Hemlock at Vespers

A SCREAM FROM THE SEPULCHER

It was the evening of All Saints’ Day and Tressach, a warrior of the guard of the royal palace of Tara, home of Sechnasach, High King of Ireland, was unhappy. That evening he had drawn the most unpopular duty, which was to act as sentinel in that area of the palace complex where generations of High Kings were buried. Rows of carved granite memorials marked the mounds where many of the great monarchs were interred, often with their chariots, armor, and such grave goods as were needed to help them on their journey to the Otherworld.

Tressach felt uncomfortable that this duty fell to his lot on this night of all nights. The evening of All Saints, or All Hallows, as some now named it, was an ancient observance which many still called the Samhain Festival even though the five kingdoms had long accepted the new Faith of Christendom. Samhain, according to ancient tradition, was the one night of the year when the mystic realms of the Otherworld became visible to the living and when the souls of the dead could enter the living world to wreak vengeance on any who had wronged them in life. So strong was this belief among the people that even when the new faith entered the land it could not be suppressed. The Christians therefore incorporated the ancient festival by creating two separate celebrations. All Saints’ Day was set aside as a day when the saints, known and unknown, were glorified, and the following day, All Souls, was given to the commemoration of the souls of the faithful dead.

Tressach shivered slightly in the cold evening air as he approached the walled-off compound of graves, far away from the main palace buildings which made up the High King’s capital. Autumn was departing with rapidity and the first signs of winter, the white fingers of a creeping evening frost, were permeating across the sacred hills of Royal Meath.

Tressach paused as he contemplated the path that he had to take between the darkened mounds with their granite stone portals. They called this “the avenue of the great kings,” for here were entombed some of the most famous of ancient rulers. There was the imposing tomb of Ollamh Fodhla, the fortieth king, who gathered the laws of Ireland and established a féis, or convention, which sat at Tara every three years at the feast of Samhain. This was when judges, lawyers and administrators gathered to discuss the laws and revised them. Indeed, Tressach knew that hosts of judges and lawyers had already descended on Tara, for the convention fell this very year. They would start their deliberations in the morning.

Here, also, was the imposing tomb of Macha Mong Ruadh, Ma-cha of the Foxy Hair, the seventy-sixth monarch and the only woman to have ruled all Ireland. Beyond were the tombs of Con-aire the Great, of Tuathal the Legitimate, of Art the Solitary, of Conn of the Hundred Battles and of Fergus of the Black Teeth. Tressach could reel off the names of those who inhabited the graves like a litany. How were the mighty laid low.

Yet, why a warrior needed to waste his time patrolling this resting place of the dead was a mystery to Tressach. What need was there to guard this desolate place; and why this night, of all the dark autumnal nights? Tressach would have preferred to be somewhere else… anywhere else.

At least he had a lantern, but its light gave him little comfort. He began to walk with a quick pace as he passed down the darkened aisle between the tombs. The quicker he completed his task, so that-in good conscience-he could report to his commander that he had walked through the compound, the better. The thought that, at the end of his vigil, there would be a mug of cuirm, a strong mead, acted as an added incentive.

He turned a corner and conscience made him pause near a row of tombs for an inspection. He held his lantern before him. He owed it to his commander and his pride as a warrior to make a cursory check at each vantage point. His eyes fell on a newly dug grave and he found himself suppressing a shiver. He knew that Garbh, the keeper of the cemetery, whose duties included the maintenance of the graves and the digging of new tombs, had been working here over the last two days. Although the grave was unfinished and empty, Tressach felt a morbid fascination as he stared at the yawning black hole with its piled dark earth around it. His imagination began to run riot and fearful childhood fantasies clutched at his mind. Any moment something fearful could raise itself out of that black pit! He genuflected and turned abruptly away.

Here, at the end of the row of more modern tombs, stood a mound set slightly apart. This type of grave was ancient and called a dumma. It was surrounded by a circle of granite pillar stones notched in Ogham, the ancient Irish writing which was falling into disuse since the new faith had brought Latin script into the land. Had it not been so dark, Tressach knew that one would have seen that this tomb was more richly endowed than the others. Under its grey stone portals were heavy oak doors, paneled in copper and bronze and reinforced with iron. The panels were studded with patterning of gold and silver.

It was one of the oldest of the graves at Tara. In fact, according to the chroniclers, it was some fifteen hundred years old. It was the tomb of the twenty-sixth High King, Tigernmas, known as “Lord of Death,” for he was one of the most warlike of the ancient kings and had won thrice-nine battles in a single year. During his reign, so the old storytellers claimed, the first gold and silver mines were discovered and worked in Ireland. Tigernmas had become a rich and powerful king. It was he who had ordained that the people should wear clothes of varied colors to denote their clans and social status.

Of all the tombs that Tressach would have to pass this fearsome evening, he was most apprehensive of the tomb of Tigernmas. The old annalists had it that Tigernmas had forsaken the ancient gods and turned to worship an idol dedicated to blood and vengeance. Sacrifices were made at the feast of Samhain on the plain of Magh Slecht. Because of this, a terrible disaster had overtaken Tigern-mas. He and all his followers died of a strange illness and his body was then returned to Tara to be interred in this last resting place of kings.

