Inside the porch, all was darkness, only the faintest glow of light emanating from the nave, allowing me to find my way up the steps and under the stone archway into the church proper. There was not a sound anywhere save my own footfalls echoing in the vast building, and the creaking, high above, of the roof beams in the wind. I called out his name, but my call found no response and, in the gloom, I could see no sign of Andrew anywhere.
I made my way up the nave towards the chancel. What shapes my straining eyes could make out were large, solid, inanimate – the preacher’s lectern, the stalls of the choir and, at the very far end, the altar itself. I reached the crossing where the transepts cut nave and chancel, and saw, through a gap in the carved wooden screen, that there was a light, a single candle, burning at the end of the aisle to my left. I called Andrew’s name again, and this time the silence that returned it seemed deeper. Slowly, I ascended the steps up to the aisle and began to walk towards the glimmering light. The sound of my boots on the tiled floor was unnaturally loud in my ears, and I could hear my own clothing rustle as if the wind were blowing through them. Every stirring, every noise in the place was emanating from me, and yet I knew that I was not alone. And I knew now where I was going: up ahead of me, rising out of the darkness in marble and alabaster, was the monument above Chichester’s tomb, that ornate manifestation of man’s earthly pride. I had been called to the altar upon which my cousin’s life blood had run and his dream of Ireland perished.
I reached out my hand and touched the creamy stone: it was pure and smooth and clean. Sir Arthur Chichester, late governor of Carrickfergus and Lord Deputy of Ireland, and his wife, Letitia, praying in effigy over the body of their baby son. I read the epitaphs carved into the stone beside them, of how Chichester had made the land flourish in peace, how he had subdued the wildest rebels, and through justice, gained an honoured name.
I remembered what Sean had told me of Chichester’s justice, his road to peace – that he had burnt the homes of the Irish, destroyed their crops to render them starving, and slaughtered the people, without regard for age, sex or quality. I felt within me a quiet fury that my cousin had had to die with this man’s image before his eyes. I spoke again through gritted teeth, quietly at first.
‘Andrew, are you here?’
Nothing.
Louder, then. ‘Andrew? This is no time or place for games. Andrew, I …’
Even as my words were echoing, unfinished, about me, I saw it: a flash of movement, of something shining out of something white. And then before I could understand it there was the sharp, cold tip of the knife in my neck and slicing to the bone. I grabbed out with my left hand, clutching fruitlessly at the sarcophagus as I fell. There was shouting, Andrew shouting my name; his voice was distant but coming closer. He was thundering down the nave, shouting out my name. I was helpless to do anything other than watch my own blood trickle down the creamy marble to the floor, and see the knife fall from the girl’s hand as she ran.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Now these are the judgements’
I thought he was bringing me home. There were no carvings, jewelled staffs or candlesticks here: no distraction from the worship of the Lord; no kaleidoscope of colours in the glass, enticing thoughts of understanding that were beyond the capacity of man. Here were just bare walls and floors, plain windows and simple benches, and the sound that rose out of the near-darkness around me was a call to God.
But my arrival, as Andrew staggered through the door with me in his arms, disrupted that moment of pure worship. Words faltered and stopped as the notes fell away. Women’s voices exclaimed in shock, the men quickly turned to organisation, and a way was cleared for us to the preacher’s dais. One man went for the sergeant, another for the doctor. A cloth was pulled from the altar and strips torn for my throat. An old woman bent towards me to do the work while the strong arms of the preacher bore me up beneath the shoulders. The old woman drew back slightly, just a moment.
‘He has the look of the debauch, the merchant Richard FitzGarrett’s grandson, but he is dead.’
‘It is the other grandson. A Scot, and one of our faith.’
‘Then what is this in his hand?’ asked the precentor, forcing open my fingers to reveal the crucifix gripped between them. I looked in confusion at my own palm, bloodied, where I had put my hand up at the last second to grab at the knife and had clutched instead at the crucifix, causing Margaret’s knife to slip from the place where it should have entered my neck. I tried but failed to speak, and the women hushed me.
‘There will be time for that later,’ said Andrew, and then to the precentor, ‘Believe that he is no Papist. Now I must go and find the girl before she brings harm on herself.’ He paused a moment to look at me, but where I could make no words heard, he could not find the right ones. He left me to the ministrations of the Presbyterians of Carrickfergus in their meeting house, and went out into the night to hunt for Margaret.
It was morning before they moved me from the meeting house. One of the congregation, not knowing of my relations with my grandmother, had sent word to let her know I lay gravely injured in their care, but that I could be brought to her home when the doctor had finished with me. The messenger returned in a very short time, with the comforting words from Maeve that if they would do her some service, they might tell her when I was dead. But he also brought with him a note, secretly penned by Deirdre, telling them precisely when to bring me to the back entrance of my grandmother’s house, what they were to say, and who they were and were not to speak to when they got there.
And so it was that a little before ten the next morning, I found myself once more in the backyard of the FitzGarrett town house, seeking secret entry as I had done only two weeks ago, newly arrived from Scotland. I had been borne on a litter and helped to walk the last few yards. At precisely ten, one of my escort knocked hard three times on the door, and it was opened at once by Deirdre. She brought me quickly inside and shut the door, putting her finger to her lips in warning. Then she started up the back stairs, indicating that I should follow her. But I was weak from loss of blood and unsteady on my feet, and after the first two steps swayed to the side and slumped down the wall. I tried to stand up again but the effort was beyond me: I could only crawl. She struggled as best she could to help me, but it was almost fifteen minutes before we reached the safety of Andrew’s chamber.