The Subtle Serpent

‘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.’

Chapter Thirteen