1626

At the age of thirty-four, Anne Smith had every reason to be grateful. She had known sadness: she had suffered a couple of miscarriages and lost two children, both boys, in infancy. But most of the mothers she knew had experienced similar misfortunes: these were wounds that healed. She was still blessed with four healthy children, three girls and a boy; and there might be more in the future.

And then there was her brother Orlando. She had half expected him to marry as soon as he returned from Salamanca. She knew about the promise he had made to their father and his intense desire not to let his father down. Once, when she had remarked with a laugh that he might have to be content with less than a dozen children, he had replied: “At least I can try.” He had spoken the words with such earnestness that she had hardly liked to say anything more. Certainly, there was no shortage of families glad to marry their daughters to young Orlando Walsh. But he had taken a few years, trained to be a lawyer like his father, and then settled down with a pleasant girl from one of the Catholic gentry families of the old English Pale. He was managing the estate well. Many of his father’s clients had come to him. Anne had not heard that his wife Mary was pregnant yet; but they’d only been married a year. On Orlando’s account, therefore, it seemed to her that there was every reason to be optimistic.

But in the wider context of the world also, there were reasons why a good Catholic family like the Walshes might feel a modest sense of hope.

England had a new king. If old King James had been the son of that ardent Catholic Mary Queen of Scots, the Presbyterian lords of his native Scotland had seen to it that James himself, though reluctant to persecute Catholics, remained firmly Protestant. But now the old king had died, and a year ago his son King Charles—a serious young man—had shocked his Protestant subjects by marrying the sister of the most Catholic king of France. Where Charles’s own religious sympathies might lie was not yet clear. “But it must surely be a cause for rejoicing,” Anne had remarked to her brother Lawrence, “that the king has chosen one of the true faith to be his bride.” And though Lawrence was always cautious, even he had answered, “It is to be hoped,” and given her an encouraging smile.

Ireland was a strange place. The Earls had fled; Munster and Ulster were being planted; Protestants had the upper hand in Parliament. Yet in the almost two decades since her marriage, it seemed to Anne that the everyday life of most ordinary Catholics had changed surprisingly little. The Protestants might pass legislation against them, but the laws were still only fitfully applied. Even here in Dublin, the very centre of English rule, life was full of curious anomalies. Christ Church Cathedral, that great medieval monument to Irish Catholic tradition, was now the home of the so-called Church of Ireland—which of course was Protestant and English. The government men from Dublin Castle and the Protestants of Trinity College went there. But almost every parish church in the city was serving a community of merchants and craftsmen who were still mostly Catholic. By law, Catholic priests were forbidden. “But we don’t let that worry us,” her kindly husband Walter would cheerfully remark. In their own parish church, Smith and his fellow merchants supported no fewer than six Catholic priests; but if any official should ask who they were, he’d be told: “They are singing men.” Of course, everyone knew they were priests. Even Doctor Pincher probably realised. But the men in Dublin Castle had no wish to offend the rich and useful merchants of Dublin, and the six priests were left to go about their business discreetly. “Just so long,” Walter drily put it, “as nobody asks them to sing.”

Surely, therefore, it was not too much to hope that men like her brother Orlando and her husband Walter—men of substance and good character, loyal to the English crown—might be able to persuade the new king to restore to the Catholic community the rights it deserved.

Nobody could fail to trust her solid, dependable, loving husband. You only had to look at him. Walter had not grown heavy with the years, but his body had thickened. His hair was iron grey. He had attained authority and respect. The important religious Guild of Saint Anne had their chantry in Saint Audoen’s church; but all the guild’s records were kept in an iron-bound chest which was lodged in Walter Smith’s house. He always wore his authority lightly, however. Quiet and cheerful, invariably kind, you would say upon meeting him that he was first and foremost a stout, middle-aged, Catholic family man—and you would be right. He had given Anne a wonderful family. The eldest girl looked like her. Everyone said so. She’d no doubt be marrying soon. The second looked more like Walter; the third reminded her of an aunt she had known as a child. But young Maurice was the one that people remarked upon. He had been named after Walter’s grandfather. His physique reminded her of Walter’s brother Patrick, and so did his face. That alone would have made him a handsome young fellow. What really struck everyone, however, were his eyes, which were an extraordinary green. He was eight years old now, with a bright intelligence. “It only remains to be seen whether he will turn into a humble merchant like me,” his father would say with amusement, “or a clever lawyer like his uncle Orlando. It gives me such pleasure,” he would gently add to Anne, “that when I look at my son I also see the face of my dear brother Patrick again.”

They did not often speak of Patrick; but it was typical of Walter’s kindness and delicacy that he should say such a thing to her, knowing that it was Patrick she had first loved. And she, for her part, would gently touch his arm and reply: “We both miss him, but you do more than I. I was lucky that I married you.” God knows, it was the truth.

Head over heart,
The better part.

Her brother Lawrence’s advice had not been wrong. I am lucky, she thought, and I know it. The whole of Dublin would say so. The whole of Ireland would agree. I am truly blessed. And she scarcely knew why she needed to remind herself of the fact.

The priest who had married them had been a wise man. An old friend of her father’s, a man in his fifties, with an ample girth and a comfortable manner. He’d been a parish priest for thirty years, and there wasn’t much he hadn’t seen. Before the wedding, he had called Walter and her together and given them some simple and sage advice. No matter what they did, he told them, every day of their married life in the future, they should always consider, before they said or did anything, how that would seem to the other. Was it kind and respectful of their feelings? “From a lifetime of observation and experience I can say,” he told them, “that if you just do this I can—almost—guarantee that you will have a happy marriage.” She had always done so faithfully, and so had Walter. She knew that what the priest said was true. It was nearly ten years now since he had passed on to a better world, but his words still echoed in her mind as if he had spoken them only the day before. “I can guarantee that you will have a happy marriage.” A joyful message. With that one little caveat. “Almost.”

He knew what he was saying, that kindly priest. But why—why couldn’t such things be guaranteed? Why should it be, why would God so ordain it that two good people, who loved each other, might not be happy?

Walter did not often laugh out loud, but sitting at home in the evening, if one of the children amused him, he would give a quiet chuckle. There was nothing wrong with his chuckle, she supposed. Yet for some reason it irritated her. She had often told herself not to be foolish. The thing was trivial and she should ignore it; but somehow she could not. Once or twice, she had gently asked him why he did it, why he didn’t just smile, or laugh out loud. “I don’t know,” he had said amiably. “It’s the way I’ve always been. Why?” And she had almost blurted out, “Because it irritates me.” But the fear that this would hurt him, and place a barrier between them, made her hold back. “Nothing. I only wondered,” she had said.

In any case, the chuckle itself was not really the issue. The problem was the mind that lay behind it—that and his happy assumption that whatever was in his mind at that moment was something that she equally shared.

Walter Smith was a devout man, but also wise and worldly. He looked after his family. She had no doubt that if he had to, he would gladly lay down his life for them. Above all, he enjoyed domestic order. “Thank you,” he would say to her with such feeling, “for my home.” And though he was too wise to express the knowledge, because this was her domain, she knew very well that he was aware of the exact location of every pot, pan, and ball of thread in the house. Always calm, always fair, he encouraged his children to lead ordered lives in their turn; and, of course, she supported him in this. You had to admire him. But did he never desire something more?

She always remembered how one day they had been standing together on the old city wall as a great cloud formation, dark and magnificent, had come rolling down from the Wicklow Mountains. She had watched, enraptured, as the grumbles of thunder grew louder and the flashes of lightning drew menacingly towards the city. “Isn’t it splendid?” she had cried excitedly. “Oh, Walter, isn’t it magnificent?”

“We’d best get home, or we shall get very wet,” he remarked.

“I don’t care,” she laughed. “I shall be soaked, then.” And she had turned. “Don’t you ever want to let the storm engulf you?”

“Come, Anne,” he had said quietly. And though she had not wanted to, she had gone home with him.

Would his brother Patrick have made her go indoors? Surely not. He might have made a terrible husband. Almost certainly, in fact. But he would have stayed with her to enjoy the wild exultation of that thunderstorm.

That night, when Walter had made love to her in his usual, unvarying fashion, she had had to disguise the fact that her body felt heavy, wooden, and unresponsive. It was not the first time she had done so, and not the last. He, of course, had no idea of her small deception, nor did she ever intend that he should.

But whenever her dear husband gave his happy little chuckle, which assumed that all his family shared his contentment at their comfortable, ordered life, she would experience that same, sickening little sinking of the heart. Then, seeing her children look at them both with such trust and happiness in their faces, she would smile and tell them: “Children, you are lucky to have such a good father.” And she would kiss him. And no one would ever guess that she wanted to scream.

Jeremiah Tidy did not often make his son come with him when he went about his work in the cathedral. “The boy has other things to do,” he told his wife. But today he had ordered the seven-year-old boy to accompany him, and so young Faithful Tidy was standing obediently by his side. There were reasons why Tidy wished this to be so.

Accordingly, as the two men came into the cathedral and moved towards them, the boy watched carefully. When his father made a humble bow to the two men, he waited just a moment and then, when he saw the taller of them glance at him, he too made a low bow.

“Ah, yes.” Doctor Pincher’s smile was somewhat thin, but it was a smile of recognition nonetheless. “Faithful Tidy. A worthy name.” He turned to Doyle. “Shall we conduct our business?”

No one knew when it had first begun, but at some time in the four and a half centuries that the English had been in Ireland, the custom had grown up that bargains should be sealed upon the tomb of Strongbow, the mighty lord who had brought the first great retinue of Anglo-Norman knights into the land. And so it was today that Doyle the merchant and Doctor Pincher of Trinity College stood by the big stone tomb in the cavernous space of the cathedral and struck their bargain on the stone. No pen and ink were necessary. Tidy stood as witness. As far as anyone in Dublin was concerned, the deal was as formalised as if it had been written in the Book of Life itself.

