The Rebels of Ireland (5 page)

Lawrence had loved Salamanca. He had lived at the Irish college and attended the University, where the curriculum had been rich and varied.

It was at the start of his third year that the principal had summoned him and quietly asked if he had a vocation for the religious life. “Both I and all your teachers agree that you should continue, and undertake a study of divinity. Indeed, we think you have the makings of a Jesuit.”

To join the Jesuit order—this was an honour indeed. Founded only seven decades before by Ignatius Loyola, the Jesuits were some of the Church's intellectual elite. Teachers, missionaries, administrators, their task was not to withdraw from but to interact with the world. As the Counter-Reformation assembled the army of soldiers of Christ, the Jesuits were in the vanguard. Intellect, worldly skill, strength of character: all were required. Since the days when the family first came to strengthen the faith in Ireland four centuries ago, all his heritage, it seemed to Lawrence, had prepared him for such a role. “It may be,” the principal told him, “that we are destined to light in Ireland a brighter and a purer fire than has ever flamed there before.”

It had rather surprised Lawrence that his father had not been pleased.

“I'd hoped for sons from you,” Martin complained. Though he understood this well enough, such considerations seemed to Lawrence to be unworthy. “You're still a dear fellow,” his father had once remarked to him sadly one day, “but something's come between us. I can sense it.”

“I hardly know what,” Lawrence had answered in genuine surprise.

“It's a glint in your eye. You're no longer one of us anymore. You might be French or Spanish.”

“We are all members of a universal Church,” Lawrence reminded him.

“I know.” Martin Walsh had smiled sadly. “But it's a hard thing for a father to be judged by his son and found wanting.” There was some truth in this complaint. Lawrence couldn't deny it. Nor was the problem confined to his own family. He knew of several other young men who had returned from the seminaries to find the easygoing religion of their families lacking in urgency and correctness. He understood his father and sympathised. But there was nothing he could do.

So this business of the Smiths and his sister, it seemed to Lawrence, was a potentially serious matter. What influence might such an alliance have upon the family? He tried to remember anything he had heard about them. There were two sons, he believed. Hadn't one of them failed to complete his schooling?

Even more important was the question of their faith. Were they sound? Were they compromisers? If only he could feel confident in his father's rigour on such matters; but he wasn't sure he could.

Even so, it was a little tactless of him now to say to his father: “I hope there is no chance that Smith could turn into a heretic like your cousin Doyle.”

He realised as soon as he said it that he should have phrased it differently. It had sounded faintly accusing, as though Doyle were his father's relation, for whom Martin was somehow responsible, and nothing to do with himself. He saw his father wince.

“I have already told you, Lawrence, that I shall attend to this matter. Go to Spain, Sir, and attend to your studies.”

Nor was it forgivable that in an instant of anger he had replied:

“And you may be sure, Father, that I shall cause enquiries to be made, too.” It was said quietly, so that Orlando and Anne should not hear. But the message was clear: his father was no longer to be trusted. His authority was questioned.

What were they saying? Anne listened, but she couldn't hear. They seemed angry. Did they know she had deceived them? She hadn't meant to deceive them. Not at all. But she had fallen in love. She hadn't meant to do that, either. But then it had been too late.

Her mother had still been alive the first time she had seen him. Two years ago. They had gone out to a festival at the Curragh. It had been a big affair; English and Irish had come there from far and wide. She had paused for a while to listen to some pipes, while her parents had wandered off to watch a horse race. After listening to the pipers, she had begun to walk across the big open space when she had noticed, a little way off, that some of the young Wicklow men had started a hurling match and that, although this was an Irish game, some of the English youth of Dublin had gone out to challenge them. It was a spirited game, which the Wicklow men were winning easily; but just before the end, a pair of Dubliners in a daring move had broken through and the younger of them had scored dramatically. Moments later, the game had ended, and she had just begun to move away when she saw the two young Dublin men coming in her direction. Hardly realising she was doing so, she waited for them to come near. She could see they had noticed her. They were grinning like a pair of boys after their game.

“Did you enjoy watching?” The elder of the two was a dark-haired young man with firm, regular features and a pleasant smile. “I am Walter Smith and this is my brother Patrick.” He laughed. “As you see, we did not win our battle.” He gave her a discreet, search
ing look, but she did not see it, for her eyes were already upon Patrick.

He was taller than his brother. Slim and athletic. Yet there was something gentle in his manner. His face was oval and wore a couple of days' stubble—obviously, his beard grew thickly. His brown hair was close-cropped, and she noticed that over his brow it was already thinning. His eyes, also brown, were soft, and they rested upon her.

“Did you see me score?”

“I did.” She laughed. He's pleased with himself, she thought.

“I did well at the end,” he said.

“They let us through once,” his brother remarked amiably, “out of charity.”

