The Rebels of Ireland (31 page)

“Thorough: that's my motto.” They went to every house, every farm, every field and barn. “Wherever there is a Scotsman, be he never so mean, even a pauper,” they were told, “if he has attained the age of sixteen he shall take the oath.” And that is what they did. Most of the Scots lived in the eastern, coastal region of Ulster, but the Commissioners went wherever they needed to. Arriving in each area in force, they split into smaller parties, though always accompanied by troops, and went from door to door. Any Scot, resident or visitor, was forced to take the oath. Doyle himself took the oath from hundreds, holding out a small, bruised Bible for them to swear upon. They did not like it. “The Black Oath,” they called it. But they had no choice. After three weeks, Doyle was thanked and allowed to return home. He spent a few days on his own, travelling around the province, before he did so.

On his way home, as he passed through Fingal, he turned aside to stay a night at the house of his cousin Orlando.

He enjoyed an affectionate family supper with Orlando and his wife, then Mary left the two cousins to talk. Orlando was eager to hear about the Commission, and Doyle was equally glad to share his thoughts with the intelligent Catholic lawyer. Were the Ulster Scots minded to form a Covenant, or cross the sea to join their kinsmen across the water? Orlando enquired. “While you've been gone, the sending of the Commission north has had the effect of frightening many people in Dublin who were not afraid before,” he explained.

“I do not think there is much danger,” Doyle replied. “There is traffic across the water between Ulster and Scotland, of course. All the time. But the situation in each place is entirely different. The Scots Presbyterians are a minority in Ulster. They have to live quietly, although they'll no doubt be glad to help the Scots if they can, and they are delighted to see the king's Church humiliated there.”

“I try to imagine a whole community full of Doctor Pinchers,” Orlando said with a smile.

“I found them upright, proud, hardworking. In some of them, despite the circumstances, I thought I saw a grim humour. To tell the truth, Orlando, I rather liked them—far better than I do Pincher.” He paused to consider. “And yet there is a force in them that Doctor Pincher lacks, and which frightens me more.”

“More frightening than Pincher?”

“Yes. How can I put it? Pincher believes in his religion. I may not like his belief, and as a Catholic you must abhor it. But I do not question his sincerity. He believes passionately. They are not so strident. But they do not just believe. They
know
.” He shrugged and smiled wryly. “You can't really argue with a man who knows.”

“But I know also, Cousin Doyle. As a Catholic, I know that my Church is the true and universal voice of Christendom.”

“That is so, yet there is a difference. You have not only the apostolic succession but a millennium and a half of tradition, to fall back
upon. Catholic saints have given testimony. Catholic philosophers have argued their case painstakingly, and the Church has reformed itself from within time and again. The Catholic Church is huge and ancient and wise, and it can justify itself upon those grounds. There is a place for all humanity in it, a flexibility in many matters, a spirit of kindness.” He paused and grinned. “At least, it is to be hoped.”

“I look forward to your return to it, then,” Orlando said drily. “Did you find these Scots unkind?”

“No. Though any people will become unkind if they are threatened. I found them not unkind, but certain. They
know.
That is all I can tell you.”

“We must be grateful that we have peace there, at least.”

Doyle nodded thoughtfully before he went on. For there was another matter in his mind, which was the real reason why he had turned aside to visit his Catholic cousin.

“There is something else, Orlando, I saw in Ulster that worried me more. It does not concern the Scots at all.”

He had caught a glimpse of it a few times in the intervals during his Commission work. But it was the series of visits he had made after finishing and before returning home that had left him so thoughtful. It had not been difficult for him to see anyone he wanted of the important men of Ulster. The English knew of his trusted position; the Irish were aware of his connections to the Catholic families. Some were politely guarded, others more frank. Nothing explicit was said, but he had come away with a clear impression.

“What concerns me,” he went on, “is the effect of all this upon the Irish.” He saw Orlando's eyebrows slightly raised. “I am speaking of the most well-affected Irish men—of the landowners like Sir Phelim O'Neill, Lord Maguire, and the others. They are heirs of the old Princes of Ireland, men who after the Flight of the Earls saw the English government take most of their lands and the land of their friends, certainly. But they have still more or less made peace with the new regime. They sit in the Irish Parliament. They keep their
dignity and some of their old state still. I talked to some of these men, Orlando, and I observed them.”

“And what did you think?”

“I think they are watching. They see that Wentworth is powerful but that King Charles is weak. The Scots with their Covenant have proved it. Equally important, they see the Protestants now quarrelling amongst themselves.”

“And what conclusions might they draw?”

“I can see two. The first, and the less dangerous, is that they will use the king's weakness to press their case for better treatment. Indeed, they may well be delighted at this Presbyterian rebellion in Scotland, for it will make the king have need of loyal Catholics even more.”

“The other?”

“The other is far more to be feared. They might ask themselves, why should we not make a Covenant of our own, a Catholic one? The king's so weak, perhaps he cannot stop it.”

“Wentworth could stop it.”

“Probably. But one day…”

“Wentworth will not be here.” Orlando nodded. “And you wonder, perhaps, if I have information.” He smiled. “As a Catholic, that is. A loyal Catholic.”

“Quite.” That was exactly what Doyle was wondering. He watched his cousin. Orlando sighed.

