The Rebels of Ireland (39 page)

“You think he will come?”

“I am going to add my voice to those which are begging him to come without delay. If I am successful, I shall return with him.” Lawrence smiled. “And now, if you will give me a glass of wine, I shall greet your wife, and bless your son, and be on my way.”

Shortly afterwards, as he watched his elder brother depart, Orlando felt a surge of affection for him. Lawrence could be stern and unbending—but he had always acted for the best. He was a loyal servant of the true Faith. There was no doubt about that. If necessary, he would die for it.

Two weeks passed. The weather grew warmer. The snows melted, and after nearly a week of sunny days, Orlando saw a sprinkling of snowdrops, and even a crocus or two in front of his door. News came of scattered skirmishes elsewhere, but Fingal was now quiet. Lord Ormond had done his work well. Several of the local gentry who had taken up arms were fleeing the country; others had surrendered to him personally and had been sent to Dublin. Orlando heard that the gentleman from Swords was one of these. So far, however, no one had come to trouble Orlando, and he was beginning to hope that they wouldn't.

It was early one afternoon, when Mary and the baby were both asleep, and he was quietly playing with little Daniel, that Doyle arrived. His cousin's large, burly form filled the doorway as he entered the house and strode into the hall, where he threw his cloak impatiently on a bench and announced the bad news at once.

“They're passing sentence on you tomorrow. I had the whole thing from Tidy the sexton, who knows it, of course, from Pincher. You're to be outlawed.”

“Outlawed?” It was an old medieval English sentence, and a vile one. An outlaw had no legal protection at all. He could be robbed or killed with impunity. An outlaw could only run for his life or turn himself in. It was the way the ancient state made its enemies destroy themselves.

“You're not the only one. Half the gentlemen involved in the rising are being outlawed. Some of them have already fled the country, as you know. The estate will be taken, of course. You must save what valuables you can.”

“But I was never in the rising,” Orlando protested.

“I know. But your brother is a Jesuit who's disappeared. You're a Catholic. You didn't come to Dublin…” Doyle shook his head furiously. “I spoke up for you and I thought I'd convinced them you were innocent. But I underestimated Pincher. The man has spies
everywhere. It seems you were visited by O'Byrne, who's in the thick of the rebels, at the very time when you should have been in Dublin. Pincher had a spy out at Swords who followed O'Byrne to your house. I didn't discover who the spy was, but it doesn't matter. The whole thing has been reported to the Justices, who want to dispossess every Catholic they can. The men at the castle aren't concerned with legal niceties at present. Pincher's accusations were enough for them.” He paused. “You know those men who surrendered to Ormond?”

“Yes.” Orlando thought of the gentleman from Swords.

“Well,” Doyle continued, “when Ormond sent them to Dublin, do you know what the Justices did? They've put one of them on the rack.” He shook his head again, in disgust at the cruel torture. “They're out for blood.”

“But if they take the estate, we'll be almost ruined,” cried Orlando, aghast. “What shall I do?”

“If you flee the country or go to the rebels, you proclaim your guilt. If you stay here, they'll arrest you. I'll try to persuade the men at the castle to take a different view—and of course we'll all take care of Mary and the children—but in the meantime, I think you should hide.” He looked at Orlando thoughtfully. “Is there anywhere you can think of?”

There was still smoke in the distance when the soldiers came—several hundred of them—on a mild March day.

Mary Walsh was waiting at the door of the house, with a baby in her arms and little Daniel beside her, as the cavalcade of officers at their head rode up.

She had known they would be coming and, after a long talk with Orlando in his hiding place, she had prepared herself carefully. The soldiers were a frightening sight, and she might have found it even harder to conceal her fear if she had not seen, riding at the centre, the unmistakable figure she had been hoping for.

James Butler, twelfth Earl of Ormond, was a well-set man with a broad, intelligent face. Though still only thirty-two, he was born to such great wealth and position that he obviously wore his command easily. Dismounting, he came towards her courteously and asked for her husband.

“He is not here, Lord Ormond,” she answered politely.

His eyes rested on her.

“You know he is to be arrested?”

“So I have heard, my lord. But I do not know why, since he is loyal. Perhaps,” she added drily, “the Justices in Dublin know something that we do not.” Though he said nothing, at the mention of the Justices, she saw a flicker of aristocratic contempt cross his face, which told her what he privately thought of the Dublin authorities.

