The Rebels of Ireland_ The Dublin Saga.

by Edward Rutherfurd.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I AM GRATEFUL to the following, whose kind cooperation and professionalism were at all times of the greatest assistance: the director and staff of the National Library of Ireland; the director and curatorial staff of the National Museum of Ireland; the librarian and staff of Trinity College Library; the management and staff of the Office of Public Works at Dublin Castle.

I gratefully acknowledge permission to quote the Orange Toast from Personal Sketches and Recollections, Personal Sketches and Recollections, published by Ashfield Press. published by Ashfield Press.

Special thanks are due to Sarah Gearty, of the Royal Irish Academy, for kindly preparing maps, and to Mrs. Heidi Boshoff, without whose astounding proficiency in the typing of the manuscript this book could not have been completed.

I owe a large debt of gratitude to the following, whose help, guidance, and technical advice were invaluable during this project: Joseph Byrne, author of War and Peace, the Survival of the Talbots of War and Peace, the Survival of the Talbots of Malahide Malahide; Dr. Declan Downey, lecturer at the School of History, University College, Dublin; Professor Colm Lennon, Department of Modern History, National University of Ireland, Maynooth; James McGuire, editor of the Royal Irish Academy's Dictionary of Dictionary of Irish Biography. Irish Biography. I am grateful for having a chance to read in its entirety the unpublished thesis of Maighread M. B. Ni Mhurchadha, I am grateful for having a chance to read in its entirety the unpublished thesis of Maighread M. B. Ni Mhurchadha, Contending Neighbours: Society in Fingal 160360. Contending Neighbours: Society in Fingal 160360.

But above all, I am indebted to three scholars without whose guidance, patience, and encouragement this project could not have been completed. Between them they have read and helped me revise this manuscript. Any errors that remain are mine alone. I thank Dr. Raymond Gillespie, senior lecturer in the Department of Modern History, National University of Ireland, Maynooth; Dr. James Kelly, of St. Patrick's College, Drumcondra; and Dr. T. P. O'Neill of University College, Dublin.

Finally, as always, I thank my agent, Gill Coleridge, without whom I should be entirely lost, and I thank my wonderful editors, Oliver Johnson at Century and William Thomas at Doubleday, whose exemplary thoroughness and creative responses to problems have so hugely improved this manuscript.

INTRODUCTION.

THE PRINCES OF IRELAND follows the destinies of six fictional Irish families: The O'Byrnes, who spring from the union of Conall, descendant of a High King of Ireland, and Deirdre, daughter of a local chieftain at the time of Saint Patrick.

The MacGowans, pre-Celtic craftsmen and merchants.

The Harolds Harolds and the and the Doyles Doyles, both Viking families who become farmers and merchants.

The Walshes Walshes, Flemish knights originally, who settle in Wales before crossing to Ireland at the time of Strongbow's Anglo-Norman invasion in the twelfth century.

And the Tidy Tidy family, craftsmen and small local officials, who arrive to try their luck in medieval Ireland. family, craftsmen and small local officials, who arrive to try their luck in medieval Ireland.

The Princes of Ireland, the first book in Edward Rutherfurd's magnificent Dublin Saga, swept the reader through more than a thousand years of Irish history, telling Ireland's story through the adventures and fates of several Irish families, whose stories continue in this volume. the first book in Edward Rutherfurd's magnificent Dublin Saga, swept the reader through more than a thousand years of Irish history, telling Ireland's story through the adventures and fates of several Irish families, whose stories continue in this volume.

The Saga opens in A.D. 430, with the stirring and tragic tale of Conall, nephew of the High King at Tara, and his fierce love for the beautiful Deirdre. When the High King chooses Deirdre as a second wife, the lovers flee. They live a blissful year in hiding, but there comes an inevitable reckoning. Conall frees Deirdre from her obligation to the High King, but at the cost of his life: in an ancient druidic ritual, he agrees to sacrifice himself to save his love and heal the land from strife. Here we see pagan Ireland in all its mythic glory, a land of warriors and ecstatic festivals, where clan warfare is kept in check by the wiles of the High King while druids augur the fate of the people.

