The Subtle Serpent sf-4

by Peter Tremayne

  The chant died away and Abbess Draigen moved majestically from her position and came to stand before the altar.

  ‘My children, I come before you to ask your forgiveness, for I have been guilty of a grievous fault. And allowing someone young and inexperienced to act wrongly on my advice.’

  The opening words caused a sudden silence to descend; so silent that even the rasping winter breath of some of the congregation could be heard.

  ‘Moreover, I am guilty of a terrible injury to one of this community.’

  The congregation began to understand now and were casting ashamed glances towards Berrach and at Fidelma. Berrach stood leaning on her staff, eyes downcast. Sister Brónach stood with head held high as if she was the one accepting the apology. Fidelma, on the other side of Berrach, also kept her head erect, her eyes fastened to those of the abbess.

  ‘Things have happened in this abbey which are the cause of alarm among our community; alarm and fear. This morning, as you will know, our rechtaire, Sister Síomha, was cruelly slain. Acting in partial knowledge, I accused one of this community. In impetuous enthusiasm to punish the person I deemed to be the culprit, I forgot the teachings of Our Lord, for is it not said in the book of John — “he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her”? I was with sin and I cast a stone. For my unjust actions, I crave forgiveness and will do a daily penance for a year from this day. That penance may be prescribed by you, my sisters, meeting in this congregation.’

  She turned to look at Sister Lerben. The young novice stood with head held high and defiant. Fidelma glanced at her and was troubled by the depth of suppressed rage on her features. There would be problems with Sister Lerben before long, she thought.

  ‘Furthermore, I advised our young Sister Lerben erroneously and, having appointed her as my new rechtaire, asked her to go forth and act on my advice. For this I accept fullresponsibility. Lerben had not sufficient experience to know that I was in error. I apologise on her behalf.’

  Before the astonished eyes of the gathered sisters, Sister Lerben suddenly made her way noisily from the chapel, like a petulant child.

  Abbess Draigen stared somewhat sadly after her. There was a silence before she turned her attention to Sister Berrach.

  ‘Sister Berrach, before God and this congregation, I ask your forgiveness. It was fear and abomination of the dreadful death suffered by Sister Síomha and by the unnamed soul found in our well which caused me to lapse and cry “witch” at you and incite this congregation to do harm to you. Mine is the guilt and to you I turn asking for absolution.’

  All eyes now turned on to Sister Berrach.

  She shuffled forward a pace. There was a tense silence as she stood, as if hesitating in giving a decision. Fidelma saw that the abbess’s facial muscles were twitching as if she were trying to control her emotions. Fidelma wondered whether Berrach was going to reject Abbess Draigen’s apology. Then the girl spoke.

  ‘Mother abbess, you have quoted the words of the Gospel of John. John said that we deceive ourselves if we claim that we are all innocent of sin. The acceptance of our sins and confession is the first step to salvation. I forgive you your sin … yet I cannot absolve you from it. Only the Ever Living God can do that.’

  Abbess Draigen looked as if she had been slapped in the face. It was clearly not the form of words that she had been expecting. And a murmur of surprise went up among the congregation. They had suddenly realised that Sister Berrach was no longer stuttering but speaking in a cold, clear and well-articulated tone.

  The girl, using her staff as a fulcrum, pulled herself round and slowly lurched and swayed down the aisle to let herself out of the door.

  There was a silence until the doors thudded shut behind her.

  ‘It is truly said, only God can absolve our transgressions. We can only forgive.’

  Heads were turned as Sister Brónach took a pace forward, her tone was without rancour.

  ‘Amen!’ added Fidelma loudly when she saw the community stood hesitant as to their response.

  There was a slow murmur of approval and Abbess Draigen bowed her head in acceptance of the verdict of the congregation and returned to her place.

  The chanter rose and began to intone:

  Maria de tribu luda,

  summi mater Domini,

  opportunam dedit curam

  aegrotanti homini …

  ‘Mary of the tribe of Judah, mother of the mighty Lord, has provided a timely cure for sick humanity.’

