—Part One—
April 17th, 1650—Near Tulla
To the Honourable Mrs Power,
After I received your letter expressing your most virtuous and compassionate desire to me—namely, that I should travel to Dublin and endeavour to receive your brother’s last confession—of course I hastened to gather a few necessary supplies and set out on my journey immediately. Indeed, I have not yet managed to eat a proper meal since my departure, but we expect the wagon to arrive at Tulla soon enough where we will stop for the night.
To begin, I regret to hear the news of the passing of your husband. I was pleased to hear word of your union years ago, and I heard tales of his goodness and gentilesse. My heart is a tempest of worry for your wellbeing. I thank God that you managed to escape with your children before the English arrived. I pray ceaselessly that the city of Clonmel stands firm—God forbid it should suffer the same fate as Drogheda or Wexford! May God keep you and your children safe.
I began my journey on foot carrying no more than an old soldier’s pack containing but a spare pair of trousers and a few other fresh garments, some bread and cheese, as well as what coins I could muster. Truthfully, the Priory’s coffers helped me more than a little in that regard… and what good would the coins do where they were? Better that they come with me and help the needy than fall into the hands of the English, whenever they should arrive at Ennis. For when that day comes—and I fear it will be soon—our Priory will surely be no more!
I inquired of a merchant at Ennis which would be the safest and quickest path to Dublin, and he advised that the highway from Limerick to Dublin is the more dangerous of late, and Cromwell’s army is nearby and liable to turn north at any time now that Spring has blossomed fully. Therefore he prescribed a road that leads through Tulla and Scariff; thence to the country paths which lead north along the east of Lough Derg; thence to Portumna Bridge; thence eastward to Tullamore; and thence to Dublin. He assured me that these lands were as yet still mostly controlled by Cavalier or Confederate forces and I would be less likely to come to harm. But of course, I shall have to conceal my Catholic priesthood wherever necessary, and most of all when in Dublin. To this end I have claimed a name for myself: Charles FitzSimon, Clerk of Wexford.
It was not long after I set out on foot from Ennis that I was picked up by a party riding the mail cart to Tulla, and I travel with them now. I sit here at the end of the wagon, my sides pushed up against the tremulous and worried limbs of my fellow travelers. My inkwell is nestled between my legs, beneath my notebook upon which I write these jittery words. All who travel worry—the whole island is beset by war and we might be robbed at any moment by a thief or a soldier of any stripe. They tell me that the field of Rathmines is still red, while the same ruddy hounds bay and bomb at the gates of Clonmel.
It is cold. Drizzle falls from the grey sky, but my parchment is protected by the sailcloth atop the cart, and thus I take advantage of it by writing this letter. I wanted to tell you what I already know of your brother, Patrick. Surely we’ve all heard the stories—of his days with the Countess of Kildare; of his days with the Earl of Antrim; of his subsequent turn to outlawry and thievery—and although by now I have not seen him in a few years, I believe myself to be much more to him than merely the priest of his town and receiver of his childhood confessions, and thus am I in a far better position than most to draw a clear and truthful picture of his deeds and misdeeds, and to differentiate truth from lie among the roaring swirl of rumours and condemnations that surround him—indeed, that have always surrounded him. For as surely as I was the priest who baptized him—for which I feel as great a sense of responsibility over his life as even you do, dear madam—and as surely as I was the priest who taught him to say prayer, I was also surely his friend many times when he dearly needed a friend, and he told me many things as a friend also. I’ll tell you now that I always thought mightily of him and had great hopes for him. Such a clever, strong, handsome boy he was—just like his mother and sisters, I’ll add.