“I should like to step inside,” he said quietly.

Two officers accompanied him, and half a dozen men. The officers and men began to search the house from top to bottom. Outside, she had no doubt, the troops would be combing the farm buildings also for Orlando. While the search went on, Lord Ormond himself remained in the big hall, where she politely offered him a glass of wine, which he accepted. As they waited, and knowing that she must use the time well, she probed a little further.

“Tell me, my lord: we still see smoke in the distance, and we have seen it for days. It seems that the Justices have given orders for Catholic farms to be destroyed. Their men have said they will burn all the crops as they grow. But if they do that, how will Dublin and your own troops be fed?” It was another example of the vicious stupidity of the men in Dublin Castle that they should have ordered this pointless destruction. They had even wanted to destroy the local fisheries as well.

“You are correct,” he answered without looking at her. “I have persuaded them to stop. By tomorrow, I hope, you will see no more smoke.”

“This is a sad business,” she remarked. “We are to be ruined for no offence. How many other honest Old English gentlemen are to suffer in this way?”

“I have no wish to make traitors of the Fingal gentry,” he told her frankly. “But whatever they or Sir Phelim may claim, the fact is that they went into rebellion against the king's government. That is what the king thinks, I assure you.”

“And I can assure you that my husband did not join them. He was here with me at all times, I give you my word. You will find no one of the rebels who will tell you he was there.”

“He did not give them aid?”

“Not unless you count the party of ruffians, attached to nobody, who came by once. We fed them and prayed they would leave, which they did, thank God. That is all.”

Ormond indicated that, as far as he was concerned, this was not an offence.

“Your husband has gone to the rebels now?”

“He has not.”

“Has he fled overseas?”

This was a dangerous question. If they thought he had done so, the authorities might stop looking for him; but it would also indicate his guilt.

“No, my lord, he has not fled overseas.”

“Shall we find him here?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then where is he?” Ormond asked quietly.

This was it. The moment she had been dreading. But they had agreed what she must say.

“My lord,” she answered gently, “I am his wife, and I shall not tell you.” She held her breath. His eyebrows rose. “Unless,” she added softly, “you mean to put me on the rack.” She watched him. Had she gone too far?

But thank God, he did not turn on her in fury. Instead—she saw it clearly—he winced with embarrassment. They fell silent.

A minute later, the men came back and the officers reported: “Nothing.” Ormond indicated that they should wait for him outside.

“The Dublin men are eager to confiscate this estate, Madam,” he remarked to her when they were alone, “so that they can get their hands on it themselves. However, I find that I shall need to garrison some of my troops here. About a hundred,” he added bleakly. “The estate will need to be properly farmed, to ensure that they are fed. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“If your husband is loyal to the king and the king's government, then he must be loyal to me.”

“That,” she said with feeling, “you could depend upon, my lord.”

“I cannot reverse the proclamation against your husband. It is not in my power. But if he is here, supplying my troops on my orders, he will not be touched—for the moment. That is all I can promise you.”

“I am grateful.” She hesitated. “For how long might this last?”

“Who can say?” He sighed. “Everything is uncertain. I scarcely know from whom my own orders will come next month. We must live from day to day.” He gave her a long look. “Find your husband by tomorrow, Madam.”

She nodded. He gave her a brief bow, and before she even had time to curtsey in return, he was gone.

There was a light mist over the sea, early the following morning, as Mary came down to the shore. So at first, as he looked out from the little island with the cleft in its cliff, where he had been hiding for the last three weeks, Orlando did not notice her.

But then, as the rays of the rising sun came racing over the sea and burst upon the shore, he saw her, waving to him from the beach. And he pushed out the little curragh he had been using and rowed towards her with the rising sun behind him, to learn what tidings she brought.

Doctor Simeon Pincher gazed at the letter. He was still astonished.

The month of April 1642 had not been encouraging. In England, the split between King Charles and his Parliament had grown so wide that it seemed likely to develop into civil war. Here in Ireland, though Ormond had done good work around Dublin, the rising was spreading even wider. Leaders of the Old English and Irish gentry, with ancient names like Barry and MacCarthy, were now taking up arms down in Munster and beyond. Even Ormond's own Catholic uncle had joined the rebels. Still more disturbing were the rumours, growing more persistent with every passing day, that the great general Owen Roe O'Neill had finally agreed to come to Ireland and command the Catholic forces.