A Prayer for the Damned (2 page)

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.

‘There is nothing to be done, brother,’ muttered Brother Marcán as he watched his fellow trying to arrange the girl and her clothing with some dignity.
‘Deus vult.’

‘God wills it?’ muttered Brother Augaire. ‘You are wrong, brother. He cannot have willed this. He was but preoccupied a moment, for
He surely would not have allowed this.’

Brother Marcán stirred uneasily. ‘She leapt from the headland, brother. It was no accident. She meant to take her life. That is a sin in the eyes of God. Is it not written that human life is sacrosanct because of its relationship to the divine and to take one’s own life must bring on oneself the severest punishment in the next world? The girl must go to an unquiet grave.’

Brother Augaire was gazing at the white face of the girl. The melancholy set of the features appeared to have softened and relaxed in death. Their expression was almost peaceful. He felt a spasm of anguished guilt.

‘I saw her look – the despair crying out from her suffering. I should have spoken but I let her pass by in her fearful isolation. God forgive me, but I could have helped her.’

Brother Marcán compressed his lips for a moment and then pointed to where the girl’s
cíorbholg
, the ‘comb-bag’ in which women kept small toilet articles and other personal items, still hung from the girdle at her waist.

‘There might be something there that will identify her. She is certainly richly attired.’

Brother Augaire undid the strap of the bag and brought out the contents. Most items were predictable – a mirror, a comb … a piece of vellum. This was unusual. He unfolded it with curiosity.

‘What is it?’ demanded Brother Marcán. ‘Some means to identify her?’

Brother Augaire read the words on the vellum and then shook his head. ‘They appear to be some lines of poetry …’ he said.

He handed the scrap to Brother Marcán who held out his hand for it. The young man glanced at it and murmured aloud:

‘
A cry of pain
And the heart within was rent in two,
Without him never beats again.’

He paused and sniffed. ‘It seems some sentimental verse.’

‘The girl is dead,’ Brother Augaire rebuked him.

‘And by her own determination. The rule of our faith aside, suicide
is a heinous crime under our native law: the ultimate form of
fingal –
of kin-slaying – which can neither be forgiven nor forgotten in a society such as ours that owes its very existence to the bond of kinship.’

‘But surely it must be understood?’ cried Brother Augaire.

‘What is there to understand?’

‘That this young girl, with her life before her, must have been robbed of all hope.’ He glanced down again at the pale features of the girl. ‘Who could force such a one as you to take your own life? Was it a man who caused you such sorrow?’ he asked softly. ‘What man could have such power over you?’

Beside him Brother Marcán coughed nervously. ‘Whoever such a man might be, the teaching of the Faith is clear. The girl’s soul is lost unless there is forgiveness beyond the grave. Come, brother, let us raise our voices in a prayer for the damned.
Canticum graduum de profundis clamavi ad te Domine …
Out of the depths have I cried to thee, O Lord …’

‘H
ave a care, Ségdae of Imleach, lest you be faced with death and eternal damnation!’

As he spoke, Abbot Ultán smote the table in front of him with a balled fist.

There was an audible gasp from those seated on the opposite side of the dark oak boards. Only the man to whom the words were addressed seemed unconcerned. Ségdae, the tall, silver-haired abbot and bishop of Imleach, sat relaxed in his chair with a smile on his face.

There were six men and two women seated at the table in the sanctum of the abbot of Imleach. On one side was Abbot Ségdae with his steward and two of the venerable scholars of the abbey. Facing them was Ultán, abbot of Cill Ria and bishop of the Uí Thuirtrí, who sat with his scribe and two female members of his abbey.

Now, in the flickering candlelight which lit the gloomy chamber, even Abbot Ultán’s companions began to look concerned at the intemperance of his language.

There was but a moment’s pause after Abbot Ultán’s outburst before Abbot Ségdae’s steward, the
rechtaire
of the abbey of Imleach, Brother Madagan, leaned forward from his chair at the abbot’s side with an angry scowl on his face.

‘Do you dare to use threats, Ultán of the Uí Thuirtrí? Do you know to whom you speak? You speak to the Comarb, the successor of the Blessed Ailbe, chief bishop of the Faith in this kingdom of Muman. Imleach has never recognised the claims of Ard Macha. Indeed, is it not accepted that the Blessed Ailbe brought the Word of Christ to
this place even before Patrick was engaged on his mission to the northern kingdoms? So have a care with your bombast and threats lest your words rebound on your own head.’

