Kings of the Boyne (4 page)

H
aving seen that their horses, Paris and Troy, were fed and watered, Gerald and Jacques were wandering around the small walled town of Drogheda. Their walk was hindered by overcrowding. People were nervous. Catholics streamed in from miles around, trusting the safety of their families to the bricks of the garrison town – exactly like the Protestants who made their way into Derry in 1688 to take shelter from the coming storm of a Catholic army. Accordingly, the population of Drogheda had exploded.

The noise was incredible thanks to screaming children, lowing cattle, barking dogs and the hawkers selling their wares. Because of Drogheda’s proximity to the sea, fish was a popular product. Here and there, the fishmongers, with their ruddy hands and sleeves pushed up past their elbows,
delighted in the flamboyant gutting and beheading of their goods, spurts of blood splattering their already filthy aprons as they worked.

The traffic was thick and fast on the streets: weary horses pulled carts that held all manner of things and then there were the horses of the well-to-do that pulled the grander carriages; young boys herded bleating goats and sheep to the butchers’; women scurried along doing errands; while bands of children got in everyone’s way as they played their games of chasing one another or daring one another to grab the tail of a passing horse, thereby risking being whipped by the rider or being kicked in the head by the irate owner of the tail.

At one stage, Gerald thought he might have to go to the rescue of a young child who had become separated from its mother and stood lost in the midst of a bustling crowd, bawling at the top of its voice – ‘Mama! Mama!’ – until he was too overcome to pronounce the word and only bawled.

People rushed by, too absorbed in their own business to notice the toddler in distress. Gerald had been about to snap into action when the mother suddenly emerged out of the throng of strangers and did nothing more than grab the child by the hand and drag him off, ignoring his moist smile of relief and happiness.

Gerald would not have thought to admit it to himself but
since he had been forced to watch that girl hang, he was determined that he would not just stand by again.

Jacques made a face. ‘Phew, this town smells worse than Paris!’

Gerald grinned. ‘Do you mean your horse or the city?’

Jacques laughed. ‘Both!’

On their way into the town, they had passed what they assumed was a dumping ground, sitting just outside the walls. It was a towering mass of rotten fruit, fish guts, ancient potato skins and perhaps other types of skins too, broken crockery or what was once crockery, and, yes, the rotting remains of at least two animals, possibly dogs, or goats – really, it was impossible to tell. The dump seemed to throb with life thanks to the rats and the large birds scavenging for meals. The gulls and the crows screamed in protest at the thieving rats that were too big to confront.

Jacques had pointed out to Gerald that it was far too near the River Boyne, and even as they stood there and watched, they saw yellowish thickened globules and muggy, shapeless forms of God knows what slide free from the stinking mountain into the water.

Not surprisingly, the entire area was besieged by clouds of flies which made standing around almost impossible.

‘Do not,’ warned Jacques, ‘touch the water here unless you have seen it come out of a well with your own eyes.
Believe me, after twenty years of being a soldier, I know all about bad water.’

Gerald did not need to be convinced. It was an unusually warm summer’s afternoon which probably explained the heightened smell that plugged the back of his throat and hastened the pair on their way through the city gate.

Drogheda, like Derry, was a garrison town. For years now the army had taken up residence within its walls. Three thousand Jacobite soldiers were the current occupants, holding the town for King James, who was making frequent visits from his base in Dublin.

Thanks to his tutor, Father Nicholas, Gerald was already well-schooled on the town’s experience of bloodshed. Pointing to an impressive mound topped by a watch-tower, he said, ‘You see there, that is where Oliver Cromwell’s men slaughtered the garrison soldiers and the bodies were stacked on top of one another for days on end because the people were too afraid to go near them.’

Jacques nodded. ‘That is understandable.’

Gerald continued, ‘The officer in charge of Drogheda at the time was Sir Arthur Ashton and he had a wooden leg. I heard that the enemy soldiers ripped the leg off him and bashed out his brains with it.’

Having infused the story with as much drama as he could, Gerald, quite naturally, expected a passionate response from
his listener – be it a show of disgust or some abominable language. Instead, Jacques scratched his chin and glanced around them, muttering, ‘Terrible. Yes.’

