The Shapeshifter's Lair

by Peter Tremayne

  When she awoke, she was aware of a dawn chorus of many birds. To Fidelma’s ears they sounded almost like musicians, each with different vocal instruments, playing their separate themes to contribute to the whole; first the pipes, next the bodhran, the goatskin drum, then the horn, then the harp, and then all coming together to join in one melodious sound. She had heard the short song bursts of the blackbird, the soft melody of the thrush, and the gentle sound of the robin … all of whom seemed to have no problems living with one another in this isolated spot.

  The discordant sounds that broke into her contemplation were those of the men stirring, preparing a first meal and checking their horses and equipment. It was Corbmac who came and personally untied the constraint on her ankle as he passed along the row of prisoners.

  He said nothing in greeting, neither to her nor to any of her companions.

  Eadulf looked a little the worst for his experience, tired and irritable. Enda and Teimel, being warriors, had taken things in their stride and were eager for a warming drink and something to eat.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Eadulf said shortly in answer to Fidelma’s solicitous question. She did not press him further.

  While they were eating they saw one of the warriors having a brief word with Corbmac, then mount his horse and ride off at a fairly hurried pace across the mountain.

  After a short time, Corbmac gave the order for everyone to resaddle the horses, douse the fires and prepare to move on.

  It was basically an unexciting journey, through gusting winds, across bald hills, now bathed in a faint sunlight. From this elevation, they could see the mountains stretching in all directions. Some of the higher peaks were obscured by misty clouds but these soon dispersed. The sun was nearing its zenith when they began to descend into a narrow marshland valley between two mountains. Directly towards the west they could see by the light variations that the way was opening into a wider flat land of a large valley.

  Corbmac halted on a rise and turned to them with a smile that had a grim quality about it. He pointed downwards.

  ‘This is the valley of the Uí Máil. There is the fortress of the lord of The Cuala.’

  THIRTEEN

  The valley that lay before them was impressively verdant in spite of the fact that it was still many weeks before spring would cast its multicolours over it. There were two rivers running through it, one to the north and one to the south. They later learnt that these rivers had the same name as they rose from a single source on the mountain on the western side. A hill rose within the valley to the south. It was not a large hill compared to the surrounding mountains but it dominated the valley. The group of large buildings that occupied its crown was obviously a fortress. There was no doubt from its appearance that the great granite construction was not merely built to create awe in people approaching it.

  Corbmac, observing Fidelma’s gaze, nodded as if confirming a silent question.

  ‘That is Dún Droch Fhola, the fortress of Dicuil Dóna.’

  ‘The fortress of bad blood,’ Eadulf repeated, pursing his lips in disapproval. ‘I presume that relates to the blood of those who dwell there?’

  Corbmac glowered at his insult.

  ‘On the contrary, Saxon. It is meant as a reminder of the fate of those who harbour bad blood against the Uí Máil. It is a reminder that their blood will find a resting place there.’

  He turned his horse to lead the way down the hill into the valley, towards where the fortress rose.

  As Fidelma and her companions followed it seemed the day suddenly grew colder. Eadulf noticed this and was trying to persuade himself that it was the shadows of the surrounding tall mountains sheltering the valley from the sun’s warmth that caused the temperature to drop. But even when they rode outside the shadows of the mountains into sunlight there was only an uncomfortable feeling of clamminess. It was a dampness that chilled them to the bone. Even the groups of land workers they met, such as shepherds trying to keep their flocks off the main track, looked dispirited. Eadulf realised that as they came closer to the fortress of the Uí Máil, it seem to rise up higher into the sky, looming larger and more dominant than when they had first seen it from the mountainside. Along the path to the main gates of the fortress were various banners set at equal distance and over the gates from a parapet was hung a great banner of sky-blue satin on which was the image of a blood-red falcon. Sentinels stood watchfully everywhere.

  Eadulf leant forward and whispered softly to Fidelma: ‘The person who dwells here certainly has no small opinion of himself.’

