The House Where It Happened Read online

  The House

  Where It

  Happened

  Martina Devlin

  Also by Martina Devlin

  Banksters (2009)

  Ship of Dreams (2007, reissued in 2012) Shortlisted for

  the Irish Book Awards

  The Hollow Heart (2005)

  Temptation (2004)

  Venus Reborn (2003) Shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards

  Be Careful What You Wish For (2001)

  Three Wise Men (2000)

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

  characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

  author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2014

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  www.wardriverpress.com

  © Martina Devlin 2014

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-78199-972-1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  To all of us Devlins who were there. Everyone was true:

  Frank, Niall, Tonia, Cathal, Conor, and especially Celsus

  Islandmagee

  Islandmagee, showing its proximity to Scotland

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  The Plantation of Ulster in the early 1600s was a policy of colonization authorized by the British Crown. It proved to be a turning point in the history of the region. The majority of the land held by Irish chieftains was confiscated and used to settle planters, who were required to be English-speaking and Protestant. Most of these settlers were Lowland Scots, generally Presbyterians, who came because land was promised.

  The colonization system was designed to stamp out rebellion and to ‘civilize’ the Irish – in the preceding century Ulster had proved to be the most stubbornly Gaelic part of Ireland. The Plantation’s primary aim was to build a loyal British community on Irish soil. Although the Irish were intended to be displaced by this land redistribution, many remained on poorer land close to their ancestral holdings. The Plantation is regarded as one of the most significant historical events leading to the present-day partition of Ireland.

  “The Devil came to me and bid me serve him.” Tituba, a black slave hanged as a witch at Salem in 1692.

  “. . . these detestable slaves of the Devill, the Witches or enchanters . . . merits most severely to be punished . . .”

  From Daemonologie by James VI of Scotland, later James I of England, published 1597

  Prologue

  Islandmagee, County Antrim, Ireland.

  Tuesday, January 13th, 1641

  From Maud Bell to Frazer Bell, Pall Mall, London.

  My dearest husband,

  I pray God you have not already heard of the violence which took place on Islandmagee two nights ago, for I know you would be consumed with worry about all of us here. I write to set your mind at rest that neither I nor our beloved children were caught up in the Fever which swept through the island. Indeed, Fever is the only way to describe the madness which has taken hold of the place, turning neighbour against neighbour and causing many to follow where Peter led – renouncing those they once knew well.

  My nerves are all of a-twitch, my ears strained from listening for sounds (in relation to what, I scarcely dare to imagine), and I have not slept more than brief snatches these past three days. Rumours abound: it is difficult to separate the truth from wild fancies. Yet the truth is already Dreadfull enough without embroidery stitched over its face. However, there will always be those who seek to exaggerate what is gruesome enough in its own right. Anyhow, my dearest, I cling to the hope that the storm has now passed.

  The first inkling we had about something afoot came on Saturday, when our good friend inside Carrickfergus Castle sent word advising the household to stay indoors during the coming days. He was quite exact, and more than a little Alarming. On no account were we to stir abroad if we valued our lives. He urged that the livestock be brought into the barn, all doors and casements bolted, and no callers admitted, under any circumstances, even if they were friends and neighbours we knew and relied on. Trust none, he said, underlining those two words so heavily that the page was ripped. Unsettled though I was by his counsel, I was swift to follow it. For as you are only too well aware, we have been quaking over reports of the most shocking atrocities carried out by the Irish against our people in other parts of Ulster. Their abominable rebellion proves them to be the Savages we always suspected they were.

  As soon as I read the communication from the Castle, I made sure to keep close by me at all times, primed and loaded, the musket you left for our protection when you were forced to travel far from home during these Unruly Times. (A journey that went sorely against your inclination, Frazer, as I know right well.) Do not be alarmed, for we are all safe – despite the madness that has gripped Islandmagee.

  And now I must tell you what I witnessed, though I have to confess to doubting my memory when I go to set down these events. As you know, the entire region has been in a state of agitation for months but we convinced ourselves it might pass us by, here in our small patch of Heaven on Earth. It was not to be. Still, I must hold fast to the belief that what happened has acted as a fire does, cleansing and purifying.

  But back to that Sunday (can it only be two short days ago?) when the gates of hell opened before my eyes. All day long I felt considerable unease. In part, it was because of the message from the Castle, grateful though I was to be forewarned. And in part it was because we were trapped inside our home, and Islandmagee, which had always seemed to embrace us, took on a more sinister hue. The children were restless, begging to go outside to play. I hardened my heart and refused every plea, and for most of the day we sat quietly in the parlour, while I read aloud from the Bible. I made the three of them memorize a passage from Isaiah (“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand”) and, as I tested them on it, I confess my powers of concentration were woefully impaired.

