Kings of the Boyne

by Nicola Pierce

  There, let her think upon that! They can all sit here and judge me, but what do any of them know about battle?

  The longer he sits, the angrier he becomes at his hosts and their friends, and their accents and … well, all Irishmen. Oh, how they love to drink whiskey in copious amounts and tell sensational stories or sing dreary ballads with far too many verses. But they are fools, and he has been wrong to imagine that he could have benefitted from their help. He knows full well what has gone wrong today, and he doesn’t see why he should sit there and feign politeness. He lifts his glass of wine as if to raise a toast and then says, ‘Madam, your countrymen run very fast.’

  She takes a sip of wine, to draw out the moment and ensure that everyone was listening, before saying, ‘Maybe so, sire, but you won the race.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Trim, County Meath

  Two tired soldiers, bruised and aching, finally reached their destination. It was not Offaly, not just yet.

  Paris plodded along beside them, looking unimpressed with his surroundings.

  ‘There’s Trim Castle,’ said Gerald. ‘It’s a lot bigger than I thought.’

  Jacques was studying the river as if it was an old friend he had not seen in a while. He asked, ‘And this is still the River Boyne? Is it coming with us to Offaly, do you think?’

  Gerald shrugged. ‘There is an old saying, something about never being able to step into the same river twice.’

  His companion raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean that everything changes all the time. A river can only flow forward. There is no going back.’

  Instinctively they glanced at the bundle lying across Paris’s back.

  Jacques was unsure about this, but Gerald had insisted, ‘It’s the right thing to do and we owe him.’

  An old man pointed out the house to them. Jacques took a firm grip of Paris’s reigns as he felt his courage evaporate. He glanced at Gerald who muttered, ‘If it wasn’t for him …’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Jacques. Nancy had told him the very same thing before they left Drogheda.

  Gerald offered, ‘Maybe they won’t be in and we can just leave him with a neighbour.’ He felt queasy and his mouth was dry.

  As they approached the house, two red-headed children, a boy and a girl, were in the doorway slapping one another on the arm while a third red-head shrilled, ‘Faster! Faster!’

  They fell silent as, one by one, they felt themselves being watched. In spite of his nervousness, Jacques had to smile as he found himself faced with three miniature Josephs, complete with freckles and big teeth, who stared open-mouthed at Paris until the youngest demanded, ‘What’s his name?’

  Jacques replied, ‘He is Paris.’

  The girl scrunched up her nose and stated, ‘That’s a strange name for a horse.’

  Unable to come up with a better response, Jacques said, ‘He is a strange horse!’

  It was only now that she caught his accent. Giving him a cool look, she asked, ‘Where do you come from?’

  Glancing helplessly at Gerald, Jacques confessed, ‘I am from France.’

  When the children said nothing to this, Jacques felt it necessary to add, ‘It is a most wonderful place many miles from here.’

  The girl conferred with her brother who informed her, ‘It’s probably in Dublin. All the best places are!’

  Jacques opened his mouth to take umbrage at this, but Gerald was anxious to press on and asked, ‘Is your mother or father about?’

  The youngest of the three siblings turned his head into the house and bawled, ‘Mama!’

  Joseph’s mother appeared at the door, fixing her hair into place and finding herself transfixed at the sight that greeted her: two soldiers, one taller than the other, in rumpled uniforms, standing beside a massive, black horse. Meanwhile, Gerald and Jacques had expected to meet a red-haired woman with freckles and bucked teeth and instead found themselves rather shocked by the woman’s beauty. Her hair was as black and sleek as a raven’s wing, her skin clear while her teeth could not be seen until she smiled.

  Horribly conscious of the children’s eyes upon him, Gerald stumbled with his words. ‘Mrs O’Leary. We knew … I mean, we were … are … friends of Joseph.’

  She spied the bundle on Paris and guessed the truth from their stricken expressions. ‘Yes, I see.’

  The two soldiers stared at the ground, waiting on her instructions.

  There was silence until the little girl asked, ‘What’s wrong, Mama?’

