The Subtle Serpent

Chapter Five

Fidelma was awakened by Sister Brónach while it was still dark although there was that tell-tale texture to the sky which foretold the imminent arrival of dawn. A bowl of warm water was placed for her toilet and a candle was left burning so that she could accomplish this task in comfort. It was intensely cold at this early hour. She had barely finished dressing when a slow chiming bell began to sound. Fidelma recognised it as the traditional ‘death-bell’ which custom decreed should be rung to mark the passing of a Christian soul. A moment later Sister Brónach returned, head bowed, eyes floor-ward.

‘It is time for the observance, sister,’ she whispered.

Fidelma acknowledged and followed her out of the guests’ hostel, to the duirthech where the entire community appeared to have gathered. To her surprise, the snow of the previous evening had not lain around the abbey buildings, though a glance showed that a thin layer of snow covered the surrounding woods and hills beyond. There was an eerie white glow to the early morning.

Inside the wooden chapel building, it was so cold that someone had lit a fire which blazed in a brazier standing at the back. The damp and cold struck up from the stone flags of the floor of the duirthech. The Abbess Draigen was kneeling behind the altar on which a large, and rather magnificent, tall gold cross stood, almost dominating the chapel. Before the altar, in front of the congregation, stood the fuat, the funeral bier, on which the body of the unknown girl had been laid.

Fidelma took her place on the end bench next to Sister Brónach. She was thankful for the warmth from the nearby brazier. She looked round, appreciatively taking in the opulence of the furnishings of the wooden chapel. As well as the richness of the altar cross, the walls were hung with numerous icons with gold fixtures conspicuous everywhere. She presumed that the obsequies had been observed since last night. The corpse was now wrapped in a racholl, a white linen shroud. At each corner of the bier a candle fluttered in the slight morning breeze.

The Abbess Draigen stood up and slowly began to clap her hands in the traditional lámh-comairt which signified the lamentation for the dead. Then the sisters began to start a soft wailing cry — the caoine, the sorrowing. It was a chilling sound in the half light of early morning and caused Fidelma’s neck to tingle although she had heard it so many times before. The lament to the dead was a custom which went back to the time before the new Faith had displaced that of the old gods and goddesses.

After ten minutes the caoine stopped.

Abbess Draigen stepped forward. At this point in the ritual it was customary for the amra, or elegy, to be given.

It was then that there came a strange noise, seeming to well up from beneath the stone floor of the chapel. It was not particularly loud. It was an odd scraping sound, a deep, hollow scuffling sound as when two wooden boats bump against one another, bobbing on the waves of the sea. The members of the community peered fearfully at one another.

Abbess Draigen raised a slim hand for silence.

‘Sisters, you forget yourselves,’ she admonished.

Then she bent her head to continue the service.

‘Sisters, we are mourning one who is unknown to us and therefore no elegy can mark her passing. A unknown soul has sped to God’s holy embrace. Yet she is known to God and that is enough. That the hand that cut short this life is also known to God may also be accepted. We lament the passingof this soul but rejoice in the knowledge that it has passed to God’s good keeping.’

Six of the sisters of the community moved forward, at a signal from the abbess, and lifted the bier to their shoulders and then, led by the abbess, they moved out of the chapel followed by the rest of the community, forming a double line in the wake of the bier.

Fidelma held back to follow at the rear of this column and, as she did so, she saw that another of the religieuses was also holding back for the same purpose. She noticed this as Sister Brónach seemed to remain in her place for the specific purpose of walking with the other anchoress. At first, Fidelma thought the woman was extremely short in height but then she realised that the anchoress clutched a stick and moved in a curious waddling posture. It was clear that her legs were deformed although her upper body was well shaped. With sadness, Fidelma saw that she was young, with a broad, perhaps rather plain face, and watery blue eyes. She swung from side to side, heaving herself forward with the aid of her blackthorn stick, keeping well up with the procession. Fidelma felt a compassion for the misfortune of the young sister and wondered what mischance had caused her debility.

The sky had already lightened and it was now bright enough for the procession to wind its way through the buildings towards the forest that grew around the abbey. One of the sisters, with a soft soprano voice, began to intone in Latin, the chorus being taken up by the other sisters:

Cantemus in omni die

concinentes uarie,

conclamantes Deo dignum

hymnum sanctae Mariae

Fidelma whispered the translation to herself as theyproceeded onwards: ‘Let us sing each day, chanting together in varied harmonies, declaiming to God a worthy hymn for holy Mary’.

