Peter Tremayne
Penance of the Damned
Si enim nocui aut dignum morte aliquid feci non recuso mori si vero nihil est eorum quae hii accusant me nemo potest me illis donare …
For if I be an offender, or have committed any thing worthy of death, I refuse not to die; but if there be none of these things whereof these accuse me, no man may deliver me unto them …
CHAPTER ONE
The waters were dark and tranquil, and curiously warm. The slight flow against his body was soporific. The young warrior floated lazily along in the caressing touch of the waters; surrendering his body to their will.
Gentle hands touched his outstretched fingers, and he saw the shadowy form of his mother, gliding along beside him. She was smiling at him, and he felt comforted. On the other side was the lithe, attractive figure of the girl for whom he had left Cashel so that he could come in search of her. Come in search? He puzzled over the phrase. Come – to where? Where was he? No matter. The soft current was pulling him on. He had no wish to ask any more questions.
And … something stirred within some deep recess of his mind. It was disturbing. It told him he should be doing something – something urgent – and not relaxing here. But where was he – and what was it that he should be doing? There was some errand he had to perform – some warning to be given … But what warning?
He turned to the smiling face of the girl, swimming alongside. Her expression was alluring, enticing him to come closer and closer and … suddenly her face dissolved and changed into the decomposing, bloodstained features of someone he had known, long ago. Dimly, he recalled that she had been murdered, and he had stood accused. Only Fidelma of Cashel had believed in his innocence. He was not guilty of her murder.
That was it! Murder! He needed to warn Cashel – warn Fidelma of Cashel. But warn them of what?
Even as he brought the thought into semi-consciousness, he became aware of distant sounds, of harsh male voices assailing his ears. He tried to shut them out and yet they grew ever louder, more intense, and close at hand. He also felt a sharp pricking at the base of his neck. Suddenly, his temples began to throb. He groaned, feeling his mouth dry and uncomfortable.
Next, he became aware that his face was pressed against the hard wooden boards of a floor. One arm was outstretched before him. The shouting had not subsided but the jumble of coarse sounds was separating into the form of words.
‘Murderer! Foul murderer! You have killed him!’
Gorman blinked again and emerged fully from the comforting safety of the drifting waters of his mind. A man in religious robes stood above him shouting down at him. Beyond this man there lay a bundle of clothes – no, it was a body; a body covered in blood.
Gorman tried to raise himself up a little. It was then that his fingers touched the sticky hilt of the dagger, lying close at hand. As he moved, the pain at the base of his neck increased. It was like having someone standing behind him, pressing on his neck with a sword point.
Gorman groaned again and tried to gather his reason. Where was he? He could recall nothing as the man in the religious robes standing over him was continuing to shout.
‘Murderer!’
Gorman licked his dry lips with a tongue just as dry.
‘Where am I?’ he managed to mumble.
‘Where are you?’ The voice of the religieux was angry and uncompromising. ‘You, warrior, are on your way to Hell!’
Colgu, King of Muman, halted abruptly in mid-stride. He had been pacing up and down in his private chamber, his forehead creased with agitation, his face set in a scowl at odds with his usual pleasant expression. The knocking on the door caused him to pause and square his shoulders. The knocking continued, but before he could respond, the door opened.
His sister, Fidelma of Cashel, entered and closed the door behind her.
‘You sent for me?’ she asked, her green-blue eyes registering her brother’s anxiety in spite of his efforts to disguise it. ‘I see that you have received bad news from Dun Eochair Mhaigh.’
Colgu was startled. He brushed away a lock of fiery-red hair – the same colour as his sibling’s own locks, and said angrily, ‘Has the messenger been speaking to you? I forbade him to say a word about it to anyone. I’ll have him punished-’
‘Hush, brother,’ Fidelma returned calmly. ‘He told me nothing, but I observed much. I know that a messenger, under the banner of the Prince of the Ui Fidgente, arrived here and demanded to speak to you immediately. After you had seen him, you then sent for me. Now I find you scowling as if there is a weight of trouble on your mind. What other interpretation should I place on these events except that this messenger brought you bad news, which came from the Prince of the Ui Fidgente who is, according to reports, currently at his fortress of Dun Eochair Mhaigh.’
Colgu hesitated a moment and then sank into a nearby chair. It always sounded so simple when his sister explained things. He waved her to a seat opposite.
‘It is very bad news indeed,’ he admitted gloomily. He turned to a small side table, pouring himself a generous drink from a clay jug, and Fidelma noted with disapproval that it was corma, a distilled spirit. It was unusual for her brother to drink intoxicating liquor before the sun had reached its zenith. Colgu motioned towards the jug in silent question, and she shook her head.
‘Bad news is better quickly revealed,’ she prompted as he took another swallow of the strong liquid.
His troubled blue eyes met his sister’s inquisitive gaze, and he sighed, ‘Segdae has been murdered.’
Fidelma stared at him blankly, as if she heard his words but did not comprehend their meaning.
Segdae was Abbot of Imleach – comarb, or successor, of the Blessed Ailbe – Chief Bishop of All Muman and chief ecclesiastical adviser to the King, her brother. Fidelma and Colgu seemed to have known him all their lives. He had been appointed to the position of Abbot on the death of the previous Abbot, Conaing, exactly ten years before. He had advised Cathal, their cousin, when he was King, and now he advised Colgu. Abbot Segdae had become a pillar of the stability of the kingdom as well as the church.
Her mind flooded with questions, dispelling any immediate thoughts of grief.
‘Murdered, you say? Who did this – where and when? And why does a messenger from the Ui Fidgente come with this news?’
‘Segdae had been on a journey to discuss Church matters with some Ui Fidgente clergy. Since Prince Donennach and I agreed a peace in an attempt to end the disastrous conflicts between us, the abbot felt he should take the opportunity to construct some relationship with these clerics at a council at the fortress of Donennach.’
The Ui Fidgente had been long-time rivals of the Eoghanacht of Cashel, claiming their family had equal right to the kingship of Muman. Assassination plots and open warfare had marked their relationship, especially during recent years. Only six months or so previously, Fidelma had been instrumental in averting another Ui Fidgente plot and brokering peace between King Colgu and the Prince of the Ui Fidgente.
‘So Segdae was killed in Ui Fidgente territory?’
‘Murdered in the very fortress of Donennach,’ confirmed her brother.
‘What happened? How was he killed?’ pressed Fidelma.
‘The messenger was not well equipped with facts. He simply reported that the murder happened several days ago, and that Prince Donennach despatched him forthwith to inform us. Abbot Segdae was attacked and slain in the chamber that had been provided for him in the prince’s fortress. The culprit was immediately identified and caught. He was taken before the prince and his Chief Brehon. The facts were heard and there was, apparently, no question of the man’s guilt.’