The Subtle Serpent (25 page)

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Authors: Peter Tremayne

Tags: #_rt_yes, #Church History, #Fiction, #tpl, #_NB_Fixed, #Mystery, #Historical, #Clerical Sleuth, #Medieval Ireland

BOOK: The Subtle Serpent
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‘Yes, that is so.’
‘But in law, Sister Brónach, Draigen has made reparation and atoned for this crime.’
‘Yes. I know that the Abbess Marga gave her complete absolution long ago. And now she has grown up. And every day since the day she slaughtered my mother, I have borne her presence as a penance for my sins.’
Fidelma was bewildered.
‘I still do not understand why you have stayed here. Why not depart to some other community where your wound could heal? Or why didn’t you demand that Draigen be sent to some other abbey?’
Sister Brónach gave a long, low sigh.
‘I have given you the reason. I stay here as a penance for my sins.’
‘What are these sins that you are guilty of?’ asked Fidelma. ‘What would cause you to spend your life in the company of one who killed your own flesh and blood?’
Sister Brónach hesitated again and then seemed to straighten herself up a little.
‘I was not there at the time to prevent Draigen’s attack on my mother. It is the sin of absence when I was needed.’
‘That is no cause for self-blame. There is no sin that has been committed.’
‘Yet I feel responsible.’
Fidelma was sceptical. There was something false about Sister Brónach’s explanation.
‘There I cannot help you. Though if you have a soul-friend, perhaps …’
‘I have struggled for twenty years with this problem, Sister Fidelma. It cannot be solved in twenty minutes.’
‘You blame yourself too much, sister,’ Fidelma rebuked. ‘Also, let us try to look on things with some charity. Twenty years ago Draigen was a young girl, an immature young girl, by all that you say. What she did then, is past. The person she is now is probably not the person that she was then.’
‘You are charitable, sister.’
‘You do not agree?’
‘Draigen is still the same character; jealous, unremitting in her ambition and a person who holds grudges.’ The middle-aged religieuse suddenly held up a hand, palm upwards as if to quell any protest. ‘Do not mistake me, sister. I have borne this burden for twenty years and will continue to bear it. I have nowhere in this world to go. At least, when I look up on the mountainside I can see my mother’s grave and sometimes I am able to go up there and sit awhile.’
‘Have you never felt that you would like to take retribution on Draigen?’
Sister Brónach genuflected as an answer.
‘You mean do her physical injury?
Quod avertat Deus!
What a thing to suggest!’
‘It has been known,’ Fidelma pointed out.
‘I cannot take life, sister. I cannot harm another human being no matter what they do to me. That was what I learnt from my mother, not from the Faith. I have already told you that I would prefer Draigen to live and suffer in her living.’
There was a dignified expression of sincerity on Sister Brónach’s features. Fidelma could understand everything Brónach told her except the fact that she had remained in the abbey all these years in close proximity to Draigen, especially after Draigen had become abbess.
‘It does not seem that Draigen suffers much,’ Fidelma observed.
‘Maybe you are right. Perhaps she has forgotten and probably believes that I have forgotten. But one night an hour will come when she awakens in fear and remembers.’
‘Brother Febal has not forgotten,’ Fidelma pointed out.
Brónach reddened slightly.
‘Febal? What has he said?’
‘Very little. Does anyone else know of the story?’
‘Only myself … and Febal. Though Febal is selective with his memories.’
‘Surely Draigen’s brother, Adnár, knows of the story?’
‘He learned it when he made his claim for the land and found he had forfeited it.’
‘Are you telling me that no one else here knows of Draigen’s past?’
‘No one.’
It was only then that Fidelma realised the one thing she was overlooking. If Lerben was Draigen’s daughter then surely Febal was Lerben’s father? Yet he had accused his former wife and his own daughter of having a sexual relationship! What kind of man was Febal?
‘Does Febal know that Lerben is his daughter?’ was Fidelma’s next question.
Sister Brónach looked surprised.
‘Of course. At least, I think so.’
Fidelma was quiet for a while.
‘You said that your mother followed the old pagan faith of this land. Do you know much of the old faith?’
