The Subtle Serpent

Chapter Twelve

Fidelma had almost reached the side of the barc before Ross’s crews had finished hauling down the sails. The boat that she had taken from the abbey’s quay had positively skimmed the waters as she had bent into the oars with a will. The bow of the boat was bumping into the side of the Foracha before she realised it and she was being helped over the side of the craft while a sailor made her boat fast with a rope.

Ross came forward with a smile of greeting.

‘What news?’ demanded Fidelma breathlessly even before greetings could be exchanged.

Ross motioned towards his cabin at the stern of the ship.

‘Let’s go and talk a while,’ he said, his facial expression changing to one of seriousness.

Fidelma had to contain her curiosity until they were seated in the cabin and Ross had offered her an earthenware vessel of cuirm, which she declined. He poured himself a measure and sipped slowly.

‘What news?’ she prompted again.

‘I have found the place where the Gaulish merchant ship was moored three nights ago.’

‘Is there any sign of Ead … the crew or the passengers?’ Fidelma demanded.

‘I must tell the story in order, sister. But there was no sign of anyone.’

Fidelma compressed her lips for a moment at the disappointment which she felt.

‘Tell me the story then, Ross. How did you discover what you did?’

‘As I said, before I left here, judging by the tides and winds, there were two likely places from where the Gaulish ship might have been blown. The first was over to the southeastern headland called the Sheep’s Head. That is where I sailed first. We sailed around but could find nothing out of the ordinary. We encountered some fishermen who said that they had been casting their nets in those waters all week and had seen nothing. So then I decided that we should go on to the second likely spot.’

‘Which was where?’

‘A place at the end of this very peninsula.’

‘Go on.’

‘At the end of the peninsula lies a long island, it is called Dóirse, which as you will know, means “The Gates”, because, in a way, it stands as the south-western gate to this land. We sailed around the island but could not see anything unusual. I have traded with the islanders several times and so I thought that I would put into the harbour there and see what gossip I could pick up. We landed and I asked my men to keep their ears open for any news about the Gaulish ship. We did not have to seek far.’

He paused and took a sip of his drink.

‘What did you learn?’ urged Fidelma.

‘The Gaulish ship had been moored in the harbour. But therein lay a curious story. Some strange warriors had sailed it in to the island’s harbour well after dusk on the evening before we encountered the ship on the high seas.’

‘Strange warriors? Gauls?’

Ross shook his head.

‘No. Warriors from the clan of the Ui Fidgenti.’

Fidelma hid her surprise.

‘They had with them a Gaulish prisoner, however.’

‘A single Gaulish prisoner? There was no sign of a Saxon monk?’ Fidelma felt a pang of disappointment.

‘No. The prisoner was apparently a Gaulish seaman. Being hospitable, the islanders invited the warriors ashore as it appeared they had no provisions on board. A single guard was left on board with the prisoner. The next morning, the people found that the ship had gone. It had sailed while the warriors were in a drunken slumber due to the islanders’ hospitality. The warrior who had been left on board the vessel was discovered floating in the harbour — dead.’

‘What did they discern from that?’

‘That the Gaulish prisoner had somehow escaped, overpowered the guard, thrown him overboard, and sailed the ship out of the harbour.’

‘A single man? Sail a big ship like that? Is that possible?’ Ross shrugged.

‘It is, if the man was knowledgeable and determined enough.’

‘What then?’

‘The warriors were angry and requisitioned some island ships to take them back across the sound to the mainland.’

Fidelma thought over the matter.

‘It is a strange story. The Gaulish merchant ship is sailed into the harbour of Dóirse by a band of warriors of the Ui Fidgenti with a single Gaulish sailor as their prisoner. The ship ties up. In the morning, it has disappeared with the Gaulish sailor. The warriors then cross back to this peninsula. Later that morning, towards midday, we encounter the ship under full sail and deserted.’

‘That is the story, strange or not.’

‘Can the information you picked up on the island — Dóirse, you called it — be trusted?’