  Fidelma swiftly genuflected to the altar, turned and made her way rapidly out of the chapel after Sister Berrach.

  A timely cure for sick humanity? Fidelma pursed her lips cynically. There seemed no cure for the sickness which was permeating this abbey. She was not even certain what that sickness was except that hatred was at the heart of it. There was something here which she could not understand. This was no simple problem; no simple riddle of who killed who and why.

  Two women had been found, each stabbed through the heart, each decapitated and each placed with crucifixes in the right hand and aspen wands written in Ogham in the left. How were these two women connected? Perhaps if she knew that she would be able to discover a motive. So far, the sum total of her investigation had revealed hardly anything of value in pointing a path towards a motive let alone a culprit.All she had been able to gather was that the community of The Salmon of the Three Wells was governed by a woman of powerful personality and whose attitudes were, at least, questionable.

  The matins had given way to the singing of the lauds, the psalms which marked the first of the daylight hours of the Church. The voices of the sisters were raised in a curious vehemence:

  ‘Let the high praises of God be in their mouth, and a two-edged sword in their hand.

  ‘To execute vengeance upon the heaven, and punishments upon the people;

  ‘To bind their kings with chains, and their nobles with fetters of iron;

  ‘To execute upon them the judgment written: this honour have all his saints. Praise ye the Lord.’

  Fidelma shivered slightly.

  Did these words take on some new meaning which she was not privy to?’

  Yet the lauds always consisted of Psalms 148 to 150, always sung together as one long psalm each morning at the first hour of daylight.

  The words did not change. Why did she see in them some vague threat?

  She knew that there was someone who was taking her for a fool. But she was unsure of what she was being made a fool over.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sister Fidelma was about to continue crossing the courtyard in the wake of Sister Berrach when a hollow cough halted her.

  ‘I am told that you requested my presence here this morning, sister.’

  She turned to find herself gazing into the blue, humorous eyes of Brother Febal. He still wore the traditional black eyelid colouring which highlighted them. He was wrapped from head to foot in a thick woollen, fur-edged cloak which also provided a cowled hood, and he carried a stout cambutta or walking stick in his hand.

  She stared at him blankly for a moment. So much had happened since she had talked with Adnár yesterday afternoon. She tried to recollect her thoughts.

  ‘I did so,’ she acknowledged hastily. She glanced round and then indicated the path down to the inlet and the abbey’s landing stage. She realised that Brother Febal would not be welcome at the abbey if he were seen by Abbess Draigen or any of her acolytes. ‘Come, walk with me a while and let us talk.’

  Brother Febal examined her curiously with his large blue eyes and then he nodded and fell in step beside her. The sun was now climbing into the sky but it was still fairly chill.

  ‘What do you wish to talk about?’ he began, almost in a bantering tone.

  ‘There are some questions I wish to ask you, Febal,’ Fidelma replied.

  ‘Adsum! he answered pretentiously in Latin. ‘Then I am here!’

  ‘Have you heard that there has been another death here at the
abbey?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘News travels fast in this land, Sister Fidelma. It has been spoken of at Dun Boí.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I think the news was brought by a servant,’ he replied vaguely and then seemed to change the subject. ‘I have been asked to pass on a message to you, sister. It is from Adnár and the lord Olcán. They ask you to attend this evening’s feasting at Dun Boí. My lord Torcán adds his voice especially to this request. He wishes to compensate you for the fright that you received in the forest yesterday. Adnár has offered to send his personal boatman to bring you from the abbey and return you safely again.’

  He grinned and reached into the small leather bag which was strung at his belt.

  ‘Oh yes, and see here!’ He brought out a small purse. ‘On Torcán’s behalf I am also the bearer of the fine which you imposed on him. I understand that it is to be given for the good works of the abbey.’

  Fidelma took the purse of coins and, without bothering to check it, absently placed it in her own crumena.

