After a little rest, some of the cattlemen were returning, and O'Byrne asked Anne if she wanted to go down with them.

"I should like to stay up here," she answered.

O'Byrne stayed with the cattle for a time, until he was satisfied that everything was in good order; then, turning to Anne in front of the remaining men, he remarked: "It's a beautiful walk towards Glendalough. Would you like to see it?"

"What do you think?" Anne asked the men.

"It is. It's a fine view. Well worth the walk," they told her.

So telling the men that he'd be back, O'Byrne escorted her politely along the path that led southwards. He strode at a good pace, but she had no trouble keeping up. When they were well out of sight of the men, however, he slowed a little and put his arm around her waist, and they proceeded like that.

As they went across the open spaces and the winding ravines, Anne knew that she had never been so happy in her life. With the wild mountain landscape before her, the warm sun on her face, the delightful sensation of his arm around her waist, she felt so wonderfully free and confident. It was exhilarating. She gave a laugh of sheer happiness. A little farther on, she murmured something without even knowing that she had done so, and was quite surprised when O'Byrne asked her what she meant.

"You said: 'Heart over head,' " he explained.

"I did?" She laughed again. "It was just something my brother Lawrence once said. He was wrong, though." She had never been more glad to be alive.

They had gone a couple of miles when they came upon the place. A bend in a ravine had formed a natural little grassy arbour beside a mountain stream, protected and hidden by the surrounding rocks and trees. Without waiting for O'Byrne, Anne climbed down to the water's edge. After standing there a moment or two, she took off her shoes and stepped barefoot into the stream. It was colder than she expected, and when she stepped out, her feet were tingling. She laughed. She took a few steps towards the shelter of the rocks. She could feel the grass between her toes. O'Byrne was sitting on a rock above, watching her.

She half turned away. It was not difficult to loosen the clasp at her shoulder. A moment later, her clothes were falling to the ground and she was naked. She took a deep breath and felt the faint caress of the breeze on her breasts. She closed her eyes. The soft air was brushing lightly round her back, her legs, every part of her. She gave a tiny shiver. Then she turned to face O'Byrne. He was still sitting quietly on the rock, watching her. She smiled.

"Are you coming down from there?" she enquired.

"I think I may as well."

She watched him as he came easily down. He was strong, she thought, but lithe as a cat. Then he was standing in front of her. She could smell the light sweat on his chest.

"Do I have to undress you?" she asked playfully, and he smiled.

"Do you want to?"

"I do," she said.

She had never made love in the open air before. The hard ground under her felt good as the long strands of grass pressed against her harshly, leaving their imprint and little green smears on her skin. The scent of the grass was in her hair, and the tinkling sound of the stream was their accompaniment. Once, as they rolled together over the ground, they almost tumbled into the water, and both burst out laughing. She had never felt so alive before. They remained there, making love and caressing, something over half an hour.

Afterwards, as they walked back, it seemed to her that, here in the great open wildness of the Wicklow Mountains, something special had taken place within her; as if, on that day, the sense of deprivation, the anger that had blighted her life for so many years, had been assuaged and that she was free and whole again.

Two days later, a careful inspection of Maurice's leg satisfied everyone that although the ankle was badly sprained and the muscle torn, the leg was not broken. And so, after a last night with her lover, Anne set out with her son back to Dublin.

"I shall come to Dublin again," O'Byrne secretly promised her, "in three weeks."

"I hardly know how I shall do without you for so long," Anne told him.

And indeed, all the way down from the Wicklow heights to the Dublin plain, she thanked the fates that she had found O'Byrne, and that her husband knew nothing.

On a hot July day in that summer of 1638, Walter Smith made a discovery.

He had just come out of the Post Office in Castle Street, from which he had despatched a letter to a merchant in London, when he met Orlando. The Post Office was one of the several improvements in Dublin that Wentworth could point to as benefits of his firm English rule. Others included the lanterns that now lit the dark streets of old Dublin at night and, most recently, a playhouse. But the Lord Deputy's blunt bad manners had offended almost everyone by now, and his attempts to get his hands on more Old English land in Leinster and Galway had left him few friends amongst the Old English Catholics, and so Walter Smith was rather surprised when his brother-in-law, falling into step beside him, remarked cheerfully that the political situation was looking up. How so? Walter enquired.

