The Shapeshifter's Lair

by Peter Tremayne

  ‘Do you think I provide hitching posts free for any passers-by? The posts are for the benefit of my customers.’ His tone was hostile.

  Fidelma regarded his angry red countenance before returning a disarming smile.

  ‘So you are the óstóir, the keeper of this alehouse?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘In that case,’ she replied, ‘we will be your customers. You may serve us your best ale. And while you do so you may provide us with some information.’

  ‘Information?’ The man seemed disconcerted. ‘Information is not always cheaply given. What information could I provide to you?’

  At that moment Enda moved slightly and his cloak slipped its position around his neck revealing the golden torc, the emblem of the Nasc Niadh, the Golden Collar of the élite warriors of the King of Muman. The tavern-keeper realised the visitors were of rank and his whole demeanour changed.

  ‘I am sorry, lady, for the brusqueness of my manner. But the hitching rail is provided for my customers. Lady, my tábhairne is a humble place with none of the amenities to accommodate those of rank. Let me recommend you to somewhere better suited to your taste.’

  ‘Your tábhairne will suit us well enough.’ She noticed that the two men who had been seated outside had finished their drinks and left. ‘We will sit there and you may bring us your best ale.’

  The óstóir hesitated. ‘You will drink ale, lady? I have a sweet cider that might be more to your liking.’

  ‘That will suit me even better,’ she replied gravely, glancing at her companions. Eadulf and Enda opted to try the man’s ale and he hurried inside to fulfil the task.

  Eadulf glanced around. ‘I have to say that I would have taken the man’s advice and gone to the tavern on the other side of the square,’ he said.

  Fidelma shook her head. ‘It is not for the man’s cider or ale that we are here. The information that we want is more likely to be gathered here than in a more expensive inn. That is, if the descriptions of Cétach’s tastes are correct.’

  The óstóir returned, balancing the mugs on a wooden tray with surprising dexterity. He set the drinks down on a small oak table before them. They took a few sips. Fidelma found her cider was far better than she expected and immediately rebuked herself for thinking it would not be of good quality. Often the best of drinks and food were to be found in the less pretentious places and she congratulated the man on it. He had stood waiting patiently. Now he smiled.

  ‘You said you wanted information, lady. What can I help you with?’

  ‘As you have doubtless guessed, we are staying at the abbey,’ she began with a smile. ‘We want to track down a trader who deals with the abbey.’

  ‘I know all the traders here,’ the man agreed eagerly. ‘Who is it you seek?’

  ‘A man named Cétach.’

  Surprise crossed the man’s features. ‘He is hardly a trader. He is just a corr margaid.’ This was said in a tone of distaste.

  Eadulf had not heard the term before so Fidelma explained.

  ‘A low class of trader, a pedlar, usually considered a vulgar, base person.’

  ‘Indeed, lady,’ the tavern-keeper confirmed. ‘A purveyor of cheap goods or rubbish. He is not worthy of your interest, lady. There are better and more trustworthy traders in the township.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is this particular pedlar that I seek,’ she said firmly.

  The tavern-keeper scratched behind his ear. ‘Cétach. You should know he is a drunk. He only bothers to do what trade and bartering he does in order to buy liquor. You should know he is not to be trusted, lady. Even when his wife divorced him and took his children from him he gave her nothing, in spite of the Brehon’s judgment.’

  Fidelma was interested. ‘Do you imply that his wife achieved a divorce in the secondary category of the laws and she did not receive full compensation?’

  ‘She was awarded compensation by the local Brehon Rónchú but did she get it? She and her father should have been given back her coibche, her dowry, and the benefit of the fines. Cétach never paid them.’

  Fidelma expression showed her surprise.

  ‘Indeed,’ continued the tavern-keeper. ‘He even managed to lay hands on his wife’s tinól, the wedding presents given to the bride by her friends. She had some friends of wealth among her own people so the presents consisted of household goods and some silver and copper and brass.’

  It was the law that the tinól was gifts whose value was divided, with two-thirds going to the bride and a third to the bride’s father. It was not the property of the husband.