  When night fell, my disquiet did not diminish. I took the musket to bed with me, wishing you were by my side instead of this half-yard of cold metal, but determined to protect our home and our chicks as you would have done. Eventually I fell into a troubled sleep, strange shapes flitting through my slumbers, until a Fearfull Clamour woke me. Without stopping to light a candle, I raced to the window, where the moonlight spread its timid light over a scene of Utter Havoc.

  A handful of yards from our door, a scramble of people were being swept along in a great jumble of panic and confusion. I watched, not quite comprehending what was before my eyes, until all at once I understood they were being chased. No sooner had this realization overtaken me than I saw it was all women and children in flight. Most of the women had babies in their arms, and some also carried
a tiny passenger on their backs, while the bigger children clung to their mothers’ skirts and tripped along at their heels.

  Behind them was a band of foot soldiers with axes and broadswords in their hands. A few more were on horseback, officers I presume, who appeared to be holding back their mounts to stay with the body of men. Such whoops and filthy oaths issued from them that I wanted to stop my ears. They howled at the women, telling them to get ready to meet their master the Devil. There must have been at least twenty women, possibly more, and each of them appeared to have at least one or more small children. Burdened though they were, the women were outrunning the soldiers. Strange to say, no noise came from the Hunted that I could hear, though they must have been panting from their exertions. I wonder if the mothers were too intent on escape, the children too terrifyed even to cry?

  I lifted your spyglass to continue observing their progress, and as I put it to my eye I saw a small boy trip and lose his grip on his mother’s skirt. His was the first child’s voice I heard raised. “Mammy! Mammy!” he called. The wind snatched up the Pitifull Bleat and blew it back to me. She twisted her head, searching for her offspring as she was propelled forward, and shouted out a name – I think it may have been Owen. But the poor woman was caught fast in the charge and could not turn back. The boy, who can have been no more than three or four years, was knocked to the ground in the stampede, and as he lay there a pair of mounted soldiers came upon him. To my horror, they made no effort to avoid the child. Frazer, he was trampled underfoot. His soft little body must have been ripped into ribbons beneath their horses’ hooves.

  Now the Gobbins Cliffs were reached. There was nowhere left for the runners to go. Sea stretched before them, soldiers behind. The pursued pulled up short, huddling at the brink. A sound came at last from the women. You could not call it a wail because this noise was not human. It was the moan an animal makes when it is caught in a trap, and can find no way out short of gnawing off its own leg. If I live to be a hundred, I hope never to hear such a cry again.

  I continued watching: afraid to keep looking, and just as afraid to turn away. Moonlight glinted off the unsheathed blades of the soldiers, and bounced off the faces of the women and children as they turned to face their hunters. A few, not many, fell to their knees. I saw one supplicant hauled back to her feet by a companion. Hands cradling small heads, they gathered their children closer to them. And waited.

  Even as I go to write what happened next, I can hardly bring myself to frame the words. I shudder to think such a scene could be played out in our beloved Islandmagee, this Bed of Roses transformed before my disbelieving eyes into a Crown of Thorns. I know the soldiers were our own troops, charged with defending our lives and our holdings in the name of His Gracious Majesty King Charles, and these people they hunted down were our enemies. Yet what I saw will Haunt me for as long as I live.

  The women and children stood at bay. A pause seemed to hang there, and I had enough time to notice the pursuers outnumbered their prey by more than two to one. Having cornered them, the soldiers were hesitant about their next step. “Remember, this is God’s work! God and the King’s!” shouted one of the men on horseback – I suppose he must have been their captain. “Time to finish what we started!” called another. And the soldiers advanced.

  [Fragment of letter ends here. The Bell Letters are held in the Linen Hall Library in Belfast, Northern Ireland – part of a collection relating to the 1641-2 rebellion in Ulster.]

  Chapter 1

  It poured fit to need the Ark again when Mary Dunbar came among us.

  The night before she arrived, I woke ahead of daybreak. I wasn’t given to fancies, but something unsettled me, and I lit a candle stub to keep the shadows in their place, though the mistress would have scolded about waste if she caught me. It wasn’t the rain or wind that alarmed me. I slept in the loft, and the elements were closer to you there – many’s the night you heard a creaking through the beams, as if a giant saw was cutting through the roof. I was used to any racket the weather could make. When a maid-of-all-work finally gets to her bed, nothing stands between her and sleep. My ma said it was God’s reward for honest labour, and told me I was lucky to have a room – when she was a servant she slept on the kitchen floor.

