar shrugged indifferently. ‘I had heard that the abbot’s mission here was not merely to attend your wedding, lady, but to persuade others to support the claims of Ard Macha as primatial seat of Christendom in the five kingdoms. If argument could not do so, perhaps the abbot’s thinking was that financial tokens might help change people’s minds.’

‘And where did this story come from?’ queried Fidelma.

Brother Conchobhar hesitated and then said: ‘Abbot Augaire of Conga. I was speaking to him last night. He was telling me that such financial tokens have been distributed to the prelates of some of the northern abbeys to get their support.’

‘Tokens? The term is a bribe, old friend.’ Fidelma used the term duais do chionn chomaine , which literally meant ‘a gift in return for kindness’ but generally carried the connotation of an enticement — something for something.

‘Well, that is what he told me,’ agreed Brother Conchobhar gravely.

‘And is there anything else you noticed or heard in connection with the abbot’s death?’

Brother Conchobhar paused for a moment. ‘It is not up to me to form deductions. But if it is observations you want. . well, I can say that Abbot Ultán liked comfort.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Eadulf.

‘For one thing, he wore silk next to his skin under the rough woollen robes of his calling.’

‘Many do so who can afford it,’ Eadulf pointed out.

‘Yet I have heard it said of this Abbot Ultán, that he claimed to live according to rules of austerity, chastity and poverty of spirit. He advocated the rule of the Penitentials.’

‘You hear a lot in your apothecary, my friend,’ observed Eadulf wryly.

Brother Conchobhar was complacent.

‘I do,’ he acknowledged lightly. ‘But then I am old and find myself predisposed to listen to gossip whereas younger people rush hither and thither lest they miss a moment of time. By doing so they often find that the important things in life have passed them by altogether.’

Fidelma sighed and gave a final glance around the room. ‘I think we have seen enough. We will have to speak to the abbot’s entourage later. There is no more to be done here. The body can be taken and prepared for burial after Brehon Ninnid makes his investigation.’

Brother Conchobhar inclined his head.

Outside, Fidelma paused to say to Enda, ‘I do not want any member of the abbot’s entourage to enter the room without my personal approval.’

‘Very well, my lady.’

‘What now?’ asked Eadulf, as he followed her along the passage.

‘Now I must discuss matters with Muirchertach Nár,’ she replied. ‘I would get some rest now, Eadulf, or break your fast. I will return and tell you all that Muirchertach has to say. . that I promise.’

Muirchertach Nár, king of Connacht, had been allowed to remain in his own chambers with his wife, the lady Aíbnat. Fidelma found only Gormán, another of her brother’s bodyguard, standing as a solitary sentinel outside. She greeted him with a smile. He was the son of her friend Delia who dwelt in the town below the fortress of Cashel. Gormán was a tall, handsome youth with dark hair. He raised his left hand in a half salute.

‘I was told to expect you, lady,’ he said, his voice low but expressing relief. ‘I am sorry that this day has been marred for you. My mother was looking forward to it.’

It was only recently that Gormán had felt able to acknowledge Delia as his mother for she had once been a bé taide , a prostitute, who had been shunned by many even after Fidelma had successfully represented her in a claim for compensation when she had been raped. More recently, suspicion had fallen on Delia of being responsible for the abduction of Fidelma’s own child, Alchú, a charge that Fidelma had rapidly dispensed with.

‘Thank you. It is to be hoped that matters will not long be delayed.’ She inclined her head towards the guest chamber. ‘Is all quiet here?’

Gormán looked troubled. ‘I have had no real bother, lady. In truth, I am glad that you have come. It is hard to act as jailer to a king. Even so, Muirchertach Nár has been a courteous prisoner as befits his nobility. However, his wife, the lady Aíbnat, more than makes up for his courtesy by her discourtesy. She has anger and resentment enough for both.’