They paused in a little clearing where, it seemed, a burial place for the community had been prepared, judging by the memorial stones and crosses that stood in abundance. A light dusting of flaky snow covered the ground. The abbess had conducted the bier to an isolated corner of the cemetery. Here the sisters, carrying the bier expertly, as if they had much practice, took the body from it and lowered it into the grave which had apparently been dug the day before in readiness.

Fidelma was prepared for what came next. It was an ancient custom. The wooden bier on which the body had been carried was smashed into little pieces by two sisters wielding hammers. According to ancient superstition, which the Faith had not yet destroyed, the bier must be broken for, if this was not done, the evil spirits might use it to carry off the corpse in their night excursions. If the bier was destroyed the evil spirits had to let the corpse rest.

An extremely young sister of pleasing appearance, approached carrying a huge bunch of green bushy branches. Fidelma recognised her as Sister Lerben, the young novice who had conducted her to the abbess’ chamber on the previous evening. The others formed a line before her at the graveside and as they passed the youthful-looking Sister Lerben, each took a small branch before pausing at the open grave and dropping it in. Fidelma and the disabled religieuse, helped by Sister Brónach, were standing last in line. With a gentle smile, Fidelma signalled Sister Brónach and the disabled sister to precede her before taking one of the remaining branches from Sister Lerben to deposit it in the grave and returning to her place. The birch branch was called ses sofais which not only gave the body a covering before the earth was shovelled in but was traditionally thought to protect the corpse from any malignant force.

Abbess Draigen moved forward to deposit the last piece of birch in the open grave. As two sisters began to fill the grave with earth, the abbess began to intone the words of the Biait, the Irish name for Psalm 118, the word ‘blessed’ being taken from the first line which was considered the most powerful invocation for efficacy of the suffering soul. Yet Abbess Draigen did not recite the Biait in its entirety but was selective in her rendering.

‘I call upon the Lord in my distress; the Lord answered me, and set me free.

‘The Lord is on my side; I will not fear; what can man do to me?

‘The Lord is on my side and helps me against my enemies,

‘It is better to find refuge with the Lord than to trust men;

‘It is better to find sanctuary with the Lord than to trust princes.’

Fidelma frowned at the vehemence of the abbess’s enunciation as if the words had some deeper significance for her.

Then the task was over. The poor headless corpse had been interred and the appropriate prayers and blessings had been said in accordance with the rituals of the Faith.

The sun was now well up and Fidelma could feel the faint warmth of its early morning, winter rays on her face. The woods had burst into life now, the tuneful sounds of birdsong and the soft whispering of the leaves and branches, shaking off their snow covering in the morning breeze, changed the solemnity of the proceedings to a joyous serenity.

She was aware that the sisters of the community were wending their way slowly back towards the abbey buildings. Fidelma saw the disabled religieuse, behind the others, propelling her way along the path with her stick, accompanied by Sister Brónach. A hollow cough distracted herattention and she turned to find the abbess approaching and with her was a young sister who had stood at the right hand of the abbess throughout the proceedings.

‘Good morning, sister,’ the abbess greeted.

Fidelma returned the salutation.

‘What was the strange noise in the chapel?’ she asked immediately. ‘The community seem quite disturbed by it.’

Abbess Draigen grimaced disdainfully.

‘They should know better. I have shown you our subterraneus.’

‘Yes, but any noise from that would not be heard in the chapel, surely? It does not extend under the duirthech.’

‘True enough. Yet, as I told you, there are supposed to be several caves over which the abbey was raised and we have been unable to find entrances to them apart from our store cave. Doubtless there is a cave under the chapel which probably floods and produced the sound we heard.’

Fidelma conceded this was possible.

‘So you have heard this before?’

Abbess Draigen seemed suddenly impatient.

‘Several times during winter months. It is an irrelevant matter.’ It was clear that she was weary of the subject. She turned slightly to her companion. ‘This is Sister Síomha, my steward, who discovered the corpse with Sister Brónach.’

Fidelma examined the attractive features of Sister Síomha with some surprise. They were the features of a young, angelic girl, not the experienced eyes of someone who looked like a rechtaire, the steward of a community. Fidelma tried to overcome her surprise with a belated smile but she found there was no answering warmth from the young steward of the abbey.

