CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Night in a Haunted Chamber

The spacious though somewhat austerely furnished chamber assigned to the three Ulstermen that night, had just one large, arched window opening to the east. It had neither frame nor glass like the majestic windows of Eamhain Macha. Instead, a pair of stout wooden shutters could be closed and battened against adverse weather.

Being a little before the rise of a slender, sickle moon, there was, as yet, no view of earth or sky in the dark except for a miserly scatter of almost invisible stars.

As they sprawled naked on their three canopied beds of oaten chaff cushions and dyed sheepskins, the noise traces of the feast still echoed hollowly in Cúchulainn's jaded brain; and when he closed his eyes in invitation to sleep, this inner din of competing voices and music was augmented by a visual counterpart, a persistent glitter of candlelight reflecting from the blazing glitter of coloured jewels at neck, wrist and finger of a thousand revellers; and from the crystal droplets of a hundred chandeliers, altogether an overload of sight and sound that mocked his need for darkness and silence.

When he opened his eyes to relieve them from the interior dazzle, the only real light in the chamber came from a large fire of hissing greenwood stacked in a cavernous fireplace, sending giant, many-armed shadows cavorting in a frenzied tarantella around the bare, stone walls. He lay there for a long time waiting for sleep to take him. The fire hissed to the accompaniment of the loud, asynchronous breathing of the three men. It was as if this amalgam of small, human sound had been scored for the disordered ballet of firelight and shadows.

Laoghaire was the first to complain of his insomnia.

"My head's too busy yet for sleeping, who's for a game of chess to run the engines down?"

Cúchulainn sat up eagerly.

"I'll take you on."

"And I'll play the winner," said Conal.

"I'll not keep you waiting long," quipped Cúchulainn.

"I'll see to that, my friend," countered Laoghaire, leaving his bed and extracting the chessboard and chess pieces from his satchel.

"Yes, by losing early," retorted Cúchulainn.

Laoghaire, squatting naked on the rush-strewn floor in front of the fire, finished setting up his chessmen and scowled at his cheerful challenger.

"Are you going to talk all night or play chess?"

Cúchulainn grinned at the man's agitation, judging its source to be his fear of defeat. He simply nodded amiably to the sour-faced Laoghaire and they began to play in silence. As Conal watched the two men he realised he was learning something about the game from two very sharp exponents. He was, however, learning the importance of psychological interplay and attitude in such an intense and silent encounter.

As the first hour passed and the young moon, like a faraway fingernail clipping, appeared in the high window, Laoghaire's scowl deepened, his ill-concealed chagrin contrasting with Cúchulainn's quiet self possession. As the fire began to die down and the moon had sailed out of the window's frame, the room grew colder and darker, conditions not conducive to prolonged concentration or good humour.

The shadows had become still, and were now sitting around the chamber walls like breathless dancers poised in readiness for a resumption of music. Conal, shivered, shook his shoulders, and hugging himself against the chill, stood up and strode to the firewood alcove to the left of the fireplace, his large bare feet slapping on the limestone flags. As he gathered an armful of logs he suddenly paused, his head cocked, listening. The others did the same, looking enquiringly at one another.

"Have you ever had the feeling you were being watched?" Conal asked, a slight tremor in his voice.

"I have the feeling now," said Cúchulainn without looking up from the board.

"It is as if I'm fixed by an invasive eye from the other side of the keyhole."

"I've had the same feeling since we came in here," added Laoghaire, "but thought it might be just the wine and my over-stimulated mind deceiving me."

"Give your full attention to the game for just a moment more," suggested Conal, as he busied himself stacking the logs on the fire. Touching Laoghaire on the shoulder he added, "Or at least pretend to concentrate."

Laoghaire growled softly like a tetchy dog.

"Then," continued Conal, "I'll surreptitiously work my way around the walls to the door. We'll soon see if it's possible for three to share the one imagining."

Laoghaire and Cúchulainn returned their attention to the chessboard as the fresh logs began to burn and the shadows rose tremulously once more to choose their partners. Feigning concentration on the game they listened intently, separating and analysing the tiny sounds of the night.

