Having completed the transaction, Doyle turned to Pincher and remarked that he looked unwell. It was true that Pincher was pale and had sneezed twice during the brief proceedings.
“It is nothing,” Pincher said weakly. “Or nothing,” he added to Tidy, “that could not be cured by a bowl of your wife’s excellent broth.”
Mistress Tidy was a kindly woman whose protective instincts caused her to take a motherly interest in everyone with whom she came in contact in the cathedral precincts. She had a great reverence for Doctor Pincher’s learning, but considered that he needed a wife to look after him, and would often bring him cakes and sweetmeats, and make sure that his linen was in good order—which ministrations Pincher was grateful to receive.
“I shall send her to you,” the sexton assured him as Pincher departed.
Doyle remained, to speak to Tidy.
If there was one thing you could say about Jeremiah Tidy, it was that he was competent. Some years ago when the post of verger had fallen vacant, it had been given to the sexton, so that Tidy now held both positions together, at the combined salary of five pounds eight shillings a year. If the Chapter Clerk kept the records of the cathedral’s administrative meetings, its great roll of property and land, its rents and leases, and the precentor took charge of the cathedral’s choir and music, it was Jeremiah Tidy who was now the effective guardian of all the other day-to-day arrangements within the precincts.
The matter to be discussed was a solemn one. The merchant’s mother-in-law had died the day before and the funeral had to be arranged. Indeed, Doyle had almost postponed his meeting with Pincher on account of it. But this was not a native Irish affair; there was no wake, but only a quiet period of Protestant mourning; and he had needed to come into Christ Church to talk to Tidy anyway.
Doyle had married wisely. His mother-in-law had belonged to the powerful network of Old English families who had joined the Church of Ireland. Ussher, Ball, and a dozen others—these were the names which were constantly to be found holding important positions in the Irish Church and state. The funeral would be a grand affair, therefore, attended by these families, as well as members of Dublin’s Catholic community who would come out of friendship and respect.
For some time the two men went over the arrangements for the service. With Tidy in charge, Doyle would know that nothing would be left to chance, no detail overlooked. The verger’s five-shilling fee for this service would be well earned. As an extra kindness, Tidy had offered to speak to the precentor himself about the musical arrangements. When he and Doyle were both satisfied that the service itself had been fully covered, Tidy introduced the final subject.
“You’ll be wanting the bell to be rung?”
“Of course,” Doyle replied.
The great bell of Christ Church not only rang to announce the cathedral services. Every morning at six and every evening at nine, it rang out over Dublin to signal the start and end of the working day. There were numerous other reasons for the bell to be rung. It would toll mournfully to mark the passing into eternity of a gentleman, or ring out gladly to give the happy news of an important birth. Tidy was in charge of the bell, and for each of these bellringings he was paid. His salary covered the regular ringing; the Dublin corporation paid him a further, handsome stipend of twenty pounds a year for the morning and evening bells; and for each special occasion, a further fee was negotiated.
“I could give her the same peal as I did for the lady Loftus,” Tidy suggested. This had been the widow of a prominent citizen who had died the year before.
“How much did that cost?” the merchant inquired.
“Twelve shillings and sixpence,” said Tidy.
“That seems a lot.” Rich though he was, even Doyle was a little taken aback by the amount.
“She was a very pious lady, Sir,” the sexton replied.
“Ah.” Doyle sighed. “Very well, then.” And having set the time for the service the following day, he departed.
During all this conversation, young Faithful Tidy had stood nearby, quietly watching. Now his father called him to his side.
“Well, Faithful,” he enquired, “what did you think of that?”
“Is the twelve shillings for the bell in addition to the five shillings verger’s fee?” asked the boy.
“It is,” said Tidy.
Faithful looked impressed.
“Doyle is rich,” he remarked.
“True. But the man for you to mark, Faithful, is not Doyle, but Doctor Pincher,” his father explained.