‘I have duties to see to, sister, so perhaps you would be good enough to ask me your questions immediately.’ The tone was abrupt, almost testy. It was so unlike the tone Fidelma had been expecting from the sweet-looking girl that she blinked and was unable to answer for a moment.

‘That I cannot do,’ she replied stolidly.

She was rewarded by seeing a disconcerted expression pass over Sister Síomha’s face.

Fidelma turned to follow the other sisters.

‘I beg your pardon, sister?’ Síomha’s voice had risen slightly in a querulous tone as she took a hesitant step after her.

Fidelma glanced over her shoulder.

‘I will be able to see you at noon today. You may come to the guests’ hostel to find me.’ Fidelma proceeded on her way before Sister Síomha could respond.

A moment or so later the abbess, who had hurried after her, fell in step. She was slightly breathless.

‘I do not understand, sister,’ she said, her brows were drawn together. ‘I thought last night that you expressed a desire to speak with my house steward.’

‘And so I do, mother abbess,’ Fidelma said. ‘But, as you’ll recall, I also promised to break my fast with Adnár this morning. The sun has already risen and I must find a way of crossing to his fortress.’

Draigen looked disapproving.

‘I do not think your visit to Adnár is necessary. The man has no jurisdiction over this matter and God is to be thanked for that.’

‘Why so, mother abbess?’ queried Fidelma.

‘Because he is a mean, spiteful man, capable of great slanders.’

‘Meaning slanders directed at yourself?’

Abbess Draigen shrugged.

‘I not know, nor do I care. It concerns me little what Adnár has to tittle-tattle about. But I think that he is keen to impart some gossip to you.’

‘Is that why he tried to race your boat to Ross’s ship when it arrived here?’

‘Why else? He is certainly piqued that he, as bó-aire, and therefore magistrate, has not been put in charge of thismatter. He would like to have some power over this community.’

‘Why so?’

Abbess Draigen pursed her lips angrily.

‘Because the man is vain, that is why. He loves his little brief authority.’

Fidelma abruptly halted and examined the features of the abbess closely.

‘Adnár is chieftain of this territory. His fortress stands just across the inlet and therefore this abbey must pay dues to him. Yet I detect some great animosity between this abbey and Adnár.’

Fidelma was careful not to personalise things.

Abbess Draigen flushed.

‘I can have no control over your thoughts, sister, or your interpretation of what you see about you.’ She began to turn away and then paused. ‘If you have it in mind to break your fast with Adnár this morning, then it will be a long walk around the shoreline to the headland on which Adnár’s fortress is set. However, you will find a small boat tied to our quay. You may use it, if you will, for it takes ten minutes to row across the inlet from this point.’

Fidelma was about to thank her but the abbess was already walking away.

The abbess was right. It was a short and pleasant crossing in front of the mouth of the small river, emptying into the inlet between the headland on which the abbey had been built and the bald promontory of rock on which the circular stone fortress of Adnár stood. What was it that Ross had called it? The fortress of the cow-goddess — Dun Boí. Fidelma had to admire the foresight of the builders of the fort for the promontory it stood on commanded not only the open gateway to the sea but the entire inlet, which was several miles across. The forests had been cleared from the promontory so that the lookouts’ view across the inlet was totallyunimpeded and from the wooden buildings which rose beyond its grey granite walls, the woods cut down had been put to good use in the construction of the fortress itself.

As Fidelma rowed across the shallow bay which separated the abbey from the fortress, she heard a shout from a dark silhouette on the fortress wall. She gave a half glance over her shoulder and saw another figure running. Her coming had obviously been spotted and the news was being relayed to Adnár.

Indeed, by the time Fidelma worked her small craft alongside the wooden jetty below the fortress, Adnár himself was standing with a couple of his warriors to welcome her ashore. He bent forward, smiling and was courtesy itself as he helped her from the boat.

‘Welcome, sister. The journey was not arduous?’

Fidelma found herself returning his smile.

‘Not arduous at all. It is but a short distance,’ she added, pointing out the obvious.

‘I thought I heard a service bell tolling earlier?’ The comment was put more in the form of a question.

‘Indeed, you did,’ Fidelma confirmed. ‘It was the burial service for the corpse that was found.’

Adnár looked startled.

‘Does that mean that you have discovered the identity of the corpse?’

