The Subtle Serpent sf-4

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘You say that she distrusts and hates all men and yet she was married to Brother Febal.’

  ‘Febal? A marriage that lasted less than a year. I think that they deserved one another. If the truth were known he was a misogynist balanced against Draigen’s misanthropy. They both hated each other.’

  ‘You knew Febal when he was at the abbey?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Brónach’s face was grim. ‘I knew Febal well.’ For a moment or two her eyes glinted. ‘I knew Febal before Draigen came to this abbey.’

  ‘Why did they marry if they hated each other?’

  Sister Brónach shrugged.

  ‘You will have to ask them that question.’

  ‘Did the old abbess, Abbess Marga, approve of this relationship?’

  ‘This was then a mixed house at that time with several married couples rearing their children in the service of the Christ. Marga was old-fashioned in her ideas. She encouraged marriages between the members of the community. Perhaps this was the main reason why Draigen married, in order to curry favour with her. Draigen was a calculating woman.’

  ‘You disapprove of her and yet you remain in this abbey. Why?’

  Fidelma was watching Sister Brónach’s expression carefully. The religieuse blinked and there seemed a momentary expression of pain and alienation on her features.

  ‘I remain here because I need to remain here,’ she said resentfully.

  ‘But you dislike Draigen?’

  ‘She is my abbess.’

  ‘That is not an answer.’

  ‘I cannot answer in any other way.’

  ‘Then let me help you. Did you know Draigen when she was young?’

  Sister Brónach glanced furtively at Fidelma. A quick glance of assessment.

  ‘I knew her,’ she admitted cautiously.

  ‘And did your mother know her?’

  Sister Brónach breathed deeply, slowly and suddenly painfully.

  ‘So? You have heard that story? There are so many chattering mouths in this land.’

  ‘I would like to hear the story from your own lips, Sister Brónach.’

  There was a pause before she answered.

  ‘I dislike Draigen with an intensity which you would never understand,’ the doorkeeper began. Then she paused and was silent again; this time for so long that Fidelma was about to prompt her when Brónach turned troubled eyes to her. ‘Each day I spend in prayers asking the good God to ease my pain, to stop my hatred. He does not. Is that the will of God that I should retain these feelings?’

  ‘Why do you stay here?’ Fidelma pressed again.

  The woman sounded bitter.

  ‘That is like asking the ocean why it stays in the same place. There is nowhere else I can go. Perhaps this is the penance for my sins; to serve the person who took the life ofmy mother. But do not misunderstand me. I would do no harm to Draigen. I would not have her dead. I would prefer that she lived and suffered each minute of her life.’

  ‘Tell me the story.’

  ‘Draigen was fifteen years old at the time. I was in my mid-thirties. I was already a religieuse here, serving the Abbess Marga in this abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells. My mother, Suanech, was not of the Faith. She preferred to hold her allegiance to the old gods and goddesses of this land. She was a wise woman. She knew every flower and herb. She knew their names and curative values. She was at one with the forests in which she continued to dwell.’

  ‘And your father?’ interposed Fidelma.

  ‘I never knew him. I knew only my mother and her love for me.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Near the forest where my mother was dwelling was an óc-aire, a man with a small patch of land which was not enough to keep him and his wife and children. The man was Adnár Mhór, the father of Draigen.’

  ‘Also the father of Adnár who dwells in the fort across the bay?’

  ‘The same. My mother sometimes helped young Draigen. When Adnár the son had left to join the army of Gulban the Hawk-Eyed, Adnár the father began to grow ill. My mother felt sorrow for the young girl. When Adnár the father died, my mother offered to foster her. Soon after Draigen’s mother also died. Draigen went to live with my mother.’

  ‘By this time you were already serving in this abbey?’

  Brónach nodded absently.

  ‘This happened when Draigen was about fourteen, as you may have been told. A year of sorrow that was.’

  There were suddenly tears around Sister Brónach’s eyes and somehow Fidelma had the feeling that they were not tears being shed just for her mother.

  ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘Draigen is a self-willed person. She is prone to rages. One day she fell into a rage, took a knife used for skinning rabbits and stabbed my mother, Suanech.’

  Fidelma waited for a further explanation and when there was none asked for one.

  ‘Since the death of her father and mother and what she saw as her abandonment by her brother, Draigen had become very possessive. She was quick to temper and very jealous. She was jealous of me as Suanech’s blood daughter. It was, perhaps, a good thing that I visited my mother infrequently for the duties at the abbey allowed little time for such visits. I am sure that we would have clashed more often and more violently.’

  ‘But clash you did?’

  ‘Invariably; every time I went to see my mother. If my mother paid me attention, Draigen was there demanding double that attention be shown to her.’

  ‘So, at the time of Draigen’s attack on your mother …? What then?’

  ‘My mother …’ Sister Brónach hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. ‘My mother had taken into care a young baby. It was the child of, of a relative.’

  Fidelma noted the awkward pauses.

  ‘My mother thought that Draigen would help her with the child as it grew. But Draigen felt the same jealousy towards that child as she had shown towards anyone or anything that took my mother’s affections from her.’

  ‘She attacked your mother because she was paying too much attention to the baby?’ Fidelma felt a surge of cold repulsion.

  ‘She did. It was an insane attack. She was then fifteen years old. The child my mother was looking after was only three years old. The Brehon who sat in judgment on the matter decreed that Draigen was not responsible in the highest degree of homicide. He ordered that compensation be paid inthat the tiny plot of land which Draigen’s parents had owned should be sold off and the proceeds then given to Suanech’s heir. That was me, of course. And being a member of this community, the money went to the abbey. Now Draigen is abbess here, it seems ironic.’ Brónach laughed dryly. ‘It makes you wonder whether there is a god of justice, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Was the three-year-old child harmed by Draigen?’

  Sister Brónach shook her head.

  ‘It was returned … to its own mother.’

  ‘The Brehon must have placed some restraints on Draigen,’ Fidelma observed.

  ‘Yes. Draigen was ordered to enter a religious community where she would be looked after and devote her life to service of the people. That again is ironic, for she was placed in this abbey. The very abbey where I was.’

  ‘Ah!’ Fidelma interrupted. ‘I now see the reason why Adnár failed in his claim for part of the land. As it was sold to fulfil a legal fine, Adnár, as Draigen’s brother, had to forfeit his share for the kin must pay the fine of the culprit if that culprit cannot pay it all.’

  ‘Yes, that is so.’

  ‘But in law, Sister Brónach, Draigen has made reparation and atoned for this crime.’

  ‘Yes. I know that the Abbess Marga gave her complete absolution long ago. And now she has grown up. And every day since the day she slaughtered my mother, I have borne her presence as a penance for my sins.’

  Fidelma was bewildered.

  ‘I still do not understand why you have stayed here. Why not depart to some other community where your wound could heal? Or why didn’t you demand that Draigen be sent to some
other abbey?’

  Sister Brónach gave a long, low sigh.

  ‘I have given you the reason. I stay here as a penance for my sins.’

  ‘What are these sins that you are guilty of?’ asked Fidelma. ‘What would cause you to spend your life in the company of one who killed your own flesh and blood?’

  Sister Brónach hesitated again and then seemed to straighten herself up a little.

  ‘I was not there at the time to prevent Draigen’s attack on my mother. It is the sin of absence when I was needed.’

  ‘That is no cause for self-blame. There is no sin that has been committed.’

  ‘Yet I feel responsible.’

  Fidelma was sceptical. There was something false about Sister Brónach’s explanation.

  ‘There I cannot help you. Though if you have a soul-friend, perhaps …’

  ‘I have struggled for twenty years with this problem, Sister Fidelma. It cannot be solved in twenty minutes.’

  ‘You blame yourself too much, sister,’ Fidelma rebuked. ‘Also, let us try to look on things with some charity. Twenty years ago Draigen was a young girl, an immature young girl, by all that you say. What she did then, is past. The person she is now is probably not the person that she was then.’

