1614

Tadhg O’Byrne was ahead of them all. He knew because he had been watching. “There’s been drinking at this wake,” he told his wife, “But I’m ahead of them. I am at the front. I have such a head on me—like a rock.”

“You have,” she said. “So.”

“I am a mountain,” he proclaimed, although in stature, and in strength of body, he was somewhat less than most other men.

Tadhg, or Tadc as it was often written: a common name. The English often made it Teague, although it was usually pronounced like the first syllable of Tiger. “There have been some great Tadhg O’Byrnes,” he would say, “powerful chiefs.” And indeed there had. The problem for Tadhg was that he himself was not. And, in his eyes at least, he should have been.

And not Brian O’Byrne.

Sixty years had passed since Sean O’Byrne of Rathconan had died and been succeeded by his son Seamus. When it had come to choosing a successor to Seamus, however, his eldest son, by the universal agreement of his own family and every significant person in the area, was deemed worthless. The choice of the clan had fallen upon the third of Seamus’s four sons, a splendid fellow, who under Irish law and custom had therefore come into Rathconan and the somewhat shadowy chieftainship which it represented. Brian O’Byrne was the grandson of the splendid fellow. Tadhg O’Byrne was the grandson of the worthless one.

The wake was for Brian’s father. People had come from all over that part of Wicklow and beyond: O’Tooles and O’Mores, MacMurroughs and O’Kellys. And, of course, O’Byrnes: O’Byrnes of the Downes, O’Byrnes of Kiltimon, O’Byrnes of Ballinacor and of Knockrath; O’Byrnes from all over the Wicklow Mountains. All had come to pay their last respects to Toirdhealbhach O’Byrne of Rathconan and to welcome his handsome young son Brian into his inheritance. And scarcely one of them had taken the least notice of Tadhg O’Byrne, who was, by universal acknowledgement, of no account.

“Look at that.” Tadhg was staring so bitterly at young Brian O’Byrne that he didn’t even know if his wife was still listening. He didn’t care anyway. “There’s a boy,” he sneered, “that sleeps in a feather bed.”

If Brian O’Byrne was twenty years old, a good height, fair-haired and handsome, Tadhg was even prouder of his own appearance. He was thirty-four now. His hair was dark and fell in thick ringlets to below his shoulders in the traditional Irish manner. For the occasion, he had changed his usual saffron-coloured linen shirt for a white one, belted at the waist; and he wore a light woollen mantle over his shoulders. Many of the other men wore dark jackets, out of respect for the occasion, but Tadhg would never bother with a jacket. Most of the men wore trews or woollen stockings, but as the day was warm, he had left his legs bare. His feet were stuffed into heavy brogues. He might have been a shepherd or a workman.

And there was his young cousin, the young chief, heir to Rathconan, which should have been his: young Brian with his fair hair cut short, his black embroidered doublet and breeches, his silken stockings and his fine leather shoes. He even wore a golden ring. All of which caused his kinsman Tadhg to spit and mutter:

“Englishman,” and “Traitor.”

This was somewhat inaccurate. The clothes, as such, would have been worn by a gentleman in many parts of Europe, including every native Irishman’s hope, the most Catholic kingdom of Spain. And several of the richer and more important Irish gentlemen at the wake were similarly dressed. Whether they usually dressed this way out of a general sense of what was fashionable in England, France, or Spain, or whether to make themselves more acceptable to the English administrators in Dublin would have been hard to say. Certainly, the English administrators themselves would not have assumed that the adoption of English manners was any guarantee of friendliness towards the English crown. “Several of those infernal Irish rebels in the time of Queen Elizabeth had even been to Oxford!” they remembered with disgust. But such subtleties were lost upon Tadhg. “Englishman,” he hissed. And in his heart was only a single thought: one day I’ll pull him down.

It was a notable gathering. Young Brian felt a justifiable pride—not just that so many great men had come from far and wide to pay their last respects to his father, but that they had come with such obvious affection; and he, in turn, felt full of love for them all.

Above all, he loved Rathconan. It was always the same, unaltered since the days of his great-grandfather Sean, a century ago: a modest fortified house with a square stone tower, not in the best of repair, that looked down from the slopes of the Wicklow Mountains towards the distant blue haze of the sea. The untidy cluster of farm buildings nearby was the same; so was the little chapel where, in Sean O’Byrne’s day, Father Donal had celebrated Mass. Even the descendants of Father Donal were still there. One was a priest himself, though unlike Father Donal, he had no wife and children, for few priests lived in that old Irish way now. His brother, on the other hand, a scholar and a poet, hired himself out very successfully as a teacher to families in the area, which profession allowed him to keep body and soul together—and also to father children whose number was not precisely known. Priest and scholar, cattlemen and shepherds, Rathconan families and their neighbours, this was the little world that Brian O’Byrne, educated by the priest and his brother, clothed by a Dublin tailor, and guided by a wise and loving father, had come to inherit and to take pride in.

He was proud of being an O’Byrne, too. Though, with the O’Tooles, they were the most famous of the old Wicklow Mountain ruling families, you couldn’t exactly point to any of them and say: “There’s an O’Byrne for you.” Some were dark, some fair, some tall, some short. Six hundred years of breeding, even in a single region, will usually provide a variety of types. Nor could you be sure of their political allegiance. Generally, by the end of Queen Elizabeth’s long reign, the O’Byrnes in the northern section of Wicklow, nearer to Dublin, had come to cooperate with the English government, like it or not; though none of them had gone so far as to turn Protestant. Down in the southern mountain passes, however, the powerful O’Byrne chiefs had kept a magnificent independence. When Tyrone struck against the English crown, it was the chief of the southern O’Byrnes who was his most important ally. “It was O’Byrne that was his link to the King of Spain. It was he who made it a great campaign for the Catholic cause,” Brian’s father had told him proudly. “Yet you were not in favour of Tyrone’s actions,” Brian had reminded him. The O’Byrnes of Rathconan, with the northern O’Byrnes, had stayed out of the conflict.

“That is true,” his father had said, with some regret. “But it was a fine thing all the same.”

His father had given moral leadership in the area during two very difficult decades. Tall, brave, handsome, an ancient Irish prince to his fingertips, no one had any doubt where his heart lay. But he was cautious and wise. When Tyrone’s great adventure had failed, he had been sorrowful but not surprised. In 1606, a year before the Flight of the Earls, the great, wild mountain country of Wicklow had finally been designated an English shire—the last part of Ireland, despite its closeness to Dublin, to be brought under English administration. Not that you’d have seen much difference up in the high and empty passes. But all the same, in theory at least, the Irish independence of the region was over. Yet on this subject, too, his father had been philosophical.

“In generations past, we raided the English farms down on the plain. And they sent soldiers up into the hills, and sometimes they were ambushed and killed, and at other times they beat us. Those days, however, are over. There are other and better ways to live.” So he would counsel his neighbours. And to Brian he would always say: “If you want to preserve Rathconan and all the things you love, then you must be wise. Play the English at their own game. Learn to change.”

“But what sort of change, Father? How will I have to change?”