  ‘What was the reason for the divorce?’

  ‘Simple enough,’ the man said with a grim shrug. ‘He used to beat her and she was often seen with bruises and cuts.’

  Fidelma knew that this was listed in the law as one of the seven reasons why a woman could seek separation or divorce and demand her dowry be returned, and with compensation.

  ‘Are you saying that Cétach did not pay his wife that which the law demands that he should?’

  ‘That is what I am saying, lady. I tell you, he is not a good man and one you should do well to avoid, for no business is safe in his hands.’

  ‘But if he ignored the law, the ruling of the Brehon, then he should have been punished.’

  ‘He was. He lost his full rights in the clan and is now considered a saer fuidhir. But, having lost his rights, he is allowed to work provided he pay some amount of his fine as a tax until he has paid off his debt. But he has such debt that he will never pay it off. So he remains a cheap pedlar. Not worth bothering about.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I still see need to find Cétach,’ she insisted. ‘He is an important witness in a matter that needs examination.’

  The tavern-keeper looked bewildered. ‘A witness? Well, if you insist, lady. What information do you need?’

  ‘Where do we find him?’

  He turned and pointed to the rise just beyond his tavern. ‘You see the path up that rise that twists through the yews and hazels there? If you follow that path you will find Cétach’s cabin hidden among them. If he is sober then he might be away seeking goods to peddle. If he is not sober then he might be sleeping it off. You might be lucky. People tell me that if he is not sober you might hear his mule demanding attention, for he keeps the poor animal tied up there.’

  ‘What does Cétach look like?’

  ‘A wizen half-starved iraóg.’

  Eadulf knew the derogatory term meant a stoat.

  ‘You can’t miss him because his hair recedes from the front and grows in a dirty red mass, the back mingling with an unkempt beard.’

  ‘Very well.’ Fidelma finished her cider with a gesture of finality. ‘We shall go and look for this unpleasant-sounding person.’ She was reaching into her purse when Eadulf interrupted.

  ‘One other question. What’s the significance of the sprigs of yellow furze that I see hanging over the doors of all the houses? Does it mark some festival?’

  The expression of the tavern-keeper suddenly darkened as he half took a step backwards, but then he paused and shook his head.

  ‘My knowledge is limited on that matter,’ he said firmly.

  He was about to turn away, but Fidelma handed him some coins with a disapproving glance at Eadulf. The coins seemed to ameliorate the man’s displeasure and he raised his hand to touch his brow in salute.

  ‘May you have success and protection to the end of the road, lady.’

  They mounted their horses and moved slowly off in the direction the óstóir had indicated, towards the rise at the back of the township. Eadulf decided to let his question drop for the time being, even though he had noticed that above the tavern doors was the same yellow sprig of furze.

  They had now entered a thick wood covering the rise, well away from the strips of agricultural and pastoral land nearer to the river. The path was a wide one and it was clear from the muddy tracks that it had been used often by a cart and mule. The route twisted a little as it climbed
between the tall yews at the bottom of the hill, where there was plenty of water and dampness, before the yews gradually gave way to aspen and broad-leaf conifers. There were a lot of patches of ivy, especially among the brambles.

  The travellers had risen high above the township, which was now made invisible to them by the screen of trees, before they came to what was a shelflike plateau around which the trees were encroaching on a couple of wood log buildings. One of these was clearly a barn, looking derelict and disused, but before the open doors stood a tired-looking mule. It was patiently nibbling whatever growth was available in its enforced circle, delineated by a rope attached to an iron ring on a wooden post. It took no notice of them as they approached. There was an empty cart nearby, much weathered, with some of its planking rotting.

  The other building was an oak log bothan, a cabin, which even at a swift glance looked in fairly immediate need of repair. Sackcloth flapped in the wind at the two windows. The door stood wide open but the place had a long-deserted appearance.

  ‘Do you think this is the place the tavern-keeper meant?’ Eadulf said, peering round in disapproval. ‘It hardly appears habitable.’