  ‘You are charitable, sister.’

  ‘You do not agree?’

  ‘Draigen is still the same character; jealous, unremitting in her ambition and a person who holds grudges.’ The middle-aged religieuse suddenly held up a hand, palm upwards as if to quell any protest. ‘Do not mistake me, sister. I have borne this burden for twenty years and will continue to bear it. I have nowhere in this world to go. At least, when I look up on the mountainside I can see my mother’s grave and sometimes I am able to go up there and sit awhile.’

  ‘Have you never felt that you would like to take retribution on Draigen?’

  Sister Brónach genuflected as an answer.

  ‘You mean do her physical injury? Quod avertat Deus! What a thing to suggest!’

  ‘It has been known,’ Fidelma pointed out.

  ‘I cannot take life, sister. I cannot harm another human being no matter what they do to me. That was what I learnt from my mother, not from the Faith. I have already told you that I would prefer Draigen to live and suffer in her living.’

  There was a dignified expression of sincerity on Sister Brónach’s features. Fidelma could understand everything Brónach told her except the fact that she had remained in the abbey all these years in close proximity to Draigen, especially after Draigen had become abbess.

  ‘It does not seem that Draigen suffers much,’ Fidelma observed.

  ‘Maybe you are right. Perhaps she has forgotten and probably believes that I have forgotten. But one night an hour will come when she awakens in fear and remembers.’

  ‘Brother Febal has not forgotten,’ Fidelma pointed out.

  Brónach reddened slightly.

  ‘Febal? What has he said?’

  ‘Very little. Does anyone else know of the story?’

  ‘Only myself … and Febal. Though Febal is selective with his memories.’

  ‘Surely Draigen’s brother, Adnár, knows of the story?’

  ‘He learned it when he made his claim for the land and found he had forfeited it.’

  ‘Are you telling me that no one else here knows of Draigen’s past?’

  ‘No one.’

  It was only then that Fidelma realised the one thing she was overlooking. If Lerben was Draigen’s daughter then surely Febal was Lerben’s father? Yet he had accused his former wife and his own daughter of having a sexual relationship! What kind of man was Febal?

  ‘Does Febal know that Lerben is his daughter?’ was Fidelma’s next question.

  Sister Brónach looked surprised.

  ‘Of course. At least, I think so.’

  Fidelma was quiet for a while.

  ‘You said that your mother followed the old pagan faith of this land. Do you know much of the old faith?’

  Sister Brónach seemed puzzled for a moment at Fidelma’s change of subject.

  ‘I am my mother’s daughter. She taught the old ways.’

  ‘So you know of the old gods and goddesses, the symbol of the trees, and the meaning of Ogham?’

  ‘I know a little. I know enough to recognise Ogham but I lack the knowledge of the old language in which it is inscribed.’

  Inscriptions in Ogham were given in an ancient form of Irish, not the common language of the people, but an archaic form known as the Bérla Féini, the language of the land tillers. In these days, only those aspiring to be Brehons, or lawyers, studied the old language.

  ‘Tell me, sister, what is the meaning of an aspen wand clasped in the left hand.’

  Sister Brónach smiled knowledgeably.

  ‘That is easy. The aspen is a sacred tree from which the fé, the rod for measuring a grave, is always cut. And always a line of Ogham is scored on it. It is a custom still used throughout the land.’

  ‘Indeed, that is well known. But the attachment of the fé to the left arm — why not the right arm? What does that mean? You mentioned that you pointed this out to Draigen when the first body was found.’

  ‘Whenever a murderer or a suicide is buried, a fé is placed at their left hand …’ She broke off, a hand came to her mouth in surprise. ‘The Ogham words are usually an invocation to a goddess of death.’

  ‘Such as the Mórrigú? The goddess of death and battles?’

  ‘Yes.’ The reply was sharp.

  ‘Go on,’ said Fidelma quietly.