It had been Tidy, hearing that Doyle was making an investment in a new venture, who had spoken privately with the merchant and then suggested to Pincher that he might be interested in taking a share. This was part of Tidy’s strategy of making himself useful to the doctor whenever he could, and the reason why he was standing as witness to the bargain. He had known that the business would especially appeal to Pincher, not only for its potential rewards but because it also promoted the Protestant faith.

Ever since the terrible massacre of the Huguenots in France five decades before, a steady stream of these harmless and worthy French Protestants had left their native country for other, more tolerant lands. Merchants and craftsmen mostly, these hardworking tradespeople had already formed small communities in London and Bristol, and recently a few had started appearing in Ireland, too. Their religion was usually a moderate sort of Calvinism; and having suffered persecution themselves in Catholic France, they desired only to live at peace with their neighbours. “Some communities of quiet, hardworking Huguenots might set a good example to the Irish,” the English authorities judged. A Huguenot glassworks was already being set up in the southern town of Birr, and men like Doyle were glad to use their skills in other modest ventures. The present business, in which Pincher had just taken a share, was a small ironworks.

Having completed the transaction, Doyle turned to Pincher and remarked that he looked unwell. It was true that Pincher was pale and had sneezed twice during the brief proceedings.

“It is nothing,” Pincher said weakly. “Or nothing,” he added to Tidy, “that could not be cured by a bowl of your wife’s excellent broth.”

Mistress Tidy was a kindly woman whose protective instincts caused her to take a motherly interest in everyone with whom she came in contact in the cathedral precincts. She had a great reverence for Doctor Pincher’s learning, but considered that he needed a wife to look after him, and would often bring him cakes and sweetmeats, and make sure that his linen was in good order—which ministrations Pincher was grateful to receive.

“I shall send her to you,” the sexton assured him as Pincher departed.

Doyle remained, to speak to Tidy.

If there was one thing you could say about Jeremiah Tidy, it was that he was competent. Some years ago when the post of verger had fallen vacant, it had been given to the sexton, so that Tidy now held both positions together, at the combined salary of five pounds eight shillings a year. If the Chapter Clerk kept the records of the cathedral’s administrative meetings, its great roll of property and land, its rents and leases, and the precentor took charge of the cathedral’s choir and music, it was Jeremiah Tidy who was now the effective guardian of all the other day-to-day arrangements within the precincts.

The matter to be discussed was a solemn one. The merchant’s mother-in-law had died the day before and the funeral had to be arranged. Indeed, Doyle had almost postponed his meeting with Pincher on account of it. But this was not a native Irish affair; there was no wake, but only a quiet period of Protestant mourning; and he had needed to come into Christ Church to talk to Tidy anyway.

Doyle had married wisely. His mother-in-law had belonged to the powerful network of Old English families who had joined the Church of Ireland. Ussher, Ball, and a dozen others—these were the names which were constantly to be found holding important positions in the Irish Church and state. The funeral would be a grand affair, therefore, attended by these families, as well as members of Dublin’s Catholic community who would come out of friendship and respect.

For some time the two men went over the arrangements for the service. With Tidy in charge, Doyle would know that nothing would be left to chance, no detail overlooked. The verger’s five-shilling fee for this service would be well earned. As an extra kindness, Tidy had offered to speak to the precentor himself about the musical arrangements. When he and Doyle were both satisfied that the service itself had been fully covered, Tidy introduced the final subject.

“You’ll be wanting the bell to be rung?”

“Of course,” Doyle replied.

The great bell of Christ Church not only rang to announce the cathedral services. Every morning at six and every evening at nine, it rang out over Dublin to signal the start and end of the working day. There were numerous other reasons for the bell to be rung. It would toll mournfully to mark the passing into eternity of a gentleman, or ring out gladly to give the happy news of an important birth. Tidy was in charge of the bell, and for each of these bellringings he was paid. His salary covered the regular ringing; the Dublin corporation paid him a further, handsome stipend of twenty pounds a year for the morning and evening bells; and for each special occasion, a further fee was negotiated.

“I could give her the same peal as I did for the lady Loftus,” Tidy suggested. This had been the widow of a prominent citizen who had died the year before.

“How much did that cost?” the merchant inquired.

“Twelve shillings and sixpence,” said Tidy.

“That seems a lot.” Rich though he was, even Doyle was a little taken aback by the amount.

“She was a very pious lady, Sir,” the sexton replied.

“Ah.” Doyle sighed. “Very well, then.” And having set the time for the service the following day, he departed.

During all this conversation, young Faithful Tidy had stood nearby, quietly watching. Now his father called him to his side.

“Well, Faithful,” he enquired, “what did you think of that?”

“Is the twelve shillings for the bell in addition to the five shillings verger’s fee?” asked the boy.

“It is,” said Tidy.

Faithful looked impressed.

“Doyle is rich,” he remarked.

“True. But the man for you to mark, Faithful, is not Doyle, but Doctor Pincher,” his father explained.

“Old Inky?” It was a disrespectful term the children of the precinct sometimes applied to the black-robed lecturer.

“You’re to treat him with respect,” his father said sharply. “That man, Faithful,” he quietly added, “will one day set you upon the road to fortune.”

Orlando had already sent word that he would go with them, and Anne would have been going to the funeral herself—after all, Doyle was a cousin—but her second daughter was in bed with a fever that day and she had preferred to stay at home with her while Walter and her eldest girl went to Christ Church to represent the family. They were about to leave, when her brother arrived at the door.

To her surprise, she saw that he was accompanied by another man, whom she had never seen before—a handsome, fair-haired man, a few years younger than herself, she guessed, who stood just behind Orlando in the entrance.

“This is Brian O’Byrne of Rathconan,” Orlando announced. “He’s coming out to Fingal with me, but as he never knew Doyle’s mother-in-law, I thought he might wait for me here at the house until the funeral is over.”

“By all means,” said Walter easily. “Anne is remaining anyway, and so he can keep her company.” He came forward to greet the visitor, who bowed politely in Anne’s direction. Anne naturally knew of the O’Byrnes of Rathconan, but had never met any of them that she could remember, so she simply smiled and bade him welcome. It was young Maurice, who was standing closer to the door, and who had been gazing into the visitor’s face with fascination, who now cried out: “Look, he has green eyes just like me.”

O’Byrne took a step forward to look at the boy’s eyes for himself.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Maurice, Sir.”

“Well, Mwirish,” he pronounced the name in the Irish fashion, “you certainly have green eyes.” He laughed softly. It was nearly ninety years since Maurice Fitzgerald, natural son of Sean O’Byrne, had come down to Dublin and taken the English name of Smith. Brian assumed his host was aware of the fact that they were therefore distant cousins, but he spoke with caution all the same.

“In the O’Byrne family,” he remarked casually, “the green eyes do not appear in every generation, but they always seem to return sooner or later.” He gave Walter a questioning glance, and Walter nodded to show that he understood. “Does the boy know?” he murmured softly, so that Maurice should not hear. Walter shook his head. “He won’t hear it from me, then,” O’Byrne said softly; and then to the boy: “So it may be the same in your family, too, young Mwirish.”

At that moment, the great bell of Christ Church began to toll, and a few moments later, Walter and Orlando left.

The next hour passed very pleasantly for Anne. While she occupied herself with the household and kept an eye on her sick daughter, Brian O’Byrne sat down in the parlour with Maurice, who was clearly fascinated by him. Walter Smith had a chess set and had taught his son to play—an accomplishment of which Maurice was proud—and he had soon asked the Irishman if he knew how to play. It was funny to see the two figures, both with their emerald eyes, sitting opposite each other engrossed in the game. Anne was also amused to observe that O’Byrne, with a kindly deviousness, was letting Maurice win. “Checkmate,” she heard her son happily exclaim, in due course; followed by O’Byrne’s own, pleasant voice, mournfully agreeing: “You are right, Mwirish. I am destroyed.”

She had some conversation with him also, learned about Rathconan, that he had married a few years ago and that he had two children. He also explained, with feeling, his debt to her father. It was because of it, he told her, that when he had recently needed to transact some legal business, he had gone straight to her brother Orlando. Her brother, it seemed, had taken a liking to the handsome Irish gentleman, and she could quite see why. Indeed, she found herself hoping she might meet him again.

It was well into the second hour when, Anne’s daughter needing her attention, Brian O’Byrne suggested that he and Maurice should go out to meet the others on their return.

He and the boy walked towards the old Tholsell and the cathedral crypt in which, after the funeral service, the burial was taking place. They stood together across the street, at a little distance, quietly talking until, after a little time, the crowd of mourners began to emerge. Some of these began to move in the direction of Doyle’s house, where refreshments would be served; others stood around in groups, chatting together. After a few minutes, they saw Walter Smith and Orlando coming out. O’Byrne remained where he was, but Maurice went over and guided them towards his new friend, where they all paused for a few moments to watch the rest of the congregation flowing out into the broad street.

“I have already spoken to Cousin Doyle and his family,” Orlando explained to O’Byrne. “So you and I should ride out to Fingal now.” O’Byrne thanked Walter Smith for his hospitality, therefore, and bidding goodbye to young Maurice, prepared to take his leave. As he and Orlando turned, they noticed Doctor Pincher across the street. He was looking pale, as if unwell. But neither of them thought much about it.

Although the paleness of Doctor Simeon Pincher was partly due to the head cold which not even the healing broth of Mistress Tidy could entirely allay, the more immediate reason—the sudden blow which had just caused the blood to drain from his face—was the little scene he had just witnessed.

It was a decade since he had given up his attempt to attack the O’Byrnes’ legal title to Rathconan. After the sudden death of Martin Walsh, he had allowed two months to pass before finding another lawyer, and been dismayed to discover that a new title had been mysteriously granted to young O’Byrne in the interval. Was it coincidence, or had there been some double-dealing? It was hard to imagine a man like Martin Walsh violating the confidentiality of his profession; nor was Pincher aware of any particular connection between the respectable Fingal lawyer and the Irishman in the Wicklow Mountains. The thing was suspicious, but a mystery; and though he had made some enquiries at Dublin Castle, he could learn only that Brian O’Byrne had sought to regularise his position and that a number of Protestant gentlemen close to the government had urged that it would be wise to grant the harmless young man what he asked. There had been little point in pursuing the matter, therefore, and Pincher had reluctantly let it drop. But the sense that, in some way he could not fathom, he had been cheated remained with him.

