The Subtle Serpent sf-4

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘You have already made that clear to Sister Fidelma. Certainly the Abbess Draigen is not a person who has inspired your affection.’

  ‘She inspires it in her daughter,’ Fidelma observed quietly.

  Brother Febal immediately caught the inflection.

  ‘So you have been talking to Lerben?’ He seemed unperturbed. ‘Well, she is but hewn of the same tree as her mother. Liars, both of them!’

  ‘Is she not also hewn of the same tree as her father?’ Fidelma asked with an innocent expression.

  Brother Febal was about to retort, then seemed to catch himself. He tried to interpret Fidelma’s implacable expression.

  ‘If she has been accusing me …’ he began and his face flushed angrily.

  ‘Of what would she accuse you?’.

  Brother Febal shook his head negatively.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing. The girl is simply a compulsive liar. That is all.’

  ‘And you still say that her mother prefers women to men? You stand by that accusation? And the accusation of an unnatural relationship between mother and daughter?’

  ‘Have I not said so?’

  ‘No one else in the abbey would agree with you. Not even Sister Brónach whose name you conjured as your witness.’

  ‘None of those at the abbey have any guts to go against Draigen, especially Brónach. She is a self-made martyr!’

  Fidelma noticed that Torcán was regarding Brother Febal with a curious expression. It was Olcán who lightened the sudden tense turn of the conversation.

  ‘Personally, and by the sound of it, I believe the killer is some madman. They are many tales of strange mountainy men who waylay and slaughter people. What sane person would decapitate a head from the body?’

  ‘Then you must believe our forefathers were insane.’ Torcán’s tone was serious but he was smiling as he spoke. ‘Years and years ago it was considered essential to take the head from a slain enemy.’

  ‘I have heard of that ancient custom,’ Fidelma observed. ‘Do you know much about it?’

  The son of the prince of the Ui Fidgenti selected another piece of meat with his knife and gave an affirmative gesture.

  ‘It was once a warrior code. Great warriors, in the aftermath of a battle, would remove the heads of their slain enemies to hang them from their chariots and drive triumphantly back to their fortresses. Didn’t the hero Conall Cearnach vow never to sleep unless he could do so with the head of an enemy under his foot?’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Olcán demanded. ‘Remove the heads of their enemies? It was as much as one could do to survive in battle without wasting time on such a fruitless exercise.’

  It was Fidelma who supplied the answer.

  ‘In the old days, before the coming of the Faith, it was thought that the soul of a person was to be found inside the head. The head was the centre of intellect and all reason. What else could produce such thoughts other than a soul? When the body died, the soul remained until it journeyed to the Otherworld. Am I not right in this, Brother Febal?’

  Brother Febal started at being addressed by her in an apparently friendly manner and then nodded reluctantly.

  ‘That was the belief, so I understand. Until recently, a sign of showing respect and affection among us was to lay one’s head on the bosom of the person to be greeted.’

  ‘But why did warriors remove the heads of their enemies?’ demanded Olcán.

  ‘It was like this,’ Torcán explained, ‘among the ancient warriors they felt that if the heads of their enemies were removed, they would capture the soul. If their enemy was a great warrior, a great champion, some of that greatness would pass down to them.’

  ‘A primitive idea,’ muttered Olcán.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Torcán conceded. ‘Instead of the tales of the saints and the new Faith, you should listen to the tales of our ancient heroes, like Cúchullain who rode into Dun Dealg with hundreds of heads adorning his chariot.’

  Adnár admonished his guests.

  ‘This is hardly a conversation fitting for the presence of a woman.’

  ‘It was a practice that even our great women warriors took part in,’ pointed out Torcán, oblivious to the hint which Adnár was giving him.

  ‘You seem to know much about this,’ Fidelma observed.

  ‘Tell me, Torcán, would one even remove the head of someone who had, for example, been a murderer?’

  Torcán was surprised at the question.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘Indulge my curiosity.’

  ‘In the old days it did not matter so long as the person was seen as a great warrior, champion or leader of their people.’

  ‘So, if someone, imbued with the old ways, encountered their enemy, and saw their enemy as a murderer, they could easily remove the head as a symbol?’

