The Subtle Serpent

by Peter Tremayne

  As Fidelma rowed across the shallow bay which separated the abbey from the fortress, she heard a shout from a dark silhouette on the fortress wall. She gave a half glance over her shoulder and saw another figure running. Her coming had obviously been spotted and the news was being relayed to Adnár.

  Indeed, by the time Fidelma worked her small craft alongside the wooden jetty below the fortress, Adnár himself was standing with a couple of his warriors to welcome her ashore. He bent forward, smiling and was courtesy itself as he helped her from the boat.

  ‘Welcome, sister. The journey was not arduous?’

  Fidelma found herself returning his smile.

  ‘Not arduous at all. It is but a short distance,’ she added, pointing out the obvious.

  ‘I thought I heard a service bell tolling earlier?’ The comment was put more in the form of a question.

  ‘Indeed, you did,’ Fidelma confirmed. ‘It was the burial service for the corpse that was found.’

  Adnár looked startled.

  ‘Does that mean that you have discovered the identity of the corpse?’

  Fidelma shook her head. For an odd moment she wondered whether she had detected a note of anxiety in the chieftain’s voice.

  ‘The abbess decided that the corpse should be buried without a name. If she had delayed any longer then the matter would have become a danger to the health of the community.’

  ‘A danger?’ Adnár seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts for a while and then he realised what she meant. ‘Ah, I see. So you have come to no conclusions on the matter as yet?’

  ‘None.’

  Adnár turned and motioned with his hand up the short pathway which led from the jetty to a wooden gate in the grey walls of the fortress.

  ‘Let me show you the way, sister. I am pleased that you have come. I was not sure whether you would or not.’

  Fidelma frowned slightly.

  ‘I told you that I would break my fast with you this morning. What I say I will do, I do.’

  The tall, black-haired chieftain spread his hands apologetically as he stood aside to allow her through the gate first.

  ‘I meant no insult, sister. It is just that the Abbess Draigen has no love for me.’

  ‘That I could witness for myself yesterday,’ Fidelma replied.

  Adnár turned up a short flight of stone steps to a large wooden building made from great oak timbers. The double doors were ornately carved. She noticed that the two warriors who had been surreptitiously accompanying them now took a stand at the bottom of the steps as Adnár pushed open the doors.

  Fidelma gave a quick intake of breath at the scene which greeted her. The feasting hall of Adnár was warm, a large fire roared in a great hearth. The whole room was richly decorated and far beyond the standard which she would have expected of a simple bó-aire, a cow chieftain of no landed property. The building was mainly of oak but the walls were inset with panels of polished yew. Burnished bronze and silver shields hung around the walls between rich foreign tapestries. There were even some book satchels hung on the walls and a lectern for reading them. Animal skins, such as otter, deer and bear, were strewn across the floor. A circular table had already been set for the meal, piled with fruits and cold meats and cheeses and jugs of water and wine.

  ‘You keep a fine house, Adnár,’ Fidelma commented, gazing at the munificence of the table’s contents.

  ‘He keeps it only when he knows that special guests will grace the table, sister.’

  Fidelma turned sharply at the sound of the pleasant tenor, male voice.

  A thin-faced young man had entered the room. Fidelma found herself taking an instant dislike to the man. He was clean shaven, but the stubble grew almost blue against his thin jowls. In fact, his whole body was thin, the nose angular, the lips red but little more than a slit, and his eyes were large black orbs which never seemed to stay still for longer than a few seconds. They darted constantly, giving the man a furtive expression. Over his saffron shirt he wore a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin, belted around the middle. A red-gold necklace adorned his neck. Fidelma saw that he also carried a bejewelled dagger in a leather sheath at his side. Only men and women of high rank were allowed to carry a dagger into a feasting hall where no greater weapons were ever allowed.

  The young man was not much older than the ‘age of choice’, his maturity. Fidelma placed him at no more than eighteen years of age — perhaps nineteen at the most.

  Adnár moved forward a pace.

  ‘Sister Fidelma, allow me to present Olcán, son of Gulban the Hawk-Eye, prince and ruler of the Beara, whose territory you are now in.’

