The Subtle Serpent

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Bury her well. The Mórrígu has awakened!’

  Her face whitened. She sat up stiffly and found the abbess’s eye quizzically regarding her.

  ‘You recognise what that is?’ Abbess Draigen asked softly.

  Fidelma nodded slowly: ‘It is a fé.’

  A fé, or rod of aspen, usually with an Ogham inscription, was the measurement by which corpses and graves were calibrated. The fé was the tool of a mortician and was regarded with utmost horror so that no one, on any consideration, would take it in their hand or touch it, except, of course, the person whose business it was to measure corpses and graves. A fé had been the symbol of death and ill-luck since the days of the old gods. Still, the worst imprecation that could be uttered at any person was ‘may the fé be soon measuring you’.

  There was a silence as Fidelma sat for a long time staring down at the aspen wood.

  It was only when she heard a soft but exasperated sigh that she stirred herself and raised her eyes to meet those of the Abbess Draigen.

  It was clear that the abbess knew well what the rod symbolised for her face was troubled.

  ‘You see, now, Fidelma of Kildare, why I could not allow the local bó-aire to assume his magisterial powers on this matter? You see now why I sent a message to Abbot Brocc to dispatch a dálaigh of the Brehon courts who was answerable to none save the king of Cashel?’

  Fidelma returned her gaze with serious eyes.

  ‘I understand, mother abbess,’ she said quitely. ‘There is much evil here. Much evil.’

  It took Fidelma some time to fall asleep. Snow was falling heavily now but it was not the chill air permeating her cell which caused her to have difficulty in sleeping. Neither was it the conundrum of the headless body that stirred her thoughts and kept her awake as she tried to quell the anxiety that they produced. Twice she took the small Missal from her side table and turned it over and over in her hands, peering at it as if it would produce an answer to her questions.

  What had happened to Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham?

  Twelve months ago or more she had parted from Eadulf on the wooden quay near the Bridge of Probi in Rome and had handed him this little Mass Book as a gift. There was her inscription on its first page.

  Twice she and Eadulf had been thrown together to investigate deaths of members of their respective churches and found that, while opposite in character, they found mutual attraction and complementary talents in their pursuit of solutions to the problems they had been set. Then the time came for them to go their different ways. She had to return to her homeland and he had been appointed scriptor and advisor to Theodore, of Tarsus, the newly appointed archbishop of Canterbury, Rome’s chief apostle to the Saxon kingdoms. Theodore, being a Greek, and only a recent convert to the Church of Rome, required someone to instruct him in the ways of his new spiritual charges. Even though Fidelma had thought, at the time, that she would never see Eadulf again, she had found her thoughts gravitating more and more to memories of the Saxon monk. She had been experiencing feelings of isolation and had only recently come to admit to herself that she missed the companionship of Eadulf.

  Now she was faced with a mystery that was more aggravating to her mind than any of the riddles she had been called to solve before.

  Why was this small Missal, her parting gift to Eadulf in Rome, on a deserted Gaulish merchant ship, an entire world away, off the coast of south-west Ireland? Had Eadulf been a passenger on that vessel? If so, where was he? If he had not, who had possessed the book? And why would Eadulf have parted company with her gift?

  Eventually, despite the throbbing questions in her head, sleep caught her unawares.

  Chapter Five

  Fidelma was awakened by Sister Brónach while it was still dark although there was that tell-tale texture to the sky which foretold the imminent arrival of dawn. A bowl of warm water was placed for her toilet and a candle was left burning so that she could accomplish this task in comfort. It was intensely cold at this early hour. She had barely finished dressing when a slow chiming bell began to sound. Fidelma recognised it as the traditional ‘death-bell’ which custom decreed should be rung to mark the passing of a Christian soul. A moment later Sister Brónach returned, head bowed, eyes floor-ward.

  ‘It is time for the observance, sister,’ she whispered.

