Mikie exhaled deeply. ‘Oh?’
‘Don’cha know anyt’ing, Michael?’
‘I do, o’course. Haven’t I watched sheep … do it … and geese?’
‘Well, Michael Flynn, p’raps ya didn’t notice, but Oy aint a sheep an’ Oy ain’ a goose,’ she said with a hint of exasperation, like a schoolteacher with a slow child. ‘Oy’ll show ya what Oy know an’ let’s hope d’ rest’ll come nat’rally.’
Michael and Morna Flynn made perfect love for the first time, under a beautiful starlit Irish sky, in the Valley of Saint Finbarr, and the angels blessed them.
*
CHAPTER 17
There was a storm brewing in Gortalocca. Roisin had already determined that Robbie had absolutely no head for business, so they were going to need some help from Jamie Clancy. There was already a rivalry between the two men, at least on Robbie’s part. Liam had taken Jamie Clancy as an apprentice when Jamie was just eleven and, when the lad’s parents died, he had raised the boy as his own. The Clancy boy idolised Liam and had emulated him in every way. People always said Jamie was the carpenter’s shadow, they were as close as father and son.
Roisin had been carrying out an inventory of the stock when Robbie came into the store. He went straight behind the bar and poured himself a beer. He was his usual cheery, ebullient self and, as he sipped his beer, he asked his mother if she’d heard any new gossip. Roisin turned away from the shelves she’d been inspecting to face him, and tried to form the words as delicately as she could.
‘You know, Robbie, it will be time to collect the taxes in another month or so.’
Robbie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yeah? So?’
‘Well, I was thinking, maybe Jamie could help you this time.’
Robbie’s good mood evaporated instantly. ‘Do you think I can’t handle it?’ he snapped.
‘No, I was just thinking that it’s such hard work and that maybe …’
‘Do you think I can’t handle hard work?’
‘No, that’s not it at all,’ she lied. ‘It’s just that last year, when your father sent you to collect the taxes from Joe Finnegan, the pig farmer, you came back empty-handed, except for the sob story Joe had given you. Your da already knew that Joe had sold twenty or more pigs at the auction in Nenagh, and had made a good profit on them. He and Mick Sheridan had to go back and collect the money because Finnegan had already given you his bullshit story and didn’t want to pay.’
‘Alright, so I make one mistake and now you think I’m completely incompetent? Whenever Da had anything important to do, he always took that Clancy with him. He always liked that sod better than me, and now you do too?’
Roisin felt her ears burning, she was becoming angry with her son. ‘You know very well that, when you came of age, your father sent Jamie off to Matt O’Brien’s to learn smithing so he could take you on as an apprentice.’
‘Oh yeah but, whenever he had something important t’ do, he’d bring dat shite-fer-brains back t’ help him.’
Roisin’s face flushed now as she tried to hold her temper. ‘Sure you’d be busy picking the lint out of your bellybutton while your father was working. He knew Jamie would have his mind where it mattered, instead of floating off in the clouds somewhere.’
She flinched as Robbie threw the clay cup against the wall, smashing it.
‘Well, feck you, and feck everyone else for that matter, especially that sneakin’ earthworm Clancy. He ain’t even family! Michael’s dead and I’m all you got!’ Robert stormed out. It was a characteristic of his to appear even-tempered and likeable to the rest of the world, but to throw temper tantrums with members of his own family.
Roisin breathed heavily. That hadn’t gone at all how she’d planned. She took consolation in the fact that Robbie would be back as soon as he was thirsty, and that he would be as endearing as ever, and repentant for his outburst. She realised that it was impossible to repair what was between Robbie and Jamie. Jamie would never understand Robbie Flynn and Robbie Flynn would always harbour resentment for Jamie … but her son’s remark about Michael being dead had cut deeply. Roisin felt her eyes sting with tears. Michael is alive, she told herself, for the hundredth time, and Robert D’Arcy will bring him home.