"Oh, I'm thinking of Scotland," said Orlando, as if the thing was obvious-which, as far as Walter could see, it wasn't.

For to most Englishmen, the last year of royal government had been a disaster.

It was typical of King Charles that he failed to understand even the land from which his family came. The people of Scotland had made it plain enough to his grandmother, Mary Queen of Scots, that they overwhelmingly wanted a Presbyterian church. So it was folly to imagine that the Scots would now accept the sort of High Church services that had been imposed on England and Ireland. Yet this is exactly what King Charles had recently tried to do. If Doctor Pincher had been shocked by the popish ritual in Christ Church, the Scots were outraged when the king ordered such things in their own land. There had been a riot in the cathedral in Edinburgh and resistance all over Scotland. To these heartfelt protests, Charles was deaf. He was the king, so he must be right. By the spring of 1638 the Scots, from the richest aristocrat to the humblest labourer, had formed that great protest movement bound together by the National Covenant, and Scotland was out of control. King Charles was now trying to raise an army to march north against the Covenanters.

"And don't you see," Orlando said to Walter, "that this may be good news for us?" In the first place, he explained, it would more than ever make the English government turn away from the Puritans-and that must include the Presbyterians, many of them Scottish, up in Ulster. "The king may come to regret that there were ever Protestant plantations in Ireland at all." Beyond that, he pointed out, it would make the king more than ever grateful for the solid support of the English Catholics of Ireland. "This is the time, Walter, for the Old English to remind the king, as often as we can, that we are his loyal friends."

"You believe that he may grant further concessions?"

"You have not seen my meaning, Walter," Orlando continued. "I mean more than that. I think it possible, if these troubles with the Protestants go on, that the king may even turn the control of Ireland back to us, the Old English. The old gentry families that he can trust." He smiled. "We Catholics may control Ireland again if we play our cards well."

It seemed to Walter that his brother-in-law was a shade too optimistic. But you never knew. Political reversals had happened before. Orlando could turn out to be right. They had reached the precincts of Christ Church.

"Won't you come to the house now?" Walter asked.

"I would. But I've an appointment," said Orlando.

"I'll give your greetings to your sister, then," said Walter.

"Ah. Please do," Orlando said quickly. And then he was gone.

Walter continued slowly towards his house. There was no question, he had to admit, that he had put on weight during the last year. Not that he felt any the worse for it. Indeed, the extra layer of fat he had acquired was comforting. Sometimes, when he was sitting alone, it seemed as though his body had grown, like a friend, to keep him company and, as a good friend should, protect him from the attacks of a cruel world.

He was sorry that Orlando had not accompanied him home, because he loved his brother-in-law. But he was not surprised. He had noticed for a long time now Orlando's strange reluctance to encounter Anne. If asked to come to the house, he'd make some excuse, as he'd done today, and swear he'd come soon. Or if he came, though he greeted his sister with a kiss, there was always in his manner towards her a faint reserve. With himself, Walter had observed that sometimes, without meaning to, or when he thought he did not see, Orlando had given him a look of pity or concern; and if they were standing together without speaking, Walter could sense in the silence a hint of awkwardness. With Lawrence, too, he had perceived a thin veil of discretion, like a coat of varnish, upon the Jesuit's courtesy.

It was very understandable. They thought he did not know.

He knew. He had known almost from the first. He could remember the evening-it seemed so long ago-when he had noticed his wife looking at him thoughtfully. Nothing so strange about that, perhaps. Yet something unusual had struck him: her look hadn't been critical or unfriendly; it was just that she seemed to be contemplating him, as if from a distance. Was she wondering how he would react in some situation or other? Was she considering some aspect of his character? She might have looked at him that way if she were comparing him with someone else, or even trying to decide how she felt about him. Surely such things were not to be thought of. But whatever was in her mind, her look suggested that some hidden separation had occurred; there was a dispassionate distance between them. He saw it, but said nothing. What should he say? In the days and weeks that followed, however, he had watched. And he had seen.

