The Lair of the White Fox (e-novella) (Kindle Single) Read online

  Copyright © 2016 Peter Tremayne

  The right of Peter Tremayne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in this Ebook edition in 2016 by

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious – other than the obvious historical figures – and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover photograph © The Natural History Museum/Alamy

  eISBN 978 1 4722 3867 2

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise for the Sister Fidelma series

  Also by Peter Tremayne

  About the Book

  The Lair of the White Fox

  Extract from Penance of the Damned

  About the Author

  Peter Tremayne is the fiction pseudonym of Peter Berresford Ellis, a well-known authority on the ancient Celts, who has utilised his knowledge of the Brehon law system and seventh-century Irish society to create a new concept in detective fiction.

  An international Sister Fidelma Society has been established, with a journal entitled The Brehon appearing three times yearly. Details can be obtained either by writing to the Society at PMB #312, 1818 North Taylor Street, Suite B, Little Rock, AR 72207, USA, or by logging on to the society’s website at www.sisterfidelma.com.

  Praise for the Sister Fidelma series:

  ‘The Sister Fidelma books give the readers a rattling good yarn. But more than that, they bring vividly and viscerally to life the fascinating lost world of the Celtic Irish. I put down The Spider’s Web with a sense of satisfaction at a good story well told, but also speculating on what modern life might have been like had that civilisation survived’ Ronan Bennett

  ‘Rich helpings of evil and tension with lively and varied characters’ Historical Novels Review

  ‘The detail of the books is fascinating, giving us a vivid picture of everyday life at this time… the most detailed and vivid recreations of ancient Ireland’ Irish Examiner

  ‘A brilliant and beguiling heroine. Immensely appealing’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘Tremayne's super-sleuth is a vibrant creation, a woman of wit and courage who would stand out in any era, but brings a special sparkle to the wild beauty of medieval Ireland’ Morgan Llywelyn

  By Peter Tremayne and featuring Sister Fidelma:

  Absolution by Murder

  Shroud for the Archbishop

  Suffer Little Children

  The Subtle Serpent

  The Spider’s Web

  Valley of the Shadow

  The Monk who Vanished

  Act of Mercy

  Hemlock at Vespers

  Our Lady of Darkness

  Smoke in the Wind

  The Haunted Abbot

  Badger’s Moon

  Whispers of the Dead

  The Leper’s Bell

  Master of Souls

  A Prayer for the Damned

  Dancing with Demons

  The Council of the Cursed

  The Dove of Death

  The Chalice of Blood

  Behold a Pale Horse

  The Seventh Trumpet

  Atonement of Blood

  The Devil’s Seal

  The Second Death

  Penance of the Damned

  About the Book

  Ireland, AD 659. Sister Fidelma is in her final year of study at Brehon Morann's law school, and en route to visit an old friend, Lúach, in her family home. But things take a sinister turn when Fidelma arrives to discover that Lúach has been missing for five days. Has someone driven her from the enclave of her home, or are there darker forces at work?

  The deeper Fidelma digs, the more questions she unearths. It's clear that there is far more to Lúach's disappearance than those closest to her are letting on, and only Fidelma has the conviction to pursue the case. Can she untangle the truth in time to save her?

  AD 659: During Fidelma’s last year in Brehon Morann’s law school

  I

  ‘Is that the fortress of Dealgan?’ the girl asked, her voice tinged with excitement.

  The driver of the mule-drawn wagon glanced in amusement at the animated features of the exuberant red-haired girl seated beside him.

  ‘Indeed,’ he confirmed. ‘That is Dún Dealgan. We’ll be there shortly.’

  He watched as her eyes – were they blue or were they green? – regarded the dark outline of the great circular fortress on the distant hill with an exhilarated brightness.

  The merchant had agreed to transport the girl to the fortress earlier that morning when it appeared that the wagon she had been travelling in had splintered a wheel, and that it would be some days before it could be mended. He had found her, she could hardly be more than twenty or twenty-one years of age, waiting impatiently at the smithy’s forge and wanting to get to the fortress in a hurry. As the merchant was taking goods to the fortress, and as the girl expected to pay for transport, the man was not unwilling to accept her company. He knew, from her appearance, the quality of her dress, and her self-assured manner, that she was of no ordinary family. From her accent he judged her to be from the south-west of the five kingdoms of Éireann. Apart from such obvious facts, he could not quite place what such a girl would be doing travelling alone to the fortress of the Prince of Muirthemne.

  ‘I suppose,’ he ventured after a while, ‘you have come to see the fortress where legend has it that the great warrior Cúchulainn was born and where he defended Ulaidh from the hosts of Queen Medb of Connacht?’

  The girl turned to him with a smile but shook her head. ‘While the very area in which such legends and stories are set is interesting, I am coming to visit my friend, the lady Lúach, the daughter of Muirthemne.’

  The merchant was immediately impressed. ‘Ossen of Dún Dealgan is a man of great wealth and much esteemed in these parts, lady.’ For the first time he used a respectful tone of address. There was also a question in his voice and the girl decided to answer it.