Tressach knew the story well and wished, for at least this night, that he could expunge it from his imagination. He clasped his sword hilt more firmly with one hand as he held the lantern high with the other. It gave him comfort. He was about to hurry on past the tomb of Tigernmas when a scream poleaxed him. His limbs lost all form of movement. It was a muffled cry, a strangled cry of pain.

Then an agonized voice distinctly cried: “Help me! God help me!”

Tressach broke into a cold sweat, unable to move, unable to make a sound from his suddenly constricted and dry throat.

There was no question in his mind that the cry had come from the long-sealed tomb of Tigernmas.

The Abbot Colmán, spiritual advisor to the Great Assembly of the chieftains of the five kingdoms of Ireland, a thickset, ruddy-faced man in his mid-fifties, rose to greet the young religieuse who had just entered his chamber. She was tall, with grey-green eyes and rebellious strands of red hair escaping from under her head-dress.

“Sister Fidelma! It is always good to see you here at Tara. Alas, you do not often bless us with a visit.”

He came forward with both hands outstretched.

“Dominus tecum,” replied the religieuse solemnly, observing protocol. But the smiling Abbot shook his head, gripped her hands warmly, and guided her to a chair beside the fire. They were old friends but it had been some time since their last meeting.

“I was wondering whether we should see you here this year for the convention. All the other judges and lawyers have already arrived.”

Sister Fidelma, of the house of Brigid of Kildare, grimaced wryly.

“It would have been remiss of me to fail to attend, for there are many contentious matters that I want to debate with the Chief Brehon.”

Since the reign of the High King Ollamh Fodhla, twelve hundred years before, féis of Tara had met every three years to discuss the law of the land. Judges, lawyers and administrators gathered to debate the workings of the law and whether, in the light of changing society, any amendments or changes needed to be made.

Abbot Colmán smiled happily and offered Fidelma a drink of mulled imported Gaulish wine. When she indicated her acceptance he took down a pottery amphora, emptying some of the red wine into a jug, then, taking a red-hot poker from the fire, he dipped it into the sizzling liquid. Then he poured a measure into a silver goblet.

The evening was chill and Fidelma appreciated the warm liquid.

“Is it really three years since you were last at Tara?” inquired the Abbot, shaking his head in mock disbelief as he seated himself in a chair opposite her.

“It does seem a lifetime ago,” agreed Fidelma.

“The king still speaks with wonder of how you solved the mystery of his stolen sword.”

“How is Sechnasach, the king? Is he well? And his family, do they prosper?”

“They are all well, Deo gratias,” the Abbot said piously. “But I hear that much has happened to you since-”

He was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.

The Abbot made an apologetic glance toward Fidelma and bade the caller enter.

It needed no expertise to see that the warrior who stood there was in some state of shock. In spite of his sheepskin cloak, his body shook as if with intense cold and his face was white. The lips quivered almost uncontrollably. His dark eyes flickered from the Abbot to the young religieuse and back again.

“Well, man,” Colmán said sharply. “Out with it. What is it you seek?”

“Lord Abbot,” the man hesitated. His voice was a mumble.

Colmán heaved an impatient sigh.

“Speak up, man!”

“I am Tressach of the palace guard. My captain, Irél, has sent me to fetch you. There has been an incident…”

Tressach’s voice trailed nervously away.

“An incident?” queried Colmán. “What incident?”

“There has been an incident in the cemetery of the High Kings. Irél requests that you should attend immediately.”

“Why? What incident?” Colmán obviously did not enjoy the prospect of having to leave the warmth of his hearth and wine. However, the Abbot was both an officer of the royal court and an ecclesiastical advisor, and any incident affecting spiritual matters at Tara, in which the upkeep of the cemetery was included, came under his jurisdiction.

Sister Fidelma had been examining the nervous warrior under lowered brows as she sipped her wine. The man was clearly in a state of extreme unease. The Abbot’s abrupt manner was not helping him. She placed her goblet on the table and smiled reassuringly up at him.

“Tell us what has happened and then we may see how best we can help.”

The warrior spread his arms helplessly as he turned to her.

“I was on guard. By the tombs, that is. This very evening, I was on guard. Abruptly there came a scream from the tomb of Tigern-mas…”

“From the tomb?” queried Fidelma sharply.

“From inside the tomb, Sister.” The warrior lent emphasis to the statement by genuflecting. “I heard a voice crying distinctly for God to help it. I was in mortal fear. I can fight with men but not with the wandering tormented souls of the dead.”

Colmán was tut-tutting. His face showed skepticism.

“Is this some mischievous prank? I am well aware what night this is.”

But Fidelma could see that humor was not in the fearful face of the warrior.

“Go on,” invited Fidelma. “What did you do?”

“Do, Sister? I hastened away as fast as I could from that accursed place. I ran to report to my captain, Irél. At first, like the Abbot, he did not believe me. He and another warrior took me back to the tomb. Oh, by my soul, Sister! The voice came again. It was fainter than before but still crying for help. Irél heard it and so did the other warrior who accompanied us.”

It was plain Colmán still did not believe him.

