The Shapeshifter's Lair Page 2

  ‘Are you saying that you have come from Durlus Éile?’ the abbot intoned slowly. ‘You were following a party of travellers, of which this body was one of them? Where are the others? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I was doing business in Durlus Éile,’ the pedlar hastened to explain. ‘While I was waiting in the town, I saw the party leaving. There were two men and a woman. That was a full nine days ago. They took the road eastwards through the mountains. I left several days later but along the same trail. It was on that trail that I found this body. I knew the travellers to be of noble rank for I have often traded in that town.’

  ‘Of noble rank?’ The abbot’s voice was icy as if a threatening thought was weighing on him. ‘Show me this body.’

  ‘It is here, Lord Abbot.’ The pedlar jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate something covered in brown sacking in the back of his cart.

  Abbot Daircell moved forward and was helped by his steward to pull back a piece of the sacking. He stood for a moment staring down at the white, decomposing face of the cadaver. There was dried blood across the throat. The abbot could not suppress a gasp of recognition.

  ‘Do you know him, my lord?’ asked the pedlar nervously, watching the expression on the abbot’s face.

  Abbot Daircell ignored him but turned to his steward. ‘I suppose you have already recognised the body?’

  ‘I have,’ agreed Brother Aithrigid solemnly. ‘Am I not of Osraige and your cousin? It is the body of Brehon Brocc.’

  ‘Brocc; Brehon to our cousin, the Princess Gelgéis of Durlus Éile,’ echoed Abbot Daircell grimly. He turned to the pedlar, questions tumbling in his mind, but he was unable to speak.

  ‘Indeed, my lord,’ the pedlar said, pre-empting the unasked questions. ‘I recognised the Brehon while I was in Durlus Éile. He and the princess and her steward, Spealáin, were leaving the township.’

  ‘Where are the others? Where is Princess Gelgéis?’ snapped Abbot Daircell.

  ‘There was only this body lying on the mountain track. There was no sign of anyone else.’

  Abbot Daircell’s mouth was a thin grim line as he stared at the pedlar. He seemed to be struggling with emotion.

  ‘When did you say that you saw the princess and her party set out from Durlus Éile? When were you there?’

  ‘Nine days ago,’ the pedlar repeated. ‘They were all on horseback. I set out with my wagon along the same route only a few days ago.’

  Abbot Daircell was shaking his head as if he had difficulty comprehending events. He seemed incapable of forming the next obvious question.

  ‘There was no sign of their horses or other traces; no sign of who had done this deed?’ Brother Aithrigid intervened.

  The pedlar shook his head. ‘Nothing. No sign. It was just the man’s body that lay on the ground.’

  ‘And you said that you found the body in the pass just below Sliabh Céim an Doire?’

  ‘The mountain of the pass of the oak trees,’ confirmed the pedlar, repeating the name. ‘The mountains are high there and the valleys are dark with impenetrable forests, where it is rumoured beings called the Cumachtae – the shapeshifters – are active. Although I have never been troubled by them,’ he added with a sniff.

  It was true that Céim an Doire was one of the highest peaks in the whole of The Cuala, the great mountain range that covered the north of the kingdom of Laigin. The area was replete with deserted mines in forest valleys.

  The abbot, seeming to recover himself, turned to beckon to a small, bald man in the group of brothers now gathering with growing curiosity.

  ‘Brother Lachtna, come and tell us how long you think this man has been dead.’

  Brother Lachtna was the abbey’s physician. He came forward reluctantly and barely glanced at the body but sniffed in distaste.

  ‘There is already putrefaction to the extent that comes after several days of exposure to the elements,’ he offered.

  ‘I want a more careful observation,’ Abbot Daircell pressed harshly.

  Wrinkling up his nose in distaste, the physician reached forward and took off the sackcloth covering completely, the better to examine the corpse.

  ‘The man still wears his clothes and his leather purse. That’s rather strange if he were attacked by brigands. I see the throat’s been cut … Ah, what’s that arrow there?’

  ‘I took it from out of the man’s back,’ the pedlar explained. ‘It was after that I saw that the man’s throat had been cut.’