Fidelma shook her head. For an odd moment she wondered whether she had detected a note of anxiety in the chieftain’s voice.

‘The abbess decided that the corpse should be buried without a name. If she had delayed any longer then the matter would have become a danger to the health of the community.’

‘A danger?’ Adnár seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts for a while and then he realised what she meant. ‘Ah, I see. So you have come to no conclusions on the matter as yet?’

‘None.’

Adnár turned and motioned with his hand up the short pathway which led from the jetty to a wooden gate in the grey walls of the fortress.

‘Let me show you the way, sister. I am pleased that you have come. I was not sure whether you would or not.’

Fidelma frowned slightly.

‘I told you that I would break my fast with you this morning. What I say I will do, I do.’

The tall, black-haired chieftain spread his hands apologetically as he stood aside to allow her through the gate first.

‘I meant no insult, sister. It is just that the Abbess Draigen has no love for me.’

‘That I could witness for myself yesterday,’ Fidelma replied.

Adnár turned up a short flight of stone steps to a large wooden building made from great oak timbers. The double doors were ornately carved. She noticed that the two warriors who had been surreptitiously accompanying them now took a stand at the bottom of the steps as Adnár pushed open the doors.

Fidelma gave a quick intake of breath at the scene which greeted her. The feasting hall of Adnár was warm, a large fire roared in a great hearth. The whole room was richly decorated and far beyond the standard which she would have expected of a simple bó-aire, a cow chieftain of no landed property. The building was mainly of oak but the walls were inset with panels of polished yew. Burnished bronze and silver shields hung around the walls between rich foreign tapestries. There were even some book satchels hung on the walls and a lectern for reading them. Animal skins, such as otter, deer and bear, were strewn across the floor. A circular table had already been set for the meal, piled with fruits and cold meats and cheeses and jugs of water and wine.

‘You keep a fine house, Adnár,’ Fidelma commented, gazing at the munificence of the table’s contents.

‘He keeps it only when he knows that special guests will grace the table, sister.’

Fidelma turned sharply at the sound of the pleasant tenor, male voice.

A thin-faced young man had entered the room. Fidelma found herself taking an instant dislike to the man. He was clean shaven, but the stubble grew almost blue against his thin jowls. In fact, his whole body was thin, the nose angular, the lips red but little more than a slit, and his eyes were large black orbs which never seemed to stay still for longer than a few seconds. They darted constantly, giving the man a furtive expression. Over his saffron shirt he wore a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin, belted around the middle. A red-gold necklace adorned his neck. Fidelma saw that he also carried a bejewelled dagger in a leather sheath at his side. Only men and women of high rank were allowed to carry a dagger into a feasting hall where no greater weapons were ever allowed.

The young man was not much older than the ‘age of choice’, his maturity. Fidelma placed him at no more than eighteen years of age — perhaps nineteen at the most.

Adnár moved forward a pace.

‘Sister Fidelma, allow me to present Olcán, son of Gulban the Hawk-Eye, prince and ruler of the Beara, whose territory you are now in.’

The hand that the young man extended was damp and limp. Fidelma felt a slight shudder go through her body as they touched hands in greeting. It was like touching the flesh of a corpse.

Fidelma knew that she was wrong to take a dislike to Olcán simply on account of his appearance. What was the line from Juvenal? Fronti nulla fides. No reliance can be placed on appearance. She, above all people, should be warned against hasty judgments made solely on what the eye perceived.

‘Welcome, sister. Welcome. Adnár has told me that you had arrived and why.’

She had never met Olcán before but she knew that hisfather Gulban claimed descent back to the great king of Muman, Ailill Olum, who had ruled three or four centuries before and from whom her own family had descended. From this descent her own brother now sat on the throne of Cashel. Yet, she also knew that Gulban was chieftain of only one sept of the greater clan of the Loigde.

‘I had no idea that you resided here, Olcán,’ she said.

The young man shook his head swiftly.

‘I do not. I am only a guest enjoying the hospitality of Adnár. I am here to fish and to hunt.’

He half turned as a hollow cough sounded in the shadows.

Behind him, a broad-shouldered, good-looking man in a religieux robe came forward. He was about forty, perhaps even in his mid-forties. Fidelma took in his pleasant features. His red gold hair, whose lights shone like burnished metal in the sun that permeated the windows, was cut in the tonsure of St John, the front half of his head shaven back to a line from ear to ear. His eyes were wide and blue, the nose slightly prominent but the lips were red and humorous. Yet his appearance was made slightly sinister by the fact that the religieux had stained his eyelids black with berry juice. It was an old custom of some religieux; a custom, so it was said, which dated back to the time of the Druids. Many Irish missionaries going abroad often adopted the style.

