The Rebels of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd
“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?”
“Probably.”
“If we pass the test, however, if we continue to pray, I believe our prayers are always answered. Do you also believe that?”
“In this life? I do not know.”
“I believe it, Walter. Truly. We may not foresee the outcome ourselves, but in some way our prayers are answered.”
“I shall pray for you, then, Mary,” he said with a kindly smile.
“And I shall pray for you, Walter,” she said in a quiet voice. “You have shown such Christian forgiveness, I shall pray that you are given the respect and happiness you deserve.” And she touched him softly on the arm.
He did not reply, and she did not presume to say more, but after a short while he murmured, more to himself than her: “Have I forgiven?”
When they reached the well, it was quite deserted. The afternoon sun was hazy because of some high, feathery cloud, but the faint breeze was quite warm.
“The well of Saint Marnock,” Orlando announced. “Our father used to come here to pray.”
“The place lends itself to prayer,” Walter observed.
They moved about the well for a few moments, inspecting it in silence. After gazing into it for a short while, Orlando quietly knelt down in what was evidently his usual place and bowed his head in prayer. Anne, perhaps less willingly, knelt down at the other side of the well in a stiff, upright posture, like a praying effigy on a church tomb. Walter seemed to hesitate a moment, then placed himself at a short distance and a little behind his wife, as though he did not wish either to be too close or to distract her. Mary knelt a little farther off, from where she could see them all. But though she watched she tried, also, to pray with all her heart that Anne Smith and her husband might be reconciled. They remained like this, each in their different supplications, for several minutes.
Mary was the first to hear the horse’s hoofs. They were pounding along the path from which they had come. She looked up in surprise. So did Anne. Just before the rider reached them, Walter looked up and then, reluctantly, Orlando, his rosary in his hand, raised his head also.
It was Maurice. His face was flushed. He looked excited. He scarcely seemed to notice that he was interrupting their devotions, or to care.
“I came from the house,” he cried. “They told me I’d find you here.”
“I gave you no permission to ride,” said Walter bleakly.
“Forgive me, Father,” Maurice called down. “But I know you will when you hear what I’ve to tell you.” He looked round them all triumphantly. “Wentworth is recalled.”
The effect was certainly what he had wished.
“Wentworth recalled?” Orlando looked stunned, then turned to Walter. “That is news indeed.”
“He’s recalled to England, to save the king in his difficulties. He’s the only man King Charles will trust, it seems. He leaves at once. I heard it at the castle this morning. The news is all over Dublin. There now, Father, was I right to ride out to tell you?”
“You were.” Walter nodded, and young Maurice grinned.
“I’ve another piece of news for you as well. Just before I left, who did I see in the street but Brian O’Byrne?”
Mary saw Anne stiffen. Walter’s face was motionless. Only Orlando responded.
“And what of that, Maurice?”
“Only that he’s to be married again. To a lady from Ulster. One of the O’Neills, no less. A kinswoman of Sir Phelim O’Neill. Isn’t that a fine piece of news?” And he beamed at them all.
Mary watched. Just for an instant, she saw Anne wince and then almost topple forward as if she had been struck by a blow in the stomach. Then she saw her steady herself and recover with an almost stately calm, like a nun smoothing down her habit. But Anne did not speak, and the blood had drained from her face, which suddenly looked white and gaunt as a death’s head.
The two men saw it, too. Orlando was the first to collect his wits.
“A kinswoman of Phelim O’Neill?” One of the most important men in Ulster.
“So he said.”
“A fine marriage, certainly.” Mary realised that her husband was trying to deflect Maurice’s attention from Anne, for he went on quickly. “And Wentworth? Is it known who’s to take his place?”
“I heard nothing as to that,” answered Maurice. “Are you all right, Mother? You look pale.”
“Your mother was tired after her walk,” said Walter firmly. “Indeed, as you’ve brought us a horse, Maurice, you can give it to your mother now, and you can walk back to the house with your uncle and aunt.”
&nbs
“Walk with us, Maurice,” said Mary. “We haven’t seen you in far too long.” And she and Orlando linked arms with the young man and started back along the path at once, leaving Walter and Anne alone.
Anne had risen very slowly. She did not look into her husband’s face, but stared away to one side.