  She ignored the question, only saying, ‘Take your brothers and run to Mrs Murray. Ask her for some jam. Tell her I’ve got visitors.’

  The three children tore off up the street, the little one falling behind and roaring, ‘Wait for me!’

  Their mother looked after them in a daze, prompting Jacques to ask, ‘Are you all right, Madame? Is your husband nearby? Can I fetch him for you?’

  ‘No. He’s working above the estate and won’t be back until late.’

  She beckoned them to bring Joseph inside, turning away as they lifted him free of Paris. Gerald tied the horse’s reins to a nearby fence while Jacques stopped in front of Joseph’s mother, her son in his arms, waiting for her to lead the way.

  She reached out to touch the blankets that hid her boy from sight but then changed her mind. ‘There is a cot in here.’

  Jacques laid Joseph on the narrow bed and followed her to the small kitchen, where the fire was lit to heat the soup that was bubbling in the cauldron.

  ‘I was just making the children’s dinner.’

  Gerald came in and looked as uncomfortable as Jacques felt.

  She ushered them to the table and bade them to sit down, saying, ‘You’ll have something to eat and drink.’

  They would have preferred to make their excuses and leave but did not know how to refuse her.

  Exchanging brief looks, they sat down, careful not to scrape the legs of the stools against the stone floor.

  The house was small but pleasant thanks to the flowers that decorated the room and lent it their perfume. One picture adorned the wall, a stark portrait of a dog. It was sitting up with its two front paws pressed together as if in prayer.

  Mrs O’Leary saw Gerald gazing at it and said, ‘Joseph drew it for me. Finn was his best friend until he died last year. Joseph was heartbroken …’

  Her voice cracked, and Gerald felt it was dawning on her that Joseph was gone forever too, just like Finn.

  The silence was unbearable. Gerald waited for her to ask what had happened. Why were they sitting at her table while her precious son was at rest in the shadows?

  ‘We’re sorry!’

  It was a whisper, but she heard it.

  She set down two plates and sighed. ‘Last night I dreamt the front door opened, and I heard him walk around this very room. I guessed he was saying goodbye.’

  Gerald hoped that this was true. They had left Joseph in the forest overnight because Jacques judged that it might not be safe to collect his body until morning. But it was not an easy decision to make, to leave him there all alone. However, if Joseph’s ghost had visited his home then surely that meant he wasn’t scared and lonely. Oh, please forgive us, Joseph, we were afraid. But we came back for you, didn’t we?

  Jacques watched Mrs O’Leary cut the bread and paid Joseph the highest compliment he knew. ‘He was a brave soldier. You can be very proud of him.’

  Gerald quickly added, ‘He saved our lives and another man too. He saved the three of us.’

  Mrs O’Leary seemed unmoved by this incredible truth but appreciated their kindness, their good intentions. She told them, ‘His father sent him off to join the army.’

  Sensing that she wanted someone to blame, Gerald said quietly, ‘But we all were there on the orders or wishes of someone else.’

  She looked at Gerald, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘And who sent you off to fight?’

  Gerald was honest in his appraisal. ‘My parents, I suppose, and my tutor Father Ni
cholas. There have always been soldiers in our family who have fought for Ireland. It was time for me to do my part.’

  Mrs O’Leary sat down, forgetting to attend to the soup. ‘And how was it? Did you get to do your part?’

  Gerald thought for a moment but then shook his head, unable to sum up the previous day in a few words. He had killed many men over those eight hours. Their blood was all over his clothes. He could still hear the screams and the gunfire – in particular the bullet that felled Troy and the terrifying volley that silenced Joseph forever. And he struggled to make sense of it all. Their defeat had been brutal, while the man, their chosen king, who was going to change their world, had stayed away, knowing that they would be overwhelmed. It was a wonder that there were not lots more bodies. It was a miracle.

  ‘It could have been worse,’ said Gerald to nobody in particular.

