by Des Sheridan
Four heads nodded in confirmation.
‘Good! But how may we accomplish such a feat? Let me recount to you my vision of how we may bring such an outcome about. I am convinced that the Good Lord himself has nurtured it in my mind. Firstly, it is important that the object remain partly rooted in this land and in its past. Therefore I ask you, Áine, to take the Triskell base to a place named Rosnaree in Sligo and there secrete it away in the ancient tomb of Cormac. Legend has it that this was the place it originated from, so it is a fitting home. There is a local man who will help you enter the tomb through a secret entrance. Place it within but do not linger for fear the souls of the dead may usher you down the passageway to the house of the dead that lies at the centre of the tomb. But that is another story. The point is not to dally there. Come close and listen!’
Áine put her ear close to Cornelius’ face and listened to further whispered instructions, then stepped back.
‘And now you, my three friends, here is the second part of my plan. I want each of the three parts of the frame to go on a pilgrimage to a sacred shine. For there in the hot blaze of belief and the burning certainty of faith they will be safe. Donovan, return to the land of your ancestors and to the shrine of St James. Guion, take your piece to lie under the wing of St Michael at the Mount that carries his name. William, take your part to lie under the wing of St Gabriel and the gaze of the Blessed Virgin at Walsingham. Be not fearful of the Protestant state of your land at present for, believe me, there will long be a Howard close to the Throne of England. Persuade your uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, that he must take Walsingham under his protection and all will be well.’
As each man took in the significance of Cornelius’ words and the task allotted to them and the enormity of what was being planned, Cornelius decided to offer them some rule of thumb advice.
‘As for the rest, I leave it up to you. You are in the hands of God and His Divine Providence. But bear these thoughts in mind. Do not hesitate in your mission, but equally use the cunning of the snake to survive and fulfil your task at all costs. Measure the risks you face well and embrace those actions that are wise and will most advance your mission. Remember, the most difficult step will be finding a safe passage out of Ireland in the face of the Cromwell’s Army. As you saw in the vision of the Triskell at Labbacallee, they will show no mercy, so expect none. Plan your journey like a fox ahead of the hunt and let not soft sentiment sway your judgement. All things are permissible as long as the Triskell is kept safe. Are you with me?’
All four immediately voiced their commitment.
‘Very good, now let us swear this under the Holy Host. Donovan!’
Donovan reached for a small golden vial that sat on the bedside table, and, opening it, drew out a wafer of the Holy Body of Christ and passed it into the Archbishop’s hand. The ailing man’s fingers shook but he did not drop the wafer, holding it up in front of him. The guests lowered their heads in reverence.
‘Now, pass me the chalice of the Scared Blood, Donovan. Be quick, I fear I am getting weak!’
Donovan held the chalice containing the consecrated Blood of Christ over the bed. Cornelius spoke again.
‘Now, all four of you, prick a finger in turn and let your blood mingle with that of Christ, and swear out loud the words of the Triskell Oath, Perge in Fide!
The words rang out four times in four different voices Perge in Fide, and then a fifth time in unison with Cornelius joining in. Perge in Fide! Forward in faith!
Chapter 44
Dublin, Ireland, 19 September 2014
On the KLM flight to Dublin, ensconced in business class, Pascal rolled the brandy around his tongue. He was intensely excited at the news coming out of Sligo and traced in his mind a straight line between this moment and his first encounter, as a nine-year-old, with the Other One. That was the purpose of life he told himself, making sense of the links and forging your destiny from the understanding.
The plane was now over the Irish Sea, and Pascal’s thoughts turned to the Steen Parchment. His decisiveness in sacrificing Le Maitre had led directly to the discovery of this vital document. It was a short account, written in Latin by an Irish Cistercian monk recording his flight from Ireland to the Abbaye d’Orval in Belgium in 1655. His journey had followed the rout of the Irish Confederacy and Cromwell’s subsequent relentless persecution of the Catholics. Most of the entries were a simple narrative of the author’s journey and travails interspersed with prayers for his safe deliverance.