  ‘It has been mild during the last few days, mild for this time of year,’ Brother Lachtna muttered thoughtfully. ‘But, as I said, perhaps the corpse has lain in the open for several days.’ He seemed about to say something further but stopped.

  ‘There is something else?’ queried the abbot, who had a sharp eye.

  Brother Lachtna hesitated. ‘He has obviously been dead a week or so but … but I am curious …’ His voice trailed off as he stood regarding the body.

  ‘Curious? What is curious about a body?’ It was Brother Aithrigid, the steward, who asked.

  ‘The putrefaction indicating the time from when the body was killed to this date does not accord to the conditions of where the body has lain all this time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Abbot Daircell.

  ‘I think we all know the valley of Glasán and are aware of the mountains surrounding it. The area is replete in wolves, foxes and other scavenging animals. Carrion birds constantly fly the skies. I find it curious that this body has not been molested by any of them.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ pressed the abbot.

  The little physician shrugged. ‘I cannot say that I am prepared to draw a conclusion. I say only what I observe. There are no apparent marks of any animal, or any scavenger species – mammal or bird. None of these scavengers has paid any attention to this cadaver – that is, if it has lain abandoned on a mountainside for a week or more. Contrary to that, the decomposition of the corpse indicates that it has been protected from such an exposure to the weather. That is beyond my comprehension at this time.’

  There was silence for a moment before the abbot addressed the pedlar again.

  ‘You say that you saw nothing, no sign of anyone except the corpse lying on the mountainside? No sign of a struggle, no sign of horses, or of a conflict of any sort? You saw nothing to indicate what might have befallen Princess Gelgéis and her companion?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Cétach with a nervous glance around. ‘The man’s body lay there and there were no items scattered nearby: no torn cloth, no rusty dagger, no part of any item that might be abandoned during an attack.’

  ‘The body lay on its own?’ demanded the abbot once again. ‘You saw nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing else,’ confirmed the pedlar. ‘It was as if the Aos Sí, the Otherworld folk, the shapeshifters, had swept down from the mountains and carried everything off in their Otherworld mist.’

  TWO

  Several of the religious who had gathered started to mutter, and several performed an exaggerated sign of the Cross, calling on the sanctified Cáemgen, the founder of the abbey, to appear and protect them.

  ‘Nonsense!’ the physician, Brother Lachtna, snapped at the pedlar. ‘Stick to the facts.’

  The pedlar turned to him defiantly. ‘Is it not said that Dallahan of the Aos Sí rides these mountain passes? That Dallahan, the headless horseman, goes riding in search of unwary souls to accompany him to the dark world below the hills?’

  ‘There is nothing supernatural in the way this corpse met its death,’ sniffed the physician. ‘There is nothing of the Otherworld about this arrow that you say you pulled out of his back. The cut in the man’s throat, which severed him from life, is not the work of the supernatural.’

  ‘But there were no signs of tracks or anything like that,’ the pedlar insisted, defensively. ‘It was as if the corpse had just appeared there. If the Brehon and his companions were attacked, there would have been signs. It was as if they were then
swallowed by a great mist, leaving the corpse alone.’

  ‘A corpse with an arrow in its back and its throat cut.’ Brother Lachtna seemed amused. ‘Since when do the Aos Sí resort to such tactics?’

  ‘Are you sure the tracks had not been obliterated by the weather?’ Abbot Daircell demanded.

  ‘I am a pedlar, not a tracker,’ the pedlar replied defensively. ‘But I could see no tracks though the area was muddy, being not far from the river.’

  Abbot Daircell was clearly troubled. ‘Brother Lachtna, take the corpse to the apothecary and examine it carefully to see if you can find further information. Then you may have the body washed and prepared for burial, which will have to be done at midnight tonight, according to custom. As a Brehon, he is due that respect. You will report when you are ready so that the steward may order the ringing of the clog-estachtlae.’

  This was the traditional tolling of the ‘death bell’ prior to the burial.

  Brother Aithrigid frowned. ‘Should there not be a night of the watching, the aire, before the corpse is buried?’ he pointed out, his legal mind leading him to mention the protocol.

