‘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.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fidelma had imagined that she had only just gone to sleep but here was Muirgen, her attendant, shaking her arm and urging her to wake immediately.
She blinked and yawned.
‘Surely it is not time yet?’ she protested. Then she realised that the room was still shrouded in darkness with only the flickering light of the lamp that Muirgen held at shoulder level to relieve the gloom. Suddenly, she was wide awake and registering the worried tone in Muirgen’s voice. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘It is urgent, lady. Your brother wishes you to attend him at once.’
Fidelma sat up and stared at the woman.
This was to be her wedding day and she had been expecting to lie in until the first light of dawn before rising to toilet and break her fast and begin the rituals for the ceremony. She blinked again. The chill in the room coupled with the darkness told her that it was long before dawn.
‘There is something wrong,’ she said sharply, rising from her bed. ‘What has happened?’
Muirgen shook her head quickly. ‘I know not, lady, but something stirs. Your brother, the king, has sent to ask for your immediate attendance in his private chamber. I have no idea what this portends.’
‘Is Eadulf all right?’ was her next anxious question.
‘He is still sound asleep in his chamber, lady,’ was the reassuring response.
Fidelma was not one to waste time on further questions that could not be answered. She went to the side table and washed her face and hands in the bowl of cold water which already stood in a corner of the room. It was not the custom to bathe in the morning but to wash one’s face and hands, aided by sléic, a soap, and dry them with a linen cloth. Fidelma hurried through this process, known as indlut, while Muirgen sorted out, a dress and then came to hand her a cíor and the small scáth-derc or mirror. Fidelma did not usually use much in the way of make-up or personal ornaments, so her toilet was quickly accomplished.
Because of the cold of the early morning, Muirgen had wisely chosen an undergarment of linen over which was drawn a woollen dress of sober colouring. As Fidelma slipped into her shoes, Muirgen handed her a small bratt which fitted round the shoulders and came down to just below the waistline.