But the key passage came in the last few pages. It spoke of a Celtic object, called a Triskell, which could foretell the future and reveal the Will of God through a process called the Seeing. It claimed that, in the face of the Cromwellian onslaught, this object had been divided into four pieces and dispersed to separate hiding places. Three of these were identified as being in England, Spain and France and it referred to the dispersals as pilgrimages, although it was unclear whether this was meant literally or figuratively. A final detail was that the fourth piece, the base of the object, remained in Ireland and had been hidden in a royal location near Sligo.
Although irritatingly vague, the significance of the Steen Parchment was immense. It provided historical evidence that knowledge of the secret lore of the Celts had survived to the middle of seventeenth century Ireland. This in itself was extraordinary. Moreover it asserted that the Celts had, as several Roman authors had claimed, used divination to read the future. Pascal had wasted no time putting the resources of the CRCI to work on the trail of this possibility. A visit by Jean le Vache to Ireland in 2006 pointed to Queen Maeve’s Tomb as the likely Sligo location. It was a huge stone mound, over a hundred feet long and thirty feet high, located on the table-like summit of Knocknarea, a thousand-foot high peak near Sligo Town. Knocknarea was visible for miles around, and one reading of the name was that it meant ‘hill of the king’. Archaeologists dated it to 3000 BC and were certain it concealed a passage tomb and possibly the largest one in Ireland after Newgrange.
All this was established very quickly but after that the going got harder. The CRCI funded a geophysical survey in 2007, through Patrick Deargal, antiquarian at the Sligo Museum, but the findings were disappointing. They showed no signs of a linear feature, such as a passage, within the mound. CRCI proposed an excavation in 2008, but Irish Government had other archaeological priorities. Pascal’s hands were tied for several years until Ireland’s financial crash had come to his rescue, and a deal had been reached. In return for CRCI funding three other priority projects, it was agreed that Maeve’s Tomb would be excavated in 2015. But the news from Rosnaree opened up new possibilities. It sounded very much like a royal tomb!
The aircraft was banking over the prominence of Howth Head, on the north side of Dublin Bay. He could see the waves breaking white over the rocks of the headland. He downed the rest of his brandy. Pascal was arriving in Ireland.
Six Days in September
IV: The Storyteller
Chapter 45
Sligo, Ireland, 20 September 2012
Robert Grainger, after leaving Dublin Airport, picked up the M4 and then the N4 for Sligo, using the satnav to guide him. A vast, half-completed, abandoned housing estate, which he passed on his left, seemed to signal welcome to post-crash Ireland. It should prove an interesting visit, he thought. On the plane he had skimmed through the beautifully-illustrated book on the tombs of the Boyne Valley that Trinny had shoved into his hand as he departed for Heathrow. If Rosnaree was anything like Newgrange the find would be very big news.
The call from Ireland had come out of the blue and they were lucky to catch him. Robert had arrived back in London the previous week from Bulgaria and, apart from starting work to compile the final report on the Varna Project, was at a loose end. The Varna necropolis, dating from the fifth century BC, had rewritten the history of the Copper Age when it had yielded the oldest major hoard of gold treasure in the world. That was in the nineteen seventies and almost a third of the site was left unexcava
ted at the time. When the Bulgarian Government authorised a new dig in 2007, ARAD had won the contract to manage the project. A lot had changed in Bulgaria since the first excavation. No longer did a communist regime rule the roost and criminal gangs now posed a serious threat. The job was to provide armed security at the site and to manage transportation of the finds, first to Sofia and later abroad. ARAD at the time was a fledgling outfit and the Varna deal had made their reputation. Five years on, ARAD was still involved, although this had been the last digging season.
