Ancient Memories
()
About this ebook
Convinced the king has banished her after a palace servant is poisoned, Elizabeth flees across Spain, chased by those determined to use her as a pawn to control the land and possessions that connect her to hundreds of years of ancestral rule in her familys lost homeland. After confronting many obstacles, she heads for Ireland aboard a ship to meet her grandmother, unaware of two secret advocates who follow her at a distance: a Spanish knight and an Irish nobleman whose family has an ancient link with the OSuilleabhain clan. Unknown to each other, these two allies advance separately, seemingly drawn by mysterious sources as Elizabeth endures one tumultuous event after another.
In this compelling tale based on seventeenth century events, a young woman is plunged into the darkest period of her life after she becomes the prey in an international triangle between two kingdoms.
Isabella Macdonald Smith
Isabella Macdonald Smith is the author of Ancient Memories and Skip and Axel Rossi, as well as a contributor to Louisiana Inklings.
Related to Ancient Memories
Related ebooks
A Quiet Tide Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Age of the Third Arcon: Adventures of Celoferania, Lady of Hawks: Age of the Third Arcon, #2 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe New Worlds of Isabela Calderón: Sequel to the Seventh Etching Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsEtive Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLost Mission: A Novel Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Kringle Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Adventures of Shiela Crerar, Psychic Detective Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Year of Living Scandalously Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Norsemen in the West (Annotated) Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWhite Slaves: 15 Years a Barbary Slave Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsButterflies of a Brief Summer: Mémoires – Les Souvenirs sont faits de tels Moments Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCeltic Myths: Heroes and Warriors, Myths and Monsters Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Veiled Woman of Achill Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsMore Tales Of Saints & Scholars Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLuttrell Of Arran Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Eriksson Bequest: A Jack Carpenter Novel Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Ancient Lie: The Unwritten Words II Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWeb of Silk, A Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Catching The Eagle Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Daylight Gate Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Lost Lady of Lone Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSecrets at Court Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Labrador: The Story of the World’s Favourite Dog Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Queen of Knights: A Medieval Fantasy Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Prince of the Sommerlings: Book One: Kingdom of Elbion Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDomitia Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Great French Short Stories Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Bride Wore Pearls Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Earl in Black Armor Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Islands of Magic Legends, Folk and Fairy Tales from the Azores Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
General Fiction For You
The Fellowship Of The Ring: Being the First Part of The Lord of the Rings Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Man Called Ove: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Covenant of Water (Oprah's Book Club) Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Alchemist Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Silmarillion Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Priory of the Orange Tree Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Life of Pi: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Dark Tower I: The Gunslinger Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Shantaram: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5You: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The City of Dreaming Books Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Unhoneymooners Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Dante's Divine Comedy: Inferno Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pet Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Alchemist: A Graphic Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Canterbury