Again it was Adnár who moved quickly forward to make introductions.

‘This is Brother Febal, sister,’ he announced. ‘He is my anam-chara and tends to the spiritual needs of my community.’

It was the custom in the church to have a ‘soul-friend’ in whom to confide one’s spiritual problems and confusion. The custom, Fidelma knew, differed in the Church of Rome where people were encouraged to confess their sins to a priest. But in the five kingdoms the anam-chara was more a confidant and a spiritual guide than one who simply allotted punishment for spiritual transgressions. The handsomereligieux smiled warmly and his handshake was firm and sure. Yet there was something Fidelma found she did not trust about the man. Something that conjured up ladies’ bedchambers and softly turning door handles. She tried to shake the thought from her mind.

Olcán seemed to have taken over as host in Adnár’s feasting hall and waved Fidelma to take a seat near him while Adnár and Brother Febal sat opposite them at the round table. As soon as they were seated, a youthful attendant hurried forward to pour wine for them.

‘Is your brother, Colgú, well?’ asked Olcán. ‘How goes it with our new king?’

‘He was well when I last saw him at Ros Ailithir,’ replied Fidelma cautiously. ‘He returned to Cashel just before I came away.’

‘Ah, Ros Ailithir!’ Olcán cast her an appraising look. ‘All Muman thrilled to the news of how you solved the mystery of the murder of the Venerable Dacán there.’

Fidelma stirred with embarrassment. She did not like her work to be considered anything out of the ordinary.

‘It was a puzzle to be solved. And it is my task as an advocate of the courts to probe conundrums and perceive the truth. However, you said all Muman thrilled at my solution. I doubt this could be true among your people, the Loigde? Salbach, your former chieftain, did not come well out of that situation.’

‘Salbach was an ambitious fool.’ Olcán pursed his lips sourly at her response. ‘My father, Gulban, had often clashed with him when attending the clan assembly. Salbach was not welcome in this land.’

‘Yet the people of Beara are a sept of the Loígde,’ Fidelma pointed out.

‘Our first allegiance is to Gulban and his allegiance is then to the chieftain who sits at Cuan Dóir. Anyway, Salbach is no longer chieftain but Bran Finn Mael Ochtraighe. Personally, I have no interest in politics. For this, my father and I are-’he grinned, ‘are estranged. My view is that life is to be enjoyed and what better means than hunting …?’ He was about to go further but hesitated and then ended: ‘However, you did well in ridding our people of an ambitious incompetent.’

‘As I have said, I performed no more than my duty as an advocate.’

‘A task that not everyone is as adept at. You have earned a reputation of being very accomplished. Adnár tells me that it is just such a mystery as brings you hither. Is this true?’

He passed her a plate of cold meats which she declined, preferring to help herself to a bowl of oats and nuts with fresh apples to follow.

‘That is so,’ Adnár intervened quickly.

Brother Febal had appeared uninterested in the opening conversation and was devoting himself, head down, to concentrating on his meal.

‘I have come at the request of the Abbess Draigen,’ confirmed Fidelma. ‘She asked the Abbot Brocc to send a dálaigh to her abbey.’

‘Ah,’ Olcán sighed deeply, apparently studying the dregs in his wine goblet as if interested by them. Then he raised his gaze to Fidelma. ‘I am told that the abbess has something of a reputation in this land. She is not regarded as, how can I say it? “spiritually advanced”? Isn’t that so, Brother Febal?’

Febal raised his head quickly from his plate. He hesitated and swung his blue eyes to Fidelma, staring at her for a moment, before dropping his gaze back on his plate.

‘It is as you say, my prince. The Abbess Draigen is said to have unnatural tendencies.’

Fidelma leaned forward, her eyes narrowed as she concentrated on Brother Febal.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to be more explicit, brother?’

Brother Febal jerked his head up again, his expression startled, and glanced nervously to Olcán and Adnár. Then he reset his features almost woodenly.

‘Sua cuique sunt vitia,’ he intoned.

‘Indeed, we all have our own vices,’ agreed Fidelma, ‘but perhaps you will tell us what you discern are the vices of the abbess?’