“What is it Irél wants me to do?” he demanded cynically. “Go there and pray for the souls of the dead?”

“No. Irél is one not given to a belief in wandering spirits. My captain wants permission to open the tomb. He believes that someone is inside and hurt.”

The Abbot looked aghast.

“But that tomb has not been opened in fifteen hundred years,” he protested. “How could anyone be inside?”

“That’s what Garbh told him,” agreed the warrior.

“Garbh?” queried Fidelma.

“The keeper of the cemetery. My captain, Irél, sent for him and requested that he open the doors of the tomb.”

“And did Garbh do so?” asked the Abbot, irritably.

“No. He refused unless Irél obtained higher authority. That is why Irél sent me to you, to seek your permission.”

“Quite right. This is a matter of seriousness,” Colmán muttered. “The decision to open tombs is not one a soldier-even the captain of the palace guard-can make. I’d better come along and see this Irél, your captain.” Colmán rose to his feet and glanced at Fidelma. “If you will forgive me, Sister…”

But Fidelma was rising also.

“I think I will come with you,” she said quietly. “For if a voice comes from a sealed tomb, then someone must have been able to enter it… or else, God forbid, it is indeed a spirit calling to us.”

They found Irél, the somber-faced captain of the palace guard, standing outside the tomb with another warrior. There was a third man there, a stocky man with rippling muscles who was clad in a workman’s leather jerkin and trousers. He had pugnacious features and was arguing with the captain. The man turned as they approached and, with relief on his face, greeted Abbot Colmán by name.

“I am glad that you have come, my lord Abbot. This captain is demanding that I break open this tomb. Such an act is sacrilege and I have refused unless ordered to do so by a churchman of authority.”

Irél stepped forward and saluted the Abbot.

“Has Tressach explained the matter to you?” His voice was curt.

The Abbot glanced disdainfully at him.

“Can we hear this voice?” Colmán’s tone was sarcastic and he cocked an ear as if to listen.

“We have not heard it since I sent for Garbh,” replied Irél, keeping his irritation in check. “I have been trying to get Garbh to open the tomb, for every moment is urgent. Someone may be dying in there.”

The man called Garbh laughed drily.

“Look at the doors. Not opened in fifteen hundred years. Whoever died in there died over a millennium ago.”

“Garbh, as keeper of the cemetery, is within his rights to refuse your request,” Abbot Colmán explained. “I am not sure that even I can give such permission.”

It was then that Sister Fidelma stepped forward.

“In that case, I shall give the order. I think we should open the tomb immediately.”

Colmán swung round and frowned at Fidelma.

“Do you take this matter seriously?”

“That an experienced captain of the guard and a warrior take it so should be enough reason to accept that they heard something. Let us see if this is so.”

Irél looked at the young religieuse in surprise while Garbh’s features were forming into a sneer of derision.

Colmán however sighed and motioned to Garbh to start opening the doors of the tomb.

“Sister Fidelma is a dálaigh, an advocate of the law courts, and holds the degree of Anruth,” he explained to them in order to justify his action. “She has the authority.”

Garbh’s eyes flickered imperceptibly. It was the only indication that he made in recognition of the fact that the young religieuse held a degree which was only one below the highest legal qualification in the land. Irél’s shoulders seemed to relax as if in relief that a decision had finally been made.

It took some time for Garbh to smash open the ancient locks of the door and swing them open.

As they pressed forward there were some gasps of astonishment.

Just inside the door was the body of a man.

They could see that this was no ancient body. It was the body of a man who was but recently dead. From his back there protruded a length of wood with which he had clearly been shot or stabbed. It was like the shaft of an arrow but without feathered flights. He lay face down behind the doors, hands stretched out as if attempting to open the doors from the inside. They could see that his fingernails were torn and bleeding where he had scraped at the door in his terror. And his face! The eyes were wide with fear, as if he had been confronted by some evil power of darkness.

Tressach shivered violently. “God look down on us!”

Garbh was rubbing his chin in bewilderment.

“The tomb was securely sealed,” he whispered. “You all saw the seals on the door. It has been sealed for fifteen hundred years.”

“Yet this man was inside trying to break out.” Fidelma pointed out the obvious. “He was apparently dying even as Irél was ordering the tomb to be opened. It was his dying cries that Tressach and Irél heard.”

Irél glanced toward Sister Fidelma.

“This is hardly a sight for a Sister of the Faith,” he protested as he saw her moving forward.

“I am a dálaigh” she reminded him. “I shall take charge of this investigation.”

Irél glanced questioningly to Abbot Colmán, who nodded slightly, and the captain stood aside to allow Fidelma to enter the tomb. She ordered the lanterns to be held up to illuminate the area.

Fidelma moved forward curiously. She had heard all the stories of Tigernmas, the infamous High King, who had ordered his Druids to be put to death and turned to the worship of a gigantic idol. Generations of children had been frightened into obedience with tales of how the evil king’s soul would ascend from the Otherworld and take them off unless they obeyed their parents. And now she stood at the door of his tomb, unopened since his body had been placed in it countless generations ago. It was not an inviting place. The air was stale, dank and smelling of rotting earth and vegetation. A noxious, unclean atmosphere permeated the place.

