The Subtle Serpent

by Peter Tremayne

  In bending forward to examine the wooden stick, however, her eyes caught sight of something clutched in the other hand of the corpse. A small, worn leather thong was wound around the right wrist and travelled into the clenched fist. Sister Brónach had steeled herself again to her task, kneeling beside the body and taking up the small white hands. She could not prise apart the fingers; the stiffening of death had already locked the hand permanently into a fist. Nevertheless, the fingers were splayed just wide enough for her to see that the leather thong was attached to a small metal crucifix and this was what the lifeless right hand was clutching so tightly.

  Sister Brónach let out a low groan and glanced across her shoulder to where Sister Síomha was bending, with a fixed expression, to see what had been discovered.

  ‘What can it mean, sister?’ Sister Síomha’s voice was taut, almost harsh.

  Sister Brónach’s face was grave. She was now fully in control of her features again.

  She breathed deeply before replying in a measured tone as she stared down at the poorly wrought crucifix of burnished copper. Obviously no person of rank and wealth would have such a cheap object as this.

  ‘It means that we should now summon Abbess Draigen, good sister. Whoever this poor headless girl was, I believe that she was one of our own. She was a sister of the Faith.’

  Far off, in the tiny tower overlooking their community, they could hear the striking of the gong to mark the passing of another time period. The clouds were suddenly thickening and spreading across the sky. Cold flakes of snow were drifting across the mountains again.

  Chapter Two

  The Foracha, the coastal barc of Ross of Ross Ailithir, was making a swift passage parallel to the southern coast of the Irish kingdom of Muman. Her sails were full with an icy, cold, easterly wind almost laying the vessel over and whistling among the taut ropes of the rigging, playing on the tightly stretched cordage like harp strings. The day appeared fine, apart from the blustery sea winds swooping down from the distant coastline. A host of sea birds were circling the little ship, beating their wings against the squalls to remain in position, the gulls crying with their curious plaintive wail. Here and there, some hardy cormorants speared into the waves, emerging with their prey, oblivious to the jealous cries of the gulls and storm petrels. And among the sea birds were the species after which the Foracha received her name — the guillemots, with their dark brown upper parts and pure white underparts, moving in tight formations to inspect the vessel before wheeling back to their densely-packed colonies on the precipitous cliff ledges.

  Ross, the captain of the vessel, stood by the steersman at the tiller with feet spaced apart, balancing to the roll as the wind thrust the waves to rush against the ship, heeling her to starboard so that the little barc would roll slowly, slowly until it seemed that she was heading for disaster. But then her bow would rise over the wave and plunge downwards, setting her back to the port side. In spite of the rolling motion of the ship, Ross stood without the necessity to clutch any support, forty years of sea-going was enough for him to anticipate every pitch and roll with an automatic adjustment of his weight without moving from the spot. On land, Ross was moody and irritable, but at sea he was in his element and fully alive to all its moods. He became a flesh and blood extension to his swift sailing barc and his deep green eyes, reflecting the changing humours of the sea, watched his half-a-dozen crewmen with a cautious approval as they went about their tasks.

  His bright eyes never missed a thing, either on sea or in the sky above it. He had already perceived that some of the birds wheeling overhead were rarely to be seen in winter and had ascribed their presence to the mild autumnal weather that had only recently given way to the winter coldness.

  Ross was a short, stocky man with greying, close-cropped hair, and his skin was tanned by the sea winds almost to the colour of nut. He was a man with a dour humour and always ready with a loud bellow when he was displeased.

  A tall sailor, caressing the tiller in his gnarled hands, suddenly narrowed his eyes and glanced across to where Ross was standing.

  ‘Captain …’ he began.

  ‘I see her, Odar,’ returned Ross before he had even finished. ‘I’ve been watching her this last half hour.’