Sister Brónach seemed puzzled for a moment at Fidelma’s change of subject.
‘I am my mother’s daughter. She taught the old ways.’
‘So you know of the old gods and goddesses, the symbol of the trees, and the meaning of Ogham?’
‘I know a little. I know enough to recognise Ogham but I lack the knowledge of the old language in which it is inscribed.’
Inscriptions in Ogham were given in an ancient form of Irish, not the common language of the people, but an archaic form known as the
Bérla Féini,
the language of the land tillers. In these days, only those aspiring to be Brehons, or lawyers, studied the old language.
‘Tell me, sister, what is the meaning of an aspen wand clasped in the left hand.’
Sister Brónach smiled knowledgeably.
‘That is easy. The aspen is a sacred tree from which the
fé,
the rod for measuring a grave, is always cut. And always a line of Ogham is scored on it. It is a custom still used throughout the land.’
‘Indeed, that is well known. But the attachment of the
fé
to the left arm — why not the right arm? What does that mean? You mentioned that you pointed this out to Draigen when the first body was found.’
‘Whenever a murderer or a suicide is buried, a
fé
is placed at their left hand …’ She broke off, a hand came to her mouth in surprise. ‘The Ogham words are usually an invocation to a goddess of death.’
‘Such as the Mórrigú? The goddess of death and battles?’
‘Yes.’ The reply was sharp.
‘Go on,’ said Fidelma quietly.
‘I do not know the formula of words but it would be an acknowledgement of such a goddess. The headless corpse …
the one in the well … she had a rod of aspen carved with Ogham attached to her left arm.’
‘So did Sister Síomha,’ Fidelma agreed.
‘What does it mean? Do you suggest … ?’
‘I suggest nothing,’ Fidelma interrupted quickly. ‘I merely asked you whether you knew what the symbolism meant.’
‘Of course, I do.’ Sister Brónach appeared to be thinking carefully now. ‘But does this mean that the headless corpse was a murderess?’
‘If that were so, surely it would follow that the same conclusion must be drawn with Sister Síomha.’
‘That does not make sense.’
‘It may make sense to the killer. Tell me, Sister Brónach, apart from yourself, who else would know about this symbolism here, in the abbey?’
The doorkeeper of the abbey shrugged.
‘Times move on. The old ways are being forgotten. I doubt whether any of the young ones would know the meaning of such things.’ Her eyes widened suddenly. ‘Are you implying that I might be the culprit?’
Fidelma did not make an attempt at reassurance.
‘You might be. It is my task to discover as much. Had we been talking of the murder of the Abbess Draigen, I would say that you had a very good motive and would be my choice of a prime suspect. But, at the moment, there appears to be no motive for the killing of the first corpse or of Sister Síomha.’
Sister Brónach regarded the younger woman with a resentful stare.
‘You have an unfortunate sense of humour, sister,’ she reproved. ‘There might be some others here that are equally knowledgeable about the old ways as I am.’
‘You have already said that this abbey consists mainly of young sisters and that they would not have such knowledge. Who else, then, would know about the symbolism?’
Sister Brónach thought a moment.
‘Sister Comnat, our librarian. But there is no one else except …’
She paused and her eyes suddenly became hard and bright.
Fidelma was watching her closely.
‘Except … ?’ she prompted.
‘No one.’
‘Oh, I know the thought that has come into your head,’ replied Fidelma easily. ‘You were proud of the old knowledge that your mother passed on to you. Who else could your mother have passed on such knowledge to? Someone she fostered? Come, the name is on the tip of your tongue.’
Sister Brónach looked down at her feet.
‘You know already. The Abbess Draigen, of course. She would know all about such symbolism and …’
‘And?’
‘She has been shown to be capable of killing.’
Sister Fidelma rose and nodded gravely.
‘You are the second person who has pointed that out to me within the last few hours.’
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 good
enough 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 right
cheek, 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 the
first 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. Síomha
would 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.’

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