Dublin (83 page)

  "You can't," MacGowan blurted out. But Tom had already driven past.

  That evening, as the dusk was falling, Michael MacGowan did all he could to persuade his friend to leave again. "What is the necessity," he demanded, "of putting yourself in danger for no reason at all?" But he got nowhere. Tom was adamant.

  As a result, MacGowan spent a sleepless night. Before dawn, he went to his yard, mounted his horse, and rode out of Dalkey. As he rode through the grey predawn, the words of a secret conversation he had recently had were echoing, coldly, in his ear.

  "He must leave, MacGowan. Or else…"

  "I realise that," he had replied, "but I'm not going to kill him, you know."

  "You will not be asked to do it, though the O'Byrnes might," the voice of the other had calmly replied.

  "Make him leave."

  They came into Carrickmines during the night. It was cleverly done. They did not come in groups, but singly, leading their horses through the darkness with sacking on their hoofs, so that they should neither be seen nor heard. Nor were they, for even the stars were hidden behind a blanket of cloud. In this manner, at dead of night, the Dalkey squadron, Harold's men, and all the rest-a total of sixty horsemen and as many foot soldiers-passed through the gates of Carrickmines and vanished inside like so many ghostly warriors into a magic hill.

  When dawn arose, Carrickmines looked exactly the same as before. The gate was shut, but that was not unusual. Corralled inside, the horses sometimes made a little noise, but the thick stone walls trapped these sounds within. In the middle of the morning, Walsh appeared on the walls with his falcon. He loosed it into the sky where it flew for some time before returning. That was the only movement seen that morning at the castle of Carrickmines.

  It was in the afternoon, when he had gone up onto the wall alone, that Walsh thought he saw the girl concealed amongst some rocks a little way to the south.

  Unless she had been there the night before, he was sure she could not have any idea that Carrickmines was full of soldiers. After a short while he went down again. To make everything seem normal, he opened the gates and let a cart, driven by one of his men, leave the castle and creak across to a neighbouring farm, returning later with some provisions. In the meantime, the gate was left casually half open, and two of his children went out to play. They practised hurling until the cart came back, jumping on it as it went in through the gate, which was still left ajar for some time after it was inside. He knew that the dark- haired girl must have observed all this, because when he went up onto the wall as the children came in, he had seen her watching carefully from another vantage point some way farther up the slope.

  In the early evening, however, when he went up again, he could not see her and concluded that she had gone.

  "I am sure," he said to Harold when he had descended, "that they will attack tonight."

  There was something strange about Dalkey today. Tom felt it from the first moment when he went out into the street. Was it just his imagination? A case of nerves? He considered that, of course. But he didn't think so. Yet it had been a perfect Dalkey morning. The dawn mist had given way to a light, salty haze. As the sky cleared to a soft blue, little clouds came floating in, white as the spume from the sea. Tom had even felt a sense of cheerfulness as he came out of his house and began to walk down the street. Seeing one of his neighbours, he had wished him good morning, just as he would on any other day. But though the man had answered something, it had seemed to Tom that there was an awkwardness in his manner. A few moments later, he had seen one of the fishermen mending nets in front of his cottage give him a strange look; and as he went farther, he had the distinct impression that he was being watched from both sides of the street. It was an eerie sensation, as if he had suddenly become an unwelcome guest in his own village.

  Then he had gone into MacGowan's house and found that his friend had disappeared. He had looked around Dalkey and asked several people, but no one seemed to have any idea where MacGowan had gone. It was very strange. After a while Tom had returned to his home and stayed there for the rest of the morning. At noon, he went round to MacGowan's again, but there was still no sign of him. On his way back this time, he met a couple of men and a woman in the street.

  Though they acknowledged his greeting, he noticed the same awkwardness. One of the men tried to avert his eyes, and the woman said, "I thought you were in Dublin," in a tone of voice that suggested she thought that Dublin was where he belonged. By the time he reached his house again, he was in a sombre mood.

