Ned smiled and reassured Robert that a man with a Tipp accent shouldn’t be too hard to locate but that, since the mountain people have no trust in strangers, it would be better if he did the talking and Robert just did the listening. Robert thought for a moment and agreed. Ned was wiser than he had imagined and he began to soften his opinion of this feisty lad from Cork. As the young fellow made to ride off, Robert said to him,
‘You know, Flood, I’m getting tired of being sheriff.’ Ned turned as if he’d been poked with a pointed stick. ‘And I have an idea about what I want to do next.’
‘Ah sure yu’ll alw’ys be d’ sheriff, sar. It’s whatcha do,’ Ned dismissed the statement as if it wasn’t even an option. Robert’s head throbbed. He closed his eyes to the glaring sun and drifted off to sleep in the saddle.
The three men rode through Carhoomeengar, stopping for a quick meal of bread and cheese and, just as it was getting dark, they entered the township of Lissyclearig. It wouldn’t be long now before they reached their destination, Kenmare. It had been a long hard day in the saddle and Robert finally relented and took another pinch of the headache remedy. He reminded himself that he needed to stay alert because he was soon to meet the young sheriff in town.
Kenmare was a new town, by Irish standards. In days past, it had been a monastic site, but the town itself was only around forty years old. It owed it existence to the beautiful anchorage and the fishing that it provided. The sheriff’s office had been built for the purpose, unlike Robert’s office in the old Norman castle and this new construction, although practical, lacked the character and gravitas of his own.
Robert handed Ned a shilling and told him to see to the horses, while he went to meet the sheriff. He warned the young deputy not to get into any altercations with the Kerrymen and not to get too drunk. They would be leaving first thing in the morning.
Nigel Wentworth was an enthusiastic young sheriff. To Robert, he looked to be little more than a boy, but Robert was under no delusions. He knew that he was getting to the age, now, when all young men seemed like children to him. The young fellow greeted Robert enthusiastically, shook his hand firmly and bade him to sit, then poured them both a glass of sherry.
‘I’m honoured to meet you, sir, you are somewhat of a legend around here,’ he said, raising his glass. Robert was embarrassed and ignored the remark. He took a sip of the sherry and looked around him at the vast library of books and framed paintings the young man had on his wall. He noticed a section of books on natural history and science.
‘Have you read all of these?’ he asked, hoping to change the subject.
‘I have, o’course, sir.’ It amused Robert to note that the young fellow from Coventry had allowed Irish colloquialisms to creep into his speech. His attempt to change the subject hadn’t deterred the new sheriff from pursuing his original line of conversation. ‘I’ve heard stories of how you swept the bandits from the Wicklow mountains,’ he said excitedly, ‘and then went and did the very same thing up in North Tipperary.’
‘Agh, the time for men like me is past, Sheriff Wentworth.’
‘Please call me Nigel, sir.’
‘Very well, Nigel. Those days are all but over. Now, it’s time for young men like yourself, who use your intelligence, not for brutes like me.’
‘You are too modest, sir. You have a reputation for always being fair and never killing anyone who didn’t deserve it. Whenever the situation called for action, you were the man, and when it called for intellect, you were equally able to perform those duties too.’
‘I’m too old and too tired to argue with you, Nigel. You’ll just have to take my word for it that men like you are the future of our country.’ Robert had chosen his words carefully, with the intention of testing the young man.
‘If you mean that our country has seen too much violence, sir, then of course I concur.’ The young fellow had passed Robert’s test with flying colours, referring to Ireland as ‘our country.’ Ireland had swallowed another immigrant whole.
‘So tell me, sir, what brings you so far from home?’
‘I’m looking for someone, Nigel.’
‘He must have done something seriously wrong to bring you all the way to Kerry.’
‘It’s serious, indeed, he’s a priest.’
Nigel stood up from his chair now and held himself erect. ‘I’ll have no business with priest-hunters here,’ he stated bluntly. ‘It’s a detestable duty you’re performing, sir.’
Robert smiled. ‘The priest I’m looking for is my brother’s son. My brother died and I promised his widow that I would bring her son home.’
