Only one thing worried him. Maurice worked hard. But was there a certain wildness about him? If this was just the high spirits of a young man, well and good. Walter could understand. But if it was something more profound, then there were two possible explanations: it might be the Irish blood in him; or it might be the inheritance of the Walshes. Had the centuries of living cheek by jowl with the O’Byrnes and the O’Tooles down on the borderland of Carrickmines affected the family? Perhaps. They might have been representatives of the Old English order—that was certainly how he had thought of them when he married Anne—but he had realised since that there was a strain of wildness and unreliability in them which their piety had masked. Wasn’t it just this instability that had recently come out in Anne?
Even without his discovery of her affair, therefore, his fear that his son might be attracted to Irish life would have made him discourage his friendship with Brian O’Byrne. Only the boy’s endless pleading, and the fact that he could not tell him the true reasons for his objections, had finally worn Walter down to the point where he had shrugged his shoulders in secret despair and allowed Maurice to go up to Rathconan. And what a catastrophe that had turned out to be.
So when, in the spring of 1639, Maurice had said that he wanted to ride over to Rathconan to see O’Byrne, his father at first tried to dissuade him and had then forbidden it. Maurice had protested: “But he’s our friend, and my uncle Orlando’s, too. I was living in the man’s house.” But Walter was quietly obdurate. Maurice had appealed to his mother. He had sensed that she wasn’t in agreement with his father, but she only told him: “You must obey your father.”
Late in April, just after the return of Doctor Pincher from his travels, Walter announced: “I’m going into Fingal on business in a couple of days. I’ll stay the night at Orlando’s house and be back the following evening.”
Anne didn’t give the matter much thought until, on the morning that her husband left, she came upon her son about to leave also. When she asked him where he was going and when he’d be back, he said he had to see a friend and would return the next day. She thought he looked evasive, and she questioned him further. What friend? “No one you know,” he said, but her instincts told her it was not true. She insisted, and told him that if he didn’t tell her the truth, he should not leave. So finally he admitted that he was going to Rathconan. “I’ll be back before Father returns,” he said. “He needn’t know.”
Anne stared at him. She knew what she ought to say: he must not go. It was her duty to support his father. Yet she had received no word from O’Byrne since his visit. She longed for something, even a word from him. If Maurice were to see him, he could at least bring her word of him, how he was, some covert message from him perhaps. “You should not disobey your father,” she said weakly.
“Are you going to tell him if I go?”
Now he was making her his accomplice. He had no idea what he was doing, of course. If only the circumstances had been different. She could have sent a message with him. But at least she would hear something this way. She hesitated. Then she took the coward’s way out. “You’re to obey your father,” she said. “And if ever you don’t, I have no wish to hear anything about it. I don’t want to know.” Then she turned on her heel and left him. A few minutes later, she heard him ride away.
At dusk that day, Walter returned. His business had finished early, and so he’d had no need to stay at Orlando’s. It wasn’t long before he asked for his son. Anne was sitting in the parlour, the baby Daniel in her lap.
“He rode out this morning. He told me he mightn’t be back tonight,” she answered with perfect truth.
“Where was he going?”
“He didn’t want to say.”
“You let him go?”
“I thought perhaps . . . I had a feeling it might be some girl . . .”
Walter was silent. It was obvious what had happened. There was one place he knew the boy wanted to go. So Maurice had waited until he thought he could slip up there without his father knowing. He was furious that his son should have been so deceitful, but he had enough good sense not to be morally outraged. Boys did these things. His wife was another matter. She claimed not to know? He stared at her accusingly. She quailed, and dropped her eyes. He slowly nodded. So that was it. She’d let their son go to see her lover, in open defiance of his wishes. A deep, sullen rage welled up within him. He gazed at the baby for several long, terrible moments. Then he walked out of the room.
The next day when Maurice returned, his father was very calm. He did not even ask where he had been. But he informed Maurice that he was not to disappear for the night at any time without his permission, and he also informed him that he no longer had a horse, and that it would not be restored until the following Christmas. He immediately sent him upon some errands in the town.
Later, Anne learned from Maurice that O’Byrne was as well and as cheerful as ever, and that he would be visiting Dublin in due course.
“Soon?”
“He didn’t say. But he sent his best remembrances to you.”
In the weeks that followed, Walter Smith was very busy. It also seemed to Anne that she detected a change in him. Whether or not he had actually lost a little of his extra weight she wasn’t sure, for they were not physically intimate. But there was a new briskness and hardness about him as he conducted his business each day, as if, in his own mind at least, he no longer needed her.
She waited, meanwhile, for some word from O’Byrne.
When Wentworth’s officials asked Doyle to join an important Commission, he assumed that he must have been remembered with favour after his dealings in London a dozen years ago in the matter of the Graces. “You’re seen as a dependable Church of Ireland Protestant,” one of them told him. “I suppose,” Doyle remarked wryly to his cousin Orlando soon afterwards, “I must take that as a compliment.” And though he had no desire to desert his family to go on the mission, he continued, “I’d be a fool to refuse.” So it was, one summer morning, that he set out with a large party of gentlemen and officials from Dublin Castle on a journey northwards. He would be gone almost a month.