  I daresay it was the night whimsies disturbing me, and no wonder after the upset we had all winter long. A death in the house can go hard on those left living in it, especially when it’s a slow passing. Old Mistress Haltridge wasn’t long in her grave and had made no easy end of it. We were all of us still on edge.

  Peggy McGregor, the cook, snored in bed beside me. Comforted by the candlelight, I lay listening to the storm, and to Peggy’s whistles and groans. But then I fell to fretting about my monthly courses, and what would happen if they did not come. I counted. They were overdue by three weeks now, and I was trying not to dwell on it, because I heard it said that watching for the blood only served to hold it back. But it was hard not to worry.

  The rooster clearing his throat in the yard below brought my duties to mind. There was a visitor expected that day, and a guest would mean extra work. I was no lady’s maid, but I would have to lend a hand with Mary Dunbar, brushing her clothes and fetching her hot water and so forth. Not that I minded too much. It made a change from the everyday. Besides, it might cheer us up to have company. The house had been cloaked in gloom since the death of my master’s mother, with the bairns scurrying from one corner to another like nervous wee mice, hoping nobody would notice them. We were too quiet here now: the stream of callers trotting in and out to see the old dame, as if every day was market day, had dried up. Some called us a household in mourning, but that’s not the right of it.

  We were a household on edge. Watchful for what might follow.

  Christian woman though she was, old Mistress Haltridge’s death proved a vexing business. It should have been a relief, finally, when she breathed her last. Everybody wanted to believe her passing would bring the troubles to a halt. But something crackled in the air of Knowehead House still. Something bent on mischief.

  The rooster crowed again and I had to set aside my fears for myself, as well as for the goings-on at Knowehead. Downstairs to the kitchen I took myself. I always liked early morning, before my bones ached and folk pulled me this way and that, wanting the sun, moon and stars from me. Oftentimes I would dawdle over a sup of milk, yawning and stretching to my heart’s content. Waiting for the day to reveal itself.

  But I had no liking for what it revealed this day.

  At first, I failed to spot it. I went to the larder for the milk, and then I opened the top of the kitchen half-door a splinter, rain or no rain, to let in a breath of air. It was only when I crossed to the fireplace to see if there was any life left in the embers that I found it. A big, blue-black crow lay in the ashes. Dead as last summer. It had come down the chimney in the night, and must have been done for before it landed, because it stayed where it fell. Its feathers were singed by its resting place, but it wasn’t the burnt reek that bothered me. No, what gave me the dry heaves was them two eyes like beads. Wide open and full of wickedness. But I breathed deep, stretched out my hand and lifted the bird by its scaly feet. Then I ran outside to dump it on the midden heap before anyone else saw the trespasser and made a fuss about omens. We had enough to put up with at Knowehead, never mind dead crows setting tongues wagging.

  Knowehead House is on Islandmagee, a wheen of miles – fifteen or thereabouts – from Carrickfergus. The island is tucked into the north-east coast of Ireland, in the county of Antrim, and a nicer, more fertile wee nook you’d be hard pushed to find. It has been a God-fearing place since the Scotch folk settled it, these hundred years and more. What was papist, and pagan before that, was put aside. Everything was made tidy, with ditches between fields so you knowed what was what and whose. Aye, the planters were bent on taming wildness.

  Yet something dark stirred on Islandmagee towards the heel-end of 1710, like an animal nosing out of its winter sleep. And by
these early weeks of 1711, evil was abroad. Happenings to make you shiver were gathering pace. An old sheepdog, soft as butter, turned savage for no reason and attacked the Orrs’ baby, leaving its life hanging by a thread. Another time, the sky turned dim and a black circle crawled across the sun, blocking its light. All that was left was a fiery ring round the outside. The darkness slid away after some minutes, but not before causing terror far and wide, with folk sinking to their knees and wailing about the end of the world. Even after it passed, all were certain it would bring down bad luck.

  Worst of all were the whispers about Hamilton Lock being spotted again, walking about at night as though he was lord and master of the island – though by rights he should have been turned to dust some forty-five years ago. If ever a man ought to be keeping the demons busy, piling on the faggots, Hamilton Lock was him.

  If the ghost of Hamilton Lock was abroad, folk agreed misfortune would surely follow, for there never was a man born of woman to match him in wickedness. From the stories you’d hear, he was a fellow could trick his way into the New Jerusalem and make merry mayhem among the saved. Anybody that clapped eyes on him always saw him near-hand to Knowehead House. One of the elders who called over to pray with the old mistress spied him by our barn, called out his name – and was thrown by his mount as soon as the words left his lips.