  There were only hours to go: a warm afternoon, a long summer evening, the slowly gathering dusk, and then, at last, blackness. And in the middle of that blackness, the terrible trap at Carrickmines. The thought of it oppressed him. He wished he could put it out of his mind. More than once, as he sat in his house alone, Tom wondered whether he had been wrong.

  MacGowan had vanished; was it because he was afraid?

  His neighbours seemed to be no longer his friends; did they know something he did not? Should he go back to Dublin, after all? But two things prevented him.

  The first was shame. If he turned up at MacGowan's brother's house again now, wouldn't he look like an idiot? The second might have been bravery, or it might have been obstinacy. But hadn't he taken a decision to stay here in Dalkey and face the danger, he reminded himself? He wasn't going to back down now.

  The afternoon passed slowly. He tried to keep himself occupied. He washed down the horses and found chores to do indoors. Nobody came by. He paced about restlessly in the yard. By mid- afternoon he felt like going to the little church, but he forced himself to wait. He'd go at the usual time, not before.

  He went into the barn and cleaned out all the carts, not because it needed doing but to fill some more time, until, at last, he felt the hour approaching. And he was standing in the yard, gauging the light and just about to leave, when glancing out towards the common, he caught sight of something by one of the rocks. It was hard to tell what it was. A dark sheep, perhaps-many of the Dalkey sheep had dark fleeces. A trick of the light?

  Or something else. A girl's black hair?

  The dark-haired girl. Why should she have come into his mind? It was absurd. His imagination was playing games with him, and he knew it. He shook his head impatiently.

  She would have a good view of his yard from out there. She'd have seen all his movements. Was there someone watching the other side of his house? Anybody in Dalkey could be doing that. He stared at the dark patch beside the rock, seeing if he could discern a face. He could not-and the reason he couldn't, he told himself firmly, was that there was no face there to be seen. He took a deep breath and turned away, refusing to let himself look at the spot anymore. He began to walk out of the yard. It was time to go to church. As he passed into the empty street, he looked back, and saw the dark- haired girl spring up and run swiftly from her hiding place towards the far end of the village.

  The church was quiet. The shafts of afternoon sunshine falling from its small windows bathed the interior in a warm and gentle light. Nobody else was there. He went to his usual place behind the screen and, trembling, knelt down to pray. He said a paternoster, and several Ave Marias. Then another paternoster. The words seemed to coil themselves around him, soothing, healing.

  He accepted their protective power, gratefully.

  He had been in quiet prayer for some time when he heard the church door opening.

  There were two of them. One had a soft footfall; the other sounded heavier, as if he was wearing stout boots. There was no reason why two people shouldn't have entered the church, of course. But his mind raced back to the previous week. He couldn't help it. Was it the girl again? And her unknown companion? He felt himself go cold. com8ally are sure he is here?" A deep voice.

  A voice he didn't know.

  "I am sure." It was said softly, yet the voice sounded familiar. He froze.

  "Where is he, then?"

  If there was an answer, it was inaudible. But it made no difference. The footsteps were coming straight in his direction.

  They were coming for him. There was nothing to be done. What a fool he'd been, when he could have stayed in Dublin. But now it was too late. He hadn't even a weapon with which to defend himself. They were going to kill him: he knew it for a certainty. Would they kill him there, in the church? No. This was Ireland.

  They wouldn't do that. They'd be taking him to a quiet place somewhere. Then he'd disappear. Perhaps he'd soon be out there, buried under Dalkey common. He hesitated whether to stay on his knees in prayer or get up and face them like a man; the footsteps were coming very close. They stopped. He turned and looked up.

  It was MacGowan. And a tall, saturnine man, whom he recognised as Doyle. He frowned. His friend? And the Dublin merchant? Surely they could not be in league with O'Byrne? His mind reeled at the thought of such a betrayal. Then Doyle spoke.