“I’d like to ride on the beach,” she said. “You should go with the others. I’ll catch you up.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
“I may be gone a little while.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
Anne rode slowly through the dunes and out onto the open strand. There was nobody there. She started to go slowly southward towards the Ben of Howth. Out in the water, lit by the pale sun, the little island with its cleft rock seemed like a ship about to depart. She gazed at it and thought: I shall grow old alone.
She rode farther. A curlew was skimming over the shallows. Several times, she heard the seagulls cry. The sea was still, but tiny waves were breaking on the sand. She could see the tide was going out.
He has left me forever, she thought. He has left me, and he has left our child. He has left me without a word.
And the pain was so great that she could not ride on. She had to get down, and sank on her knees in the sand. And there she remained, hearing the little waves break with their small, repeating, retreating sound, as the sea slowly withdrew, like life itself, withdrawing.
What was it Lawrence had said?
Heart over head,
Better dead.
Was he right after all? Yes, she thought, he was right. And, sagging, almost doubled over with the pain, she stared at the blank, withdrawing sea, and heard the waves as they said: Better dead. Better dead. Better dead.
A long time passed before she slowly arose and rode back to the well, where Walter was waiting.
CROMWELL
1640
NOBODY HAD TOLD Maurice what they were doing with the baby. So it came as a complete surprise.
Shortly after Christmas, he had accompanied his mother and the baby Daniel back to Fingal, where they stayed for three pleasant days. Maurice spent most of the time with his uncle Orlando; his mother and his aunt Mary were occupied with looking after the baby. But then, just as they were departing for Dublin again, his mother told him that they would be leaving the baby behind.
“It’s best for little Daniel,” she said with a smile, though he could see there was a tear in her eye. “It’s best for everyone.” More than that she wouldn’t say.
Maurice had to ask his father to get a proper explanation.
“It was your uncle Orlando’s idea,” Walter explained to him. “It’s hard for your aunt Mary, having no child, you see. He wrote to me late in the year asking if they could bring up little Daniel, and after I discussed it with your mother, we thought it would be for the best. It will bring joy to your aunt and uncle, and I’m quite certain little Daniel will be happy there.” Maurice was sad to lose his baby brother but supposed that his parents knew best.
“Can I visit him?” he asked.
“Of course you may,” his father answered.
The first months of the year passed quickly. News came of O’Byrne’s wedding. Maurice would have liked to go, and asked his parents if they were not going, but was told that they were not. “Could I go with my uncle Orlando?” he asked. “I’m sure he must be going.” But Orlando was not going. A little while after this conversation, he saw his mother sitting alone, staring out into space, and looking very sad. He was just about to go in to ask her if something was wrong when his father came up behind him and, taking his arm, told him quietly that he needed his help outside. When he remarked that his mother looked sad, Walter said: “Your mother just needs to be alone for a little while.” Later that day, he saw his father quietly put his arm round his mother, which was not a thing he often did; and it seemed to him that in the days and weeks that followed, his mother looked happier than before.
In March, Dublin became busy, because the Irish Parliament was called. Wentworth briefly came back to preside over it. The king was so pleased with him that he had given him a title, Earl of Strafford. The Parliament brought all sorts of important figures into the city. There were the New English landowners who had taken up the big land grants in Ulster and Munster, together with the Protestant gentlemen representing new boroughs, who would guarantee Wentworth a majority of Church of Ireland Protestants. But there were still plenty of Old English gentlemen, and some Irish aristocrats, too. One day as he was walking with his father in the street, Walter Smith pointed out one of these Irish princes, Sir Phelim O’Neill himself. Knowing of his connection to O’Byrne, Maurice looked at the Ulster aristocrat with interest. But if he was expecting a brooding, impressive presence, a figure from the days of the Flight of the Earls, he saw only a fellow in his late thirties, whom he might have taken for a Fingal gentleman like his uncle Orlando, sharing a joke with two similar fellows as they sauntered along.
“The two men with him are Rory O’More and Lord Maguire,” his father murmured. “O’Neill is a kinsman of the great Tyrone— distant, of course—but they say he’s up to his ears in debt. Truth to tell, the other two don’t amount to much either. They’re hardly the Irish chiefs their forbears were.”