  ‘I do not know the formula of words but it would be an acknowledgement of such a goddess. The headless corpse …the one in the well … she had a rod of aspen carved with Ogham attached to her left arm.’

  ‘So did Sister Síomha,’ Fidelma agreed.

  ‘What does it mean? Do you suggest …?’

  ‘I suggest nothing,’ Fidelma interrupted quickly. ‘I merely asked you whether you knew what the symbolism meant.’

  ‘Of course, I do.’ Sister Brónach appeared to be thinking carefully now. ‘But does this mean that the headless corpse was a murderess?’

  ‘If that were so, surely it would follow that the same conclusion must be drawn with Sister Síomha.’

  ‘That does not make sense.’

  ‘It may make sense to the killer. Tell me, Sister Brónach, apart from yourself, who else would know about this symbolism here, in the abbey?’

  The doorkeeper of the abbey shrugged.

  ‘Times move on. The old ways are being forgotten. I doubt whether any of the young ones would know the meaning of such things.’ Her eyes widened suddenly. ‘Are you implying that I might be the culprit?’

  Fidelma did not make an attempt at reassurance.

  ‘You might be. It is my task to discover as much. Had we been talking of the murder of the Abbess Draigen, I would say that you had a very good motive and would be my choice of a prime suspect. But, at the moment, there appears to be no motive for the killing of the first corpse or of Sister Síomha.’

  Sister Brónach regarded the younger woman with a resentful stare.

  ‘You have an unfortunate sense of humour, sister,’ she reproved. ‘There might be some others here that are equally knowledgeable about the old ways as I am.’

  ‘You have already said that this abbey consists mainly of young sisters and that they would not have such knowledge. Who else, then, would know about the symbolism?’

  Sister Brónach thought a moment.

  ‘Sister Comnat, our librarian. But there is no one else except …’

  She paused and her eyes suddenly became hard and bright.

  Fidelma was watching her closely.

  ‘Except …?’ she prompted.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Oh, I know the thought that has come into your head,’ replied Fidelma easily. ‘You were proud of the old knowledge that your mother passed on to you. Who else could your mother have passed on such knowledge to? Someone
she fostered? Come, the name is on the tip of your tongue.’

  Sister Brónach looked down at her feet.

  ‘You know already. The Abbess Draigen, of course. She would know all about such symbolism and …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She has been shown to be capable of killing.’

  Sister Fidelma rose and nodded gravely.

  ‘You are the second person who has pointed that out to me within the last few hours.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sister Lerben was in the chapel polishing the great ornate gold cross which stood on the altar. She was bent industriously to her task, a frown of concentration on her pretty features. It was the thud of the door closing behind Fidelma which made her glance up. She paused and straightened as Fidelma walked up the aisle between the deserted rows of benches to halt before her. Her expression was not one of welcome. Fidelma could see the glow of belligerent dislike in her eyes.

  ‘Well?’

  Lerben spoke in her clear, ice-cold soprano voice. Fidelma felt sorrow for her instead of anger. She appeared like a little girl, petulant and angry, in need of protection. A little girl, resenting that she had been caught by an adult doing something forbidden. Her mask of arrogance had given place to sullen pugnacity.

  ‘There are a few questions that I need to ask,’ Fidelma answered her pleasantly.

  The girl methodically replaced the cross on its stand and carefully folded the strip of linen with which she was polishing it. Fidelma had already noticed that the girl’s actions were precise and unhurriedly deliberate. She finally turned to face Fidelma, her arms folded into her robe. Her eyes focused on a point just behind Fidelma’s shoulder.

  Fidelma wearily indicated one of the benches.

  ‘Let us sit a while and talk, Sister Lerben.’

  ‘Is this an official talk?’ Lerben demanded.

  Fidelma was indifferent.

  ‘Official? If you mean, do I wish to speak with you in my capacity as a dálaigh of the courts, then so far it is official. But such matters as we may discuss will not be placed on record.’

  Sister Lerben reluctantly appeared to accept the situation and seated herself. She kept her eyes away from Fidelma’s examining gaze.