  Fidelma acknowledged and followed her out of the guests’ hostel, to the duirthech where the entire community appeared to have gathered. To her surprise, the snow of the previous evening had not lain around the abbey buildings, though a glance showed that a thin layer of snow covered the surrounding woods and hills beyond. There was an eerie white glow to the early morning.

  Inside the wooden chapel building, it was so cold that someone had lit a fire which blazed in a brazier standing at the back. The damp and cold struck up from the stone flags of the floor of the duirthech. The Abbess Draigen was kneeling behind the altar on which a large, and rather magnificent, tall gold cross stood, almost dominating the chapel. Before the altar, in front of the congregation, stood the fuat, the funeral bier, on which the body of the unknown girl had been laid.

  Fidelma took her place on the end bench next to Sister Brónach. She was thankful for the warmth from the nearby brazier. She looked round, appreciatively taking in the opulence of the furnishings of the wooden chapel. As well as the richness of the altar cross, the walls were hung with numerous icons with gold fixtures conspicuous everywhere. She presumed that the obsequies had been observed since last night. The corpse was now wrapped in a racholl, a white linen shroud. At each corner of the bier a candle fluttered in the slight morning breeze.

  The Abbess Draigen stood up and slowly began to clap her hands in the traditional lámh-comairt which signified the lamentation for the dead. Then the sisters began to start a soft wailing cry — the caoine, the sorrowing. It was a chilling sound in the half light of early morning and caused Fidelma’s neck to tingle although she had heard it so many times before. The lament to the dead was a custom which went back to the time before the new Faith had displaced that of the old gods and goddesses.

  After ten minutes the caoine stopped.

  Abbess Draigen stepped forward. At this point in the ritual it was customary for the amra, or elegy, to be given.

  It was then that there came a strange noise, seeming to well up from beneath the stone floor of the chapel. It was not particularly loud. It was an odd scraping sound, a deep, hollow scuffling sound as when two wooden boats bump against one another, bobbing on the waves of the sea. The members of the community peered fearfully at one another.

  Abbess Draigen raised a slim hand for silence.

  ‘Sisters, you forget yourselves,’ she admonished.

  Then she bent her head to continue the service.

  ‘Sisters, we are mourning one who is unknown to us and therefore no elegy can mark her passing. A unknown soul has sped to God’s holy embrace. Yet she is known to God and that is enough. That the hand that cut short this life is also known to God may also be accepted. We lament the passing of this soul but rejoice in the knowledge that it has passed to God’s good keeping.’

  Six of the sisters of the community moved forward, at a signal from the abbess, and lifted the bier to their shoulders and then, led by the abbess, they moved out of the chapel followed by the rest of the community, forming a double line in the wake of the bier.

  Fidelma held back to follow at the rear of this column and, as she did so, she saw that another of the religieuses was also holding back for the same purpose. She noticed this as Sister Brónach seemed to remain in her place for the specific purpose of walking with the other anchoress. At first, Fidelma thought the woman was extremely short in height but then she realised that the anchoress clutched a stick and moved in a curious waddling posture. It was clear that her legs were deformed although her upper body was well shaped. With sadness, Fidelma saw that she was young, with a broad, perhaps rather plain face, and watery blue eyes. She swung from side to side, heaving herse
lf forward with the aid of her blackthorn stick, keeping well up with the procession. Fidelma felt a compassion for the misfortune of the young sister and wondered what mischance had caused her debility.

  The sky had already lightened and it was now bright enough for the procession to wind its way through the buildings towards the forest that grew around the abbey. One of the sisters, with a soft soprano voice, began to intone in Latin, the chorus being taken up by the other sisters:

  Cantemus in omni die

  concinentes uarie,

  conclamantes Deo dignum

  hymnum sanctae Mariae

  Fidelma whispered the translation to herself as they proceeded onwards: ‘Let us sing each day, chanting together in varied harmonies, declaiming to God a worthy hymn for holy Mary’.

