The Rebels of Ireland (17 page)

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.”