The Rebels of Ireland (18 page)

“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. Every
one 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.”