Cúchulainn, dismissed each tiny crackle and hiss of twigs in the fire as though it had given the correct password. In the same way he identified and filtered out the brief, death squeal of some small creature that had become supper for a brood of owls. Likewise his keen night ear passed over the familiar, intermittent, sonar emissions of foraging bats flitting past the window.

Conal, his back pressed against the wall, worked his way to the door. On reaching it he raised his arm stealthily towards one of the heavy iron latches, taking care to avoid obscuring the view of their crouching watcher at the keyhole. With the quickness of a cat, the warrior wrenched open the heavy door with one hand, making an arcing snatch with the other.

His calculations proved correct, for his powerful hand closed on the neck of a stooping, hooded figure. He yanked the peeper into the chamber with a triumphant snarl and slammed the door. The snarl, however, died on his lips as the hood of the spy fell away to reveal the startled face of Finnabair.

For a moment Conal's military training failed and confusion took possession of him. In that off-guard moment his reflex was to cover his nakedness with his hands. If his captive had been a warrior, armed and ready, he would have died instantly. As it happened his defensive gesture served only to draw attention to the parts he was trying to conceal.

Laoghaire was not so self-conscious. Standing up in the firelight to reveal the fullness of his dark, hairy manhood, he gave a great guffaw.

"Aha! What mischief is this, my beauty? Who sent you to spy on us?"

The frightened girl was still cowering in expectation of a clout from the flustered Conal.

"No-one sent me, I swear it. I came of my own accord."

As Cúchulainn, also unabashed by his nakedness, stood up and approached her, she turned her head away fearfully. Her eyes, however, in obedience to a more primitive instinct, fastened themselves for a fleeting moment on his genitals.

"If your game is not to gather intelligence for some conspirator," he sniggered, noticing her impudent interest, "then it must be the pursuit of carnal titillation."

"In which case," taunted Laoghaire, "why run the risk of eyestrain from keyhole draught? After all our door is not locked."

Finnabair, regaining some self-possession turned her back on the three naked men, her shoulders hunched, head down.

"I swear that you misread my intention, I .... I was merely checking to see if you were comfortable."

The three men laughed in unison at the absurdity of her plea. Conal, now recovered from his confusion and being in the company of two other naked men, felt more at ease with his nudity.

"Then why, did you not knock upon the door and ask us plainly?"

"I thought you might be sleeping and if so I would have defeated the purpose of my enquiry."

"And you did not think we might be naked," said Laoghaire with a short laugh.

"I must confess, in hindsight, it was a silly thing to do without more thought. Please, now I must go."

"Go?" echoed Cúchulainn with raised eyebrows, "I think not. When we complain to your loving parents about your midnight caper and what you saw, what indeed you are still free to feast your eyes upon right now, they will be aghast at the prospect of their entire kingdom being shamed by one errant princess."

"No, Please, I beg you," sobbed Finnabair turning to face them. Although she kept her head lowered she threw furtive, appraising glances at the three men.

"Beg?" laughed Conal. "Beg, you say? You are no beggar, Finnabair. You are a princess. You would give your life for your parents, your people and the great western kingdom that you are destined to rule some day, would you not?"

Finnabair drew herself erect, tilted her chin haughtily and looked Conal in the eye.

"Die? Well, yes. I would. Gladly. If circumstances demanded it."

Her sudden change of mood, bearing and attitude surprised the men. It transformed her demeanour from that of a frightened adolescent to one of a self-possessed young woman.

Laoghaire softly, stepped close to her.

"So, what other way would you propose to spare your royal parents from the knowledge of this shameful escapade? Buy us off? Bribe the Red Branch Knights who are sworn to death before dishonour?"

"Or," suggested Cúchulainn, "you could silence us by asking some champions of the guard, and who knows, eager champions of your midnight trysts, to assassinate us."

"And," interjected Conal, "if they failed, would you expect us to explain their butchered bodies with half truths without mentioning your name?"

Finnabair, glancing from one man to the other, considered her situation. Tight-lipped, she sighed resignedly. Then, boldly tossed her her lank, mousy hair.

"Very well, then. Pronounce whatever punishment upon me that you consider aptly fits my indiscretion."

The warriors looked at each other, comparing reactions and Cúchulainn placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Spoken like a princess!"

"A repentant princess?" Laoghaire asked in a mock parental tone.

She made full eye contact with each of them in turn.