And now what had he just seen? Right across the street from him, Orlando Walsh, Walter Smith the merchant, and Brian O’Byrne all standing together, with every appearance of being close friends; and then Walsh and O’Byrne moving off in each other’s company, glancing across the street to where he stood, meanwhile, as if he were of no account at all. What did it mean? A terrible sensation, that he was looking at some sort of conspiracy, assailed him. These people were hand-in-glove in some way that he did not fully understand. He was aware, of course, that Orlando’s sister had married Smith; but where did O’Byrne the Irishman fit in? He had no idea, but as he gazed across the street, he had an overpowering, sickening feeling that he had been duped.

The next day he questioned Tidy closely, but the sexton had explained that as a good Church of Ireland man himself, he had little knowledge of these Catholic families. “The Doyles I would know about, your Honour, and the Walshes perhaps, being English. But the O’Byrnes...” He had spread his hands. “I’m surprised you would ask me that, Sir.”

“No, no. Of course not,” Pincher had said, not wishing to offend him. But he had set further enquiries in motion. And two weeks later, one of the clerks in Dublin Castle had informed him: “It seems there was a rumour that Smith’s grandfather was born an O’Byrne.”

That was it, then. Now Pincher understood. He had gone to Martin Walsh in all good faith, because Catholic or not, Walsh was still an English gentleman. Meanwhile Smith, masquerading as an English merchant, was nothing more than a foul Irishman from the Wicklow wilderness—whom Walsh, who must have known it, had allowed to marry his daughter. And having received his confidence, Walsh had then broken his professional oath and tipped off O’Byrne. It explained everything. There wasn’t a doubt of it.

He’d been hoodwinked. Left stranded in an Irish bog. They’d made a fool of him, these cursed Catholics, with their lies and double-dealing. They were all laughing at him behind his back, and they had been for years. He felt a surge of fury. But if he had been made a fool of, what did that make them? Traitors. Traitors pure and simple. Old Martin Walsh might have seemed a gentleman. But I should have known from the first, Pincher told himself, that a man with a Jesuit for a son could only be a traitor. Old English or native Irish from the hills and bogs, they were all the same. They were Catholics, and that was all that mattered. From that day forward, in the mind of Doctor Pincher, one thing was clear. The baseness, the contemptible nature which, until now, he had ascribed to the mere Irish, should instead be applied to all who held the Catholic faith. It was their religion which not only condemned them to perdition, but turned them into villains even before they got there. And from that day forward he kept a promise to himself, like a knife sheathed in his heart, that when the hour came, he personally would strike, with righteousness, at Smith, Walsh, and O’Byrne, who had dared to mock him.

As for Rathconan—the estate he had hoped with no good reason, and with inadequate means, to steal from the O’Byrnes—it now seemed to him to be a rightful inheritance that had been stolen from him. And this knowledge, too, he kept locked in his heart like treasure in a chest.

In this unfortunate state of mind, the Doctor of Divinity passed many months.

The letter which whipped Doctor Pincher into a frenzy came in the spring of 1627. It came from his sister. It concerned Barnaby.

Perhaps Mrs. Tidy was right in thinking that Doctor Pincher needed a wife. But having lived his life on his own narrow terms for so long, it would have been hard for Pincher to change his habits to suit another. As for the things of the body, as a young man he had put them aside, like a soldier on campaign, because he was afraid to compromise his moral reputation. And with the passing of time those needs had so dwindled that now, as an older man, his fears were more comprehensive, and his hesitancy had become a vocation.

But if Simeon Pincher was a confirmed bachelor, his ambition for his family had never lessened; indeed, with the years it had rather increased. He might not yet have achieved the landed estate that he craved, but he was a man of some substance, and a significant figure in Dublin. Some years ago, he had suggested to his sister that his nephew Barnaby might care to come to Dublin and study at Trinity College, where Pincher would have seen to it that his nephew received nothing but the best. His sister had written back, however, that Barnaby, though a youth of unimpeachable godliness, was not of a scholarly turn of mind, and that he had been apprenticed to a notable draper instead. The draper, she assured her brother, was a man of considerable learning and had promised that under his care, Barnaby would read all the books that were good for him.

Thwarted in this hope, Pincher had bided his time; but now that Barnaby had reached the age of twenty, he had written again suggesting that his nephew might pay a visit to Dublin where he should meet none but the best society. It would enable him to get to know the young man, who would after all be his heir, he pointed out; and though he did not say so, it would also allow Barnaby to discover what an important man his uncle was in Dublin. It was his sister’s reply to this amiable suggestion that had wrought such fury in the doctor’s soul.

Her letter started well enough, with proper thanks to him for remembering his nephew. It then reminded him that if he wanted to renew his acquaintance with his family, and see his own sister as well as her good husband, as well as his nephew, he had only to come to England, where he could be assured of a family welcome. If this was a gentle rebuke, the doctor had to admit that it was merited. Why was it that he had never troubled, in all these years, to make the journey to see his sister in her home? Partly it was pride—or rather, vanity. Pincher admitted this honestly to himself. He had wanted to return in triumph, with an estate to his name. This did not show true affection on his part, and Pincher rightly censured himself. Why was he so anxious to cut a fine figure? Because his sister had always indicated, in her quiet way, that she did not have a very high opinion of him. And even now, after thirty years, he lacked the humility to accept the justice of her view and to admit his shortcomings. At this, also, the reverent doctor bowed his head in shame.

And if his sister’s letter had ended there, he might have gathered up his humility like a cloak about him and returned, as a humble Christian should, to the somewhat chilly bosom of his family. But it didn’t.

She was unwilling, she said, that her son should visit Ireland. Barnaby, she explained, had grown from a godly boy to a young man with the sternest imaginable faith. Indeed, he had even considered leaving England’s shores. Her brother must know that some of the English Puritans were hoping to set up a colony of the saints in America, and Barnaby had already spoken earnestly of leaving hearth and home to join such a venture when the opportunity arose. And who could blame him when the true Protestant religion was under threat from every side, and King Charles and his papist queen were so clearly not to be trusted? “We tremble for Barnaby’s safety,” she wrote, “but never for his soul.”

Why then, she asked, would it be of benefit to Barnaby to visit Ireland, where by all accounts popish idolatry, far from being expunged, was actually thriving? The plantation of Ulster had been undertaken to turn that land into a great Protestant colony; yet all reports were that the new English landlords were letting the land back to the very same Catholic Irish beasts who had occupied it before. Down in Munster, English gentlemen, yeomen of substance, and honest craftsmen had been offered land. “Yet it is said that none but villains and adventurers who have a past to hide do live in those parts.” As for Dublin itself: “It seems, Brother, that you gladly suffer the papists to use the churches, and to sit in the city council, and for all I know to eat at your table.”

He gazed at the letter, stunned. Part of what made it so distressing was that some of her allegations were true. There were good English settlers down in Munster, of course, but many of the sturdy English yeomen, merchants and craftsmen who were the backbone of England, had no reason to leave their solid positions to cross the Irish Sea, and many who had come to Ireland had since returned. A good many of the fellows who had taken up Munster lands were men of dubious reputation who had hoped, on the cheap, to pass for gentlemen in Ireland. As for Ulster, her charges could not be denied. The new plantations were not turning out properly at all. The English and Scottish undertakers had been quite unable to find enough good Protestant tenants for their huge landholdings. So they had frequently let the native Irish back onto the land—which the Irish regarded as their own anyway—on short-term leases at the most exorbitant rents they could get away with. Instead of a quiet pattern of yeomen farmlands and market towns, Ulster was turning into a patchwork of embattled townships and rack-rented fields. In the capital, meanwhile, the good Protestant men at Trinity and in Dublin Castle might feel the same as he did, but although they all wanted in theory to see the end of Catholicism, their actions in practice were feeble. It was the same even in Christ Church: the cathedral community was an enclave, living proudly apart in a sea of unregenerate Roman superstition; yet to his knowledge, Christ Church lands were still being subleased by Catholic gentlemen who even used those very lands to support their own private priests.

But she saved her unkindest cut for the end. She had hoped years ago when he had left Cambridge—“in a manner I choose to forget,” she reminded him—that he had reformed his life. But from what she heard about Ireland, she wrote, that issue must be in doubt. She did not care, therefore, to send Barnaby to him.

Would she never forget? Would she never forgive that business at Cambridge? Was it his crime, he wondered, or the false allegation that stirred her fury the most?

Strangely, it had begun in church. He had been asked to preach in a village not far from Cambridge. Sir Bertram Fielding and his lady had been in the congregation. He had been invited to dine with them the following week. All this was usual enough. It was the way a young man made friends and obtained preferment.

Lady Fielding was a fine, big-busted woman—about thirty-five, he’d guessed. He’d noticed her large brown eyes light up when he entered her husband’s house. She had signalled that she liked him, squeezed his hand, too, when he departed. But he had given it no further thought.

Was it by chance, three days later, that she should have met him when he was taking his usual afternoon walk down to the river? No. He had innocently mentioned this regular habit when he had dined in her house. Was it by design that she persuaded him to show her the college? Undoubtedly. Was it with intention that she asked to see his rooms? It was. Oh, indeed it was.

He had been innocent until then. It was unusual, but certainly not unknown. He had kept himself pure, in the service of the Lord. Perhaps, he supposed, that was what had attracted her. She was quite determined not to leave him as innocent as she had found him. And she had known how to set about the task of seducing him. With little murmurs of delight she had undressed him, discovering his pale body, and taught him how to discover hers. Even now, his shame was tinged with delight and pride—alas, pride—at the memory of those things they had done together.

They had met many times. It had not been difficult. Her husband had several times been in London. Often she had come to his rooms in college. It had not been during the university term, so the undergraduates were not in the college and there were relatively few people about. For a period of nearly six weeks he had fallen into the sins of lust and, worse, adultery.

