by Des Sheridan
The device was placed in the centre of the chamber. Along one wall a brush bier was laid with a backrest inclined to the floor. Áine, the tiny nun, lay down upon it, and crossing her arms and closing her eyes, retreated into murmured prayer. Archbishop Cornelius led the others in sung invocations. Some were in Latin and were familiar to William but others in Gaelic he did not know. The melodies were beautiful, repetitive chants that rose and fell like waves on the sea.
After a while, to William’s consternation, Áine began to moan and wail and her little frame moved in spasmodic jerks. It was most unsettling and William was sure he saw demons and devils in the flickering light of the torches. Terror gripped him, a sequence of fearful thoughts racing across his mind in quick succession.
William’s interest in Celtic Christianity was sincere but his response to it was essentially intellectual. He was a reformation Englishman and a rationalist, albeit a Catholic one, at heart. He wasn’t like the others here, who readily engaged in their beautiful, lilting native tongue and seemed utterly at home with these strange rituals and proceedings. William knew that for the last hundred years in England men and women had been burned at the stake for beliefs or activities much less dangerous than this extraordinary ritual, which mixed conventional religiosity with the overtly pagan. Breaking out in a cold sweat he cursed his foolishness in getting mixed up with a character as odd as the Archbishop, who stood now in front of the Triskell, with arms up-stretched to the sky, like a wizard of legend.
Closing his eyes William intoned silently the words of the Hail Mary, imploring succour of the Blessed Virgin in his plight. As he reached the phrase and at the hour of our death the sound of a collective intake of breath prompted him to rapidly reopen them. Unable to master his curiosity, his gaze followed that of his companions, towards the source of their consternation.
Chapter 39
Sligo, Ireland, 17 September 2014
Tríona Ní Ferghall paused in her climb up the hillside.
‘That’s it, over there,’ said the young man, pointing to a wooded hillock a couple of fields away. It looked totally unremarkable and she just hoped her informant knew what he was talking about. However, the man was adamant that he had been in the tomb and seemed genuine enough. His telephone call that morning had caused her and two colleagues to drop everything, pile into the battered old Vauxhall estate, and head west from her semi-detached house in Kinsellagh, near Dublin. En route she had hurriedly deposited her two young children upon her mother. Tríona looked at her watch. She was expecting more of the group to arrive soon. They had promised to bring the video recording equipment and there wasn’t much they could do without it.
Tríona had been waiting for something like this to happen. She knew too well that they had mishandled the whole episode at Tara Hill, two years previously. Their mistake had been to play by the rules, she recalled bitterly. The issue was the building of a new trunk road close by the edge of the traditional site of Ireland’s High Kings; probably the most famous place in Ireland! At each step they had been wrong-footed by the developers who had deployed customer relations experts to sell the socio-economic benefits of building the new road to all and sundry. They had successfully depicted the protestors as a bunch of eco-warriors and cranks who were either out of touch or off their trolley. Tríona didn’t doubt that the developers had bought off the politicians too. At a key moment the easy-going Gardaí had been replaced by a new set of faces, which were anything but friendly, and the protestors had been forcibly removed. This took place when the press and TV had been lured away to a media event involving the Minister.
Well this time it would be different! The Fianna de Danann, as Tríona’s group was called, would seize the initiative and grab the headlines. Thanks to the generosity of their overseas benefactor they were adequately funded which made life a lot easier. She had just managed to ring him to let him know before they left Dublin, but he wasn’t there, so she had left an answerphone message. As Tríona resumed her climb a shout from behind made her turn. In the fading evening light, she saw that the others had arrived and were moving rapidly across the fields to catch up with her. Feeling encouraged, she smiled and waved at them.
Chapter 40
Tipperary, Ireland, 9 July 1649
Guion looked at Cornelius who lay in the bed, his back propped up by enormous cushions and pillows and his lower body buried in thick blankets and bedding. It was a four-poster, The Master of the House insisting that the ailing Archbishop should have one of the finest beds in one of the finest bedrooms at Ormond Castle.
