The Rebels of Ireland (25 page)

Sooner or later, Pincher mused to himself, Wentworth would fall. The English governors in Ireland always did. But even more important, when finally something forced Charles to summon a Parliament, then there would be a reckoning. The Puritans of England and Ireland would have their revenge. What form that revenge would take, Pincher did not know. But he would work towards that day of reckoning from now on. If he was an enemy of Wentworth, then he must also, henceforth, be an enemy of the king.

Though he was not entirely aware of it, Doctor Pincher had just taken the first step down the path towards treason.

If it hadn't been for young Maurice, Brian O'Byrne would never have seen them. Anne had told him so. It had been shortly after midsummer. Walter Smith and his wife had been staying two days with a merchant in Wicklow that Walter knew. As well as young Maurice, Orlando had also accompanied them. Returning home early in the morning, they had all decided to go up to Glendalough. They had walked all round the ancient ruins, admired the round tower and the silence of Saint Kevin's two mountain lakes. By noon, they had started home. The days were long. Even proceeding at an easy pace, they could be back at Dublin before darkness finally set in. They had just passed the track that led to Rathconan, and Orlando had just told them what it was, when Maurice had cried: “Rathconan. I should like to see that.”

“If you ride along the track as far as that tree,” Orlando had pointed to a tree at a short distance, “you can see the old tower house. But don't go any farther or you might be seen, for I never told Brian that I was coming up here.”

But of course, Maurice rode farther, and O'Byrne himself had caught sight of him and, recognising the youth, had waved for him to come over. And a minute or two later, Brian was out at the main track, reproaching Orlando for riding by his house in such an unfriendly way, and courteously inviting Walter and Anne to come in. It would have been rude to refuse, although Walter said, “We can't stop long.” Anne had smiled, however, and remarked, “I should like to see your house.” Maurice, meanwhile, was already headed back towards it.

As they had approached the old tower, Brian had given Walter a sideways look and murmured: “Your family home.”

“Ah.” Walter had only allowed himself a half-smile.

“Your son seems to like it, anyway.” Maurice was already riding round the old tower with evident delight. O'Byrne had glanced across at Anne. She was looking around appreciatively.

“You take the cattle up there?” She pointed to the wild mountain slopes above.

“In summer.”

He remembered Orlando's sister very well; he and Orlando had continued to see each other from time to time, but he hadn't seen Anne since that day they had gone out to the island together—it had to be more than ten years ago. She had changed remarkably little. A few more lines, some grey hair, but still a very attractive woman. She was a little older than he was, so she must be in her midforties. And still locked, he thought privately, in the same life with her dull husband.

His own life at Rathconan had not been so eventful. He had a brood of children now. The two boys studied with the priest; the girls were taught to read and write, but no more. His wife had died a year ago, giving birth to a seventh child. It had caused him much grief; but a year had passed, and it was time to think of finding a replacement. Handsome Brian O'Byrne of Rathconan would have no difficulty finding a young Wicklow woman happy to share his bed, manage his fine estate, and take over his lively children.

At Anne's request, he took them round the place. They appreciated the old stone house and admired the magnificent views. Maurice, in particular, was enthusiastic. Every time one of Brian's children appeared, he inspected them to see if they had their father's green eyes, but none of them had. He wanted to walk up the hillside with O'Byrne to see the summer pastures, and Brian was perfectly agreeable. Anne also wanted to go. “So we'll all go up together, then,” Walter agreed with a faint sigh. By the time all this was accomplished, it was past midafternoon. Brian had pressed them to eat with his family and stay the night. And since it was clear to Walter that everyone except himself wanted to do so, he had agreed with good grace.

The big evening meal at Rathconan was a communal affair. The entire household ate together, in the old Irish manner. Neighbours or travellers often joined them. The priest blessed the food. Like as not,
someone would strike up a tune on a fiddle, or tell a tale or two when the eating was over. As it happened that evening, there was a lively company. Several tales were told that long summer evening, of Cuchulainn, or Finn, or of local ghosts; there was music and some dancing.

Brian O'Byrne had watched his guests with interest. Orlando was quite at home, of course, tapping his foot contentedly in time to the music. Walter Smith looked less comfortable. He must have been as familiar with the stories and the music as anyone else born in Ireland; yet though the solid, grey-haired Dublin man sat there, smiling politely, you could tell that he wasn't really happy. You'd never guess, O'Byrne thought, that the man was his own flesh and blood. Young Maurice, on the other hand, the handsome young fellow with the green eyes, might be a son of his own. Those eyes were dancing, his face was flushed; he'd already taken an interest in a pretty young farm girl. Young Maurice belonged at Rathconan without a doubt. It all showed, O'Byrne considered, that whatever a man's ancestry might be, a man's character was entirely individual.

As for Anne, he observed her all evening. She was certainly enjoying herself. Like her brother, her foot was tapping to the music. At one point, when people were dancing, he saw her lean across and say something to her husband, and when he gave a slight shake of the head, she shrugged with a trace of irritation. A few moments later, young Maurice was summoned over to lead her to the dance. She moved with grace, and O'Byrne would have liked to join her himself, but he decided it was wiser not to do so. And even though she glanced across in his direction once or twice, he pretended he had not noticed.