The young man relaxed and sat back down. ‘In that case, you had better find him quickly. There’s a notorious priest-catcher in Glengarriff and, if he finds him before you do, he will most certainly hang him.’ This was news to Robert and it added a note of urgency to his task. He wished he had followed the advice of his subordinate and come into the mountains by way of Macroom.
‘What do you know about this priest-hunter?’
‘His name is Percival Grey, sir, Captain Percival Grey. He’s a mean spirited, ugly pig, so full of himself that I don’t even care to be in the same room with him. He’s a sneaky, conniving bastard, who even his own mother couldn’t trust. The worst part is that he’s as smart as a fox. He has everyone intimidated and, in his conceit, he believes that it’s respect. He hates all things Irish, especially the people themselves, and he’s not afraid to use cruelty and terror to accomplish his goals.’
Robert exhaled audibly. ‘I’ll be needing a letter of introduction from you. I hope we don’t have to use it, because I’d rather not cross paths with the man.’
Sheriff Wentworth opened the drawer of his desk and, as he was writing, he said, ‘Did you know I’m Catholic?’
Robert was astounded. ‘I didn’t,’ he blurted. ‘I thought there were no Catholics at all left in England.’
Now it was the young man’s turn to smile. ‘Oh, there are,’ he said. ‘Not many, of course, but trying to get rid of us is like trying to get rid of nits. They’ll always be a few of us left. If you’re surprised by that, then you’ll be even more surprised to hear that my father’s mother was a Jew. That’s where he got the money and the expertise to start the textile business. My father was a cobbler.
Robert shook his head in astonishment. ‘It seems we both have secrets to share then, boyo.’
Nigel poured them each another glass of sherry.
*
CHAPTER 19
Michael and Morna decided to take a more direct route back to Ballyshee. The ridges would be just as steep but the valleys were more densely wooded. As they crested a hill, they saw some people coming out from a copse of trees. This was Sunday and Michael told Morna he thought they must have been to a Mass, that there was no other reason for them to be out here in such a remote place. The young couple changed course and headed towards the woodland where the people had come from.
There, amongst the trees, they saw a large granite outcrop with a flat surface. Michael went over to the rock and noticed traces of candlewax, confirming what he had suspected. This was a Mass Rock and secret church services were undoubtedly held here. He looked around him, hoping to find the priest, but there was nobody to be seen so he and Morna sat on the stone and opened the sack which contained their food. Michael had been disappointed not to find someone who could marry them properly and he reiterated his promise to Morna that, as soon as it was possible to do so, he would make his confession and then they could be married in the eyes of the Church. He had only just finished expressing himself when a rasping voice came out of the shadows.
‘Da oyes u d’ Charch air on ye now!’ it croaked.
Michael almost jumped out of his skin as an old mendicant moved out from the shadows.
‘Oy haird ya, boyo,’ he said, ‘an’ Oy’ll give ye yer penance widdout hearin’ a c’nfession. But Oy’ll have a bit o’ dat bread an’ cheese first.’ The old fellow grinned at the you
ng couple, who were staring at him in astonishment, looking as he did like a spectre, with his grey robe draped over skin and bones. Still dumbfounded, Michael held out the lump of bread he’d been about to eat and the old man grabbed it and ate hungrily.
‘An’ ef ye got any beer in dat water boddle, Oy’ll give ye a plenary indulgence too.’
Mikey proffered the leather sack to the old priest and found his voice. ‘It’s only water,’ he said.
The wizened man waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Ah sure, Oy’ll give ye d’ indulgence anyways.’
He drank a good few slugs of the water, gave a loud belch and handed the water bottle back to Michael, who, he could see, was surveying him from top to toe.
‘Agh! Oy wuz a fat fella once, back when toimes w’s good. Now Oy’m just a bagga bones, b’t Oy thanks ye fer sharin’ yer repast wit me. Now tell me, what is it Oy’m fergivin’ ye fer?’
Michael liked the cut of this old fellow and explained to him how he’d been less than candid with Morna concerning the mechanics of the marriage ceremony they’d had. Morna watched Michael’s face as he told the priest their circumstances and, when he’d finished, she spoke.
