The Subtle Serpent

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.

‘You may be assured that anything you say will not be reported to your abbess,’ Fidelma said, trying to put the girl at her ease and wondering how best to approach the subject. She seated herself next to the girl who remained silent. ‘Let us forget the conflict that arose between us, Lerben. I was also proud when I was your age. I, too, thought I knew many things. But you were misinformed about ecclesiastical law. I am, after all, an advocate of the courts and when you attempt to pit your knowledge against mine, it can only result in my knowledge being greater. I do not make this as a boast but simply a statement of fact.’

The girl still made no reply.

‘I know you were advised by Abbess Draigen,’ Fidelma continued to verbally prod her.

‘Abbess Draigen has great knowledge,’ snapped Lerben. ‘Why should I doubt her?’

‘You admire Abbess Draigen. I understand that. But her knowledge of the law is lacking.’

‘She stands up for our rights. The rights of women,’ countered Sister Lerben.

‘Is there a need to stand up for the rights of women? Surely the laws of the five kingdoms are precise enough for the protection of women? Women are protected from rape, from sexual harassment and even from verbal assault. And they are equal under the law.’

‘Sometimes that is not enough,’ replied the girl seriously. ‘Abbess Draigen sees the weaknesses in our society and campaigns for greater rights.’

‘That I do not understand. Perhaps you might be goodenough to explain it. You see, if the abbess wants increased rights for women, why does she argue that the Laws of the Fenechas should be rejected and that we should accept the new ecclesiastical laws? Why does she stand in favour of the Penitentials which originate in their philosophies from Roman law? These laws place women in a subservient role.’

Sister Lerben was eager to explain.

‘The canon laws, which Draigen wishes to support, would make it a more serious offence to kill a woman than a man. A life for a life. At the moment all the laws of the five kingdoms say is that compensation must be paid and the killer must be rehabilitated. The laws which the Roman church suggest is that the attacker should pay with his life and be made to suffer physical pain. The abbess has shown me some of the Penitentials which say that if a man kills a woman then his hand and foot should be cut off and he is made to suffer pain before being put to death.’

Fidelma stared in distaste at the bloodthirsty eagerness of the young girl.

‘And a woman can be burned to death for the same offence,’ Fidelma pointed out. ‘Isn’t it better to seek compensation for the victim than exact vengeance on the perpetrator? Isn’t it better to attempt to rehabilitate the wrong doer and help the victim than exact painful revenge that gains nothing but a brief moment of satisfaction?’

Sister Lerben shook her head. Her tone was vehement.

‘Draigen says that it is written in the scripture: “life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot …”’

‘The words of Exodus are often quoted,’ interrupted Fidelma tiredly. ‘Surely it would be better looking at the words of the Christ who gave a new dispensation. Look at the Gospel of the Blessed Matthew and you will find these words of the Christ: “Ye have heard that it hath been said, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil; but, whosoever shall smite thee on thy rightcheek, turn to him the other also.” That is the word of the God we follow.’

‘But Abbess Draigen said …’

Fidelma held up her hand to quiet the girl.

‘No set of laws are perfect but there is little use rejecting good laws for bad ones. Here women have rights and protections. There is equality before the law. The foreign laws that are creeping into this land by way of the Penitentials mean that only the wealthy and people of rank can afford the law.’

‘But Abbess Draigen …’

‘Is not an expert on law,’ interrupted Fidelma firmly. She really did not want to get waylaid into a debate on the merits of rival law systems, especially with a young girl who really did not know more than she had been told by a biased authority. She knew clearly where Draigen stood in support of the new Penitentials which, in Fidelma’s estimation, were threatening to undermine the laws of the five kingdoms.

Sister Lerben lapsed into a sullen silence.

‘I know that you admire the abbess,’ Fidelma began again. ‘That is a right and proper attitude to adopt towards one’s mother.’

‘So you know that?’ Sister Lerben’s chin came up defensively.

‘Surely an abbey is not a place wherein to keep a secret?’ Fidelma asked mildly. ‘Besides, there is no law in either the church of Ireland or Rome that forbids love and marriage between men and women of the religious.’ She could not help adding, ‘But those who support the new ecclesiastical rules would deny that love.’

Fidelma knew that in Europe, during the last two centuries, there had been a small but vociferous group who had expressed doubts on the compatibility of marriage and the religious life. Jerome and Ambrose had led those who thought that celibacy was a higher spiritual condition than marriage and Jerome’s friend Pope Damascus had been thefirst to express a favourable attitude towards the idea. So far, even in Rome, however, those favouring celibacy were still only a small but nonetheless influential group. Those who believed that celibacy should be mandatory and were therefore affecting the writing of Penitentials. Though, so far, they had not the backing of Rome’s ecclesiastical laws.

Sister Lerben sat without expression.

‘How long have you been in this community, Lerben? I presume that it has been since your birth?’

‘No. When I was seven I was sent for fosterage.’

It was an ancient custom in the five kingdoms among those of wealth to send their children away at the age of seven to be fostered or educated, with a teacher. For boys the fosterage ended at the age of seventeen, for girls the fosterage ended at the age of fourteen.