  Olcán’s thin features broke into a smile.

  ‘I begin to see where the good sister’s questions are leading.’

  Brother Febal had snorted indignantly and sunk his nose into his mug of mead.

  Torcán was looking puzzled.

  ‘It is more than I do,’ he admitted. ‘But, in answer to your question, it is possible. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She asks because she suspects that the headless corpse and the decapitated Sister Síomha may well have been the victims of some ancient head-hunting ancestor of ours!’ sneered Brother Febal.

  Fidelma was composed and did not rise to the bait of the religieux.

  ‘Not exactly, Febal. It is clear however that the killer, whoever they are, put some symbolism into the methods of killing.’

  Adnár was leaning forward on the table with interest.

  ‘What symbolism?’

  ‘That is what I want to find out,’ replied Fidelma. ‘It is clear also that the killer wanted whoever found the corpses to know and appreciate that symbolism.’

  ‘You mean that the killer is actually giving you clues to his means and motive?’ asked young Olcán wonderingly.

  ‘His or her motive,’ corrected Fidelma gently. ‘Yes. I now believe that the way the corpses were left was meant as a message to those who found them.’

  Brother Febal banged down his mug.

  ‘Nonsense! The killings are part of a sick mind. And I know who has the sickest mind on this peninsula.’

  Adnár sighed unhappily.

  ‘I cannot argue against that assessment. Perhaps these symbols, of which you speak, Sister Fidelma, are but some trick to distract you in your investigation? Some ruse to make you follow a path which does not lead anywhere?’

  Fidelma bowed her head in consideration of the point.

  ‘It may well be,’ she acceded after a moment. ‘But knowing the symbolism will, I believe, eventually lead to the perpetrator whether it is intentional or unintentional. Andfor this information on decapitation, Torcán, I am much indebted.’

  ‘Ha!’ Olcán was smirking, ‘I believe, Torcán, that you have allowed yourself to become a suspect in the good sister’s eyes? Isn’t that so, Sister Fidelma?’

  She ignored his mocking tone.

  ‘Not so,’ replied Torcán, his eyes serious. ‘I think that Sister Fidelma would know that if I had devised such an atrocious way of leaving murdered corpses about the countryside, I would not have started to prattle about its symbolism and so draw attention to myself.’

  Fidelma inclined her head towards him.

  ‘On the other hand,’ she smiled grimly, ‘it may well be that you would do that very thing to argue this point in order to throw me off the scent.’

  Olcán was chuckling now and clapped his friend, Torcán on the shoulder.

  ‘There you are! You will now have to find a dálaigh to defend you.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ For a moment Torcán looked worried. ‘I wasn’t even here when the first murder, of which you were speaking, was committed …’

  He caught himself and grinned sheepishly as he realised that he was the butt of his friend’s humour.

  ‘Olcán
has an odd sense of humour,’ Adnár apologised. ‘I am sure Fidelma is not serious in saying that you might be a culprit.’

  ‘I do not think I even mentioned such an idea in the first place,’ she said evasively. ‘I was merely responding to Torcán’s hypothetical argument. The last person that I would tell if he or she was a suspect is the suspect themselves … unless I had a purpose for it.’

  ‘Well said,’ Adnár said, ignoring the final point. ‘Let us cease this morbid talk of bodies and murder.’

  ‘I apologise,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘But bodies and murder are, unfortunately, part of my world. I am, nevertheless, indebtedto Torcán for his knowledge. Your information on old customs is most helpful.’

  Torcán was deprecating.

  ‘I am interested in the old warrior codes and modes of battle, but that is all.’

  ‘Ah? I thought you had a fascination with our history and ancient annals?’ Fidelma asked.

  ‘Me? No. It is Olcán here and Adnár that like to delve into ancient books. Not me. Do not be misled by my talk of ancient warrior codes. One is taught this as part of a warrior’s education.’

  For a moment Fidelma wondered whether to follow this up by asking Torcán why he had requested the abbey library to send him the copy of the annals of Clonmacnoise. However, before she could continue, Brother Febal said: ‘I see that Ross and his ship have returned.’