“Old Inky?” It was a disrespectful term the children of the precinct sometimes applied to the black-robed lecturer.
“You’re to treat him with respect,” his father said sharply. “That man, Faithful,” he quietly added, “will one day set you upon the road to fortune.”
Orlando had already sent word that he would go with them, and Anne would have been going to the funeral herself—after all, Doyle was a cousin—but her second daughter was in bed with a fever that day and she had preferred to stay at home with her while Walter and her eldest girl went to Christ Church to represent the family. They were about to leave, when her brother arrived at the door.
To her surprise, she saw that he was accompanied by another man, whom she had never seen before—a handsome, fair-haired man, a few years younger than herself, she guessed, who stood just behind Orlando in the entrance.
“This is Brian O’Byrne of Rathconan,” Orlando announced. “He’s coming out to Fingal with me, but as he never knew Doyle’s mother-in-law, I thought he might wait for me here at the house until the funeral is over.”
“By all means,” said Walter easily. “Anne is remaining anyway, and so he can keep her company.” He came forward to greet the visitor, who bowed politely in Anne’s direction. Anne naturally knew of the O’Byrnes of Rathconan, but had never met any of them that she could remember, so she simply smiled and bade him welcome. It was young Maurice, who was standing closer to the door, and who had been gazing into the visitor’s face with fascination, who now cried out: “Look, he has green eyes just like me.”
O’Byrne took a step forward to look at the boy’s eyes for himself.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Maurice, Sir.”
“Well, Mwirish,” he pronounced the name in the Irish fashion, “you certainly have green eyes.” He laughed softly. It was nearly ninety years since Maurice Fitzgerald, natural son of Sean O’Byrne, had come down to Dublin and taken the English name of Smith. Brian assumed his host was aware of the fact that they were therefore distant cousins, but he spoke with caution all the same.
“In the O’Byrne family,” he remarked casually, “the green eyes do not appear in every generation, but they always seem to return sooner or later.” He gave Walter a questioning glance, and Walter nodded to show that he understood. “Does the boy know?” he murmured softly, so that Maurice should not hear. Walter shook his head. “He won’t hear it from me, then,” O’Byrne said softly; and then to the boy: “So it may be the same in your family, too, young Mwirish.”
At that moment, the great bell of Christ Church began to toll, and a few moments later, Walter and Orlando left.
The next hour passed very pleasantly for Anne. While she occupied herself with the household and kept an eye on her sick daughter, Brian O’Byrne sat down in the parlour with Maurice, who was clearly fascinated by him. Walter Smith had a chess set and had taught his son to play—an accomplishment of which Maurice was proud—and he had soon asked the Irishman if he knew how to play. It was funny to see the two figures, both with their emerald eyes, sitting opposite each other engrossed in the game. Anne was also amused to observe that O’Byrne, with a kindly deviousness, was letting Maurice win. “Checkmate,” she heard her son happily exclaim, in due course; followed by O’Byrne’s own, pleasant voice, mournfully agreeing: “You are right, Mwirish. I am destroyed.”
She had some conversation with him also, learned about Rathconan, that he ha
d married a few years ago and that he had two children. He also explained, with feeling, his debt to her father. It was because of it, he told her, that when he had recently needed to transact some legal business, he had gone straight to her brother Orlando. Her brother, it seemed, had taken a liking to the handsome Irish gentleman, and she could quite see why. Indeed, she found herself hoping she might meet him again.
It was well into the second hour when, Anne’s daughter needing her attention, Brian O’Byrne suggested that he and Maurice should go out to meet the others on their return.
He and the boy walked towards the old Tholsell and the cathedral crypt in which, after the funeral service, the burial was taking place. They stood together across the street, at a little distance, quietly talking until, after a little time, the crowd of mourners began to emerge. Some of these began to move in the direction of Doyle’s house, where refreshments would be served; others stood around in groups, chatting together. After a few minutes, they saw Walter Smith and Orlando coming out. O’Byrne remained where he was, but Maurice went over and guided them towards his new friend, where they all paused for a few moments to watch the rest of the congregation flowing out into the broad street.