  ‘I will see that this is delivered.’ She was considering the invitation. It did so happen that she wanted to know more about the attitudes in Dún Boí to the situation in the abbey and she finally accepted the proposal. ‘You may tell Adnár that I shall await his boatman.’

  They walked on for a short time before Fidelma asked: ‘Did you know Sister Síomha?’

  ‘Who did not?’ The answer was blandly given.

  ‘You will have to explain that.’

  ‘As rechtaire of this abbey, Sister Síomha was second only to the abbess. She often came to my lord’s fortress.’

  ‘For what purpose?’ asked Fidelma, somewhat surprised.

  ‘You must know that Adnár was not on the best terms with Abbess Draigen. It was better, therefore, that Sister Síomha conducted any business between the abbey and my lord.’

  ‘And was there much business to be conducted?’ pressed Fidelma.

  ‘As chieftain along this coast, Adnár controlled much of the trading and the abbey required goods and trade which had to be reported to Adnár. Therefore, as rechtaire of the abbey, Sister Síomha visited Adnár very often.’

  ‘And was Sister Síomha on friendly terms with Adnár?’

  ‘Very friendly.’

  Fidelma glanced quickly at Brother Febal but his face was inexpressive. She was not sure whether she had heard a slight inflection in his voice.

  ‘How well did you know Sister Síomha?’ she was prompted to ask.

  ‘I knew her but not well.’ The reply came back firmly.

  They had reached the abbey quay and Fidelma led the way down some steps along the shoreline of the inlet. She walked towards a section of rocks by the water which seemed to provide a good, sheltered place to sit away from the northerly wind. The sun was now high in the blue, cloudless sky, and its rays were mild but warming, provided one kept out of the shadows. Only the plaintive cry of the swooping gulls together with the soft whispering of the water along the pebbled shore cut through the still air.

  Fidelma seated herself on a comfortable rock on which the sun was casting its warmth and waited while Brother Febal also seated himself.

  ‘When you were talking about Abbess Draigen yesterday, you failed to mention that you were married to her.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘I think it does. In view of what you had to say about her, I think it matters a great deal. I understand from Adnár that it was you who suggested that she might have been responsiblefor the death of the corpse in the well. Whether true or not, it indicates that there is no love lost between you.’

  Febal flushed and glanced down at his sandals as if suddenly feeling the necessity to examine them in detail.

  ‘It is obvious that you do not like your former wife,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Perhaps it would help if you could tell me how you first came to know her?’

  Febal kept his eyes on his feet for a few moments, frowning, as if trying to make up his mind.

  ‘Very well. I was seventeen when I entered this very abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells. Oh, it was a mixed house at that time, a conhospitae. The abbess at this time was Abbess Marga. She was an enlightened lady and it was she who first encouraged scribes to come to copy the books in the library in order to sell or exchange them with other libraries.’

  ‘Why did you join the abbey? Were you interested in books?’

  Febal shook his head.

  ‘I am no scribe. My father was a fisherman. He died drowning. I did not want to end my life like that and so I entered the religious life as soon as I reached the age of choice.’

  ‘So you were here before Draigen arrived?’

  ‘Oh yes. She entered the abbey when she was fifteen. She was already at the age of choice. Her parents had both died so she entered the religious life. At least that is the story as I remember it. Draigen was educated and trained by the members of the community.’

  ‘And what was your position here when she joined the abbey?’

  Febal’s chest rose a moment in pride.

  ‘I was already the doirseór, the doorkeeper of the abbey.’

  ‘A position of trust,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘How did Draigen become your wife?’

  ‘As you know, in some houses the brethren are encouraged to marry to raise their children in the service of the Christ. Iadmit that I was attracted by Draigen. She was a handsome and intelligent woman. I do not know what she saw in me, except that I was already in a position of responsibility here.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that you believe that she only married you because you were the doirseór of the abbey?’

  ‘It is a reason that I find as good as any.’