‘And you returned here when you were fourteen?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Three years ago,’ agreed the girl.

‘You had no thought of going elsewhere than to your mother’s abbey?’

‘No, why should I? Since I had been away many things had changed here. My mother had excluded all men.’

‘Do you dislike men so much?’ asked Fidelma in surprise.

‘Yes!’ The word was immediate and vehement.

‘Why so?’

‘Men are dirty, disgusting animals.’

Fidelma heard the intensity in her voice and wondered what experience had prejudiced the girl.

‘Without them the human race would die out,’ she pointed out softly. ‘Your father was a man.’

‘Then let it die out!’ returned the girl uncompromisingly. ‘My father was a pig.’

The hatred on the girl’s features was something which amazed even Fidelma.

‘I presume that you speak of Febal?’

‘I do.’

An idea began to form in Fidelma’s mind.

‘So it was your father who has coloured your attitude to men?’

‘My father … a red hot stone in his throat! May he die choking!’

The curses were venomous.

‘What did your father do to you to make you hate him so?’

‘It is what he did to my mother. I do not wish to talk about my father.’

Sister Lerben’s face was white and Fidelma noticed that a shiver passed through her slender frame as if of distaste. Fidelma began to realise that there was some deep conflict in the girl.

‘So have you found solace here?’ she passed on hurriedly. ‘And have you found friendship with any of the other sisters?’

The girl shrugged indifferently.

‘Some of them.’

‘Not Sister Berrach, though?’

Lerben shuddered.

‘That cripple! She should have died at birth.’

‘And Sister Brónach?’

‘A stupid old woman. She is always hanging round that feeble Berrach! She has had her time.’

‘Then what of Sister Síomha, the steward? Were you friendly with her?’

Sister Lerben made an ugly face.

‘She fancied herself, that one. She was dirty and disgusting!’

‘Why? Why dirty and disgusting, Lerben?’ demanded Fidelma, watching the young woman’s flushed face.

‘She liked men. She had a lover.’

‘A lover. Do you know whom?’

‘I think it is obvious. These last few weeks, on those nights she has not been attending the watch at the clepsydra, I have seen her returning before dawn from Adnár’s fort. Síomhawould not descend to liaisons with common warriors or servants. So you do not have to hunt far to know with whom she has defiled herself.’

‘Do you mean your uncle? Adnár?’

‘I do not call him such. Síomha was so full of her own importance. Attempting to tell everyone what to do.’

‘She was the rechtaire of the abbey, after all,’ Fidelma pointed out mildly. ‘Did you speak of this matter with your mother?’

Sister Lerben raised her head defiantly.

‘No. And now I am rechtaire.’

‘At seventeen?’ Fidelma smiled indulgently. ‘You still have much to learn about the religious life before you could truly aspire to such office.’

‘Draigen has made me rechtaire. That is an end to it.’

Fidelma decided not to pursue the matter. There were other things she wanted to follow up first.

‘How well do you know Sisters Comnat and Almu?’

Lerben blinked. Fidelma’s leap from one topic to another seemed to disconcert her.

‘I knew them, yes.’

‘Knew them? Isn’t Comnat still the librarian and Almu her assistant?’

‘They are gone to Ard Fhearta and have been away for several weeks now. It is natural to think of them as being away.’

‘How well did you know them?’ Fidelma corrected.

‘I saw Comnat only during the services. An old woman. Older than Brónach.’

‘You didn’t have much to do with her?’

‘She spent most of her time in the library and the rest in isolated prayer in her cell.’

‘You were not interested in books?’

‘I have not learned to read or write well. Draigen still teaches me.’

Fidelma was shocked.

‘I thought you were sent away for an education?’

‘My father arranged it. I was sent to a drunken farmer. There is a township not far away called Eadar Ghabhal. It is ten miles east of here. I was sent there to work as a servant. I became no more than a slave.’

‘And you were not taught reading or writing?’

‘No.’

‘Did your father or your mother know what kind of place it was that you had been sent to?’

‘My father knew well. That was why he arranged it. It was the last time my mother ever allowed him to interfere in our lives. He often visited the farmer.’ Lerben’s voice was full of pent-up passion. ‘That is where I learned what pigs men are. The farmer … he violated me. I finally managed to escape from that vile place. My mother found out only after I managed to return to the abbey. My father had kept the truth from her. It was his revenge against her. The farmer arrived here drunk, he had my father with him. They tried to get me to return, pretending that I had robbed the farmer and broken the contract my father had made. Draigen protected me, giving me sanctuary here, and driving them away.’

‘What happened to the farmer?’

‘He was killed when his farm burned down.’

Fidelma examined the girl’s features carefully but there was no expression on them. They were almost vacuous as if she had chased any emotion out of them.

‘Have you seen your father, since?’

‘Only from a distance. My mother had warned him that he would not be long on this earth if he ever tried to harm me again.’

Fidelma sat quietly for a moment, turning the information over in her mind.

‘You say that Draigen has been teaching you to read and write since your return to the abbey?’

‘When she has time.’

