The Rebels of Ireland (34 page)

So it was hardly surprising that the members of the Irish Parliament were also wondering what they could get out of the king's weakness. “Let Ireland be a separate kingdom,” some of the Old English said. “King Charles will be king, of course; but we shan't have to answer to the London Parliament anymore. Ireland will be ruled by the Irish.” By which, of course, they meant themselves. It
was an attractive idea to loyal gentlemen like Orlando Walsh, who might reasonably have hoped that any such government would end up being Catholic. At the least, the king would surely be forced to grant all the Graces and to end any plans for further plantation—in return for their support.

O'Byrne wasn't sure what he felt. Native Irish aristocrats like Sir Phelim would no doubt form part of the governing class; thanks to his wife's connections, he might benefit himself. But he doubted whether many of the lesser Irish landowners would gain much.

Besides, would these Catholic hopes ever come to anything? Both were anathemas to the New English Protestants in the Irish Parliament, let alone the Puritans in London. The king might give way, but the Protestants never would.

The meeting yesterday evening had been a very secret affair. Only when he had arrived in Dublin had he discovered how his wife's kinsman wanted to make use of him. “I want you to go in my place and report back,” he'd explained. “This business is too dangerous for me to commit to it yet. Go therefore, take note, and tell me what you think.” Given their relationship, O'Byrne had not been able to refuse. Following instructions, he had gone to the house of a Catholic gentleman in the parish of Saint Audoen's. At intervals, during three hours, other people had slipped in, arriving one by one. Lord Maguire had appeared. Then three or four others. Then O'More. Their discussions had been wide-ranging. Some of the things he had heard were frightening. Before leaving, with everyone else, he had taken an oath never to divulge what had been said.

“Interesting times? I suppose so,” O'Byrne therefore replied.

“Sir Phelim's views would be interesting,” the Jesuit quietly led again.

“He's a very good man. There can be no doubt of that,” O'Byrne replied blandly. “His relationship with my wife is quite distant, you know, but he has done her many kindnesses.” And he gently bored Father Lawrence for a minute or two with a story of O'Neill's good nature.

“All Europe is watching us, you know,” the Jesuit said, eyeing O'Byrne carefully.

On this subject, Father Lawrence undoubtedly knew more than O'Byrne did. And the Jesuit had cause for satisfaction. It was not just a question of influence and education.

All over Europe, during the last few decades, the forces of the Catholic Counter-Reformation had scored significant successes. In France, the Calvinists were a threatened minority, permitted to exist, but in retreat. The mighty Lutherans of Germany, though helped by sympathetic English, Danes, and Dutch, had been driven out of many areas, and saved from total collapse only by the Protestant army of Sweden. In the east, half the Protestant churches of Poland were already gone. In central Europe, the Protestants had been thrown out of Austria; and a powerful coalition of Spanish, German, and papal forces had smashed the great Protestant communities of Bohemia and Moravia, and returned those lands to the Catholic faith.

“There are good Irishmen on the continent who are ready to serve the holy cause,” Father Lawrence continued quietly. For two generations, Irishmen who had left their native shores had been enlisting in the armies of Catholic Europe. Irish chiefs and princes had become skilled continental commanders and attained high positions. “And perhaps,” the Jesuit said, watching O'Byrne carefully, “the opportunity will arise for them to serve the cause in their native land.”

O'Byrne took a moment before replying. He did not know what hopes the Catholic powers of Europe might entertain for Ireland at present, or what the dreams of Irish exiles might be. No doubt Father Lawrence did. He certainly had no wish to insult the Jesuit. But it was not his place to bring him into the counsels of the other men, and he had taken an oath to divulge nothing of what he had heard the evening before. If they wished Father Lawrence to know something, they'd tell him soon enough. So he wisely took refuge in innocence.

“Do you think so?” he asked. In return for which he received an exasperated look. It was time to change the subject. “What news of Orlando?” he enquired.

And it was then that he discovered, to his great astonishment, that Mary Walsh was pregnant.

“It must have occurred just after Easter,” the Jesuit explained. “They told no one, not even me, until quite recently. If all is well, she will have the child in December, I believe.” He smiled. “After so many years, it is indeed a gift of God.” And with that O'Byrne could only agree.

He wondered whether he should go and see his former friend.

When Faithful Tidy saw them part a few moments later, he made a note of the time and then followed the Jesuit back to his lodgings. Once he was safely inside, Faithful could go home himself. He couldn't see that a street encounter between the Jesuit and O'Byrne of Rathconan could be of much interest. But he carefully noted it for old Pincher all the same.