The animosity in Brother Madagan’s voice was controlled, the words coldly spoken but none the less threatening for that.

Abbot Ségdae reached forward and laid a restraining hand on his steward’s arm. His soft blue eyes remained fixed upon Bishop Ultán’s flushed, wrathful features and he let forth a sigh.

‘Aequo animo
, Brother Madagan,’ he admonished his steward, urging him to calmness.
‘Aequo animo
. I am sure that Abbot Ultán did not mean to imply a physical threat to me. That would be unthinkable in one who has been granted the hospitality of this house.’ Was there a slight emphasis, a gentle rebuke in that sentence? “The abbot was but giving voice to his conviction of the righteousness of his cause. Yet perhaps he was a little over-zealous in his choice of words?’

Abbot Ségdae paused, clearly waiting for the response.

There was a silence broken only by the crackle of the dry logs burning in the hearth at the far end of the chamber and by the winter wind moaning round the grey stones of the abbey walls. Even though it was late afternoon, it could have been midnight for it was
dubhluacran
, the darkest part of the year. Within a few days it would be the phase of the moon anciently called ‘the period of rest’,
mi faoide
, which started in contrary fashion with the feast of Imbolc, when the ewes began to come into lamb. It was a long, anxious time in the country.

That very noon Abbot Ultán and his three followers had arrived at the abbey and announced that he was a special emissary from Ségéne, abbot and bishop of Ard Macha, the Cormarb or heir to the Blessed Patrick. Ségéne was regarded by many as the senior churchman in the northern kingdom of Ulaidh. Having been granted hospitality, Abbot Ultán and his companions had presented themselves in Abbot Seégdae’s sanctum to deliver their message.

The proposal put forward by Abbot Ultán was simple. Abbot Ségdae, as the most senior churchman in Muman, was to recognise Ségéne of Ard Macha as
archiepiscopus
, chief bishop of all the kingdoms of Éireann. To support the claim, Abbot Ultán pointed out that the Blessed Patrick the Briton had received the
pallium
from the
bishop of Rome, who was regarded as the chief bishop of the Faith. Patrick had then proceeded to convert the people of Éireann. He had made Ard Macha his primary seat and it was therefore argued that the bishops of that place should hold religious governance over all the five kingdoms and their sub-kingdoms.

Abbot Ségdae had listened in polite silence while the northern cleric had put forward his argument, which was delivered in such blunt terms as almost to constitute a demand. When the envoy had sat back, Abbot Ségdae had pointed out, politely but with firmness, that churchmen and scholars from the other kingdoms of Éireann would argue that Patrick the Briton, blessed as he was, was not the first who had preached the New Faith in the land. Many others had come before him and one of these had converted Ailbe, son of Olcnais of Araid Cliach in the north-west of Muman, who had established his seat at Imleach. It was the great abbey in which they were presently gathered that was regarded by all the people of Muman as the chief centre of their faith, and when, in recent times, the abbots and bishops of Ard Macha had begun to assert their claims, they were immediately challenged by Imleach and most of the other churches in each of the five kingdoms of Éireann.

It had been at that point that Abbot Ultán, a vain man of middle age, quite handsome in a dark, saturnine way, had pounded the table with his fist, clearly unused to anyone challenging his authority.

Following Abbot Ségdae’s gentle rebuke, there was silence round the table. All eyes were upon the arrogant envoy of Ard Macha.

Abbot Ultán flushed as he regarded the open hostility on the face of Brother Madagan and the others who sat across the table on either side of his host. Beside him, his scribe, Brother Drón, a thin, elderly man, with sharp features and birdlike movements, bent quickly forward and whispered in his ear,
‘Aurea mediocritas.’
He was urging the abbot to employ moderation: the ‘golden mean’. Attack was no way to win an argument when faced with such opposition.

Abbot Ultán finally shrugged and tried to force a smile.

‘The words were spoken in the zealousness of my cause and intended no threat, physical or otherwise, to you, my dear brother in Christ, or to anyone here,’ he said unctuously. But there was no disguising the falseness of his tone. ‘I would simply ask for a moment
more in order to clarify my argument, for I fear that I must have presented it badly.’