‘What about Sister Almu? She was young, wasn’t she?Surely she was not much older than you? She was a good scholar and could have taught you to read and write?’

Was there some hesitation now.

‘I was not friendly with her. She was a year or so older than I was. It was Sister Síomha who was Almu’s friend.’

‘Was Almu a pretty girl?’

‘It depends on what you believe to be pretty.’

Fidelma conceded that it was a good riposte.

‘Did you like her?’

‘I did not really know her. She, too, worked in the library, copying those musty old books. Why are you asking me these questions?’

‘Oh, just to get some background,’ Fidelma rose from her seat. ‘I have finished now.’

‘Then, by your leave, I shall return to my duties.’

Fidelma gave a vague affirmative gesture and began to walk down the aisle towards the door. Then she halted there and glanced back as if in an afterthought.

‘Why did you say that Sister Brónach has had her time?’ she asked sharply. ‘What did you mean by that?’

Sister Lerben looked up from where she had resumed her polishing of the gold icons of the chapel. For a moment it seemed that she had not understood Fidelma, then her expression lightened.

‘Because she is old. Draigen says that she has had her man, her child, and there is nothing else in life for her. Draigen says …’

Fidelma had already passed on thoughtfully.

She was still deep in thought when Adnár’s boatman reported to the abbey guest hostel that he had come to row her across to the bó-aire’s fortress. It was already dark but the boat had lanterns set fore and aft and there were two men who bent their backs into the oars so that the craft cleaved through the dark waters and made the crossing, so it seemed, within moments. Fidelma was handed up on to the dark quay andthe boatman, bearing one of the lamps, lighted her way up the steps into the fortress.

Once through the granite walls the fortress was brightly lit with burning torches and the sounds of music came drifting from the main buildings. Warriors patrolled here and there but otherwise it seemed a peaceful enough citadel.

Adnár was coming down the stairs, hands held out in greeting.

‘Welcome, Sister Fidelma. Welcome. I am glad that you have come.’

He led the way back up the wooden stairs and into the large feasting room where she had breakfasted on the previous morning. The furnishings had not changed but the great table was piled with mountains of food and a fire roared in the hearth sending out a tremendous heat. A musician sat in the corner, playing unobtrusively on a stringed instrument.

Adnár himself helped her to remove her cloak and conducted her to the circular table. Here an attendant bent to remove her shoes. It was the custom, both in secular communities as well as ecclesiastical life, to remove the shoes and sandals before sitting down to an evening feast.

Olcán was there; so was Torcán. Both young men greeted her with such an effusion of spirit that they seemed to be trying to outdo each other in manners. Only Brother Febal stood quietly, his eyes lowered, his manner almost surly. Fidelma tried not to show her distaste for him. She must keep an open mind. Yet if the claims of Sister Lerben were true then he was a bitter and evil man.

It was Olcán who opened up the conversation.

‘How goes your investigation? I was given to understand that you have interrogated Brother Febal here? Is he the dread killer and decapitator of women?’

Brother Febal did not join in their humour.

Fidelma answered them gravely.

‘We shall have to wait until the investigation is complete in order to make a judgment.’

Adnár raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

‘May the sky fall on us! I do believe that she does suspect you, Febal.’

Brother Febal shrugged. His handsome face was bland.

‘I have nothing to fear from the truth.’

Olcán’s sallow features were split by a grin and he pointed to the table.

‘Well, I fear starvation unless this meal begins. Sister Fidelma, will you do us the honour of saying the Gratias as is the custom?’

Fidelma bowed her head.

‘Benedic nobis, Domine Deus, et omnibus donis Tuis quae ex lorgia …’

She intoned the ritual and they set to the meal. Servants now came forward to pour the wine and hand round the plates. Fidelma was slightly surprised to see that Adnár not only supplied a knife for each person, for one ate with a knife in the right hand and used the fingers of the left hand only, but each diner was given a clean lámhbrat, or hand-cloth, which was usually placed over the knees when eating and, at the end of the meal, used to clean one’s hands. Generally such refinement was found only at the tables of the kings and bishops. It was clear that Adnár had social pretensions in the setting of his feasting table.

‘Please begin, Fidelma. Would you prefer wine or mead?’

Silver goblets were filled with imported red wine but jugs of local mead were also placed on the table. She saw that brother Febal selected this rather than wine. There was a choice of dishes: ox-meat, mutton and venison. There were fish dishes, goose eggs and a dish even of rón or seal meat. It was a dish that was once popular but now few people ate it. A story told that a family in the west of the country was once metamorphosed into seals by a druid and now no one would eat seal meat in case they were eating their own relatives.

Fidelma helped herself to some venison cooked with wild garlic, some barley cakes and parsnip.

‘Seriously,’ Adnár was saying, ‘how is your investigation? Have you discovered the identity of the headless body?’

‘Not for sure,’ replied Fidelma, sipping at her wine.

Torcán’s glance was searching.

‘That means that you have some suspicion as to who it is?’

Fidelma pretended her mouth was too full of food to answer.

‘Well, I know who I believe did it,’ muttered Brother Febal.

The sallow-faced Olcán waved his knife towards Febal.

‘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.