And surely, I know what it’s like to have been driven away from one’s home. Not everyone in Athlone knew it, but I will tell you that in fact my mother’s elder brother was the great Maccon O’Cleary, bard of the O’Donnells, as his father had been also, and as had many of my family been for hundreds of years before. I might have been bard of the O’Donnells myself one day, but destiny determined otherwise. I fled Ireland along with my brothers, my father, my cousins, and the earls of Ulster—O’Donnell, O’Neill, and the rest—to Normandy when I was but a lad of twenty years. We didn’t bring my mother, but planned to return to her soon. My father went on to Italy with Rory O’Donnell but left me with the Franciscans at Leuven, along with my brothers and cousins, where I remained for most of three years. Then my father died of the fever in Rome. Wanting to return to my mother, I set out for Ireland with a jovial cousin, Mulry O’Cleary; this the Year of Christ 1610. We two friars traveled as I do now—on foot or on the benevolent wheels of strangers—and crossed the water to England and found that all our money had been spent or lost. It was there that I first assumed the name of Charles FitzSimon, for neither Gael nor Franciscan much themselves endear to the streets of London; and Mulry called himself Jacob Prendergast.
Mulry was more Falstaff than Bishop, and in truth neither of us took our vows fully to heart in those days. Like errant barbarians wandering the streets of Rome, in London we learned much about the pleasures and vices of the peasant order, which are numerous (for the paths towards damnation are many, while the paths towards salvation few), but a beautiful city it is withal! My favourite among these pleasures was doubtless the theatre. God forgive me, I saw many plays during my months in London, and I lived there for the better part of a year. It was there that I learned to speak and write so well the language of the Sassunach (God knows we avoided it well enough at Leuven). Of course, that was before I turned away forever from the life of earthly joys and pursued wholeheartedly my vocation as servant of God, which I did shortly after my return home.
But no more about that, for I promised to tell you what I know of your brother, Patrick. Well do I remember the smile on his face as he held your mother’s hand, as you walked towards my chapel on a sunny, Sunday morning. Indelibly has the image been etched into my memory, of you, your two sisters, your three brothers, your charming mother and your tall father, Mr Flemming, behind you all with his blue cloak and olive-coloured cavalier: a permanent picture of perfect, unadulterated, and pure familial joy. Who could have imagined that one day that same sunny street would be carved horribly with the muddy scars of misfortune, and all of our lives cast asunder thus? But fear not, dear lady: put your faith in God and all will be right in the world once again.
I hear my fellow travelers say that Tulla is near. Their anxiety is assuaged; they say that the road is clear and quiet. I will try to finish quickly. The rain has stopped falling and my back begins to ache from the ride. Lord, how I long to sleep in a good bed! I trust that I will be able to find decent lodgings in the town. My joints burn; to think that I used to walk all day long and now a short ride leaves me with such pains as these!
A clever boy he was, and restless. I remember even in the chapel how he would vie against his siblings for your mother’s attention, second son that he was, and how she hushed him with promises. He was fair, with angelic face and pure voice. No malice did I ever sense in him then. In school he learned to read and write well enough despite his aggravated aspect, and I remember hearing Schoolmaster Murphy speak grandly of him (although it is true too that sometimes he had occasion to complain of his impudence). True it is also that the boy fought, and often, although never more than can be expected from young lads of that age.
I suppose, then, that it was not so surprising after all that he should run into trouble with the Countess of Kildare. I remember the day he set out to Castle Kilkea with his younger brother, Joseph, on the trader’s wagon. He had a fearful, sorrowful look, and who would blame him for it? I too would be dejected in relinquishing the dear embrace of a sweet mother to travel miles away to be the footboy of a stranger. Would the Lady Elizabeth Nugent, Countess of Kildare, be as gentle a master? How could she be? A widow she was, wearying of her irksome job of rearing her son, and she was known to be bilious. Perhaps the lusty restlessness of a lad such as Patrick, whose height and strength grew almost visibly by the day, could not but at worst fray on her nerves, at best fill her with jealous longings for a careless liveliness now sadly beyond her reach forever. I speculate only. But we do know that he earned much rough chastisement in Castle Kilkea, for whatever reason.
The carriage has now halted, and the time has come for me to depart from the good company of the mail cart and seek lodgings for the night—and a steamy meal too, I hope. I pray that God keeps you safe in Cashel. Please be sure to stay well away from the English, but be sure also to let me know if you move so that my letters may still find you.
Your Faithful Servant,
Father Killian O’Dorrian