“No so.” He looked disappointed. “Do not listen to this fellow.” The soft brown eyes were looking into hers now, and to her surprise, she felt herself blush. “What is your name?” he asked.

She hardly knew whether to expect to meet Patrick Smith or his brother again. So she had experienced a little stab of excitement a few days later when, coming into Dublin with her mother, she had caught sight of him beside Christ Church. He had come over at once, introduced himself to her mother politely, and chatted easily enough to discover that it was often her habit to ride over on a Thursday to Malahide to visit an old priest who lived there. The following week, he had been waiting by the path to Malahide, and rode with her for a mile along the way.

Soon after this, she had gone away to France, and during that year her mother had died. Only days after the news had come, she received a letter from him, sending his sympathy and saying that he was thinking of her. In the long months that followed, when she experienced great loneliness, she thought of him quite often. And, though she loved her brother, and knew that her father loved her perfectly, there was nonetheless an aching emptiness in her life where her mother's love and presence had always been.

He came to meet her within days of her return. It had been
Anne's idea to take Orlando with them. After all, a girl like herself could hardly disappear alone day after day without exciting comment. As for walking out alone with a young man, and without her father's permission, it was unthinkable. So she had practised the subterfuge.

She didn't enjoy it. She was a normal girl, but she was also serious. She believed in the true faith of her ancestors. She loved her family and trusted them. Each night, she said prayers for her mother's soul and asked the Blessed Virgin to intercede for her. She hated deceiving her father; she knew it was a sin. If her mother had still been there, she supposed, she would have talked to her about Patrick Smith; but a father was different. Even so, she longed to ask his advice. And she would have done, except that one thing held her back. Fear. Fear that her father might refuse to let her see him anymore.

She needed him. When they went along the pathways together, she felt an ease and happiness unlike any other she had known before. When he stood close to her, she sometimes almost trembled. When his soft eyes looked down into hers, she felt as if they were melting. The excitement of their meetings, and the growing sense of being loved, filled the void her mother's death had left. By that summer, it had seemed to her she could not do without him.

And what would her father have said if he knew? He'd certainly have intervened. As for her brother Lawrence, she didn't like to think what he'd have said. No, there would be an end to her meetings with Patrick Smith if her family discovered them.

It was a week ago that Patrick had asked her to marry him. They knew that the thing must be done carefully and in the proper manner. His father would approach hers. The two families would consider each other—they'd be bound to do that anyway. And whether or not Patrick's father had any previous knowledge of his younger son's courtship, they both agreed that Martin Walsh must be kept in ignorance. “I daren't tell him now,” Anne said, “for if he supposed we had deceived him, it would only hurt him and perhaps set him against us.”

For an awful moment, she had been afraid that Orlando might blurt something out; but he had remembered his promise and kept quiet. She resolved to have one more talk with him—a very firm one—before she left in the morning.

With luck, by the time she returned from France, she and Patrick would be betrothed. And her dear father would think he'd arranged it all.

Martin Walsh had turned his face from Lawrence and gazed thoughtfully back at Anne. She was already a handsome young woman now, and she reminded him of his dear wife. Yet she was also still a girl. Innocent. To be protected. Well, he'd talk to his cousin Doyle about the Smith family. But on one matter he was quite determined: he would consider Anne's happiness above everything. That must be his guide.

Behind her in the water below, the little island with its cleft rock seemed to be bathed in a dying orange flame. Across the landscape, far away to the north-west, lay the hump of the Hill of Tara. The sun, bloodred now, was dropping behind it. Martin turned round once more, to gaze southward across Dublin Bay. It was darkening. On the far side of the bay, the little borough of Dalkey, too, was darkening. And farther to the south, where the distant volcanic hills had been caught by the evening sunlight, the entire coastline was sinking to a monotone beside the iron-grey, sullen sea.

They came down from the Ben of Howth and began riding westwards across the old Plain of Bird Flocks towards their home. The sun was sinking behind faraway Tara, but the sky overhead was still pale and a great gleam was coming from behind the horizon in the north so that you could see the landscape clearly. They were still some way from home when, about half a mile in front of them, they saw two figures riding down the road from the north towards Dublin. The shapeless form behind, who led a packhorse, was no doubt a servant; but the man who led the way was a striking figure.
At that distance, and in the fading light, his tall, thin body, leaning slightly forward, seemed like a stick or, as he moved continually forward, like a single black pen, drawing an inky line across the land.

So absorbed was Orlando in watching this strange sight that he hardly heard his father's murmured curse, or realised that he was supposed to stop, until he felt Lawrence's restraining hand upon his arm.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“A man you do not wish to meet.” His father's voice was very quiet.

“A Protestant.” From his tone, Lawrence might have said, “The devil himself.”

They watched in silence as the sticklike figure crossed the empty plain, seemingly unaware of their presence.

“That,” his father said at last, “is Doctor Pincher.”