  Fidelma was thinking the same thing but made no reply.

  Eadulf had seen many fortresses on his travels. He had been to the complex of the High King in Tara but, even there, such displays of importance were discreetly done. The difference here was the aggressiveness of the building itself, with the sentinels’ flamboyant uniforms and weaponry. One was left in no doubt that this was where a powerful noble dwelt; a lord who was used to being obeyed and reminded those who dwelt below the fortress that he had the means to enforce obedience. A person who wanted people to know he held power.

  As they crossed the valley floor and approached the cold granite edifice, they were struck with the dark, threatening atmosphere that the place exuded in spite of the fluttering colourful banners. The word ‘foreboding’ sprang into Eadulf’s mind from his own language – ‘forbéodan’. The place was designed to challenge and warn off those who approached the dark shadows of its walls. They could hear the sound of a trumpet blast from within the walls, doubtless warning of their approach. They saw the stout dark oak doors swinging inwards as they headed up the ramp towards them.

  A figure appeared on foot and stood in the centre of the entrance watching their advance with hands folded in front of him. Corbmac halted with hand upraised in salute to the figure, who barely acknowledged him but turned his curious gaze immediately to Fidelma.

  The man was very young and she realised he was hardly more than a boy. She guessed he must be scarcely more than twenty years. He had black hair, almost the colour of a raven’s feathers, a white skin, and eyes that were almost as black as his hair, and wide as if in an expression of perpetual astonishment. In contrast to his features, the thin red lips formed a small grim line with the corners turning down in disapproval, which seemed to be at odds with his almost boyish appearance.

  ‘You have safely come to the fortress of the Uí Máil. May you find your stay pleasant and, when you leave, it is our wish that you will leave some of the happiness and health that you bring.’

  Fidelma found the archaic welcoming formula strangely at odds with the youth of the speaker. Nevertheless she thanked the boy although the tone of her thanks was cold.

  ‘I am named Scáth, steward of the house of Dicuil Dóna, lord of The Cuala. Corbmac’s messenger has arrived and informed us that he escorts Fidelma of Cashel to the gates of the fortress.’ He glanced at Fidelma, obviously expecting confirmation.

  ‘“Escort” is a term full of meaning,’ she replied coldly. ‘Nevertheless, it does not convey the fact that my companions and I were ambushed and brought here under duress.’

  It was as if Scáth’s face had been frozen because he did not betray any emotion, not even by a blink of his eyes, as though he had not even heard her protest.

  ‘When my lord heard who you were he instructed me to take you directly to him.’

  He turned and issued an order. Several attendants appeared to take charge of their horses as they dismounted.

  ‘I have no wish to be discourteous to your lord,’ Fidelma said as she stood face to face with the young man, ‘any more than he has knowingly wished to antagonise me. My companions and I will expect an explanation for the way we were brought here. After that, we will see if courtesy can be accepted.’

  Now the young man’s features expressed shock.

  ‘My lord asked for you to be brought into his presence as soon as you arrived. Let us not keep him waiting. Corbmac will escort your
companions to their accommodations.’

  Fidelma allowed herself a thin smile. ‘I see no reason why I should hurry when my companions and I have been brought to this fortress as prisoners.’

  It seemed that Scáth had difficulty with this refusal. Obviously he was unused to anyone acting contrary to instruction.

  ‘But you must come with me,’ he finally said, but his youthful voice lacked strength of purpose.

  ‘I will wait here with my husband and my bodyguard,’ replied Fidelma, and folded her hands in front of her. Eadulf took a stand beside her, trying to look equally determined, while Enda closed in protectively behind her. Teimel hesitated a moment or two before taking a position beside Enda.

  ‘I am now a member of this party,’ he smiled at the young steward. The young man had cast him a look of recognition, which was not lost on Fidelma.

  Corbmac stepped forward and drew his sword with a threatening motion.

  ‘You will obey the steward,’ he said, his voice grating.