  Odar, the steersman, swallowed as he regarded his captain with surprise. The object of their conversation was an oceangoing ship with tall masts which was now a mile or so distant. It had, as Ross had indicated, been visible for some time to the smaller barc. But it was only in these last few minutes that the steersman had become aware that something was not right about the ship. It was under full sail and was riding very high out of the water. Not much ballast in her, Odar, the steersman had thought. But the main curiosity was that its course was erratic. In fact, twice it had changed course in such an unconventional and capricious manner that the steersman had believed that it was going to capsize. He had also noticed that the topsail of the ship seemed badly fixed and was swinging in all manner of directions. It was then that he had decided to bring the matter to the attention of his captain.

  Ross, however, was making no idle boast when he said that he had been watching the ship for half-an-hour. Almost from the first time that he had noticed the other ship he was aware that it was either sailed by poor seamen or there was something wrong on board. The sails filled and deflated as each unpredictable wind caught them with no one on board seeming to correct the ship’s heading.

  ‘The way she is heading, captain,’ muttered Odar, ‘she’ll be piling up on the rocks soon.’

  Ross did not reply for he had already made the same deduction. He knew that a mile or so ahead were some semi-submerged rocks, their black granite rising among streams of sea foam which poured down the sides as the seas broke over them with a noise of thunder. Moreover, Ross knew that around the granite bastions was a line of reefs under water over which a small draught vessel such as his barc could easily pass but that the sea-going ship to his port had no chance.

  Ross gave a low sigh.

  ‘Stand by to turn towards her, Odar,’ he grunted to the steersman and then he yelled to his crew. ‘Ready to loose the main sail!’

  With deft precision, the Foracha swung from its course to a new tack with the wind full at her back so that it fairly flew across the waves towards the large ship. It cut the distance with great rapidity until the barc was but a cable’s distance away and then Ross moved forward to the rail, cupping his hands to his mouth.

  ‘Hóigh!’ he yelled. ‘Hóigh!’

  There was no responding cry from the now towering, dark vessel.

  Suddenly, without warning, the fickle wind changed direction. The tall, dark bow of the sea-going ship was turned directly towards them, the sails filled and it was bearing down on them like an infuriated sea monster.

  Ross yelled to the steersman: ‘Hard to starboard!’

  It was all he could do as he helplessly watched the larger vessel bearing remorselessly down.

  With agonising slowness the bows of the Foracha dragged unwillingly over and the great ship went scraping along the portside of the vessel, banging against the little ship so that she heeled and wallowed and was left bobbing in the wake of the passing vessel.

  Ross stood shaking angrily as he gazed at the stem of the vessel. The wind had suddenly died away and the larger ship’s sails had deflated as it slid slowly to a halt.

  ‘May the captain of that vessel never see the cuckoo nor the corncrake again! May the sea-cat get him! May he die roaring! May he fester in his grave!’

  The curses poured out of Ross as he stood enraged, shaking a fist at the ship.

  ‘A death without a priest to him in a town without clergy …’

  ‘Captain!’ The voice that interrupted him in full flow was feminine, quiet but authoritative. ‘I think God has heard enough curses for the moment and knows you to be upset. What is the cause of this profanity?’

  Ross wheeled round. He had forgotten all about his passenger who had, until this mom
ent, been resting below in the Foracha’s main cabin.

  A tall religieuse now stood on the stern deck by Odar, the steersman, regarding him with a slight frown of disapproval. She was a young woman, tall but with a well-proportioned figure, a fact not concealed even by the sombreness of her dress nor even the beaver-fur edged woollen cloak that almost enshrouded her. Rebellious strands of red hair streaked from beneath her headdress, whipping in the sea-breeze. Her pale-skinned features were attractive and her eyes were bright but it was difficult to discern whether they were blue or green, so changeable with emotion were they.

  Ross gestured defensively towards the other ship.

  ‘I regret that I have offended you, Sister Fidelma,’ he muttered. ‘But that ship nearly sank us.’

  Ross knew that his passenger was not simply a religieuse but was sister to Colgú, king of Muman. She was, as he knew from past experience, a dálaigh, an advocate of the law courts of the five kingdoms of Éireann, whose degree was that of anruth only one grade below the highest qualification which the universities and ecclesiastical colleges could bestow.

