The Shapeshifter's Lair

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘As this one is so near to where you say Cétach found the body, it might well be worth examining,’ she replied.

  The hunter gave a slight shrug, which she had noticed was a characteristic of his. Then he led the way across the shallow waters to the far bank, where they dismounted, having made sure there were no longer any boars or stags to contend with. The largest mammals in the area now seemed to be a few mountain hares, which was unusual because they normally fed at night. It showed that they had not built up any fears of predators who had the ability to slay them from afar and of which there was only one species: man. It also indicated that these buildings were long abandoned.

  It did not need more than a cursory glance to see the mine was little more than an open area where the miners had dug only the surface granite rock of the mountains. A glance revealed no depth to the cave entrance. It was merely a shadowy indent. Nothing was hidden. There was no sign of recent use.

  ‘There might be more caves around that outcrop further along,’ Enda pointed out.

  ‘There are many deserted areas like this,’ Teimel said. ‘You could be looking for years. I would have thought it is best to see if there are signs on the other side of the river.’

  Fidelma agreed it would be better to search near where the body had been found. With her consent, they turned and rode back down towards the river.

  Not a rustle in the undergrowth, not the faintest whisper of a movement in the air warned them before three arrows struck at precisely the same moment. One penetrated the centre of the path before them, while, of the other two, one embedded itself in the pommel of Eadulf’s saddle and the other in almost exactly the same position in Enda’s saddle.

  An imperious voice called from the cover of the undergrowth of the dark woods, ‘Halt! Stay still! One movement towards your weapons and you are all dead!’

  Teimel had already summed up the peril of their situation and held his hands palms outwards and away from his sides. Enda glanced at Fidelma, as if he needed her confirmation, but she had also spread her hands, palm outwards, so he followed her example. Eadulf had no choice but to copy them.

  The harsh authoritative voice came again. ‘Remain on your horses and do not try to do anything stupid. Keep your hands where they can be seen at all times.’

  There was a silence and no movement from the undergrowth to betray the position of their assailants, not even the slightest brush of a tuft of grass. The moment of shock was over and Fidelma raised her voice in a commanding tone.

  ‘Know that you have stopped a dálaigh in the pursuit of the King’s justice.’

  ‘The question arises – which king?’ the same voice asked in a sardonic tone.

  ‘All kings are answerable to the law of the people,’ returned Fidelma. ‘So you may say that I represent the law of the people as administered by the Brehons of the Five Kingdoms and under the jurisdiction of kings from all the provinces to the High King himself.’

  ‘Not every king is welcome in these mountains,’ came the reply. ‘So we shall see which king you represent.’

  ‘The interests of the law should be welcome in any place,’ she retorted, controlling her astonishment that the words implied some knowledge that she was not of the kingdom of Laigin.

  There was a snort of dismissal from the voice beyond the bushes.

  ‘It is said that lawyers will talk the hind leg off a mule. I am not interested in philosophy. In a moment my men will come to relieve you of your weapons. You will oblige me by making no moves. Keep your hands as they are now. I trust you have understood that my men are excellent bowmen? Your lives hang by a simple jerk of the fingers on a taut string. In a moment you will hear a hunter’s horn. Do not respond. Remain still.’

  Fidelma did not bother to answer as the man had mentioned the arrows. She had suddenly focused on the arrow protruding from the pommel of Enda’s saddle. It was disturbingly familiar. She glanced quickly to the missile embedded in Eadulf’s saddle. It was the same. It was fletched with feathers dyed brightly blue and white.

  They sat in silence and a moment later there came three short notes sounded on a hunting horn, which almost startled them in spite of the warning. The notes were long and low, and while their horses flicked their ears and snorted and jerked their heads, they did not move nor precipitated their riders into any action. Almost before the sounds died away, half a dozen riders appeared from the shelter of the trees on the far side of the river and rode directly across to them. The water barely came up to the hocks of the hind legs of their horses, showing there was a ford at this point and perhaps that was why the ambush had been placed there.