  ‘My father, Failbhe Flann, was King of Muman. Lúach and I are studying law at the school of Brehon Morann of Tara. She has invited me to stay with her for a few days. I would have been at her father’s fortress yesterday had my coach not broke a wheel.’

  The merchant clicked his tongue sympathetically.

  ‘Well, the Prince Ossen’s daughter will doubtless show you this country for there is much history and legend hereabouts that appeals to ladies of your … your …’ He stopped, wondering what the right word was. He decided to end with the word ascrad indicating a person of ‘noble rank’.

  The girl dismissed the rank with a grimace. ‘My name is Fidelma and while I be Fidelma of Cashel, I prefer my rank to be that of dálaigh, an advocate, for soon I shall passing my eighth year of study and achieving the degree of Anruth.’

  This made the merchant even more impr
essed for the degree of Anruth was only one below the highest degree given by the secular and ecclesiastical colleges. He was suddenly awkward, trying to remember if he had been a little too familiar in his address to her during the early part of the journey.

  Fidelma took pity on his awkwardness. ‘It is true that I am excited to be in this country. It is exciting to see the fortress of Sétanta, the Hound of Culann, and see the pillar stone where legend has it that the Mórrígú, the goddess of death and battles, pecked out his life in the form of a raven because he had rejected her.’

  ‘That stone still stands close by Ossen’s fortress,’ the merchant rejoined, somewhat reassured by her tone. It was easier dealing with an excited young woman in search of the local legends than a noble lady from the south.

  ‘I hope I shall be taken across into Cuailgne where the Brown Bull came from which was the cause of the war with Connacht.’

  A frown immediately formed on the merchant’s face. ‘If you do, lady, make sure that Prince Ossen sends a sufficient guard to escort you. Doubtless the Lady Lúach will advise you. They do not call the river that divides this territory from Cuailgne as the “rampart that severs” for no reason.’

  Fidelma was immediately interested. ‘The river is called a rampart? It sounds as though those who dwell either side of this river are enemies. Why is that?’

  ‘The peninsula of Cuailgne is a hilly, wild area which has not been sufficiently tamed. The mountains of Cuailgne hide all manner of ruthless chieftains, robbers and thieves. From the fortress, when you get there, you’ll see a distant range across the river to the north. That is where the brigands scatter and hide when they are pursued. Many years ago, a series of watchtowers was constructed on this side of the river to give warning of their attacks.’

  ‘I had no idea that Cuailgne was so lawless,’ Fidelma reflected. ‘Lúach never spoke of that to me. However, she was always enthusiastic about her father’s territory, its legends and the countryside.’

  They were drawing near the tall dark oak gates of the stone fortress of Dún Dealgan. While they stood open, there were warriors in evidence and a strong voice challenged them as they neared the entrance.

  The merchant called back identifying himself but before he could announce the name and rank of his passenger, he was waved through the gates into a large courtyard. The merchant hauled on the reins of the mules to bring the rumbling wagon to a halt. Fidelma climbed down and looked around, half expecting to see her friend. There were several people who had come to the wagon; two stablemen to help the merchant with his mule team. Others had come to unload the goods that the merchant was bringing to the fortress.

  A man with a round, fleshy face had come forward to greet the merchant. There was a quick exchange in low voices and the man glanced quickly at her. It seemed a worried frown had formed on his features. He gave the merchant a friendly pat on the shoulder and then approached her.

  ‘I am Sranacháin, the rechtaire, steward to my lord Ossen. I apologise, lady, but I was given no warning of your arrival.’ He seemed nervous.

  ‘The lady Lúach is expecting me,’ Fidelma explained. ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel. Would you announce my arrival to her? My own carriage broke a wheel and I persuaded this merchant to give me passage here.’

  It seemed the steward’s troubled look deepened. He turned to one of the men who was helping to unload the goods from the wagon and issued rapid instructions. The man immediately hurried away across the courtyard.

  Sranacháin turned back to her. ‘I have sent a man to announce you at the great hall.’ He indicated one of the buildings. ‘Is that your bag, lady?’

  He reached forward and drew a bag from the wagon and when Fidelma nodded, he placed it on the ground by her. ‘Forgive me, lady, but I must deal with the goods this merchant brings. Someone from the household will come to greet you in a moment.’

  Fidelma was left standing hesitantly with her bag in the central courtyard. She felt slightly irritable at the manner of her welcome. After what seemed a long time, a female attendant came hurrying out of one of the buildings. The girl seemed red faced and flustered as she halted, slightly breathlessly, in front of her.

  ‘Are you Fidelma?’ she asked nervously, although apparently more anxious of the person who had sent her on her errand than Fidelma herself.

  ‘I am,’ acknowledged Fidelma, deciding to ignore the lack of courtesy in the girl’s manner of address.

  ‘Follow me. She is waiting for you in the great hall.’