  ‘We can forgo that,’ Abbot Daircell dismissed sharply. ‘The corpse has already been left on the mountainside long enough. We shall simply say a few words of the écnaire calling for the intercession of God for the repose of Brocc’s soul.’

  The physician was about to cover the body for removal when something caught his eye.

  ‘The corpse is still wearing a belt,’ he reminded them. ‘There is a small leather pouch sewn to it.’

  The abbot glanced at the face of the pedlar.

  ‘I suppose you have already examined it?’ he asked cynically.

  ‘Me? I have not.’ The pedlar made a poor show of indignant protest. However, the physician intervened.

  ‘It seems to have something still in it.’

  ‘Well?’ Abbot Daircell barked.

  The physician bent over the body without disguising his repugnance at the putrid odours. The pouch flap was not fastened and he reached one hand inside and pulled a small item out. It looked like a tiny piece of rock.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ The physician was about to throw it aside. ‘It’s just a pebble.’

  The abbot held out his open hand for it. ‘A pebble? I suppose he could have picked it up as a weapon to throw,’ he muttered, examining it.

  ‘Not much of a weapon,’ remarked Brother Aithrigid. ‘And why would he have put it in the pouch?’

  ‘It’s heavy enough to cause an injury to someone if thrown with force,’ Abbot Daircell said, feeling the weight in the lump of rock. He waved a dismissal to the physician before turning and spotting the gaunt features of Brother Dorchú, who had joined them. He stood awkwardly, waiting for the abbot’s censure for not attending to the gate bell. He was a tall, sinewy man, who looked nothing like a member of the religieux. But the abbot had not forgotten about the former warrior’s inattention in not answering the bell.

  ‘Take charge of the pedlar,’ he instructed. ‘Give him a meal but be sparing of alcohol.’ Cétach looked indignantly at the implication. ‘I suspect you have already rewarded yourself, judging by the empty purse.’ The pedlar protested again that he had touched nothing, but the abbot simply held up his hand to silence him. He continued to address the gatekeeper. ‘Have a look at the man’s wares and see what items he has to trade. If there is anything worthy you may make a purchase.’

  Brother Dorchú led the protesting pedlar away.

  Abbot Daircell turned to Brother Aithrigid, who was still waiting for instruction. ‘We had best quench all that talk of the Aos Sí among the brethren. We hear too many folk tales of the demons who haunt these mountains.’

  ‘There are a few who still firmly believe in the old tales,’ Brother Aithrigid replied.

  Abbot Daircell glanced thoughtfully at his steward, knowing well there might be a hidden rebuke in the words. Brother Aithrigid was aware that the abbot’s hobby was collecting such tales with the purpose of adding to a text that he was expanding in the abbey’s library.

  He paused for a moment and then exhaled in annoyance. ‘Send Brother Eochaí to me.’

  ‘Brother Eochaí?’ The steward hesitated. ‘Why do you need to see the master of the stables? Are you about to make a journey?’

  Abbot Daircell turned now with an expression of annoyance. ‘You know I am not accustomed to repeating myself, Brother Aithrigid.’ He articulated the words slowly and coldly. ‘I am going to sit in my herb garden for a while. Send Brother Eochaí to me there.’

  Brother Aithrigid paused then grimaced, as if he had been considering a difficult problem, and left. Watching him go, the abbot knew that the steward realised that the herb garden was a place where no one could eavesdrop without being observed. It was obvious that the abbot had something to say that he did not wish overheard.

  Abbot Daircell seated himself on a small wooden bench, vacantly tossing with one hand the heavy little stone, no more than a pebble, that the physician had handed him. He tried not to seem impatient and was pleased that he did not have to wait long.

  Brother Eochaí was a short individual whose small frame did not disguise his well-trained muscles, nor did his features veil the hidden strength and determination of purpose. Usually he affected a lopsided grin of amusement at the world. His demeanour before the abbot was that of an equal, not of a person awaiting orders, nor of one who was curious about being summoned by the abbot.