"I assure you, that I am heartily contrite for having offended you."

Then, with a haughty toss of her head, she added:

"But I do not beg for leniency. As you said, I am a princess and not a beggar. Prescribe for me whatever penance you think fits my offence."

"Any penance, you say?" said Conal winking slyly at his companions.

Detecting the prurient nuance, Finnabair gave Conal a brief, coquettish smile.
"That is what I said. That is what I said. And in your words to my parents yesterday, I will accept your judgement without demur."

The pink tip of her tongue ran suggestively back and forth between her thin, scarlet lips and with slow deliberation she undid the top two buttons of her dress, her narrowed eyes searching the faces and loins of the warriors for signs of carnal responses.

Cúchulainn interrupted the charade.

"All right then, we condemn you to sit and watch us play chess for the rest of the night."

With peals of the trio's mocking laughter reverberating in her head, Finnabair's face became flushed with a mixture of rage and embarrassment at having been so ignominiously spurned, not by one, but by three men. Laoghaire placed the tip of his finger against the princess's nose and leaning paternally down towards her, whispered:

"Without demur. Remember?"

With an angry grimace she threw her cloak to the floor and refastened her buttons. Fists clenched, she turned away from the grinning men and gazed defiantly into the fire as she marched across the chamber keeping her back to them. Cúchulainn noted that she suddenly shivered violently and, shoulders hunched, she began to hug herself and edge closer to the fire.

The Ulsterman realised that Finnabair too, had begun to notice the eerie chill in the chamber. She remained stock still before the fire until Cúchulainn called to her with forced heartiness, reminding her of her punishment.

"You have to watch the game, not turn your back on us."

A few seconds elapsed before she responded with a nervous glance over her shoulder. She gave a loud gasp of astonishment at what she saw and wheeled around abruptly, staring open-mouthed. The trio, hunched over the chessboard were now fully dressed but for their cloaks, in the splendid scarlet tunics of the Red Branch.

Her astonishment gave way to a sudden surge of anger. It in turn subsided onto a desolate shore of uncertainty as to what this could mean. Was it to intensify the sting of their mocking rejection? Or was it out of respect for her? It was difficult to guess now, so intently were they studying the chessboard.

As the game progressed, Finnabair sat on a stool glumly looking on, unable to muster any enthusiasm. Even after Laoghaire was checkmated by Cúchulainn and Conal took his place she maintained her studied disinterest. Besides, that mysterious chill was distracting her. Despite the growing blaze from the fire she showed signs of feeling the cold more intensely.

Cúchulainn noticed how she suddenly shivered and shook her shoulders. He shivered in sympathy. He looked from her to the fire with a quizzical frown. It really was growing unnaturally cold, even though the flames of the great pyre built by Conal were now roaring, sending a dense lacework of red and yellow sparks spitting and crackling up the wide chimney. He had no doubt, having taken his turn at cooking for his comrades when he was a trainee at Eamhain Macha, that such a fire would roast an ox to medium rare in under an hour.

Suddenly, the temperature plummeted from cold to freezing. Cúchulainn blew on his hands and rubbed them vigorously together; but the warmth of his breath and the friction did nothing to prevent them turning blue and skeletal. His feet suddenly grew numb with cold. He hunched his shoulders and shivered violently all over. Already the three men and the young woman were shrouded in clouds of their own breath.

Then they were distracted from their preoccupation with the unnatural cold by a whistling noise, barely audible at first. It grew gradually louder and louder and more painfully shrill. Cúchulainn bellowed something but the others only saw his expression of dread and the flash of his teeth. The volume of the noise grew so loud that they leaped to their feet in alarm putting their fingers in their ears. The three men were staring enquiringly at Finnabair.

Had she an explanation? She too had her fingers in her ears, her face a mask of terror. She was vigorously shaking her head in denial of the unspoken accusation and shrugging her shoulders energetically. Laoghaire crossed with halting steps to where he had stacked his weapons.

He picked up his sword and held it tautly at the ready, while he wheeled slowly around, his eyes searching for a possible attacker.

The noise stopped abruptly but their eardrums continued to ring painfully for several seconds. The silence that followed contrasted so starkly with the noise that it threatened to engulf them in a soundless eternity. That threat was shattered, however, by the rasp of steel on bronze as Conal unsheathed his sword.