The first thing she noticed was that the body was of a man of middle years, somewhat plump, with well-kempt white hair. She examined the torn and bleeding hands and looked at the softness of the fingers and palms. He was clearly someone not used to manual work. She examined his clothing. Apart from the dust and dirt of the tomb and the stains of blood from his wound, they were the clothes of someone of rank. Yet he wore no jewelry, no symbols of office, and when she examined the leather purse attached to the belt around his waist, she found only a few coins in it.

Only when she had conducted this scrutiny did she turn to examine his face. She tried to ignore the terrible mask of dread on it. Then she frowned and called for a lantern to be held more closely, studying the features with some dim memory tugging at her mind. The features seemed familiar to her.

“Abbot Colmán, please look at this man,” she called. “I have a feeling that I should know him.”

Colmán moved forward somewhat unwillingly and bent down beside her.

“Christ’s wounds!” exclaimed the Abbot, forgetting his calling. “It is Fiacc, the Chief Brehon of Ardgal.”

Fidelma nodded grimly. She knew that she had seen the man’s features before. The chief judge of the clan of Ardgal was one of the learned judges of the country.

“He must have been here to attend the convention,” breathed Colmán.

Fidelma rose and dusted her clothing. “The more important thing to discover is what he was doing here at all,” she pointed out. “How did a respected judge come to be in a tomb which has never been opened in generations and get himself stabbed to death?”

“Witchcraft!” supplied Tressach in a breathless tone.

Irél glanced at his subordinate with a look of derision.

“Don’t the teachings of Patrick’s first council tell us there is no such thing as witchcraft?” he rebuked, before turning to Fidelma. “There must be an explanation for this, Sister.”

Fidelma smiled appreciatively at the man’s pedestrian approach.

“There is an explanation for everything,” she agreed, as she let her eyes wander into the interior of the tomb. “Sometimes it is not easily seen, however.” Then she turned back to Colmán. “Would you consult with the steward of the convention and see if Fiacc was in attendance and whether he was due to speak?”

Colmán hesitated only a moment before hurrying away on his task.

Fidelma bent again to the corpse. There was no disputing the cause of death. The shaft of wood, like an arrow, was stuck in the back of the corpse under the shoulder blade.

“The worst place to try to stab a man,” sniffed Irél. “To stab him in the back,” he added, when Fidelma glanced up question-ingly at him. “You can never be sure of inflicting a mortal wound. There are too many bones in the way of a vital organ, any of which might deflect the blow. It is better to stab from the front, in and up under the rib cage.”

He spoke with the relish of a warrior.

“So you would say that whoever delivered the blow was an amateur when it came to killing?” asked Fidelma drily.

Irél considered the point.

“Not necessarily. The implement has been inserted slightly to the side and with an upward thrust toward the heart. The killer knew what he was about. He was aiming to pierce the heart immediately. Nevertheless, the victim lived on for a while. If he had not, we would never have heard his cries and discovered the body.”

“You are very observant, Irél. But why do you ascribe the killing to a man?”

Irél shrugged indifferently.

“It is logical. Look at the depth at which the wood is buried in the flesh. It would take strength to thrust it in so far.”

Fidelma could not fault the logic. But she was examining the shaft of wood with more interest. It was a piece of aspen, some eighteen inches or more in length, and it was inscribed with Ogham characters. She ran her finger over the cut letters, feeling the faint stickiness of the sap. The words meant, “The gods protect us.” It was now obvious what it was. The aspen wand was called afé-an instrument by which corpses and graves were measured. It was generally regarded as an unlucky object and no one, would willingly touch afé unless they had need to.

Even Fidelma felt that she had to summon a special courage before she reached over and yanked the piece of wood from the corpse of Fiacc. She immediately saw that it was no ordinary fé. Where the shaft had been driven in, it had been whittled into a sharp point and, when she’d wiped the blood on the clothes of the corpse, her eyes narrowed as she observed that this point had been hardened by fire.

Tressach, standing nearby, was gazing aghast at Fidelma’s handling of the wooden fé.

“Sister,” he reproached, “it is highly unlucky to handle that. And to handle the very fé that measured this tomb for Tigernmas…”

Fidelma did not reply. She rose to examine the rest of the tomb.

It was an oval-shaped chamber cut into a mound of earth with its floors flagged with stones while granite blocks lined the walls and were placed so that they formed a natural archlike structure across the entire roof. The length of the tomb was about fifteen feet, and its width a little more than twelve. Fidelma was thankful that the open doors of the tomb had allowed fresher, chill evening air to dispel the fetid atmosphere.

There was no need to ask where the remains of Tigernmas were. At the far end of the tomb, in a central position, stood an upright, rusting iron frame. In it, almost crumbled to pieces, were the remains of a skeleton. There were some fragments of clothing on it; a metal belt buckle and a rusty sword had fallen nearby. It had been the custom for the ancients to bury their chieftains and great rulers standing upright and facing their enemies, sword clasped in their dead hand. This iron cage had obviously been designed to keep the corpse upright in the burial chamber. By this method, it was said, the aura of the dead was supposed to protect the living. The skull of the skeleton had fallen to one side in the cage so that its eyeless sockets appeared to be staring with malignant force in the direction of the dead Fiacc. The skeletal grin seemed to be one of satisfaction. Fidelma felt irritated at the way her imagination interpreted these images.