Twenty years later Deirdre is living in the small settlement of Dubh Linn with her son, Morna. He bears a striking resemblance to Conall, his father. A group of horsemen arrive, led by a greying man whom Deirdre recognizes as one of the druids who presided over Conall's sacrifice. But the druid has changed-he is now a follower of Patrick, a man who preaches a strange new religion that honors only one god and rejects the practice of human sacrifice. In the person of Saint Patrick, Rutherfurd shows how the saint's genius and humanity converted the people of Ireland to the Christian religion.

The cataclysm that transformed Celtic Ireland came in the ninth century, with the Viking invasions. Arriving in fearsome longboats, the Vikings were famous as plunderers of monasteries. But many of these invaders chose to stay in Ireland, setting up fertile farmsteads and burgeoning ports. They also created an enduring place name for the land: by converting the island's Celtic name (Eriu) into their own tongue, the Nordic name Ire-land was born. The Vikings also transformed Dubh Linn's name into Dyflin, which became the richest port in all of Ireland. This merging of Scandinavian and Celtic cultures is brought to life in The Princes of Ireland The Princes of Ireland through the story of Harold and Caoilinn. He is a Dyflin shipbuilder who follows ancient Norse gods, and whose ancestors were among the bravest Norwegian warriors. She is a beautiful and spirited descendant of Conall, and she cannot imagine marrying a man who is not a Christian. through the story of Harold and Caoilinn. He is a Dyflin shipbuilder who follows ancient Norse gods, and whose ancestors were among the bravest Norwegian warriors. She is a beautiful and spirited descendant of Conall, and she cannot imagine marrying a man who is not a Christian.

They live during a time when the High Kingship of Ireland is in dispute. In 999, the great King Brian Boru launched a military campaign to unite Ireland under his command. In the novel, he gains a loyal follower in Harold. Yet Brian's kingship of Ireland is opposed: many of his fellow Irishmen are against him. Caoilinn hates him.

Fourteen years after Brian Boru's rise to power, the recently widowed Harold and Caoilinn begin a tender courtship, but it falls apart when she learns of Harold's allegiance to King Brian. The reign of Brian ends when he is slain by Viking invaders during the historic Battle of Clontarf. Though Brian Boru decisively won the battle, staving off further Viking raids, his death made it a Pyrrhic victory for the Irish. In the ensuing peace, Harold the Norseman and Caoilinn the Celt put their differences aside and wed happily.

In 1167, a century after the Norman conquest of England, King Henry II sets the stage for the annexation of Ireland by England. King Henry himself belongs to the Plantagenet dynasty from Anjou, in France. Henry allows one of his magnates-the clever, calculating Strongbow-to carve out English settlements in Ireland. Rutherfurd captures this turbulent transition by introducing a young Welsh soldier of Flemish descent named Peter FitzDavid, who sails to Ireland with Strongbow.

Peter befriends a Dublin family descended from Caoilinn. The patriarch is a married priest with children (practices not uncommon for a priest in the Celtic Irish Church). Peter is intrigued by Conn's attractive daughter, Fionnuala. She doesn't hesitate in sparking a brief affair with the well-mannered soldier from England. Their trysts end after Strongbow asks Peter to recruit her as a spy and Fionnuala unwittingly provides information leading to a humiliating defeat for the High King, one of many blows lying in store for the Irish at the hands of a powerful new master.

In 1171, King Henry travels to Ireland personally, accompanied by 4,500 troops, for the purpose of reminding Strongbow that no matter how many victories he scores, he must always submit to the king. After the English victories in Ireland, the Pope sends a letter of congratulation to King Henry, commending him for his military triumphs in subduing the Irish. The Pope makes it clear to Irish clergymen that their kinsmen have won no favor with Rome. In the ensuing years, the king rewards his English invaders with copious amounts of Irish property. Peter is eventually granted ownership of Fionnuala's family estate in reward for two decades of loyal service to the crown. In a scene depicting the anguish of these transactions, Fionnuala demands that Peter allow her brother to continue living on the land that has been in their family for hundreds of years. Peter is unmoved, and agrees to let her brother remain only if he pays timely rent. Now married to an O'Byrne, she warns Peter that her children may one day come down from the hills and seize the land that is rightfully theirs.