Tales Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Ulysses: With linked Table of Contents Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Cloud Cuckoo Land: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Babel: Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Everything's Fine Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Beyond Good and Evil Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Candy House: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The King James Version of the Bible Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Other Black Girl: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Beartown: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Dry: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Reviews for Ancient Memories
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
Ancient Memories - Isabella Macdonald Smith
Ancient Memories
ISABELLA MACDONALD SMITH
51570.pngAuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: 1-800-839-8640
© 2014 . All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Published by AuthorHouse 10/02/2014
ISBN: 978-1-4969-3627-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4969-3626-4 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-4969-3625-7 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014915381
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,
and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
Author’s Note
An Ode to Ireland
Chapter 1 A Coruña, Spain 1660
Chapter 2 Knight of Santiago Don Philip O’Sullivan
Chapter 3 Abandoned by the Retinue
Chapter 4 Murder of Elizabeth O’Sullivan’s Father, Knight Don Philip O’Sullivan
Chapter 5 Elizabeth’s Visions
Chapter 6 Attendants Abandon the Villa
Chapter 7 Villains Remain in the Villa
Chapter 8 Elizabeth Follows the Murderers Warrior Countess
Chapter 9 Travel from A Coruña to Santiago, Spain
Chapter 10 The Cathedral at Santiago de Compostela
Chapter 11 Her Home in Santiago de Compostela
Chapter 12 Santiago to Lugo Galicia, Spain
Chapter 13 Travel from Lugo in Galicia to Leon, Spain
Chapter 14 Gothic Cathedral Basilica of San Isidoro
Chapter 15 Travel from Leon to Valladolid, Spain
Chapter 16 Gentle Souls Among Us The Hermit
Chapter 17 Travel Along the Road to Valladolid, Spain
Chapter 18 Travel to Madrid, Spain The Kingdom of Castile
Chapter 19 In King Felipe’s Chambers
Chapter 20 In the Meantime, in a Small Anteroom inside King Felipe’s Palace
Chapter 21 From Valladolid to Madrid, Spain
Chapter 22 Escape from Madrid, Spain
Chapter 23 From Madrid to Valencia, Spain
Chapter 24 Valencia, Spain
Chapter 25 Visions from a Past Life
Chapter 26 The Green-Eyed Irishman
Chapter 27 Ocean Passage From Valencia Harbor, Spain, to the Mediterranean Sea (Wa-lentia)
Chapter 28 The Next Day
Chapter 29 Mediterranean Sea to Atlantic Ocean
Chapter 30 The Barbary Coast Pirates
Chapter 31 Ocean Passage Atlantic Ocean to Bantry Bay, Ireland
Chapter 32 Rogue Wave Atlantic Ocean to Bantry Bay, Ireland
Chapter 33 The Storm Continues
Chapter 34 Lull after the Storm
Chapter 35 Missing Possessions
Chapter 36 The Harbor in Bantry Bay, Ireland At Elizabeth’s Grandmother Johanna’s Home
Chapter 37 The Housekeeper of Seafield Manor
Chapter 38 The Plight of the Manor’s Housekeeper
Chapter 39 Meanwhile, Inside Seafield Manor’s Kitchen
Chapter 40 A Spy
Chapter 41 The Two Couriers’ Message to Lady O’Sullivan
Chapter 42 At Seafield Manor
Chapter 43 The Coachman Bantry Bay, Ireland
Chapter 44 Delusions of the Old Coachman
Chapter 45 El Sol Entering Bantry Bay, Ireland
Chapter 46 An Outspoken Irishman
Chapter 47 Bere Island, West Cork
Chapter 48 Chasing Backward
Chapter 49 View from the Peninsula
Chapter 50 Housekeeper’s Directive
Chapter 51 Drama on Abbey Road
Chapter 52 Bantry Bay Harbor, Ireland
Chapter 53 The Arrival of Elizabeth at Seafield Manor
Chapter 54 Johanna O’Sullivan
Chapter 55 Johanna O’Sullivan’s Desire to Return to A Coruña, Spain
Chapter 56 The Spy Battle White
Chapter 57 Elizabeth’s Thoughts
Chapter 58 Travel from Bantry Bay to A Coruña
Chapter 59 Elizabeth and Johanna Return to A Coruña, Spain
Chapter 60 The Rainbow A Coruña, Spain
Chapter 61 After the Burial of Johanna A Coruña, Spain
Chapter 62 Knight Brochero
Chapter 63 Allies Knight Don Diego Brochero and Patrick McGillicuddy On the Grounds of Seafield Manor
Chapter 64 A Coruña, Spain To the Pyrenees in France
About the Author
Teia Tephi and the Gaels
MAP2.jpgAuthor’s Note
The cover photograph was taken at Colthill Crescent Arabians, Folsom, Louisiana by Isabella May Rossi of Annabella Jean Rossi standing beside a white Arabian named TheeLotusMorningStarr. Owners of the white Arabian are Larry and Marci Kirby of New Orleans, Louisiana. They operate and own Blue Angel Arabians. Isabella May Rossi is a Violinist with the New Orleans Volunteer Orchestra.
