Hemlock at Vespers

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?”