By 1370, the English in the Dublin region are living in a state of constant friction with the Irish in the hinterland. Rutherfurd illustrates this in a suspenseful vignette involving the tiny but strategically located fishing village of Dalkey. Nearby, the Justiciar in Dublin has installed John Walsh's family at the ancient castle of Carrickmines to create another English stronghold against Irish resistance. Rumor spreads that the O'Byrnes are planning a raid on Carrickmines. The warning travels to the Justiciar, who convenes a group of advisors that includes Walsh as well as Doyle of Dublin, who made a fortune in the wine trade. Doyle proposes that Carrickmines be fortified with troops, including the only squadron stationed at Dalkey, to set a trap for the O'Byrnes. In reality, Doyle has secretly plotted to create this diversion. While a staged, minor scuffle ensues at Carrickmines, Dalkey is left unattended. This gives Doyle, the descendant of Danish pirates, a tantalizing opportunity for smuggling; colluding with other residents of Dalkey, he unloads the valuable cargo of three ships under the cover of night, thereby avoiding massive tariffs.

The fifteenth century in England is marked by the Wars of the Roses, bloody feuds between rival branches of the Plantagenet royal House. Though the wars culminate in 1485 with mortal defeat for Richard III and victory for Henry Tudor, an Anglo-Irish faction continues to back the Yorkist cause. They crown a young pretender, who claims to be the Earl of Warwick, as the new King of England and set sail for England, plotting to topple King Henry. The disastrous results only lead to further subjection in Ireland, which is divided between those living within the Pale (Dublin's surrounding counties, dominated by the English) and the more Irish world, beyond the Pale. Through interlocking plots we follow the lives of four sixteenth-century families: the Tidys, the Walshes, the Doyles, and the O'Byrnes.

For those within the Pale, scrupulous English appearance was essential. These codes are vividly portrayed when Henry Tidy's fiancee, Cecily, is arrested for wearing a scarf that signals her alliance with the Irish. Henry was hoping to apply for a franchise soon, to become a freeman of Dublin. Alderman Doyle helps get the charges dropped, but he warns Henry to be careful; the revelation that his fiancee is Irish might ruin his chances. This seemingly minor incident bodes the schisms that will divide Dublin society in decades to come.

This precarious political climate is felt in the Walsh household as well. William Walsh tells his wife, Margaret, that his work as an attorney is going to take him into the far south of Ireland. He warns her to keep his trip confidential; though his assignment there is legitimate, plots are brewing against King Henry VIII, and spies might think he is visiting rural Munster for more sinister reasons. But Margaret reveals the Munster secret to Joan Doyle, wife of the alderman. William is subsequently denied a chance to run for Parliament, though John Doyle does gain a seat. Margaret's distrust for Joan- compounded by long-standing rumors that the Doyles cheated Joan's family out of land-cause her to hate the other woman.

But it is King Henry VIII's momentous decision to annul his marriage to his Spanish wife, Catherine of Aragon, that will change Ireland's history. The Pope has granted annulments before, but Catherine's nephew has just become Holy Roman Emperor. The Pope dare not offend the Hapsburg monarch in favor of an upstart Tudor king. Henry VIII breaks with the Pope and the Reformation in England-and Ireland-has begun.

The spurning of the Pope also piques the cultural differences between Henry and Cecily Tidy. At an elaborate Corpus Christi Day pageant, Cecily blurts out that the new queen is a heretic; she then says the king will burn in hell. Henry Tidy is aghast, and as fate would have it, she has made these proclamations before a figure who will soon rouse the Irish into taking up arms against the king. He is Lord Thomas Fitzgerald, an influential member of the aristocracy who wears the finest silk tunics available and is hence called Silken Thomas.

Soon after the Corpus Christi incident, Silken Thomas withdraws his English loyalty and in essence proclaims himself the new protector of Ireland. Like many of his countrymen who envision a glorious renewal of Gaelic dominance in Ireland, Sean O'Byrne is thrilled by this turn of events and even pays a call to the Walshes, asking William to swear his loyalty to Silken Thomas.

Cecily Tidy joins in the fervor as well, calling out to Thomas from a high window and shouting a string of pledges that echo in the street. Her public oaths to the Fitzgeralds horrify her husband. He knows that she has now ruined any chance he might have had in rising through the ranks of English power brokers.

The Doyles continue to oppose the Fitzgeralds in favor of the pro-Tudor Butlers.