  ‘How did things change? How did Draigen work her way into her present position? And how did you separate from her?’

  Febal’s face was a momentary mask of bitterness.

  ‘She did it as subtly as a serpent,’ he said. Fidelma almost smiled at the echo of the phrase which Draigen herself had used only a few hours before. ‘The old abbess, Abbess Marga, was a kindly, trusting soul. The years passed and Draigen grew up. Oh, I am not denying that Draigen was clever. She responded to the education she received so that from a poor farmer’s daughter she became fluent in Greek, Latin, Hebrew as well as our own tongue, and could read and write easily in all of those languages. She knew her scripture and could quote chapter and verse. She had a clever mind but that concealed an evil temper. I have cause to know.’

  Febal paused to make ugly grimace.

  ‘But you had married her,’ prompted Fidelma.

  Febal glanced at her.

  ‘I did so. But that was not to say that I liked her ambition. She overstepped the bounds of womanhood.’

  Fidelma’s mouth turned down.

  ‘What are those bounds?’ she asked with asperity.

  ‘You should know, being of the Christian Faith,’ Febal sounded complacent.

  ‘Then remind me.’ A more sensitive person might have noticed the irritability in her tone.

  ‘Did the Blessed Paul not write, “Let your women keep silence in the churches; for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience … And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbandsat home, for it is a shame for a woman to speak in the church.” It is his epistle to Corinthians.’

  ‘So you believe that women have no place in the abbeys and church?’ Fidelma had heard the argument many times before.

  ‘Women should obey men in the Church,’ declared Brother Febal. ‘Paul, also in Corinthians says, “the lord of the woman is the man … God created man not for the woman, but created the woman for the man.” And, in his epistle to Timothy, he says, “women must not teach, nor usurp authority over man, but should be silent.” What is more clear than that?’

  ‘These are the words of one man, Paul of Tarsus,’ observed Fidelma dryly. ‘They are not the words of the Christ. Yet I would go further and observe that these words d
id not stop you from joining a conhospitae and further from marrying a religieuse.’

  Febal’s eyes burned with resentment.

  ‘I was younger then. But it seems to me, in your answer, that you deny the right of Paul, divinely inspired by the Christ, to teach these things?’

  ‘Paul was not Christ,’ replied Fidelma quietly. ‘In this land, men and women are coequal before God.’

  Brother Febal’s tone was sneering.

  ‘The Blessed John Chrysostom once observed that woman taught once and ruined all by her teachings. The Faith has changed that. Augustine of Hippo points out that women are not made in the image of God, whereas man is fully and completely the image of God.’

  Fidelma looked sadly at Brother Febal whose face was full of vehemence. She had met with many who advanced such arguments. It was true that there were religious houses in the five kingdoms where the advocates of the new Faith were even challenging the ancient laws, even as Draigen had done.

  ‘Do I take it, Brother Febal,’ she said sharply, ‘that you do not accept the Law of the Fénechus?’

  Febal’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Only when it contracts the articles of Faith.’

  ‘And on what article do you base yourself?’

  ‘On the Penitentials of Finian of Clonard and of Cuimmine Fata of Clonfert.’

  Fidelma smiled wryly. It was strange that a few hours before Abbess Draigen had been quoting these same Penitentials, a series of ecclesiastical laws for the rule of religious communities, in support of her case. Curious how both estranged wife and husband seemed to agree. At least Fidelma knew the thoughts that motivated some of Brother Febal’s attitudes.

  ‘Then as a man who believed that woman had no place in the church, you must have resented being in a conhospitae, a mixed house? I still wonder that you joined such an institution. Furthermore, I wonder that you even contemplated marriage to Draigen.’

  ‘I have said that I was young when I joined the abbey. I had not read the scriptures in their entirety. I had not come across the works of Finian nor of Cuimmine. And at first Draigen was a quiet girl, willing and ready to obey. I did not know that she was merely biding her time, learning what she could as she awaited her opportunity.’