So he was not in a very good temper when, upon reaching his lodgings, he found Jeremiah Tidy and his son Faithful dutifully waiting for him.
It certainly wasn’t Tidy’s fault if Pincher heard his request without enthusiasm. The sexton could hardly have presented his case better. He began very humbly. The doctor had honoured him with his acquaintance all these years and Pincher knew that he and his wife were only simple people. Though loyal, he added quietly—a fact that Pincher acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head. But thanks to their admiration of the learned doctor, young Faithful had not only been brought up in strict adherence to Calvinist doctrines but had also received an education. In fact, he had excelled at his studies. Pincher had been aware that the boy had gone to one of the little Protestant schools in Dublin, but knew little else of his attainments.
And now, it seemed, Tidy was desirous that his son should make the greatest step of all and go to Trinity College as a young scholar. His father could undertake to meet the costs involved—though naturally for a man like himself it would be a sacrifice. He had thought that Doctor Pincher might think it a lack of courtesy if he did such a thing without consulting him first, and he hoped that perhaps the learned doctor might give young Faithful his support for his candidacy.
It was the sort of request that had been made at Oxford and Cambridge for centuries. Sons of prosperous yeomen and merchants, and even of humble craftsmen and peasants, had gone to those hallowed colleges and risen, through the Church or the law, to great heights. The teaching fellows of the colleges themselves might well have started life as poor scholars. And though Trinity was intended first for the sons of the new Protestant settlers who called themselves gentlemen, there were humble young men there, too. Why, therefore, should Pincher have given the verger and his son a frown of disapproval?
Partly, of course, it was because he was already in a state of fury about Wentworth. But as he gazed at Tidy now, he felt a certain sense of aggrievement. Tidy might bemoan the state of things at Christ Church, but he was still snugly embedded there while he, Doctor Simeon Pincher, was utterly excluded. Tidy no doubt continued to enjoy all the fees and other benefits from the cathedral, which allowed him to send his son to university. And now he wanted him to put in a good word for the boy. Faithful Tidy would go to Trinity under his aegis—the very thing he had failed to accomplish for his own nephew Barnaby. It was decidedly irksome. He turned to the boy.
“You have studied hard?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Hmm.” He had, had he? Pincher suddenly addressed him in Latin, with a question about his reading of Caesar.
To his surprise, the young man replied readily in Latin, gave him quite a full answer, and ended with a quotation from the great man. Pincher tried some more questions. All were well answered in Latin. Pincher gazed at the boy and found himself scrutinised in turn, respectfully but intelligently, by a pair of bright eyes set wide apart. He was impressed but did not show it. Had the boy a recommendation from his school? Tidy produced a letter, which Pincher tossed on the table but did not read. However annoyed he felt, he had already decided to take the young man, for the sake of his kindly mother as much as anything. But he wasn’t going to let these people think he was an easy touch, so he stared at them so sternly that it almost seemed like a scowl. And it was this bleak look that caused Jeremiah Tidy to play his final card.
“I wouldn’t be troubling you, Your Honour, if you hadn’t always been so good to us, a great scholar and a Cambridge man such as yourself.”
A Cambridge man. That strangely obsequious tone. Despite himself, Pincher involuntarily winced.
“We shall see, Tidy, what can be done,” he said with resignation, and waved them away.
The Tidys had gone about a hundred yards when Faithful turned to his father.
“What was that about Cambridge?” he asked.
“Ah.” His father smiled. “What did you notice?”
“As soon as you said Cambridge, he looked as if something had bitten him.”
“It’s my secret weapon, you might say. I noticed it years ago. Must’ve been something he did at Cambridge, I suppose, that he doesn’t want anyone to find out. But he suspects I know it. Makes him nervous. So I let him think that I’ll take care of him if he takes care of me.”
“But what was it?”
“His secret? I’ve no idea.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
“I don’t need to know. Better if I don’t. All that matters to me is that if I say Cambridge, he’ll do what I want.”