Walter Smith was an honest man, but he believed he was shrewd. His business dealings over the years had left him rich. When Anne had fallen in love with O'Byrne, he had perceived it a great deal sooner than she had realised. As for public affairs, he followed them closely. And on most counts, in the autumn of 1641, he was modestly hopeful.

Was Anne still in love with O'Byrne? Probably. But she had been hurt by him, and disappointed. She had yearned for the wild freedom of the Wicklow Mountains, but they had turned out to be a harsh terrain. O'Byrne might be a romantic figure, but in Walter's estimation, he was ultimately cold. With O'Byrne's baby safely out of sight in Fingal, the warmth and security of her loving family and the comfortable house in Dublin may not have looked so bad. That, her sense of guilt, and her gratitude for his forgiveness had helped to reconcile his wife to him, and they were now, he supposed, as happy as many couples at their time of life.

He was also pleased about Maurice. His son was turning into a hardworking young man. If his green eyes sometimes flashed splen
didly, they made him look handsome, and no doubt that would be attractive to women. But he always attended to business in a thorough manner, and Walter was really becoming rather proud of him.

As he looked at the political situation, Walter believed that there were grounds for cautious optimism. Dublin was quiet. In August the Parliament was prorogued, and Phelim O'Neill and his friends had gone home to their estates to salvage what they could of the harvest. King Charles was still getting nowhere with the Scots. With the king so weak, it still seemed to Walter that he might be induced to grant the Catholics of Ireland some concessions. Even failing that, he supposed that the usual uneasy tolerance would continue.

One thing worried him a little. The troops that had been sent home in the summer had not all been paid, and bands of them would appear from time to time. “It's a pity the government won't allow them to be recruited by some of the mercenary commanders in Europe,” he told his son. “At least it would get rid of them.” But his greatest concern as October began was the food supply for the winter. On the land he still held above the Liffey, he had been able to save part of the harvest, and according to Orlando, most of the Fingal farmers had been able to do the same. Farther north, in Ulster, the situation was worse. In Dublin, bread prices, which had been rising since last year, were even higher. Rich men like himself would get by, but the poorer folk would need help. “In my grandfather's youth, before the Protestants abolished the monasteries,” he liked to say, “it was the religious orders who fed the poor in time of trouble.” He, Doyle, and several other merchants had already discussed what measures might be proposed to the city council if things got too bad.

Saturdays were market days in Dublin. Carts with all kinds of produce rolled in from the surrounding countryside, and a stream of people came to buy, or to enjoy themselves, too. Saturdays were cheerful, busy days. And Saturday the twenty-third of October 1641 began like any other. Almost.

The rumour started early in the morning. Maurice, who had gone out to the market, brought it to the house.

“There are troops at all the city gates, and the castle is closed and guarded. There's been a revolt up in Ulster. They say that a plot was discovered here in Dublin, too. Nobody knows what's going on.” Shortly afterwards, Doyle looked in with further news.

“A fellow got drunk at an inn last night and started boasting that he and his friends would be taking over Dublin Castle in the morning. Someone went to the justices, and he was taken in for questioning late last night. At first nobody took him seriously, but then fires were seen up in Ulster. We're still waiting for news. The Castle men are in a ferment. They're rounding people up. It's a Catholic plot, apparently,” he added, with a sidelong glance at Walter. “Though it seems to have been poorly planned.”

“I know nothing of it,” Walter replied with perfect truth.

“I did not suppose it,” Doyle said pleasantly, and went on his way. Maurice went back to the market at once to try to learn more.

So it was with great surprise that, half an hour later, being told by Anne that a gentleman had arrived at the door asking to see him privately, Walter entered the parlour to find an old man sitting there whom he had never seen before, and who, rising stiffly to his feet, bowed politely and informed him:

“I am Cornelius van Leyden.”

Maurice had been in the market for less than an hour when he heard the news. A merchant he knew came up to him. Looking worried.

“They've arrested thirty people. And can you believe it? One of them is Lord Maguire.”

A parliamentary leader. The plot might have miscarried, but if a man of that importance was involved, then the business must be serious. And Maurice had just begun to question the merchant further when he saw his mother, accompanied by one of the servants, hurrying towards him.

“Maurice,” she told him urgently, “you must come home at once.”

He had never seen his mother look so distraught before. There was little time upon the way, but she told him what he'd been accused of. “Tell me it's not true,” she begged. How could he explain?

“It's true,” he said. Yet strangely, she hardly seemed to hear him.

“It's me your father will blame,” she cried with a sad shake of her head—which made no sense at all.

“Oh, you and Father would never have done such a thing,” he said with some bitterness. “I know that.”

“You know nothing,” his mother snapped, and spoke no more until they were home.