“I don’t know,” his father had answered frankly. “You will have to be wise in your own generation. That is all I can advise.”

And now, all too soon, his own time had begun. His father had not been so old, but he had been stricken by sickness for more than a year, sunken by the end, ready to go.

The wake had begun some time ago. The body had been handsomely laid out. There had been keening. But most of the visitors had come to pay their quiet respects. The food and drink provided had been liberal. A piper was playing a quiet lament; before long some more cheerful music would begin. He had already received the condolences of each of the guests; now he was making the rounds himself, to make sure that all the courtesy and hospitality the occasion demanded was fulfilled. He had just noticed Tadhg O’Byrne scowling at him and muttering something. He would rather have avoided the fellow, but supposed he ought to go over to him. And he was just bracing himself to do so when, staring down the slope, his eye was caught by a strange figure he had never seen before, riding slowly up the track towards the house.

He was a tall, thin man. His doublet, cape, and breeches were all an inky black. He wore a high black hat with no feather. Behind him rode a servant dressed in grey. Though the track was sunlit, it was as though a small cloud of gloom had dropped its shadow into the mountain passes.

Brian wondered who the man was.

Doctor Simeon Pincher had been in a bad temper when he met Doyle. But that wasn’t surprising. Doctor Pincher had been in a bad temper for over a year.

In Ireland, as in England, the Irish Parliament was not in regular session, but met from time to time when there was specific business to transact. Last year, however, a Parliament had been called to assemble in Dublin, and a very impressive gathering it was proving to be. If the old parliaments in Tudor and Plantagenet times had mostly consisted of gentlemen from the English Pale around Dublin, this one had drawn men from every part of the island.

There had been some trouble at first. The Old English, mostly Catholic, had threatened not to take part; but they had finally settled down to business and proceeded, it had seemed to Pincher, in the right direction. The Oath of Supremacy had been affirmed as compulsory for all government officials. They must swear to recognise the king’s spiritual authority over the Pope’s, or lose their jobs. A move had been made to insist that every lawyer must swear, too. That would have ended the legal practice of loyal Catholics like Martin Walsh, and the idea was dropped. Recusant Catholics who refused to drop the old faith were to pay fines, although the Parliament, sadly, wasn’t yet ready to compel them to attend the Church of Ireland. “I’d compel them,” Pincher had firmly declared. And proclamations against foreign education and against the regular priests were also being issued. Despite its faults, however, the Parliament was moving in the right general direction. And the chief reason lay in its composition.

For the Protestants outnumbered the Catholics. A hundred and thirty-two to a hundred. A few of the Catholics were native Irish lords, but most were Old English. So who were all these Protestants? Were they the old guard who had chosen the Church of Ireland, men like the lord of Howth, or Doyle of Dublin? Some, to be sure. But the men who had swelled the Protestant numbers, the men who would make the difference in the long run, were the new arrivals: they were the men from the plantations. And that, strangely enough, was the thing that angered Pincher. Not that he was angry with the plantation men: far from it. He was angry with himself.

“It was lack of faith,” he had confessed to his sister in a letter. “Want of courage.” He had failed to invest.

The trouble had been the scale of the thing. When he had made his visit to Ulster seven years ago, he had seen the opportunities for a successful plantation. So when, after the Flight of the Earls and the confiscation of the Tyrone and Tyrconnell territories, there had been talk of an Ulster plantation, he had not taken up the farm he could have had, in the hope of something better. But such huge tracts of Ulster and Connacht had become available that the entire scale of operations had changed. The Undertakers were operating on a vast scale. The city of London had taken over the whole area of Derry and changed its name to Londonderry. Where it had been supposed that men would take on a thousand acres or two, developers were snapping up thousands, even tens of thousands, of acres.

The outside world was changing. The Dublin familiar to Walsh, Doyle, or even Pincher was that of the late Elizabethan age. But the last decade in London had seen a transformation. It was the age of the daring merchant-adventurer. King James, freed from his dour youth in Scotland, was indulging his taste for luxury. The English court was corrupt; greed and excess were the watchwords. Daring, grasping men looking for quick returns were encouraged. Such was the spirit of the men who undertook the plantation of Ulster.

And seeing such great fellows moving upon Ulster, Pincher had held back. His time was limited, he told himself: he had to teach and preach. His capital was modest. The business was too big for him. This was an alien world of which—he had the honesty to admit it—he was a little afraid. And so he had hung back.

So now, seeing all these new gentlemen from the plantations coming into Dublin, he was overwhelmed by a sense of failure. Like one of the foolish virgins in the Gospel parable, he had been unprepared; when the moment came, he had been found wanting. Only the day before, one of the young scholars at Trinity College had come upon the good doctor sitting under a tree, lost in thought. As he was coming from behind, the doctor had not been aware of his approach, and the young scholar, drawing close, had heard Pincher murmur to himself, quite distinctly: “Predestined profit; justified returns.” Then the doctor had sadly shaken his head; and the young scholar, puzzled by the words but feeling he should not be there, had tiptoed away.

Simeon Pincher, therefore, confessing his fault, was determined to remedy it; and until he had found a means of doing so, he lived every day of his life in a state of suppressed irritation.

The morning he spoke with Doyle, however, he had been preparing for a venture which, from everything he had heard, seemed likely to bring him, safely and securely, the profits which were surely by now his due. And he had been wondering how best to plan the journey he must make when, entering the precincts of Christ Church, he had caught sight of a small group of familiar figures; it occurred to him that one of them might be useful to him.

Doyle was the first one he acknowledged, with a polite inclination of the head. A man of substance, a pillar of the Church of Ireland, a member of the Trinity Guild. He owed Doyle a favour, too. The previous Sunday, he’d been due to preach in Christ Church, and as well as the usual collection of government officials from Dublin Castle, he’d known the congregation would be swelled by a number of Protestant Members of Parliament. It was an opportunity for him to make a good impression. There was only one problem.

The aldermen of Dublin were supposed to accompany the mayor to the cathedral on Sundays. But since many of them were papists, they would often attend Mass themselves beforehand, bring the mayor ceremonially to the cathedral, deposit him in his seat, and then calmly leave for a local inn, where they’d have a few drinks, returning only after the sermon to escort the mayor out again. Not only was this the sort of casual Irish behaviour that appalled Pincher, but he dreaded it happening on the day he preached. It would look to the visitors as if the aldermen couldn’t be bothered to hear him preach. So he had spoken to Doyle.

Sometimes in the past, Pincher had suspected that Doyle might not like him. But he had certainly stood by him last Sunday. No fewer than ten aldermen had turned up. When three of them had seemed about to leave, Doyle had given them such a look they had reluctantly sat down again. They had even stayed awake while he preached. He owed a debt of gratitude to Doyle for that. No question.

Beside Doyle stood young Walter Smith. A serious young man. A pity he was a papist. For that reason, normally, Pincher would have taken as little notice of him as possible. But he remembered that Walter Smith was married to Walsh the lawyer’s girl, and he knew that Walsh and Doyle were cousins. Out of courtesy to Doyle, therefore, he nodded politely to Walter Smith as well.

The third man was Jeremiah Tidy. And now Doctor Pincher smiled.

