The Rebels of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd Page A

already lay deeply unconscious. But he could not seem to get comfortable. He had considered going outside. The night was not cold, and a good Irishman like himself, as he was proud to say, would be as happy sleeping on the ground like a cattleman, or a hero from olden times, as lying about in a house. But on balance he had decided to rest inside and, walking carefully over several bodies he had managed, taking his time, to negotiate his way to this place where he had encountered a door. Unable to see the quaking preacher in the darkness, he now very reasonably enquired:
    â€œIs there room for a body to sleep in there?”
    The question, being asked in Irish, was not understood by Pincher, but clearly some response was required.
    â€œGo away,” the philosopher cried.
    The reply, in English, surprised Tadhg O’Byrne, but was perfectly understood. He studied it. The first thing about the answer, apart from the language, was that it came only from a single source. He listened for the sounds of others breathing but heard none. Framing his next question in English therefore:
    â€œIs it a woman you have with you?” he obligingly asked.
    â€œCertainly not!” hissed Doctor Pincher.
    Though he was not trained in philosophy, it was clear to Tadhg, after only another moment or two, that the figure in the dark had,willfully or not, been guilty of a non sequitur. For if there were no others in the room, and the stranger was not engaged with a woman, then, ipso facto , there was no need for him to go away. Not wishing to offend, he went over this in his mind again to make sure it was correct; but he could find no weakness in his reasoning. And he had just come to this definite conclusion when Doctor Pincher made a great mistake. Speaking very slowly and clearly, on the assumption that the figure before him must, by its every appearance, be both drunk and stupid, he carefully enunciated:
    â€œThis…is…my…bed.”
    â€œBed?” This was a new consideration. “Is it a bed you have there?” Tadhg might despise the presumed decadence of his kinsman Brian when it came to feather beds, but at this moment, the prospect of sharing a comfortable bed rather than the hard floor seemed to him a good one. Entering now, and closing the door behind him, he made his way with surprising accuracy to the bed and stretched out his hand to where, shrinking in disgust and some terror from him, Doctor Pincher had inadvertently supplied the very space he was seeking. “There now,” he said companionably, “there’s room enough for the two of us.”
    And he would have fallen asleep at once beside the startled preacher if a sudden curiosity had not seized him. Who might this English stranger be who was given a chamber to himself at the wake of O’Byrne of Rathconan?
    â€œA fine man,” he opined into the inky darkness. “There’s no question, Toirdhealbhach O’Byrne was a fine man.” He paused, expecting some response, but the stranger beside him was as silent as the corpse below. “Had you known him long?” he enquired.
    â€œI did not know him at all,” said Pincher’s voice, coldly.
    It was clear to Pincher that his life was not in any immediate danger from this loathsome figure. The main question in his mind was whether to get off the bed and sleep on the hard floor himself, or to remain where he was and endure the closeness, and the smell, of his presence.
    â€œBut you came to his wake from respect, no doubt,” said Tadhg. English or not, one couldn’t deny that this was a proper if unusual thing to do. “Would you mind if I ask your name? Myself being Tadhg O’Byrne,” he obligingly supplied.
    Why was it, Pincher wondered, that these Irish must have such barbarous names? The sound of them—Tighe O’Byrne beside him, Turlock O’Byrne the corpse below—was bad enough; their spellings, Tadhg and Toirdhealbhach,