House of the Dead Page 7

  Twenty minutes later, seated upon the Archbishop’s chair in the ransacked study in the great Tower House, Murrough irritably surveyed the booty that the raid had yielded. The fine horde of gold and silver episcopal rings, chalices, mitres, crucifixes and candlesticks ought to have well pleased him. As leader of the Protestant forces in Munster, he was desperately short of cash and his troops needed paying. This would meet the immediate need, sure enough, but it did nothing to calm his anger at the fact that the Archbishop was nowhere to be found. He knew full well that the Archbishop had been in the complex when they launched their attack. He had seen him on the ramparts with his own eyes! By rights he should have the man in his hands right now, begging on his knees for mercy. Not that there would have been any. Murrough intended that Cornelius Walshe share the fate of the recently-slaughtered head of the garrison, Colonel Butler, whose still-warm blood was presently flowing between the cobbles outside in the yard.

  Fury at being thwarted gripped Murrough’s guts. Raising his eyes from the booty his glance fell coldly upon the hapless, captured priest kneeling before him. The man was terrified, shaking like a leaf, but at the same time stubborn, spluttering insolence. Murrough’s eyes narrowed. He would get the answers he needed from this wretch. He barked at his sergeant.

  ‘Get him to talk, do anything! I will know where his master is hidden or he will reach the gates of Hell within the hour!’

  His men, brutalised by the violence they had wrought on the defenders of the Rock, laid straight into the prelate. After five minutes, when still the captive would offer no information on the Archbishop’s whereabouts, Murrough rose to his feet and strode to the fireplace, grabbing hold of a poker that had been placed in the hot coals. Shouting in rage, he ordered that the prisoner’s feet and legs be bared and held still. The man screamed in agony as Murrough ruthlessly applied the hot iron. The stench of burning flesh immediately filled the room but still the priest persisted in his silence on the subject of his master, although imploring loudly his Lord and Maker in other respects.

  When it became apparent that the priest could, or would, tell them nothing, Murrough lost patience and dropped the iron. Reaching for his sword and lunging forward, he transfixed the prisoner with a single powerful stroke that cut full through the man’s torso and out the other side. The wretched man arched his broken body and, emitting a final scream, expired. His life blood gushed out, soaking copiously the thick rug. Withdrawing his sword Murrough moved to the window and wiped the bloodied Toledo steel blade across the heavy brocade curtain. Returning the weapon to its fine silver scabbard, he left the room without a word. Inwardly a thousand furious thoughts flashed through his mind. He had taken the Rock – the first man ever to do so – but he had failed to secure the real prize. He could not lay his hands on the Archbishop or the mysterious Triskell!

  His boots clattered angrily on the stone treads as he swept down the stairs and into the great hall, his face puce with anger as he screeched at his men.

  ‘Kill them all! Kill the lot of them, the rebellious bastards! Show them no mercy! And find me their Bishop!’

  Chapter 21

  Sligo, Ireland, 15 September 2014

  Following the afternoon spent reading Joe’s diaries, Tara wasted no time. The next morning with Jack, Brian’s King Charles spaniel, for a companion she headed off down the boreen. To access the track you had to go through a narrow gap between the former farm buildings and the garden wall. In fact if you didn’t already know the gap was there, you would never find it, for at first glance it looked as though the garden wall adjoined the buildings. Once through, however, a path led the way through a clump of bushes and then the boreen opened up in front of you.

  It was a classic old Sligo lane and sank in upon itself as you progressed, the bushes and trees climbing the half-tumbled, stone walls to coalesce in places over your head and form a green tunnel. It had all the hallmarks of being a very ancient lane and Tara wondered why, when the stables were built, they had not incorporated the track into the layout around the house. Instead it had been isolated, a forgotten route, out of sight and out of mind.

