Free A Prayer for the Damned by Peter Tremayne Page A

a
dálaigh
, an advocate of our law courts, is known in all the five kingdoms.’
    Fidelma frowned and glanced quickly at Eadulf.
    ‘A reputation that is inseparably linked to that of Eadulf, without whom many a riddle would have remained unsolved,’ she added quickly.
    ‘What … ?’ Colgú seemed puzzled for the moment before he realised his implied offence. ‘Of course, of course. It is a shame that none of your Saxon kinsmen will be attending, although I hear some compatriots of yours – exiled religious – seek to settle in this kingdom and will be present. I understand that Cerball, the bard, has spoken to you so that he might compose a
forsundud
, a praise-poem, about your own ancestry. A wedding is not seemly unless the genealogy of both parties can be recited before the company.’
    Eadulf did not reply. He could not boast that he knew more than three or so generations of his family. That was nothing compared to the Eóghanacht who boasted fifty-nine generations between Colgú and Eibhear Fionn son of Golamh. In spite of Brother Conchobhar’s assurances, an hereditary
gerefa
or magistrate of his people was hardly the equal to an Eóghanacht princess. Not for the first time did Eadulf experience a feeling of insecurity. He was very much a stranger in a strange land.
    Colgú seemed to sense the air of tension that caused both Fidelma and Eadulf to fall quiet.
    ‘How is little Alchú?’ he asked, changing the subject.
    ‘Your nephew is well,’ answered Fidelma brightly. ‘Muirgen, our nurse, has been a godsend. I have no fears of leaving the child with her and her husband Nessán when my duty as a lawyer bids me spend time away.’
    ‘He is growing apace,’ commented Colgú. ‘You have a fine son there, Eadulf.’
    ‘A fine son, indeed,’ Eadulf agreed quietly.
    ‘So all is ready for tomorrow?’ pressed Fidelma’s brother in a determined fashion.
    ‘As far as we are concerned,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘I think you will forgive us for some trepidation,’ she added. ‘There is, as Eadulf has pointed out, such an illustrious audience for the ceremony. It makes us both very nervous.’
    Colgú felt that she was making an excuse for Eadulf’s reticence. He wondered if there was something wrong between them. How could he approach it? Could he ask Eadulf to leave and question his sister directly? While he was hesitating, Fidelma stood up and put her goblet on a side tablet.
    ‘Brother, forgive us,’ she said. ‘But the hour grows late and we promised Abbot Laisran that we would speak to him before we prepare for tomorrow.’
    ‘Of course.’ Colgú sighed reluctantly. ‘Meanwhile, let us hope Brehon Baithen has persuaded Abbot Ultán to see some sense about his protest.’
    The meeting with Abbot Laisran was a genuine arrangement. Laisran was a distant cousin, an Eóghanacht, who was abbot of the great teaching monastery at Durrow – Darú, the abbey on the oak plain. It was he who had persuaded Fidelma, after she had qualified as an advocate at the law school of Brehon Morann, to enter the religious life at St Brigid’s mixed house at Cill Dara. From the time she was a young girl, Fidelma had been advised and guided by the elderly abbot. Her father, Fáilbe Flann, who had been king of Muman, had died in the year of her birth and Laisran had taken his place.
    The abbot was awaiting them in his chamber, seated before the fire and sipping at a goblet of mulled wine. It was a position which Fidelma always associated with him. Laisran rose awkwardly as they entered in answer to his invitation. He was a short, rotund, red-faced man. His face proclaimed a permanent state of jollity, for he had been born with a rare gift of humour and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it. When he smiled, it was no faint-hearted parting of the lips but an expression that welled from the depths of his being, bright and all-encouraging. And when he laughed it was as though the whole