Faithful digested this piece of wisdom thoughtfully.
As they came near to Christ Church, his father indicated that Faithful was to follow him into the cathedral. There was no one else in there. They had the place to themselves as Tidy led his son to where the long rope hung down from the bell, hidden far above, which summoned the people to prayer. Tidy stopped beside the bellrope and looked at his son carefully.
Jeremiah Tidy had been saving up this little lecture for many years. Now it was time to deliver it.
“You see this bellrope, Faithful?” Faithful nodded. “What is it?” his father went on. “Just a length of rope. That’s all. Nothing more. A man could hang himself with it, or he could climb up it. For myself, my son, I have made my life by pulling on it.” He paused and shook his head in wonderment at the strange simplicity of the thing. “By pulling this bellrope, Faithful, I earn the right to live in the precincts of this cathedral. And what sort of place is the precinct of Christ Church?”
“It is a Liberty,” answered his son.
“A Liberty,” echoed his father. “Like the Liberty of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral or any of the other great cathedrals of Ireland. And what is so special about a Liberty?”
“We live under the rule of the Dean.”
“Correct. We do not answer to the Lord Mayor of Dublin, nor to the king’s sheriff, nor even hardly to the Lord Deputy. The Liberty is like a little legal kingdom, Faithful, in which the Dean is the only lord. And we enjoy all the privileges of the Liberty. I have lodgings which are almost free. I can trade from my house—which I do—without needing to belong to a city guild or having the freedom of the city, for both of which you have to pay. Nor do I pay any of the profits of my trade to the Dublin corporation.” He smiled. “I enjoy all the privileges of the city, yet I pay no taxes. And all because I pull this bellrope.”
These were by no means all the benefits of being a servant of the cathedral. Like all such ancient foundations, Christ Church took care of its own. All kinds of folk, from the verger and the vicars choral who sang in the choir, to the humblest sweeper and scavenger, found shelter and sustenance in its nooks and crannies. All kinds of perquisites and customary charity were given out, from shoes and gowns to food and fuel. When the great candles on the altar reached a certain low point, for instance, Tidy would replace them and take the remains home. His family enjoyed the finest wax candles, but never had to pay for them. Above all there were the innumerable little fees which the laity paid for every service he performed, the greatest of which, of course, was the ringing of the bell.
“It makes no difference, Faithful, whether they are High Church or Calvinist, papist or Puritan, they will always wish the bell to be rung,” Tidy declared. “And all I have to do is pull this rope. A fool could do it. But it has made my fortune.” Though he was careful never to let anyone guess it, Tidy had by now amassed a fortune that was quite equal to that of Doctor Pincher.
“And now, Faithful,” he concluded, “you are going to climb up this rope to a higher sphere entirely. You could become a lawyer and even a gentleman; and one day you’ll look down upon me as a humble, ignorant sort of fellow. But remember: it was this bellrope that got you there.”
While this homily was in progress in Christ Church, Doctor Pincher, who had not stirred from his seat since the Tidys left, was engaged in some deep thoughts of his own. But these did not concern the Tidy family at all.
If Doctor Pincher had more cause than ever to hate the king’s Lord Deputy, he was not alone. The Puritan party hated him for his High Church; the New English settlers hated him for attacking their land titles. The Earl of Cork himself, meeting Pincher in Trinity College, had confided to him: “We’ll bring this cursed Wentworth down one day, I promise you.”
