The Rebels of Ireland (3 page)

 

A midsummer evening. Martin Walsh stood with his three children on the Ben of Howth and stared across the sea. His cautious, lawyer's mind was engaged in its own careful calculations.

Martin had always been a thoughtful soul—old for his years, people used to say. His own mother had died when he was three, his father Robert Walsh a year after. His grandfather, old Richard, and his grandmother had brought him up and, used to the company of older people all the time, he had unconsciously taken on many of their attitudes. One of these had been caution.

He gazed fondly at his daughter. Anne was only fifteen. It was hard to believe that he must already make such decisions about her. His fingers clasped the letter in the hidden pocket in his breeches, and he wondered, as he had been wondering for hours: should he tell her about it?

The marriage of a daughter should be a private family affair. But it wasn't. Not nowadays. He wished his wife were still alive. She would have known how to deal with this. Young Smith might possess a good character or a bad one. Walsh hoped that it was good. Yet something more would be necessary. Principles, certainly. Strength, without a doubt. But also that indefinable and all-important quality—a talent for survival.

For people like himself—for the loyal Old English—life in Ireland had never been more dangerous.

It was four and a half centuries since the Norman-French king Henry Plantagenet of England had invaded and, taking the place of the old High Kings of Ireland, bullied the Irish princes into accepting him
as their nominal lord. Apart from the Pale area around Dublin, of course, it had still been Irish princes and Plantagenet magnates like the Fitzgeralds—who were soon not much different from the Irish—that had ruled the island in practice ever since. Until seventy years ago, when King Henry VIII of England had smashed the Fitzgeralds and made plain, once and for all, England's intention to rule the western island directly. He'd even taken the title King of Ireland.

A few years later, the disease-ridden English monarch with the six wives had been dead. For half a dozen years his son Edward, a sickly boy, had ruled; his daughter Mary for another five. But then it had been Elizabeth, the virgin queen, who for nearly half a century had remained on England's throne. They had all tried to rule Ireland, but they hadn't found it easy.

Governors were sent over, some wise, some not. English aristocrats, almost always, with resonant names or titles: Saint Leger, Sussex, Sidney, Essex, Grey. And always they encountered the same, traditional Irish problems: Old English magnates—Fitzgeralds and Butlers—still jealous of each other; Irish princes impatient of royal control—up in Ulster, the mighty O'Neills had still not forgotten they had once been High Kings of Ireland. And everyone—yes, including the loyal Old English gentry like the Walshes—only too glad to send deputations to the monarch to undermine the governor's authority wherever the governor did something they didn't like. If they came to turn Ireland into a second England, this was not only supposed to be for the benefit of the Irish. With them came a collection of fortune hunters—the New English, they were called—hungry for land. Some of these rogues even tried to claim they were descended from long-forgotten Plantagenet settlers and that they had ancient title to Irish property.

So was it surprising that the English governors found that Ireland resisted change, or new taxes, or English adventurers trying to steal their land? Was it surprising that during Martin Walsh's childhood there had been more than one local rising, especially down in the south, where the Fitzgeralds of Munster felt threatened? There
was more than a suspicion, however, that some of the English officials were deliberately trying to stir up trouble. “If they can provoke us into rebellion,” some Irish landowners concluded, “then our estates are confiscated and they can get their own hands on them. That's the game.” But it was at the end of Elizabeth's long reign that the big rebellion had come.

Of all the provinces of Ireland, Ulster had the reputation as the wildest and the most backward. Ulster chiefs had watched the progress of the English officials in the other provinces with disgust and increasing restlessness. The greatest of them all, O'Neill—who had been educated in England and held the English title Earl of Tyrone—had usually managed to keep the peace up there. Yet in the end it had been Tyrone who led the revolt.

What did he want? To rule all Ireland as his ancestors had done? Perhaps. Or just to frighten the English so much that they'd leave him to rule Ulster as his own? Also possible. Like Silken Thomas Fitzgerald, sixty years earlier, he had appealed to Catholic loyalties against the heretic English and sent messages to the Catholic king of Spain asking for troops. And this time, Catholic troops—four and a half thousand of them—had actually come. Tyrone was quite a skilful soldier, too. He'd destroyed the first English force sent against him up in Ulster, at the Battle of the Yellow Ford, and people had rallied to his cause from all over the island. That had only been a decade ago, and no one in Dublin had known what was going to happen; but in due course Mountjoy, the tough and able English commander, had broken Tyrone and his Spanish allies down in Munster. There was nothing Tyrone could do after that. At the very moment that old Queen Elizabeth had been on her deathbed in London, Tyrone, last of the princes of Ireland, had capitulated. The English had been surprisingly lenient; he was allowed to keep some of the old O'Neill lands.