Concerned about the looming battles, Alderman Doyle decides Joan would be safer in Dalkey and makes plans for her to be escorted there. He doesn't realize that Margaret has crafted a vengeful plan of her own, arranging for Sean O'Byrne to kidnap Joan on the road and hold her for a ransom to be shared equally between Margaret and the O'Byrnes. But the raid does not go as planned. Joan is unharmed, but one of Sean's sons is killed. When William Walsh hears the news, he reveals to his wife that Joan has recently shown incredible generosity toward him, offering a loan to help with his dire financial circumstances. Margaret feels ashamed when she realizes she has misinterpreted all of Joan's seemingly cruel actions and spurned a woman whose intentions were actually never anything but kind.

For the O'Byrnes, however, more strife is in store. Sean and Eva have been raising a foster child named Maurice, who was born into the powerful Fitzgerald family. When Maurice is no longer a child, Lady Fitzgerald announces that Sean O'Byrne is his father; this is why she put the child in Sean's care. In the wake of Eva's fury and humiliation, Maurice flees to Dublin. There in the heart of the English Pale, a family friend advises him to erase all Irish traces of his name. Thus Maurice Fitzgerald, whose lineage includes princely O'Byrnes, noble Walshes, courageous Conall, and centuries of chieftains, becomes Maurice Smith.

It becomes clear that the romantic revolution of Silken Thomas's dreams are receiving no support from the continent; Henry VIII sends in troops, and in 1536 the Irish Parliament passes measures renouncing the Pope and swearing allegiance to the Tudor king. Seventy-five of the men who had acted with Silken Thomas are sentenced to execution. The fall of the Fitzgeralds signals an irrevocable defeat for all of Ireland.

The Princes of Ireland closes with the image of Cecily Tidy gazing in horror as a fire blazes in front of Christ Church Cathedral. Icons are being publicly burned in an attempt to purge Ireland of Catholicism, a practice that would herald new battles for the very soul of the island as politics and religion begin their fiery mingling. Rutherfurd paints an ominous concluding scene in which ornate relics are added to the pyre, and the Bachall Iosa-the jewel-encrusted reliquary of the Staff of Saint Patrick himself, one of the holiest and most awesome relics in Ireland-disappears forever. It is a haunting moment, destined to transform the descendants of princes into rebels. closes with the image of Cecily Tidy gazing in horror as a fire blazes in front of Christ Church Cathedral. Icons are being publicly burned in an attempt to purge Ireland of Catholicism, a practice that would herald new battles for the very soul of the island as politics and religion begin their fiery mingling. Rutherfurd paints an ominous concluding scene in which ornate relics are added to the pyre, and the Bachall Iosa-the jewel-encrusted reliquary of the Staff of Saint Patrick himself, one of the holiest and most awesome relics in Ireland-disappears forever. It is a haunting moment, destined to transform the descendants of princes into rebels.

The Rebels of Ireland continues the story of these families and of the additional fictional families of Smith, Pincher, Budge, Law, Madden, and others. continues the story of these families and of the additional fictional families of Smith, Pincher, Budge, Law, Madden, and others.

PLANTATION.

1597.

DOCTOR SIMEON PINCHER knew all about Ireland.

Doctor Simeon Pincher was a tall, thin, balding man, still in his twenties, with a sallow complexion and stern black eyes that belonged in a pulpit. He was a learned man, a graduate and fellow of Emmanuel College, at Cambridge University. When he had been offered a position at the new foundation of Trinity College in Dublin, however, he had come thither with such alacrity that his new hosts were quite surprised.

"I shall come at once," he had written to them, "to do God's work." With which reply, no one could argue.

Not only did he come with the stated zeal of a missionary. Even before his arrival in Ireland, Doctor Pincher had informed himself thoroughly about its inhabitants. He knew, for instance, that the mere Irish, as the original native Irish were now termed in England, were worse than animals, and that, as Catholics, they could not be trusted.

But the special gift that Doctor Pincher brought to Ireland was his belief that the mere Irish were not only an inferior people, but that God had deliberately marked them out-along with others, too, of course-since the beginning of time, to be cast into eternal hellfire. For Doctor Simeon Pincher was a follower of Calvin.

To understand Doctor Pincher's version of the subtle teachings of the great Protestant reformer, it was only necessary to listen to one of his sermons-for he was already accounted a fine preacher, greatly praised for his clarity.