“As to the first—put pressure on the king to recognise his loyal Catholics—it's what I've said all along. There are many Irish gentlemen who, I am sure, for the sake of order, would join such a cause. And we can only rejoice if the Scots force him to it. As to the latter—which would, in effect, be another rising like Tyrone's—I can tell you with my hand on my heart that I have heard nothing. Such a hope may exist, for some future time, but nothing's been said. And if it were, you can be sure I should oppose it. The Old English must stay loyal to the king. It's what we were created for.”

His words comforted Doyle somewhat, and soon after this, he
went to bed. But Orlando sat up alone a little longer. And as he thought of all that Doyle had said, his mind travelled back to the days of his childhood and the memory of those ancient Irish chiefs whose names had been like magic. They had fled across the water, to be sure. But their magic had not died. Their heirs lived on—O'Neills, O'Mores…Princes of Ireland. And as he mused, a thought came into his mind.

I wonder if Brian O'Byrne knows anything?

It was Mary Walsh's idea, in September, to ask Walter Smith and Anne to spend two days with Orlando and herself in Fingal. The baby Daniel came with them, but Maurice did not come. “As he has no horse,” his father said blandly, “he will have to walk, or stay in Dublin.” And to make quite sure that his son was fully occupied, he gave him a mass of work to be completed before his return.

Mary had been wanting to arrange this visit for some time. It was not that she was so close to the Smiths herself. She wasn't. But however bad Anne's conduct might have been, it seemed to Mary that it was unhealthy for Orlando and his sister not to be friends, and she hoped that in this way she might also be helping her sister-in-law.

The Smiths arrived in the evening, and the family had supper together. The two men, in particular, were clearly fond of each other. Mary knew that Orlando felt some responsibility himself for having brought O'Byrne into Anne's life in the first place, although she'd told him: “You can hardly blame yourself for something that she did all by herself.” He'd seen little of O'Byrne either, in the last year, despite the fact that he had always enjoyed the Irishman's company. But she had been sure that Walter's affection for Orlando had never faltered; and to see the two men contentedly talking and laughing together, Walter with a little food on his tunic, and Orlando with a large wine stain on his lace cuff, gave her much pleasure.

Anne was another matter. Mary was glad to see Orlando greet his sister warmly, and she observed Anne sitting side by side with her
husband, smiling quietly. But she seemed to be somewhat apart from everyone. Before the meal, Mary took her into the parlour, and they sat together while Anne played with the baby. After a little while, Anne had asked if she would like to hold Daniel herself.

How wonderful it had felt to cradle the warm little life in her arms, to feel the baby nestling against her. She had taken his tiny fingers and counted them out, just as she remembered seeing her own mother do. And gazing down at his broad head with its slanted eyes, she felt a longing like an ache, and thought: how glad I'd be if I had only this.

As they sat in bed together that night and discussed the evening, she asked her husband what he thought of his sister and her husband. They seemed, he replied, to be getting along well enough.

“Do you think so? Didn't you see, when they were sitting together, the way they leaned apart?”

“They were smiling.”

“They were leaning apart. In all the evening, they never touched each other once.”

“I hadn't noticed.” Orlando sighed. “No doubt you're right. It must be hard, I should think, to have the child between them, reminding them every day of what has taken place. Do you suppose the child's condition makes it worse? A child like that grows more slowly, needs more attention—that would make it worse, I'd say.”

“She dotes upon the baby.”

“I was thinking of Walter.” He glanced at her. “Can anything be done, do you think, to bring them back together?”

“Couples can be reconciled.”

“Anne would have to make the first move. It's she who has wronged him.”

“I agree.”

“Could you talk to her, Mary?”

“I don't know her so well. And she's more than a dozen years older than me. It's you who should speak to her.”

“I cannot.” He shook his head. “Lawrence tried. She lied to Lawrence, you know.”

“Wouldn't you have? In the circumstances?”

He looked at her in genuine surprise.

“No. I wouldn't.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she leant over and kissed him on the head.

“I shall pray for her, Orlando.” God knows, she'd prayed often enough on her own account. Perhaps her prayers for another would be accepted.

“We must pray, certainly.” He sighed. “We shall pray, Mary.”

In the morning, the two men paid a call upon the priest at Malahide. The two women remained in the house together. Though some of her time was occupied with the baby, Anne was able to help her and the women in the big kitchen. Mary could see what pleasure it gave Anne to be in her old house, and she was glad of that. The baby seemed to be happy, too. Once or twice during the morning when they found themselves alone, she had almost raised the subject of Walter; but somehow the moment had never seemed right, and she had said nothing.

The midday meal went well. The two men were in cheerful mood, delighted with their visit to the old priest. The joint of pork the women had prepared was judged a great success. During the meal, Mary again observed the interchanges between Anne and her husband, looking for signs of intimacy between them; but though they were as polite and friendly as ever, it still seemed to her that there was an invisible barrier between them, as though they were two people walking on opposite sides of a boundary.

It was Mary, after the meal, who made the suggestion.

“Let us walk over to the well at Portmarnock,” she said. Orlando glanced at her in slight surprise, but Walter was quite agreeable. “You should come with us, Anne,” she continued. “The women in the kitchen can look after Daniel.”

On the way out to Portmarnock, Mary walked beside Walter, while Orlando and Anne went a little way in front. She wondered if Orlando was saying anything to his sister about her marriage, but
she guessed that he was not. As for herself, she did not feel she could allude to her brother-in-law's marriage directly, but she could drop a hint.

“Orlando goes to the holy well to pray, though he does not tell me.” She smiled at Walter sadly. “He prays for the child that God has never yet granted us.” She sighed. “Do you think God sometimes sends us misfortunes to test us?”