It was Maurice who had brought his mother over to him from the dancing, with a request. Her son liked Rathconan so well, she explained, that he wondered whether O'Byrne would let him spend a week or two there. Could the young man come to stay with him?

“By all means, Mwirish,” Brian replied genially. “You'd be welcome here whenever you please. But first you'll have to ask your father, I should think.”

It had been in the moments that followed, while Maurice had
gone to interrupt his father, who was deep in conversation with the priest, that O'Byrne had known that Anne Smith might be his. She had been standing there in front of him, a little flushed from the dance. He had remarked with a smile that all the local girls would be hanging round the place if her handsome son were there, and she had laughed and put her hand on his arm. “I envy him being up here in the mountains with you,” she had added, looking straight into his eyes. And at that moment, all the unspoken intimacy they had felt that afternoon on the island long ago came flooding back. He looked at her and nodded. “I wish you could come here with him,” he replied, quietly and seriously, and she had looked thoughtful.

“I don't know if that would be possible,” she had responded in the same tone. “Perhaps…”

He could see out of the corner of his eye that the boy was talking to his father. Walter Smith was glancing in his direction with a slight frown. Excusing himself from Anne, he moved across to the Dublin merchant and addressed him politely.

“Your son has just asked me if he might come and visit me for a little while. He's welcome here at any time at all. But I told him it's his own father he should be asking first, not me.”

“You're very kind,” Walter acknowledged at once. “I was afraid he might be troubling you.”

“Not at all. We've people coming here all the time. I'd rather have him than most of them.”

“He couldn't come at the moment,” Walter said, “as I've things for him to do in Dublin.”

“I come down to the city myself from time to time. When I'm next there, I'll call upon you at your house. If you care to send him back with me then, he can accompany me. Or if not, then he can always come another time. Meanwhile,” he turned to the youth with a smile, “you had better give your father no cause for complaint, Mwirish, or I'll not be wanting you in my house, I can assure you.” He looked at Walter Smith with a grin, as one father to another. “Isn't that right?”

“It is indeed,” agreed Walter, with evident relief.

Brian O'Byrne was usually up at dawn, and the next morning he awoke to find the sky already a sparkling azure and the sun about to appear. Making his way outside, he went to a gate a short distance from the house, from which there was a fine view down to the coast and the distant sea. He liked to watch the rising sun.

He had been gazing at the eastern horizon so intently that he had not been aware he was being approached until, suddenly, he felt another person at his side. It was Anne.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He pointed, and at that moment, the first gleaming edge of the sun's golden orb began to break over the horizon. He heard her give a little intake of breath as she watched it part from the waters. They stood together as it began to rise majestically into the sky. Neither spoke. He felt her arm resting lightly against his.

“I saw you from my window,” she said quietly. “Everyone's asleep. Do you often watch the sun rise?”

“Usually. If it's clear.”

“Ah. That must be good.”

He nodded, and glanced back towards the house for an instant. The sun's rays were striking its walls, but the old tower-house seemed impervious to them, as though it, too, was still asleep. He allowed his arm gently to encircle her waist. She did not tense at all. He gave her a sideways glance. She turned her head a fraction towards him and smiled.

“Perhaps I shall come to Dublin soon,” he said.

“I think you should.” It was just then that a sound from somewhere behind caused them both to spring apart. But when they looked, they had seen no one. All the same, Anne had walked back alone and returned to the chamber where her husband was sleeping, while O'Byrne had gone to see the horses in the stable.

Neither, therefore, was ever aware that the sound had been made by Orlando and that he had seen them guiltily moving apart.

O'Byrne had not made a visit to Dublin until late August. As
promised, he had made a visit to the Smiths' house and been sorry to discover that Walter and his son had already been away in Kildare for two days and were due back that afternoon. A pity, he'd thought. A missed opportunity. For several minutes, however, he and Anne had been quite alone in the parlour; and standing together, he had turned to look down into her face, and, as she looked up into his, they had kissed as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. The sound of someone coming to the parlour door had caused them, once again, to move quickly apart, but before he left, he had suggested: “Next time your husband is going away, send me a message.”

And now, the evening before, a messenger had come with a missive from Anne to say that Walter was about to go away again. With some excitement, Brian O'Byrne was setting out for Dublin.

As Anne Smith sat in her house the following morning, she wondered if Brian O'Byrne would come that day. She was also in some agony of mind. What was she going to do?

What had she been thinking? Why had she ever allowed the business to come so far? At times she hardly knew. Had she been aware of O'Byrne's assessment of her inner motives, she would have agreed that they were broadly true. But even he could not guess at the effect of the long years of self-denial and tension, the frustration followed by a sense of deadness that had enveloped her until, at times, she scarcely remembered what it was to feel alive. Nor how, with his sudden reappearance in her life, she had felt as if a magical light had transfigured the world. Morality, even religion, had seemed to be swept aside by something that had the force of destiny itself.