  ‘Well, there is a mule as well as a cart here,’ Enda pointed out. ‘Therefore there must be an owner and, if the tavern-keeper’s estimate of the pedlar was right, we should not be surprised at the condition of his cabin.’ Without dismounting, he raised his voice and shouted.

  The only answer was a sudden scurrying and a flapping of feathered wings as birds arose from the surroundings, making angry noises of protest. After a moment or two, silence fell again.

  ‘Wait here, lady,’ Enda instructed. ‘I’ll check inside, but it seems the pedlar is either drunk or is not here.’

  ‘Well, he can’t have gone far, having left his mule and the cart here.’

  Enda swung off his horse and walked towards the cabin door. At a short distance he halted and called again. This time there was a noise from inside and then, in a flash of red, a dog-like creature suddenly leapt from the blackness of the interior. It had made an incredibly tight turn, waving its bushy tail and, with three short sharp barks, vanished even before Enda had managed to get his sword in his hand.

  For a moment or two they were all silent.

  ‘A fox,’ muttered Fidelma.

  Enda had now drawn his sword and was keeping it in his hand as he cautiously entered the cabin. A step beyond the threshold he halted and peered about. They heard him gasp. There were a few moments before the young warrior reappeared.

  ‘I am afraid the man, whom the innkeeper described as Cétach, is not drunk, lady. He is dead.’

  EIGHT

  The body lay on its face on the smooth earth floor of the cabin just beyond the door. The various odours of the interior, the curious abandoned variety of items that should have been discarded years before, combined in a vile stench. The floor consisted of generations of feet-hardened mud and clay with no sign of wooden floorboards ever having been laid. The few bits of furniture – a table and a chair – appeared as rotten as the exterior of the cabin. Fidelma registered them with distaste as she quickly scanned the room, noticing the white ashes of a still-smouldering fire in a crumbling inglenook. In a far corner was a dark mass of material, which she presumed was a bed. Beyond that there was little else. It took but a moment or so for her to observe this and then look down at the body.

  Although the door was wide open there was little light in the cabin. The body was close to the door but in shadow. She did not have to request Eadulf to examine it. He was used to this role, thanks to his medical training. Enda, meantime, had gone to the windows and torn away the dirty sackcloth that hung on nails over them. Even this did not help illuminate the interior, for wreaths of ivy hung over most of the apertures and even crept inside the interior.

  Eadulf had bent down, first observing how the body was stretched on the ground, head forward towards the fire with one arm outstretched as if trying to reach forward to it. The head was a mass of unruly hair with curious dark patches. It was only when a ray of light caught it that one could see the hair was dirty red rather than black. The dead man’s back was towards the door. The dirty shirt had darkness around the collar, which implied dampness. Eadulf touched it with a fingertip and then held up his enquiring digit to examine it in the light.

  ‘Blood,’ he said laconically and unnecessarily.

  ‘Was he hit on the head?’ Fidelma asked.

  To her surprise, Eadulf shook his head. ‘Give me a moment and more light.’

  Enda had found a candle, but even though the fire was smouldering it was reduced to white ash without the capability of creating sufficient spark. He quickly ignited the candle using his own tenlach-teinid, or tinderbox, which all warriors carried in their girdle pocket so that it was often called teine-creasa or girdle fire. It was part of a warrior’s training that he should possess the ability to light a fire in the briefest possible time using flint and steel with tinder. Now Enda bent and held the flickering candle close, to aid Eadulf in his examination.

  It was only a short time before Eadulf was satisfied enough to turn the body face up. He exhaled softly. ‘This must be Cétach. He fits the tavern-keeper’s description: the dirty red hair, receding at the front, the beard. He is in the pedlar’s cabin. There is no one else about.’

  ‘So what can you tell us about his death?’ Fidelma prompted.

  There was a red weal across the neck. The dead man had been attacked from behind and a blade had been used across the throat with a clean cut rather than a jagged tear. Eadulf moved back a little and glanced at the entire front of the body. There were no further wounds there. Finally he looked up at Fidelma.