‘Mikey, Oy might be ignerint, boot Oy ain’t no eejit. Oy knew you was jus’ tryin’ t’ foind a way t’ get me t’ say yes, and Oy said yes befar ya hadda chance t’ change yer moind.’
The old priest jumped in before Michael could reply. ‘Da marriage jus’ needs d’ blessin’ o’ d Church, so kneel yerselves down.’ The two young people knelt down in front of the old cleric, who spoke to Morna first. ‘Take off d’ ring, garl, so’s he c’n poot it back on yer finger.’
‘No,’ said Morna firmly. Michael looked at her in surprise but the old man just shrugged and began.
‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti … dere, you’re married with d’ blessin o’ d’ Church.’
Michael looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure you’re a priest?’ he asked.
Mikey’s question irked the old man. ‘D’ya t’ink Oy’d be stairvin’ t’ death if Oy w’s d’ King o’ England? Oy use t’be a fire an’ brimshtawn sart o’ priest, wit ev’ryt’ing coot an’ droid, boot me years in exile taught me dat dere ain’t nuthin black ‘n white. Moses wen’ oop Mount Sinai an’ come back down wit’ a cupla shtones dat had all d’ sins written on ‘em. If d’ Pope went oop t’day, sure he’d need a harse an’ cart t’ carry all d’ shtones!’
Michael felt a little ashamed at his lack of faith regarding the old priest and he spoke to Morna in whispers for a few moments. They decided they could easily return to Ballyshee without eating any more food so they left the remainder of their victuals with the old mendicant. They thanked him and bade him good day and, as they walked away, they heard him bless them for their generosity.
A few minutes into their hike, Morna suggested that they bring the starving man home with them. Michael didn’t have to think long before he gave her his decision.
‘No,’ he replied. Morna was surprised at her husband. She had thought it would be the Christian thing to do.
‘The old man is simple in the head so he’s dangerous,’ Mikey told her. ‘If we bring him back with us, sooner or later he’ll attract attention to the village and that will bring the troops. They’ll burn the houses and drive off the livestock and do God-knows-what other mischief if they think the village is harbouring a priest.’
Morna wasn’t satisfied and harped on with her argument but Michael was accustomed to women. His mother had always got her own way, even when she’d been wrong, but the prospect of the village being burned down was no trivial matter, especially going into harvest season.
‘It’s not like bringing home a stray collie dog, Morna,’ he told her. ‘This is a priest, and a mad priest, at that.’
Ireland was full of the starving dispossessed. From late autumn until April, the roads were littered with the dead. Often, the skeletal bodies were just shoved into the ditches to be left as carrion for the foxes and crows. After a while, even the most sensitive of people became hardened to sights which would previously have sickened them. Death, whether sudden or by starvation, was a part of life. It had to be accepted and accept it the people did, believing that all things, good and bad, were God’s will and that He must let them happen for a reason.
Morna knew she wasn’t going to change Michael’s mind and so the young couple continued their journey with no further mention of the old priest. It did bother Michael that they hadn’t asked the priest his name. It troubled Morna too that they had been married in an unnamed valley, among a grove of trees, by a priest whose name they would never know … but the marriage was sanctified now and that was all that mattered.
*
Percival Grey sat in his office planning his latest scheme, which was to ferret out the younger of the two priests who, he’d been told, had encroached on his jurisdiction. Percy disregarded, but had not forgotten about, the old priest … that old Papist would probably not last through to the autumn. No, he was particularly interested in the younger one and he had received a valuable piece of information that would help to trap him. An informer from Macroom had reported that the man’s hands were hard from manual labour and that meant he was, most likely, disguising himself as a farmer. Grey’s usual practice of offering a bounty for information in towns like Glengarriff, Bantry or Macroom had brought results in the past, but the Irish pigs who lived and worked in the more remote and rural communities were tight-lipped. The only way to glean information from them was to put a rat amongst them. He rang for his adjutant to come to his office.