“Good day, Master Tidy.”

“Good day to Your Honour.”

Thank God for Tidy. A reliable man. Three generations of service to Christ Church and the Church of Ireland. Jeremiah had been born and bred to it, knew every inch of the building from the extensive crypt to the top of the tower. He’d been only twenty years old when he’d been appointed sexton, on account of his long family connection, and he was still only twenty-five now. But with his slightly hunched shoulders and his little pointed beard, he had already achieved an agelessness that was pleasing to his employers.

It was Tidy who watched over the graves and tombs; Tidy who, with the verger, arranged the services and rang the great bell which regulated the life of the cathedral and city alike; Tidy who for a modest fee was always happy to take on extra jobs to oblige you. Reliable. Respectful. He had a great reverence for Trinity College, also. “It was my mother’s family, the MacGowans, who supplied all the doors and windows in the college, Your Honour,” he would remind Doctor Pincher. “And a fine place it is, I’m sure you will agree, Sir.”

“It is indeed,” Pincher would agree.

“A place well-suited, Your Honour, to a fine Cambridge scholar such as yourself.” What was it in the sexton’s soft voice that he found disconcerting? It was so polite, so respectful, so gently insinuating. Was it almost too respectful? He glanced at the sexton with a slight frown of uncertainty.

A Cambridge man like him: what did Tidy mean by it? Pincher used to wonder. If he meant anything at all. Was it possible, the learned doctor would ask himself, that the sexton had somehow come to hear about that foolish business at Cambridge? He couldn’t imagine how. But why should he mention Cambridge in that way, whenever they met? Surely not, he told himself. It could not be. The business had been in another country, long ago. And besides . . .

It was Tidy, in fact, who had mentioned to him that the cathedral clerk had heard of an excellent living with some promising land becoming available shortly. And it was thanks to that timely information, and an immediate visit to the chapter clerk, that Pincher was now about to set off on another journey, southwards this time, that might bring him some of the profits which, surely by now, he deserved.

And it was when he had told the three men of the route he proposed to take, and asked for their advice about where to break his journey, that after thinking for a moment or two, Doyle had suggested:

“You could rest with the O’Byrnes at Rathconan, I should say.”

On hearing the name, Pincher had blanched. A papist? A native Irish chief? Despite the diverse allegiances of the various O’Byrnes, despite the tradition of Irish hospitality to travellers that went back to the dawn of time, despite even the fact that Wicklow was now an English shire, Doctor Pincher had heard too many stories of the wild O’Byrnes in the past not to feel nervous at the prospect of such an encounter. But he saw young Walter Smith nod in agreement, and even Tidy looked perfectly calm at the prospect. Doyle, guessing his thoughts, smiled.

“You’ll receive a good welcome there,” he assured him. “The O’Byrnes of Rathconan are quite English in their ways.”

And, no doubt to put him at his ease, Tidy chimed in:

“They’d have great respect, Your Honour, for a Cambridge scholar such as yourself.”

So here he was, approaching the house at Rathconan, and a scene that filled him with horror.

An Irish wake. Obviously, Doyle had not been aware of any death in the O’Byrne family when he had suggested the visit, and Pincher wondered what to do. Should he try to find another house? Some distance to the south lay the ruins of the ancient monastery of Glendalough. He could reach it by dusk, he supposed. Was there any sort of house there? He wasn’t sure. He certainly had no wish to sleep in some peasant’s hut, or out in the open in the wilds of the Wicklow Mountains. Should he turn away now, or ask for directions to another place? He was still hesitating when he saw a handsome, fair-haired young man, dressed in English style, coming towards him.

“I am Brian O’Byrne,” he introduced himself politely, and gazed at him, Pincher noticed, with a pair of the most unusual green eyes.

Explaining his business, and that Doyle had sent him, Pincher apologised for his intrusion. “Doyle would not have known of my father’s death when he sent you,” the young man replied. “I am sorry for your trouble,” Pincher answered. Could O’Byrne suggest another house in the area where he might find shelter? But young Brian wouldn’t hear of it. “There’s a chamber on the upper floor where you can rest the night comfortably enough—even if I cannot promise you silence.” And so, uncertain where else to go, and not wishing to offend the young chief, Pincher rather unwillingly allowed himself to be escorted towards the old stone tower.

There was a great crowd of people outside, several hundred of them. Tables had been set up, well stocked with food and sweetmeats. Some of the guests were drinking wine, but most appeared to be imbibing ale or whiskey. Leaving his servant to see to the horses, and hoping the fellow would not be drunk when he needed him, he accompanied young Brian O’Byrne inside. He knew enough to be prepared for what must follow, as his host led him toward the room at the back of the tower. There, laid out on a large table covered with white sheets, was the body of Toirdhealbhach O’Byrne, washed and shaven, a fine-looking man, it had to be said, even when sunken in death with a crucifix in his folded hands. There were no others in the room, the company having all come to pay their respects long since, except for a middle-aged woman, a cousin of the deceased, who sat on a stool in a corner so that the dead man should not be left alone. The room was well lit by the small plantation of candles on a narrow table by the wall, whose waxy smoke gave the room a churchlike atmosphere.

Trying to avert his eyes from the cursed rosary, Pincher murmured, as he knew he must, that the former chief had been most handsomely laid out, and not knowing the gentleman himself, could only add, once again, that he was sorry for their trouble. After that, he politely withdrew and followed his young host up a spiral stair to a spacious chamber containing a wooden bed, no worse than his own in Dublin. A short while later, Brian O’Byrne reappeared bearing food and wine himself, which, with all the business of his father’s wake going on, was exceedingly civil of him, Pincher had to acknowledge. His host also made clear to him that, should he at any time wish to join the company below, he would be more than welcome. An offer well-understood as kindly intended; though noncommittally, gratefully it was declined. And so for the rest of the evening Doctor Pincher, being predestined for higher things than the company of the Irish, kept to his chamber.

If only it weren’t for the noise. The customary wailing of the women, the wild songs of lament and the cries of grief, he had always found disgusting. “In their grief,” he had once written to his sister, “they are like savages.” That, mercifully, had been over before he arrived. But worse was to come.

Some aspects of the wake he could understand. The coming together of friends and neighbours, the sharing of bereavement, the kind words, even the gentle telling of stories about the departed one: all this, it seemed to him, was proper. He did not even mind the food and drink, so long as everyone maintained sobriety. And indeed, when a child had died, or a parent been snatched away from the young family who needed them, these wakes were sad and solemn affairs, when neighbours gave support and charity. He certainly saw no harm in that. But when a man had lived a long life and death was expected, when as well as telling kindly stories, the guests started asking riddles, or playing games—even involving the corpse himself—then it seemed to Pincher that the fundamental lack of seriousness, of decency—indeed, the pagan nature and immorality—of the native Irish lay exposed. It was hideous to him.

That in this ancient process there might be great wisdom; that after the catharsis of grief fully expressed, there might be closure; and in the affectionate games and humour—this sharing of life with the dead—there might be a healing and a coming to terms with the awfulness of death: such notions had no place in his own, monotone picture of the universe. He had no idea why they did it.