  The hand that the young man extended was damp and limp. Fidelma felt a slight shudder go through her body as they touched hands in greeting. It was like touching the flesh of a corpse.

  Fidelma knew that she was wrong to take a dislike to Olcán simply on account of his appearance. What was the line from Juvenal? Fronti nulla fides. No reliance can be placed on appearance. She, above all people, should be warned against hasty judgments made solely on what the eye perceived.

  ‘Welcome, sister. Welcome. Adnár has told me that you had arrived and why.’

  She had never met Olcán before but she knew that his father Gulban claimed descent back to the great king of Muman, Ailill Olum, who had ruled three or four centuries before and from whom her own family had descended. From this descent her own brother now sat on the throne of Cashel. Yet, she also knew that Gulban was chieftain of only one sept of the greater clan of the Loigde.

  ‘I had no idea that you resided here, Olcán,’ she said.

  The young man shook his head swiftly.

  ‘I do not. I am only a guest enjoying the hospitality of Adnár. I am here to fish and to hunt.’

  He half turned as a hollow cough sounded in the shadows.

  Behind him, a broad-shouldered, good-looking man in a religieux robe came forward. He was about forty, perhaps even in his mid-forties. Fidelma took in his pleasant features. His red gold hair, whose lights shone like burnished metal in the sun that permeated the windows, was cut in the tonsure of St John, the front half of his head shaven back to a line from ear to ear. His eyes were wide and blue, the nose slightly prominent but the lips were red and humorous. Yet his appearance was made slightly sinister by the fact that the religieux had stained his eyelids black with berry juice. It was an old custom of some religieux; a custom, so it was said, which dated back to the time of the Druids. Many Irish missionaries going abroad often adopted the style.

  Again it was Adnár who moved quickly forward to make introductions.

  ‘This is Brother Febal, sister,’ he announced. ‘He is my anam-chara and tends to the spiritual needs of my community.’

  It was the custom in the church to have a ‘soul-friend’ in whom to confide one’s spiritual problems and confusion. The custom, Fidelma knew, differed in the Church of Rome where people were encouraged to confess their sins to a priest. But in the five kingdoms the anam-chara was more a confidant and a spiritual guide than one who simply allotted punishment for spiritual transgressions. The handsome religieux smiled warmly and his handshake was firm and sure. Yet there was something Fidelma found she did not trust about the man. Something that conjured up ladies’ bedchambers and softly turning door handles. She tried to shake the thought from her mind.

  Olcán seemed to have taken over as host in Adnár’s feasting hall and waved Fidelma to take a seat near him while Adnár and Brother Febal sat opposite them at the round table. As soon as they were seated, a youthful attendant hurried forward to pour wine for them.

  ‘Is your brother, Colgú, well?’ asked Olcán. ‘How goes it with our new king?’

  ‘He was well when I last saw him at Ros Ailithir,’ replied Fidelma cautiously. ‘He returned to Cashel just before I came away.’

  ‘Ah, Ros Ailithir!’ Olcán cast her an appraising look. ‘All Muman thrilled to the news of how you solved the mystery of the murder of the Venerable Dacán there.’


  Fidelma stirred with embarrassment. She did not like her work to be considered anything out of the ordinary.

  ‘It was a puzzle to be solved. And it is my task as an advocate of the courts to probe conundrums and perceive the truth. However, you said all Muman thrilled at my solution. I doubt this could be true among your people, the Loigde? Salbach, your former chieftain, did not come well out of that situation.’

  ‘Salbach was an ambitious fool.’ Olcán pursed his lips sourly at her response. ‘My father, Gulban, had often clashed with him when attending the clan assembly. Salbach was not welcome in this land.’

  ‘Yet the people of Beara are a sept of the Loígde,’ Fidelma pointed out.

  ‘Our first allegiance is to Gulban and his allegiance is then to the chieftain who sits at Cuan Dóir. Anyway, Salbach is no longer chieftain but Bran Finn Mael Ochtraighe. Personally, I have no interest in politics. For this, my father and I are—’ he grinned, ‘are estranged. My view is that life is to be enjoyed and what better means than hunting …?’ He was about to go further but hesitated and then ended: ‘However, you did well in ridding our people of an ambitious incompetent.’