He had never discovered how Sir Bertram had come to know of their affair. But obviously, his suspicions must have been aroused. Perhaps he’d had his wife followed.

For then had come that terrible evening when, at dusk, and alone with Lady Fielding in his rooms, he had been disturbed by such a hammering at the door that he had supposed the college must be on fire. Pulling on a nightshirt, he had opened the door.

The next few minutes were ones that he wished he could forget. Sir Bertram was not quite as tall as he, but he was burly. And he was wearing his sword. It was the flash of the drawn blade in the candlelight that had caused Simeon Pincher to flee. What else could he do? He was still in the doorway when Sir Bertram had seized the back of his nightshirt. At the top of the staircase, it had ripped. By the time he had struggled and tumbled downstairs, and rushed out into the court, he realised to his horror that his tattered nightshirt was in Sir Bertram’s hand, and that he himself was entirely naked.

But Sir Bertram was still behind him. As he started to run, he felt a hot, searing flash of pain across his shoulders. Fielding had hit him with the flat of his sword. He fled, but though he was nimble, his assailant was surprisingly fast. Again Sir Bertram slashed at him, and this time, as Pincher almost got away, the point of the sword ripped across his back, tearing the flesh.

Round the court they ran, Pincher naked, the priest behind him. Thank God it was not broad daylight; but all the same, there was enough light to see his shame. He would have run out past the porter’s lodge into the street, but without any clothes on, he could not do that. As it was, with Fielding showing no sign of giving up, he was forced to cry out for help as he ran. One or two windows started to open round the court; and he scarcely knew what might have happened if the porter had not rescued him, rushing him into the lodge and slamming the door in Sir Bertram’s furious face. Ten minutes later, Sir Bertram and his lady left the college; and Simeon Pincher, wrapped in a blanket the porter had lent him, returned, shivering with shock, to his rooms. Only when he got back and removed the blanket did he discover how much he had bled. He would bear the scar across his back for the rest of his days.

He knew very well that the porter had a shrewd idea what had been passing between him and the lady. But fortunately, he had kept his wits about him while he waited in the lodge. When the porter had asked whether he should summon the proctor, he had shaken his head.

“The fellow is a madman,” he had replied. The lady had come to him for spiritual counsel. Her husband, who always imagined she was being unfaithful with every man she spoke to, had come to his rooms, stripped him, and chased him out. “I shall consider legal action later,” he said. He was not sure that the porter believed this tale. Probably not. But he judged it best to stick to the story, and later that evening he repeated it to the Master of the college.

“The indecency is to be regretted,” the Master said grimly.

“By me most of all,” Pincher agreed. “For I was the victim.”

“It is fortunate that there were not many people to see. Do you mean to take legal action?”

“I am hesitant. The man is to be pitied. But my real concern,” Pincher said cleverly, “is that if I take action, it would bring the college’s name into court. For the sake of the college, I wonder if it would be best to do nothing.”

“Ah,” said the Master. “Quite so.”

Within the hour, the porter and all fellows resident had received firm instructions not to speak of the incident to anyone. In all likelihood, Pincher had supposed, the Fieldings would have no reason to make the matter public, either.

But no matter how stoutly its walls enclosed Emmanuel’s reputation, such a story was sure to seep out. Within days it had spread to other colleges. It the process, it soon began to change shape. There was talk of orgies, even of pagan ceremonies, though naked men and women were always involved. Soon Pincher became aware that people were looking at him curiously in the street. His reputation was tarnished. Once, he saw a passing lady draw away from him. The next day, he did not go for his usual walk, but stayed in his rooms.

Yet the real blow, when it came, was not at all what he had imagined. A lawyer came to his rooms—a small, narrow-faced man who reminded the young man of a ferret. He came from Sir Bertram Fielding.

“Sir Bertram is about to institute proceedings against you,” the lawyer informed him. “His wife is ready to testify.”

“To what?”

“Rape.”

Pincher gazed at him in utter astonishment.

“Rape? By whom?”

“By you, of course. You assaulted her.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Her word against yours. People saw you running naked.” The lawyer shook his head. “Bad business. You’ll be destroyed anyway. Not the sort of thing the college likes. End of your hopes, I should say.” He paused, watching the look of horror on Pincher’s face. “You might avoid it though, I think.”

“How?”

“Leave the college.”

“Leave?”

“Leave Cambridge. Go elsewhere. If you did that, I think, the matter might be dropped. Nothing more said. Business closed. You could do that, I think.”

Pincher was silent. He thought of the letter he had received a little while before from Dublin, a letter which so far he had not troubled to answer.

“I shall need a little time to consider,” he replied slowly. “But if this comes to court, I shall deny the charge and take the lady’s reputation down with mine.”

“Fair enough,” said the lawyer. “You have a month. How’s that?”

Pincher had written to Trinity College that very day.

But he had made one, sad mistake. Going to see his sister before his departure from England, he had told her the story, expecting her sympathy. It had not been given. No word of pity, charity, or affection had ever come. Not then, not since, not now, even after all these years.

And what of his life since? What would he have had to show his nephew if he had come to Dublin? His modest fortune? His position at Trinity? His profession of the Protestant faith, in a world of unworthy compromises? Where was God’s holy fire? Would the righteous young man be impressed or disgusted by his uncle? Dear God, Simeon Pincher realised, the latter probably. His sister was in the right. He had forgotten how his life would look to an English Puritan; he had been in Ireland too long.

All afternoon he sat there, staring in front of him. Early in the evening, Tidy’s wife arrived with a beef pie. He thanked her, absently, but did not move. At last he got up, held a taper to the small coal fire in the grate, and lit a candle, which he placed on the table before him.

And it was only some time later, after he had gazed sadly at its flame and thought about Walsh and O’Byrne, his sister and his pious nephew Barnaby, that Doctor Pincher came to the decision that was to change the rest of his life. He knew now what he had to do. But he would have to prepare carefully, and in secret.

It was two months later that Orlando Walsh called a family conference in Fingal.

His brother Lawrence and Walter Smith were asked to come; also Doyle, who, though he nominally belonged to the Church of Ireland, had no strong religious feelings, and had always been a loyal cousin. More surprising to the others, Orlando had also asked his friend O’Byrne to attend. “I want,” he explained to Lawrence, “the view of an Irish gentleman as well. And O’Byrne can be trusted.” For there were important matters to discuss.

It was a conference of men. Orlando’s wife Mary was away visiting her mother just then; O’Byrne and Lawrence came alone. Anne arrived with Walter Smith because she loved to visit her childhood home. “But I shall be glad to leave you men to talk,” she told her brother cheerfully.

The weather was pleasant. It was the eve of May Day, as it happened.

As they assembled in the parlour, around the oak table, Orlando looked at his companions with satisfaction. Walter Smith, Doyle, and O’Byrne were dressed like Dublin gentlemen in breeches and stockings; he himself wore trews. It was common in the countryside, even in English Fingal, for gentlemen to wear a mixture of English and Irish dress, and he had already remarked with a smile to O’Byrne: “I look more Irish than you do.” Lawrence was dressed sombrely in his usual soutane, his greying hair adding to his appearance of severe distinction.

In the years since their father’s death, Orlando had come to understand his brother better, and to respect him accordingly. When he decided to take up his father’s profession of law, he had studied with a lawyer in Dublin, where he had advanced rapidly; and while there he had often spent his evenings with Lawrence at the Jesuit lodging house. And so the two brothers had grown together like two sides of the same family coin—the one in holy orders, the other a landowner and professional man whose religious life would always remain as intense as it was private.

There was only one difference between them. Lawrence still remained the more coldly intellectual of the two. His rigorous distaste for dubious relics, sacred wells, and all the latent paganism of the island’s traditional Catholicism would have done credit to a Puritan. But partly out of affection for his father’s memory, and partly because of his own temperament, Orlando continued to hold some of these in reverence. Only that winter, on a visit to O’Byrne at Rathconan, he had ridden with his friend over to Glendalough and spent all day at the ancient monastic site and its two mountain lakes, praying for nearly an hour at the little hermit’s retreat of Saint Kevin. And every month, without fail, he would make the little pilgrimage on foot to the well at Portmarnock. If Lawrence was determined to purify and strengthen Holy Church, Orlando, more emotional, in ways he could not quite put into words, had a desire to restore that which was lost.

And it was the life of the Catholic community in Ireland that he wanted now to discuss.

If the recent marriage of King Charles of England to a French princess had seemed a hopeful sign to Catholics in Ireland, the last weeks had brought even more encouraging news. Opening the discussion, Orlando put the position succinctly.

“We all know that King Charles needs loyal Catholic subjects in Ireland. Ever since his marriage, we have hoped that he might do more to show himself our friend. And now it seems that he may be taking the first step.”

Even in the latter part of the previous year, there had been hints from royal courtiers to Irish friends. A few letters between prominent men in Ireland and the court had nurtured these first seeds; and in the last few weeks, the business had begun to take shape. “If we submit proposals for improving the position of the loyal Catholic gentry of Ireland, the king has indicated privately that he will look kindly upon them. That is my understanding.” He glanced around them for comments.

“That’s the word in Dublin,” Doyle agreed. “We’re all hearing it now, Catholic and Church of Ireland men alike. What is also certain is that this is coming from London direct. The government men in Dublin Castle have no part in it. They have heard the news, but they hate the idea. They’d sooner see the Catholics suppressed, not encouraged.”

“They’ll have to follow the royal will, however,” Orlando pointed out. “They have no choice. The news is very good,” he smiled at his friend O’Byrne, “for all of us, I think.”

“For the Old English, no doubt,” O’Byrne said ruefully. “Whether that extends to myself remains to be seen.”

“I think it does,” answered Orlando. “If the king favours some Catholics, he must favour them all. Even here in Fingal,” he added, “I can think of a dozen Catholic landowners who are of Irish blood—Conran, Dowde, Kennedy, Kelly, Malone, Meagh—all gentlemen like yourself, Brian. I cannot see how a difference could possibly be made between them and me. Not to mention the fact that amongst the ordinary folk in Fingal, from the servants in this house to the fishermen and tenant farmers, four out of five are Irish, you know. If we are allowed our religion, then so are they.”