“I have already spoken to Cousin Doyle and his family,” Orlando explained to O’Byrne. “So you and I should ride out to Fingal now.” O’Byrne thanked Walter Smith for his hospitality, therefore, and bidding goodbye to young Maurice, prepared to take his leave. As he and Orlando turned, they noticed Doctor Pincher across the street. He was looking pale, as if unwell. But neither of them thought much about it.
Although the paleness of Doctor Simeon Pincher was partly due to the head cold which not even the healing broth of Mistress Tidy could entirely allay, the more immediate reason—the sudden blow which had just caused the blood to drain from his face—was the little scene he had just witnessed.
It was a decade since he had given up his attempt to attack the O’Byrnes’ legal title to Rathconan. After the sudden death of Martin Walsh, he had allowed two months to pass before finding another lawyer, and been dismayed to discover that a new title had been mysteriously granted to young O’Byrne in the interval. Was it coincidence, or had there been some double-dealing? It was hard to imagine a man like Martin Walsh violating the confidentiality of his profession; nor was Pincher aware of any particular connection between the respectable Fingal lawyer and the Irishman in the Wicklow Mountains. The thing was suspicious, but a mystery; and though he had made some enquiries at Dublin Castle, he could learn only that Brian O’Byrne had sought to regularise his position and that a number of Protestant gentlemen close to the government had urged that it would be wise to grant the harmless young man what he asked. There had been little point in pursuing the matter, therefore, and Pincher had reluctantly let it drop. But the sense that, in some way he could not fathom, he had been cheated remained with him.
And now what had he just seen? Right across the street from him, Orlando Walsh, Walter Smith the merchant, and Brian O’Byrne all standing together, with every appearance of being close friends; and then Walsh and O’Byrne moving off in each other’s company, glancing across the street to where he stood, meanwhile, as if he were of no account at all. What did it mean? A terrible sensation, that he was looking at some sort of conspiracy, assailed him. These people were hand-in-glove in some way that he did not fully understand. He was aware, of course, that Orlando’s sister had married Smith; but where did O’Byrne the Irishman fit in? He had no idea, but as he gazed across the street, he had an overpowering, sickening feeling that he had been duped.
The next day he questioned Tidy closely, but the sexton had explained that as a good Church of Ireland man himself, he had little knowledge of these Catholic families. “The Doyles I would know about, your Honour, and the Walshes perhaps, being English. But the O’Byrnes...” He had spread his hands. “I’m surprised you would ask me that, Sir.”
“No, no. Of course not,” Pincher had said, not wishing to offend him. But he had set further enquiries in motion. And two weeks later, one of the clerks in Dublin Castle had informed him: “It seems there was a rumour that Smith’s grandfather was born an O’Byrne.”
That was it, then. Now Pincher understood. He had gone to Martin Walsh in all good faith, because Catholic or not, Walsh was still an English gentleman. Meanwhile Smith, masquerading as an English merchant, was nothing more than a foul Irishman from the Wicklow wilderness—whom Walsh, who must have known it, had allowed to marry his daughter. And having received his confidence, Walsh had then broken his professional oath and tipped off O’Byrne. It explained everything. There wasn’t a doubt of it.
He’d been hoodwinked. Left stranded in an Irish bog. They’d made a fool of him, these cursed Catholics, with their lies and double-dealing. They were all laughing at him behind his back, and they had been for years. He felt a surge of fury. But if he had been made a fool of, what did that make them? Traitors. Traitors pure and simple. Old Martin Walsh might have seemed a gentleman. But I should have known from the first, Pincher told himself, that a man with a Jesuit for a son could only be a traitor. Old English or native Irish from the hills and bogs, they were all the same. They were Catholics, and that was all that mattered. From that day forward, in the mind of Doctor Pincher, one thing was clear. The baseness, the contemptible nature which, until now, he had ascribed to the mere Irish, should instead be applied to all who held the Catholic faith. It was their religion which not only condemned them to perdition, but turned them into villains even before they got there. And from that day forward he kept a promise to himself, like a knife sheathed in his heart, that when the hour came, he personally would strike, with righteousness, at Smith, Walsh, and O’Byrne, who had dared to mock him.