The sun was setting when he heard the women singing—a slow, eerie, nasal chant that he knew was called a cronan—not unpleasing to the ear. These went on for some time as the dusk fell; and since he heard no other sounds, he assumed they were being listened to in silence. Looking out of his window as the last of the cronans ended, he could see that the first stars had appeared in the gloaming. And then, after only the shortest pause, the gentle drone of a single bagpipe started to rise into the air. And now even Doctor Pincher sat down on the bed to listen.

A piper’s lament. The haunting strain echoed around the hillside, mournful yet strangely comforting. And despite himself, Pincher experienced that special sensation, the melancholy yet thrilling warmth about the heart that only the sound of the pipes can bring. He listened, and wished it might go on forever. But after a time it ended.

Then there was a little pause, followed soon after by a lilting tune, half soulful perhaps, but in which the more cheerful sound of a fiddle joined beside the piper like a good companion. The melody was pleasant, Pincher supposed; but it seemed to him that there had been enough music, and that it would be more fitting if, having paid their respects, the guests were now to take their leave. He was glad when the music stopped.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. From below, he could hear the faint sounds of conversation, even of laughter. It had been a long day. He hoped that he might fall asleep. In the morning, he thought, he would leave at the earliest opportunity. If he could just shut out the voices and lie very still, he could begin to drift into sleep. He breathed slowly, kept his eyes shut. He felt himself drifting.

And then the fiddles began. Loudly. Several of them, accompanied by a whistle. A merry sound. There were shouts, laughter. By all that was unholy: they were playing a jig. He started in fury from his bed and rushed to the window. Torches were being lighted outside. He could see the company all round the tower. They were dancing. It was like a pagan orgy or a scene from the infernal regions. They were dancing a jig.

He gazed in horror. Not only were they merrily dancing, but the jig went on and on, as if to see who could dance the longest without dropping.

And now—he had known it from the beginning, of course—but now, having heard, having seen with his own eyes, having looked down upon this dreadful jig, it seemed to Doctor Pincher that he understood with a new and ghastly clarity that, even if they smiled at you or put on English clothes, these Irish papists were, indeed, lower than the beasts. They were all, all destined for eternal damnation. There could be no possible doubt of it. With a cry of anguish, he turned round, threw himself facedown upon the bed, and tried to stop his ears.

But the dancing and the music went on. Some of the dances were jigs; others he did not recognise. He had heard that the Irish performed a sword dance. For all he knew, they might be doing that. What he knew for certain was that he could get no rest.

Perhaps, if he could distract his mind from the sounds below, he could get to sleep. He tried thinking about the journey he was to make the following day. That prospect, at least, brought him some comfort.

Both Trinity College and Christ Church Cathedral were endowed with many lands—on which, from time to time, good leases might be obtained; and he had long been hoping to obtain one of these. But the opportunity that had now presented itself was even better.

For of all the Protestant landlords in Ireland, none was richer, or more godly, than Richard Boyle, the great Protestant settler. Having acquired, from the reign of Queen Elizabeth, vast tracts of land in Munster, he was the patron of numerous livings, from which a good Protestant preacher might derive an income. “I’ve just heard there’s a living coming free any day in north Munster. And you’re just the kind of godly man that Boyle would approve of,” the Chapter Clerk had told him. “It’s a little wild there, however. The land will have to be cleared before you can grow anything. Would you mind that?”

“Oh no,” said Pincher. “I shouldn’t mind at all.”

Woodlands. For centuries, the vast forests that had once covered most of the island had been a valuable source of timber. Mostly, it had been exported. Some of the greatest English cathedrals had roof beams of Irish oak. And during the huge building of Tudor England, timber had been increasingly in demand. Gradually, therefore, the forests of Ireland had yielded to the axe. Most of the best oak trees in the Dublin region had already gone, but farther south there were still plenty of fine old forests waiting to be cut down. And the harvesting of woodlands provided an instant, one-time cash crop that could make a new lease highly profitable for an investor. Sometimes entire hillsides would be stripped in a matter of months.

“I shall let in light,” Pincher had declared with feeling, “where before there was darkness.”

The track across the hills, he had been told, led past some of the finest views in all Ireland. In a couple of days, it was to be hoped, he would reach his destination spiritually refreshed. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the journey. And although he was conscious of the music outside, he might have slipped into unconsciousness once or twice before, at about midnight, he became aware that the music had finally stopped and he felt ready to sink, at last, into a deep sleep.

Indeed, for a moment he almost supposed he was dreaming when a sudden creak made him sit up with a start, to see that the heavy oak door of the chamber was slowly opening.

There were so many sleeping in the rooms below and the hall that they had left candles flickering all over the house so that people would not fall over each other if they moved about in the night. It was by the light of several candles, therefore, that Pincher could now see, framed in the doorway, the terrible figure who was about to enter his room. A wild Irishman’s dress, bare legs, a pale face with staring eyes, and a great, ugly mass of hair falling in ringlets to below his shoulders—faced with such an apparition, it was no surprise that Doctor Pincher should have convulsively clutched at the bedclothes and opened his mouth, ready to cry out “Help” or “Murder” if the creature took another step.

But Tadhg O’Byrne did not enter yet. He stood at the door, preferring to sway a little, cautiously, before committing himself to a further step into the unknown. He was not drunk. He might have been a little while ago, but he was rather in a state where his thoughts and actions, though carefully considered, were somewhat slow. He had tried to sleep on the floor beside the bench in the main hall upon which his wife already lay deeply unconscious. But he could not seem to get comfortable. He had considered going outside. The night was not cold, and a good Irishman like himself, as he was proud to say, would be as happy sleeping on the ground like a cattleman, or a hero from olden times, as lying about in a house. But on balance he had decided to rest inside and, walking carefully over several bodies he had managed, taking his time, to negotiate his way to this place where he had encountered a door. Unable to see the quaking preacher in the darkness, he now very reasonably enquired:

“Is there room for a body to sleep in there?”

The question, being asked in Irish, was not understood by Pincher, but clearly some response was required.

“Go away,” the philosopher cried.

The reply, in English, surprised Tadhg O’Byrne, but was perfectly understood. He studied it. The first thing about the answer, apart from the language, was that it came only from a single source. He listened for the sounds of others breathing but heard none. Framing his next question in English therefore:

“Is it a woman you have with you?” he obligingly asked.

“Certainly not!” hissed Doctor Pincher.

Though he was not trained in philosophy, it was clear to Tadhg, after only another moment or two, that the figure in the dark had, willfully or not, been guilty of a non sequitur. For if there were no others in the room, and the stranger was not engaged with a woman, then, ipso facto, there was no need for him to go away. Not wishing to offend, he went over this in his mind again to make sure it was correct; but he could find no weakness in his reasoning. And he had just come to this definite conclusion when Doctor Pincher made a great mistake. Speaking very slowly and clearly, on the assumption that the figure before him must, by its every appearance, be both drunk and stupid, he carefully enunciated:

“This . . . is . . . my . . . bed.”