To one side of the tomb were the rotting remains of a chariot. This would be the king’s most cherished vehicle, left there to help transport him to the Otherworld. Jars and containers of what had once been his favorite foods and drink stood nearby, large bronze and copper containers made by skilled craftsmen.

Fidelma moved forward and her foot caught at something. She bent down and picked up a small but weighty bar of metal. Having examined it closely by Irél’s lantern, she realized that it was silver. She set it down carefully, and as she did so she saw a few brooches scattered about. They were of semiprecious jewels set in gold mountings. Again, it was the custom to bury a portion of wealth with a great chieftain, for he would also need some means to help him in his journey to the Otherworld. Frowning thoughtfully, Fi-delma continued to examine the rest of the tomb.

By the beam of the lantern, Fidelma noticed that a small trail of blood led from a point before the iron cage of the skeleton to where the corpse of Fiacc lay before the doors. She could also see scratch marks on the granite floor.

Irél, standing beside her, articulated her thoughts.

“He was obviously stabbed while standing by the cage and then contrived to drag himself to the doors.”

Fidelma did not bother to glance at him.

“Obviously,” she replied shortly.

At the entrance of the tomb, Garbh, the keeper of the cemetery, was standing with Tressach and the other warrior, watching her progress with fascination.

“Speaking of things obvious, does it not surprise you that there is so little dust and dirt on the floor of this tomb?” she asked Irél. “It is almost as if it had been recently swept.”

Irél stared at her, wondering whether she was making a joke. But she had passed on, examining the floor and looking carefully at one of the stone slabs that made up its surface. She pointed to the scratch marks across the floor.

“Bring your lantern closer,” she instructed. “What do you make of those?”

The captain shrugged. “It is probably where the floor stones were scored by ropes while they were being dropped into place.”

“Exactly so,” agreed Fidelma quietly. “And have you noticed anything else that is curious about this sepulcher?”

Irél glanced quickly around but shook his head.

“Tigernmas, although he subsequently developed an evil reputation, is accredited as the king who first encouraged gold and silver to be smelted and works of great art to be produced in this land.”

“I have heard the stories,” replied Irél.

“And it was the custom of our people to place grave goods in the tombs, together with symbols of their wealth and power.”

“That much is well known,” acknowledged Irél, slightly irritated at Fidelma for not addressing the more urgent problem.

“Apart from a few golden brooches and a silver bar, which I see lying on the floor there as if they were hurriedly discarded, where are the riches that one would have expected to find in this tomb? It is singularly devoid of any such items.”

Irél tried to see some connection that Fidelma’s remark might have with the murder of Fiacc but failed. He was not interested in the customs of the ancients.

“Is that significant?” he asked.

“Perhaps.”

Fidelma walked back to the corpse and looked down at it once more. There was a movement outside and Abbot Colmán came hurrying back.

“Fiacc was certainly due to attend the convention tomorrow,” he confirmed. “The steward says that Fiacc and his wife, Étromma, arrived in Tara a few days ago. However, and this is interesting, there was a problem, for, the steward says, Fiacc was to be heard before the Chief Brehon to answer charges which, if proved, would have debarred him from practice as a judge.”

“A special hearing?” Fidelma had heard nothing about such a contentious matter. She cast a final look around the tomb before returning her gaze to Colmán.

“Does the steward have details of the charges against Fiacc?”

“Only that it was something to do with malpractice. Only the Chief Brehon has the details.”

“Has Étromma been informed of her husband’s death?”

“I took it upon myself to send word to her.”

“Then I think I should go and speak with her.”

“Is that necessary? She will be distraught. Perhaps tomorrow would be a more suitable time?”

“It is necessary to see her now in order to clear up this mystery.”

Abbot Colmán spread his hands in acquiescence.

“Very well. What about…?” He did not finish but gestured toward the tomb.

It was Garbh who finished the question: “Shouldn’t the body of this man be removed so that I can reseal the tomb?”

“Not for the moment,” replied Fidelma. “Irél, have a guard mounted outside the tomb. Everything is to be left as it is until I order otherwise. Hopefully, I shall have resolved the mystery before midnight. Then the tomb can be resealed.”

She left the tomb and began to walk slowly and thoughtfully back through the graves of the High Kings. She paused for a moment, waiting for Abbot Colmán to catch up with her. He had paused a moment to issue final instructions to Irél. Her eyes flickered toward the yawning pit of a freshly dug grave and suppressed a shiver. Colmán came panting along a moment later and together they walked at a leisurely pace toward the lights of the main palace complex.

Étromma was surprisingly young to be the wife of a middle-aged judge. She was scarcely more than eighteen years old. She sat stiffly but in complete control of herself. There was little sign of anguish or of grieving on her features. The cold, calculating blue eyes stared with hostility at Fidelma. The lips were thinned and pressed together. A small nerve twitching at the corner of her mouth was the only sign of expression on her features.