  Tracing the path was like walking back in time, and memories flooded Tara’s mind. She recalled how beautiful it was in May when it presented a tapestry of green and white: cascading blooms of hawthorn on high; sweeps of cow parsley at waist level and blankets of wild garlic, with its spiky flowers, chasing your feet as its scent invaded your nostrils. Today, with summer already a memory, the hedgerows were more a riot of disorder. Tall gangly plants, over-stretched by summer’s exuberance, were starting to collapse and wither on the stem, their green leaves speckled with the yellow and brown tell-tale signs of autumn. Odd tumbles of pink dog roses still sported a dash of vigour and colour here and there. A few late blackberries, full and luscious, caught her eye and Tara paused to taste them, their purple juice staining her hands. Standing still, she became transfixed, intensely aware of the silence of the enclosed space about her, as if by paying close attention she might catch the low breath of the place. For an instant it felt as though the tunnel was the throat of a living creature that she had wandered into. Dismissing the thought as ridiculous, she resumed her walk.

  After half a mile she reached the place where her memory told her the route split into three. Here the boreen was open to the sky and the wind tousled Tara’s hair, sweeping away the cobwebs of recent weeks. It was good to be out of doors, she thought; she had spent too much time inside of late. The natural world was lifting her mood and she felt a tingle of unexpected elation.

  To the left a gate opened out into the fields and a path veered off towards the slopes of the Bricklieve Mountains. She could see them, three fields distant, rising up with massive, inclined slabs of limestone exposed on the mountain side, like ribs on a half-buried carcass. Billowing white clouds scudded along the skyline, for a moment giving Tara the impression that it was the ridge that was moving, cutting its way through the clouds, like a frigate slicing through a wave-tossed sea.

  Straight ahead of her the main track came to a dead end swallowed up in woodland. Down to the right a path fell away quite steeply. She remembered tobogganing down there with her friends. For a second she could see again their white breath on the winter air and hear their excited screams as they hurtled forward. A smile formed on her lips at the memory.

  Returning to the present Tara scanned the dry stone wall for what she was seeking but couldn’t locate. It took a good few minutes of scratching about before she found it, almost invisible under the encroaching lichens and leaves: a carving on a distinctive tooth-shaped, upright wall stone, just as Joe had described. Pulling aside ivy and brambles, Tara watched the pattern appear, three interlocking spirals, like a register of the three paths that divulged from the spot. Tara pulled Joe’s diary from her pocket and, opening it where she placed a yellow post-it note, read aloud:

  Where the twin teeth of Cormac’s shield point skyward, the three paths to truth – hill top praise, the drone of the tomb and the singing of the stream – are laid out before you.

  There the three spirals of time await your footfall. Follow the winding trails with the fingers of your soul.

  She recited it a second time more slowly, emphasising the phrases to help tease out their meaning. The ‘hill top praise’ was easy to work out. The tombs on the Carrowkeel ridge across the fields were a clear call to on high. Likewise Tara knew that the sloping track led to a miniature waterfall, no more than two feet high, which fed a pool formed where the stream crossed an outcrop of limestone. In her mind she could hear its clear tinkling chimes. But if Joe had meant this spot, his imagination must have carried him away for ahead of her was only woodland as far as Tara could see. No tomb in sight.

  Yet it was hard to escape the conclusion that this was exactly the place that her grandfather meant. The wall stone, with two teeth-like projections at its top and carrying a triple spiral, was a very precise reference. There were lots of ridges and streams hereabouts but s
urely there could only be one such stone in the vicinity? Scraping away the undergrowth around the edge of the stone she traced with her a finger a double ridge around the exposed parts. Like markings on the edge of a shield, she told herself.

  As she stood there wondering what to do next, Jack took matters in hand. Shooting forward he disappeared straight ahead into the trees. Tara followed, bending and ducking to avoid branches as she made her way. It was hard going as the ground was strewn with rocks of all sizes and she realised she could easily sprain an ankle if she wasn’t careful. It came back to her that the wood was very old, a plot of ancient woodland. In places where the limestone outcropped, ancient gnarled yews grew on the bare rock, their roots clasping the grey rocks like fingers as though grabbing sustenance directly from the stone. The place certainly felt very ancient and it had a charm about it, as though here time stood still. She searched around for about fifteen minutes, calling Jack’s name at intervals, but was greeted only with silence.