  Before Fidelma had time to ask who was waiting for her, the servant turned and hurried off, obviously scared of keeping whoever it was waiting. Fidelma could not imagine that her friend would send a servant to summon her in such a manner. She had even left Fidelma to bring her own bag. Philosophically, she picked up her bag and as young and fit as Fidelma was, she was hard pressed to keep up with the scurrying girl. She was led across the courtyard and into the largest building of the fortress complex which turned out to be the great hall. The walls were hung with gaudy tapestries, shields and weapons such as spears and swords. There was one long oak wood table in the centre and benches along either side where the chieftain, his wife and confidants would obviously feast together. There was a high carved oaken chair at one end and a smaller but similar chair at the other. Two fires were smouldering at either end of the hall for, although it was summer, there was a chill in the air. The sky was cloudy and the hall was not well lit for little light entered the windows that were high up in the walls. Fidelma had to pause on the threshold to adjust to the change of light before taking a step inside to view the hall.

  The female servant had entered before her and now called: ‘Fidelma, lady.’ Then she turned and scuttled away through a side door.

  It was then Fidelma noticed the figure of a woman seated in a chair in front of one of the fires. The woman had long black, shining hair, which reflected the flickering light from the fire. A silver circlet held it in place. The face was angular, almost bony, pale, the eyes dark and deep set, the nose slightly prominent, and the lips thin and without humour. Fidelma judged her age to be no more than a decade or so older than her own. The attractiveness of her features – and Fidelma realised that to some she was an attractive woman – seemed marred by an indefinable hardness, almost a cruel curve around her thin lips. She was dressed entirely in black with only a silver chain around her neck, a circular silver brooch fastened just below her left shoulder and with the circlet on her head to alleviate the darkness of her dress. There was no physical resemblance at all to her friend and Fidelma was left wondering who this woman was.

  ‘Come forward, girl.’ The voice was harsh, holding a hectoring quality.

  Fidelma put down her bag and took some automatic steps towards the seated figure. This greeting was in sharp contrast with what she had been expecting at her friend’s home. She had known Lúach for several years since they studied law together at the school of the Brehon Morann. Lúach, as befitted her name which meant ‘radiance’, always had a bright and fun-loving personality. Her corn-coloured hair and sparkling blue eyes had bespoke a sense of humour that was irrepressible. She had several times suggested to Fidelma that she should come and stay with her at her father’s fortress. The idea of visiting the territory in this north-easterly territory where her friend’s father was ruler, an area which was replete with myths and legends, had intrigued Fidelma. They would have travelled there together had Fidelma not been held back a week because of the arrival of an elderly cousin, Abbot Laisran of Darú, who wanted to speak with her. So Lúach had gone on ahead to her father’s fortress of Dún Dealgan. Fidelma had promised to follow at the earliest moment. Now she was in Lúach’s home but this dark, almost cold, greeting was hardly what she had been expecting.

  ‘Are you the young woman that Lúach was expecting? The girl from the law school?’ The voice was still unfriendly and Fidelma took immediate exception to it.

  ‘I am Fidelma of Cashel,’ she replied with sharp emphasis
, wondering why no one had informed this person who she was and why she had come. ‘Where is Lúach?’

  The dark-haired woman stared at her, ignoring her question. ‘Of Cashel?’ she repeated thoughtfully. The term indicated that Fidelma was of the royal Eóghanacht family who were the rulers of Muman, the biggest of the five kingdoms. ‘You say that you are related to King Máenach?’

  ‘He is my cousin,’ Fidelma acknowledged. ‘My father was King Failbhe Flann.’ In truth, she disliked her cousin Máenach intensely for, since he had succeeded as King, he had ignored Fidelma and her brothers. In fact, the reason why Abbot Laisran had come to visit her at Brehon Morann’s law school, and delayed her departure for Dún Dealgan, had been to discuss her future security. The well-intentioned abbot had suggested that, as soon as she was qualified, she should enter a religious community and use her knowledge on its behalf. It was an idea that did not appeal to Fidelma who was not particularly interested in religious matters. She entertained the suggestion only because she needed time to build a reputation before she could achieve a living as a dálaigh.

  ‘Failbhe Flann?’ There was almost a sneer in the woman’s voice. ‘He died many years ago – you must have been only a baby.’

  Fidelma stiffened. ‘Nevertheless, he was my father, and I am still Fidelma of Cashel,’ she added with emphasis. ‘So, whom am I addressing?’

  The tall woman blinked for a moment at the question; her face formed a scowl.

  ‘I am Orla, wife to Prince Ossen of Muirthemne.’

  Fidelma could not keep the surprise from her features. ‘You cannot be the mother of Lúach?’ the question came almost as an exclamation.

  The woman made a sound that was meant to be a laugh but was more like a cynical grunt.

  ‘I am her lesmáthair,’ she replied shortly.

  Lúach had never told Fidelma that she had a stepmother. In fact, she had never mentioned the name of Orla in any form. Now that she thought about it, Lúach hardly ever spoke about her mother either.