‘The people can,’ confirmed Ross. ‘I have traded with them for years now. They are an independent people who do not regard themselves as under the rule of Gulban the Hawk-Eyed, though technically it is his territory. They hold allegiance to their own bó-aire. So they are not concerned with keeping the secrets of those on the mainland.’

‘Do you know whether the warriors of Ui Fidgenti gave any explanations to the local bó-aire about what they were doing with the Gaulish ship?’

‘There was some talk that it was trading with the mines on the mainland.’

Fidelma raised her head sharply.

‘Mines? Would those be copper mines?’

Ross glanced searchingly at her before nodding agreement.

‘Across from Dóirse, on the mainland, and in the next bay, there are several copper mines which are worked. They do a trade not only along the coast but with Gaul.’

Fidelma drummed her fingers on the table, frowning as she considered matters.

‘Remember the red clay-like mud in the hold of the Gaulish ship?’ she asked.

Ross inclined his head in an affirmative gesture.

‘I think that they were deposits from a copper mine or somewhere where copper is stored. I think the answer to this mystery might lie at the site of those copper mines. Yet I cannot understand why men of the Ui Fidgenti would be sailing the ship. Their clan territory is a long way to the north of here. Where were the men of Beara, of Gulban’s sept?’

‘I could sail back and make further efforts to gain information,’ offered Ross. ‘Or I could sail to the mines, pretending to trade, and see what can be found.’

Fidelma shook her head.

‘Too dangerous. There is some mystery here which is compounded by the fact that Torcán, the son of the prince of the Ui Fidgenti, is a guest at Adnár’s fortress.’

Ross’s eyes widened.

‘There is surely a connection?’

‘But a connection with what? I believe that this mystery may be fraught with dangers. If you sail back again then you might arouse suspicion. There is no need to put people on guard if we can avoid it. We must know what we aredealing with first. How far are these copper mines from here?’

‘About two or three hours’ sailing if you keep close to the coastline.’

‘What if you simply crossed the peninsula? How many miles?’

‘As the crow flies? Five miles. By a navigable route across the mountains, perhaps ten miles or less.’

Fidelma was silent as she considered the matter.

‘What should we do?’ prompted Ross.

Fidelma raised her head, having come to the conclusion that she must investigate the matter herself.

‘Tonight, under cover of darkness, we shall ride across this peninsula to the spot where these copper mines are situated. I have a feeling that we might find an answer there.’

‘Why not ride now? I could easily buy horses from one of the farmsteads further down the coast.’

‘No, we will wait until midnight and for two reasons. Firstly, because we do not want anyone to know we have gone to these mines. If Torcán, or Adnár are involved in some illegal matter then we do not want to warn them of our intentions. Secondly, this evening, I have accepted to attend a feast at Dun Boí with Adnár and his guests, Torcán and Olcán. Perhaps this will turn out to our advantage for I may be able to pick up some news.’

Ross was far from happy.

‘The matter of the Ui Fidgenti worries me, sister. For some weeks now there have been many rumours along the coast. It is said that the Eoganán of the Ui Fidgenti has his eyes on Cashel.’

Fidelma smiled wanly.

‘Is that all? The Ui Fidgenti have always aspired to the kingship of Cashel. Did they not rise up against Cashel twenty-five years ago when Aed Slane was High King?’

The Ui Fidgenti were a large clan in the west of the kingdom of Mumam whose princes and chieftains preferredto call themselves kings and claimed that they were the true descendants of the first kings of Cashel. They argued that they had a prior claim to Cashel over that of Fidelma’s own family. Fidelma’s father had been king at Cashel at the time of her birth and now her brother, Colgú, had succeeded his cousin to occupy the seat of the provincial kings of Mumam. Fidelma’s brother was answerable to no man except the High King. Fidelma had grown up with tales about the claims of the Ui Fidgenti who sought to depose her family’s right to the kingship of Cashel. None had been more vociferous in such claims than the current prince, Eoganán.