“If allowing us our religion will lessen the English desire to steal our land,” said O’Byrne drily, “then no doubt we should be grateful.”

“Well, I still think,” Orlando responded, “that at this stage we should all be greatly heartened.”

“Perhaps.” It was Lawrence who spoke now. The Jesuit had been sitting silently, his long fingers resting upon the table in front of him. He looked at them all, seriously. “I do not share your optimism, however. In the first place, you seem to assume that the new king favours the Catholic faith.”

“He married a Catholic,” Orlando pointed out.

“That was statecraft. An alliance with France.”

“He is hardly a Protestant.”

“In manners and temperament, undoubtedly, he is closer to ourselves than to his Protestant subjects in England,” Lawrence allowed. “But I can tell you that we have no evidence that he means to return his country, or even his own family, to Rome.” He paused while the three men listening to him glanced at each other. Everyone knew that the Jesuit intelligence network had the best information in Europe.

“What does he believe, then?” asked Orlando.

“His father persuaded himself that kings rule by divine right, and it seems the son has taken up this belief. King Charles believes that he does not answer to men for his actions, but to God alone, personally and directly, and without reference to the wisdom of the ages or to Holy Church.” He made a wry grimace. “Such a belief, you know, shows a massive conceit that no Catholic churchman would tolerate for a minute.” He shrugged. “If he continues in this foolish belief, then he will surely prefer his own Church of England, of which he is the Head, to the Church of Rome, where in spiritual matters he would have to acknowledge the authority of the Pope.”

“Yet he is ready to favour Catholics.”

“In Ireland perhaps. But be sure,” Lawrence tapped his finger on the table, “he will demand a quid pro quo.”

“What will that be?”

“Money, Orlando. He needs money.” Lawrence placed his fingers together, as he liked to do if he was delivering a little lecture. “Consider the recent history at the English court. A handsome young man comes to court and fascinates old King James, who promotes him far beyond his merits or capacity and makes him Duke of Buckingham. Charles, instead of sending Buckingham away, favours him even more. It is bad enough that all Christendom is split into armed camps of Catholic and Protestant; but Buckingham, who has no statecraft, has now involved England in expensive military expeditions for which no rhyme or reason, religious or otherwise, can be found. Twice now, the English Parliament has refused to grant the king any funds unless he gets rid of this wretched Buckingham, and Charles, who believes he can do no wrong, refuses. Now he has no money and is trying to raise it in any way he can. Titles of nobility, trading privileges, even public offices are all being sold. He’s even forcing honest gentlemen in England, men like yourself, Orlando, to make him loans under compulsion, and threatening them with jail if they refuse.” He shook his head in disgust. “We may be sure, therefore, that if the king offers to help the Catholics of Ireland, it is only because he wants a large payment of money in return.”

When he had finished, there was silence for a moment. His view might be harsh, but Lawrence’s opinion carried respect.

“I hope,” said Orlando, “that you are mistaken. But if you are right, then that is all the more reason to take advantage of this opportunity and get as much as we can.” He indicated a sheaf of papers on the table. “As you’d expect from a lawyer, I have some proposals.”

The proposals that Orlando began to outline had not come from himself alone. For weeks, lawyers had been circulating ideas amongst themselves; all over Ireland, meetings like this were taking place. Cleverly, the proposals did not concern only the Catholics. “There are a number of small reforms here which not even Doctor Pincher of Trinity would object to,” Orlando explained. But also there were measures, modest enough individually, that taken all together would profoundly transform the lives of Ireland’s Catholics. These would include the abolition of the recusancy fines for practising the Catholic faith. “And Catholic lawyers like myself would no longer be barred from holding public office,” Orlando said. “I have nearly thirty proposals here. If we could get even the majority accepted, it would mark the beginning of the end of Catholic isolation here.”

The business of considering the proposals now began. The five men went through them all, one by one. Each man had useful ideas to contribute. Walter Smith showed himself canny in seeing how each would play out in practice with the officials as well as the merchants in Dublin. Doyle could foresee the objections of the Church of Ireland. Several good suggestions were made concerning inheritance. It was the final proposal which caused O’Byrne some amusement.

“You want to raise a militia?” In times past, when the English government wanted to raise troops in Ireland, funds would be transferred from London to help pay for them. But some of the men drafting the proposals had cleverly suggested that the Old English of the Pale should save the government this expense and maintain a militia of their own. “The government will be fools if they let you do that,” O’Byrne laughed. “You’d take over Ireland again.”

“All the more reason to ask,” said Orlando with a smile. But more seriously, he continued: “Whatever we can persuade the king to grant now, however, we must then make sure that we prove to him that we are loyal. Our greatest hope for the future lies in demonstrating to the government that, given the right to worship according to our faith, we are not planning to rebel, or seek help from foreign powers; the king must see that the loyal Catholic gentlemen of Ireland—and that would include you, O’Byrne, and others like you—are to be trusted. Out of that trust will come any further recognition of our rights.” He glanced at the new clock he had proudly installed in the corner of the parlour the year before.

“It’s almost noon,” he said. “Let us have dinner.”

Anne had enjoyed the morning. She had spent much of it in the kitchen with the servants who were preparing the midday meal. The eldest of them, Kathleen, had been there when she was a child, and they greeted each other warmly with a kiss. It was good just to listen to the women talking in the local Fingal dialect. She was glad to help with the setting of the table, and to handle the old household items familiar from the past: the heavy container for the salt that stood in the place of honour on the dining table, the brass candlesticks, the pewter dishes, and the silver tankard with the family arms engraved upon it, from which their father and now Orlando would drink. All in all, she thought, a pleasant journey back in time.

There had also been the opportunity for several hours of talk, so that by noon she knew all the gossip about every family in the locality. Nor did this talk exclude her own family. And as far as the Walsh family was concerned, she discovered, there was only one subject of discussion.

“It’s a baby we’re waiting for,” Kathleen told her, “in this house.”

It was strange and a little disappointing that her sister-in-law Mary had still not conceived. Orlando and she had been married three years now, and Anne knew how passionately her brother wanted children. The Walshes had never had trouble producing heirs, and Mary was one of a large family. Anne had no reason to suppose her brother wasn’t having a normal family life.

“It’s why she isn’t here,” Kathleen confided to Anne when they were out of hearing of the other women. “Only last month it was, we were standing together in the kitchen and suddenly she turns to me and says: ‘Why haven’t I a child, Kathleen? Can you tell me that?’ I didn’t know what to answer. ‘It’s not for lack of trying, the Lord knows,’ she says. And then the poor soul starts to cry. She never said a word about why she was going to see her mother, but you may be sure it’s to talk to her about that subject, when her mother has ten grown children of her own.”

It seemed to Anne that the older woman was very likely correct. She felt sorry for her sister-in-law and resolved to make an effort to come out to see her more often and keep her company in future. Though whether I can really help her with good advice about marriage is a little doubtful, she thought. She also felt a great concern for her brother. He had given no indication, even to her, but if his wife was so upset about the subject, she could imagine the pain Orlando himself must secretly be suffering. She wondered whether to bring the subject up with him, or whether to say nothing unless he did.

The meal to which they all sat down, a little after noon, was Fingal cooking at its best. The area was especially rich in seafood: there were splendid oyster beds in the estuary at nearby Malahide; cockles and mussels were gathered at Howth; salted herring was landed at Clontarf, just a little farther south. For the main course, there were offerings of salted pork, beef, and duck, accompanied by black pudding, peas, and cabbage. Another vegetable was also served, which greatly interested O’Byrne, since the Irishman had never eaten it before. This was the potato, a new vegetable from America.

“I planted a quarter acre a few years ago,” Orlando told him proudly. He liked to think of himself as being in the vanguard as a landowner. “Nobody else in Fingal has tried it. Yet there’s more nourishment per acre from the American potato than from any other crop.”

It was half past two when Walter Smith pleasantly remarked: “If we don’t go for a walk after this, I shall go to sleep.”

“We shall walk,” Orlando announced, “to the sea.”

Anne was glad to join the men in their walk. They took the path that led across the fields towards Portmarnock and the sea. It pleased her that nothing ever seemed to change there—fields of wheat and barley near the house, then the open spaces shelving down to the sea where sheep and cattle grazed.

Orlando and O’Byrne led the way, followed by Lawrence and Doyle. Despite the fact that he was wearing a soutane, her elder brother had taken Orlando’s fowling piece—a splendid flintlock made in France—with which he hoped to shoot some duck to take back to the Jesuit house in Dublin. She and Walter came last. They talked quietly. Walter described to her all that had passed in the morning’s discussions, and she told him what she had heard about Orlando’s wife. “Should I speak to him about it, do you think?” she asked.

“You might give him the opportunity to bring the subject up, I suppose, but I wouldn’t do more than that,” Walter advised. “You’re his sister, though, so you’re probably a better judge than I would be.” He sighed. “Thank God that we have our own dear children,” he said with feeling.

“Yes,” she said. “Thank God.”

Out of respect for Lawrence’s views, Orlando did not take them by the holy well at Portmarnock but went straight through the dunes to the beach. There they all walked together as a single group along the strand towards Howth. The afternoon was warm. After a while, they came upon a fisherman sitting by a small boat, mending his nets. As they paused to exchange a few words with him, O’Byrne turned to Orlando to ask about the little island out in the water below the Ben of Howth.

“We call it Ireland’s Eye,” Orlando replied. “Nobody goes there but the fishermen.”

O’Byrne turned to the fellow by the boat.

“Would you take me there for a shilling?” he asked. It was a handsome offer, and the fisherman gladly accepted. “Who goes with me?” O’Byrne turned to the group. There was not much enthusiasm from the men, but Anne smiled.

“I’ll go—if Walter doesn’t mind. I haven’t been since my father took me out there as a child.”

Walter glanced at the water. It was perfectly calm. The fisherman was grey-haired, but looked strong enough to handle any currents. “As you like,” he said evenly.

