The Subtle Serpent

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

‘Captain …’ he began.

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

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

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

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

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

Ross gave a low sigh.

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

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

‘Hóigh!’ he yelled. ‘Hóigh!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ross gestured defensively towards the other ship.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fidelma examined the ship with curiosity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced up anxiously at the sky.

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

Fidelma made a gesture of acquiescence with her hand.

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

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

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

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

Fidelma frowned slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ross shook his head.

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

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

Again Ross shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

Odar glanced at Ross quickly before replying.

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

It was Ross who instructed him.

‘Up you go, Odar.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fidelma compressed her lips thoughtfully for a moment.

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

Fidelma arched a cynical eyebrow.

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

Ross led the way from the cabin.

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

However, the crews’ quarters were fairly tidy although not as neat as the cabins that were presumably used by the officers of the ship. Still, there was no sign of disorder or hasty departure. The stores were stowed meticulously.

From the crew’s quarters, Ross led the way into the central hold of the ship. Another smell caught Fidelma’s senses, it being a rapid change of sensual stimulus from the stale bitter odour of the crew’s quarters. Fidelma halted, frowning, trying to place the perfume that assailed her nostrils. A combining of several spices, she thought, but something else dominated it. An aroma of stale wine. She peered around in the gloom of the hold. It appeared to be empty.

Ross was fiddling with some tinder and flint and struck a spark to light an oil lamp so that they could see the interior better. He exhaled softly.

‘As I said, the ship was riding high out of the water which made her doubly unwieldy before the weather. I expected that we would find an empty hold.’

‘Why would there be no cargo on board?’ Fidelma demanded as she peered round.

Ross was clearly puzzled.

‘I have no idea, sister.’

‘This merchant ship is Gaulish, you say?’

The seaman nodded.

‘Could the ship have sailed from Gaul without a cargo?’

‘Ah,’ Ross saw her point immediately. ‘No, it would have sailed with a cargo. And likewise it would have picked up a cargo in an Irish port for the return journey.’

‘So we have no idea when the crew deserted her? She might have been on her way to Ireland or on her way back to Gaul? And it could well be that her cargo was removed when her crew deserted her?’

Ross scratched his nose reflectively.

‘They are good questions but we have no answers.’

Fidelma took a few paces into the empty hold and began to study it in the gloom.

‘What does a ship like this usually carry?’

‘Wine, spices and other things not so easily come by in our country, sister. See, those are racks for the wine kegs but they are all empty.’

She followed his outstretched hand. There was, together with the empty racks, a certain amount of debris, of pieces of broken wood and, lying on its side, was a iron-shod cartwheel, with one of the spokes broken. There was something else which caused her to frown a little. It was a large cylinder of wood around which was tightly wound a coarse thick thread. The cylinder was two feet in length and some six inches in diameter. She bent down and touched the thread and her eyes widened a little. It was a skein of animal gut.

‘What is this, Ross?’ she asked.

The sailor bent, examined it and shrugged.

‘I have no idea. It has no use aboard a ship. And it is not a means of fastening anything. The skein is too pliable, it would stretch if any tension was placed on it.’

Fidelma, still on her knees, had become distracted by something else that she had observed. She was examining patches of brown red clay which seemed to lie on the wooden decking of the hold.

‘What is it, sister?’ demanded Ross, reaching forward and holding the lamp high.

Fidelma scooped some of it up on her fingers and stared down at it.

‘Nothing, I suppose. Just red clay. I presume it was probably trodden from the shore by those who filled the hold. But there seems a great deal of it about this place.’

She rose to her feet and moved across the bare storage area to a hatchway on the far side towards the bows. Suddenly she paused and turned back to Ross.

‘There is no way anyone would hide under this deck, is there?’ she asked, pointing to the flooring.

Ross grimaced wryly in the gloom.

‘Not unless they were a sea rat, sister. There is only the bilge under here.’

‘Nonetheless, I think it would be well if every place aboard this vessel were searched.’

‘I’ll see to it directly,’ agreed Ross, accepting her effortless authority without complaint.

‘Give me the lamp and I’ll continue on.’ Fidelma took the lamp from his hand and moved through the hatch into the for’ard area of the ship while Ross, glancing about nervously, for he had all the superstition of a seaman, began calling for one of his crewmen.

Fidelma, holding the lamp before her, found a small flight of steps which passed a cable tier where the anchor of the large vessel was stored. At the top of the stairs were two more cabins, both were empty. They were also tidy. It was then that Fidelma realised what was lacking. Everything was tidy; too tidy for there were no signs of any personal possessions such as must have belonged to the captain, his crew or any person who might have taken passage on the ship. There were no clothes, no shaving tackle, nothing save a pristine ship.

She turned, moved up a short companionway to the deck to seek out Ross. As her hand ran along the polished rail she felt a change in texture against her palm. Before she could investigate she heard someone moving across the deck and calling her name. She continued up into daylight.

Ross was standing near the companionway entrance with a glum face. He saw her at the top of the companionway and came forward.