‘I think that we all know what Brother Febal means,’ Adnár interrupted petulantly, as if annoyed at Fidelma’s lack of understanding. ‘I think that if a young female corpse were found in the abbey, and I were conducting an investigation, then I would look no further than the abbey for a suspect and, for a motive, no further than base and perverted passion.’

Sister Fidelma sat back and regarded Adnár curiously.

‘And is this what you have invited me here to tell me?’

Adnár inclined his head in a brief gesture of affirmation.

‘Originally, I invited you here to register my protest that the Church has sent one of its own to deal with the matter at the request of the chief suspect. I thought you had come here to help exonerate the abbess.’

‘And now you have changed your mind?’ Fidelma caught the careful phraseology of the bó-aire.

Adnár cast an uncomfortable look at Olcán.

‘Olcán assures me that he knows of your reputation; that you have been trusted by the High King himself as well as kings and princes in other lands. I am therefore content to leave this matter in your hands, sister, knowing that you will not exonerate where blame is due.’

Fidelma was studying the man, trying to keep her surprise to herself. That an accusation of this kind should be brought against the leader of a religious community was a matter of gravity.

‘Let me get this clear, Adnár,’ she said slowly. ‘You are openly claiming that the Abbess Draigen was responsible for the death of this young girl and the motive was to hide her own sexual partiality?’

Adnár was about to reply when Olcán interrupted.

‘No, I do not think that Adnár is making an official charge. He is pointing out an obvious course of inquiry. It appears common knowledge in these parts that the Abbess Draigen has a predilection for attractive young religieuses and encourages them to her abbey. That is no more than common gossip. Now we have a young female corpse found at the abbey. I think Adnár is advising you that it would be well to examine whether anything amiss has happened within the abbey walls.’

Fidelma was examining the young man while he was speaking. He appeared to speak with straightforward conviction and honesty but was intelligent enough to lead Adnár out of a dangerous path whereby he could stand answerable before the law for spreading dangerous stories about the abbess. Brother Febal did not appear to concern himself with the matter, continuing to pick at the food on the table. Olcán seemed merely anxious that she should know the full extent of the situation.

She sighed deeply.

‘Very well. This conversation will not go beyond these walls,’ she agreed at last. ‘In return, I will undertake to investigate closely any information that may lead to the culprit, however unpalatable it is for anyone of position and rank.’

Olcan sat back in relief.

‘That is all Adnár is concerned with, is that not so?’

The chieftain gestured affirmatively.

‘I am sure that you will find many people hereabouts to support our views of the Abbess Draigen. Brother Febal speaks as a churchman. He is extremely concerned at the stories which he hears about the abbess and is jealous for the good reputation of the Faith.’

Fidelma looked sharply at the religieux.

‘There are many stories?’

‘Several,’ agreed Brother Febal.

‘And have any of them been proved?’

Brother Febal shrugged indifferently.

‘There are several stories,’ he repeated. ‘Valeat quatum valere potest.’

He added the standard phrase when a person passes on information which has not been proved, meaning ‘take it for what it’s worth’.

Fidelma sniffed suspiciously.

‘Very well. But, if your accusation is correct, you would have to accept that many people in the abbey are in collusion with the abbess. To take this to a logical conclusion, someone else would have known if the abbess was having an affair with the murdered girl. If the corpse was a member of the abbey community, surely someone would know and, if so, there is the collusion. If not, the girl would either have been a local, in which case why has her disappearance not been reported to you, Adnár, as bó-aire? Or, she must have been a stranger, presumably staying at the abbey. Again, the community at the abbey would have known this.’

Brother Febal’s eyes darted quickly to Fidelma.

‘We see a sample of your deductive powers, sister,’ he said in a warm tone. ‘All my lords ask is that you use your talent fairly in finding the culprit. Res in cardine est.’

Fidelma had begun to feel very irritated at what she saw was the patronising tone of the brother. She was also irked by his questionable Latin tags. To say that ‘the matter is on a door hinge’ was to imply that Fidelma would work out the truth soon enough. But he had prefaced his remark with a deliberate insult and she decided to take issue with Brother Febal’s suggestion that she would not undertake the investigation fairly.

‘The validity of my oath as an advocate of the courts of the five kingdoms has never been questioned before,’ she replied waspishly.

Olcán immediately reached forward and laid a consoling hand on her arm.