“Bed?” This was a new consideration. “Is it a bed you have there?” Tadhg might despise the presumed decadence of his kinsman Brian when it came to feather beds, but at this moment, the prospect of sharing a comfortable bed rather than the hard floor seemed to him a good one. Entering now, and closing the door behind him, he made his way with surprising accuracy to the bed and stretched out his hand to where, shrinking in disgust and some terror from him, Doctor Pincher had inadvertently supplied the very space he was seeking. “There now,” he said companionably, “there’s room enough for the two of us.”

And he would have fallen asleep at once beside the startled preacher if a sudden curiosity had not seized him. Who might this English stranger be who was given a chamber to himself at the wake of O’Byrne of Rathconan?

“A fine man,” he opined into the inky darkness. “There’s no question, Toirdhealbhach O’Byrne was a fine man.” He paused, expecting some response, but the stranger beside him was as silent as the corpse below. “Had you known him long?” he enquired.

“I did not know him at all,” said Pincher’s voice, coldly.

It was clear to Pincher that his life was not in any immediate danger from this loathsome figure. The main question in his mind was whether to get off the bed and sleep on the hard floor himself, or to remain where he was and endure the closeness, and the smell, of his presence.

“But you came to his wake from respect, no doubt,” said Tadhg. English or not, one couldn’t deny that this was a proper if unusual thing to do. “Would you mind if I ask your name? Myself being Tadhg O’Byrne,” he obligingly supplied.

Why was it, Pincher wondered, that these Irish must have such barbarous names? The sound of them—Tighe O’Byrne beside him, Turlock O’Byrne the corpse below—was bad enough; their spellings, Tadhg and Toirdhealbhach, defied all reason. He placed a silent curse upon them all. He certainly had no wish to engage in conversation with Tadhg; on the other hand, if he refused to reply, it might make the creature angry.

“I am Doctor Simeon Pincher, of Trinity College, Dublin,” he said reluctantly.

“Of Trinity College?” An Englishman and a heretic, therefore. But a scholar, perhaps, all the same. “You’d be learned, I dare say,” he ventured, “in Latin and Greek?”

“I lecture in Greek,” Pincher said firmly, “in logic and in theology. I preach at Christ Church. I am a fellow of Emmanuel College, Cambridge.” He hoped this impressive list might reduce his unwelcome companion to silence.

Tadhg might have little use for Englishmen and heretics, but he was impressed. This was a gentleman and a scholar, a learned man who had come all the way from Dublin to pay his respects to a leading O’Byrne. Courtesy was due. He lay there in silence, wondering what he should say to such a distinguished person. And as he did so, a further thought occurred to him. Here was an important man of learning sharing a bed with him, and no doubt imagining that he, Tadhg O’Byrne, was a poor sort of fellow. He owed it to himself to let the stranger know that he, too, was a person of some account. Not his equal in learning, to be sure, but a gentleman like himself at least.

“And you wouldn’t know, I don’t suppose, who I might be?” he suggested.

“I suppose not,” sighed Doctor Pincher.

“Yet it’s myself,” Tadhg announced proudly, “that is the rightful heir to Rathconan.”

The effect of this statement was highly satisfactory. He felt the doctor’s body give a small start in the bed.

“But I understood that Brian . . .”

“Ah.” Now Tadhg bent to his theme. “He has it. That he has. But has he the right to it?” He paused to let the question establish itself in the surrounding dark. “He has not. It’s myself that is in the senior line, you see. His family took it, but they’ve no right to it. Their claim is false,” he ended triumphantly.

The fact that under the very law, that ancient Irish law and custom, which he so ardently defended, Brian’s ancestors had been rightfully chosen and his own rejected, the fact that as a good Irishman he had no claim to Brian’s position whatever and that any good Irishman would have told him so in no uncertain terms, and the even more astounding fact that it was only under the English law, not the Irish, that the claim of the eldest son had any particular significance—all these facts had miraculously been dissolved in the blackness of the night, or rather, they had been hastily buried underground by Tadhg, like a criminal burying a body.

“So you mean,” Pincher sought to clarify, “that Brian O’Byrne does not in fact possess a clear title to this property?”

“He does not. Under English law.” He did not like to say it, but he knew that this would be the way to impress a Trinity College man. “Under the king’s law, he’s no right to it at all. It’s myself who is the rightful heir.”

“That,” said Doctor Pincher, “is very interesting. I think,” he added after a short pause, “that I should like to go to sleep.”

And Tadhg O’Byrne, having made his point to his own satisfaction, was contented enough to fall into unconsciousness, which he did immediately. But Pincher did not sleep. He had no wish to sleep just yet. Instead, he lay there thinking. The information he had just received, if correct, was highly significant. Not, of course, that the disgusting wretch lying beside him would ever derive any benefit from it. God forbid. But if the kindly young man who had welcomed him to his house had any sort of defective title to the property, there were legal ways in which he might be dispossessed. Pincher wondered if anyone else in Dublin knew about this. Possibly not. The value of an estate like Rathconan would be many times greater than the profits he had in prospect down in Munster, no matter how closely the oak trees grew.

He wondered how he might turn this unexpected news to his advantage.

For some time now, it had seemed to Orlando that his father was out of sorts. He was conscious of these small changes of mood because he saw his father almost every day.

Though he was sixteen, Orlando was still at home. Martin Walsh had quietly resisted the several attempts of Lawrence to have Orlando sent to Salamanca. “No, I’d rather have him with me,” he would say. “He can get a fair education from the teachers we have here. I shall teach him the law myself.” Once, overhearing an argument between his brother and his father, Orlando had heard his father declare: “Have a care, Lawrence. The government men in Dublin Castle are suspicious of foreign colleges. My loyalty is not in question, but remember that there are men in the Castle who would like to forbid Catholic lawyers to practice. They already know very well that you’re a Jesuit. As it’s Orlando who will inherit this estate after I am gone, it may be wiser that they don’t see him going off to a seminary. It’s better they see him safely at my side.” Orlando heard Lawrence murmur something in reply, but could not make out the words. He did hear his father answer, very firmly: “I think not. Speak of it no more.”

Martin Walsh usually went into Dublin to transact business a day or two each week. Quite often, he would take Orlando with him, and it was easy to see, wherever he went, how much his honest, cautious father was liked and respected.

“A lawyer,” Martin would tell him, “comes to know a great many men’s secrets. But men must know they can trust him with their confidences. A lawyer knows everything, Orlando, but tells nothing. Remember that.”

Sometimes, he would genially point to a pretty girl and ask Orlando if he’d like to marry her. This had fallen into a comfortable routine. Orlando would always say that she wasn’t pretty enough and tell his father he’d have to do better. Then his father would ask him how many children he wanted. “Six boys and six girls: a round dozen,” he’d say. And Martin would look pleased.