The crossing was easy enough. She and O’Byrne sat in the stern facing the fisherman, who pulled slowly but firmly on the oars. As they got out of the shallows, O’Byrne remarked to him pleasantly, “It’s the Eve of Bealtaine.”

“It is,” the old man said quietly. “There’ll be people out on the hills tonight.”

The old Celtic May Day festival was not forgotten. In many areas, people would still go up hills to watch the rising sun, and Anne had heard that in some places, the cattlemen still drove the cattle between two fires that day, in the ancient pagan manner. She asked Brian O’Byrne if he had ever seen such a thing.

“I’ve seen it done,” he answered.

Perhaps it was because his green eyes reminded her of her son, or perhaps that his fair hair made him seem younger, but there was something almost boyish, and very appealing, it seemed to Anne, in this pleasant Irish gentleman.

“I believe you do it yourself up in Wicklow,” she teased him gently.

“We’re not pagans at Rathconan,” he answered with a smile, though she noticed that he hadn’t actually denied it.

“As for what happens to the girls . . .” she continued. She’d heard that not every virgin who went up the mountain at Bealtaine came down in the same state.

“I cannot answer for my ancestors,” he laughed.

The island was coming closer. They could see the rocks on the beach. They watched it in silence. Anne was enjoying the feel of the soft air and the sun on her face.

The fisherman landed the boat on a small shingle beach. Anne went up a grassy knoll from which she waved across the water to her husband, who waved back. Having satisfied themselves that she was safely across, the men were setting off down to the southern point of the strand where there were some marshes. No doubt Lawrence would be hoping to shoot some wildfowl there. Meanwhile, she and Brian O’Byrne began to inspect the island.

They looked at each of the little beaches. At the base of the cliff with its high cleft, Anne pointed out the natural shelter the rocks had formed. “A hermit could live here,” she remarked. They went all the way round until they came to the fisherman again. He had brought one of his nets with him and was quietly at work on it. He seemed in no hurry to return. They continued round again and sat down by one of the rock pools. The sun was dancing off the water. They stared down at a crab making its way across the bottom, and Anne felt a sense of peace as if she had returned to her childhood again.

“It’s strange,” she said after a little while, “to find myself with a man who has my son’s green eyes.” And she smiled at him.

“Mwirish still doesn’t know of our relationship?”

“No. His father doesn’t wish it.” She reached down to the rock pool and trailed her hand thoughtfully in the water for a moment. “My husband’s very cautious,” she said with a little shrug.

He shot her a glance.

“Your husband’s a sensible man,” he said. “I’d do the same in his place, I think.” He paused for a moment. “When the first Mwirish changed his name to Smith, he made a decision for his descendants. They’re to be English now. As for the green eyes, they turn up from time to time in many families.” He chuckled. “Your husband wouldn’t be the only natural descendant of Sean O’Byrne, I can assure you! We’re all cousins up in Wicklow, anyway, like the Old English in Fingal, I dare say.” He stretched comfortably. “Everybody’s related somehow, I should think. I’ve the blood of the Walshes of Carrickmines in my own veins, come to that.”

“You have?” She was delighted. “We are related?”

“It’s centuries ago.” He laughed. “Which means that you and your husband are related through the O’Byrnes, too.”

“I never knew that.” She stared down and looked rather thoughtful for a moment; then she brightened and looked up again. “I was already related to my husband, but now I’m connected to you as well. So that’s a gain.”

Why did she like Brian O’Byrne so much? Was it the eyes? Did he remind her of Patrick, that she had lost? She wasn’t sure.

“So, can you see me living up in the wild Wicklow Mountains?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” he said quietly. “I can see you.”

He told her some stories then, about the O’Byrnes and the O’Tooles in times past, of the life in the wild, free spaces of the mountains, and also of the fighting between the Irish chiefs and the Tudor troops from England. She knew many of these things as history; but she had never heard them told by an Irishman before, and for the first time she gained a sense of the Wicklow Mountains not as a treacherous, dangerous territory, but as a great haven, a land of ancient freedoms and holy places which the English had not only invaded, but defiled. And she found herself strangely moved.

After a while, he said, “We should go back,” and she said, “Yes, we should,” but neither of them moved. Finally, after what still did not seem so long a time, he glanced up at the sun, which was getting lower in the sky, and rose, and gave her his hand to help her up. And so they walked slowly back, still talking, to the boat where the fisherman, having mended his nets, had fallen asleep.

When they got back across the water, they found only Walter and Orlando waiting for them. Neither was smiling.

“Where are Lawrence and Cousin Doyle?” she asked. “Did he shoot any duck? I didn’t hear the gun go off.”

“They got tired of waiting and went home,” said Orlando bleakly.

Brian O’Byrne immediately apologised for keeping them waiting.

“We weren’t so long,” said Anne.

Orlando and Walter glanced at each other.

“You were two hours out there,” Orlando said quietly.

“Oh, I don’t think so. We can’t have been. It didn’t seem any time at all,” Anne answered brightly. “He told me all about Wicklow.”

“You could see a hermit like Saint Kevin living out there,” said O’Byrne quickly. He turned to Walter. “I took Orlando up to Glendalough once, you know. He prayed for nearly an hour at the shrine of Saint Kevin.”

“I’ll walk with you now, Brian,” said Orlando as soon as O’Byrne had paid the fisherman. “Anne and Walter will want to walk together.”

On the way home, Anne took Walter’s arm and squeezed it gently.

“I didn’t realise we were so long,” she said. “I thought you were looking for duck down on the marshes.”

“We were,” said Walter.

“You know, I should like us all to visit Rathconan one day,” she said.

But Walter did not reply.

On a bright Sunday morning in June 1627, Doctor Simeon Pincher made his way from Trinity College to Christ Church. It was normal for the doctor to walk with a stern purpose in his step; but today he strode like a champion of old, a Hector or Achilles, going into battle. And indeed, he was going into the greatest battle of his life, from which, he had no doubt, he would emerge victorious.

For today Doctor Pincher, by a single daring action, was going to place himself at the head—the moral head, at least—of the entire Protestant community of Dublin, and even perhaps of all Ireland.

As he passed through the eastern city gate and started up Dame Street, he noted with approval that the great bell of Christ Church had already begun to toll. “I shall be ringing the bell an extra ten minutes, Your Honour, on your account,” Tidy had promised him the day before. “It’ll be a great day when you preach your sermon, Sir.” He must remember to give Tidy a shilling for his kindness, Pincher thought. Perhaps even two.

If Pincher was committing himself to a mighty battle, he had also, like a good general, made careful preparations. Firstly, his timing was excellent. For months now, the Church of Ireland’s senior men had been aware of the growing hopes of the Catholic community for some help from the king; and in recent months, while men like Orlando Walsh were drawing up proposals, concern in these Protestant circles had turned to alarm. Something had to be done—they all agreed.

Next, Pincher had chosen his battleground carefully. He was not mounting an invasion into unknown territory. The bridgehead had already been established when, during the month of April, no less a person than the uncompromising Protestant Bishop of Derry had come down to Dublin and preached a scathing sermon on the sinfulness of tolerating Catholicism. “To tolerate Catholics,” he had firmly announced, “is to dishonour God.” The sermon had been much admired, but had not been followed up with anything practical. Pincher had also made sure that his troops were all prepared and his allies in place. For a month now, he had been quietly talking to friends in Trinity and the sympathetic administrators in Dublin Castle. The Lord Deputy himself was away that week, but many of his officials would be attending the service, and the congregation would be judiciously packed with supporters. Word had also been leaked to men like Doyle that something dramatic was going to happen in Christ Church that morning, for to achieve the effect he wanted, Pincher needed a large audience.

As he came in sight of the cathedral precincts, he was pleased to see that a number of the Catholic aldermen—the very fellows who would normally be drinking at the inn until the sermon was over— were also gathering there out of curiosity. By the end of the service, some of those men would be his mortal enemies. So much the better. That was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to be the one they hated. That would make him the leader.

The Protestant army was waiting to be led. If his sister in England still had doubts about him, if perhaps he had even once or twice had doubts about himself, his actions today would put those doubts to rest forever. This, it must be, was the predestined role for which the Lord had kept him in waiting. He was chosen not only to be one of the Elect, but to lead them.

Yet when, a little later, Pincher took his seat in the cathedral, even he was astonished by the success of his preparations. The church was packed. It was one of the largest congregations he had ever seen—from loyal souls like Tidy’s wife and his Trinity friends, and the Church of Ireland regulars like Doyle, to such frankly Catholic merchants as Walter Smith and his wife. Dublin Castle, as he’d hoped, was well represented, too. The plan had worked. They had all come to hear him.

The morning service at Christ Church was an impressive affair. The choir was excellent. As well as the modern organ, which had been installed a decade ago, the precentor and organist also employed other musicians to enrich the sound. Today there were viols, sackbuts, and cornets. Pincher could not entirely approve of these extra embellishments, which he thought too rich and pompous for a Protestant service; but in other respects the arrangements at Christ Church were to be commended. The communion table was plain and simple and stood modestly in the centre of the choir. There were few candles, little ornament. And above all, there could be no doubt about where the true focus of the whole proceedings lay: not in the choir, not upon the altar, not even in the prayers, important though these were. The focus of a Protestant service was the pulpit. Catholics might go to church to see flickering candles and the sacred host, miracle and mystery; but Presbyterians came to hear the preacher preach.

And a preaching they should have. When the appointed time came, Pincher rose from his seat and ascended the stairs to the pulpit. His face was pale, his Geneva gown all black as ink. During an expectant silence, he surveyed the multitude. Having done so, he opened his arms wide, like an avenging angel, then, lowering them, he clasped the edge of the pulpit in front of him and, leaning out into space towards the congregation as though he were now a bird of prey straining forward from its perch, he cried out in a terrible voice:

“I come not to send peace, but a sword.”

The word of the Lord. The tenth chapter of Matthew. The Saviour’s most fearful words. The congregation gave a collective shudder.