‘My dear sister, I think Brother Febal badly phrased his words. I believe that he merely wishes to express concern at this matter. Indeed, Adnár and I are very concerned. After all, the murder happened in the territory of Adnár, so you will agree that it is right for him, as magistrate, to show disquietude. Adnár’s allegiance is to my father, Gulban, whose interests I am forced to represent. Therefore, I also share his apprehension.’

Fidelma sighed inwardly. She knew that sometimes she could give way too easily to her prickly ire.

‘Of course,’ she responded, forcing herself to smile briefly. ‘Yet I am merely jealous of my reputation when it comes to judgments and the law.’

‘We are happy to leave the matter in your capable hands,’ Olcán agreed. ‘I am sure Brother Febal regrets if his words were ill-chosen …?’

Brother Febal smiled ingratiatingly.

‘Peccavi,’ he said, placing his hand on his heart, expressing in Latin that he had sinned. Fidelma did not bother to answer him.

Olcán glossed the awkward moment.

‘Now, let us to other matters. Is this your first visit to this land of Beara?’

Fidelma confessed it was, for she had never been to the peninsula before.

‘It is a beautiful place, even in the throes of winter. It is a land of the primal beginnings of our people,’ enthused Olcan. ‘Did you know that this is the shore where the sons of Mil, the first of the Gaels, landed? Where Amairgen the Druid promised the three goddesses of the Dé Danaan, Banba, Fodhla and Eire, that the country would forever bear their names?’

Fidelma was suddenly amused at the young man’s enthusiasm for his native territory.

‘Perhaps when I am finished here I shall be able to see something more of this land of yours,’ she replied solemnly.

‘Then I will be delighted to accompany you,’ offered Olcán. ‘Why, from the side of the mountain behind us, I can point out the distant island where the god of death, Donn, gathered the souls of the departed to transport them in his great black ship to the west, to the Otherworld. Adnár also has much knowledge of the local history. Isn’t that so, Adnár?’

The chieftain bowed his head in stiff acknowledgment.

‘As Olcán says, should you wish to see the ancient sites of this land, we would be pleased to offer you our company as guides.’

‘I shall look forward to that,’ agreed Fidelma, for she did have a great fascination for the ancient legends of her land. ‘But now I should be returning to the abbey to continue my investigation.’

She rose from the table and they reluctantly rose with her.

Olcán placed his hand familiarly under Fidelma’s elbow and guided her from the feasting hall. Brother Febal seemed content to reseat himself and continue his meal without a gesture of farewell while Adnár quickly followed them.

‘It has been good to meet with you, Fidelma,’ Olcán said, as they came out on to the steps, pausing for a moment. ‘It is sad, however, that this meeting has been precipitated by such a terrible event.’ The view of the inlet was lit by the pale light of the sun. Olcán glanced across to where the Gaulish merchant vessel was anchored, the solitary ship in the bay. ‘Is that the ship in which you came from Ros Ailithir?’ he asked, regarding its alien lines with sudden interest.

Fidelma quickly sketched the mystery.

Then Adnár broke in.

‘I shall be sending my men aboard the Gaulish ship this afternoon,’ he said decisively.

Fidelma turned to him in some astonishment.

‘For what purpose?’

Adnár gave a complacent smile.

‘Surely you are acquainted with the salvage laws?’

His tone immediately drew Fidelma’s indignation.

‘If your purpose is sarcasm, Adnár, I would advise against it. It never wins an argument against logic,’ she replied coldly. ‘I know the salvage laws and still ask you on what grounds you plan to send your men to claim the Gaulish ship?’

Olcán smiled wryly at Adnár’s red-cheeked mortification.

Resentfully the bó-aire’s mouth narrowed.

‘I am advised on the texts of the Mur-Bretha, sister. I have to know such things as I am magistrate of a stretch of this shoreline. Any salvage thrown up on this sea shore belongs to me …’

Olcan turned to Fidelma with an apologetic smile.

‘Surely, he is right, sister? But in so far as the object of salvage is valued to five séts or cows. If it is worth more, then the excess has to be divided, one third to the bó-aire, a third to the ruler of this territory, my father, and a third to the heads of the major clans in this area.’

Fidelma regarded the triumphant features of Adnár and turned back to Olcán with a grave expression.

