Peter Tremayne
A Prayer for the Damned
PROLOGUE
The young girl was beautiful. The adjective was not one that Brother Augaire freely bestowed on any object, let alone a person of the opposite sex. However, he could think of no other word to describe the quality that awakened such sensuous delight in his mind. It aroused no carnal desire; Brother Augaire’s piety would not acknowledge that. It was a beauty that inspired admiration for beauty’s sake and excited only homage.
It had been some time before he had become aware of her presence. He had been sitting in the sunshine on some rocks by the shore of the bay, fully absorbed in his fishing. This was always a good spot to catch bass as it came in to spawn in the estuaries and inshore waters, and he had already brought in a couple of the fish with his rod and line. Then something had made him glance up to his side and he had seen her, appearing as if out of thin air, standing silently on the shell sand of the short beach area and staring out across the calm waters of the bay.
It was the profile that had caught his attention first. While she wore a bratt, a flowing cloak of dyed purple wool edged with badger’s fur, the hood was thrown back off her shoulders, allowing her golden tresses to shimmer and sparkle in the morning sunlight. He could see the intelligent forehead, the unobtrusive nose, the fullness of her lips, the firm jaw and the slenderness of her neck. Yet no words could express the way those features blended together into a form that surpassed even the great sculptures of Greece and Rome. Brother Augaire was in a position to judge, for he had been on pilgrimage to both those distant lands.
She did not appear to have noticed him and so he took his time with his observation. His eyes fell to her slim figure, a pleasing form even though shrouded somewhat by the cloak. He could make out that she was wearing a tight-fitting purple tunic and a flowing skirt of blue, fashioned from either sída, the expensive silk bought from foreign merchants, or sróll, a shimmering satin. A patterned criss or girdle merely accentuated the girl’s slim waist and the shape of her hips. The sun was glancing on a necklace of red jasper that she wore at her neck and, for a moment, she lifted a pale hand to it, showing a bracelet of beaten gold. Brother Augaire even noticed that her shoes were of decorated untanned hide.
Here, indeed, was a girl from a noble family; from a wealthy family.
Brother Augaire glanced round, half expecting to see some companion or a bodyguard nearby. But there was not even a horse waiting patiently along the shore. It was as if she had suddenly materialised there.
He wondered whether to call out a greeting but the girl was looking intently out to sea with an expression of sorrowful yearning that forbade any intrusion into her inner world. Brother Augaire shifted uncomfortably on his rock. He suddenly felt like a trespasser. He knew an impulse to remove himself from a place where he was not wanted.
Then the girl turned and stared momentarily at him; or rather stared through him, because he felt that those deep, dark melancholy eyes did not really see him. But in that moment, Brother Augaire also saw the depth of the suffering on the girl’s features. It was an expression that was beyond grief. Its terrible beauty was hardened into a pale mask as if the girl had come to some fearful moment in her life when her very life’s blood had frozen and never afterwards resumed its regular flow. Even the tears that had obviously been shed had long dried, but the fearsome abyss in her soul, the dark, cavernous well from which they had sprung, was still there. He could see it in those dark haunted eyes.
Brother Augaire dropped his gaze for a moment. When he looked up again, the girl was walking carefully and deliberately away from the shore and ascending the rocky path to the rising headland beyond. Behind the boulders on which Brother Augaire was sitting, a finger of high rocks stretched out into the sea for over a kilometre. It was called Rinn Carna, the Point of Cairns, because the sharp standing rocks round the small peninsula looked like the mounds which marked the resting places of the departed.
Watching her ascending the path, Brother Augaire felt like an idiot because he had not greeted her. He licked his tongue over his dried lips and called out: ‘Take care on the footpath there, my daughter. The path is steep and the rocks are sharp.’
The girl did not bother to answer him or had not heard. She passed on in her self-absorbed melancholia.
Just then, Brother Augaire felt a sharp tug on his line and was soon playing a large bass that claimed his immediate attention. When he had finally brought it to shore, to place in his basket with his other catches, he heard the crunch of footsteps on shingle and glanced up. A younger member of his community was coming down to the seashore.
‘Dominus tecum, Brother Augaire,’ said the newcomer. ‘How goes the fishing?’
‘Another three fish on my line, Deo volente, and we will have supper for all the community,’ replied Brother Augaire piously. He paused and glanced round towards Rinn Carna with a frown. ‘Tell me, Brother Marcán, did you see any strangers on your walk here?’
‘Strangers?’ The young man shook his head.
‘No sign of a tethered horse, or other conveyance? No one who appeared to be waiting for someone?’
Brother Marcán smiled and shook his head again. ‘Why would there be? Apart from our small community, there is no settlement or rath anywhere near here.’
Brother Augaire frowned slightly. ‘You did not see a young girl passing by the community? I was sure that she must have come here on horseback and with a bodyguard.’
‘A young girl? I have seen no sign of anyone near here this morning. What do you mean?’
‘It is just that. .’
He stopped when he became aware that Brother Marcán was staring over his shoulders, looking upwards, with an expression of utter surprise.
Brother Augaire turned his head.
High up, yet not so far away that he was unable to pick out details, he saw the figure of the girl that he had seen on the shore. She was standing on the edge of the cliff, high above the crashing waves. Her pale arms were held up as if in supplication.
‘A strange place to choose for prayer. .’ Brother Marcán began.
But Brother Augaire was already throwing aside his fishing rod and springing to his feet. The shout of ‘Stop!’ died on his lips as the girl seemed to throw herself outwards, as if taking a dive, her hands still held out before her as if in some entreaty.
‘Deus misereatur. .’ Brother Marcán began to mumble but his fellow religieux was already scrambling across the boulders along the shore.
‘Follow me closely!’ he cried over his shoulder. ‘There is a small path under the rock face here and we may get to the spot where she fell. The tide is not at its highest as yet.’
Gasping, slipping, stumbling and tearing their robes, the two men darted and scrambled through the rocks and pools that lined the area at the foot of the jagged walls of rock that formed Rinn Carna. They moved quickly, thanks to Brother Augaire’s fisherman’s knowledge of that stretch of shoreline. Even so, it took a while to come to where the body of the girl lay floating, face down, rocking gently on the whispering wavelets.
The body was bloodied and smashed. There was no need for Brother Augaire to check for a pulse in the slender broken neck, though he did so automatically. She had plunged directly into the rocks, and glancing upwards, with dreadful realisation, he knew that she had not slipped, not fallen by accident, nor even attempted to dive into the water. She had cast herself with deliberation on to the jagged rocks below.
Gently, he raised the fragile body in his arms, and motioned to Brother Marcán to precede him. Slowly and carefully, they made their way back along the bottom of the cliff face towards the shell-sand beach where he laid her down.