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.”
“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—Con
ran, 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. Everyone knew that the Jesuit intelligence network had the best information in Europe.