‘Terrible?’

Gerald echoed the word in such a way as to suggest that it was not enough.

Jacques was looking for something or so it appeared. He kept turning this way and that, checking who was around them. It was unsettling.

Gerald asked, ‘What is the matter? Have you lost something?’

‘No. Not really.’

Gerald was confused: ‘Not really?’

Jacques sighed. ‘Are you going to repeat every word I say?

Then the Frenchman tried a different tact. ‘Wasn’t there something you particularly wanted to do here? After all, we don’t know how long we have left until we are called to arms. Didn’t you mention a bookseller’s? You wanted the grand tour … no?’

Gerald nodded. ‘Yes, I wanted to see about getting a new Bible. I lost mine somewhere between here and Ardee, I think. And I was hoping to have a proper look around Drogheda. My tutor talked about it often and now I am here with time on my hands.’

Looking relieved, Jacques said, ‘Well, then, you go looking for your Bible and I’ll meet you later.’

Gerald almost said ‘later?’ but then he definitely would be repeating a lot of Jacques words. Instead, he said, ‘Oh, but I thought we could go together.’

Jacques sighed and said, ‘Look, I will meet you at the gate we came through and …’

But he was interrupted by a young woman who rushed up behind them to exclaim loudly, ‘There you are! At last!’

Jacques grabbed the girl’s hand and kissed the back of it. ‘Ah, forgive me!’

Gerald wondered if he should make a quick exit. However, Jacques made this impossible by turning to Gerald, to say, ‘Allow me, my young friend, to introduce you to a wonderful girl … indeed the most wonderful girl I have ever met …’ he paused to add effect to his joke. ‘What was her name again … ah, I remember, Nancy!’

‘Oh, you!’

Gerald found himself somewhat awestruck when Nancy then focused all her attention on him, curtseying playfully while saying: ‘You must be the Master Gerald from County Offaly. Jacques has told me all about you.’

It would have been rude, Gerald thought, to have asked exactly when this conversation about him might have taken place. Likewise, he did not like to mention that he had never
heard of her before so he only smiled politely and said, ‘A pleasure to meet you, Madam!’

‘Goodness, what manners!’ said Nancy.

To Gerald’s surprise, she linked an arm through each of theirs and asked, ‘Well, what are we going to do? I have to be back in an hour so I can’t stand around here dawdling.’

Gerald glanced over at Jacques, fully expecting to be dismissed, but it seemed that his friend had undergone a slight transformation. His dark eyes sparkled in a way that Gerald had never seen before, while his expression, so bright and full, was free of its usual sulkiness. In fact, Jacques looked years younger and gazed at Nancy as if she were the sun making an unexpected appearance on a drab winter’s day.

‘But what would you like to do, Mademoiselle?’

Nancy scrunched up her face, and Gerald thought he might venture an idea: ‘I would be grateful if you would direct me to the bookseller?’

She squeezed his arm and proceeded to walk the two friends forward. ‘Of course. This way, mind how you go. There’s cow dung everywhere.’

Unfortunately Gerald was so busy feeling shy that he skidded on a stinking pile, ending up with it clinging to his feet. The other two teased while watching him do his best to scrape the mess off against a nearby rock.

The bookseller’s shop was a large, dark, misshapen room
that held an impressive amount of books and scrolls. A couple of dusty windows let in little light so the owner had provided two dusty oil lamps. Altogether, there was just enough light to see the names of the books that sat either pressed together on wooden shelves or piled in tottering towers that Gerald warily tip-toed by, not wanting to be the clumsy clod that knocked one over.

In the centre, on a table, a large book of maps lay open, inviting customers to have a look. Jacques turned the pages carefully, to find a detailed map of France, showing Nancy the town where he came from, and so on. Gerald peered over his shoulders to admire the intricate gilded lines of a country laid bare for all to see. He and Jacques had already decided that when all this trouble was over he would accompany his friend back to France.

There were no booksellers where Gerald came from, in Offaly, while there had been one or two in Dublin, but that city, with its universities and students, intimidated Gerald so much that he had found himself quite unable to walk into them.

It turned out that Nancy knew the bookseller; he was a friend of her father’s, and she proudly introduced her friends to him.