An Ode to Ireland
Isabella Macdonald Smith
Honor millions perished at sea
Honor millions starved to death
Honor those left behind
Fear of English lords
Who now possess your soil
Who want to claim your soul
English crown took your land
Property, livelihood
Family saw starvation
In their land of plenty
Escape from your homeland
Escape from persecution
Dark night shadows
Encase your mind
Body wrapped tightly in rags
Campfire extinguished
Cold chills
Snow blowing, falling
Eerie sounds
Scampering wild animals
Honor ancient civilization
Its medieval scholars
Honor ancestral home
Honor Celtic crosses
Guarding standing stones.
In Memory of Elizabeth O’Sullivan
County Cork, Ireland
Lions stand guard along both sides
of the O’Sullivan family crest
Section I
Elizabeth O’Sullivan in Spain
Chapter 1
A Coruña, Spain 1660
Boom!
Radiating the sky, bolts of lightning danced around the silhouette of the thousand-year-old Hercules Lighthouse. Massive strikes outlined the tower standing tall atop its base as it rose in ancient splendor above the foam-infused water that crashed onto the rock-strewn cliff. Each succession of forked strikes defined the stone tower’s majestic height and grandeur.
Elizabeth O’Sullivan lifted the hem of her long skirt and knelt on the window-seat cushion. Her face pressed against the leaded-glass pane in anticipation of seeing the flash of lightning when it illuminated the storm-laden sky. She edged her hands down the frame of the window, close to the casement, and pried open the aperture wide enough for her head to peer underneath.
Sheets of unexpected rain and strong winds began whirling around in the air currents trying to enter Elizabeth’s open window. Blowing south from the Bay of Biscay, the wind mixed and swirled, joining and twisting with incoming turbulence off the Atlantic Ocean. The storm pounded and rattled the panes of the villa’s ancient wooden-framed windows. While Elizabeth stared through the leaded glass, she felt the wind-driven water being pushed through the window’s opening and quickly shut out the elements’ entrance as she closed the window. Cleansing salt water ran down the outsides of the windowpanes. The window casement frame appeared to float away from the outside wall of the building. A massive pair of carved stone brackets surrounded by a wrought-iron railing secured the window frame to the weathered stone facade of the villa.
Adjusting herself on the silk-embroidered window seat of the upstairs study, she found herself growing impatient. The room was located in one of the homes she shared with her father in A Coruña, a large port city in northwestern Spain.
Leaves whipped past the window, some attached themselves to the panes. A tree branch with baby birds, too young to fly, floated through the air. The chicks burrowed deep into the nest their father had built.
Bored, Elizabeth exhaled loudly.
All the while, she waited, albeit impatiently, for her father to finish editing the Treaty of the Pyrenees between Spain and France.
Relegated to an anteroom of the villa, King Felipe’s official court couriers maintained their vigil, standing at attention, eyes alert but not seeing. They silently waited for Knight O’Sullivan to hand them the official documents.
Nonetheless, court business aside, Elizabeth was anxious to commence the trip with her father to their inland home in Santiago de Compostela.
Searching for a diversion, Elizabeth gained a sense of peacefulness as she sat in awe of the world, with its amazing sights of flashing lightning followed by booms of thunder—all hers for observation.
In the corner, on the stone window balcony, something suddenly caught her eye: an old hooded crow that had found refuge from the storm. He was perched under the shelter of the window’s overhang. He moved his position closer to the leeward ledge as sprays of water glided down his back. His glistening black hood, wings, and tail attested to his majesty. He was staring—watching her. He blinked not. He cawed not. For a long moment, his eyes trapped her gaze while she received his silent message through the eons to her ancient Celtic soul.
Internally, she shuddered. She could not identify why.
She sat mesmerized as details of a recent dream became strikingly realistic. In her mind, the image was as clear as the heavens after the wind freed clouds to scatter, leaving the sun to brightly stream through a cloudless sky. In her vision, Elizabeth awakened with a start to find two figures standing at the foot of her bed. Through a telepathic process, they said in unison in her mind, We’re coming to get your father.