‘You neglected to add, in your reading of the sea laws, that your father would also have to give one-fourth of his share to the provincial king, my brother, and the provincial king would then have to give one fourth of that share to the High King. That is the strict law of salvage.’

Olcán chuckled loudly in appreciation of Fidelma’s knowledge of the law of salvage.

‘By my soul, you live up to your reputation, Sister Fidelma.’

If the truth were known, Fidelma had only recently read the texts of the Mur-Bretha while investigating the problem at Ros Ailithir. At the time, she had found that she was woefully deficient in her knowledge of the laws appertaining to the sea. Only her recent study had now made her so perspicuous on the matter.

‘So you will also know,’ Adnár added, almost slyly, in hisconfidence, ‘as bó-aire I have to impose a fine on Ross for not immediately sending out a notice to me and the chieftains of this district that he has brought this ship as salvage into this port. That also is the law.’

Fidelma looked at Adnár’s grinning face but remained solemn. She slowly shook her head and saw his expression change into one of disconcertion.

‘You need to study your laws on the frith-fairrgi, or “finds of the sea”, more closely.’

‘Why so?’ Adnár demanded, his tone losing its former confidence at her calm assurance.

‘Because if you had studied the text carefully, you would see that if a man brings in a valuable article floating on the sea, which includes a ship as well as mere flotsam and jetsam, and he has salvaged that article beyond the distance of nine waves from the shore, then he has a right to it and no other person can lay claim to it, not even the High King. The ship, therefore, belongs to Ross and no other. Only if the salvage was made within the distance of nine waves from this shore do you have any claim on it.’

The length of nine waves was considered to be the length of a measure called a forrach and each forrach was one hundred and forty-four feet. So Ross’s encounter with the Gaulish ship had been well out of territorial waters and on the high seas.

The distance of nine waves had a symbolism going back to pagan times. Even now, among those who purported to believe in the new Faith of the Christ, the magical symbol of the nine waves was entirely accepted. Two years previously, when the awesome Yellow Plague was devastating the five kingdoms of Ireland, Colmán, the chief professor of the Blessed Finbarr’s college at Cork, had fled with his pupils to an island so as to place nine waves between him and the Irish mainland. He had claimed ‘pestilence does not make its way farther than nine waves’.

Adnár stared at Fidelma aghast.

‘Do you jest with me?’ he demanded, almost through clenched teeth.

Olcán saw Fidelma’s brows drawing together and disarmed her with a hearty laugh.

‘Of course she does not, Adnár. No officer of the courts will ever jest about the law. You, my dear bó-aire, have been misinformed about the law.’

Adnár turned his outraged gaze to the young prince.

‘But …’ he began to protest but was silenced with a quick, angry glance from Olcán.

‘Enough! The matter wearies me as I am sure it does Sister Fidelma.’ He smiled pleasantly at her. ‘We must let her return to the abbey now. You will bear in mind the advice from Adnár and Brother Febal? Yes, I am sure you will,’ he went on before she could answer. ‘However, if there is anything you wish while you are staying in our land of Beara you have but to ask. I believe I speak for my father, Gulban, as well as myself.’

‘That is good to know, Olcán,’ Fidelma answered gravely. ‘And now, I will give my attention to the more pressing problem. I thank you for your hospitality, Adnár … and your advice.’

She was aware of them watching her from the walls of the fortress as she made her way to the wooden jetty and was helped into the boat by a silent warrior. She saw them still watching as she bent into the rhythm of the oars, speeding the little craft back over the bay towards the abbey. She felt uneasy. There was something which troubled her about her visit to Adnár’s fortress.

Adnár and Olcán were pleasant enough company. But she could not quite understand her antipathy towards them. Olcán’s physical appearance was rather loathsome but he was not unfriendly. Adnár had tried to score a point over the salvage of the Gaulish ship. She should not blame him for that. It was the almost unreasonable aversion to them, which was not borne out by an analysis of logic, that worried hermore. There was something she really distrusted and felt herself immediately bristle against. Perhaps she resented their combined spreading of stories about Draigen. It would not take long to discover whether the stories about the abbess were true. And if they were true, did they immediately presuppose some guilt on the part of the abbey’s community? For, if guilt there was, then the entire community could not be lacking in some knowledge of it.

She manoeuvred the craft alongside the wooden landing stage of the abbey and once again asked herself if there could be any truth in the accusations?

As she secured the craft and climbed ashore, she heard a gong sounding.