  By now the thicket had grown denser, closing in upon her, and Tara realised that she was in danger of losing her bearings. Hesitating, she called again for Jack but still there was no response. The sun went behind a cloud and the woodland around her darkened. Becoming uneasy Tara retraced her steps, finally arriving back at the marker stone. She felt safe again but her anxiety remained. She had walked with Jack daily since her return and he had lived here all his life. He knew these woods. Why disappear now without trace?

  Chapter 22

  Brussels, Belgium, November 2004

  Jean Le Vache looked at the sight before him. Le Maitre was hanging at one end of the cellar, stripped naked and bound with two coils of rope around his chest. The rope ended in a length that hung from a ceiling hook and the man dangled two foot off the ground. The floor was covered in white plastic sheeting. The patron approached him, patting his buttocks and saying ‘What a fine specimen you are, Monsieur le Professeur, shame though about the tiny, tiny cock.’ He poked him and the suspended body rotated slowly. Like a piece of meat, thought Jean, feeling nauseated. He had sensed that the boss wanted to rough up Le Maitre and Jean’s mean streak wanted to be there, to see it, to get his chance to put a sneaky boot in. But this was something else. This was getting out of hand. What was worse, Erik and Theo seemed unperturbed. Was this the sort of thing they had got used to doing?

  The men laughed and Erik handed his boss a thick leather whip with five straps at the end, each about a foot long and each with a brutal-looking metal stud embedded near the tip. The patron swung the whip energetically through the air and it made a sinister, swishing sound. Warming to the task, he then whipped Le Maitre several times on the back, building up strength with each lash and grinning as the man grunted. The prisoner’s back rose in ugly purple weals. Pausing, the boss unexpectedly shoved the whip roughly into Jean’s grasp, saying,

  ‘Come on, Jean, show us you have some balls.’

  Jean, wishing he was dead, hesitantly took the whip and whipped Le Maitre’s reddened back twice.

  Erik jeered him. ‘Come on, pussy, you can do better than that!’

  Jean felt his face redden, anger surging through his veins as he caught the tone of contempt in Erik’s voice. Jean saw himself as an important person, someone who mattered and he was not used to being ridiculed. Yet here was Erik, a hired thug, mocking him and the patron was tolerating it; no, the patron was enjoying it! He was allowing Erik to insult him! Because Jean lacked self-confidence the mockery hurt all the more. So he let the anger rip through his arm, the flail flying forcefully and scourging the man’s back. Le Maitre screamed and the others cheered their approval. Egged on, Jean applied more strokes, getting into the swing of it, aiming to hurt. Blood was now oozing from ugly slashes on the man’s back. Jean paused, panting and slammed the whip into another man’s chest, grunting, ‘Right, your turn’. He was relieved when the man accepted it. One for all and all for one, Jean thought bitterly.

  And so, methodically, under the patron’s watchful eye, all the men took turns in participating in the torture, each causing more blood to flow, but each telling himself, Jean realised, that it was the others who were inflicting the real damage.

  Le Maitre was a whimpering wreck when Erik put him back into the chair and the patron questioned him about the Seeing. Even now Le Maitre held back, saying he knew nothing specific, although repeating the common knowledge that the Celts had some means of divining the future. The boss, fury rising inside him, ordered Theo and Jean to hold the man down and place his hands on a small table that Erik dragged over for the purpose. At a nod from his employer, Erik brought out a small hammer and calmly used it to impel a fragment of bamboo under one of Le Maitre’s nails. Jean was horrified at the change in Erik who was becoming increasingly vicious and appeared to be relishing the infliction of torture. There was nothing Jean could do. He had to assist. If he stepped aside they would not trust him and he might become a target himself. Le Maitre’s scream was horrendous and his free arm shot up with primal force, smashing Theo in the face and sending him flying. Thank God it wasn’t me, thought Jean. The patron swore.

  ‘Hold him down, you fools!’