*
Robert Flynn D’Arcy was on the road out of Killarney early, and he and his two young companions had begun the arduous trek up Magillicuddy’s Reeks. His head throbbed and he hoped it was no more than the effect of the previous evening’s drink and that it would soon wear off. Each fall of the horse’s hooves pounded inside his head and the pain made him particularly irascible.
‘Tell me what you know about Sheriff Wentworth,’ he snapped at the young guide.
The deputy looked at him with a bewildered expression, he had been perfectly amiable the night before. ‘Well, what do you want to know?’ he asked. ‘He’s a decent enough sort.’ Robert was becoming impatient and could see that he would have to ask his questions in the form of an interrogation.
‘How old is he?’
‘In his early thirties, I think, sir.’
‘Is he Irish?’
‘No, sir, he’s from somewhere called Conventry, in England.’
‘Do you mean Coventry?’
‘Yes sir, sorry sir, that’s the place.’
‘Is he noble born?’
‘No sir, I believe his father is a merchant.’
The High Sheriff had enough information to satisfy him for the moment. At least he wouldn’t be dealing with a dandy, like his own adjutant. His head still throbbed. He had packed a powder for relieving pain in his kit. He knew that it was made from an extract of poppies and he decided that a pinch of the remedy might give him some relief. He didn’t particularly like the way it made him feel, but it was better than this relentless headache. He called the party to a halt and rummaged through his bag until he found it. He took a pinch of the bitter concoction and, within minutes, he was feeling better. He resumed the game of questions with the young lawman.
‘So what does this sheriff of yours do in his spare time?’
‘He always has ‘is nose in a book. The wall in ‘is office is full o’ books. He reads ‘bout the animals an’ the flowers, an’ he even reads ‘bout the rocks. An’ he thinks a lot. He’s the cleverest man I ever knew. Before he does anyt’ing at all, he t’inks about it for a long time and, when he makes a decision, it’s always the right one. When he first came, a few years ago, the men weren’t so sure about him but after they saw how he works, we all came t’ respec’ the man. He got the bandits an’ the gangs cleared out, an’ he hardly had t’ kill anyone. An’, if I might say so, sir, he always talks about how you did the same in Ormond.’
‘Does he have family?’
‘Well, sir, ‘is folks is in England but he’s courtin’ an Irish girl, she lives out Lissyclearig way.’
Robert’s mood was much less testy now that the medicaments had started to work and he was able to think more clearly. It seemed his host was an intellectual commoner and, if he was seeing an Irish girl, then he undoubtedly intended to put down roots here and not head back to England. Robert was amused that this man of letters should hold him in such high esteem. To most people, his reputation was that of a man of action, not the thinking man that he actually was.
The scenery around them was breathtaking and the sheriff allowed himself the luxury of taking in his surroundings. The forest spread out for miles around and reflected itself in a large lake near Killarney town. The mountains created an ever-changing backdrop with the light from the sun. He toyed with the hope that perhaps one day he could come back here and, instead of passing through, he could sit by the shores of the lough and maybe even paint a picture. He shook his head to clear his mind, aware that his thoughts were not his own, but merely the spell cast over him by the headache remedy.
The three men continued their climb until, early in the afternoon, the guide stopped at a wide place in the road, high above the loughs.
‘Sheriff
Wentworth wannid me to stop here and show ye this place,’ said the deputy.
Robert and Ned looked down and, stretched out before them, was the most magnificent panorama either of them had ever seen. Three lakes were in full view in the valley below and the verdant emerald hills around them were punctuated by craggy outcrops of granite and limestone. The lakes shimmered a sapphire blue, with glistening golden spangles cast by the afternoon sun.
‘The sheriff calls it The View,’ he added. Even the world-weary Robert D’Arcy was overwhelmed by the carpet of beauty that was spread out before him.
‘This must be what God sees,’ he said quietly. He tried to memorise the spectacular vista … to burn it into his memory so he would never forget it. Even Ned Flood had to admit he had never seen its like, not even in his beloved Cork.
The horses had rested for long enough and the party climbed onwards towards Moll’s Gap. They had decided they would stay at the stagecoach layover for the night and continue on to Kenmare the next day.