Mr Patrick Mahon was, as one might have expected, completely absorbed in a book as the trio made their
entrance. With his bushy grey hair and tiny spectacles that barely stretched across his face, his slightly bulky figure and smooth hands that had never farmed nor built a wall, the bookseller reminded Gerald of his tutor Father Nicholas.

‘Ah, welcome my boys. Soldiers, I see.’

Gerald smiled. Since he and Jacques were in uniform one would have had to have been blind not to know that they were soldiers. Naturally they had received a lot of attention on the streets outside, mostly positive – depending who was looking at them. The children gawked and pointed, some even calling out to them: ‘Can we come with you when you go fighting? We could hold the flags and polish the guns. Go on, let us! Can we watch you kill the Williamites? Can we?’

By way of reply, they received nothing more than a dark scowl from Jacques, while Gerald ignored them completely.

Of course the people of Drogheda knew there was a battle coming. There were soldiers everywhere, though Gerald and Jacques remarked that there wasn’t much to the new recruits – hardly any of them owned a musket, while none they had spoken to had had any previous battle experience.

Furthermore, some of their uniforms were decidedly shabby and ill-fitting. A young corporal from Dublin, whose too-small jacket barely allowed him to put his two
arms down by his side, explained to Jacques, ‘They told me this was all they had and that there was no money to buy any more.’

Jacques had pressed his lips together. Gerald knew this sort of thing troubled him, filling the more experienced soldier with a sense of foreboding. As far they both knew, there was no shortage of money for the rival army under William, and money represented power, especially when it came to outfitting an army.

Mr Mahon asked, ‘How can I help you? Are you looking for anything in particular?’

Now that he was here, Gerald wasn’t so sure of himself. He was struck by the leather covers, some of which seemed to be inscribed in gold lettering. Everything looked so expensive, and he fretted that he might waste this learned man’s time.

‘Well, I thought I might look at your Bibles, that is, if you have any?’

Mr Mahon smiled. ‘But of course I do. They are my biggest sellers. Step right this way.’

As Gerald stepped forward there was a cry of protest from a dark bundle near his feet – a dark bundle with claws.

‘Ow!’ cried Gerald in fright, quickly following this up with an embarrassed apology. ‘I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t see him.’

‘Do not blame yourself, my boy!’

Mr Mahon stood over his cat and waggled his finger at it. ‘Odysseus, what do you mean by hiding yourself there? Can you blame this young chap for walking on you? Have some sense, sir!’

The cat meowed in a tone that could only be described as rude.

‘Please accept my apologies, Master Gerald. I am afraid that I have spoiled him.’

Gerald could hear Jacques and Nancy tittering behind him as he fell in behind the bookseller who led him to a small shelf of Bibles.

‘Here you are, some of the finest Bibles available. Of course, I imagine that the big ones are too bulky to carry around but, see here, these little ones can easily be carried in a pocket.’

The bookseller was right; there were at least three squat, thick Bibles that would fit into the palm of his hand. Gently, Gerald pulled one free from its companions and instinctively raised it to his nose to sniff the almost transparent pages. Father Nicholas had taught him how to appreciate books, telling his pupil, ‘I’d rather the smell of a new book over any flower – may God forgive me!’

Next, Gerald let the book fall open. The print was tiny, to be sure, but its cover was mottled in reddish hues and, well,
it just felt right. He was not in a rush to query the price of the Bible and allowed his eyes to travel over the other books on the shelf. Right at the end, he spied a much thinner book squashed up between a large, imposing book about the Gospels and the wooden slat that signified the break in the shelving.

Gerald reached for it, almost crushing his fingers as he worked the book free until, finally, out it came, toppling into his hand, no doubt glad to have escaped its ample neighbour. It was only then that Gerald realised there was no way he could put it back as the Gospels book seemed to have somehow expanded leaving absolutely no room.

It was a prayer book and much more decorative than the Bible which Gerald placed gingerly on the table behind him. The cover felt almost soft, like a cushion, and was tinged with gold, glistening in the drab light of the nearest oil lamp. The back of his neck tingled when he read the name on the opening page: Saint Teresa of Avila – his sister’s favourite saint.