A careful glance at her figure in the looking glass, when there was no need to do that for him. A momentary look of impatience at something he said, which, if she felt, she had never let herself show before. Sometimes she seemed preoccupied, her mind elsewhere. At other times, her body had a wonderful glow. And somewhere in all this, he had noticed the behaviour of Lawrence and Orlando. Even then, he had scarcely been able to credit such a thing. Until one day he had followed her to the western market and saw her enter the lodgings and not come out. By that night, he knew it was O'Byrne that she had seen.

Even then, for a time, he could not quite believe it. His loving, virtuous wife acting in such a way? For several days, he remained stunned, in a state of shock. He must have looked terrible, for as she came in one afternoon, Anne looked at him in surprise and asked with a mixture of alarm and impatience: "Are you ill? You look like a ghost." He told her he was tired, and that it was nothing, and pretended annoyance over some trifling piece of business. After that, he was careful to conceal his feelings. He was not ready to have a confrontation yet. Instead, he had forced himself to consider the matter as dispassionately as he could.

Did she mean to run away with O'Byrne, or if he forced the issue, might she do so? He did not think so. She was taking pains to be discreet. She could hardly wish to bring disgrace upon herself and scandal to her children-especially Maurice, who was still at home-by such an action. And yet, he reminded himself, he'd never have thought she would do what she had already done in the first place. Could he himself put an end to the matter by confronting one of the lovers? Probably. Whatever this was for his wife, O'Byrne was a younger man who would soon be looking for a new wife. For O'Byrne, he guessed, this was an interlude that could be ended. But what then? He'd have a wife at home who could only resent him. Most men would still opt for that, he supposed. But for him, the thing was not so simple.

He loved her. But he could never forget that it was his brother that she had loved originally, not him. All these years, he had tried to be a good husband to her and make her love him, and he had supposed he had succeeded. She had said that he made her happy. But now it seemed that, after all, he had not. He had failed, and she, out of kindness, must have concealed from him all this time that she did not love him as he did her. What must that have been like for her?

For the fault was surely his. She was not a flighty woman. There was no question of that. She was moral; she was good. She was everything a wife and mother should be. He loved her passionately, but it seemed she did not love him. The pain was almost more than he could bear.

He had no one to talk to. Of his father's family, there was nobody left. He certainly wouldn't mention it to any of his children. Dishonour their mother in their eyes? Never. Anne's family obviously knew. Would he be the husband that comes whining to his wife's family when she's unfaithful? He'd too much pride for that. No, he must bear his anguish, and his rage, alone.

For rage he felt. Rage, as a man, at being mocked: mocked by his wife, mocked by O'Byrne. Mocked even in a sense-because they knew-by Lawrence and Orlando. And his rage set limits to his love. The affair was still not public. He was fairly sure of that. Anne's brothers might know, but they were hardly likely to let their sister's shameful secret out. Were any of O'Byrne's people aware? Quite likely not; and if his guess was right, O'Byrne would be discreet. If the matter became public, however, if all Dublin were to know of it, and therefore his children, too, then for all that he loved her, he'd send Anne from his house. Of that he was resolved.

But what if it remained a secret, though? Was there a glimmer of hope? When the affair were to end, as it surely must, and Anne resume her life again-what should he do then? How would he feel? Was it possible that Anne would feel some love for him? Might she not, at least, see some fineness? For he deserved that much. He thought about it. A word even, if she meant it, would be enough.

It was the role of wives to wait for straying husbands to return; but he had known of cases with the roles reversed. For the time being, therefore, for the good of the whole family, he'd pretended he knew nothing. Their marital relations still continued, in a desultory way; but if he fell asleep at night, saying that he was tired, she didn't seem to mind. Their lives continued quietly as usual. Sometimes, lying in bed beside her, he had fancied that he smelt the scent of another man upon her skin, or in her hair, but closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. Only one thing more had offended him. And that had been that Maurice loved O'Byrne. He understood the boy's fascination, of course. The handsome Irishman with the same green eyes would have to have been a fascinating figure to the boy. But even my son thinks O'Byrne a finer figure than his father, he thought bitterly. O'Byrne has taken even that from me. It was a final resignation, then, when he had let the boy go away with him. The boy wants to leave me, too, he thought. What can I do? How can I blame him? But when Anne had followed him up into the mountains, upon a somewhat specious pretext, he had almost burst out in vexation, and was held back only by the knowledge that, if he protested too much, he would tell her that he knew the truth. But that had been the final blow. He would keep silent for the family's sake; but he was not even sure, after her departure for the mountains, that he could ever entirely resume his intimacy with her again.