Cúchulainn, strode to his own bedside and quickly donned his purple cloak. His three companions did not see him reach inside the cloak and withdraw a two-handed claidheamh mór (Literally, 'great sword,' approximate Ulster pronunciation, 'claymore.') so large that they would have been astounded at such a feat of conjuring.

Many years before, his mentor, the druid Cathbhad, had enchanted the cloak in such a way that it could, in moments of dire threat, become filled with all the weapons of war and the tools of survival that Cúchulainn might need. No sooner had Cúchulainn's claymore flashed in the firelight than the chamber was illumined by a blinding, bluish flash and a crashing peal of thunder, followed by a gigantic, billowing cloud of multicoloured smoke.

Over by the tall window, in the midst of the ghostly miasma they saw, hissing, growling and spitting malevolently, three garishly coloured cats the size of draft horses. One was blue, the second red, the third yellow. Their eyes, gleaming balefully, were a luminous green.

Their unnatural, coloured auras filled the room with a blinding brilliance that eclipsed the blue cloud in which they appeared. Three men and the girl became razor sharp silhouettes dwarfed by their giant, dancing shadows on the walls of the chamber. Bright though the blinding emanation was, it seemed to have a function contrary to that of normal, creative, life-giving sunlight. It had none of the beneficence of the sun for plants and living creatures nor could it symbolise the ultimate good towards which all creation relentlessly strains to evolve.

Even the radiance of the fire yielded to the blaze of hellish colour. Laoghaire, standing his ground, gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on his sword, picked up his shield and with a loud snarl rushed at the apparitions, sword flailing. His sword passed through each of the creatures as though they were immaterial, its blade assuming the colour of each in turn, blue first, then yellow, finally red.

Conal stood transfixed, his eyes popping, slippery hands, in spite of the intense cold, indecisively grasping and ungrasping the hilt of his sword. Beads of sweat glistened red, blue and yellow on his forehead as the creatures darted and retreated from Laoghaire's sword.

Finnabair screamed loudly and fled to the door. She tugged vainly at the large iron ring of the latch, glancing fearfully over her shoulder at the crouching, pawing cats against which Laoghaire's sword was proving to be totally impotent.

Cúchulainn, recognising the futility of fight against these insubstantial apparitions decided on flight as the prudent response. Joining Finnabair at the door he seized the iron ring in both hands, planted his foot against the wall and heaved. His face contorted into a painful grimace, his arm muscles bulged, taut as cables, beads of sweat formed on his forehead to form rivulets of sweat. The door groaned and bowed inwards under the strain. His efforts were in vain.

Cúchulainn, an expression of puzzlement on his flushed face, at last desisted, falling against the door panting loudly, his rapid breath punctuated by little sobs of physical distress. How could it be that his mighty strength, that could lift Bricriú's banquet hall from its foundations, could not budge this unremarkable door. He wondered desperately whether, if Laeg were with him, he could provoke his battle rage enough to accomplish this relatively puny task.

"Someone must have bewitched this door, even my merely human strength would be enough to smash locks and bolts on greater doors than this."

Breathing rapidly and loudly, closing his eyes he concentrated hard on his guardian spirit, Farroch.

"Farroch! Farroch! Where are you? I need you, now!"

After several minutes rest with his head still pressed against the door, his breathing slowed and he grew calm. He drew himself erect, took a long pace to the rear, braced himself and with a scream that caused Conal and Finnabair to jump in alarm, he launched himself at the door. At the first heave the handle's iron ring came away in his hands with a rending of timber and the screech of tortured metal. Still the door did not yield. Although several hefty lunges of his shoulders and feet sent several cracks running from top to bottom of the thick oaken planks the door still held out. Meanwhile, Laoghaire, evidently realising the non material nature of his adversaries, was invoking the aid of the gods of the Gael against this common enemy from the Underworld.

"Begone, vile creatures from the underworld! In the name of Mannanan and Badhb and all the gods of Ireland, begone!" he roared, his sword still swinging and thrusting furiously but impotently....

Well, it looks as if even Farroch can't get our heroes out of this mess. The team here at reincarnate.co.uk will be spending sleepless nights waiting to find out what happens next. Log on to join us every Sunday for further chapters.