The purpose of the Commission was simple: to ensure there was no trouble in Ulster.
When King Charles and his reluctant army arrived at the Scottish border late that spring, the Covenanters had come out to meet them. There had been a few skirmishes, but King Charles had got nowhere and concluded a truce. The government of his realm was now at a stalemate. Meanwhile, the royal council had been looking at Ulster and asking the obvious question:
“Are the Scots in Ulster going to start trouble, too?”
As Doyle rode northwards, he couldn’t help being impressed. The Commissioners and their entourage were a considerable party, but accompanying them was a military force of mounted men, foot soldiers, and musketeers that was like a little army. These were not like the raw levies that the king had led so uselessly against the Scots. They were trained soldiers. When he confessed his admiration to one of the officials, the fellow smiled. “Even the Presbyterians will find them persuasive,” he replied.
Once in Ulster, the procedure they followed amazed him. The way that Wentworth intended to ensure peace was to force the Ulster Scots to take an oath of loyalty. There was nothing new in this. King Henry VIII of England had done the same when he broke with the Pope in Rome, and some loyal Catholics who refused, like Sir Thomas More, had gone to their deaths. It was their refusal to take this same oath that was keeping Orlando Walsh and the rest of the Old English Catholics out of public office now. In traditional Ireland, the swearing of loyalty oaths was a normal procedure—although, wisely, it had usually been accompanied by the taking of hostages as well. The oath they were to administer now was called the Oath of Abjuration. The swearer had to abjure—to renounce— the mighty Covenant of Scotland and to give their loyalty to King Charles. Doyle had supposed that they would be going to the men of substance and obtaining the oath from the head of each household. He shou
ld have known Wentworth better.
“Thorough: that’s my motto.” They went to every house, every farm, every field and barn. “Wherever there is a Scotsman, be he never so mean, even a pauper,” they were told, “if he has attained the age of sixteen he shall take the oath.” And that is what they did. Most of the Scots lived in the eastern, coastal region of Ulster, but the Commissioners went wherever they needed to. Arriving in each area in force, they split into smaller parties, though always accompanied by troops, and went from door to door. Any Scot, resident or visitor, was forced to take the oath. Doyle himself took the oath from hundreds, holding out a small, bruised Bible for them to swear upon. They did not like it. “The Black Oath,” they called it. But they had no choice. After three weeks, Doyle was thanked and allowed to return home. He spent a few days on his own, travelling around the province, before he did so.
On his way home, as he passed through Fingal, he turned aside to stay a night at the house of his cousin Orlando.
He enjoyed an affectionate family supper with Orlando and his wife, then Mary left the two cousins to talk. Orlando was eager to hear about the Commission, and Doyle was equally glad to share his thoughts with the intelligent Catholic lawyer. Were the Ulster Scots minded to form a Covenant, or cross the sea to join their kinsmen across the water? Orlando enquired. “While you’ve been gone, the sending of the Commission north has had the effect of frightening many people in Dublin who were not afraid before,” he explained.
“I do not think there is much danger,” Doyle replied. “There is traffic across the water between Ulster and Scotland, of course. All the time. But the situation in each place is entirely different. The Scots Presbyterians are a minority in Ulster. They have to live quietly, although they’ll no doubt be glad to help the Scots if they can, and they are delighted to see the king’s Church humiliated there.”
“I try to imagine a whole community full of Doctor Pinchers,” Orlando said with a smile.
“I found them upright, proud, hardworking. In some of them, despite the circumstances, I thought I saw a grim humour. To tell the truth, Orlando, I rather liked them—far better than I do Pincher.” He paused to consider. “And yet there is a force in them that Doctor Pincher lacks, and which frightens me more.”
“More frightening than Pincher?”
“Yes. How can I put it? Pincher believes in his religion. I may not like his belief, and as a Catholic you must abhor it. But I do not question his sincerity. He believes passionately. They are not so strident. But they do not just believe. They know.” He shrugged and smiled wryly. “You can’t really argue with a man who knows.”
“But I know also, Cousin Doyle. As a Catholic, I know that my Church is the true and universal voice of Christendom.”
“That is so, yet there is a difference. You have not only the apostolic succession but a millennium and a half of tradition, to fall back upon. Catholic saints have given testimony. Catholic philosophers have argued their case painstakingly, and the Church has reformed itself from within time and again. The Catholic Church is huge and ancient and wise, and it can justify itself upon those grounds. There is a place for all humanity in it, a flexibility in many matters, a spirit of kindness.” He paused and grinned. “At least, it is to be hoped.”
“I look forward to your return to it, then,” Orlando said drily. “Did you find these Scots unkind?”
“No. Though any people will become unkind if they are threatened. I found them not unkind, but certain. They know. That is all I can tell you.”
“We must be grateful that we have peace there, at least.”
