“What does he believe, then?” asked Orlando.
“His father persuaded himself that kings rule by divine right, and it seems the son has taken up this belief. King Charles believes that he does not answer to men for his actions, but to God alone, personally and directly, and without reference to the wisdom of the ages or to Holy Church.” He made a wry grimace. “Such a belief, you know, shows a massive conceit that no Catholic churchman would tolerate for a minute.” He shrugged. “If he continues in this foolish belief, then he will surely prefer his own Church of England, of which he is the Head, to the Church of Rome, where in spiritual matters he would have to acknowledge the authority of the Pope.”
“Yet he is ready to favour Catholics.”
“In Ireland perhaps. But be sure,” Lawrence tapped his finger on the table, “he will demand a quid pro quo.”
“What will that be?”
“Money, Orlando. He needs money.” Lawrence placed his fingers together, as he liked to do if he was delivering a little lecture. “Consider the recent history at the English court. A handsome young man comes to court and fascinates old King James, who promotes him far beyond his merits or capacity and makes him Duke of Buckingham. Charles, instead of sending Buckingham away, favours him even more. It is bad enough that all Christendom is split into armed camps of Catholic and Protestant; but Buckingham, who has no statecraft, has now involved England in expensive military expeditions for which no rhyme or reason, religious or otherwise, can be found. Twice now, the English Parliament has refused to grant the king any funds unless he gets rid of this wretched Buckingham, and Charles, who believes he can do no wrong, refuses. Now he has no money and is trying to raise it in any way he can. Titles of nobility, trading privileges, even public offices are all being sold. He’s even forcing honest gentlemen in England, men like yourself, Orlando, to make him loans under compulsion, and threatening them with jail if they refuse.” He shook his head in disgust. “We may be sure, therefore, that if the king offers to help the Catholics of Ireland, it is only because he wants a large payment of money in return.”
When he had finished, there was silence for a moment. His view might be harsh, but Lawrence’s opinion carried respect.
“I hope,” said Orlando, “that you are mistaken. But if you are right, then that is all the more reason to take advantage of this opportunity and get as much as we can.” He indicated a sheaf of papers on the table. “As you’d expect from a lawyer, I have some proposals.”
The proposals that Orlando began to outline had not come from himself alone. For weeks, lawyers had been circulating ideas amongst themselves; all over Ireland, meetings like this were taking place. Cleverly, the proposals did not concern only the Catholics. “There are a number of small reforms here which not even Doctor Pincher of Trinity would object to,” Orlando explained. But also there were measures, modest enough individually, that taken all together would profoundly transform the lives of Ireland’s Catholics. These would include the abolition of the recusancy fines for practising the Catholic faith. “And Catholic lawyers like myself would no longer be barred from holding public office,” Orlando said. “I have nearly thirty proposals here. If we could get even the majority accepted, it would mark the beginning of the end of Catholic isolation here.”
The business of considering the proposals now began. The five men went through them all, one by one. Each man had useful ideas to contribute. Walter Smith showed himself canny in seeing how each would play out in practice with the officials as well as the merchants in Dublin. Doyle could foresee the objections of the Church of Ireland. Several good suggestions were made concerning inheritance. It was the final proposal which caused O’Byrne some amusement.
“You want to raise a militia?” In times past, when the English government wanted to raise troops in Ireland, funds would be transferred from London to help pay for them. But some of the men drafting the proposals had cleverly suggested that the Old English of the Pale should save the government this expense and maintain a militia of their own. “The government will be fools if they let you do that,” O’Byrne laughed. “You’d take over Ireland again.”
“All the more reason to ask,” said Orlando with a smile. But more seriously, he continued: “Whatever we can persuade the king to grant now, however, we must then make sure that we prove to him that we are loyal. Our greatest hope for the future lies in demonstrating to the government that, given the right to worship according to our faith, we are not planning to rebel, or seek help from foreign powers; the king must see that the loyal Catholic gentlemen of Ireland—and that would include you, O’Byrne, and others like you—are to be trusted. Out of that trust will come any further recognition of our rights.” He glanced at the new clock he had proudly installed in the corner of the parlour the year before.