Ross was frowning in disapproval.

‘What you say is so, sister. But your brother, Colgú, has only sat on the throne these last few months. He is young and untried. It is obvious that, if Eoganán of the Ui Fidgenti wanted to make a move to overthrow Colgú, he would make his move now, while Colgú was still unsure of himself.’

‘What sort of move? My brother’s right to office has been endorsed by the great assembly at Cashel. The High King has approved of the decision from Tara.’

‘Who knows what Eoganán is planning? But the gossip along the coast is that some evil is being concocted.’

Fidelma considered the matter carefully.

‘All the more reason why I should attend the feast this evening for perhaps Torcán may reveal something of his father’s plans.’

‘You could only put yourself in danger,’ Ross pointed out. ‘Torcán will doubtless find out who you are …’

‘That I am sister to Colgú? We met in the forest yesterday. He already knows that.’

She paused and frowned a moment thinking about the arrow that nearly ended her life. Could Torcán have fired that arrow deliberately knowing her to be Colgú’s sister? But then why would he attempt her life? She was nothing to do with the succession at Cashel. No. That would not be logical. Besides, Torcán and his men were equally surprised todiscover her identity and sought to cover their mistake. If the arrow had been aimed deliberately by Torcán, it was not at her. They could have easily killed her in the forest.

Ross was watching her expression carefully.

‘Has something happened already?’ he guessed.

‘No,’ she lied quickly. ‘At least,’ she corrected herself after a pang of guilt, ‘nothing to change our plan. At midnight, after the feasting at Dun Boí I will meet you and one of your men in the woods behind the abbey. Secure three horses but do so without arousing any suspicion.’

‘Very well. I will take Odar, for he is a good man to have with us. But if Torcán is at this feast, I would rather that you were not attending.’

‘No harm will come to an official of the law courts of the five kingdoms. It would be more than king or citizen would dare,’ declared Fidelma. She wished, as she uttered the words, that she truly believed them.

She rose to her feet and Ross followed her from his cabin to the side of the barc. It was clear that she did not have his full approval for her plan. But, in the light of nothing better, he accepted it.

She was about to descend down the ship’s side when he asked: ‘How is the matter that brought you here?’ He gestured with a jerk of his thumb towards the abbey. He had almost forgotten the original reason why he had brought Fidelma to this spot. ‘Has the problem been resolved?’

Fidelma felt a little guilty that the mystery of the headless corpse and the matter of Sister Síomha’s death had almost been driven out of her thoughts by the arrival of Ross and his news.

‘Not yet. In fact,’ she grimaced awkwardly, ‘there has been another death in the abbey. The rechtaire, Sister Síomha, has been found slain in the same manner as the unknown corpse. However, I believe that the clouds of mystery have begun to clear. But there is much that I find evil in the abbey.’

‘If there is danger …’ Ross hesitated awkwardly. ‘You have but to call on me and on any of my men. It might be best to have a bodyguard from now on.’

‘And alert my quarry that I feel the hunt is nearing its lair?’ She shook her head.

Sister Fidelma reached forward and laid a hand on the worried sailor’s arm and smiled.

‘Just be in the woods at midnight with Odar and the three horses and ensure that you are not seen.’

Fidelma was told that Sister Brónach was to be found in Sister Berrach’s cell. She was walking across the courtyard to the building when the mournful-faced Brónach emerged from the doorway. She hesitated and seemed as if she wanted to avoid Fidelma but Fidelma stopped her with a greeting.

‘How is Sister Berrach, sister?’

Sister Brónach hesitated.

‘She sleeps at the moment, sister. She has had a trying night and an unpleasant morning.’

‘That she has,’ agreed Fidelma. ‘She is lucky to have a friend in you. Will you walk a way with me, sister?’

Reluctantly, Sister Brónach fell in step with Fidelma, moving slowly across the flagged courtyard towards the guests’ hostel.

‘What do you wish of me, sister?’

‘The answers to a few questions.’