"The logic of the Lord," he would declare, "like His love, is perfect. And since we are endowed with the faculty of reason, with which God in His infinite goodness has bestowed upon us, we may see His purpose as it is." Leaning forward slightly towards his audience to ensure their concentration, Doctor Pincher would then explain.

"Consider. It is undeniable that God, the fount of all knowledge-to whom all ages are but as the blinking of an eye-must in His infinite wisdom know all things, past, present, and to come. And therefore it must be that even now, He knows full well who upon the Day of Judgement is to be saved, and who shall be cast down into the pit of Hell. He has established all things from the beginning. It cannot be otherwise. Even though, in His mercy, He has left us ignorant of our fate, some have already been chosen for Heaven and others for Hell. The divine logic is absolute, and all who believe must tremble before it. Those who are chosen, those who shall be saved, we call the Elect. All other, damned from the first, shall perish. And so," he would fix his audience with a terrible stare, "well may you ask: 'Which am I?'"

The grim logic of John Calvin's doctrine of predestination was hard to refute. That Calvin was a deeply religious and well-meaning man could not be doubted. His followers strove to follow the loving teachings of the gospels, and to live lives that were honest, hardworking, and charitable. But for some critics, his form of religion ran a risk: its practice could become unduly harsh. Moving from France to Switzerland, Calvin had set up his church in Geneva. The rules governing his community were sterner than those of the Lutheran Protestants, and he believed that the state should enforce them by law. Following their strict moral regime-and reporting their neighbours to the authorities for any failure to live according to God's law-his congregation did not only seek to earn a place in Heaven, but also to prove to themselves and to the world that they were indeed the predestined Elect who had already been chosen to go there.

Soon Calvinist communities had sprung up in other parts of Europe. If the Scottish Presbyterians were known for their somewhat dour adherence to the doctrines of predestination, the Church of England and its sister Church of Ireland had nowadays a Calvinistic air. "Only the Godly are part of the Church," its congregations would declare.

But could it be that certain among the community might in fact not be chosen to go to Heaven at all? Most certainly, the Calvinists would concede. Any moral backsliding might be an indication of it. And even then, as Doctor Pincher put it in one of his finest sermons, there remained a great uncertainty.

"No man knows his fate. We are like men walking across a frozen river, foolishly unmindful that, at any time, the ice may crack, and buckle, and drop us down into the frozen waters-below which, hidden deeper yet, burn the fiery furnaces of Hell. Be not puffed up with pride, therefore, as you follow the law of the scriptures, but remember that we are all miserable sinners and be humble. For this is the divine trap, and from it there is no escape. All is foretold, and the mind of God, being perfect, will not be changed." Then, looking round at his disconsolate congregation, Doctor Pincher would cry out: "And even though, if God has so ordained, you may be doomed, yet I beseech you, be of good cheer. For remember, no matter how hard the way, we are commanded, always, to hope."

Might there, perhaps, be hope for some of those not in the Calvinist congregation? Perhaps. No man could know the mind of God. But it seemed doubtful. In particular, for those in the Catholic Church, the future looked bleak. Did they not indulge in popish superstitions and worship the saints as idols-things specifically prohibited in the scriptures? Hadn't they had opportunity to turn away from their errors? To Doctor Pincher it seemed that all followers of the Pope in Rome must surely be on their way to perdition, and that the natives of Ireland, whose bad character was so well-known, were probably in the devil's clutch already. And might they not yet be saved if they converted? Could not their case be remedied? No. Their sin, to Doctor Pincher, was a clear sign that they had been selected to be damned from the first. They belonged, like the pagan spirits that infested the place, deep underground. Such were the thoughts that had strengthened the keen resolve of Doctor Pincher as he crossed the sea to Dublin.

Yet what of his own fate? Was Simeon Pincher sure, in the secret places of his heart, that he himself was one of the Elect? He had to hope so. If there had been certain sins, indiscretions at least, in his own life, might they be signs that his own nature was corrupt? He turned his face from the thought. To sin, of course, was the lot of every man. Those who repented might indeed be saved. If sins there had been in his life, therefore, he repented most earnestly. And his daily conduct, and his zeal for the Lord, proved, he hoped and believed, that he was, indeed, not the least amongst God's chosen.