“It’s almost noon,” he said. “Let us have dinner.”
Anne had enjoyed the morning. She had spent much of it in the kitchen with the servants who were preparing the midday meal. The eldest of them, Kathleen, had been there when she was a child, and they greeted each other warmly with a kiss. It was good just to listen to the women talking in the local Fingal dialect. She was glad to help with the setting of the table, and to handle the old household items familiar from the past: the heavy container for the salt that stood in the place of honour on the dining table, the brass candlesticks, the pewter dishes, and the silver tankard with the family arms engraved upon it, from which their father and now Orlando would drink. All in all, she thought, a pleasant journey back in time.
There had also been the opportunity for several hours of talk, so that by noon she knew all the gossip about every family in the locality. Nor did this talk exclude her own family. And as far as the Walsh family was concerned, she discovered, there was only one subject of discussion.
“It’s a baby we’re waiting for,” Kathleen told her, “in this house.”
It was strange and a little disappointing that her sister-in-law Mary had still not conceived. Orlando and she had been married three years now, and Anne knew how passionately her brother wanted children. The Walshes had never had trouble producing heirs, and Mary was one of a large family. Anne had no reason to suppose her brother wasn’t having a normal family life.
“It’s why she isn’t here,” Kathleen confided to Anne when they were out of hearing of the other women. “Only last month it was, we were standing together in the kitchen and suddenly she turns to me and says: ‘Why haven’t I a child, Kathleen? Can you tell me that?’ I didn’t know what to answer. ‘It’s not for lack of trying, the Lord knows,’ she says. And then the poor soul starts to cry. She never said a word about why she was going to see her mother, but you may be sure it’s to talk to her about that subject, when her mother has ten grown children of her own.”
It seemed to Anne that the older woman was very likely correct. She felt sorry for her sister-in-law and resolved to make an effort to come out to see her more often and keep her company in future. Though whether I can really help her with good advice about marriage is a little doubtful, she thought. She also felt a great concern for her brother. He had given no indication, even to her, but if his wife was so upset about the subject, she could imagine the pain Orlando himself must secretly be suffering. She wondered whether to bring the subject up with him, or whether to say nothing unless he did.
The meal to which they all sat down, a little after noon, was Fingal cooking at its best. The area was especially rich in seafood: there were splendid oyster beds in the estuary at nearby Malahide; cockles and mussels were gathered at Howth; salted herring was landed at Clontarf, just a little farther south. For the main course, there were offerings of salted pork, beef, and duck, accompanied by black pudding, peas, and cabbage. Another vegetable was also served, which greatly interested O’Byrne, since the Irishman had never eaten it before. This was the potato, a new vegetable from America.
“I planted a quarter acre a few years ago,” Orlando told him proudly. He liked
to think of himself as being in the vanguard as a landowner. “Nobody else in Fingal has tried it. Yet there’s more nourishment per acre from the American potato than from any other crop.”
It was half past two when Walter Smith pleasantly remarked: “If we don’t go for a walk after this, I shall go to sleep.”
“We shall walk,” Orlando announced, “to the sea.”
Anne was glad to join the men in their walk. They took the path that led across the fields towards Portmarnock and the sea. It pleased her that nothing ever seemed to change there—fields of wheat and barley near the house, then the open spaces shelving down to the sea where sheep and cattle grazed.
Orlando and O’Byrne led the way, followed by Lawrence and Doyle. Despite the fact that he was wearing a soutane, her elder brother had taken Orlando’s fowling piece—a splendid flintlock made in France—with which he hoped to shoot some duck to take back to the Jesuit house in Dublin. She and Walter came last. They talked quietly. Walter described to her all that had passed in the morning’s discussions, and she told him what she had heard about Orlando’s wife. “Should I speak to him about it, do you think?” she asked.