The air in the room was thick, hot and oppressive. A fire blazed in the grate although it was summer. Guion wanted to throw open a window but the doctors were horrified at the thought and forbade it. The patient needed a stable and warm atmosphere to stop further ill humours assailing his stricken frame, they cried, waving their arms in protest. The Breton medic couldn’t see how an atmosphere which was making him feel ill could possibly be of benefit to the patient. Instead he proposed a treatment involving fresh air, oils and herbs to help Cornelius, but the physicians would not listen and Donovan Lally, the Archbishop’s right-hand man sided with them.
Cornelius had been taken poorly the day after their return from Labbacallee. Two days riding in persistent rain had laid him low with a cold which had turned into a fever. When he showed no signs of recovering after five days his physicians had decided to bleed him to drain his blood of the agency that had laid him low. The treatment had been repeated at intervals in the ten days since, but with no sign that it was working. Indeed Áine whispered to Guion that to her it was apparent that the Archbishop, who had not been conscious for four days, was failing and that soon he would enter the final phase that ushered in death.
Accordingly, late on the night of 8 July, he and Áine caught Donovan alone in the corridor that led to the sick room and Guion spoke, voicing their concern.
‘Donovan, we fear that the Archbishop is nearing his end. All four of us know what is to be done to protect the Triskell, but not how it should be done. We need to revive Cornelius to permit a final conversation with us, just in case I am right and he does not recover. There is a medication, a broth, which both Áine and I know of and have used. It is Irish in origin, from the Tomregan tradition, so you need not fear it is untried. Please let us give him some by mouth, in small spoonfuls. It might revive him briefly. Where is the harm?’
Donovan appeared glad of an opportunity to oblige his Breton companion, after their earlier difference of opinion, and readily agreed.
Chapter 41
Sligo, Ireland, 18 September 2014
The sound of raised voices woke Tara. Looking at her alarm clock she saw it was early, only seven fifteen. Moving to the window, she looked out but could see nothing unusual; the sound must be around the front of the house. Other voices calling in the house told her that she wasn’t the only one alerted to the din. She entered the front bedroom to find Aoife peering out through the lace curtains.
‘Tara, look there are TV cameras and loads of people with banners! Gosh – this is amazing! Will I get on tele?’
Looking down, Tara saw an outside broadcast team from the national television station, RTE, filming about eight people who were carrying banners with the slogans ‘Save our heritage’ and ‘No rip off of our rights’ emblazoned on them. She also registered a repeated ‘FDD’ logo although she couldn’t make out what it stood for.
Descending the stairs, she bumped into her father in his dressing gown in the hall.
‘Dad, get Mrs Ryan to tell them to wait, while we think what you should say.’
Over mugs of tea in the kitchen they hurriedly agreed what to do. RTE had rung and wanted an interview. So had the Fianna de Danann, demanding that they be given observer status over all activity at the tomb to safeguard the rights of the Irish People in protecting their heritage.
‘Over my dead body,’ muttered Brian as he scanned the faces through the window, ‘bloody hippies and scro
ungers, if you ask me. Look at this, Mrs Ryan printed it from their website. It is full of mumbo jumbo about rediscovering our roots and restoring Ireland’s pagan heritage! Can you believe it?’
‘It’s fine to think that Dad, but for God’s sake don’t even dream of saying it publicly,’ replied Tara.
‘Please, Tara, you are talking to a former career diplomat. I’ll have you know I am a consummate professional when it comes to being two-faced.’
Tara smiled. That was so like him and so like her, she thought. She had spent years doing just that in the States when she had been the Witchfinder General of the auditing world. A feeling of sadness overcame her. She hated it when she unexpectedly recalled things like that. It brought up all the bad feelings again, her sense of self-disgust and fragmentation rising unstoppably like lava in a volcanic chimney, ready to spill out. At that moment Malachy appeared at her side. Malachy was an old school friend who had turned up recently and who, as luck would have it, was an expert on all things about ancient Ireland. Or at least that was the impression she had.