  Eadulf was watching their approach and assessing the way they held themselves and the weapons they carried. Now that he could see their demeanour he realised that these were disciplined warriors. As the men urged their mounts up the shallow bank, it was obvious they knew their profession. They approached from behind so that they did not obstruct the bodies of their prisoners from the bowmen still concealed in front of them. They moved from the river side to the stationary horses, making for Enda and Teimel first, carrying sacks for them to put their weapons in before making for Fidelma and Eadulf. Fidelma saw they were cautious, even to reaching forward to pluck the arrows from the pommels and put those with the confiscated weapons safely in the sacks. They eased their horses backwards, keeping everyone in sight and showing their skills as riders, and that their horses were well trained. At no time did they give their prisoners opportunity to make an assault.

  There came a word of command and, at the same time, a stocky man led three bowmen from the bushes before them. The bowmen each had their longbows strung, the arrows ready and pointing unerringly to the prisoners. The leader came forward to where the first arrow was still rooted in the track before them. He bent and picked it up and stood toying with it in his hands as he examined his prisoners with a faint, almost derisive smile.

  He had long black hair, streaked with a little grey from the forehead and temples. His skin was weather-beaten, showing he was used to the outdoor life and his dark eyes had a peculiar intensity as they seemed to possess no pupils. He was clad in a warrior’s leather jerkin and trousers, with a finely embroidered linen shirt, a silver chain around his neck, and an ornate scabbard round his waist, showing the bejewelled hilt of the sword that it enclosed. He halted before them and stood, feet splayed apart, his hands quietly turning over the arrow before him.

  There came an involuntary expression of recognition as the man glanced at Teimel, which caused Fidelma to look quickly in the direction of their guide. It was clear that Teimel had recognised the man too. A smile slowly spread over the features of the ambusher.

  ‘Well, well, Teimel. I did not know you were of this company.’

  The hunter briefly inclined his head towards the man. ‘Greetings, Corbmac,’ he replied shortly.

  ‘In what capacity are you among these folk?’ the leader of the ambushers went on, speaking in a pleasant tone as if passing the time as one might when meeting a friend unexpectedly on the highway.

  ‘I am their guide through the mountains. Well you know my skills.’

  There were a few moments’ silence and then the man called Corbmac shrugged.

  ‘Your reputation is well known, Teimel. If that is all your role is here then I have no need to delay you. You may take your weapons and return to Láithreach.’

  Eadulf cast a puzzled glance at their erstwhile guide. The question raced through his mind: had the man betrayed them into this ambush? But an ambush by whom and for what?

  Teimel was leaning forward to the leader and spoke with deliberateness. ‘Corbmac, I think you insult me.’

  ‘Insult?’ queried the leader with amusement. ‘How so?’

  ‘You know me, so you say. You know that I was once a warrior and swore a warrior’s oath. Oaths are sacred things. You should know that. So when I say that I have undertaken a task, I do so to the best of my ability and see the undertaking of the task as an
oath that I will perform it. My minn, my oath, is my honour and I will not violate it for any reason. So I will remain with the people I have given my word to act as guide to.’

  Fidelma interrupted by turning to him. ‘If these people are offering you freedom, Teimel, you are under no obligation to remain with us.’

  ‘No obligation except my honour, lady,’ the hunter declared firmly. ‘I will stay.’

  At this, the man called Corbmac gave Fidelma a close scrutiny.

  ‘Lady? So you are not just a lawyer? My thanks, Teimel, for confirming the rank of your companion. I have given you the opportunity to depart in peace but if you insist you shall accompany us. One last opportunity … do you still wish to remain?’

  Teimel grimaced. ‘I thought I had spoken clearly enough. I stay with my companions as I am honour bound to do.’

  ‘Well, you must do as your honour bids you, and as you are bound by your honour it now binds you as my prisoner. Very well.’ He turned back to Fidelma. ‘There are rumours that a dálaigh from Cashel is making enquiries among The Cuala; that she is accompanied by a warrior and a Saxon religieux. I learn that this lawyer is addressed with the respect due to one of high birth. Will you confirm your identity yourself?’

  ‘Do you not think that the onus is on you to introduce yourself?’ countered Fidelma.

  The man scowled. ‘I suggest you identify yourself so that our time is not wasted.’