“I was divorcing Fiacc. He was about to be disbarred and he had no money,” she replied coldly to a question Fidelma had asked her.

Fidelma was seated before her, while Abbot Colmán stood nervously by the fire.

“I do not see how the two things fit together, Étromma,” she commented.

“I do not want to spend my life in poverty. It was an agreement between us. Fiacc was an old man. I married him only for security. He knew that.”

“What about love?” queried Fidelma mildly. “Had you no feelings for him?”

For the first time Étromma smiled, a humorless parting of her lips. “Love? What is that? Does love provide financial security?”

Fidelma sighed softly.

“Why was Fiacc facing disbarment from practice as a judge?” Fidelma chose a new tack.

“During this last year he had made many wrong judgments. He was, as you know, judge of the Ardgal. After so many wrong judgments, he was no longer trusted by the people. He had made himself destitute from the continual payment of compensation.”

Fidelma knew that a judge had to deposit a pledge of five séd, or ounces of silver, for each case he tried as a surety against error. If, on appeal by the defendant to higher judges, a panel of no fewer than three more experienced judges, a judge was found to have made an error, then this pledge was confiscated and the judge ordered to pay further compensation of one cumal, the equivalent of the value of three silver séd.

“How many wrong judgments had your husband made this last year, then? How could he have become poverty-stricken?”

“There were eleven wrong judgments during this last year.”

Fidelma’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Eighty-eight silver séd, which could buy nearly thirty milk cows, was a staggering sum to have to pay out in compensation in a single year. No wonder there was talk of disbarring Fiacc.

“He was to be heard before the Chief Brehon to answer the fact that he had gone into debt to pay fines and to answer for his competency as a judge,” Étromma added.

“Are you saying that he had borrowed money to pay?”

“That is why I was divorcing him.”

Fidelma realized that a judge who turned to moneylenders to support him would certainly be disbarred if he could not present a valid argument to endorse his actions. Clearly, Fiacc had been in considerable trouble.

“So your husband was worried about his situation?”

Étromma chuckled drily.

“Worried? No, he was not. At least not recently.”

“Not worried?” pressed Fidelma sharply.

“He tried to stop me divorcing him by claiming that it was only a temporary matter and that he was not really destitute. He said that he was expecting money shortly and, after that, if the people did not want him as judge, he would be rich enough to live without working.”

“Did he explain where the money was coming from? How would he pay off his debts and find the money to live for the rest of his life in any degree of comfort?”

“He did not explain. Nor did I care. I think he was just a liar or a fool. It was his problem. He knew that if he lied to me and he was disbarred and shown to be penniless then I would leave. It was as simple as that. I was not going to recall my application for divorce.”

Fidelma tried to conceal her dislike of the cold, commercial attitude of the young woman.

“You were not at all interested where your husband would suddenly obtain money if he actually did so?”

“I knew he would not. He was a liar.”

“At what point did he become confident that he would manage to obtain money to pay his debts?”

The woman Étromma reflected for a moment.

“I suppose that he started to brag that he was going to overcome this problem a day or so ago. Yes, it was yesterday morning.”

“You mean that he was worried until yesterday morning?”

“Precisely so.”

“When did you both arrive here at Tara?”

“Four days ago.”

“And during that time, Fiacc was concerned? Then yesterday morning his attitude changed?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Did he meet with anyone here?”

Étromma shrugged. “He was known to many people here. I was not interested in his friends.”

“I mean, was there anyone in particular with whom he spent some time at Tara? Was there anyone who could be described as a close friend or confidant?”

“Not so far as I know. He was a solitary man. I do not think he met with anyone here. He kept to himself. The only thing that I know he did was go for walks on his own in the graveyard of the High kings.” Étromma paused to sniff. “I thought he was getting maudlin. But, as I said, yesterday he came back grinning like a cat who had found a dish of cream. He assured me that things would be all right. I knew he was a liar, so I was not going to alter my plans to leave him.”

Fidelma stood up abruptly.

“I will not express my condolences, Étromma,” she said with emphasis. “Doubtless you do not expect them. You are obviously more concerned with the financial arrangements. Fiacc was still your husband when he met his death. Your husband was murdered. I think I now know who the murderer is and, if proven, the compensation due for the slaying of your husband, as a Brehon of lower rank, is three séd of silver. It is not a fortune but it will keep you momentarily from poverty, and doubtless you will soon find someone else to support you.”

Abbot Colmán followed her unhappily along the corridors of the palace toward his chamber. “You were harsh, Sister. After all, she has just been widowed and is only eighteen years old.”

Fidelma was indifferent.

“I meant to be harsh. She felt nothing for Fiacc. He was merely a source of income for her. She proclaims her motto without shame-lucri bonus est odor ex requalibet.”

Colmán grimaced. “Sweet is the smell of money obtained from any source. Isn’t that from Juvenal’s Satires?”

Fidelma smiled briefly.

“Send for Irél, Tressach and Garbh to come to your chamber. I think I can now solve this problem.”

It was not long before the three men crowded curiously into the Abbot’s chamber.