Swerving to avoid another pothole he wondered if all Irish roads were like this. He was driving through the Central Plain of Ireland which was noticeably flat but not without interest. The lush green countryside lived up to the name of the Emerald Isle. Fleeting flashes of blue gave a glimpse of lakes. Good fishing territory, maybe another time, he thought. It was also sparsely populated with long stretches of road without sign of habitation. Houses were few and were mainly modern bungalows, often with grandiose ranch-style gates.
After driving for an hour or so, and in need of a pee, he slowed the car down looking for a place to pull over. Finding one he got out and entered a lane to get some privacy. As he relieved himself he turned his head and noticed that a low building was present just beyond some bushes. As he zipped up his flies, curiosity got the better of him and he approached closer. It was a small traditional cottage that had been abandoned and let fall into dereliction. Many of the windows were smashed and the thatched roof mostly gone. A few runs of corrugated iron, used to replace the thatch, were all that remained. Walking in through a doorway Robert stepped back in time. A faded armchair sat near an old hearth. Glass crunching under foot, he moved into the bedroom where an old iron bed with a thin rotting mattress had been left. Turning he was astonished to see an old tweed jacket hanging on a hook on the back of the door. An old briar pipe lay on the floor beside a half collapsed bedside table. A crucifix still hung on a hook on the wall, the wallpaper damp and peeling. It was as though the house had been abandoned in a hurry. Perhaps an old man had died and no one had bothered to come back later, he thought. There was little of value but Robert sensed the old man’s presence and could image him undertaking his daily activities of life, moving about his home. Feeling suddenly like a trespasser Robert edged back out of the building. What made the Irish abandon their traditional homes in favour of soul-less bungalows, he wondered. Yes, the cottages were small but why not extend them? Chewing this mystery over in his mind he climbed back into the car and resumed his journey.
Eventually Robert steered the hired blue Range Rover onto the drive to Rosnaree, the residence of Brian Ruane. It would have been hard to miss it; a throng of people and media vans was gathered at the gate. It took him five minutes to talk his way through the police checkpoint at the gate. The approach to the house took him down a long narrow drive, flanked initially by evergreen shrubs and trees. After two hundred yards or so a broad lawn peppered with trees emerged on the right hand side, creating a parkland character. Two minutes later the drive ended in a loop of gravel around a fountain, facing the front of the building. Robert let out a low whistle, realising that Rosnaree was less a house and more a small country mansion. The façade, encased in grey limestone slabs, was Georgian with a centrally-placed double door, complete with curved fanlight, encased in a two-pillared porch. To the right, tacked on to the main building, Robert could see a later addition: a brown sandstone bay, two storeys high, with tall mullioned windows adding a neo-gothic touch.
‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ he muttered admiringly as he raised the lion-headed knocker to announce his arrival.
The door was opened by the housekeeper, a bustling woman in her sixties with old-fashioned blue rinse perm, who announced herself to be Mrs Ryan. She relayed Mr Ruane’s apologies for not greeting him personally as she ushered him in. As Robert followed her into the marble-floored entrance hall he noticed a vast pile of boxes and equipment. The housekeeper followed his glance.
‘Just look at that now, those archaeologists have been here less than a day and will you look at the mess!’
She led him up an elegant curving staircase and, negotiating various twists and turns, showed him to his room, pointing out the nearest bathroom as they passed. The bedroom was spacious and comfortable, with a double bed, an easy chair and a large writing desk that caught his eye at once. He could put his laptop and papers there. An old-fashioned wash-basin was attached to one wall. The decor was faded but Robert immediately liked the room. It felt lived-in and the light was good.
Two tall windows extended along one wall and, putting down his bags, Robert went over to one of them. The view looked out over sprawling farmland, with cattle and a few horses scattered about. Mrs Ryan invited him to freshen up and come down to the lounge for tea when he was ready. Dinner would be later, she informed him, at half-past seven. Left alone, Robert tried his smartphone but there was no signal, so he just plugged it in to recharge. It was a decent double socket, so the place had clearly been rewired at some point. After unpacking the few changes of clothes he had brought with him, he splashed water over his face at the sink before retracing his steps downstairs.
