Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [272]
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.
“You 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