  Fidelma realised there was no point in pursuing the etiquette of the encounter.

  ‘I will do so as there is no secrecy on my part,’ she said with emphasis. ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel. I hold the degree of Anruth. I can sit before the High King without his permission. Such is my status. So who are you and what status do you hold to stop my passage?’

  The man, who had been named Corbmac by Teimel, now raised his brows slightly and his smile broadened.

  ‘Then our information is right,’ he said in satisfaction. ‘I have heard of you, Fidelma of Cashel. You are not just a dálaigh, but the sister of Colgú, King of Muman, and enemy to the Uí Máil of Laigin. I was sent to find out why there was a lawyer from Cashel. So you are your brother’s spy?’

  ‘Not so,’ Fidelma replied hotly. ‘I and my companions are not spies.’

  ‘Why else are you here, if not to spy?’

  ‘You are talking to a dálaigh of the courts, one who has served several High Kings. You are engaged in an action that is not without repercussions,’ she warned. ‘You know who I am. This is Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, whom you may know to be my husband. With us is Enda, my bodyguard …’

  ‘And all spies?’ sneered the man. ‘Now you and your companions will have to accompany me to the fortress of my lord. You can come bound or I will accept your word not to escape.’

  ‘If we are your prisoners, then there is no need for our word to be given to you,’ snapped Fidelma.

  ‘Prisoners?’ smiled the man. ‘Oh, no. We are inviting you to be our guests. Perhaps we are a little forceful with the invitation, that I will grant you, but we do insist that you be guests and partake of our hospitality.’

  ‘And if we refuse?’

  ‘That would hurt me very much for it would mean I would have to increase the force that I am already exerting. It might even be that one of your companions, that dour-faced Saxon there, might be required to come to a close study of the art of combat. Personally, I do not think he would stand much of a chance.’

  ‘You realise that violence against a dálaigh and any member of their party is unlawful on many points, irrespective of rank?’

  ‘The main point is that you are here in a territory where you do not belong. That is point enough for me to apprehend you and take you before my lord to question you.’

  ‘Your claim that we are spying is spurious. So now you question me for what purpose?’

  ‘We would have to be shown proof of your claim.’ The man was now clearly growing impatient. ‘That will be done in the fortress of my lord.’

  ‘And your lord is …?’

  ‘My lord is Dicuil Dóna of the Uí Máil, lord of all The Cuala,’ was the unpromising response. ‘I am Corbmac, commander of his warriors.’

  Corbmac turned and gave a sharp order and, from the shelter of the bushes, another warrior appeared leading five horses. Corbmac mounted while his bowmen replaced their arrows in their quivers, loosened their bowstrings and then mounted, too. Once again, Eadulf was impressed by the proficiency with which this was done and was aware that even in that moment, the guards behind had unsheathed their swords to pre-empt any movement if the prisoners attempted to escape.

  Eadulf drew his features into a droll expression, glancing at Fidelma.

  ‘Well, you did say that you wanted to have a talk with this noble. It seems our friends have saved you the trouble of looking for him,’ he said with irony.

  Fidelma wondered if Eadulf had noticed the same design of arrows as the one taken from the body of Brehon Brocc; the brass heads and the fletching. More importantly, she had noticed that Corbmac was left handed.

  Corbmac gestured them forward to cross the ford of the river. On the other side they began to ascend through the forest along a path that was at first broad until reaching beyond the tree line, where it became a single track. They had to lean forward in the saddle to maintain balance and Corbmac eventually ordered them to dismount to make the way easier to cross the shoulder of the mountain.

  The high hills were quite spectacular and Fidelma spotted little lakes and pools among them. One lake was quite large, even though it stood at such a high elevation. They pushed on slowly up through the breathtaking scenery. Now and then they saw grazing flocks of sheep but no sign of any shepherd. As they began to descend again into more sheltered wooded countryside, it was Eadulf who raised a protest to the grim-faced leader.

  ‘Allow us to stop for refreshment,’ he called. ‘We have been travelling since first light and I see dusk descending behind us.’

  Corbmac glanced back with a callous grin. ‘You are weak, Saxon,’ he observed viciously. ‘My men could ride all night without fatigue.’