  ‘As I have said, I performed no more than my duty as an advocate.’

  ‘A task that not everyone is as adept at. You have earned a reputation of being very accomplished. Adnár tells me that it is just such a mystery as brings you hither. Is this true?’

  He passed her a plate of cold meats which she declined, preferring to help herself to a bowl of oats and nuts with fresh apples to follow.

  ‘That is so,’ Adnár intervened quickly.

  Brother Febal had appeared uninterested in the opening conversation and was devoting himself, head down, to concentrating on his meal.

  ‘I have come at the request of the Abbess Draigen,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘She asked the Abbot Brocc to send a dálaigh to her abbey.’

  ‘Ah,’ Olcán sighed deeply, apparently studying the dregs in his wine goblet as if interested by them. Then he raised his gaze to Fidelma. ‘I am told that the abbess has something of a reputation in this land. She is not regarded as, how can I say it?, “spiritually advanced”? Isn’t that so, Brother Febal?’

  Febal raised his head quickly from his plate. He hesitated and swung his blue eyes to Fidelma, staring at her for a moment, before dropping his gaze back on his plate.

  ‘It is as you say, my prince. The Abbess Draigen is said to have unnatural tendencies.’

  Fidelma leaned forward, her eyes narrowed as she concentrated on Brother Febal.

  ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to be more explicit, brother?’

  Brother Febal jerked his head up again, his expression startled, and glanced nervously to Olcán and Adnár. Then he reset his features almost woodenly.

  ‘Sua cuique sunt vitia,’ he intoned.

  ‘Indeed, we all have our own vices,’ agreed Fidelma, ‘but perhaps you will tell us what you discern are the vices of the abbess?’

  ‘I think that we all know what Brother Febal means,’ Adnár interrupted petulantly, as if annoyed at Fidelma’s lack of understanding. ‘I think that if a young female corpse were found in the abbey, and I were conducting an investigation, then I would look no further than the abbey for a suspect and, for a motive, no further than base and perverted passion.’

  Sister Fidelma sat back and regarded Adnár curiously.

  ‘And is this what you have invited me here to tell me?’

  Adnár inclined his head in a brief gesture of affirmation.

  ‘Originally, I invited you here to register my protest that the Church has sent one of its own to deal with the matter at the request of the chief suspect. I thought you had come here to help exonerate the abbess.’

  ‘And now you have changed your mind?’ Fidelma caught the careful phraseology of the bó-aire.

  Adnár cast an uncomfortable look at Olcán.

  ‘Olcán assures me that he knows of your reputation; that you have been trusted by the High King himself as well as kings and princes in other lands. I am therefore content to leave this matter in your hands, sister, knowing that you will not exonerate where blame is due.’

  Fidelma was studying the man, trying to keep her surprise to herself. That an accusation of this kind should be brought against the leader of a religious community was a matter of gravity.

  ‘Let me get this clear, Adnár,’ she said slowly. ‘You are openly claiming that the Abbess Draigen was responsible for the death of this young girl and the motive was to hide her own sexual partiality?’

  Adnár was about to reply when Olcán interrupted.

  ‘No, I do not think that Adnár is making an official charge. He is pointing out an obvious course of inquiry. It appears common knowledge in these parts that the Abbess Draigen has a predilection for attractive young religieuses and encourages them to her abbey. That is no more than common gossip. Now we have a young female corpse found at the abbey. I think Adnár is advising you that it would be well to examine whether anything amiss has happened within the abbey walls.’

  Fidelma was examining the young man while he was speaking. He appeared to speak with straightforward conviction and honesty but was intelligent enough to lead Adnár out of a dangerous path whereby he could stand answerable before the law for spreading dangerous stories about the abbess. Brother Febal did not appear to concern himself with the matter, continuing to pick at the food on the table. Olcán seemed merely anxious that she should know the full extent of the situation.

  She sighed deeply.

  ‘Very well. This conversation will not go beyond these walls,’ she agreed at last. ‘In return, I will undertake to investigate closely any information that may lead to the culprit, however unpalatable it is for anyone of position and rank.’

