Free The Rebels of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd

forbids us to use it,” his father remarked.
    As they walked, evidence of the Old English medieval occupation was all around: fields of wheat and barley; high, dark hedgerows; stone walls; here and there a stone church or a small fortified house. But soon they came to a somewhat less tidy terrain where the cattle grazed—the open seaward sweep down towards the coastline, which still possessed the echoing bareness of the days long ago when Doyle’s ancestor, Harold the Viking, and others like him had laid out their Nordic farmsteads on the plain of Fingal.
    Their destination, however, which they reached in less than an hour, was older by far than any of these. It stood alone, just apart from the hamlet of fishermen’s cabins.
    â€œYour brother does not approve of this place,” Walsh remarked with a small grimace, “or of my coming here.” It was the first time Orlando had ever heard his father say anything that hinted at the friction between himself and Lawrence. “But I come here by myself from time to time.”
    It was nothing much to look at. Orlando had often passed within a quarter mile of it on his way to the beach. An old well, surrounded by a little stone wall. At some time a conical stone roof had been built over it, though this had now fallen into disrepair. The well was quite deep, but leaning over the parapet, Orlando could see the faint, soft gleam of the water far below. The well at his own house was nearly as deep but had never seemed especially interesting; this well, however, was different. He didn’t know why—perhaps the relative isolation of that lonely place—but there was something strange and mysterious about that water down below. What was it? Was it a glimmering entrance to another world?
    â€œThe well is sacred to Saint Marnock,” his father’s voice spoke quietly behind him. “Your brother Lawrence says it was a pagan well long ago. Before Saint Patrick came, no doubt. He says such things are superstition, unworthy of the faith.” He sighed. “He may be right. But I like the old ways, Orlando. I come here like the simple folk to pray to Saint Marnock when I am troubled.”
    Saint Marnock: one of scores of local saints, their identities half forgotten except in their own localities, but often as not with a saint’s day, and a well or sacred place where they might be remembered. “I like the old ways, too,” said Orlando. He was sure he did, because it made him feel close to his father.
    â€œThen you can say a prayer for your sister, and ask the saint to give her guidance.” And moving round to the other side of the well, Walsh himself went down on his knees and fell into his own silent prayers for a short while. Orlando, having knelt also, did not like to get up until his father did; but once Walsh had done so, Orlando went round to his side, where, to his surprise, his father put his arm around his shoulders.
    â€œOrlando,” he said gently, “will you promise me something?”
    â€œYes, Father.”
    â€œPromise me that you will marry one day, and have children—that you will give me grandchildren.”
    â€œYes, Father, I promise. If it is God’s will.”
    â€œLet us hope that it is, my son.” He paused. “Swear it to me, here by this well, upon Saint Marnock.”
    â€œI swear, Father. Upon Saint Marnock.”
    â€œGood.” Martin Walsh nodded quietly to himself, then, glancing down at his son, gave him the sweetest smile. “It is good that you have sworn. I should like you always to remember this day, when your father took you to the Holy Well of Saint Marnock. Will you remember this day, Orlando?”
    â€œYes, Father.”
    â€œAll your life. Come.” And, still with his arm round his son, Walsh led him along the path through the dunes and out onto the broad, sandy beach. It was low tide and the beach extended far out into the sea, which was