  They paused in a little clearing where, it seemed, a burial place for the community had been prepared, judging by the memorial stones and crosses that stood in abundance. A light dusting of flaky snow covered the ground. The abbess had conducted the bier to an isolated corner of the cemetery. Here the sisters, carrying the bier expertly, as if they had much practice, took the body from it and lowered it into the grave which had apparently been dug the day before in readiness.

  Fidelma was prepared for what came next. It was an ancient custom. The wooden bier on which the body had been carried was smashed into little pieces by two sisters wielding hammers. According to ancient superstition, which the Faith had not yet destroyed, the bier must be broken for, if this was not done, the evil spirits might use it to carry off the corpse in their night excursions. If the bier was destroyed the evil spirits had to let the corpse rest.

  An extremely young sister of pleasing appearance, approached carrying a huge bunch of green bushy branches. Fidelma recognised her as Sister Lerben, the young novice who had conducted her to the abbess’ chamber on the previous evening. The others formed a line before her at the graveside and as they passed the youthful-looking Sister Lerben, each took a small branch before pausing at the open grave and dropping it in. Fidelma and the disabled religieuse, helped by Sister Brónach, were standing last in line. With a gentle smile, Fidelma signalled Sister Brónach and the disabled sister to precede her before taking one of the remaining branches from Sister Lerben to deposit it in the grave and returning to her place. The birch branch was called ses sofais which not only gave the body a covering before the earth was shovelled in but was traditionally thought to protect the corpse from any malignant force.

  Abbess Draigen moved forward to deposit the last piece of birch in the open grave. As two sisters began to fill the grave with earth, the abbess began to intone the words of the Biait, the Irish name for Psalm 118, the word ‘blessed’ being taken from the first line which was considered the most powerful invocation for efficacy of the suffering soul. Yet Abbess Draigen did not recite the Biait in its entirety but was selective in her rendering.

  ‘I call upon the Lord in my distress; the Lord answered me, and set me free.

  ‘The Lord is on my side; I will not fear; what can man do to me?

  ‘The Lord is on my side and helps me against my enemies,

  ‘It is better to find refuge with the Lord than to trust men;

  ‘It is better to find sanctuary with the Lord than to trust princes.’

  Fidelma frowned at the vehemence of the abbess’s enunciation as if the words had some deeper significance for her.

  Then the task was over. The poor headless corpse had been interred and the appropriate prayers and blessings had been said in accordance with the rituals of the Faith.

  The sun was now well up and Fidelma could feel the faint warmth of its early morning, winter rays on her face. The woods had burst into life now, the tuneful sounds of birdsong and the soft whispering of the leaves and branches, shaking off their snow covering in the morning breeze, changed the solemnity of the proceedings to a joyous serenity.

  She was aware that the sisters of the community were wending their way slowly back towards the abbey buildings. Fidelma saw the disabled religieuse, behind the others, propelling her way along the path with her stick, accompanied by Sister Brónach. A hollow cough distracted her attention and she turned to find the abbess approaching and with her was a young sister who had stood at the right hand of the abbess throughout the proceedings.

  ‘Good morning, sister,’ the abbess greeted.

  Fidelma returned the salutation.

  ‘What was the strange noise in the chapel?’ she asked immediately. ‘The community seem quite disturbed by it.’

  Abbess Draigen grimaced disdainfully.

  ‘They should know better. I have shown you our subterraneus.’

  ‘Yes, but any noise from that would not be heard in the chapel, surely? It does not extend under the duirthech.’

  ‘True enough. Yet, as I told you, there are supposed to be several caves over which the abbey was raised and we have been unable to find entrances to them apart from our store cave. Doubtless there is a cave under the chapel which probably floods and produced the sound we heard.’

  Fidelma conceded this was possible.

  ‘So you have heard this before?’

  Abbess Draigen seemed suddenly impatient.