It was a quiet day, with a light breeze, when he arrived at Dublin. His ship had anchored out in the Liffey. A waterman rowed him to the Wood Quay.

And he had just clambered onto the terra firma of Ireland represented by the old quay when, quite suddenly, something happened and the world turned upside down.

The next thing he remembered, he was lying facedown, conscious of a great roar, and that something had given him a huge blow in the stomach so that he could hardly breathe. He looked up, blinked, and saw the face of a man, a gentleman by his clothes, dusting himself off and gazing down at him with concern.

"You are not hurt?"

"I do not think so," Pincher answered. "What has happened?"

"An explosion." The stranger pointed, and, twisting round, Pincher saw that, in the middle of the quays, where he had noticed a tall building with a crane standing before, there was now a broken stone stump, while the houses in the street opposite were blackened ruins.

Pincher took the stranger's proffered arm gratefully as he stumbled to his feet. His leg hurt.

"You are just arrived?"

"Yes. For the first time."

"Come, then, Sir. My name, by the way, is Martin Walsh. There's an inn close by. Let me help you there."

Having left Pincher at the inn, the obliging gentleman went off to inspect the damage. He returned an hour later to report.

"The strangest business. An accident without a doubt." It seemed that a spark from a horse's shoe upon a cobble had ignited a keg of gunpowder, which had set off a large gunpowder store by the big central crane. "The lower part of Winetavern Street is destroyed. Even the fabric of Christ Church Cathedral up the hill has been shaken." He smiled wryly. "I have heard of strangers bringing bad weather, Sir, but an explosion is something new. I hope you do not mean the Irish any further harm."

It was gentle banter, kindly meant. Pincher understood this very well. But he had never been very good at this sort of thing himself.

"Not," he said with grim satisfaction, "unless they are papists."

"Ah." The gentleman smiled sadly. "You will find many of those, Sir, in Dublin."

It was not until after this Good Samaritan had conducted him up to Trinity College and seen him safely into the care of the porter there that Doctor Pincher discovered that Mr. Walsh himself was of the Roman faith. It was an embarrassing moment, it couldn't be denied. Yet how could he have guessed that the kindly stranger, so obviously English, so clearly a gentleman, could be a papist? Indeed, as Walsh had warned him, he was soon shocked to discover that many of the gentlefolk and better sort in Dublin were.

But this very discovery only showed, he was also to understand, how much work there was to be done.

1607.

A midsummer evening. Martin Walsh stood with his three children on the Ben of Howth and stared across the sea. His cautious, lawyer's mind was engaged in its own careful calculations.

Martin had always been a thoughtful soul-old for his years, people used to say. His own mother had died when he was three, his father Robert Walsh a year after. His grandfather, old Richard, and his grandmother had brought him up and, used to the company of older people all the time, he had unconsciously taken on many of their attitudes. One of these had been caution.

He gazed fondly at his daughter. Anne was only fifteen. It was hard to believe that he must already make such decisions about her. His fingers clasped the letter in the hidden pocket in his breeches, and he wondered, as he had been wondering for hours: should he tell her about it?

The marriage of a daughter should be a private family affair. But it wasn't. Not nowadays. He wished his wife were still alive. She would have known how to deal with this. Young Smith might possess a good character or a bad one. Walsh hoped that it was good. Yet something more would be necessary. Principles, certainly. Strength, without a doubt. But also that indefinable and all-important quality-a talent for survival.

For people like himself-for the loyal Old English-life in Ireland had never been more dangerous.

It was four and a half centuries since the Norman-French king Henry Plantagenet of England had invaded and, taking the place of the old High Kings of Ireland, bullied the Irish princes into accepting him as their nominal lord. Apart from the Pale area around Dublin, of course, it had still been Irish princes and Plantagenet magnates like the Fitzgeralds-who were soon not much different from the Irish- that had ruled the island in practice ever since. Until seventy years ago, when King Henry VIII of England had smashed the Fitzgeralds and made plain, once and for all, England's intention to rule the western island directly. He'd even taken the title King of Ireland.

A few years later, the disease-ridden English monarch with the six wives had been dead. For half a dozen years his son Edward, a sickly boy, had ruled; his daughter Mary for another five. But then it had been Elizabeth, the virgin queen, who for nearly half a century had remained on England's throne. They had all tried to rule Ireland, but they hadn't found it easy.

