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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 fromhis 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 neverheard of her before so he only smiled politely and said, ‘A pleasure to meet you,