The Subtle Serpent

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.

Chapter Six

When Sister Síomha had not shown up at the guests’ hostel half-an-hour after the noon hour, the time when Fidelma had requested her presence, Fidelma decided to go in search of the steward of the community. She checked the time as she passed the ornate bronze sundial which stood in the centre of the courtyard with its ostentatious Latin inscription: ‘Horas non numero nisi serenas — I do not count the hours unless they are bright.’ The day was cold but, certainly, it was bright and clear. The snow clouds that had passed in the night were long gone.

It was the pretty young Sister Lerben who was able to direct Fidelma to the tower which rose behind the wooden church. Fidelma had discovered that Sister Lerben was more personal servant than simple attendant to the abbess. Lerben told Fidelma that she would find Sister Síomha in the tower attending to the water- clock. The tower was a large construction standing immediately next to the stone store room which Fidelma had entered on the previous evening. The tower’s foundations were of stone and then its upper storeys were built of wood, rising to a height of thirty-five feet. Fidelma could see, on the flat top of the tower, the main bell by which the community was summoned to prayer.

Ascending the wooden stairs within the squat stone foundations, Fidelma felt an increasing annoyance at the arrogance of the steward who had ignored her summons. If a dálaigh demanded the presence of a witness, then the witnesshad to obey on pain of a fine. Fidelma determined that she would ensure the conceited Sister Síomha learned this lesson.

The square tower was built in a series of chambers placed one on top of the other with floors of birch planking supported by heavy oak beams from which steps led from one chamber to another. Each chamber had four small windows which commanded views on all four sides but these made the rooms gloomy rather than bringing light into them. The tower itself, or at least the first two floors of it, were filled by the community’s Tech-screptra, the ‘house of manuscripts’ or library. Wooden fames crossed the room on which rows of pegs hung and from each peg was suspended a tiag liubhar or book satchel.

Fidelma paused amazed at the collection of books which the abbey of The Salmon of the Three Wells had in its possession. There must have been fully fifty or more hanging from the pegs on the first two floors. She carefully examined several of them finding, among them, to her further surprise, copies of the works of the eminent Irish scholar Longarad of Sliabh Marga. Another book satchel contained the works of Dallán Forgaill of Connacht, who had presided at the Great Bardic Assemblies of his day, and who had been murdered seventy years ago. Suspicion was laid at the door of Guaire the Hospitable, king of Connacht, but nothing was ever proved. It was one of the great mysteries which Fidelma often found herself contemplating and wishing that she had lived in those times so that she could solve the riddle of Dallán’s death.

She looked in a third book satchel and found a copy of Teagasc Ri, The Instruction of the King. The author of this work was the High King Cormac Mac Art, who had died at Tara in AD 254. Although he had not been of the Faith he was famed as one of the wisest and most beneficent of monarchs. He had composed the book of instructions on the conduct of life, health, marriage and manners. Fidelma smiled as she remembered her first day under instruction ofher mentor, the Brehon Morann of Tara. She had been shy and almost afraid to speak. Morann had quoted from Cormac’s book: ‘If you be too talkative, you will not be heeded: if you be too silent, you will not be regarded.’

A frown crossed her face as she examined the vellum leaves of the book. Many of them were stained with a reddish mud. How could any good librarian allow such a treasure to be so defaced? She made a mental note to speak of the condition of the book to the librarian and thrust it back into its satchel, rebuking herself from being waylaid from her purpose in coming to the tower.

Reluctantly, she drew herself away from the library and climbed to the third floor. Here was a room set out