Fidelma was seated in a chair before the fire while Colmán stood with his back to it, a little to one side. His hands were clasped behind his back.

“Well now.” Fidelma raised her head and regarded them each in turn before addressing the warrior, Tressach. “How long have you been a guard at Tara, Tressach?”

“Three years, Sister.”

“And how long have you patrolled the compound containing the tombs of the High Kings?”

“One year.”

“And you, Irél? You are captain of the guards of Tara. How long have you been here?”

“I entered the service of the High Kings some ten years ago. Conall Cáel was still High King then. I have been captain here for the last year.”

She looked from one to another and shook her head sadly.

“And how long has Séchnasach been High King?” she continued.

Irél frowned, not understanding the logic of this question. He regarded Fidelma as if she were joking. But her expression was completely serious.

“How long? You must know that, Sister. Everyone does. It was three years ago when the joint High Kings, Diarmait and Blathmac, died of the Yellow Plague within a week of one another. That was when Sechnasach became High King.”

“Three years ago?” pressed Fidelma.

“You must remember, Fidelma,” interrupted Colmán, wondering how she could have forgotten. “You were in Tara on that occasion yourself.” But she ignored him and continued to direct her questions to Irél.

“And is the High King in good health?”

“To my knowledge thanks be to God,” Irél replied, becoming slightly defensive.

“And his family?” continued Fidelma remorselessly. “Are they in good health?”

“Indeed, the High King is blessed.”

“I told you as much myself when you arrived earlier,” frowned Colmán, wondering if Fidelma was losing her memory.

“So what is the purpose of the new grave being dug behind the tomb of Tigernmas?”

The question was asked so softly that it took a moment or two for its implication to sink in. Fidelma’s fiery green eyes were fixed on the keeper of the cemetery.

Garbh’s mouth dropped open and he began to stutter. Then he hung his head in silence.

“Hold him,” instructed Fidelma calmly. “He is to be held for premeditated murder and grave robbery.”

With astonished expressions, Irél and Tressach moved close to the side of the keeper of the cemetery.

Fidelma now rose languidly to her feet and gazed sorrowfully at Garbh. “There has been no death of a High King or any member of his family during the last three years. Sechnasach is still young and healthy. Why, then, dig a new grave in the cemetery of the High Kings? Will you explain, Garbh, or shall I?”

Garbh remained silent.

“You started digging the grave in order to construct a small passage into the tomb of Tigernmas, didn’t you, Garbh?”

“For what purpose would one want to enter an ancient tomb?” demanded Colmán, chagrined that he had not spotted such an obvious matter as the new grave.

“To rob the tomb, of course,” replied Fidelma. “Where were all the gold, silver and jewels that would have been buried with Tig-ernmas? Only a single bar and some gold jewelry lay discarded on the floor of the burial chamber. Tigernmas was a king of many legends. But it was well known that he ruled a rich court. Following the custom of our ancestors, rich grave goods would have been placed there to serve him in the Otherworld.”

Irél was looking shamefaced. Fidelma had pointed out this very fact to him and it had not registered.

“But there is much to be explained,” he pointed out. “How did the judge, Fiacc, come to be there? Had he spotted Garbh’s intention and tried to catch him?”

Fidelma shook her head. “It was Fiacc’s idea to rob the tomb in the first place. Fiacc had married a mercenary young woman. Fiacc had also made several mistakes in judgment and had become destitute through the payment of compensation. He was desperately in debt. He needed money badly. He needed money prior to his hearing before the Chief Brehon tomorrow. Money to cover his debts and money to keep his capricious young wife. It was Fiacc’s idea to rob the tomb of Tigernmas, which, according to the chroniclers, contained great riches. But how was he to do it on his own?”

“Do you have the explanation?” Colmán asked.

“When he arrived at Tara, Fiacc spent a day or so in the cemetery examining the tomb. He realized there was only one way to get access without attracting any attention. He enlisted the aid of Garbh, the keeper of the graves. Once Garbh saw the simplicity of the plan, greed took over. Money is always a great incentive.

“Garbh was always in the cemetery, repairing tombs. It was Garbh’s job to dig the graves when a High King or his family died. No one was bothered when Garbh started to dig a grave near the sepulcher of Tigernmas. No one even thought to ask why he was digging a grave. Everyone saw Garbh at what was presumed to be his usual lawful task.

“Garbh and Fiacc broke into the tomb of Tigernmas this evening. When you come to examine the new grave which Garbh has dug, and which he meant to fill in tomorrow, you will find traces of a short tunnel into the tomb. It will come up under the floor, under one of the granite slabs. One of those slabs, Irél, with the scratch marks on it which you so rightly observed had been made by ropes used to reset it into its proper place in the floor. The plan was that Garbh and Fiacc would extract the riches and reseal the passage so that no one would know that the tomb had even been entered. A few items were overlooked in the haste to extract everything. A bar of silver and some jewelry were left behind. But that was all.”

“How did Fiacc die?” demanded Irél, trying to follow the story.

“Was it the curse of Tigernmas that struck him down?” Tressach asked fearfully.