‘Come on Tara. Let’s get settled so we can watch Brian on the box’, Malachy urged.
A few minutes later they watched a very poised Brian speaking via live broadcast on the RTE breakfast time show.
‘On behalf of the Ruane family I can confirm that an underground burial site has been discovered on our land. The authorities have been informed and will be arriving shortly to instigate an excavation. I am sure that you will agree that it is vitally important that the archaeological evidence is properly excavated and for that reason we are asking people not to attempt to visit or trespass on the site. We realise that the discovery is of great interest to the public and we will make sure that the media are given every possible access to the tomb as soon as possible. In the meantime please can I ask you to wait down by the road, please, where there is a layby this side of the entrance. There is lots of space there and you are very welcome to use it. We will bring you all fresh tea and coffee!’
With those few words Rosnaree was launched on the airwaves, the news instantly shooting around the web and making them public property.
Brian’s request that the visitors withdraw fell on deaf ears and it wasn’t until the Gardaí came at about ten o’clock that the Fianna and RTE people withdrew back up the drive. Neil, who had visited the tomb to check all was well, said he had seen people in the wood trying to find the entrance to the tomb. When the archaeologists, who arrived just before lunch, heard this they were alarmed and Brian got on the phone, seeking police reinforcements, but without any luck. By half past three, another three TV crews were at the gate to the drive and Mrs Ryan told two young persons, whom she found wandering about the back yard, to clear off or else.
Although nothing overtly untoward had happened, the sense of intrusion was palpable and it was clear to Tara that Brian felt control of the situation was slipping from their grip. He rang Andrew Fitzgibbon and put the call on speaker phone so that she could listen in. Andrew promised that the rest of the archaeological team, with the bulk of their equipment, would arrive the following day. Tara heard unease creep into Andrew’s voice:
‘Brian, are you saying the site could be damaged?’
‘Yes, without a doubt,’ replied Brian. This was a surprise for Tara. She had not realised the level of his concern.
There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Then Andrew said.
‘I see... I see, OK, look, I know a specialist security company in England who might be able to help, but it will cost. Their consultant will expect at least €750 a day plus expenses. But they are reported to be worth it.’
Brian responded without hesitation. ‘I am not worried about money right now, Andrew, let’s just split the cost fifty-fifty and we can review it after a week.’
‘Agreed, I will get on to them now to get a man over as fast as possible, but you will have to make do tonight on your own. You know, I think I had better come down tomorrow myself.’
Tara could hear the cogs turning in Andrew’s brain. Her father responded.
‘Yes, I think you should, Andrew. You need to be seen down here and you might as well make the most of the publicity.’
The dig was not that subtle, thought Tara, but Andrew let it pass.
‘OK, I will make an early start, see you about ten.’
She watched Brian hesitate as he put the phone down, his arm poised half way to the table. She too felt apprehensive but couldn’t quite figure out why. There was something odd about the way things were evolving as though someone had opened Pandora’s box. Shrugging off the feeling, she accompanied Brian as he broke the news that they needed to mount patrols, once the Gardaí withdrew for the night. Talking it through with Shay, it was agreed that the priority was to patrol the wood and keep intruders at bay.
She sensed that her father felt the better for having a plan but, checking the back yard soon afterwards together, he became unsettled again when he found a garage door open. Looking inside it was apparent that a pile of garden equipment had fallen over.
‘Someone has been in here, Tara, an intruder. Although I know I can’t prove it. I can feel it in my blood. Trouble is brewing. I just know it’.
Tara said nothing. She thought he was over reacting, getting jittery when there was no need. As they left she noticed he made sure to padlock the door. Taking no chances, she thought.