‘Nothing in the bilge, sister, except rats and filth as one would expect. No bodies, that’s for sure,’ he reported grimly. ‘Alive or dead.’

Fidelma was staring down at her palm. It was discoloured with a faint brown texture. She realised what it was immediately. She showed her palm to Ross.

‘Dried blood. Split not all that long ago. That’s the secondpatch of blood on this vessel. Come with me.’ Fidelma retraced her steps down towards the cabins with Ross close behind. ‘Perhaps we should be looking for a body in the cabins below?’

She paused on the stairway and held up her lamp. Blood had certainly been smeared along the rail and there was more dried blood on the steps and some which had splashed against the side walls. It was older than the blood on the linen cloth and on the handrail of the ship.

‘There is no sign of blood on the deck,’ observed Ross. ‘Whoever was hurt must have been hurt on these stairs and moved downwards.’

Fidelma pursed her lips thoughtfully.

‘Or else was hurt below and came up here to be met by someone who bound the wound or otherwise prevented the blood from falling to the deck. Still, let us see where the trail leads.’

At the foot of the companionway, Fidelma bent down to examine the decking by the light of the lantern. Her eyes suddenly narrowed and she smothered an exclamation.

‘There are more signs of dried blood down here.’

‘I do not like this, sister,’ muttered Ross, anxiously casting a glance around. ‘Perhaps something evil haunts this vessel?’

Fidelma straightened up.

‘The only evil here, if evil it be, is human evil,’ she chided him.

‘A human agency could not spirit away an entire crew and a ship’s cargo,’ protested Ross.

Fidelma smiled thinly.

‘Indeed, they could. And they did not do a perfect job of it for they have left bloodstains which tell us that it was, indeed, a human agency at work. Spirits, evil or otherwise, do not have to shed blood when they wish to destroy humankind.’

She turned, still holding her lantern up, to examine the two cabins adjoining the foot of the companionway.

Either the wounded person, for she presumed the amountof blood had come from someone who had been severely injured, had been gashed with a knife or a sharp instrument at the foot of the companionway or in one of the cabins. She turned into the first one, with Ross unwillingly trailing in her wake.

She paused on the threshold and stood staring around trying to find some clue to the mystery.

‘Captain!’

One of Ross’s men came clambering down behind them.

‘Captain, I’ve been sent by Odar to tell you that the wind is getting up again and the tide is bearing us towards the rocks.’

Ross opened his mouth to curse but, as his eye caught Fidelma’s, he contented himself with a grunt.

‘Very well. Get a line on the bow of this vessel and tell Odar to stand by to steer her. I shall tow her into a safe anchorage.’

The man scampered off and Ross turned back to Fidelma.

‘Best come off back to the barc, sister. It will not be easy to steer this vessel to shore. It will be safer on my ship.’

Fidelma reluctantly turned after him and as she did so her eyes caught something which she had not perceived before. The open cabin door had shielded it from her as she had stood in the cabin. Now, as she turned to go, she saw something unusual hanging from a peg behind the door. Unusual because it was a tiag liubhair, a leather book satchel. Fidelma was astonished to see such an item in the cabin of a ship. It was true that the Irish kept their books, not on shelves, but in satchels hung on pegs or racks around the walls of their libraries, each satchel containing one or more manuscript volumes. And such satchels were also generally employed to carry books from place to place. It was always necessary for a missionary priest to have Gospels, offices and other books and so such satchels were also designed to transport them on their missions. The tiag liubhair which hung behind the cabin door was one that was commonly slung from the shoulder by a strap.

Fidelma was unaware of Ross now pausing impatiently at the foot of the companionway.

She unhooked the satchel and reached in. Inside there was a small vellum volume.

Suddenly her heart was racing, her mouth dry, and she stood rooted to the spot. The blood pounded in her ears. For a moment or two she thought she was going to pass out. The volume was a small, innocuous looking manuscript book, its vellum leaves bound in heavy calf-leather and embossed with beautiful patterned whirls and circles. Fidelma had recognised that it would be a Missal even before she turned to the title page. She knew also what would be inscribed on that page.

It was now over twelve months since Sister Fidelma had last held this book in her hands. Over twelve months ago, on a warm Roman summer evening, in the herb-scented garden of the Lateran Palace, she had stood holding this little book. It had been the evening before she had left Rome to return home to Ireland. She had handed the book to her friend and companion in adventure, Brother Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, from the Saxon land of the South Folk. Brother Eadulf, who had helped her solve the mystery of Abbess Etain’s murder at Whitby and later of the murder of Wighard, the archbishop-elect of Canterbury in Rome.

The book which she now held in her hands, in this mysterious abandoned ship, had been her farewell gift to her closest friend and companion. A gift that had meant so much to them in that emotional parting.

Fidelma felt the cabin beginning to rock and turn around her. She tried to still her racing thoughts, to rationalise the awesome dread which she felt choking her lungs. She staggered dizzily backwards and collapsed abruptly onto the bunk.