  ‘You have not offended me, Ross,’ replied Fidelma with a grim little smile. ‘Though your cursing might have offended God. I find cursing is often a waste of energy when something more positive might be done.’

  Ross nodded reluctantly. He always felt uncomfortable with women. That was why he had chosen a life at sea. He had tried marriage once but that had ended with his wife deserting him and the necessity of having to care for a daughter. Even his daughter, who was now about Sister Fidelma’s own age, had not made him feel any easier dealing with the opposite sex. Moreover, he felt particularly uncomfortable with this young woman whose quiet, authoritative demeanour made him feel sometimes like a child whose behaviour was constantly under judgment. The worst thing, he realised, was that the religieuse was right. Cursing the unknown captain was of no help to anyone.

  ‘What is the cause of this?’ pressed Fidelma.

  Ross swiftly explained, gesturing to where the great sea-going vessel was now becalmed in this brief period of contrary winds.

  Fidelma examined the ship with curiosity.

  ‘There does not seem to be any sign of movement aboard her, Ross,’ she pointed out. ‘Did I hear you hail her?’

  ‘I did so,’ replied Ross, ‘but received no answer.’

  In fact, Ross himself had only just come to the conclusion that anyone on board the ship could not have failed to see his barc or return his hail. He turned to Odar. ‘See if you can take us alongside,’ he grunted.

  The steersman nodded and slowly brought the little barc’s bows around, praying that the winds would continue to moderate until he was in position. Odar was a taciturn man whose skill was a by-word along the coasts of Muman. It was a short while before they bumped hulls against the taller vessel and Ross’s men grabbed for the ropes that were hanging down her sides.

  Sister Fidelma leant against the far rail of the Foracha, out of the way, gazing up at the taller ship with dispassionate interest.

  ‘A Gaulish merchant ship, by the cut of her,’ she called to Ross. ‘Isn’t the tops’l set dangerously?’

  Ross cast her a glance of reluctant approval. He had ceased to be surprised by the knowledge that the young advocate displayed. This was the second time that he had acted as her transport and he was now used to the fact that she possessed knowledge beyond her years.

  ‘She’s from Gaul, right enough,’ he agreed. ‘The heavy timbers and rigging are peculiar to the ports of Morbihan. And you are right; that tops’l isn’t properly secured at all.’

  He glanced up anxiously at the sky.

  ‘Forgive me, sister. We must get aboard and see what is amiss before the wind comes up again.’

  Fidelma made a gesture of acquiescence with her hand.

  Ross told Odar to leave the helm to another crewman and accompany him with a couple of his men. They swung easily over the side and scaled the ropes, disappearing up on deck. Fidelma stayed on the deck of the barc waiting. She could hear their voices calling up on the deck of the bigger vessel. Then she saw Ross’s crewmen speeding aloft to lower the sails of the ship obviously in case the wind sprung up again. It was not long before Ross appeared at the side of the ship and swung himself over, dropping cat-like to the deck of the Foracha. Fidelma saw that there was a bewildered expression on his face.

  ‘What is it, Ross?’ she demanded. ‘Is there some sickness aboard?’

  Ross took a step towards her. As well as his expression of perplexity, did she detect a lurking fear in his eyes?

  ‘Sister, would you mind coming up on the Gaulish ship? I need you to examine it.’

  Fidelma frowned slightly.

  ‘I am no seaman, Ross. Why would I need to examine it? Is there illness on board?’ she repeated.

  ‘No, sister,’ Ross hesitated a moment. He seemed very uneasy. ‘In fact … there is no one on board.’

  Fidelma blinked, the only expression of her surprise. Silently, she followed Ross to the side of the ship.

  ‘Let me go up first, sister, and then I will be able to haul you up on this line.’

  He indicated a rope in which he tied a loop, as he was speaking.

  ‘Just put your foot in the loop and hold on when I say.’