  ‘The man was obviously attacked from behind. He did not even have time to turn to confront his killer.’

  ‘He was caught by surprise?’

  ‘In a way. I think he must have known his killer and did not suspect an attack. He was killed where he stood, with his back towards the assassin. More importantly, this man must have been held from behind while the killer brought his knife round and cut his throat, letting the body slump to the floor face downwards. The knife seems to have been honed to a point of sharpness that is fairly unusual.’

  ‘A sharp knife is carried by hunters and warriors,’ pointed out Enda.

  Fidelma had noticed Eadulf’s hesitancy. ‘There is something else?’ she pressed.

  ‘The cut was made right to left,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘The wound is deeper on the right where the knife was first plunged in.’

  ‘You mean it was done by a left-handed person?’

  ‘The pedlar was held from the back and to achieve that cut it must have been done by a left-handed man. It was probably the same assassin as killed Brocc.’

  ‘Unless we believe in an extreme coincidence.’

  ‘At least the killing of both men was done by left-handed men.’

  ‘Or women,’ Fidelma corrected absently.

  ‘I doubt a woman would do this, lady,’ Enda intervened.

  ‘You sound adamant,’ Fidelma commented.

  ‘Well, lady, I would exclude a woman by the very method of the killing. True, a woman can shoot a bow as well as a man. But it takes unusual strength in a woman for her to seize a man from behind and hold him while she cuts his throat. Look at the corpse of this pedlar, lady. He might be thin and dirty but he still had strength from the active manner of his life.’

  Eadulf was unsure what he meant and said so.

  ‘Whatever the tavern-keeper thought of his business, Cétach had to lift and cart goods about in his wagon, harness his mule and drive long distances. As we know, he drove whatever goods he bartered between here and Durlus Éile, and the road lay through these mountains. A weak man wouldn’t be able to do that. So it would take an unusually powerful woman to launch such an attack on this man so strongly and so quickly that there is no sign of a struggle. The conclusion is that the pedlar succumbed very quickly and only a powerful antagonist cou
ld have achieved that.’

  Fidelma regarded Enda with an expression of amused approval.

  ‘Well, it seems that we have the making of a Brehon in you, Enda,’ she said, but could not quite disguise her testiness at being lectured in her own craft. Eadulf frowned as he detected it and glanced anxiously at Enda. The young warrior did not appear to have noticed.

  ‘I am no Brehon,’ Enda said. ‘I am happy to serve in your brother’s bodyguard. I am a warrior and content enough in that role.’

  Fidelma’s lips pressed for a moment. Even when she made her remark she had regretted it. She knew her faults, and often Eadulf had pointed out her bad temper and impatience with others.

  ‘It is a good point, Enda,’ she went on, trying to retrieve her own self-image. ‘However, whatever sex the person was, it does lead us into a fog of questions.’

  ‘Such as?’ Eadulf asked. ‘If the person who killed the Brehon was the same person who killed Cétach, what could have been the motive?’

  ‘That is the fundamental question,’ Fidelma agreed. ‘Cétach told the abbot that he had seen Princess Gelgéis and her party leave Durlus Éile for the abbey and days later he followed the same road and found the Brehon’s body on the wayside. Recognising it as a member of the princess’s party, he puts the body in his wagon and brings it to the abbey. His purpose, to hope for a reward. Now why would that necessitate his murder?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Eadulf accepted, ‘unless he was not being entirely truthful to Abbot Daircell as to what he saw. He says that he saw nothing: he did not see the killer, he could provide no leads. Nothing that he told the abbot could identify the killer. Why, then, would the killer want to silence the pedlar, and after he had already delivered the body to the abbey? This is now a week later. What else could he have done or said, other than what he did a week ago, to bring death on himself?’

  ‘As you say, perhaps he was not telling everything to the abbot,’ suggested Enda. ‘Perhaps the killer only just discovered that the pedlar had some knowledge that he had to be silenced for?’