  The others moved in, like a swarm of flies, and pinned the victim down properly so that Erik could resume his work.

  After the third piece of bamboo was inserted, Le Maitre started to talk or, more properly, gabble.

  ‘There is a document, the Steen Parchment. It was found in the Abbaye de’Orval. It belonged to a Cistercian monk, an Irishman, who arrived in the late sixteen hundreds.’

  Now Le Maitre was talking freely, although weak from the beatings and losing consciousness at times. His interrogator, his behaviour utterly changed, was in supportive mode, his voice as a smooth as a cat’s purr as he poured water on the prisoner’s wounds. Jean found it hard to credit that it was the same man. That was what was so terrifying about his boss; his unpredictability. He could change mood as fast as a chameleon could alter its colour.

  ‘Tell me all, Jacques and we can put this right. I don’t want to hurt you more. I know I have gone too far – I am sorry, I really am.’ His eyes were watering and he seemed close to tears of remorse. ‘But you made me do it - you left me no choice. Can’t you see?’

  Le Maitre nodded and resumed his confession eagerly, like a supplicant before a priest.

  ‘When there was trouble during the Revolution the parchment ended up somehow in the hands of the Van den Steen family. They lodged it in the library at the Chateau de Jeffrey.’ Le Maitre, his voice quavering, slowly enunciated the names as though they were jewels of knowledge, as indeed they were to the patron. ‘Such a fine library, you know,’ the injured man added pointlessly, before surrendering to a bout of coughing up blood. Over the next few minutes, haltingly he explained that the parchment had disappeared with other rare books and manuscripts during the German Occupation. As luck would have it, he was offered it in the seventies by a book dealer, who didn’t want any questions asked so that it had ended up in Le Maitre’s hands at a knockdown price.

  ‘Excellent’ said the patron. ‘Tell me where you have hidden it.’

  The details flowed without prompting from Le Maitre’s lips. Soon the patron picked up his mobile phone and made a short call. Addressing his accomplices, he said,

  ‘Right, now we wait, in the meantime let’s go upstairs. Theo, stay here and give him water. Be nice to my friend. We must make amends.’

  Chapter 23

  Cashel, Ireland, 18 September 1647

  Cornelius had every reason to be glad that he had listened to his earlier intuition; the day had indeed proved calamitous for the inhabitants of the Rock of Cashel.

  The speed of the rout took everyone by surprise and when the resistance had crumbled, he and Donovan – who had made the arrangements they needed - clambered back up the stairs in the Tower House. It was a massive five-storey fortress built a hundred years earlier as the Bishop’s residence and they gained the fourth floor just in time. As the heavy s
tone door to the concealed room closed silently behind them they could hear the cries of their pursuers on the stairs just yards behind. Thankfully the walls of the secret chamber were so thick that no further sound penetrated and they were spared the full tumult of the defeat.

  They survived in the covert apartment on a modest cache of food and water. A small garderobe meant they could hide in comfortable, sanitary conditions. A thin, removable, cylindrical stone core through the outer wall, operated by pulling a metal ring, was their sole means of replenishing the air in their chamber and also of listening to the world outside.

  On the third day of their concealment the prolonged silence convinced them that it was safe to venture outside. Both men were completely unprepared for the scene of devastation that met their eyes. An eerie silence and foul smell hung over the great settlement. The entire monastic complex had been sacked in an orgy of looting, burning and slaughter. In the vast vaulted spaces of the Cathedral, its great timbers now reduced to fallen charred remnants, the bodies of men, women and children lay in obscene heaps, and under the main altar Cornelius recognised the butchered remains of a number of priests and servants, including his friend Theobald. Remorse swept over him. As soon as the rout began, he had tried to find the learned scholar but without success. Cornelius was aghast. Looking at the hacked body lying at his feet, anguish flooded Cornelius’s heart as he realised that his friend’s life ambition would never be fulfilled. There would be no history of the Irish monasteries written now, as the precious knowledge necessary for its composition had fled this world along with Theobald’s soul.