Over in England, Pincher was aware, the situation was different but even more tense. There, the Puritans were so disgusted with Charles’s Church that they were starting to leave for the new American colonies—not just in a tiny trickle, as in the previous decade, but in regular convoys. A little army of useful craftsmen, small farmers, and even some educated men was removing itself from England’s shores forever. Even more significant politically was the fury of the gentry. With the help of new taxes which he had been able to extract through the law courts, Charles had found that, so long as he stayed out of costly wars, he could get by without calling a Parliament to vote him extra funds. As a result, England had now been ruled by the king alone, without any Parliament, for the last seven years. Parliaments had been called, and listened to, for centuries. They might be collections of country gentlemen and lawyers, but they represented ancient English Liberties, and to many of the solid, landed class who led the community, this was clear evidence that King Charles, who believed he had a divine right to do what he liked, was on his way to imposing a tyranny. Gentlemen in Ireland might be at some remove from all this, but they were well aware that politically this represented a powder keg.
Sooner or later, Pincher mused to himself, Wentworth would fall. The English governors in Ireland always did. But even more important, when finally something forced Charles to summon a Parliament, then there would be a reckoning. The Puritans of England and Ireland would have their revenge. What form that revenge would take, Pincher did not know. But he would work towards that day of reckoning from now on. If he was an enemy of Wentworth, then he must also, henceforth, be an enemy of the king.
Though he was not entirely aware of it, Doctor Pincher had just taken the first step down the path towards treason.
If it hadn’t been for young Maurice, Brian O’Byrne would never have seen them. Anne had told him so. It had been shortly after midsummer. Walter Smith and his wife had been staying two days with a merchant in Wicklow that Walter knew. As well as young Maurice, Orlando had also accompanied them. Returning home early in the morning, they had all decided to go up to Glendalough. They had walked all round the ancient ruins, admired the round tower and the silence of Saint Kevin’s two mountain lakes. By noon, they had started home. The days were long. Even proceeding at an easy pace, they could be back at Dublin before darkness finally set in. They had just passed the track that led to Rathconan, and Orlando had just told them what it was, when Maurice had cried: “Rathconan. I should like to see that.”
“If you ride along the track as far as that tree,” Orlando had pointed to a tree at a short distance, “you can see the old tower house. But don’t go any farther or you might be seen, for I never told Brian that I was coming up here.”
But of course, Maurice rode farther, and O’Byrne himself had caught sight of him and, recognising the youth, had waved for him to come over. And a minute or two later, Brian was out at the main track, reproaching Orlando for riding by his house in such an unfriendly way, and courteously inviting Walter and Anne to come in. It would have been rude to refuse, although Walter said, “We can’t stop long.” Anne had smiled, however, and remarked, “I should like to see your house.” Maurice, meanwhile, was already headed back towards it.
As they had approached the old tower, Brian had given Walter a sideways look and murmured: “Your family home.”
“Ah.” Walter had only allowed himself a half-smile.
“Your son seems to like it, anyway.” Maurice was already riding round the old tower with evident delight. O’Byrne had glanced across at Anne. She was looking around appreciatively.
“You take the cattle up there?” She pointed to the wild mountain slopes above.
“In summer.”
He remembered Orlando’s sister very well; he and Orlando had continued to see each other from time to time, but he hadn’t seen Anne since that day they had gone out to the island together—it had to be more than ten years ago. She had changed remarkably little. A few more lines, some grey hair, but still a very attractive woman. She was a little older than he was, so she must be in her midforties. And still locked, he thought privately, in the same life with her dull husband.
His own life at Rathconan had not been so eventful. He had a brood of children now. The two boys studied with the priest; the girls were taught to read and write, but no more. His wife had died a year ago, giving birth to a seventh child. It had caused him much grief; but a year had passed, and it was time to think of finding a replacement. Handsome Brian O’Byrne of Rathconan would have no difficulty finding a young Wicklow woman happy to share his bed, manage his fine estate, and take over his lively children.
At Anne’s request, he took them round the place. They appreciated the old stone house and admired the magnificent views. Maurice, in particular, was enthusiastic. Every time one of Brian’s children appeared, he inspected them to see if they had their father’s green eyes, but none of them had. He wanted to walk up the hillside with O’Byrne to see the summer pastures, and Brian was perfectly agreeable. Anne also wanted to go. “So we’ll all go up together, then,” Walter agreed with a faint sigh. By the time all this was accomplished, it was past midafternoon. Brian had pressed them to eat with his family and stay the night. And since it was clear to Walter that everyone except himself wanted to do so, he had agreed with good grace.