Chapter 42
London, 19 September 2012
Trinny Highley assembled the material on the table: his passport; the hire car booking; a copy of the e-mail and brief resumes about Brian Ruane and Andrew Fitzgibbon. She checked the airline ticket once again, her henna-coloured hair drooping over her forehead as she leaned down. She had booked Robert on an Aer Lingus flight, business class with an open return. As her eye alighted upon the book she picked it up and opened it. A lush coffee table publication on the Boyne Valley tombs, it was a bit shallow for Robert’s purposes, she knew. But it was all she could lay her hands on at short notice and it was beautifully illustrated with colour photographs. It would give him a sense of the place and that was useful. They were lucky to get him over at all at such short notice, she reflected, although she was not surprised when Robert confirmed he would go. She smiled. The phrase a most significant find that requires the highest level of confidentiality would have been quite enough to hook him.
She hoped the find would live up to its description. The work at Varna in Bulgaria was effectively finished, bar writing a final report, a draft of which was on her desk. The plain truth was that ARAD had no other jobs lined up and Trinny needed to keep her job at all costs, so that as a single mum she could continue to look after her six-year old son, Johnny. ARAD was a cool place to work and they had looked after her well, although they had asked her to remove her nose ring. When she first started at Doughty Mews Sarah had impulsively lent her the £800 she needed for a deposit on a rented flat. They were like that and she knew how unusual it was to come across people so generous. They cared a lot more than Johnny’s father who hadn’t surfaced for the last four years. A pang of loss pierced Trinny. Varna was the last link to Sarah who had been travelling to a meeting about it the day she died. God, thought Trinny, that July day was one she would never forget. Robert’s first inkling that something was wrong had come mid-morning when he tried to get Sarah on her mobile but there was no reply. That was odd as her meeting had been scheduled to last for only an hour. Shortly afterwards Trinny had heard about the bombs when listening to Radio One. Turning on the TV she and Robert had sat aghast in the office watching the unfolding news. When Russell Square was mentioned Robert, his face suddenly like granite, grabbed his jacket and shot to the door, telling her to stay put and man the phone. It must have been about three o’clock when the phone finally rang. It was Great Ormond Street Hospital.
Trinny found Robert sitting alone staring into space, rooted to the spot. He was completely abstracted and showed no emotion as he told her that Sarah was confirmed dead.
Trinny took him round to a doctor’s surgery near Doughty Mews and although he wasn’t on their books they saw him immediately and prescribed Diazepam to help him sleep. Then she took him home to his and Sarah’s flat near Victoria and stayed with him. Sarah’s father arrived later that evening, with her sister. She remembered opening the door to them. That evening the sunset was, for some reason, especially bright; a garish gouache of orange and yellow hues. They stood in the doorway silhouetted by an orange glow as though the sky was expressing its outrage at the day’s events. Somehow together they all got through that awful night. The following morning they were allowed see Sarah’s body. Sarah’s sister was in continuous distress and her father sobbed silently when he saw his daughter’s body. But Robert didn’t cry at all, he just kept staring off into space. Trinny felt guilty that it was Sarah and not her who had died; silly really, but that was what she felt. She remembered how Robert had once described the impact of Sarah entering his life. He said it was like the bit in the Wizard of Oz when the black and white world turned into full colour. Well, someone has just turned off the colour, Trinny had thought, looking at him that day.
Chapter 43
Tipperary, Ireland, 10 July 1649
Cornelius was propped up in bed, resting against the pillows, smiling. The broth had done its job. He was overjoyed to have an opportunity to speak privately with his friends Donovan, Guion, Áine and William.
‘My friends, it is hard for me to comprehend how ill I have been, for at this moment I feel no pain and my heart is calm and at peace. And yet the moment has a dreamlike quality that tells me it may not last, so let us make the most of it. I know that you have no doubts about the power of the Triskell having seen it in action! We saw a town under siege, and then it being ransacked and the inhabitants massacred. And through the knowledge of three of us we know that town by name. It is Drogheda and we saw the pockmarked face of Master Cromwell himself leading the savagery. Well, time will tell if the Triskell speaks true or false. And in the meantime we are agreed that the device must be split up, dispersed and the parts kept safe.’