There was a new king, Elizabeth's cousin James, on the throne now. Tyrone's game was over, and he knew it. Yet was Ireland any safer?

He glanced out to sea. To his right lay the broad sweep of Dublin Bay, curving out to the southern headland and the harbour of Dalkey. Turning left, he looked down to the strange little island with the cleft in its cliff—Ireland's Eye, people sometimes called that island now—and northward across the waters to where, in the distance, the blue-grey mountains of Ulster rose up steeply. If he was going to broach the subject, he thought, now was the time. They'd be gone in the morning.

Martin Walsh's character could be guessed from his appearance. There were a few splashes of dried mud and plenty of dust on his soft leather boots, because, having ridden past the castle of his friend Lord Howth at the base of the headland, he had chosen to walk up to the summit. But his breeches and doublet, which had been carefully brushed that morning, were still spotlessly clean. As the day was warm, he had ridden out without a cloak or even a hat, and his hair, still mostly brown, hung loose to his shoulders. He had a small pointed beard, which was grey. Careful, clean, calm, not proud, a family man. The only other thing a new acquaintance need observe was the silver crucifix upon a chain beside his heart.

The letter had been brought to him by a messenger that morning; and having read it and digested its surprising contents, he could only conclude that the author had sent it in a hurry upon learning that Lawrence and Anne were about to depart.

“I have received a letter from Peter Smith,” he said quietly. “About his son Patrick. Do you know him?”

His other two children said nothing, though Lawrence looked at Anne sharply, then glanced enquiringly at his father.

“I met him once or twice, Father,” she answered. “When I was in Dublin with Mother.”

“You spoke with him?”

“A little.”

“What opinion had you of him—of his character, I mean?”

“That he is honest and pious.”

“He pleased you?”

“I think so.”

Martin Walsh considered. He knew the family slightly. Smith was a respectable Dublin merchant and a Catholic. That much was certain. But beyond that? Though Smith lived in Dublin, he had twenty years ago lent money to a landowner south of the city on the collateral of the landowner's estate; after which, as was the custom with Irish mortgages, he had enjoyed the use of the estate himself until he was repaid. Smith was, in Walsh's view, at least half a gentleman. And he had a strangely aristocratic air about him. There had always been a little doubt about the family's origins—Walsh didn't like that. Peter Smith hadn't discouraged the rumour that his own father Maurice had been born a Fitzgerald. The MacGowans said he'd been the natural son of O'Byrne of Rathconan up in the Wicklow Mountains. Take your pick. Noble, you might say, either way. But the truth was that he hardly knew the family. He'd heard there were several children, though he wouldn't have recognised them. He would have to find out more. His cousin Doyle, no doubt, would know something.

As for Peter Smith's letter, he found no fault with it. After some pleasant compliments about his daughter, and her reputation, it had asked whether he would discuss the possibility, nothing more, of bestowing this jewel upon his son, who was so greatly struck by her beauty and her good character. It would be discourteous if he didn't at least speak to the Dublin merchant.

“The letter speaks of a betrothal. It seems strange that he should ask for you upon so small acquaintance,” he remarked. Princes might marry with nothing more than an ambassador's report and a miniature portrait, but the gentry around Dublin usually were well acquainted before they married.

“I should wish to know him better, Father, if his interest in me is serious.”

“Of course, my child.” He nodded, and let his eyes turn again towards the sea.

So he did not notice the look that Orlando gave his sister, or the warning glare she gave him in return.

Orlando was so excited. And he felt so pleased with himself. Because he had guessed.

The first time had been the previous summer, while Anne was home from France. They had gone for a walk together and were about a mile away from home when they encountered the young man. Anne and the man had seemed to recognise each other, but Orlando had not learned the stranger's name. They had strolled together a little way to some trees and, finding a large log, Anne and the man had sat on it to talk, while Orlando had explored the wood. For some reason, Anne had made him promise to keep the meeting a secret; and it had made him feel very proud that his big sister would trust him like this.

Although she was six years older, Anne had always been a presence in his life. His older brother Lawrence was always kind, and was Orlando's hero; but he had already been abroad at his studies ever since Orlando could remember, and so he was at best an occasional presence in the house. Until two years ago, Anne had still been doing her lessons with Father Benedict in the chamber they called the schoolroom beside the hall. It was she who, before it was his turn to begin with Father Benedict, had taught him his alphabet, and she who, in the summer evenings, would sit and read to him, with her brown hair falling thickly down one side so that he could lean his head on her shoulder and bury his face in the soft scent of her hair as he listened. Or often she would tell him stories about silly people she had invented and make him laugh. She was a wonderful older sister.