Doyle nodded thoughtfully before he went on. For there was another matter in his mind, which was the real reason why he had turned aside to visit his Catholic cousin.
“There is something else, Orlando, I saw in Ulster that worried me more. It does not concern the Scots at all.”
He had caught a glimpse of it a few times in the intervals during his Commission work. But it was the series of visits he had made after finishing and before returning home that had left him so thoughtful. It had not been difficult for him to see anyone he wanted of the important men of Ulster. The English knew of his trusted position; the Irish were aware of his connections to the Catholic families. Some were politely guarded, others more frank. Nothing explicit was said, but he had come away with a clear impression.
“What concerns me,” he went on, “is the effect of all this upon the Irish.” He saw Orlando’s eyebrows slightly raised. “I am speaking of the most well-affected Irish men—of the landowners like Sir Phelim O’Neill, Lord Maguire, and the others. They are heirs of the old Princes of Ireland, men who after the Flight of the Earls saw the English government take most of their lands and the land of their friends, certainly. But they have still more or less made peace with the new regime. They sit in the Irish Parliament. They keep their dignity and some of their old state still. I talked to some of these men, Orlando, and I observed them.”
“And what did you think?”
“I think they are watching. They see that Wentworth is powerful but that King Charles is weak. The Scots with their Covenant have proved it. Equally important, they see the Protestants now quarrelling amongst themselves.”
“And what conclusions might they draw?”
“I can see two. The first, and the less dangerous, is that they will use the king’s weakness to press their case for better treatment. Indeed, they may well be delighted at this Presbyterian rebellion in Scotland, for it will make the king have need of loyal Catholics even more.”
“The other?”
“The other is far more to be feared. They might ask themselves, why should we not make a Covenant of our own, a Catholic one? The king’s so weak, perhaps he cannot stop it.”
“Wentworth could stop it.”
“Probably. But one day . . .”
“Wentworth will not be here.” Orlando nodded. “And you wonder, perhaps, if I have information.” He smiled. “As a Catholic, that is. A loyal Catholic.”
“Quite.” That was exactly what Doyle was wondering. He watched his cousin. Orlando sighed.
“As to the first—put pressure on the king to recognise his loyal Catholics—it’s what I’ve said all along. There are many Irish gentlemen who, I am sure, for the sake of order, would join such a cause. And we can only rejoice if the Scots force him to it. As to the latter—which would, in effect, be another rising like Tyrone’s—I can tell you with my hand on my heart that I have heard nothing. Such a hope may exist, for some future time, but nothing’s been said. And if it were, you can be sure I should oppose it. The Old English must stay loyal to the king. It’s what we were created for.”
His words comforted Doyle somewhat, and soon after this, he went to bed. But Orlando sat up alone a little longer. And as he thought of all that Doyle had said, his mind travelled back to the days of his childhood and the memory of those ancient Irish chiefs whose names had been like magic. They had fled across the water, to be sure. But their magic had not died. Their heirs lived on— O’Neills, O’Mores... Princes of Ireland. And as he mused, a thought came into his mind.
I wonder if Brian O’Byrne knows anything?
It was Mary Walsh’s idea, in September, to ask Walter Smith and Anne to spend two days with Orlando and herself in Fingal. The baby Daniel came with them, but Maurice did not come. “As he has no horse,” his father said blandly, “he will have to walk, or stay in Dublin.” And to make quite sure that his son was fully occupied, he gave him a mass of work to be completed before his return.
Mary had been wanting to arrange this visit for some time. It was not that she was so close to the Smiths herself. She wasn’t. But however bad Anne’s conduct might have been, it seemed to Mary that it was unhealthy for Orlando and his sister not to be friends, and she hoped that in this way she might also be helping her sister-in-law.
The Smiths arrived in the evening, and the family had supper together. The two men, in particular, were clearly
fond of each other. Mary knew that Orlando felt some responsibility himself for having brought O’Byrne into Anne’s life in the first place, although she’d told him: “You can hardly blame yourself for something that she did all by herself.” He’d seen little of O’Byrne either, in the last year, despite the fact that he had always enjoyed the Irishman’s company. But she had been sure that Walter’s affection for Orlando had never faltered; and to see the two men contentedly talking and laughing together, Walter with a little food on his tunic, and Orlando with a large wine stain on his lace cuff, gave her much pleasure.
Anne was another matter. Mary was glad to see Orlando greet his sister warmly, and she observed Anne sitting side by side with her husband, smiling quietly. But she seemed to be somewhat apart from everyone. Before the meal, Mary took her into the parlour, and they sat together while Anne played with the baby. After a little while, Anne had asked if she would like to hold Daniel herself.
How wonderful it had felt to cradle the warm little life in her arms, to feel the baby nestling against her. She had taken his tiny fingers and counted them out, just as she remembered seeing her own mother do. And gazing down at his broad head with its slanted eyes, she felt a longing like an ache, and thought: how glad I’d be if I had only this.
As they sat in bed together that night and discussed the evening, she asked her husband what he thought of his sister and her husband. They seemed, he replied, to be getting along well enough.