‘A lot of the gentry stay here cuz it’s quieter, an’ it smells better’n the town does,’ volunteered the deputy from Kilkenny. ‘If a coach is pulled by four horses, it c’n make the trip fr’m Kenmare to Killarney easy in a day, that’s if there ain’t no rock slides to block the An Mhor Chuaird. That’s what dey call dis road.’
The five horses were taken to be fed and watered and the men retired to the inn for a meal and a night’s sleep. Robert decided against drinking this evening, he didn’t want another headache like this morning so, when he’d finished eating, he left the two young deputies at the table and wandered outside. The air was crisp and the stars shone in their thousands. The moon was so bright in the crystalline air that Robert thought a man could easily read a book by its light. High up, on the slopes above him, he could see a herd of red deer grazing. This was a sight seldom seen in Ireland, most of the larger wildlife had been harried and hunted to extinction. He watched them for a while and imagined that this was how the whole island must have looked to the first settlers. He wondered what life must have been like for them here, what hopes and dreams they had. He shook his head again but realised that the medicine he’d taken had long since worn off and the only intoxication he felt was the spell cast upon him by the Kerry mountains.
The herd of deer must have numbered over thirty creatures, he tried to count them but lost track. A single animal stood perfectly still, watching him warily. Ah, you’ve posted a sentry, he thought, that’s wise. Robert became mesmerised and he knew he wouldn’t leave until the deer did. Without uttering a sound, he raised both hands above his head. The sentinel flinched, then coiled itself and bound away, flashing its white rump in alarm. The others took flight and followed their leader, over a little rise and down into a depression in the mountain, out of sight. Robert looked around him and wondered if it would always be as perfect here. Agh, if I know humans … and I do, he thought bitterly … this won’t last forever. He took one last lingering look and went back inside.
*
CHAPTER 18
Mikey had slept soundly on the shores of the lough at Gougane Barra and had woken in the light which came just before dawn. The orange-coloured moon was just setting and the sun hadn’t yet risen over the peaks which surrounded this peaceful valley. He thought how different this place was to the world outside it. He studied the features of the lovely young girl who lay slumbering beside him. Her green eyes were closed now but her aquiline nose and her full lips were arousing his passions. He touched her gleaming copper hair gently, hoping it might wake her, but she slept on. He slipped out from beneath the woollen blanket they’d slept under and went to the edge of the water, where he washed himself. He wished he could wash away the sin as easily as he could the dirt. As soon as they found a priest, he would seek contrition and put things right.
He remembered the promise he had made to Morna’s father. He had given him his word that he’d get her out of the valley of Ballyshee and, now, he wondered if it was possible to forego the oath. Perhaps if he remained the village blacksmith, in time the residents would forget he’d ever been a priest. He knew in his heart that wasn’t a possibility, that Ireland was a country built on memories and the fact that he had been the village priest was one memory which would never be forgotten. He thought about the journey back to his home in Gortalocca, it would be fraught with perils. He was well able to make the trip by himself but now, with his beautiful young wife accompanying him, he had the added responsibility of keeping her safe from harm. The thought of her being violated was abhorrent to him. He would stall their departure for a couple of weeks and they would leave only when they had to.
It was getting lighter now and the sun had risen enough for him to see the young woman stirring. She beckoned him to come back to her. He slid back under the blanket and she put her arms around him.
‘Tell me about Tipperary,’ she asked softly. Michael began to describe the green rolling hills and the gentle farmland, while the girl listened dreamily. Abruptly, she interrupted.
‘What about yer fam’ly, do ya t’ink dey’ll like me?’ Mikey smiled and told her the tale of his father’s arrival in Gortalocca, all those years before, and the way he had duped the authorities, and how his mother and father now owned and ran the village spirit grocery. He told her about Jamie Clancy, the orphan who his father had taken on as an apprentice, and how Jamie had been more of a brother to him than his own. He spoke about how Jamie had helped his father build the family home when he was just a boy and how the raiders had burned it down, and how his father had taught Jamie to read.