“But they’re important in the Parliament?”
“They speak for old Ireland, you could say, and for the Catholic cause. They’re also in the Parliament to see what they can get out of it.”
“I thought most of the Parliament men were here for that reason,” said Maurice.
“Probably.” His father smiled. “Though they and their class have had so many of their lands taken from them in the past,” he continued more seriously, “that they are hardly to be blamed if they try to protect themselves from losing any more.”
Wentworth’s object was simple: to get the Irish Parliament to raise money and troops for the king to use against the Scots. It didn’t take long for the Parliament to comply. “They voted the money to get rid of Wentworth,” his father remarked drily. And indeed, by April, Wentworth was back in London, where the English Parliament was called.
But the English were in no mood to help King Charles. For eleven years he had ruled without a Parliament; he had abused them with illegal taxes and petty tyranny; he had forced upon them a Church that was hateful to his mostly Puritan subjects. In the last decade, almost a fiftieth of the population had left for America. Now was the time of reckoning. The parliamentary leaders were in league with the Scots, and they knew their hand was strong. Meeting Doyle one day, the Smiths had discussed the situation in London.
“They’ll hold the king’s feet to the fire,” Doyle had told them with a grim smile. And so they had. King Charles was furious. In less than a month, word came: “He’s sent them all home.”
That month, Maurice saw the first of the new troops that the Irish Parliament had agreed to raise. He had met Doyle near the entrance to Dublin Castle when a troop of about a hundred men came marching up the hill and in through the gates.
“Those will be the men they raised in Kildare,” the merchant remarked. Maurice could see that the troops were mostly poor fellows, Catholic labourers and the like. At their head, however, rode a small, hard-faced man who looked foreign to Maurice. “That’s the colonel, the man who raised the troops,” Doyle explained. “The men are Catholic, but the officers will be Protestant. Some of them, like that fellow, are mercenaries from the continent whom Parliament has paid to recruit and train the men.” He sighed. “That’s how armies are raised, Maurice. It’s a business like any other. For the moment, Maurice learned, the troops would be garrisoned in Ulster.
They had turned away from the castle and were walking towards Christ Church when Maurice noticed the old man and the girl approaching. The elderly man, to whom Doyle made a polite bow, and who returned a discreet smile of recognition, was a distinguished little figure, hardly higher than Maurice
“That’s Cornelius van Leyden,” Doyle murmured as soon as they were past. “A Dutch merchant.” Maurice knew of several Dutchmen in the town but was quite sure he had never seen the old man before. “He only came here recently,” Doyle explained. “His son had been doing business here, but he died and the old man came over to look after the business. He says he likes it here and has decided to stay. I hear he’s just taken a lease on an estate up in north Fingal.”
“He’s a Protestant?”
“Yes. Like most of the Dutch. And he has some big connections. He knows the lord of Howth, and it seems he’s an old friend of Ormond himself.” Of the two great Old English dynasties of Ireland, the Fitzgeralds had mostly kept their Catholic faith, but the head of the Butlers, the rich Lord Ormond, had joined the Protestant Church of Ireland. “The Dutchman’s a gentle old fellow,” Doyle concluded. “And wealthy.”
“And the girl?” Maurice asked.
“His granddaughter.” Doyle gave him a quick look. “Pretty, don’t you think?”
Maurice turned to stare after her. The old man had one hand resting upon her arm as he walked stiffly along the street. Maurice wondered how it would feel to touch her arm like that. She was a bit younger than he was, he had guessed. Her body was slim and elegant. She wore her golden hair long so that it framed her face. She had creamy skin and perfect white teeth. She had glanced at him with a hint of interest. She seemed quiet, but something told him that her nature was sensuous. He continued to stare until he felt a nudge from Doyle, and looked up to see the merchant looking at him with amusement.
“She’s Protestant, Maurice,” he said quietly. “You can’t marry her.”
“Of course not,” said Maurice. But he wondered if he’d see her again.
The summer was a gloomy one. There were frequent rains. In the Dublin region, the harvest was bad; up in Ulster, he heard, it was ruined. As for the girl, there was no further sign of her. He supposed she might be up in Fingal, unless she and her grandfather had sailed back to the Netherlands.