As for Rathconan—the estate he had hoped with no good reason, and with inadequate means, to steal from the O’Byrnes—it now seemed to him to be a rightful inheritance that had been stolen from him. And this knowledge, too, he kept locked in his heart like treasure in a chest.
In this unfortunate state of mind, the Doctor of Divinity passed many months.
The letter which whipped Doctor Pincher into a frenzy came in the spring of 1627. It came from his sister. It concerned Barnaby.
Perhaps Mrs. Tidy was right in thinking that Doctor Pincher needed a wife. But having lived his life on his own narrow terms for so long, it would have been hard for Pincher to change his habits to suit another. As for the things of the body, as a young man he had put them aside, like a soldier on campaign, because he was afraid to compromise his moral reputation. And with the passing of time those needs had so dwindled that now, as an older man, his fears were more comprehensive, and his hesitancy had become a vocation.
But if Simeon Pincher was a confirmed bachelor, his ambition for his family had never lessened; indeed, with the years it had rather increased. He might not yet have achieved the landed estate that he craved, but he was a man of some substance, and a significant figure in Dublin. Some years ago, he had suggested to his sister that his nephew Barnaby might care to come to Dublin and study at Trinity College, where Pincher would have seen to it that his nephew received nothing but the best. His sister had written back, however, that Barnaby, though a youth of unimpeachable godliness, was not of a scholarly turn of mind, and that he had been apprenticed to a notable draper instead. The draper, she assured her brother, was a man of considerable learning and had promised that under his care, Barnaby would read all the books that were good for him.
Thwarted in this hope, Pincher had bided his time; but now that Barnaby had reached the age of twenty, he had written again suggesting that his nephew might pay a visit to Dublin where he should meet none but the best society. It would enable him to get to know the young man, who would after all be his heir, he pointed out; and though he did not say so, it would also allow Barnaby to discover what an important man his uncle was in Dublin. It was his sister’s reply to this amiable suggestion that had wrought such fury in the doctor’s soul.
Her letter started well enough, with proper thanks to him for remembering his nephew. It then reminded him that if he wanted to renew his acquaintance with his family, and see his own sister as well as her good husband, as well as his nephew, he had only to come to England, where he could be assured of a family welcome. If this was a gentle rebuke, the doctor had to admit that it was merited. Why was it that he had never troubled, in all these years, to make the journey to see his sister in her home? Partly it was pride—or rather, vanity. Pincher admitted this honestly to himself. He had wanted to return in triumph, with an estate to his name. This did not show true affection on his part, and Pincher rightly censured himself. Why was he so anxious to cut a fine figure? Because his sister had always indicated, in her quiet way, that she did not have a very high opinion of him. And even now, after thirty years, he lacked the humility to accept the justice of her view and to admit his shortcomings. At this, also, the reverent doctor bowed his head in shame.
And if his sister’s letter had ended there, he might have gathered up his humility like a cloak about him and returned, as a humble Christian should, to the somewhat chilly bosom of his family. But it didn’t.
She was unwilling, she said, that her son should visit Ireland. Barnaby, she explained, had grown from a godly boy to a young man with the sternest imaginable faith. Indeed, he had even considered leaving England’s shores. Her brother must know that some of the English Puritans were hoping to set up a colony of the saints in America, and Barnaby had already spoken earnestly of leaving hearth and home to join such a venture when the opportunity arose. And who could blame him when the true Protestant religion was under threat from every side, and King Charles and his papist queen were so clearly not to be trusted? “We tremble for Barnaby’s safety,” she wrote, “but never for his soul.”