The Rebels of Ireland (37 page)

Maurice Smith was delighted with the news that his aunt had had the baby. He had been wondering what to do for nearly a week—ever since the letter from Elena had come.

It had been handed to him in the marketplace by one of van Leyden's men, who had asked him to give an immediate reply, as he must return at once to the Dutchman's estate in Fingal. Maurice had never received a letter from Elena before. He noticed that although her English was still imperfect, her writing was firm and regular. The letter was not long. She wrote that her grandfather had kept her in Fingal for two months now, and that although the old man went into Dublin quite often, he refused to take her with him. Now, with the rebels getting closer, she was afraid. What did Maurice think she should do?

Taking the letter into a scrivener, where they lent him pen and ink, he wrote his reply onto the letter. She was in no danger, he told her. The rebels might come to forage; they might even take some valuables. But though they might turn nasty if they encountered some of the hated English Protestant settlers, he thought it unlikely they'd hurt a harmless old Dutchman and his granddaughter.

It was clear to him that the real message in Elena's letter was that she was frightened and wanted him to come and comfort her, and he felt a great urge to do so. Yet how could he? It had been wrong to court her when he had. He'd given his father his word never to see her again.

So what could have possessed him, at the end of his message, to add “I shall come to see you as soon as I can”?

For when Orlando's message had brought the glad tidings of the birth, there had also been a request that Maurice should go to his uncle's straightaway, so that he could be godfather to the baby, whose christening would be performed by the old priest from Malahide as quickly as possible. Walter was delighted. “It's a great honour, Maurice,” he told him. He also saw it as a useful opportunity. “While you are there, you must do everything you can to persuade your uncle to come to Dublin. He failed to appear on the eighth, but that can be explained by the birth of Donatus. Your cousin Doyle has seen to that. But as soon as the child is christened, your uncle should go in to the castle at once and establish his loyalty. I, too, as a Catholic, would be under suspicion if I were not here in Dublin. Tell him all this and that I join my voice to Doyle's, and urge him to come.”

It was a charming little ceremony. It was held in the house. Present were just Maurice, a lady from a neighbouring estate who acted as godmother, the happy parents, the old priest from Malahide, and little Daniel, who, miraculously, kept quiet throughout the ceremony. Maurice stayed with them until the following day; and that
evening, when he found himself alone with Orlando, he delivered his father's message. His uncle listened carefully, nodded thoughtfully, and thanked him, but made no further comment.

In the morning, Maurice left. But as soon as he was out of sight, instead of riding south, back towards Dublin, he turned his horse and took the track towards Swords. From Swords he turned northwest, and an hour later, he was in sight of van Leyden's stone and timber farm.

Here he had to pause. He could not go up to the door, for fear of encountering the old man, so he waited for a long time in the cold until he saw a farmhand coming towards him. Telling the fellow that he was a scout sent out from Dublin to look out for rebels, he quickly learned that none had been seen, that the old man was in Dublin, though expected back that afternoon, and that Elena was in charge of the house in his absence. Asking the man to fetch her, he rode slowly towards the farm. And moments later, Elena appeared.

She seemed pleased to see him. Despite the cold, they walked together so that they should not be heard. If at first she seemed a little constrained, he could well understand it, for he felt the same. But more than anything, she seemed to need reassurance that they would not be attacked by Phelim O'Neill's men. “I told my grandfather that we should go to Dublin for safety,” she complained. “But he does not want me to be there.” She made a wry face. “Because of you.”

Maurice told her again that the rebels had no quarrel with the Dutch. “These are not criminals or animals,” he reminded her. “I promise that you and your grandfather will be safe.”

He had never seen her afraid before. Their relationship had been several things. He'd enjoyed her company, for they made each other laugh. There had been the excitement, with the added thrill that their relationship was forbidden. He had found her wonderfully sensuous. But if the truth were told, neither of them had felt real love or passion. Now, however, seeing her afraid, he felt a sudden wave of tenderness. Putting his arm around her, he did his best to
comfort her and stayed with her for nearly an hour. They kissed before he left, and though he didn't say it to her then, he found himself wondering seriously whether—he did not yet know how—they might be united after all.

It was midafternoon when he entered Swords again. To reach Dublin before dark, he needed to press on. The city gates would be closed at dusk, and it would certainly be hard to explain himself to his parents if he were locked out. But he also felt uncommonly thirsty, and as he passed down the main street and saw the inn, he couldn't resist turning in there for a small tankard of ale. There was time, surely, for that.