Drizzling rain obscured the sight of the ornate coach pulled by magnificent horses. When the brougham was well inside the grounds of the villa, it set off a flurry of excited voices throughout the hardscape. Yardmen slid away from their dry hiding places and slithered cautiously into the rain to watch as the coachman brought the horses to a water-and-wind-driven halt. The coach entered through the open iron gates at the portico of the villa.
The mayordomo too noticed the carriage but could not recall being told to expect guests of this magnitude. Out of the corner of his eye, through the wind-stirred rain, he noticed additional coaches heading toward the villa. Their horses raced along the structure’s main circular entranceway.
Dressed in the villa’s finest garments, the mayordomo hurried over to the rain-soaked coach to greet and assist the occupants in their descent. Opening the door, his eyes glanced toward two men seated inside the coach—one in full regalia attesting to his status as a high-ranking member of the Protestant Church. What does this mean? the mayordomo asked himself.
The senior man of the cloth slid from his seat to descend from the carriage. Raindrops fell from the carriage’s roof onto the highly glossed, magnificent black boots he had extended outward, reaching for the ground. The man simultaneously extended his hand, displaying the all-powerful ring to be kissed, while the mayordomo bowed in respect for the man’s apparent position.
Enormous bolts of lightning and claps of thunder penetrated the sky.
Elizabeth turned her head and peered out a corner of the window. At that angle, the carriageway arch was directly underneath where she sat. Hands and face pressed against the windowpanes. She could see the bishop and hear his sharp, authoritative tone as he addressed the villa’s manservant. She could feel the tension in the manservant’s demeanor. Vibrations of shivers passed over the body of the mayordomo.
Sounds of horses whinnying were heard as other wagons began to arrive and pile up behind the bishop’s carriage. Sharp male voices emitted from the coaches as groups of ruffians staggered out and away from the slender coach-door openings. Throwing their hard voices into the wind-driven rain, they began yelling in unison, their words indecipherable. Their brawny bodies moved into action as their leader instituted their designated undertaking.
The ruffians mindlessly commenced their assigned task—they invaded the villa.
With a twist of fate, it would be a long time before Elizabeth would have the luxury of a simple daydream.
Soon her life would forever change.
Elizabeth ran through the villa until she was close enough to hear the voice of the clergyman. His face was hidden from her view. In a commanding voice, the man of the cloth was speaking to the mayordomo.
Gather every servant in the villa. Have them meet me here. Now!
Scared of the unknown, Elizabeth bent down and sat close to the end of a dark velvet cushion positioned over a window seat.
Standing in the anteroom, the two couriers from King Felipe’s arsenal turned to face each other; they would never question the authority of a bishop. With no hesitation, they queued alongside the villa’s staff and silently exited the Knight of Santiago’s home.
As swiftly as the bishop’s coach had appeared, the clergyman, along with his carriage companion, had sped off from the villa’s grounds.
The booming sounds of lightning strikes became less intense. As the line squall began to dissipate and blow south, the torrential rainfall changed to a slight drizzle.
As she rose from her window seat, Elizabeth saw the reflection of an outline of a man who had discreetly positioned his body close to a sculptured topiary of bougainvillea growing at the edge of the courtyard. Raindrops trickled gently away from the broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his forehead, shielding his eyes from her view. Enough of the Hapsburg lip extended to reveal his well-trimmed facial hair while his goatee and mustache collected rainwater.
Elizabeth had no doubt of the seriousness the man’s presence evoked—he was hiding in her father’s yard. Even though he was wet, from his attire, she was keenly aware of the man’s station. A wide linen collar slightly extended away from the top of his long top coat, which covered a pair of gentlemen’s breeches; he was a member of the king’s palace. He was part of the inner circle of retainers.
A second man quickly exited the villa’s wooden side door; its metal hinges clanged against the doorframe. Elizabeth watched as he sprinted through the courtyard in the direction of the nobleman. His apparel had the appearance of poor quality. The cut and style of his garments suggested he was not of the first man’s station. His dark pants and shirt were fashioned from a coarse grade of material. Short leather gloves covered his hands.