Often as not, they would call in on his sister. Anne had three girls already, and they still hoped for a boy, whom they would call Maurice. She had filled out a little since her marriage, and she was always busy with her household and her children, but in other ways it seemed to Orlando that she was still the same. Her husband Walter had proved to be a great success. The older Orlando grew, the more he liked him. A kindly, manly fellow, he was obviously devoted to Anne. Though it was certain that he would one day inherit a large fortune from his father, old Peter Smith would proudly say: “He’s no need of me, though. He’s already a man of substance on his own account.” Old Peter Smith preferred to spend his time out at the estate he held in Fingal, but Walter and Anne spent most of the time in the city with their children. They had a handsome, gabled house on Saint Nicholas Street near the old Tholsel town hall. The only subject that was never mentioned was the drowning of Patrick Smith. But Orlando felt sure that his sister must be happy with her life now, even so.

It would be at the end of the day, sometimes, after they had ridden back to the house in Fingal, that Orlando would notice his father looking a little tired and depressed. He supposed it might just be fatigue after the long hours of business. Martin’s hair was mostly grey now. When he sat in his chair in the evening and gazed down thoughtfully at the floor, it couldn’t be denied that his face looked somewhat haggard and older. Occasionally, Orlando would observe him suddenly wince and shake his head. But then, when he rose from this chair, Orlando would see him straighten his back, take a deep breath, push out his chest, and give himself a little nod of approval. And then he would reassure himself that his father was still strong and would be with him for many a year.

It was unusual for his father to conduct Dublin business out at the house, so Orlando was surprised one evening, as they were riding home, when his father remarked: “I have received a message from Doctor Pincher. He wishes to call upon me tomorrow morning. On a private matter, he says.” Though he had only occasionally caught sight of the tall, thin doctor of Trinity College, the black image of Pincher crossing the Plain of Bird Flocks the evening before Anne departed for the seminary was still indelibly imprinted on his mind. “What did he want?” he asked his father. “I have no idea,” Walsh replied.

It was with great curiosity, therefore, that, just before eleven o’clock the next day, Orlando watched as the single horseman, thin as a quill and dressed in black, drew up the sunlit path to the house. There he was greeted by his father, who took him inside. He wished he could have gone in with them to listen.

The two men sat opposite each other across a table. Walsh, comfortably dressed in a spruce-green doublet, looked exactly the member of the gentry that he was. Doctor Pincher was all in black, except for a narrow white collar with the thinnest possible embroidery of lace.

“I came to ask if you would act for me,” he began, “in a matter that I wish to be secret.”

“Such requests are not unusual,” Walsh answered easily. “But we have never had dealings before.”

“You are surprised, perhaps, that I should entrust such a matter to . . .” He hesitated.

“A Catholic?”

“Indeed.” Pincher inclined his head politely. For though he had no doubt that his Protestant faith made him, in God’s eyes, the superior of the papist, Pincher could not help being uncomfortably aware that Walsh was by birth the lauded gentleman which he was not.

“I am glad to entrust myself to a Catholic lawyer, Sir,” he allowed himself a smile, “though I might hesitate to go to a Catholic surgeon.” It was not often that Doctor Pincher made a joke; but this was one of them.

Walsh did his best to smile.

“Please proceed,” he said.

“It is a question of title,” Pincher began.

His journey down into Munster had been a great success. The living with its small church and smaller house was perfect. He could preach there now and then, and put a poor curate in to take care of the daily ministry. But the land was excellent. He had found agents who would cut the trees and carry the timber down to the coast for shipment. The prices offered were excellent. It was clear to him that shipping even half the woodland would yield him a handsome profit. Nor had he had any difficulty in recommending himself to Boyle, who had already been assured by the doctor’s obliging friends at Christ Church and Trinity that Pincher was, indeed, just the sort of godly man to be encouraged. He had secured the living at once. But the prospect of this God-given increase in his wealth, the new and brighter light it shed upon his life, had strengthened his faith and given him courage to aim at even higher things.

Having gone down to the port of Waterford to make his enquiries about the shipping, he had decided to return to Dublin in a coastal vessel that had just been leaving. It had been an easy and pleasant voyage. And as he had watched the coastline slip by, he had found his mind repeatedly going back to that strange night he had spent at Rathconan. Whether it was blind luck or the unseen hand of the deity, there seemed no doubt that a potentially important piece of information had been placed before him.

As he explained to Walsh what he wanted, the lawyer’s face remained impassive, though once or twice, a slight twitch might have betrayed some emotion.

“So,” he summarised, “you believe that under English law, Brian O’Byrne may not have a valid title to the Rathconan estate. You wish me in the first place to investigate this matter. If the information proves to be correct, you may wish to retain me as counsel should you, alone or with others, wish to make application to obtain that estate.”

“Correct.”

There had already been active voices from government officials and other greedy people urging a thorough investigation of defective land titles, in precisely the hope of finding native Irish estates that could be legally taken away from their customary owners, so that the English crown could either take them or release them to its friends or onto the market.

“So that, should there be any fault with the title, you will have this information before any of the others, who will doubtless be eager to seize Brian O’Byrne’s inheritance from him.”

“Precisely,” said Doctor Pincher.

“Should young O’Byrne’s title be found defective, is there any other claimant?”

“Perhaps. A mere Irishman of no account who, I am sure, has no document of title of any kind.”

“Might I ask,” Walsh inquired, “why you have done me the honour to come to me, and not to another?”

“I am generally informed, Sir, that you are more fully acquainted with the landholdings of this part of Ireland than any man living.”

This, as it happened, was probably correct. For five generations, since long before the monasteries were dissolved by King Henry VIII, even since Plantagenet times, Martin Walsh’s ancestors had been involved in the legal affairs of the church and lay estates all down the eastern side of Ireland. There was hardly an estate in Leinster or Meath that the family didn’t know well, and many in Ulster and Munster, too. The knowledge had been passed down the generations. Martin had already, in his gentle way, been feeding it to young Orlando for some years. If Pincher wanted discreet investigations made about Rathconan, he couldn’t have come to a better place.

Walsh nodded. Then he leant forward slightly.

“I am but a lawyer, Sir, and you are a philosopher. May I put to you one other question which I myself am not learned enough to answer?”

“I am at your service,” said Doctor Pincher.

“Well, then,” said the lawyer softly, “it is this, and pertains to philosophy rather than to law. Even if, in strict law, we find that Brian O’Byrne has no sound English title to Rathconan, should we be troubled in our conscience, would you judge, by the young man’s loss of it?”

“I should say no.”

“How so?”

“Because he holds it, if not by law, then by a barbarous custom, and not honestly.”

“By the custom of the mere Irish.” He nodded. “That would be so, no doubt. And Irish custom, being barbarous, has no moral claim to our consideration. It is, so to speak, unnatural.”

“You have it,” said Doctor Pincher, pleased that they had understood each other.

Martin Walsh gazed at him without expression. It would have amused him to ask the philosopher whether, in his personal view, avarice should still be accounted a deadly sin; but he forbore to do so. Instead, he quietly observed:

“I should tell you now that there are some, even in Dublin Castle, who wish to proceed with caution. If, as may be supposed, young O’Byrne of Rathconan is well-affected, those persons will think it wiser not to dispossess him of lands that many will believe he holds rightly. There has been no rebellion here. Nor has he abandoned his lands like Tyrone. Whatever the law, such people would say, such dispossession would be unwise and only stir up further trouble.” It was, indeed, exactly the counsel he would have given the English government himself.