Morna interrupted again. ‘But Oy can’t read ‘r write,’ she groaned. ‘What’ll dey t’ink of an ignerint farm girl fr’m Cark?’
Michael pulled her tightly to him. ‘They will love you because I love you and, as far as reading and writing are concerned … well, do you want to learn?’
Morna squeezed Michael so tightly that he could barely inhale. ‘Oy’ll make ya so proud o’ me, Michael Hogan, yu’ll see.’
Michael smiled and corrected her. ‘Michael Flynn,’ he said. ‘The name I was given at my Baptism was Michael Patrick Flynn. I took Mam’s maiden name to protect my family from persecution when I went to the seminary.’
Morna released her grip. ‘Who air we, so? Flynns ‘r Hogans?’
Michael gently pulled her head to his chest. ‘We’re Hogans,’ he said, ‘and when we can find a priest, we’ll have a proper ceremony, after we’ve confessed our sin.’
The girl understood Mikey’s guilt but, with the dearth of priests in Ireland now, she was certain that ceremonies such as the one they’d had yesterday must be commonplace throughout the land.
*
The passage to Kenmare was uneventful for the three lawmen. The road twisted and turned through the mountainous terrain, sometimes even doubling back on itself. They walked the horses uphill and trotted them down and the miles passed. The two deputies engaged themselves in lively banter for most of the way and Robert dropped a distance behind them, lost in his thoughts. The pain in his head had come back with a vengeance and, at times, it was so bad that it was all he could think about. Whenever it abated, he let his mind drift around in random thought. He had chosen to take so many paths throughout his life and he wondered, if he’d chosen different ones, what things would have been like for him now. If he had remained in his father’s forge, he would undoubtedly have a shop of his own now. What would life be like if he hadn’t got some hair-brained notion about Irish independence, and gone off on a fool’s errand to fight for the Jacobite cause? What would have become of him if he hadn’t assumed the guise of his dead officer D’Arcy? He would probably have been left in Ireland to become a highwayman instead of a lawman. If he hadn’t gone to France to be a mercenary soldier, there would be at least forty dead men who would probably still be alive now. He thought about the Commandments. ‘Thou shalt not kill’. If one mortal sin would send your soul to perdition for eternity, he mused, how many times would God c
ondemn him? ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife.’ It’s a good thing there wasn’t one which said ‘Thou shalt not covet thy brother’s life.’ He had visited Liam hundreds of times in Gortalocca and he had often felt envious of his brother. Poor dead Liam had the life he wanted for himself, but it was too late for that now. He wallowed in his own self-pity and damned the headache that plagued him. I’ll do what I promised, he thought, I’ll bring Mikey home to his mother.
Ned Flood slowed his horses and allowed the sheriff to catch up.
‘Beggin yer paird’n, sar, butcha ain’t tol’ me much about ‘r assignm’nt.’ Robert realised that Ned had followed him this far on blind faith alone and that he deserved to know what was expected of him.
‘We’re going to find a priest.’
Ned recoiled at the thought. ‘Oy ain’t no priest-hunter,’ he said, sharply
‘Don’t worry, Ned, we’re not doing the devil’s work. We’re bringing this one home to his mother.’ Ned looked less agitated now and curiosity had taken over.
‘Why, sar?’
‘Because he’s my nephew, and I made a promise to my brother’s wife that I’d deliver him home safely to her.’
‘Tell me whatcha know about ‘im sar. Dat way, if sumthin’ happens t’ ya, I c’n keep goin’ ‘till I find ‘im.’
‘He’s about your age, Ned, and about your height and build when I last saw him.’
‘Dat ain’t much t’ go on. Dat d’scribes most o’ d’ blokes in Wes’ Cark.’
‘He was a blacksmith’s apprentice when he got the daft notion about being a priest and he speaks with a Tipp accent.’
‘Beggin’ yer pairdon, sar, boot dat ain’t a daft notion. Dats what dey call a ‘callin’, sar. He mus’ be a brave fella t’ become a priest in times like dis.’
‘He’s a fool, Ned, and that’s something I know about.’
Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy) Page 11