  He turned and scrambled up the line to the deck of the merchant ship. Fidelma was hauled up the short distance without mishap. Indeed, there was no one on the deck of the ship apart from Ross and his crewmen who had now secured the sails. One of Ross’s men was stationed at the tiller to keep the ship under control. Fidelma looked about curiously at the deserted but orderly and well scrubbed decks.

  ‘Are you sure there is no one on board?’ she asked with faint incredulity in her voice.

  Ross shook his head.

  ‘My men have looked everywhere, sister. What is the explanation of this mystery?’

  ‘I do not have sufficient information to make even a guess, my friend,’ replied Fidelma, continuing to survey the clean, tidy appearance of the ship. Even the ropes seemed neatly coiled. ‘Is there nothing out of place? No sign of an enforced abandonment of the ship?’

  Again Ross shook his head.

  ‘There is a small boat still secure at the amidships,’ he indicated. ‘From the first moment I saw her, I saw that the ship was riding high out of the water so there is no sign of any danger of her sinking. She is not holed, so far as I can make out. No, there is no indication that she was abandoned from fear of sinking. And all the sails were set straight apart from the tops’l. So what happened to the crew?’

  ‘What about that tops’l?’ Fidelma asked. ‘It was badly secured and could have been ripped off in a heavy wind.’

  ‘But no cause to abandon ship,’ Ross replied.

  Fidelma glanced up at the mast where the topsail had now been stowed. She frowned and called Odar who had taken in the sails.

  ‘What is that cloth up there, there on the rigging twenty feet above us?’ she asked.

  Odar glanced at Ross quickly before replying.

  ‘I do not know, sister. Do you want me to fetch it?’

  It was Ross who instructed him.

  ‘Up you go, Odar.’

  The man leapt up the rigging with practised ease and was down in a moment holding out a strip of torn material.

  ‘A nail in the mast had caught it, sister,’ he said.

  Fidelma saw that it was simply a piece of linen. A torn strip of material that could have come from a shirt. What interested her was that part of it was stained with blood and it was a comparatively fresh stain for it was not fully dried brown but still retained a distinctness of colour.

  Fidelma looked thoughtfully upwards for a moment, walking to the base of the rigging and peering towards the furled topsail. Then, as she went to turn away, her eye caught something else. The smeared dried blood imprint of what was clearly a palm on the railing. She stared down at it thoughtfully, noting that whoever had made that imprint must have been hol
ding the rail from the seaward side of it. She sighed quietly and placed the torn piece of linen in her marsupium, the large purse which she always carried on her waist belt.

  ‘Take me to the captain’s cabin,’ instructed Fidelma, seeing there was nothing to be learnt above decks.

  Ross turned aft to the main cabin underneath the raised stern deck. In fact, there were two cabins there. Both were neatly arranged. The bunks were tidy and in one of the cabins, plates and cups were set in place on the table, slightly jumbled. Ross, seeing her glance, explained that they would be jumbled by the erratic motion of the vessel as it swung without a helmsman before the wind.

  ‘It is a wonder that it has not already crashed on the rocks before now,’ he added. ‘God knows how long it has been blown across the seas without a hand to guide it. And it is under full sail, so a hefty wind could have easily capsized it with no one to shorten or reef the sails.’

  Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully for a moment.

  ‘It is almost as if the crew has simply vanished,’ Ross added. ‘As if they were spirited away …’

  Fidelma arched a cynical eyebrow.

  ‘Such things do not happen in the real world, Ross. There is a logical explanation for all things. Show me the rest of the ship.’

  Ross led the way from the cabin.

  Below decks, the soft, pungent salt tang of the sea air gave place to a more oppressive odour which evolved from years of men living and eating together in a confined space, for the space between decks was so narrow that Fidelma had to bend to prevent her head knocking against the beams. The stale stench of sweat, the bitter sweet smell of urine, not dispersed by even salt water scrubbing, permeated the area where the crew had been confined while not performing their tasks above deck. The only thing to be said about it was that it was warmer down here than up on the cold wind-swept decks.