  Everyone had noticed Ross’s ship sail into the inlet that afternoon. There was no need for comment.

  Olcán was helping himself to more wine. His thin face was flushed and he seemed to be imbibing with a healthy thirst.

  ‘I am told that his ship was seen at the island of Dóirse, further down the coast,’ continued Brother Febal.

  This time she could not ignore the obvious invitation to respond. She hid her annoyance at the excellence of communication among Gulban’s people.

  ‘I believe that Ross trades regularly along the coast,’ she replied.

  ‘I would have thought there was little trade to be had on Dóirse. It is a bleak, windswept island,’ Adnár observed.

  ‘I am not acquainted with the trading conditions along this coast,’ Fidelma responded.

  There was a movement and some servants entered to clear away the dishes and presented a variety of new dishes for dessert with apples, honey, and nuts of many varieties.

  ‘We do a good trade in copper from our mines near here,’ offered Olcán as he helped himself to more wine.

  Fidelma was pretending to examine the dish of nuts but she had the impression that Torcán was gazing at her as if trying to examine her reactions.

  ‘I have heard that there are many copper mines in this district.’ It was better to stick to truth as far as it was possible. ‘Do you do much foreign trade?’

  ‘Gaulish ships sometimes come and trade wine for copper,’ Adnár answered.

  Fidelma raised her goblet as if in toast.

  ‘It seems a good exchange,’ she smiled. ‘Especially if this wine is anything to go by.’

  Adnár deflected any further questions by offering her more wine.

  ‘How is your brother, our king?’ Torcán asked the question abruptly.

  At once Fidelma felt a new tension around the table. She was suddenly on her guard wondering if the stories that Ross had picked up were true. She had been wondering how to raise this topic without alerting suspicion. She must be careful.

  ‘My brother Colgú? I have not seen him since the judgment at Ros Ailithir.’

  ‘Ah yes; my father was there,’ replied Olcán helping himself to an apple.

  ‘As was mine,’ Torcán added coldly. ‘I hear that Colgú claims many grand new plans for Muman.’

  Fidelma was dismissive.

  ‘I have seen my brother only the one time since he became king at Cashel,’ she said. ‘My community is at Kildare, at the house of the Blessed Brigit. I have not interested myself in the affairs of Muman very much.’

  ‘Ah,’ the syllable was a soft breath from Torcán.

  Olcán turned a now somewhat bleary eye towards her.

  ‘But you were at Ros Ailithir when the Loígde assembly rejected my father’s claims for chieftainship and hailed Bran Finn Mael Ochtraighe as chieftain?’

  Fidelma admitted as much.

  ‘That upset my father greatly. You know all about Bran Finn, of course?’

  She detected that the others had become uneasy.

  ‘Who has not?’ she replied. ‘He has a reputation as a poet and a warrior.’

  ‘My father, Gulban, thinks he is an usurper.’

  ‘Olcán!’ Torcán turned with a warning look on the young man who was clearly the worse for his wine.

  ‘I hope he will prove a better chieftain than Salbach,’ Fidelma rejoined.

  She saw Adnár cast what appeared to be a warning glance at Torcán, nodding in the direction of Olcán, before turning with a bland smile to Fidelma.

  ‘I am sure he will,’ the chieftain of Dún Boí assured her. ‘He has the good wishes of the people behind him, as does your brother Colgú. Isn’t that so, Torcán?’

  ‘Not so, according to my father, Gulban,’ muttered Olcán.

  ‘Ignore him, Sister Fidelma,’ Torcán said. ‘The wine is in, the wit is out.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fidelma said gravely but the words of the old Roman proverb had come to mind; in vino veritas, in wine there is truth.

  Torcán raised his head.

  ‘Indeed, we hope to be in Cashel soon to give our allegiance to Colgú personally.’

  Olcán suddenly spluttered into his goblet, spilling some of the contents over him. He began coughing fiercely.

  ‘Something … something went down the wrong way,’ he gasped, looking sheepishly around him.

  Torcán, with a frown, handed him some water to drink.

  ‘It is evident that you have drunk enough wine this evening,’ he reproved sharply.