  Olcan sat back in relief.

  ‘That is all Adnár is concerned with, is that not so?’

  The chieftain gestured affirmatively.

  ‘I am sure that you will find many people hereabouts to support our views of the Abbess Draigen. Brother Febal speaks as a churchman. He is extremely concerned at the stories which he hears about the abbess and is jealous for the good reputation of the Faith.’

  Fidelma looked sharply at the religieux.

  ‘There are many stories?’

  ‘Several,’ agreed Brother Febal.

  ‘And have any of them been proved?’

  Brother Febal shrugged indifferently.

  ‘There are several stories,’ he repeated. ‘Valeat quatum valere potest.’

  He added the standard phrase when a person passes on information which has not been proved, meaning ‘take it for what it’s worth’.

  Fidelma sniffed suspiciously.

  ‘Very well. But, if your accusation is correct, you would have to accept that many people in the abbey are in collusion with the abbess. To take this to a logical conclusion, someone else would have known if the abbess was having an affair with the murdered girl. If the corpse was a member of the abbey community, surely someone would know and, if so, there is the collusion. If not, the girl would either have been a local, in which case why has her disappearance not been reported to you, Adnár, as bó-aire? Or, she must have been a stranger, presumably staying at the abbey. Again, the community at the abbey would have known this.’

  Brother Febal’s eyes darted quickly to Fidelma.

  ‘We see a sample of your deductive powers, sister,’ he said in a warm tone. ‘All my lords ask is that you use your talent fairly in finding the culprit. Res in cardine est.’

  Fidelma had begun to feel very irritated at what she saw was the patronising tone of the brother. She was also irked by his questionable Latin tags. To say that ‘the matter is on a door hinge’ was to imply that Fidelma would work out the truth soon enough. But he had prefaced his remark with a deliberate insult and she decided to take issue with Brother Febal’s suggestion that she would not undertake the investigation fairly.

  ‘The validity of my oath as an advoc
ate of the courts of the five kingdoms has never been questioned before,’ she replied waspishly.

  Olcán immediately reached forward and laid a consoling hand on her arm.

  ‘My dear sister, I think Brother Febal badly phrased his words. I believe that he merely wishes to express concern at this matter. Indeed, Adnár and I are very concerned. After all, the murder happened in the territory of Adnár, so you will agree that it is right for him, as magistrate, to show disquietude. Adnár’s allegiance is to my father, Gulban, whose interests I am forced to represent. Therefore, I also share his apprehension.’

  Fidelma sighed inwardly. She knew that sometimes she could give way too easily to her prickly ire.

  ‘Of course,’ she responded, forcing herself to smile briefly. ‘Yet I am merely jealous of my reputation when it comes to judgments and the law.’

  ‘We are happy to leave the matter in your capable hands,’ Olcán agreed. ‘I am sure Brother Febal regrets if his words were ill-chosen … ?’

  Brother Febal smiled ingratiatingly.

  ‘Peccavi,’ he said, placing his hand on his heart, expressing in Latin that he had sinned. Fidelma did not bother to answer him.

  Olcán glossed the awkward moment.

  ‘Now, let us to other matters. Is this your first visit to this land of Beara?’

  Fidelma confessed it was, for she had never been to the peninsula before.

  ‘It is a beautiful place, even in the throes of winter. It is a land of the primal beginnings of our people,’ enthused Olcan. ‘Did you know that this is the shore where the sons of Mil, the first of the Gaels, landed? Where Amairgen the Druid promised the three goddesses of the Dé Danaan, Banba, Fodhla and Eire, that the country would forever bear their names?’

  Fidelma was suddenly amused at the young man’s enthusiasm for his native territory.

  ‘Perhaps when I am finished here I shall be able to see something more of this land of yours,’ she replied solemnly.

  ‘Then I will be delighted to accompany you,’ offered Olcán. ‘Why, from the side of the mountain behind us, I can point out the distant island where the god of death, Donn, gathered the souls of the departed to transport them in his great black ship to the west, to the Otherworld. Adnár also has much knowledge of the local history. Isn’t that so, Adnár?’