It was gloomy inside the tavern. The windows were small and the day outside was grey. A large fire at the end of the place provided what light there was. A narrow table with benches ran along one side of the room. The floor was covered with rushes. There were only a few people in there. The innkeeper soon brought Maurice his ale, and he sat at the end of the table nearest the fire, drinking it quietly. At the far end of the table, in shadow, two men were playing at dice, small piles of coins on the table between them. One was a small, wizened man; the other had his back turned to him. After a few minutes, this fellow gave a sad laugh and pushed his coins towards the small man.

“Enough.” He spoke in Irish. “I've lost enough for one day.” His voice sounded familiar. The small man rose, scooped up the coins, and started to move away. The other turned, glanced at Maurice, and then stared. “Well, Mwirish,” he said in English, “what brings you here?”

And Maurice found himself a moment later sitting beside his friend Brian O'Byrne.

They talked for a long time. Maurice told him everything: about the birth of Donatus, at which O'Byrne was greatly delighted; about Elena, at which the Irishman shook his head. “Leave that, Mwirish. Your father is right. You can do no good there.”

O'Byrne himself, he explained, had been on a visit to Rathconan
and was now returning to Drogheda. He had been with Phelim O'Neill since the start of the rising. “I'd have joined him anyway, Mwirish,” he said, “but with my wife being his kinswoman…” He shrugged. “It was fate.”

O'Byrne ordered more ale. As they drank together, it seemed to Maurice that his old friend was uncharacteristically moody. At one point, O'Byrne turned to him and suddenly remarked: “You belong at Rathconan, you know. I saw it from the first.”

“I feel at home there,” Maurice acknowledged, though he did not know what had made O'Byrne say it just then. In any case, the Irishman hardly seemed to be listening.

“It's where you belong,” he said, almost to himself. He gazed at the fire and sighed. “Perhaps that's how it will be,” he mused. And he seemed so intent upon his own thoughts that Maurice did not like to interrupt.

Glancing out of the window, Maurice saw that the afternoon light was waning. He looked back at the handsome Irish chief, whose green eyes he shared. The firelight was catching his face, giving it a brooding, romantic quality. And whether it was the fear that he might be late back to Dublin and his visit to Elena be discovered, or whether he was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to be in the company of this man he loved and admired, fighting for the sacred Catholic cause that was their heritage, he burst out:

“I want to come with you. Take me with you to Drogheda.”

O'Byrne gave him a long look and slowly smiled. But he shook his head.

“No, Mwirish, I've brought enough trouble to your house. I'll not take Walter Smith's son away as well.” This didn't make sense to Maurice, and he wanted to ask him what he meant; but O'Byrne had not finished. “Tell me, Mwirish,” he asked, “do you like to gamble?”

“I don't know.”

“Every Irishman likes to gamble, Mwirish,” said O'Byrne. “It's in the blood.” Perhaps it was the play of the firelight on his face, but it seemed to Maurice now that his friend looked strangely sad. “This
rising, Mwirish, it's just a gamble, you see. A roll of the dice.”

“Gamblers can be lucky.”

“True.” O'Byrne gave a wan smile. “Though few are lucky all the time. I was rolling the dice when you came in, Mwirish. But I lost.”

“I want to come with you.”

“We'll meet again, Mwirish. But go back to Dublin now. You must leave, for I've other business.”

So Maurice left, and rode as fast as he could back to Dublin, arriving there just before the gates were closed.

After he had gone, O'Byrne sat alone at the table for a little while. If he had other business, there was no sign of it. He sat moodily, rolling the dice on the table by himself.

At last he got up. He would be going north in the morning, and who knew when he would pass this way again? He had been much moved by what young Maurice Smith had told him about Orlando and Mary. How truly wonderful that after all these years God had granted them a child. He had heard of such cases but never encountered such a case himself. It was like a biblical story: a holy thing. He felt a great desire to see his friend again, to take his hand in friendship once more and congratulate him. If he left now, he could be at the Walsh estate before dark.

It was not long before he was riding south towards Orlando's house. His mind was occupied by many things as he rode through the gathering December dusk.

It did not occur to him that he was being followed.

Faithful Tidy had not been best pleased when Doctor Pincher had made him follow the priest to Swords. Though he had tracked him dutifully, he hadn't been able to discover anything except that the priest had gone to spend the evening in the house of an old lady who turned out to be his mother. All the same, since the meeting of the Fingal Catholics at Swords the other day—of which everyone in Dublin had been immediately aware—the town almost counted as
enemy territory. So when Faithful had stopped for a drink at the inn there, he had sat quietly in a corner and kept his eyes open.

And his vigilance had been rewarded when he saw the handsome Irishman he knew to be O'Byrne of Rathconan entering the place. Faithful had watched him carefully, observed his conversation with young Maurice Smith, and then followed him until he saw him go into the estate of Orlando Walsh. As it was dusk, he had returned to the inn at Swords. But the following morning, he rode back to Dublin to report to Pincher.