A sermon in the Stuart age was an impressive thing—a mighty structure, constructed like a building. First came the foundation, the biblical text. Then, like so many columns and arches, transepts and chapels, came related texts, learned allusions, and subsidiary themes—for the congregation liked their preachers to be learned— stated and repeated, amplified, piled one on top of the other, and all set forth with the muscular magnificence of Protestant prose. And thereby was raised up a rhetorical temple so huge, complex, and echoing that by the end it might almost be wondered whether the authors of the sacred texts themselves could have imagined the mighty structure of which their humble words were now a part.

Why, Pincher asked his hearers, why was it that Our Saviour came not to send peace? Because such a thing was impossible: by the very fact that He was good and holy—here followed several learned allusions—it was impossible that He should do so. Were not all things possible to God? All except one, for He had established it so, and that was that He should sin. But we know sin. He looked sternly at the congregation. They knew sin. Mankind had known sin from the first, since the Serpent—here followed several allusions to the Prince of Darkness—since the Serpent had beguiled Eve and she had tempted Adam. “Since Man’s first disobedience and the fruit of the forbidden tree brought death into the world,” he cried, “we have no peace.” Peace will come only at the end of the world, when the devil at last is vanquished by Our Saviour. Sin shall be destroyed. There is no other way to deal with the devil but by striking him down.

“I come not to send peace, but a sword.”

Man had fallen, he continued, Paradise was lost. Like Adam, we wander the world, where the devil has set snares and temptations for us—forbidden trees—at every turn. Eat of their fruits, and we shall be snatched away to everlasting hellfire, with no further hope of salvation. Adam was warned by God not to eat of the tree, but that benefit has been removed from us now that we have fallen, and often as not, the devil has made the forbidden trees to be fair-seeming. “The serpent is sapient and subtle,” he informed them. “He speaks sweetly and softly.” He makes use of Eve, the eternal temptress. She shows us fruit, fair without, yet corrupt within. How, therefore, shall we know the temptress and the fruit for what they are? He would tell them, he declared. A tree is known by its fruits: that was how they could know. And now he paused and looked around them all.

“There is a tree in the world,” he cried out loudly, “whose fruits we know.” Superstition, idol worship, blasphemy, hypocrisy: of what tree was he speaking? What else could it be? What yielded these fruits, if not the Church of Rome?

“The Church of Rome,” he shouted, “the painted whore, with her incense and images, her liturgies and lurries. Beware, I say, of the papist Eve, the harlot and the Jezebel. Turn your face from her. Strike her down!

“I come not to send peace, but a sword.”

The congregation had given a little gasp at this. The sentiments were familiar enough, but to hear such a virulent attack, in the presence of so many Catholic gentlemen of Dublin, was more than a sermon. It was a declaration of war. Pincher was in full flood, however, and was moving inexorably to his next topic.

The sword, he reminded them, was a weapon that made clear divisions. Good was divided from evil, and the distinction was absolute. Let them beware, he cried, let them not believe that any man can serve two masters. Those who compromise with evil—he gave his audience a terrible look—partake of evil, and are divided clearly by the sword from the good. They shall be damned. Damned utterly, damned eternally. There were some—he let his eyes travel round them all accusingly—sinners here present who were willing to compromise, and who counted the devil amongst their friends. What did he mean? he asked rhetorically. Had he examples in mind? And now came the moment he had prepared for. Yes, he had.

The list of sinners was long. Apart from his supporters, there was scarcely a person in the congregation who was without blame. There were those who tolerated the presence of Jesuits living openly near the cathedral itself; those who winked at the keeping of papist priests in chapels, private houses, and even city churches. Church land was being let or sublet to Catholics who kept their priests upon the proceeds. Recusants were escaping fines. The entire way of life that had made the religious division in Ireland bearable was mercilessly exposed, and condemned. “Our Lord has promised that the meek shall inherit the earth,” he thundered, “but in Ireland, instead, it is inherited by traitors.”

The congregation understood all too well. A shocked silence seemed to roll through the sea of faces like a wave. But Pincher had prepared for this also. For now, from twenty or thirty Protestant lips came an echoing “Amen.”

“Repent!” he cried back in answer. For what, he demanded, would be the fate of the city of Dublin if they failed to enforce the Protestant faith? Had not the Lord foretold the fate of the cities which heard the word but repented not? He had indeed, in the Gospel of Matthew. “Woe unto thee,” Pincher called out in a loud voice, “it shall be more tolerable for the land of Sodom in the Day of Judgement than for thee.”

“Amen,” called back his chorus.

“I come not to send peace, but a sword.”

“And yet . . .” The doctor paused, and to the congregation’s surprise, gazed at them benevolently. “The way is hard.” What if, perhaps, a Catholic is our neighbour, a man to whose company we have grown accustomed, to whom we are bound by daily courtesy, even affection? What must we do then? We may preach the true faith. There can be no harm in that. We may reason with our neighbour, urge him to repent and to forswear his foolish ways. We may pray for him. We should pray for him. But if after all this, if still in his obstinacy he continues in his sin, then no matter what the ties, we must sever them, we must turn from them lest we be contaminated ourselves; we must divide them utterly from the body politic and even strike them down. For what did Our Lord say?

If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out. And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off and cast it from thee. For it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

“Take thy sword, then, Christian pilgrim,” cried Pincher in ringing tones, “and cut off that which doth offend thee.”

“Amen,” intoned the chorus.

The congregation was now in a state of some perturbation. Most were sitting in shocked silence. Others were beginning to murmur, some with approval, others not. The sense amongst the latter—that the business was going too far and that it was time to end—was palpable.

But if they thought he was done, he was not done.

For now, dropping his voice as a prelude to the climax, Pincher leaned towards them almost confidentially. We must not suppose, he reminded them, that the devil was ever passive. He was scheming all the time, not only to save his evil empire from destruction but to regain the upper hand. Even now—Pincher’s voice began to rise—the servants of the whore of Rome were plotting to undermine the Protestant cause, to reinstate the Bishop of Rome, who was the Antichrist, amongst the godly in Ireland. These servants of the whore would try to seduce the king himself, to change the godly laws of the land; and if they were allowed to succeed, it would be Protestants, soon, who were trampled down. Trampled and cut down by the Catholic Irish hordes—Irish hordes who, he pointed out, would be led by the very men whom the congregation now called friends and neighbours. Would his hearers permit such a thing to happen?

“Will you,” he cried, “make yourselves part of that droiling carcass of conformity and comfort, that takes its ease and sleeps while the devil is at his work and the godly are destroyed? Or will you, like soldiers of Christ, arise, put on armour, and buckle thy sword?” For if they did not, he warned, let them be in no doubt as to the consequences. They risked eternal hellfire. God was watching, he cried, his voice rising higher. The Lord was testing them. Would they be seduced, cheated of their birthright and their everlasting souls by the Catholic whore who, even now, would seduce the king to do what he ought not? Or would they take up the cross, and the sword Christ had given them, and strike down the Catholic whore? “Strike!” he shouted. “Strike down the whore!”

“Amen,” came the chorus.

“Strike down the Jezebel, the harlot.”

“Amen. Amen.”

“I come not to send peace,” his voice resounded a final time around the cathedral, “but a sword.”

“Amen. Amen. Amen.”

And furling the black wings of his gown around him, Doctor Simeon Pincher stalked like a raven down from the pulpit.

At the end of the service, he did not join the crowd that gathered in the precincts. Too proud, or too wise for that, he departed privately by another door and strode quickly down Dame Street and out to his lodgings.

Behind him he left a scene of some confusion. The Puritan elements who had provided the chorus were exultant. The sermon, they all agreed, easily surpassed the Bishop of Derry’s diatribe in the spring. And Pincher was a local man. Now that they had such a spokesman, they said, it would go hard with the Papists.

The Catholics, naturally, were horrified. Two questions in particular were asked. Did Pincher speak only for himself and his friends—or were there others, more powerful, behind him? And was this a signal that the king, instead of helping the Catholics, had changed his mind and was about to turn on them?

But a large party, some Catholic, some Church of Ireland men, had a different view. They did not share Pincher’s contempt for compromise, and were disturbed at this attempt to worsen a political situation that was already tense. Walter Smith, in particular, was deeply distressed, and was quite surprised therefore, on meeting Doyle outside, to find that the Church of Ireland merchant, who certainly believed in compromise, was taking things so calmly.

“What is to be done?” Smith asked anxiously.

“Done?” Doyle looked at him quizzically. “There is nothing to be done. Pincher has just destroyed himself.”

“How so? There are many in Dublin Castle, and in London, who would agree with every word he says.”

“No doubt. But he’s destroyed all the same.” Doyle smiled grimly. “You did not listen carefully enough,” he continued quietly. “His sermon was fearful, certainly. But he also made one fatal mistake.”

In the chilly month of January in the year 1628, a delegation sailed from Dublin on a journey to London. It consisted of eight members of the Old English community and three Protestant settlers. Orlando Walsh was not a member of the delegation, although his name had been considered; but his cousin Doyle was.

The purpose of the delegation was to negotiate an agreement with the English Privy Council. During the summer and autumn, the proposals which Orlando had discussed with his family in the spring had been further worked upon by many hands and finally refined into twenty-six “Matters of Grace and Bounty to Ireland” to be presented to the king; and it was these “Graces,” as they were called, which the delegation carried with them.

The situation they left behind them in Dublin had not changed greatly from the way things were after Pincher’s sermon. The doctor strode about Dublin now like a man who has been marked by destiny. To many of the Protestant faction, he was a hero; to most Catholics, he had become a figure of hate. For men like Walsh and Doyle, he was contemptible: a man of learning who had turned into a rabble-rouser; the poorer Catholic folk watched him pass with murder in their eyes. All this the doctor relished. He had never experienced fame before.

But most gratifying to Pincher was the sense that his life was now justified. It is a fine thing for a man to know that he is right; but it was finer still to know that he had stood up for what was right, and that all Dublin, all Ireland, knew it. Even his sister knew it, for he had written her a full account of the business the very day after the sermon. And if she had not yet sent word of her approval, he was in imminent expectation of a letter from that quarter.