  ‘Several times during winter months. It is an irrelevant matter.’ It was clear that she was weary of the subject. She turned slightly to her companion. ‘This is Sister Síomha, my steward, who discovered the corpse with Sister Brónach.’

  Fidelma examined the attractive features of Sister Síomha with some surprise. They were the features of a young, angelic girl, not the experienced eyes of someone who looked like a rechtaire, the steward of a community. Fidelma tried to overcome her surprise with a belated smile but she found there was no answering warmth from the young steward of the abbey.

  ‘I have duties to see to, sister, so perhaps you would be good enough to ask me your questions immediately.’ The tone was abrupt, almost testy. It was so unlike the tone Fidelma had been expecting from the sweet-looking girl that she blinked and was unable to answer for a moment.

  ‘That I cannot do,’ she replied stolidly.

  She was rewarded by seeing a disconcerted expression pass over Sister Síomha’s face.

  Fidelma turned to follow the other sisters.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sister?’ Síomha’s voice had risen slightly in a querulous tone as she took a hesitant step after her.

  Fidelma glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘I will be able to see you at noon today. You may come to the guests’ hostel to find me.’ Fidelma proceeded on her way before Sister Síomha could respond.

  A moment or so later the abbess, who had hurried after her, fell in step. She was slightly breathless.

  ‘I do not understand, sister,’ she said, her brows were drawn together. ‘I thought last night that you expressed a desire to speak with my house steward.’

  ‘And so I do, mother abbess,’ Fidelma said. ‘But, as you’ll recall, I also promised to break my fast with Adnár this morning. The sun has already risen and I must find a way of crossing to his fortress.’

  Draigen looked disapproving.

  ‘I do not think your visit to Adnár is necessary. The man has no jurisdiction over this matter and God is to be thanked for that.’

  ‘Why so, mother abbess?’ queried Fidelma.

  ‘Because he is a mean, spiteful man, capable of great slanders.’

  ‘Meaning slanders directed at yourself?’

  Abbess Draigen shrugged.

  ‘I not know, nor do I care. It concerns me little what Adnár has to tittle-tattle about. But I think that he is keen to impart some gossip to you.’

  ‘Is that why he tried to race your boat to Ross’s ship when it arrived here?’

  ‘Why else? He is certainly piqued that he, as bó-aire, and therefore magistrate, has not been put in charge of this matter. He would like to have some power over this community.’

  ‘Why so?’

  Abbess Draigen pursed her lips angrily.<
br />
  ‘Because the man is vain, that is why. He loves his little brief authority.’

  Fidelma abruptly halted and examined the features of the abbess closely.

  ‘Adnár is chieftain of this territory. His fortress stands just across the inlet and therefore this abbey must pay dues to him. Yet I detect some great animosity between this abbey and Adnár.’

  Fidelma was careful not to personalise things.

  Abbess Draigen flushed.

  ‘I can have no control over your thoughts, sister, or your interpretation of what you see about you.’ She began to turn away and then paused. ‘If you have it in mind to break your fast with Adnár this morning, then it will be a long walk around the shoreline to the headland on which Adnár’s fortress is set. However, you will find a small boat tied to our quay. You may use it, if you will, for it takes ten minutes to row across the inlet from this point.’

  Fidelma was about to thank her but the abbess was already walking away.

  The abbess was right. It was a short and pleasant crossing in front of the mouth of the small river, emptying into the inlet between the headland on which the abbey had been built and the bald promontory of rock on which the circular stone fortress of Adnár stood. What was it that Ross had called it? The fortress of the cow-goddess - Dun Boí. Fidelma had to admire the foresight of the builders of the fort for the promontory it stood on commanded not only the open gateway to the sea but the entire inlet, which was several miles across. The forests had been cleared from the promontory so that the lookouts’ view across the inlet was totally unimpeded and from the wooden buildings which rose beyond its grey granite walls, the woods cut down had been put to good use in the construction of the fortress itself.