  ‘Or you will do … what?’ Fidelma replied coldly. ‘Would you kill us, as you tried to provoke the death of my husband on the mountain? You may want to reflect on the consequences of the slaughter of the sister of the King of Muman, her husband, their bodyguard and their guide. Whether you do so or not, that is out of my hands. The consequence will be on the head of the lord of this fortress. You may well want to remember that. The consequences of your action will be severe and so you might wish to have your lord consider them before action is taken.’

  The young steward was clearly perplexed.

  ‘Consequences? You say your husband was threatened with death? I have heard no word of your husband,’ he frowned, as if trying to resolve a puzzle.

  Eadulf moved a step forward. ‘I am Eadulf of Seaxmund’s Ham, in the kingdom of the East Angles,’ he announced solemnly. ‘I am husband to Fidelma of Cashel.’

  Scáth’s lips compressed for a moment before he glanced at Corbmac.

  ‘Your messenger gave me no word of any noble in this party other than Fidelma of Cashel.’ His tone was irritated.

  ‘It was not important to name everyone in her party,’ retorted the warrior in defence. ‘He is just a Saxon foreigner.’

  ‘Even though a foreigner, if he is husband to the sister of the King of Muman he cannot be regarded as just one of her party,’ Scáth replied with annoyance.

  ‘I did try to inform your man,’ Fidelma nodded to the truculent Corbmac, ‘that even being a foreigner, as my husband, Eadulf is placed under the protection of the Eóganacht and is of their kin now. An assault on him is an assault on the Eóganacht and that could result in the pronouncement of a dígal.’

  The young steward was clearly unhappy, easing his weight from one foot to another in an almost nervous movement as he struggled with the prospect. The result of his inward debate was not long in arriving. ‘Very well. I will take you and your husband to my lord, Dicuil Dóna. Your warrior companions—’

  ‘Enda is my personal bodyguard and friend, a warrior of the Golden Collar,’ pointed out Fidelma, finding a merciless pleasure in putting pressure on the youth. ‘Teimel, as you probably remember, is a former member of Dicuil’s bodyguard, who is now a hunter in these mountains, and is also under my protection, being employed as my guide. If their safety is guaranteed, then they can retire to enjoy some hospitality. They were ridden hard across these mountains. I presume our horses are being attended to?’

  Scáth frowned, searching her face for a moment and meeting stony resolution. He shrugged. ‘If that is acceptable, very well. Corbmac will take your men to the laechtrech, the hero’s hall, provide them with food and drink and ensure the horses have been attended to.’

  Corbmac opened his mouth as if to protest and then, seeing the hard glance the young man gave him, re-sheathed his weapon with a petulant gesture and motioned Enda and Teimel to follow him.

  ‘Lady,’ Scáth turned to Fidelma, ‘now will you and your husband come to meet my lord?’

  Fidelma paused tantalisingly and glanced at Eadulf. He saw the humour in her eyes.

  ‘It seems the obvious thing to do,’ he said solemnly, sharing her humour.

  She turned back to the agitated young steward. ‘Then we will follow you.’

  The young man visibly relaxed. He turned and began to lead the way across the courtyard of the fortress towards the main buildings. Eventually they were led into a large circular chamber in which a central fire exuded comforting warmth. To one side were several chairs. One chair stood on a dais facing these other chairs. It was empty but it was clear that this was the seat of Dicuil Dóna. People were standing in the room, evidently waiting for the entrance of the lord of The Cuala. Fidelma summed up the artificial setting. Dicuil Dóna obviously liked his visitors to wait before he made an entrance. Fidelma was already disliking the man’s pretensions for, knowing who she was, other nobles would have made a point of coming to greet her at the gates and not have sent a steward – a youth, at that – to bring her into the great hall and would not make her wait before making their own entrance.

  To express her irritation, she walked across to one of the chairs and deliberately turned it away from the dais, facing towards the central fire before sitting down. There was an audible gasp from the people in the room. She turned and motioned Eadulf forward, pointing to another chair. He copied her.

  The young steward, with white face, came forward.