The first room that Robert tried was a dining room, but, on opening the door to the second, he entered a generously-sized living room with three sofas, some armchairs and several standard lamps. The large mullioned windows told him he was in the Victorian part of the house. Outside, a broad herbaceous border edged a rectangular lawn that gave way to fields and then, just beyond, to hills that rose rapidly, filling the skyline. Another fine view, he thought, realising that there was a real beauty to the place.
Behind him the door opened and Mrs Ryan, carrying a tea tray, swept in, followed by a ginger-haired man in his early forties.
‘You must be Robert,’ the man said, offering his hand, ‘I’m Neil Delaney, Brian’s son-in-law. Welcome to Rosnaree.’
He had an open, engaging face and a firm handshake and Robert took to him straight away. Over tea, Neil recounted the discovery of the tomb and events since. He apologised for not taking Robert to the tomb straight away; the archaeologists had banned visitors for the moment.
‘Staking their claim,’ he added with a wry smile.
Robert asked instead for a tour of the property and they set off. The main Georgian building was an elongated rectangle. To the rear, stables, forming a quadrangle, abutted upon the middle third of the main building. At one end the Victorian wing created a right angle with the rest. The space between it and the stables was occupied by a small rose garden, which was fairly untidy, but Robert expected would have been full of blooms earlier in the season. He noticed that trees and hedges encroached upon the house on all sides. That, he thought, would provide a security challenge for Mac to address when he arrived. Intruders could readily approach the house unseen.
Next, Neil took Robert down a charming sunken lane to the wood where the tomb lay. Through gaps in the hedges he caught glimpses of open farmland on all sides, threaded with numerous lanes. A brief stop near the tomb gave him the lie of the land. The woodland was dense, but not thick enough to repel the curious and determined for long, he reckoned. As they made their way back towards the house they met several sightseers, and Robert realised that the wood would need cordoning off entirely. That meant a secure perimeter with proper ten-foot security fencing and laser alarms. That wouldn’t come cheap, he thought, as the house came back into view.
Chapter 46
As Robert entered the living room that evening, Brian Ruane made a bee line to welcome him. Brian was not tall, but had definite presence. His hair, once jet black, was now well threaded with grey. He wore it quite long, affording him an unkempt look. His thick brown cords, tweed jacket and checked shirt were all of good quality but Brian somehow contrived to make them look shabby. Thick black eyebrows stood guard over a pair of alert blue-grey eyes, that darted about. A man of action and a bon viveur, concluded Robert, noticing his new employer’s ruddy complexion.
Next to Brian stood a tall, thin, light-haired man wearing slacks and a lime green cardigan over a pale pink shirt. Andrew Fitzgibbon’s dress sense was pure Nineteenth Hole and Robert couldn’t fathom why men of a certain age and class went to such sartorial extremes to announce themselves to world as golfers.
His employers were clearly relieved that their security expert was to hand and keen to see if they would get their money’s worth. They plied him with questions about the Varna excavation and Robert explained how ARAD was handling the security aspects. Where he could, he drew comparisons with Rosnaree, but stressed that the physical disposition of the site was only part of the equation. The nature of the find and the human dynamics were vital ingredients too. They nodded, satisfied with his responses and, as others joined them, steered the conversation to lighter matters. This afforded Robert an opportunity to observe the other guests.
A strikingly attractive young woman, who had just entered the room, caught his attention. She was standing off to one side and wore a designer blouse, flecked in purple and blue hues, over a light-grey corded skirt. Dark blue sandals matched the blue in her blouse. The shoes had stylish leather criss-crossings that reached a short distance up a pair of very attractive legs. Jimmy Choo, I’ll bet, Robert thought. Her auburn hair was worn long and her eyes, sitting under a pair of broad, dark and straight eyebrows, were electrifying. They scanned him briefly, great green-blue orbs encased in two seas of white, then swept on. He noticed that she was not wearing much makeup, just a touch of lipstick: a real natural beauty.