  ‘Actually I might like to leave Ireland. At least that’s what I think now.’ There was something about the little kitchen that provoked him to blurt this out. He felt tired and empty. His various cuts stung, and he longed to take off the bloodied uniform. How long had it been since he sat at a table? Of course it reminded him of home, though maybe he felt freer here. Mrs O’Leary was gentle and calm and accepting … so different from his mother who never stopped pushing him. He envied Joseph and then felt guilty for being alive but only for a second or two. Poor Joseph!

  Jacques checked Joseph’s mother to see if she was offended by this sudden confession. He put his hand on Gerald’s arm to remind him where they were. To his surprise, however, Mrs O’Leary was immediately interested and asked the boy, ‘Why now?’

  Gerald spoke slowly. ‘Well, I think they may be disappointed with me. I was meant to be returning in triumph.’

  It was somewhat insensitive but Mrs O’Leary let it slide. She could have reminded him that, unlike her son, Gerald would not be coming home wrapped in blankets, and his mother should be grateful for that no matter what.

  The boy picked at the dirt beneath his nails, oblivious to the tear that meandered down his cheek. His voice was low. ‘I tried my best, I really did. I was scared and then that happened to Joseph, and Michael left. And my horse was killed. And I couldn’t save him.’

  Gerald had refused to think about Troy until now. How had he stood there and watched him strain in agony? He even thought of that girl swinging from the tree, though he could barely remember her features now.

  ‘But it might not be enough for them. I might never be enough for them. I cannot make everything go back to how it was. I’m not my grandfather and I’ve never lived in a castle.’

  Here, he looked up at them in surprise as something occurred to him. ‘I don’t even want to live in a castle. Is that wrong?’

  Mrs O’Leary gave him a watery smile.

  ‘I can’t … I can’t …’

  Jacques tried to get his attention, but Gerald was temporarily lost to him as he sought for the right words and then found them. ‘I can’t hate like them. I just can’t.’

  Gerald pleaded with his listeners, ‘But that doesn’t mean that I don’t love Ireland. It’s just that I want to know more about the world beyond ruined graves and broken bricks.’

  Mrs O’Leary stood up and fetched two bowls. She began to ladle the soup first into one bowl and then into a second one.

  Placing the bowls in front of them, she spoke slowly, as if she, like Gerald, was reaching for how she truly felt. ‘Lately I have wondered whether it matters to God if someone is a Catholic or a Protestant. What’s in a name when all is said and done?’

  Eager to join in, Jacques said, ‘Yes, I know what you mean. My king likes to be called the “Sun King”. When he was younger he dressed up as the sun for a party and loved his costume so much that he continues to this day to think of himself as the sun.’

  Gerald and Mrs O’Leary waited politely for the Frenchman to make his point.

  Jacques glanced from one to the other and murmured, ‘I just wish I had his confidence.’

  Epilogue

  And so it was, twenty-three years after the ‘Battle of the Boyne’, that the elderly King Louis XIV lay on his death bed, shrivelled, wrinkled, tufts of long white strands of hair lifting away from his bony skull, when the arrival of his grandson was announced.

  The king, who had summoned the child, nodded to have his heir brought before him. Accordingly, the five-year-old, for that was all he was, was ushered in past the relatives, family friends and his future colleagues, who stood about idly, talking in whispers, awaiting the end of an era.

  The little boy showed no surprise at the sight of such a large, conspicuous audience. He nodded solemnly to his parents as he passed them. His nanny was somewhere in the background and that was a comfort to him. She had promised him the biggest slice of cake if he didn’t misbehave.

  Well, he would show her.

  Perhaps the last person he identified was his grandfather, swaddled in clothes and blankets in the towering four-poster bed. It had been a while since he had seen him, but even he would have agreed that his grandfather was no longer the grand old man he had known.

  Feeling himself being gently pushed, the boy stepped forward somewhat uncertainly, unsure of what he should say. His grandfather seemed so very far away from him, the bed being so high and vast, and he was fairly sure that he was not allowed to shout. But what if his grandfather could not hear him if he had to say something? Could he not shout then if he did it politely?

  Just then, a low stool was moved to the side of the bed and a pair of strong hands easily lifted the child, guiding him to stand on it.