  "You must leave, Tidy. You must come with us now." And as Tom stared uncomprehending, the merchant's dark face broke into a kindly smile. "MacGowan has told me everything. You're a brave man, Thomas Tidy. But we can't let you stay here."

  He reached out his long arm and took Tom gently but firmly by the elbow. "It's time to go."

  Tom got up slowly. He frowned. "You mean.

  ..?" he began.

  "I mean that I'm taking you to Dublin," Doyle said quietly. "You'll be staying in my house for a little while, until this business is over."

  "You think they know? They might suspect," Tom pointed out, "but they may not know."

  "I'm sure they know." It was said with finality.

  Tom considered.

  "Harold must have talked," he said sadly. "There's no one else." He sighed. "Though even so," he added, "I don't know how it would have got to the O'Byrnes."

  He saw Doyle and MacGowan exchange glances. He couldn't guess what they might know, but he realised that Doyle had informants everywhere.

  "There are no secrets in Ireland, Tidy," the merchant said.

  They led him out, and he didn't argue anymore.

  Doyle had a cart waiting with a servant holding the reins. "MacGowan will see to your house," the merchant said, as he manoeuvred Tom into the cart.

  A dozen people had gathered outside to watch. Tom glanced at them. But though they were watching him, it was really Doyle they were looking at. As the merchant got into the cart after him, he stared round them all with a stern, dark scowl, and they bowed their heads. Tom couldn't help admiring the man: his power was palpable.

  As the cart rolled out of Dalkey and took the lane towards Dublin, he had to admit that he felt a secret sense of relief.

  It was nearly midnight. Far above, high clouds obscured the stars; the black shadow of the moon hung, unseen, in another world.

  To Harold, standing beside Walsh on the castle wall, the surrounding blackness was so silent, so intimate, that it seemed as if Carrickmines were enclosed within a huge oyster shell. In the castle yard below, the sixty horses were crowded together; their soft grunts and snorts, and the occasional scraping of hoofs pawing the ground, were the only sound within the walls.

  Harold peered out towards the rock-strewn plain.

  Though his eyes were well accustomed to the dark, and he could sometimes make out vague shapes in the distance, he could not detect any sign of movement. He strained his ears, but heard nothing. It seemed almost unnatural, this smothered, black silence. He waited tensely.

  Yet despite the tension, he could not help it if his mind strayed once or twice. He found himself thinking of his family. It was for them he was doing this, after all. Even if I am killed tonight, he thought, the sacrifice will have been necessary. It was worth it.

  He remembered the meetings with the Justiciar, and with Tom Tidy. The fellow from Dalkey had been brave enough, in his way. Harold was glad that the Justiciar had not made him disclose the source of his information, so that he'd been able to protect the Dalkey man. He'd been very discreet. He hadn't even mentioned Tidy to his wife. So unless Tidy had told his secret to someone else, he should be safe.

  He felt a nudge at his elbow.

  "Listen." Walsh's voice, very low, beside him.

  Horses. Somewhere out there in front of the gate.

  Harold heard them now: a faint sound of hoofs, a snort. How many? Impossible to know. Not less than a dozen, he thought; but it could be a hundred. This was it, then. O'Byrne had come.

  "Get the men mounted," Walsh whispered. "I'll keep watch." Harold turned and hurried down from the wall. As he did so, he thought he heard the sound of footfalls coming towards the gate. were they bringing ladders to scale the walls? A moment later he was running round the castle yard, hissing the order to mount, while one of his men called out softly,

  "Torches."

  They were well prepared. Nobody spoke. Even the horses seemed to know that they must be silent. The men on the gate had their orders. The foot soldiers had been waiting in Walsh's hall. Each carried two torches which they would now be lighting at the big brazier in there. On the order, they would rush out, handing a torch to each rider; then they would either race up to defend the walls or stream out of the gate after the cavalry. Walsh would make that call.