‘Have we got a bloody Irishman to put on the tinker’s wagon yet?’ he barked to the young lieutenant, who stood with his hand raised to his forehead, waiting for a return salute. When none was forthcoming, he eventually lowered his hand.
‘We have, sir, several,’ the young man replied. ‘They’re from Derry.’
‘That’s no good, you idiot,’ snapped Percy. ‘They sound more like Scots than Irish. Didn’t we get one from Cork City last year?’
‘We did, sir, but you hanged him for striking a corporal.’
‘Damn it! Anyway, if I remember rightly, you executed him,’ contradicted Percival.
‘Under your orders, sir,’ protested the lieutenant.
‘No matter. Put one of the Derrymen on the wagon and send him out to the lice-infested hovels. I’ll smoke that bloody Papist out before the leaves fall.’
*
Robert D’Arcy’s plan to find his nephew was reaching its final phase now and he told Sheriff Wentworth they would leave their uniforms and chargers under his care until they returned from Cork. From this time onwards, he and Ned would become common Irishmen, albeit on uncommon horses. They dressed in the clothes Roisin had given Robert, in order to pass more easily into the territory which he knew to be patrolled by Percival Grey’s company of redcoats. With Ned Flood as his guide and mouthpiece, they would find Michael and return him to his mother.
Robert checked his bag one last time, laying his supplies out on a blanket he’d spread on the stable floor. There was a small brass spyglass, a compass, the two small pistols, the blades and the sack containing the caltrops. He checked his purse. He had almost two pounds, much of it in shillings and pennies. When he found Michael, he would take him out of reach of the priest-hunter, then put him on a stagecoach and send him back to Nenagh. He and Ned would follow.
The two men began their journey to Glengariff. Ned wasn’t at all comfortable about being unarmed but Robert explained that two armed men might be mistaken for highwaymen.
‘Sure, dat’s no problem where we’re goin’,’ protested Ned. ‘Highwaymen is held ‘n high regard boy d’ locals. Ya see, bandits air look’d on as a sart o’ rebel against d’ English, an’ d’ people here ‘n Wes’ Cark love deir rebels. Ya jus’ gotta be careful, cuz some o’ dem moight wanna tarn ya in fer a reward. Me cousin, who was d’ son o’ me ooncle dat got hung in d’ Glen wit’ me da, prob’ly still lives dere, near where
we’re goin’, so we c’n stash our goods an’ harses dere an’ walk intuh town loike a coople o’ beggars.’
Robert was glad that Ned had already filled in the details of the plan because truthfully, up until now, he really hadn’t a clue as to how they would find Mikey. It seemed that his young compatriot, on the other hand, had given it considerable thought and Robert vowed he wouldn’t underestimate his inexperienced deputy in the future. He appreciated and respected guile in a man, whether he be a partner or an adversary, and the success of any plan relied heavily on one’s companions.
The two Hobby horses covered the ground quickly and easily at a long trot, the low coastal hills proving effortless to them. They had been bred in Ireland since the Normans arrived, replacing the big cumbersome heavy horse with the more durable and agile Hobby. The English had never appreciated the breed, even after they’d had to ban the exportation of them to Scotland, during the time of Robert the Bruce. The Scots had used the Irish horses to harry English garrisons in a guerilla war which lasted for many years.
When they got to within five miles of Glengariff, Ned reined his horse to a halt.
‘Da English’ll be puttin’ out pickets to guard d’ road,’ he told Robert. ‘Dey know dat dey only own d’ land in d’ towns hereabouts, an’ dat d’ countryside belongs t’ us when we’re outside o’musket range. We’ll tarn off d’ main rawd here an’ go t’ me cousin’s house.’
The path climbed steeply up into the hills and sparse trees gave way to gorse and heather, rocks protruding from the ground as if they were the very bones of the land. The afternoon sun was fading now and night was approaching. Ned knew the way and led on. In places, the path folded back on itself and they could see the bay stretching out into the ocean. The moon had passed full and was rising now, the colour of a pumpkin, but it was all the light Ned needed to negotiate the tortured path.
Robert had just begun to wonder if they’d ever arrive at the cousin’s house, when it was as if his companion had read his mind.
Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy) Page 12