“You and I,” Pincher said, “would think otherwise, I hope.”

Was it possible, Walsh wondered, that this interview was a trap of some kind? Might Pincher have been sent by either the government or, more likely, some faction to test his views and the extent of his loyalty? It was possible, but unlikely. His views were the same as most of the Old English he knew, and would have been expected in Dublin Castle. But his loyalty wasn’t in question.

No, his judgement was that Pincher was playing exactly the game he said he was. Even after living seventeen years in Ireland, the Trinity man was so blinkered by his own prejudices that he imagined that he, Martin Walsh, because he was Old English, would happily aid in the dispossessing of this coreligionist O’Byrne because O’Byrne was Irish. Did Pincher have any idea of the curious mutual respect that had arisen as the Walshes of Carrickmines beat off the raids of the O’Byrnes down the centuries? Had he any notion that there was at least a trace of Walsh blood in the veins of young Brian O’Byrne, let alone that Walsh’s own daughter Anne was married to a man who, although his name was Walter Smith, was almost certainly an O’Byrne by natural descent? Such deep and tangled roots would have been quite unknown to Pincher.

“I will make enquiries,” he replied. “But I should counsel you now that I do not know whether this business can be brought to a successful conclusion.”

Soon after this, Doctor Pincher left, with the promise that Walsh would write to him when he had any news.

It was early afternoon when he called Orlando to walk out with him.

“Where are we going, Father?” he asked.

“Portmarnock.”

There was a light breeze, agreeably cool. It gave him pleasure that Orlando enjoyed keeping him company. The boy himself could not possibly imagine the comfort that this presence brought to his father, nor would Martin have burdened him by letting him guess. So they walked together, for the most part, in silence. No doubt his son was curious about the visit of Doctor Pincher, but there might be reasons why it was better he should know nothing; and in the meantime, there were a few, more important things he wished to say.

They had just started down the long slope that led across the coastal open ground when he glanced at his son and quietly asked:

“Tell me, Orlando, would you ever break the law?”

“No, Father.”

“So I should hope.” He walked on in silence for a few moments. “I have often spoken to you of the confidence and trust that must be the rule between a client and his lawyer. That trust is sacred. To break it is like breaking the law. It is against everything I stand for. It is a treason.”

“I know, Father.”

“You do.” Martin Walsh drew a deep breath and nodded to himself thoughtfully. “And yet, my son,” he continued quietly, “there may be a time in your life when you have to consider doing such a thing. It is possible that there may be larger matters that you must consider.”

There was no need to say more. He knew that Orlando would remember what he had said. He turned his mind back to his own immediate problem. The course of action he was considering would certainly be a betrayal. Yet was it the right thing to do? Perhaps. If it were ever discovered, it might make him powerful enemies; but when he considered all the circumstances, he was inclined to take the chance and to act now. He had a feeling that there was not much time.

As they came in sight of Portmarnock, he turned to Orlando again.

“When I’m uncertain what to do, I always pray,” he remarked. “How do you pray, Orlando?”

“I say the prayers I know, Father.”

“Good. But they are only the means, you know. The words of the prayers are a way of leading us to empty our minds of all other considerations until we are ready to hear the voice of God.”

“Do you ever hear a voice, Father?”

“Like a human voice, Orlando? No, though some have done so. God’s voice is usually silent, best heard in silence.”

When they reached the holy well, Walsh knelt down and prayed quietly for some time while Orlando, not wishing to interrupt him, knelt at a short distance and tried to do the same. When Walsh had finished, he gazed thoughtfully at the well for a few moments, and then, motioning to Orlando to join him, began to slowly walk home. They hardly spoke, because Walsh wanted to remain in his silent, rather abstracted state; but when they were halfway home, he put out his hand and allowed it to rest upon the boy’s shoulder for a little while.

When they entered the house again, he told Orlando to prepare himself for a long journey the following day. Then he retired to his chamber and, selecting a large sheet of paper, he spread it on a table and sat down to write. He wrote carefully, taking several hours over the task, and carefully folding and sealing the letter with wax when he had done. Having finished, he felt so tired that he did not bother to eat but went straight to his rest.

The next morning, however, he was up at first light, feeling refreshed.

When Orlando received his instructions from his father, he was greatly astonished. He had never been asked to do such a thing before.

“You are to go into Dublin to your cousin Doyle. Tell him that I shall come to him myself by noon. Meanwhile, here is a note from me to him, asking that he supply you with anything you ask. You will ask for a fresh, strong horse and a change of clothes. Then I wish you to leave Dublin without being recognised, and to ride south.” Now he produced the sealed letter he had written the evening before. “You are to keep this with you at all times. On no account must it fall into other hands. You will reach your destination tonight, and remain there until morning. Then you can return the way you came.”

“Where am I going?” asked Orlando.

“Rathconan,” answered his father. Then he gave him the rest of his instructions.

The day was fine, the sky clear, and Orlando’s heart was singing as he set out on his task. The contents of his father’s letter were unknown to him, but to be sent out on a mission like this, with the injunction that he was never in his life to tell a soul what he had done, was a thrilling prospect. The secret errands he had performed for his sister when he was a little boy had been a fine adventure; but for his father, whom he so revered, to entrust him with such an important affair—it made him swell with pride and happiness.

He accomplished the change in Dublin easily enough, and with his face half hidden by a battered, wide-brimmed hat, he set out from Dublin’s gates, through Donnybrook, towards the Wicklow Mountains. No one from Dublin watched him as he cleared the southern orchards; no one could possibly have guessed where he was headed. Sometimes cantering easily, sometimes at a walk, he crossed the plain and made his way up into the hills. At noon, he rested for an hour; and by late afternoon he was at Rathconan.

Following his father’s instructions, he did not give his name, but when Brian O’Byrne came out to see what he wanted, he gave him the letter and explained that he was ordered to watch O’Byrne read it. Slightly surprised, Brian led him inside, where they went up to the hall.

He was quite surprised to find O’Byrne such a young-looking man, only a few years older than himself; with his tousel of fair hair he seemed almost boyish. But there was a quiet look of authority in his strange green eyes that impressed Orlando. Sitting at an oak table, O’Byrne read slowly and carefully, his face once or twice registering some surprise. Then he got up, fetched paper, pen, and ink, and wrote down a few words. When this was done, he glanced at Orlando.

“You are his son?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what is in this letter?”

“My father said it was better I should not know.”

“He is right.” Brian O’Byrne nodded.

The contents of the letter had considerably shaken him. It told him in the briefest terms that his inheritance might be at risk, and counselled him to take immediate action. Martin Walsh had been appalled not so much at the naked avarice of Pincher—God knows the lawyer was hardly a stranger to avarice in all conditions of men—but at the absolute political folly of the legalised theft of land from a well-disposed Irishman like Brian O’Byrne. It was precisely the sort of stupidity on the part of the New English which could still, one day, make the island ungovernable. And it was this higher sense of duty which, after his prayers, had decided him to break his duty of confidence and intervene.