“You might give him the opportunity to bring the subject up, I suppose, but I wouldn’t do more than that,” Walter advised. “You’re his sister, though, so you’re probably a better judge than I would be.” He sighed. “Thank God that we have our own dear children,” he said with feeling.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank God.”
Out of respect for Lawrence’s views, Orlando did not take them by the holy well at Portmarnock but went straight through the dunes to the beach. There they all walked together as a single group along the strand towards Howth. The afternoon was warm. After a while, they came upon a fisherman sitting by a small boat, mending his nets. As they paused to exchange a few words with him, O’Byrne turned to Orlando to ask about the little island out in the water below the Ben of Howth.
“We call it Ireland’s Eye,” Orlando replied. “Nobody goes there but the fishermen.”
O’Byrne turned to the fellow by the boat.
“Would you take me there for a shilling?” he asked. It was a handsome offer, and the fisherman gladly accepted. “Who goes with me?” O’Byrne turned to the group. There was not much enthusiasm from the men, but Anne smiled.
“I’ll go—if Walter doesn’t mind. I haven’t been since my father took me out there as a child.”
Walter glanced at the water. It was perfectly calm. The fisherman was grey-haired, but looked strong enough to handle any currents. “As you like,” he said evenly.
The crossing was easy enough. She and O’Byrne sat in the stern facing the fisherman, who pulled slowly but firmly on the oars. As they got out of the shallows, O’Byrne remarked to him pleasantly, “It’s the Eve of Bealtaine.”
“It is,” the old man said quietly. “There’ll be people out on the hills tonight.”
The old Celtic May Day festival was not forgotten. In many areas, people would still go up hills to watch the rising sun, and Anne had heard that in some places, the cattlemen still drove the cattle between two fires that day, in the ancient pagan manner. She asked Brian O’Byrne if he had ever seen such a thing.
“I’ve seen it done,” he answered.
Perhaps it was because his green eyes reminded her of her son, or perhaps that his fair hair made him seem younger, but there was something almost boyish, and very appealing, it seemed to Anne, in this pleasant Irish gentleman.
“I believe you do it yourself up in Wicklow,” she teased him gently.
“We’re not pagans at Rathconan,” he answered with a smile, though she noticed that he hadn’t actually denied it.
“As for what happens to the girls . . .” she continued. She’d heard that not every virgin who went up the mountain at Bealtaine came down in the same state.
“I cannot answer for my ancestors,” he laughed.
The island was coming closer. They could see the rocks on the beach. They watched it in silence. Anne was enjoying the feel of the soft air and the sun on her face.
The fisherman landed the boat on a small shingle beach. Anne went up a grassy knoll from which she waved across the water to her husband, who waved back. Having satisfied themselves that she was safely across, the men were setting off down to the southern point of the strand where there were some marshes. No doubt Lawrence would be hoping to shoot some wildfowl there. Meanwhile, she and Brian O’Byrne began to inspect the island.
They looked at each of the little beaches. At the base of the cliff with its high cleft, Anne pointed out the natural shelter the rocks had formed. “A hermit could live here,” she remarked. They went all the way round until they came to the fisherman again. He had brought one of his nets with him and was quietly at work on it. He seemed in no hurry to return. They continued round again and sat down by one of the rock pools. The sun was dancing off the water. They stared down at a crab making its way across the bottom, and Anne felt a sense of peace as if she had returned to her childhood again.
“It’s strange,” she said after a little while, “to find myself with a man who has my son’s green eyes.” And she smiled at him.
“Mwirish still doesn’t know of our relationship?”
“No. His father doesn’t wish it.” She reached down to the rock pool and trailed her hand thoughtfully in the water for a moment. “My husband’s very cautious,” she said with a little shrug.
He shot her a glance.