  ‘Lady, lady,’ he sounded as if he was in a panic, ‘my lord has not yet entered the room. We must all stand until he does and the chairs are set to face him to show respect.’

  She reclined back and gazed up at his anxious features.

  ‘As you know, I am Fidelma of Cashel. I also hold the degree of Anruth. I am allowed to sit in the presence of the High King himself without waiting to be asked. If you have a Brehon that is anywhere near competent, he will confirm the custom on this matter.’

  Scáth thrust a hand through his hair, shaking his head in troubled fashion. ‘I do not know these things, lady. I only know what my lord requires and …’

  ‘What he requires can only be that which conforms to the law. Is that not so, or do you not recognise the edicts of the Council of Brehons of the Five Kingdoms?’

  The steward was trying to form an answer when a side door was thrown open. Fidelma was aware of a tall man entering. The man halted abruptly and stared around, his brows drawing together in an expression between surprise and anger. Those in the room grew quiet and seemed to physically back away before him. In silence the man took in the scene before finally focusing on Scáth. The young steward looked as if he was trying to shelter the strangers from the thunderous gaze of his master.

  ‘What does this delay mean?’ thundered the newcomer harshly. ‘Did I not hear Corbmac and his men arrive some time ago? You were to bring the woman to me at once, yet you spent time talking with her at the gate and …’

  His voice died away as he suddenly saw Fidelma and Eadulf seated in their chairs, turned away from the dais on which he intended to take his seat. The man’s face reddened. He began to stutter, trying to articulate his anger.

  Fidelma, without rising, waved him forward.

  ‘Come closer, Dicuil Dóna of the Uí Máil; come take your seat with us. I do not demand nor do I expect any formalities. You have doubtless been informed of my rank and legal status? My right is to seat myself before being invited to, even by the High King. You will also have heard of my husband, Eadulf. He is from the kingdom of the East Angles, and he has long studied in the Five Kingdoms. He holds honour and rank among the Eóganacht. So we need not waste time in formalities.’

  The tall lord of The Cuala seemed to be frozen to the spot. His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, trying to make sensible words but succeeding only in making sounds like the swallowing of air.

  Fidelma continued on easily. ‘Although your steward has failed to announce you, I take it that you are Dicuil Dóna, son of Rónán Crach of the line of
Maine Máil, uncle to King Fianamail? I trust that I have not addressed the wrong person?’

  Dicuil Dóna swallowed again and could only get out the response: ‘I am Dicuil Dóna.’

  Seeing that he had not moved towards her, Fidelma swung round to the steward.

  ‘Scáth, bring that chair closer for the lord of The Cuala to join us, for there is much we need to talk about.’

  The young steward hesitated, glanced to Dicuil Dóna, before pushing a chair into place. Another hesitation and then Dicuil Dóna came forward and reluctantly, so it seemed, lowered himself into the chair opposite her. He had a bewildered expression, as if unable to grasp how Fidelma had robbed him of his demonstration of power. In the moments he was trying to compose himself, Fidelma had time to consider the tall lord of the mountains. His hair was dark in colour, jet black, which contrasted with his pale skin. He had a long face with a broad lofty forehead, and profuse bushy eyebrows above dark eyes that seemed to flash with a malignant fire. There was little colouring in his pale face, the skin stretched tight over the bones so that it appeared almost translucent. Only the thin red line of his lips stood out like a splash of blood. With his height and this imposing face, Fidelma thought it was no wonder that people such as the religieux at the abbey were in awe of him.

  ‘I need to know why my party was ambushed and brought here as prisoners by threat of force?’

  Dicuil Dóna had sufficiently recovered now to try to take command of the conversation.

  ‘Your role and status as the sister of the King of Muman, as a daughter of a king and a long line of kings, is sufficient to welcome you to my domain, Fidelma,’ he began, though the courtesy of his words did not match his tone. ‘That fact that you are an advocate of our law courts is another reason why we extend to you … and to your husband … our fullest hospitality. So I bid you welcome.’