Scurrying at a quick pace, the man ran until he was within shouting distance of the nobleman lurking in the shadows. Elizabeth understood what he was saying—she could hear the verbal communication between the men.
She knew, in the innermost part of her soul, ill will was in the winds.
Tidings of what ensued that day would be chronicled to the church and the jealous nobles excluded from the power of the privy council. For hundreds of years, grandees’ often exhibited fueled resentment toward the king. Perhaps, a contingent believed the Spanish crown had spent too heavily in time and financial resources on the renegade Irish O’Suilleabhain clan.
Chapter 2
Knight of Santiago Don Philip O’Sullivan
At the far end of the villa, Elizabeth’s father, Don Philip O’Sullivan, a Knight of Santiago, was in his study, surrounded by scattered pieces of parchment. Some overlaid the floor or were haphazardly scattered across the top of his massive writing desk, consuming the entire surface. Don Philip O’Sullivan¹ grappled with the fact that he was spending too much time and effort searching throughout the debris for a particular directive. He alone knew the secret held within the historical documents.
Politics in the Pyrenees, thought Don Philip O’Sullivan.
Oh Lord in heaven, I beseech your intervention.
Andorra! Since 1200, the battle has raged between France and Spain over the sixth-smallest country in Europe. Smallest country. No forward thinking when negotiators used outrageous judgment to award a prized piece of land to two countries. And then finalizing the treaty, Spain awarded a bishop the authority to rule Andorra. Too long the political turmoil has been fueled. The interference of the church has worn on the nerves of the king.
A superb view of the rugged Pyrenees Mountains. Andorra. Ah! Truly the most beautiful valley I’ve ever laid my eyes on, enveloping the deepest part of my soul.
Spain to the south, France to the north.
Oh! The king. Now the king of Spain has assigned me the responsibility of negotiating an agreement with the bishop. I’d prefer to ride my steed into battle, my sword held high, than negotiate with the bishop. He rules for himself. Spain is unable to control his pomposity. The portentous, self-absorbed Bishop Urgell—he pontificates too frequently about his achievement of successfully creating his own personal link to God and the kingdom of heaven.
Suddenly, he found the object he’d been searching for. It had been hiding in plain sight.
He reached for a parchment and held it loosely between his thumb and index finger, letting it flutter slightly as he waved it back and forth. The mislaid document was of great importance to O’Sullivan and his daughter, Elizabeth, before him. Unbeknownst to him at the time, it would be to his advantage to unearth it from his pile and leave it within view.
O’Sullivan thought, Ah! I believed I had misplaced this epistle.
This is the document King Felipe signed confirming Elizabeth’s legitimacy to the title and land in Ireland. Thanks to our Lord in heaven, I have been provided the financial means to appoint the best scholars among the Irish monks and Spaniard fathers to provide Elizabeth with the education and knowledge she will need to rule. A polyglot she is in Gaelic and Spanish, fluent in English and French—she has the intelligence, beauty, and capabilities to hold influence over courts of many lands.
Chapter 3
Abandoned by the Retinue
The attendants!
Such exasperation I’m forced to endure, O’Sullivan thought. Where are the servants?
His temper was evident by the force behind his right hand as it pulled several times on the long silk cord. In his left hand, he still held tightly on to the treasured parchment.
Where is my manservant?
I need help removing these Spanish boots from my feet. Ouch, the leather is wet, and my feet are soggy. These boots have stiffened and are straining against my nerves. They are cutting off my circulation. The boots are way too tight; I’m unable to remove them myself. I swear I’ll not put them back on my feet again until the cobbler has inserted a vice into the boots and stretched out the leather.
Realizing that naught a manservant was coming to his aid, O’Sullivan located his jackboot remover. One at a time, he placed each boot inside the implement. Struggling, he pushed and squirmed the heels of his feet hard enough to loosen the boots’ hold. In this fashion, he was able to yank the boots free from his feet.