“Your husband’s a sensible man,” he said. “I’d do the same in his place, I think.” He paused for a moment. “When the first Mwirish changed his name to Smith, he made a decision for his descendants. They’re to be English now. As for the green eyes, they turn up from time to time in many families.” He chuckled. “Your husband wouldn’t be the only natural descendant of Sean O’Byrne, I can assure you! We’re all cousins up in Wicklow, anyway, like the Old English in Fingal, I dare say.” He stretched comfortably. “Everybody’s related somehow, I should think. I’ve the blood of the Walshes of Carrickmines in my own veins, come to that.”
“You have?” She was delighted. “We are related?”
“It’s centuries ago.” He laughed. “Which means that you and your husband are related through the O’Byrnes, too.”
“I never knew that.” She stared down and looked rather thoughtful for a moment; then she brightened and looked up again. “I was already related to my husband, but now I’m connected to you as well. So that’s a gain.”
Why did she like Brian O’Byrne so much? Was it the eyes? Did he remind her of Patrick, that she had lost? She wasn’t sure.
“So, can you see me living up in the wild Wicklow Mountains?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” he said quietly. “I can see you.”
He told her some stories then, about the O’Byrnes and the O’Tooles in times past, of the life in the wild, free spaces of the mountains, and also of the fighting between the Irish chiefs and the Tudor troops from England. She knew many of these things as history; but she had never heard them told by an Irishman before, and for the first time she gained a sense of the Wicklow Mountains not as a treacherous, dangerous territory, but as a great haven, a land of ancient freedoms and holy places which the English had not only invaded, but defiled. And she found herself strangely moved.
After a while, he said, “We should go back,” and she said, “Yes, we should,” but neither of them moved. Finally, after what still did not seem so long a time, he glanced up at the sun, which was getting lower in the sky, and rose, and gave her his hand to help her up. And so they walked slowly back, still talking, to the boat where the fisherman, having mended his nets, had fallen asleep.
When they got back across the water, they found only Walter and Orlando waiting for them. Neither was smiling.
“Where are Lawrence and Cousin Doyle?” she asked. “Did he shoot any duck? I didn’t hear the gun go off.”
“They got tired of waiting and went home,” said
Orlando bleakly.
Brian O’Byrne immediately apologised for keeping them waiting.
“We weren’t so long,” said Anne.
Orlando and Walter glanced at each other.
“You were two hours out there,” Orlando said quietly.
“Oh, I don’t think so. We can’t have been. It didn’t seem any time at all,” Anne answered brightly. “He told me all about Wicklow.”
“You could see a hermit like Saint Kevin living out there,” said O’Byrne quickly. He turned to Walter. “I took Orlando up to Glendalough once, you know. He prayed for nearly an hour at the shrine of Saint Kevin.”
“I’ll walk with you now, Brian,” said Orlando as soon as O’Byrne had paid the fisherman. “Anne and Walter will want to walk together.”
On the way home, Anne took Walter’s arm and squeezed it gently.
“I didn’t realise we were so long,” she said. “I thought you were looking for duck down on the marshes.”
“We were,” said Walter.
“You know, I should like us all to visit Rathconan one day,” she said.
But Walter did not reply.
On a bright Sunday morning in June 1627, Doctor Simeon Pincher made his way from Trinity College to Christ Church. It was normal for the doctor to walk with a stern purpose in his step; but today he strode like a champion of old, a Hector or Achilles, going into battle. And indeed, he was going into the greatest battle of his life, from which, he had no doubt, he would emerge victorious.
For today Doctor Pincher, by a single daring action, was going to place himself at the head—the moral head, at least—of the entire Protestant community of Dublin, and even perhaps of all Ireland.
As he passed through the eastern city gate and started up Dame Street, he noted with approval that the great bell of Christ Church had already begun to toll. “I shall be ringing the bell an extra ten minutes, Your Honour, on your account,” Tidy had promised him the day before. “It’ll be a great day when you preach your sermon, Sir.” He must remember to give Tidy a shilling for his kindness, Pincher thought. Perhaps even two.