  ‘I am no warrior; that is true. But I am no Saxon,’ Eadulf snapped.

  ‘I have heard enough Saxon spoken in the eastern seaports. I know their grating accent and words. You even wear the tonsure of the Roman religieux. You are a Saxon.’

  ‘I am an Angle from the kingdom of the East Angles,’ Eadulf returned sharply.

  ‘Angles, Saxons, no difference,’ dismissed the warrior.

  Eadulf scowled, his face reddening as his voice rose in a vehemence that surprised his companions. ‘My patience is exhausted with constantly being insulted. I am an Uffingas. We are the descendants of Uffa, son of Wehha, direct descent of Kjárr, fourth son of Woden, and his wife, Frigg. It was Uffa that led our people across the great sea to the land of the Welisc, the foreigners, and drove them westward, creating the kingdom that is called that of the East Angles. We are not Saxons!’

  Corbmac stared at him with a look halfway between surprise and amusement. He began to reply but Fidelma spoke softly, seeing the glint in the warrior’s eyes.

  ‘Remember, Corbmac, Eadulf is my husband and accepted into the family of the Eóganacht. Among his own people he was an hereditary gerefa, which is the equivalent of a dálaigh. Do nothing rash against the Eóganacht and their kin, for the law of dígal still applies.’

  Corbmac’s eyes narrowed slightly as he turned this over in his mind. He did not know whether Fidelma was exaggerating or not. Dígal, or vengeance, was often used for a blood feud when the kin of a family member killed by an outsider did not receive or accept the fines and honour-price payment. Then he shrugged, smiled and said: ‘Very well, Angle, if it pleases you better.’ Then he turned away and called to his men. ‘The hour does grow late and darkness will eventually be upon us. We will camp here overnight.’

  The trees protected them from the winds that swept across the mountain in gusts while also providing dry wood to kindle
fires, and a selection of nuts and berries. There were acorns and beech nuts lying about, and the red flash of rowan berries were still on the trees as well as an odour from wild garlic plants. Even the green leaves of the hawthorn were in their edible stage, for they had yet to unfurl and toughen into unpalatable. A stream, rising somewhere higher on the mountain, meandered down through the wood towards the valley below. Just before the wood itself were stretches of grasslands, with chickweed, new growth of nentóg, nettles, and bernán, dandelions, with their bright yellow flowers, as well as gorse bushes where the horses could be tethered for the night. It was a good choice for an encampment.

  It was soon evident, however, that their captors would not allow them any opportunity to use the rest for escape after darkness fell. As large fires were lit ready for an evening meal and darkness, Enda whispered to Fidelma: ‘Corbmac has divided his men into watches. I am afraid he is very professional.’

  Fidelma shrugged. ‘It was not my intention to escape. As Eadulf said earlier, I wanted to see this Dicuil Dóna anyway. So we will accompany our friends to this valley and have a word with this person whom everyone seems to be in fear of.’

  It turned out that they were grateful for the fire and the shelter of the trees, for the night turned cold and the gusty wind made it seem even colder. However, they did not want for food as provisions had been supplied by the abbey and it seemed that Corbmac’s men had their own food. The only thing that spoilt the serenity of the forest, the fires and food was the constant presence of the guards. When they had finished their meal, Corbmac insisted on one foot of each prisoner being secured to the next companion in a way that they would not be able to move in the night without alerting the guards.

  Fidelma decided to make the best of it by reposing herself and entering the dercad, or the ancient art of meditation of which she was a regular practitioner, having learnt it at an early age. By this means she could clear or calm extraneous thought and mental irritations and achieve sitcháin, the state of peace. Dercad was once taught and practised by the Druids before the coming of the New Faith, but the practice had been expressly condemned as pagan idolatry by sanctified Patrick, whom some claimed had taught the New Faith to the Five Kingdoms. However, wise teachers – especially among those who had changed their Faith long before the coming of Patrick, such as the Blessed Ailbhe, who converted Muman – had retained the art as worthwhile, linking the old and new. It was certainly useful now and allowed Fidelma to rest and be at one with her surroundings so that she slipped into a deep refreshing sleep.