It was quite often the case that the English government had regularised the land titles of men like Brian O’Byrne. He knew one or two officials in Dublin Castle who had similar views to his own, and whose names he had given young O’Byrne in his letter. A discreet word with Doyle might also bring some other Protestant gentlemen in to help. But with the Parliament and their friends, let alone Doctor Pincher looking for such opportunities, he advised O’Byrne to go down to Dublin quietly and without delay, “before the hounds pick up your scent.” For reasons he could not give, however, his own part in this affair must never be known. “I have broken a lawyer’s oath to tell you this,” he wrote frankly.

“Tell your father, Orlando Walsh, that the O’Byrnes of Rathconan are forever in his debt,” Brian said with feeling.

“I am to watch you burn the letter,” said Orlando.

“You shall.” O’Byrne led him to the fire, and together they watched until the incriminating letter was harmless ashes.

“You must eat with me,” said Brian.

“I’m to sleep in the stable and not give my name,” said Orlando.

“Ah yes, of course.” O’Byrne smiled. “But I promise you this, Orlando Walsh, I shall know you as a friend another time.”

Orlando set out at dawn the next day. The sky over the Wicklow Mountains was clear. A soft breeze was coming from the sea. He was feeling so proud of himself, having accomplished his mission to the letter, and he could not wait to let his father know.

In the middle of the morning, the wind changed and began to come form the north, a little colder. And as he reached the high slope from which the whole panorama of Dublin Bay spread out, he saw that a long, greyish bank of cloud had moved down from Ulster and was already casting a dull shadow over Fingal in the distance. He had made good progress, however, and it was not even noon when he entered the city and rode into the courtyard of his cousin Doyle’s house.

Doyle and his wife were not at home, but a servant told him: “He says you’re to ride on as soon as you arrive.” As Orlando had planned to do exactly that, he quickly changed to his own horse and set off at once.

The shadow of the cloud bank passed over him just after he crossed the Liffey. As he rode on, the greyness of the day became more encompassing and oppressive, although once or twice, away to his right, he saw the sun’s light harshly cut through the cloud in a silvery gash over the sea. His heart was full of happiness as he rode across the familiar plain. He smiled as a flock of pale seagulls suddenly rose from the field in front of him and wheeled loudly in the iron-grey sky. And he felt a surge of warmth as, passing through a familiar little wood, he came in sight of the house.

He was surprised to see his sister at the door.

“Hello, Anne,” he said.

“Thank God you’ve come. He’s been waiting for you.”

“I know.” He smiled. But she gave him a strange look.

“You don’t know, Orlando.” He was starting into the house, but she put a restraining hand on his arm. “You can’t see him for a few minutes yet. Lawrence is with him.” She took a deep breath. “Your father’s been taken very poorly, Orlando. He’s not well at all.”

Orlando felt himself go pale.

“When?”

“Early this morning. They sent word to us in Dublin and we came at once. Nobody knew where you were.”

“I was doing something for Father.”

“He said as much. He said you’d be coming by our cousin Doyle’s, so we sent a message there to tell you to come home at once. What in the world were you doing?” And seeing him shake his head: “It doesn’t matter anyway. He can still talk, at least. Stay downstairs. I’m going to tell them you’re here.” And she left him.

He waited alone. The house seemed strangely quiet. Some time passed. Then Lawrence came down the stairs.

His brother was dressed in a black soutane. He was looking grave. When he saw Orlando, he did not smile, but he came to him and took his arm gently, in a kindly gesture.

“You must prepare yourself. Our father has suffered a crisis. It was an apoplexy, and you will find him greatly altered since yesterday. Are you ready for this?” Orlando nodded dumbly. “Good. I have been praying with him. But your presence will bring him great comfort.” He paused and glanced at Orlando curiously. “Where were you, by the way?”

“I cannot tell you, Lawrence. I was doing something for Father.”

“You can surely give me some account of your absence?” The question was not unkind, but there was the faintest hint of disapproval in it.

“I promised Father.”

“I see.” A small frown crossed his face, but the Jesuit smoothed it away. He glanced up the stairs to where Anne had now appeared. “He is ready?”

“Yes.” Anne gave Orlando an encouraging smile.

“Is he dying?” asked Orlando.

Nobody replied.

He went up the heavy wooden staircase, and went to the door of his father’s chamber. It was ajar. He pushed it open.

His father was alone. He was propped up in a half-sitting position on the carved oak bed. His face was strangely sallow, his eyes sunken, but he gazed at Orlando fondly and did his best to smile.

“I am sorry you should see me like this, Orlando.”

For a moment, Orlando was unable to speak.

“I am sorry, too.” It was not what he wanted to say at all, but he could not think of the right words.

“Come.” His father motioned him to approach. “Did you do as I asked?”

“Yes, Father. Everything.”

“That is good. I am proud of you. Did he say anything?”

“That he was forever in your debt.”

“He burned the letter?”

“Yes. I watched.”

“Not that its discovery would matter much now.” His father spoke the words more to himself than to Orlando. He sighed. The sigh had a faint rasp. Then he smiled at Orlando. “You did well. Very well.”

Orlando wanted so much to say something, to tell his father how much he loved him. But he did not know how. He stood there helplessly. His father was silent for a few moments, his eyes closed. He seemed to be gathering his strength. Then he opened them and looked into Orlando’s eyes. It seemed to Orlando that he saw a trace of urgency and fear in his father’s gaze.

“Do you remember your promise to me, Orlando? About your marriage?”

“Yes, Father. Of course I do.”

“You promise me to have children.”

“I did.”

“You will?”

“Yes, Father. A dozen at least. I promise.”

“That is good. Thank you. Take my hand.” Orlando took his father’s hand. It felt rather cold. His father gently squeezed his hand. “No father, Orlando, could have a better son.” He smiled, then closed his eyes.

A little while passed in silence except for his father’s breathing, in which there was faint, wheezing sound. Orlando stood there, still holding his father’s cold hand.

Then, without opening his eyes, his father called out quietly:

“Anne.”

And from outside the door, his sister quickly appeared.

“God be with you, my son,” his father said. Then Anne took him out.

She told him to go downstairs. A few moments later, he saw Lawrence going back up. Then he waited, miserably. About half an hour later, Anne came down and told him that his father was gone.

Early the next morning, Orlando walked out alone. The sky was still grey. He walked at a quiet, steady pace along the path past the deserted chapel and was soon on the long slope that led towards the sea. He hadn’t encountered a soul when he reached the holy well at Portmarnock.

He knelt down beside the well and started to pray. But though the words came, he could not seem to concentrate as his father had told him he should.

He stood up. He walked three times round the well, saying the paternoster four times. He knew that such little ceremonies could be effective. Then he knelt again. Still he could not find the quietness he sought. He tried to think of the old saint, whose gentle presence blessed the waters of the well. But still nothing came. Then he thought of his father and whispered:

“I promise, Father. I promise. A dozen at least.” Then he burst into tears.

It was more than an hour before he got back to the house. He found Lawrence, looking for him outside.

“Where were you, Orlando?” he asked.

“At the well at Portmarnock,” answered Orlando truthfully.

“Ah.” Lawrence looked thoughtful. “I think it is time,” he said, not unkindly, “that you went to Salamanca.”