The big evening meal at Rathconan was a communal affair. The entire household ate together, in the old Irish manner. Neighbours or travellers often joined them. The priest blessed the food. Like as not, someone would strike up a tune on a fiddle, or tell a tale or two when the eating was over. As it happened that evening, there was a lively company. Several tales were told that long summer evening, of Cuchulainn, or Finn, or of local ghosts; there was music and some dancing.
Brian O’Byrne had watched his guests with interest. Orlando was quite at home, of course, tapping his foot contentedly in time to the music. Walter Smith looked less comfortable. He must have been as familiar with the stories and the music as anyone else born in Ireland; yet though the solid, grey-haired Dublin man sat there, smiling politely, you could tell that he wasn’t really happy. You’d never guess, O’Byrne thought, that the man was his own flesh and blood. Young Maurice, on the other hand, the handsome young fellow with the green eyes, might be a son of his own. Those eyes were dancing, his face was flushed; he’d already taken an interest in a pretty young farm girl. Young Maurice belonged at Rathconan without a doubt. It all showed, O’Byrne considered, that whatever a man’s ancestry might be, a man’s character was entirely individual.
As for Anne, he observed her all evening. She was certainly enjoying herself. Like her brother, her foot was tapping to the music. At one point, when people were dancing, he saw her lean across and say something to her husband, and when he gave a slight shake of the head, she shrugged with a trace of irritation. A few moments later, young Maurice was summoned over to lead her to the dance. She moved with grace, and O’Byrne would have liked to join her himself, but he decided it was wiser not to do so. And even though she glanced across in his direction once or twice, he pretended he had not noticed.
It was Maurice who had brought his mother over to him from the dancing, with a request. Her son liked Rathconan so well, she explained, that he wondered whether O’Byrne would let him spend a week or two there. Could the young man come to stay with him?
“By all means, Mwirish,” Brian replied genially. “You’d be welcome here whenever you please. But first you’ll have to ask your father, I should think.”
It had been in the moments that followed, while Maurice had gone to interrupt his father, who was deep in convers
ation with the priest, that O’Byrne had known that Anne Smith might be his. She had been standing there in front of him, a little flushed from the dance. He had remarked with a smile that all the local girls would be hanging round the place if her handsome son were there, and she had laughed and put her hand on his arm. “I envy him being up here in the mountains with you,” she had added, looking straight into his eyes. And at that moment, all the unspoken intimacy they had felt that afternoon on the island long ago came flooding back. He looked at her and nodded. “I wish you could come here with him,” he replied, quietly and seriously, and she had looked thoughtful.
“I don’t know if that would be possible,” she had responded in the same tone. “Perhaps . . .”
He could see out of the corner of his eye that the boy was talking to his father. Walter Smith was glancing in his direction with a slight frown. Excusing himself from Anne, he moved across to the Dublin merchant and addressed him politely.
“Your son has just asked me if he might come and visit me for a little while. He’s welcome here at any time at all. But I told him it’s his own father he should be asking first, not me.”
“You’re very kind,” Walter acknowledged at once. “I was afraid he might be troubling you.”
“Not at all. We’ve people coming here all the time. I’d rather have him than most of them.”
“He couldn’t come at the moment,” Walter said, “as I’ve things for him to do in Dublin.”
“I come down to the city myself from time to time. When I’m next there, I’ll call upon you at your house. If you care to send him back with me then, he can accompany me. Or if not, then he can always come another time. Meanwhile,” he turned to the youth with a smile, “you had better give your father no cause for complaint, Mwirish, or I’ll not be wanting you in my house, I can assure you.” He looked at Walter Smith with a grin, as one father to another. “Isn’t that right?”
“It is indeed,” agreed Walter, with evident relief.