  Abbot Daircell stopped tossing the stone. He was about to throw it away but then decided to thrust it into his leather bossán, the purse hanging from his belt. He glanced round to ensure that they were alone in the garden.

  ‘Do I find you well, echaire?’ he asked, addressing the man by his title of ‘master of the stables’.

  ‘I am, thanks be,’ Brother Eochaí replied solemnly.

  ‘And the horses in your charge … are they all fit and strong?’

  ‘All save a cob who cast a shoe this morning. Brother Gobbán, the smith, is preparing to shoe the beast even as we speak. And, of course, we have a mare that is going to foal in a few days’ time.’

  ‘But you have some strong horses immediately available in the stable? Horses that can travel distances without tiring?’

  Only by a slight lifting of his eyebrows did the master of the stables indicate that the abbot had asked an unusual question.

  ‘My stable can compete with the best in the land, Father Abbot. Indeed, I have a two-year-old colt that is a match for any in the Five Kingdoms for stamina and speed.’ There was no boast in his voice; just a statement of fact.

  Abbot Daircell was silent for a minute or two as if contemplating something. Then he turned to stare up directly at the man.

  ‘Like me, I know you to be a man of Osraige. That is why I have sent for you.’

  Brother Eochaí regarded his superior with disapproval.

  ‘I am a man of God first and foremost, Father Abbot. Where ever He sends me, my first duty is to serve Him. I am a simple man, not related to noble families such as yourself or Brother Aithrigid. But I am sure that we are all of the same mind – we serve the Faith and the Abbey, and not individual princes or kingdoms.’

  The abbot forced an uneasy smile. ‘That is certainly as it should be,’ he agreed in a pious tone. It sounded false. ‘But, my son, we have to accept that service to the Faith is also service to truth and justice. So I presume that you have heard of the news that has been brought to the abbey by Cétach?’

  ‘I have heard that the pedlar found the body of Brehon Brocc.’

  ‘Brehon Brocc was one of a party that was accompanying Princess Gelgéis to this very abbey.’

  Brother Eochaí shrugged. ‘I am afraid news of misfortune spreads like a fire lit among dry bracken at the height of summer, especially when some fools want to embellish it with stories about the wraiths of the Aos Sí haunting the mountain passes.’

  The abbot’s expression was one of anger. ‘So that story
is being spread already? Fools! Fools!’

  ‘Frightened fools,’ the stable master observed grimly.

  ‘Frightened? Indeed, frightened. That is why I have need of you, especially as you are of Osraige.’

  ‘If you enquire as to my birthplace, Father Abbot, I admit that I am of the Uí Dróna, born on the west bank of the great River Fheoir. But I say once again that I serve the Faith, not Osraige, nor the kingdom of Laigin.’

  ‘I believe there is no conflict,’ the abbot said emphatically. ‘But you will remember that scarcely more than a year has passed since the King of Laigin, Fianamail of the Uí Máil, was preparing to raise his warriors to march on the Kingdom of Muman and use Osraige as an excuse for his invasion.’

  The story was well known. The territory of Osraige lay sandwiched between the bigger kingdoms of Muman and Laigin. Both kingdoms traditionally claimed sovereignty over the territory and had long been in conflict over it. The rulers of the petty kingdom found themselves playing one ruler off against the other to maintain their independence. Laigin, and its rulers of the Uí Máil dynasty, had devised many plans to invade, finding the smaller border territory an easy means to exert pressure on Muman and its ruler.

  The most recent conflict had been when a noble of Osraige had entered into a conspiracy with rebellious members of the King of Muman’s family to overthrow him. The plan had been that, as soon as Muman could be destabilised by in-fighting, Fianamail of Laigin would strike. Princess Gelgéis had played a crucial role with King Colgú of Muman in overcoming the threat and Fianamail had reluctantly withdrawn his army. Tuaim Snámha, the petty King of Osraige, had managed to avoid culpability but there had been fines and tributes claimed by the High King and Chief Brehon of the Five Kingdoms. Muman had increased Osraige’s tribute to King Colgú in retribution.

  ‘That conflict is common knowledge,’ Brother Eochaí admitted, uncertain where the abbot was leading.