Governors were sent over, some wise, some not. English aristocrats, almost always, with resonant names or titles: Saint Leger, Sussex, Sidney, Essex, Grey. And always they encountered the same, traditional Irish problems: Old English magnates-Fitzgeralds and Butlers-still jealous of each other; Irish princes impatient of royal control-up in Ulster, the mighty O'Neills had still not forgotten they had once been High Kings of Ireland. And everyone-yes, including the loyal Old English gentry like the Walshes-only too glad to send deputations to the monarch to undermine the governor's authority wherever the governor did something they didn't like. If they came to turn Ireland into a second England, this was not only supposed to be for the benefit of the Irish. With them came a collection of fortune hunters-the New English, they were called-hungry for land. Some of these rogues even tried to claim they were descended from long-forgotten Plantagenet settlers and that they had ancient title to Irish property.

So was it surprising that the English governors found that Ireland resisted change, or new taxes, or English adventurers trying to steal their land? Was it surprising that during Martin Walsh's childhood there had been more than one local rising, especially down in the south, where the Fitzgeralds of Munster felt threatened? There was more than a suspicion, however, that some of the English officials were deliberately trying to stir up trouble. "If they can provoke us into rebellion," some Irish landowners concluded, "then our estates are confiscated and they can get their own hands on them. That's the game." But it was at the end of Elizabeth's long reign that the big rebellion had come.

Of all the provinces of Ireland, Ulster had the reputation as the wildest and the most backward. Ulster chiefs had watched the progress of the English officials in the other provinces with disgust and increasing restlessness. The greatest of them all, O'Neill-who had been educated in England and held the English title Earl of Tyrone-had usually managed to keep the peace up there. Yet in the end it had been Tyrone who led the revolt.

What did he want? To rule all Ireland as his ancestors had done? Perhaps. Or just to frighten the English so much that they'd leave him to rule Ulster as his own? Also possible. Like Silken Thomas Fitzgerald, sixty years earlier, he had appealed to Catholic loyalties against the heretic English and sent messages to the Catholic king of Spain asking for troops. And this time, Catholic troops-four and a half thousand of them-had actually come. Tyrone was quite a skilful soldier, too. He'd destroyed the first English force sent against him up in Ulster, at the Battle of the Yellow Ford, and people had rallied to his cause from all over the island. That had only been a decade ago, and no one in Dublin had known what was going to happen; but in due course Mountjoy, the tough and able English commander, had broken Tyrone and his Spanish allies down in Munster. There was nothing Tyrone could do after that. At the very moment that old Queen Elizabeth had been on her deathbed in London, Tyrone, last of the princes of Ireland, had capitulated. The English had been surprisingly lenient; he was allowed to keep some of the old O'Neill lands.

There was a new king, Elizabeth's cousin James, on the throne now. Tyrone's game was over, and he knew it. Yet was Ireland any safer?

He glanced out to sea. To his right lay the broad sweep of Dublin Bay, curving out to the southern headland and the harbour of Dalkey. Turning left, he looked down to the strange little island with the cleft in its cliff-Ireland's Eye, people sometimes called that island now-and northward across the waters to where, in the distance, the blue-grey mountains of Ulster rose up steeply. If he was going to broach the subject, he thought, now was the time. They'd be gone in the morning.

Martin Walsh's character could be guessed from his appearance. There were a few splashes of dried mud and plenty of dust on his soft leather boots, because, having ridden past the castle of his friend Lord Howth at the base of the headland, he had chosen to walk up to the summit. But his breeches and doublet, which had been carefully brushed that morning, were still spotlessly clean. As the day was warm, he had ridden out without a cloak or even a hat, and his hair, still mostly brown, hung loose to his shoulders. He had a small pointed beard, which was grey. Careful, clean, calm, not proud, a family man. The only other thing a new acquaintance need observe was the silver crucifix upon a chain beside his heart.

The letter had been brought to him by a messenger that morning; and having read it and digested its surprising contents, he could only conclude that the author had sent it in a hurry upon learning that Lawrence and Anne were about to depart.

"I have received a letter from Peter Smith," he said quietly. "About his son Patrick. Do you know him?"