  But Fidelma was rising, realising the lateness of the hour.

  ‘It is near midnight. I must return to the abbey.’

  Must you go?’ Torcán was pleasantry personified. ‘Adnárhere prides himself on his musicians and we have yet to listen to their accomplishments.’

  ‘Thank you, but I must return.’

  Adnár waved to a servant to come forward and issued whispered instructions.

  ‘I have ordered the boat to take you back. Perhaps you will come and listen to my musicians some other time?’

  ‘That I will,’ replied Fidelma as an attendant brought her shoes and helped her fasten her cloak around her shoulders.

  As the boat pulled away from the jetty of Dún Boí into the darkness of the night, Fidelma felt a relief to be out of the dark, brooding walls of the fortress. She had a feeling that she had passed along a knife edge between safety and extreme peril.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The echoing tones of the gong proclaiming the midnight hour reverberated clearly from the tower of the abbey. Fidelma, her woollen cloak trimmed with beaver fur wrapped tightly around her, moved silently through the white shrouded woods. The newly-laid snow crunched crisply under her feet and her breath hung like a mist before her as the cold air caught it. In spite of the hour, the night was made bright by a full, rounded moon, which had appeared between the clouds, and whose rays sparkled against the snowy carpet below.

  She was sure that no one had seen her leave the guests’ hostel and make her way silently out of the abbey grounds into the surrounding woods. She had paused once or twice to look back but nothing seemed to be stirring in the deathly quiet of the night. She moved rapidly now, her breath coming in pants, the cold air causing her to make more exertion than normal.

  She was reassured when she heard the soft whinny of horses ahead of her and, after a minute or two, she saw the animals with Ross and Odar holding their reins.

  ‘Excellently done, Ross!’ she greeted him breathlessly.

  ‘Is all well, sister?’ the sailor asked anxiously. ‘Did anyone see you
leaving the abbey?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Let us move out straight away for I believe that we have much to do this night.’

  Odar came forward and assisted her into the saddle of adark mare. Then Ross and Odar swung on to their mounts. Ross led the way for he apparently knew the direction to be taken. Fidelma came next with Odar bringing up the rear.

  ‘Where did you get the horses from?’ Fidelma asked approvingly, as they moved slowly along the forest track. She was a good judge of horses.

  ‘Odar traded for them.’

  ‘A small farmer not far from here. A man named Barr,’ Odar supplied gruffly. ‘His farm seems to be prospering since the last time I had business with him. He could not afford horses then. I have paid him for a night’s use of the animals.’

  ‘Barr?’ Fidelma frowned. ‘I seem to have heard that name before. No matter. Oh, yes,’ she suddenly recalled. ‘I know now. And has Barr found his missing daughter?’

  Odar looked at her in puzzlement.

  ‘Daughter? Barr is not even married, let alone with children.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips but made no reply.

  She suddenly shivered in the cold, in spite of her cloak, as a chill wind began to whisper its way around the snow-covered skirts of the large mountains.

  Ross pointed upwards.

  ‘Our path lies up across the mountain. There is a track that passes the peak and crosses to the far side of the peninsula. Then it drops down behind the settlement where they dig for copper.’

  Odar added: ‘I have brought a container of cuirm in my saddle bag which will keep out the winter chill, sister. Would you like a sip?’

  ‘A good thought to bring it, Odar,’ Fidelma replied in appreciation. ‘But I think it would be best if you kept that for later, for we have yet to leave the shelter of this wood and climb across the icy shoulders of the mountains. It will get even colder later and that is when we will need it.’

  ‘There is much wisdom in what you say, sister,’ agreed Odar stolidly.

  They rode on in silence now, heads bent as the wind slowly rose and blew fine dry snow against them. There were more snow clouds bunching up from the west but Fidelma was unsure whether to be thankful or dismayed. She was thankful that the clouds might obscure the bright moon which, reflecting on the snow, made the night almost as brilliant as daylight and made them visible for considerable distances against the white background. On the other hand she was dismayed that the heavy clouds were threatening more snow and promised to make their journey as uncomfortable and as perilous as possible.