‘I am always at your service. I did not have the chance to thank you for what you have done for Sister Berrach.’

‘Why should you thank me?’

Sister Brónach grimaced defensively.

‘Is it wrong to thank someone for saving the life of a friend?’

‘I only did what was right and what all members of the Faith should do. Though some sisters here appear to be easily swayed by emotion.’

‘By Abbess Draigen, you mean?’

‘I did not say that.’

‘Nevertheless,’ went on Sister Brónach confidently, ‘that is what you meant. You may have noticed that all the sisters here are young? Sister Comnat, our librarian, and I are the oldest among them. There is no one else, except the abbess, over the age of twenty-one.’

‘Yes, I have noticed the youth of the acolytes of this abbey,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘That I have found most strange for the idea of a community is that the young may learn from the experience and knowledge of the old.’

Sister Brónach’s voice held a bitter tone.

‘There is a reason for it. The abbess dislikes to be with anyone who does not accept her total authority. She can manipulate young people but often older people can see her errors and are frequently more knowledgeable than she is. She can never forget that she was a poor farmer’s daughter with no education before she came here.’

‘Do you censure the abbess, then?’

Sister Brónach halted outside the hostel door and anxiously looked round as if to check that they were unobserved. Then she pointed inside.

‘It will be easier to talk in here.’

She led the way in and along a corridor to a small cell which she used in the manner of an office, where she conducted the business of doorkeeper and attendant of the hostel.

‘Be seated, sister,’ she said, seating herself in one of the two wooden chairs that were in the tiny room. ‘Now what was it that you were asking?’

Fidelma seated herself.

‘I was asking whether you censured Abbess Draigen in gathering such a young, inexperienced community around her? It was obvious that she used the youth and inexperience of Sister Lerben to threaten Sister Berrach. Do you censure her attitude towards Berrach?’

Sister Brónach pulled a face to demonstrate her disgust.

‘Any rational person would censure such action as proposed by the abbess, although I am willing to concede that it was not entirely Draigen’s fault.’

‘Not her fault?’

‘I would imagine that Sister Lerben has something to do with the matter.’

Fidelma was perplexed.

‘My understanding is that Sister Lerben was entirely under the influence of Draigen. She is too young to be anything but a pawn in this game. Someone has told me that there is a close relationship between the abbess and Lerben and that, you’ll forgive my candour, sister, Lerben sometimes shares the bed of the abbess. That same person told me that you could vouch for this.’

The doleful religieuse started to chuckle. It was an expression of genuine mirth. Fidelma had never seen mirth on Brónach’s solemn features before.

‘Of course Sister Lerben has been known to share the bed of the abbess! You have been in this abbey for two days and yet you do not know that Lerben is the daughter of the abbess?’

Fidelma was thunderstruck.

‘I thought that Lerben …’ Fidelma blurted in surprise and then snapped her mouth shut.

Sister Brónach continued to smile with amusement. It transformed the usually sad face of the doirseór so that she became almost youthful.

‘You thought that Lerben was her lover? Ah, you have been listening to evil stories.’

Fidelma leant towards the elder woman, trying to work out the new information.

‘Was Sister Síomha never the lover of Draigen?’

‘Not to my knowledge. And to my knowledge Draigen is not the sort of woman who would choose such carnal relationships. Draigen is a moody woman. Capricious, is abetter word. She is a misanthrope, one who distrusts men and avoids them. She surrounds herself with young women, in order to intellectually dominate them, but that does not mean there is any sexual connotation to it.’

Fidelma was thinking rapidly. If this were so, then the motive put forward by Adnár and Brother Febal, which had seemed so plausible, was now invalid. It changed her thoughts about the situation entirely.

‘I have heard much gossip and speculation about Draigen. Are you saying that all those stories are untrue?’

‘I have no cause to love the abbess. But I would have to say that I have no experience or knowledge in this field. Abbess Draigen simply likes to surround herself with young girls because they will not question her knowledge or her authority. There is no other reason.’

‘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.’