“Fiacc died,” replied Fidelma coldly, “because Garbh decided that he did not want to share the easy money that had come his way. Having been shown the almost effortless way to gain riches, Garbh wanted those riches for himself. He waited until he and Fiacc had removed all the loot from the tomb and were cleaning up. Fiacc you see, being a judge, was very meticulous about his planning. In case, some accident caused the tomb to be opened, he had decided that the dust on the floor, which would show evidence of their activity and might provide a clue to their identity, should be swept away.”

Irél groaned. Again Fidelma had pointed this out to him and it had not registered as important.

“Go on,” he urged. “You have told us why Fiacc died. Now tell us how exactly he died.”

“It was after the spoils had been removed and the cleaning finished that Garbh, using a fé, the measuring stick for graves, stabbed Fiacc in the back and thought he had killed him. He then left the tomb, resealed the entrance, and went back to the grave he was digging, perhaps filling in the tunnel after him. We shall see that later. I would imagine that he has stored his spoils in or near his cabin.”

Garbh shifted uneasily at this and Fidelma smiled in satisfaction.

“Yes, Irél, I think you will find the treasure of Tigernmas hidden at Garbh’s cabin.”

“But Fiacc was not killed immediately,” Tressach interrupted. “Garbh left him wounded in the tomb when he resealed it.”

“Garbh did not realize this. He thought he had killed Fiacc. The wound made Fiacc pass out. He was badly hurt. He was dying. But he came to consciousness and realized that he was sealed in the darkened tomb. He realized, in terror, that he himself was entombed. He gave a scream of dread, which you, Tressach, in passing the tomb, heard. He began to drag himself to the wooden doors, crying in desperation. Not knowing that Tressach had heard his scream, he began to scrabble at the doors until, in that fearful moment of horror, death overtook him.”

“I did not mean to kill him. It was an argument,” Garbh said slowly, speaking now for the first time and admitting guilt. “It was Fiacc who wanted the greater part of the wealth for himself. He said that he would only give me a small portion of the spoils. When I demanded a fair and equal share, he attacked me. He picked up the old grave measure and attacked me and I defended myself. In the struggle, he was stabbed. I was not responsible for murder. You cannot punish me for that.”

Fidelma shook her head.

“Oh no, Garbh. You plotted to kill Fiacc from the very beginning. As soon as Fiacc had explained the plan to you, you decided that you wanted all the spoils from the tomb. You kept Fiacc alive long enough for him to be of help in gaining entrance to the tomb and taking out the treasure. You planned to kill him and leave him in the tomb, hoping that no one would ever open the tomb again. Your mistake was twofold: firstly, not ensuring that he was dead when you left him, and secondly, vanity.”

“You cannot prove I set out to kill Fiacc!” cried Garbh. “If I had meant to kill him I would have taken a weapon into the tomb. Fiacc was killed by an old grave measurement left lying in the tomb. Even Irél will bear witness to that.”

Irél reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“That seems so, Sister. It was a fé that killed Fiacc. You know that. And there was Ogham carved on it. I know the ancient script. It read, ‘May the gods protect us.’ The reference to the gods and not God shows that it belonged to the pagan tomb. It must have been lying in the burial chamber.”

“Not so. The grave measure was made by Garbh,” insisted Fi-delma. She pointed to the table in the Abbot’s room on which she had already laid the fé taken from the tomb.

“That was not the fé that measured the tomb of Tigernmas. Look at it closely. The wood is new. The Ogham notches are clean-cut. Examine the cuts. There are traces of sap still drying. Who ever cut this cut it within the last twenty-four hours.”

Colmán had picked up the stick, taking care to genuflect to keep himself from harm at the handling of such an unlucky instrument, and examined it carefully.

“The piece of aspen is still in sap,” he confirmed wonderingly.

“Garbh had burnt a point on it to ensure that it was hard and able to be used as a dagger. He carved some Ogham on it as an afterthought. That was his vanity. He had taken notice of Fiacc’s exhortation to detail and thought of a great joke to play on Fiacc. If the tomb was ever excavated, they would find Fiacc with an ancient pagan fé stuck into his heart. Garbh was too clever for his own good. It was easy to see that the fé was new-cut. And it proves that Garbh premeditated the murder. He prepared his murder weapon before he entered the tomb. It was not a spur-of-the-moment argument.”

Garbh said nothing. The blood had drained from his features.

“You may take him away now,” Fidelma instructed Irél. “And you may make the arrangements to reseal the tomb … but after the treasures of Tigernmas are replaced in it.” She grinned impishly. “It would not do, this night of all nights, to provoke the spirit of Tigernmas by keeping back any of his gold or silver, would it?”

Abbot Colmán was pouring more mulled wine and handed the goblet to Fidelma. “A sorry story, indeed,” he sighed. “An avaricious official and a corrupt judge. How can such wickedness be explained?”

“You forget Étromma in that summation,” replied Fidelma. “She was the catalyst who made Fiacc’s need of money so desperate and who started this chain of events. It was her lack of love, her selfishness, and, above all, her greed that caused this human tragedy. It is said in the book of Timothy: radix omnium malorum est cupiditas.”

“The love of money is the root of all evil,” translated Abbot Colmán and then bent his head in agreement.