Relaxing in his space, O’Sullivan picked up a cup and drank the last drop of mead.
Freedom and a sense of ease surrounded O’Sullivan as he removed his wet socks, dried off his feet on a hand towel, and then placed his feet into a pair of gold-braided maroon-colored velvet slippers.
Comfortable, his disposition improved, he returned his attention to the top of his desk and the manuscripts dispersed over its surface. For just a moment, as he gazed over the untidiness, his mind was at peace.
Past verbal clashes with Bishop Ussher emerged in his psyche and choked in his throat as accusations jumped to the forefront of his consciousness.
James Ussher!
O’Sullivan’s aggravation renewed at the thought of Ussher—self-defending, playing the scene out in his mind’s eye between himself and Ussher (1581–1656).
Hell! Ussher made hell his avocation. Hell and damnation—oh, how well he knew how to control kings, queens, and even the common man.
His words of hell threatened living man.
Burn in hell
was his mantra.
How dare he berate me! James Ussher, a Protestant. Pompous!
Umph. Assaulting my writings. A Protestant critiquing the honorable writings of a Catholic—telling every man in the street and court how my work was not always reliable and then putting the words to pen and composing his own manuscript in response to my writings. The bastard! Jesus Christ, I’d like to take the sword to him.
I’ve half a heart to mount an army against him—Ussher, a foe determined to destroy me.
Keep your thoughts close, he admonished himself.
Displaying his Viking ancestry, he slammed his fists against the desk. He straightened his frame, and in a high-pitched voice, O’Sullivan narrated his favorite psalm:
For, lo, the wicked bend their bow,
They make ready their arrow upon the string,
That they may privily shoot at the upright in heart.²
Bishop Ussher
Archbishop James Ussher, also an Irishman, was neither an ordinary man nor a man of the courts vying for power. Ussher was power. Ussher was a high-ranking member of the Protestant Church; he was a national figure in Ireland. King James I appointed Ussher the bishop of Meath. Ussher’s titles included the archbishop of Armagh; vice-chancellor of Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland; and primate of all Ireland.
Knight of Santiago Don Philip O’Sullivan and James Ussher cultivated friction between each other, becoming fierce enemies. Accelerating their differences, neither one trusted or acknowledged the accomplishments of the other. They continued a lifetime of hostility, and their long-standing antagonism toward each other extended from the year 1621 until O’Sullivan’s death in 1660.
It was not possible for Ussher and O’Sullivan to endure each other’s philosophies and political positions. They verbally pounced on each other.
Ussher’s composed criticism stated O’Sullivan spent too many hours mobilizing his pen writing about Ireland’s Catholics and its flora and fauna. Ussher claimed O’Sullivan, with pen in hand, should have communicated with his sword in hand. Overtime, Ussher was proven correct as no evidence exists O’Sullivan made an effort to mount an attack against the English rule in Ireland.
And so the battle flourished. Over the years, O’Sullivan wore badly on Ussher’s nerves and vice versa. O’Sullivan’s superior attitude, attained through years of association with the crown, perhaps contributed to the animosity that had developed. Ussher did not appreciate O’Sullivan’s role as an author and a scholar. Ussher, a pompous Protestant Irishman, would have been pleased to see Spain rid of this pompous Catholic Irishman.
The Irish had become masters at expressing ill will with the well-known capacity to discriminate, especially toward each other.
Both of these men were Irishmen.
After the Irish uprising of 1641, Ussher became embroiled in tension between England and Spain, and he eventually lost his home and income. In the meantime, O’Sullivan lived grandly on pensions from the king.
People have fought many a war in the name of religion.
O’Sullivan’s Opinion versus the Bishop’s
As an aside, for hundreds of years, through his calculations, Ussher became famous for his analysis on the exact time and date of creation. The bishop asserted the date and time as the night proceeding Sunday, October 23, 4004 BC. These calculations were acknowledged as scholarly and considered the standard.
Over time, this hypothesis by Bishop Ussher was