Meanwhile, no further action had been taken by the authorities at Dublin Castle. Everyone awaited the outcome of the negotiations in London.

A new English Parliament had been called, and the king and his advisors were fully occupied trying to wrestle grants of taxes from its unwilling members. Doyle was able to learn much about the character of the English. It was easy enough to encounter some of the gentlemen who had gathered from all over the country for the Parliament. Some of these were solid country landowners and professional men like his cousin Walsh. They were Protestants, though few of them struck him as deeply religious. But they all seemed to have a great fear of the Catholic powers, who they believed would like to bring the Inquisition to England. Nearly all of them also quite honestly believed that the native Irish were little better than wild animals. Doyle thought their fears of Catholics unnecessary and their views of the Irish laughable. Their political concerns were another matter. They were furious that the king’s irresponsible favourite, Buckingham, was plunging the country into senseless wars; and feared that King Charles, with his open contempt for Parliament and his illegal methods of raising money, was deliberately trying to undermine their English Liberties. On these matters, the Dublin merchant decided, he’d have felt the same as they did.

But among some of the other Parliament men, and still more in the city tradesmen, Doyle encountered a tone that was far more strident. Puritans and Presbyterians, these men dressed soberly and looked at the world with stern disapproval. They reminded him of Doctor Pincher, only more so. Once, when he chanced to say that he had been across the river to see a play, a Puritan merchant asked him in all seriousness if he did not fear for his immortal soul. “The theatres are for the idle and the corrupt,” the London man explained. “They should all be closed.” Doyle explained that the play had been instructive in its way. “It was by Shakespeare. Would you close his plays down, even?” he had asked. “His especially,” the man replied. With these men, Doyle could find no common ground at all.

“They hate the king not so much for his tyranny,” a friend at the Exchange explained, “but because he is not a Puritan. And their party is growing.” Then his friend had smiled. “If your mission here succeeds, King Charles will have better friends in Ireland than he has in England.” It was a remark Doyle was to remember.

As the weeks passed, and King Charles and his Parliament remained at loggerheads, it seemed to Doyle that the Privy Councillors became more interested in coming to terms with the Irish delegation. They would meet, usually, in a chamber in the old palace of Westminster, or in the nearby royal palace of Whitehall. Often, the Irish party would dine together in a tavern afterwards. As a member of the Protestant Church of Ireland, but one who always took a sympathetic and moderate line on Catholic matters, he found that his voice was listened to with increasing respect; and one day late in March, just as he was leaving the chamber where the discussions had been taking place, one of the English councillors, an elderly gentleman with a white beard, drew him to one side for a private talk. That evening, gathering the Catholic members of the delegation together at his lodgings, Doyle summarised his meeting as follows.

“The king would like to do as much for you as he can. But he faces two difficulties. One is the general strength of the Puritan party in his realm. The other is that any subsidy from Ireland will have to be raised from all the parties there, including the Protestants in the plantations. He cannot give the Catholics all they want, but he will do as much as he can to help.”

“How much?” asked the youngest of the delegates.

“He cannot and will not give Ireland her own militia. The Parliament men here in England would see that as a threat—a Catholic army to be used against them. That’s how they’d see it. And I can vouch from my own observations that this is true. However,” he went on, “the king is prepared to let us Catholics bear arms. He is, if you like, acknowledging your loyalty, and that is important.”

“What about the recusancy fines and the Oath of Supremacy?” asked another Catholic gentleman.

“The Oath remains for those seeking office. The Protestants won’t stand for anything less. As for the fines, he dare not publicly remove them—at least not at present. But he will give you a private assurance that they will not be collected. And further, he will see to it that Catholic priests, so long as they remain discreet, will not be troubled. In other words, he will maintain the status quo, and will not yield to the demands of Pincher and his like.”

“We’d hoped for an advance from that position.”

“One is offered. The question of inheritance and the threat of making heirs take the Oath of Allegiance. So long as your family had held their land for sixty years, there will be no question of applying any awkward tests.” This would help a great many Old English families; even Irishmen like O’Byrne of Rathconan, Doyle had noted with satisfaction, would now be secure, once and for all, under such a ruling.

“It’s a move in the right direction, at least,” the gentleman who’d asked the question agreed.

“There is one thing, however,” Doyle continued, “and that is the question of money.” He paused. “They will not ask for it. But they are hoping we might offer.”

“And how much are they hoping we might offer?”

“Forty thousand pounds.”

“Forty?” There was a collective gasp.

“For each of three years, paid quarterly. From the whole of Ireland, of course, Protestant settlers and all.”

“That is a very large amount,” the Catholic gentleman remarked.

“The king,” said Doyle drily, “is very short of money.”

He himself wrote the very next morning to both Walter Smith and his cousin Walsh to seek their advice on raising such an amount. Three weeks passed before he heard back from them that they thought it could be done.

It was early in May that the old councillor took him to one side again and asked him to come to a private meeting with some friends of his the following day. Naturally, Doyle agreed, and the following morning met the old man by the little monument of Charing Cross, which stood a short way north of Whitehall. Walking southwards with the old man towards Westminster, Doyle was surprised when his companion suddenly turned in at a door of Whitehall Palace. “This way,” he said, leading Doyle down a passage. At the end of the passage was an impressive entrance, guarded by two soldiers who, on seeing their approach, immediately opened the doors.

And a moment later, the Dublin merchant found himself in the presence of the king.

King Charles of England could not be mistaken. Doyle had seen his picture often enough, with his long hair, his neatly pointed beard, and his Stuart eyes, brown, very fine, and somewhat sad. But one thing Doyle had not quite realised.

The man was tiny. Beautifully dressed in doublet and lace collar, but tiny. He remembered a painter he had once encountered in a tavern telling him: “They wanted me to paint a picture of the king that would look heroic. I told them the only way to do that was to put him on a horse.” Even wearing the built-up heels that were now the fashion at court, the king only came up to the Dublin man’s chest. But if Doyle had been surprised by his stature, he was equally struck by the royal hands. They were quite extraordinary: very fine, and with the longest, tapering fingers that the merchant had ever seen. Who would have imagined, he thought, that this elegant, spidery little fellow had not long ago informed his Parliament, in no uncertain terms, that their only purpose was to do what he told them, and that if they argued with him, he’d send them all home? Yet he was about to discover one other feature of the king’s strange personality: in private, King Charles was always very polite.

Having presented Doyle to the monarch and let him make his bow, the elderly gentleman had drawn back, leaving Doyle standing alone with the king. King Charles, with a faint smile, courteously thanked the Dublin man for his patience and help as a member of the delegation during the long negotiations.

“I have heard many reports of your conduct, Master Doyle,” he said quietly, “and I know you to be well-affected to us, and a man of wise judgement.”

“I thank Your Majesty.” Doyle bowed again.

“You believe, Master Doyle, that an accommodation can be reached with the Catholics of Ireland?”

“I do,” Doyle answered honestly. “I have many Catholic kinsmen, Your Majesty, to whom I am bound by close ties, who are well-affected to you and whose families have been faithful to the British crown four centuries and more. Such people, and many like them, are Your Majesty’s loyal friends.”

“I know it,” the king said with a thoughtful nod, “and in time to come, be assured, I shall count upon that friendship. I should have liked to do more for them now, but there are gentlemen in England of a Puritan persuasion who are not so well-affected and who place difficulties in the path.” The king now glanced across to where Doyle’s elderly companion was discreetly waiting. It was a signal that the interview was about to end.

But before he parted from the monarch, Doyle realised that he had one more thing to do. He had been looking for a chance ever since the previous summer. Once or twice in Dublin he had raised the issue, but never with much success. Now, he saw, he had just been granted the best opportunity he could have dreamed of.

“The loyalty of many in Dublin—and the raising of a grant of money,” he shrewdly added, “is made more difficult by certain of the Puritans there, who cannot, I think, be any friends of Your Majesty.”

The royal eyes returned to him quickly.

“How so?”

“I speak of those who openly preach against Your Majesty’s government and even against those closest to you. For they stir up discord amongst the people,” he explained gravely, “which those of wiser counsel amongst us are unable to allay.”

“Pray tell me more.”

It did not take the merchant long to give an account of Pincher’s sermon. The attitude it represented not only made an accommodation with the Old English impossible, he pointed out, but in its virulent Puritanism, it was a long way from the moderate Church of Ireland to which he had supposed he belonged. Was this truly what the king wished? he respectfully asked.

The king had listened gravely to all this.

“It is not our wish, Master Doyle,” he replied, “and this shall be made plain. But I fear there are many in Dublin who hold such opinions.”

“Some, Your Majesty. But there are many more who may follow where Doctor Pincher leads.” Doyle paused, while the king nodded thoughtfully. He was ready, now, for his masterstroke. For a moment, he pretended to hesitate. Then he struck. “It is not only the attack upon Your Majesty’s Church and government that I find seditious, but the words touching the person of the queen.”

The king’s eyebrows raised.

“The queen?”

Doyle looked embarrassed. The fact was, he explained, that Pincher had repeatedly referred to the Catholic influence in the most insulting terms: the Catholic whore, the harlot, the Jezebel. And he had said that this whore should be struck down.

“Perhaps he did not intend it so, Your Majesty, but I took it he was referring to the queen.” There was an awful silence. “It may be,” said Doyle, with an insincerity that did not need to be disguised, “that I mistook his meaning. But so it was widely understood.”

Had Pincher intended the queen herself by his phrase? Not directly. Doyle didn’t think so for a moment. By implication or inclusion? Perhaps. He might not have called the queen a harlot, but he certainly loathed her Catholicism, felt outrage at her marriage to the king, and saw her as an agent of evil. Was he urging his audience to murder her? Of course not. But that construction could be placed upon his words. And when the royal councillors made enquiries about the sermon, and the phrases had all been confirmed, Doyle had no doubt what King Charles would think.

That night, he wrote with some contentment to his cousin Orlando Walsh: “Doctor Pincher, I think, is now destroyed.”