  Ah, that’s better. The boy smiled in heady relief. He and his grandfather could see each other properly, and he was almost sure that there would be no need to shout now.

  Dutifully he kissed the pre-offered ancient hand as the breathless king asked, ‘Do you understand that you are to take my place?’

  Having been prepared for this question, the little boy proudly answered, ‘Yes, Grandfather!’

  A moment of silence followed, and the onlookers grew uneasy that the man had already slipped away. However, he stirred himself once more to tell France’s new king: ‘I have loved war too much. You must do better.’

  Writer’s Notes

  July was a significant month for the Jacobites and Williamites. It was July 1689 when the siege of Derry ended with William’s ships finally rescuing the starving city of Derry from the massive Jacobite army outside her walls.

  Just a year later, in July 1690, there was the now infamous battle over the Boyne, and this time it was the Jacobites who were the underdogs, bound to fight an improbable battle with inferior weapons and numbers.

  During my research I discovered the Offaly teenager Gerald O’Connor, a Jacobite, and let the story begin with him and his reasons for being in Drogheda that day, blending the scant facts about his life with fiction.

  On the Williamite side, the Sherrard brothers – Robert and Daniel – made a welcome return from my novel about the siege of Derry, Behind the Walls. In December 1688 they had helped to close the gates of Derry against James’s army, and in Kings of the Boyne I sent them to join Reverend George Walker to fight for King William down south.

  When I heard about Jean Watson, the widowed mother of six, I thought I might one day write an adult novel about her walk from Down to Drogheda. Then, when I got badly stuck in an early draft, I could not keep from including her in these pages.

  From the moment I was asked to write this book I knew I wanted to feature the kings involved: James and William, uncle and nephew, father and son-in-law, with Louis XIV lurking in the background.

  Readers should be aware that there was another shadowy figure, Pope Alexander VIII, who gave the Protestant William money. He was motivated by hatred of Louis XIV, the Catholic French monarch who appeared to see himself as a sort of god.

  Of course the story of the warring Jacobites and Williamites does not end here.

  Instead, it is the third Ju
ly, 1691, which sees the final clash of this Glorious Revolution, at the battle of Aughrim in Galway. With over seven thousand fatalities, this is recognised as the bloodiest battle in Irish history and it marked the end of Jacobitism in Ireland.

  THE THREE KINGS OF THE GLORIOUS REVOLUTION

  KING JAMES II (1633-1701)

  James fled Ireland for France after the Battle of the Boyne, leaving the battle at Aughrim to his supporters. His last child, and fourth daughter, Louisa Maria Teresa, was born in 1692. Four years later there was an unsuccessful attempt, by some supporters in England, to assassinate William that only served to make James even more unpopular. Perhaps he clung onto his dream of sitting once more on the English throne because he turned down Louis XIV’s offer to make him king of Poland. In his château, in Saint-Germaine-en-Laye, he surrounded himself and his family with luxurious objects, paintings and first-class musicians to attract and impress visitors who should always feel that they were in the presence of royalty.

  When he died of a brain haemorrhage, on 16 September 1701, James’s heart was placed in a locket and given to a convent while his brain was placed in a lead casket for the Scots College in Paris. His entrails were split between two urns, one for the local parish church and the other for an English Jesuit college. Lastly, flesh from his right arm was given to the English Augustinian nuns in Paris. Whatever was left was not buried, however; instead his coffin was placed in a side chapel where lights continually burned around it until the 1789 French Revolution.

  KING WILLIAM III (1650-1702)

  William became withdrawn following the death of his wife, Queen Mary, James’s eldest daughter, in 1694. As king he had his enemies of course, but plenty more attest to his generous charities and concern for the tenants on his estate. A keen rider and hard worker, he was also known as a great patron of the arts. He died from pneumonia following a fall from his favourite horse, Sorrel. Legend has it that the horse stumbled into a mole burrow and that Jacobites raised a glass to toast the burrow’s little owner. William was succeeded by his sister-in-law Anne, James’s second eldest daughter, who was queen of England, Scotland and Ireland from 1702 until her death in 1714.