Then and afterwards, however, he had continued to drag himself through the days. He went about his business and, at close of day, sat in his chair in the parlour and felt his body silently growing its layer to soften the arrows of pain. To his wife he was quiet and mild, watching her sometimes and wondering, did she never guess he knew? But then, that was the misery of it. She did not see because she did not want to. She did not want to since she did not care, and did not care because she loved another. Such was the circularity of his life, as he grew stout.

The house was quiet when he reached it. The servants were busy in the kitchen. Neither Anne nor his son was indoors. Normally, he would have sat down in his chair and, perhaps, taken a short nap; but after his conversation with Orlando, he did not feel sleepy, and casting about in his mind for something to do, he decided to go up to the attic and look through the documents of the Guild that resided in the chest up there. He'd been meaning to sort through them for years, but never got round to it. Grunting a little to himself, he climbed the stairs.

The attic space was quite large. The ceiling had been covered with boards, so it was quite warm and dry, even in winter. He was rather proud that he had the records there at all. Most of the old Guild's accounts had been taken away by Wentworth and given to a new Protestant guild that had been set up. But he'd managed to keep these ones, and he had no intention of letting them go. The big, brass-banded strongbox stood in the middle of the floor, and he unlocked its three locks carefully with three different keys. It was with a certain sense of medieval mystery that his own father had kept them. And he had always meant to go through them himself one day.

At one end of the attic was an opening covered with shutters. He unfastened them and a stream of sunlight entered. He dragged the chest towards the big rectangle of sunlight and, sitting down on the floor beside it, began to take out papers.

As he had expected, most of the contents were records of minor events and disbursements, contracts with craftsmen for the upkeep of the fraternity's chantry and tombs. Nothing of great interest. As he delved further, however, he came upon documents that were quite old. He found himself in the reign of Elizabeth, Catholic Mary, the boy king, Edward VI. In that reign, he saw, a chalice and a number of the guild's candlesticks and other religious objects of value had been removed to a place of safekeeping in case the Protestants should try to seize them. It was as he reached the reign of Henry VIII that he caught sight of a somewhat different document. It was on thick paper, carefully folded and closed up with a red wax seal that had evidently never been broken. He took it out and held it in the light. Judging by the impression in the wax, it looked as if one of the Doyle family had sealed the document. On the outside, in a bold handwriting that he thought he might have seen somewhere before, he saw the following words: DEPOSITION OF MASTER MACGOWAN.

CONCERNING THE STAFF.

He wondered what it meant. What staff? Some implement belonging to the Guild, he supposed. MacGowan would obviously have been one of the Dublin family of merchants and craftsmen. Whatever it was, someone had thought it important enough to seal it. Many letters and documents were sealed, of course. But all the same, the thing might be of interest. He fingered it.

Should he break the seal? There was no reason why not. He was the keeper of the chest, and the thing was probably a century old. He slid his finger along the edge of the wax.

"Walter?"

He turned. It surprised him that he had not heard her come up the narrow stairs, but there his wife stood, staring curiously at him.

"The door to the attic stairs was open," she remarked. "I wondered why. What are you doing?"

"Just looking through some old papers." A year ago, he would have shown her the document he had found. Now he just let it fall back into the chest. "Why? Were you looking for me?"

"I was." She hesitated, gazing at him, and for a moment it seemed to him that he saw the same look he had noticed that first time he had guessed that something was amiss between them. She was considering him now. But then he saw something else. She was trying to conceal it, but she could not quite do so. It was fear.

"And why was that?" he asked mildly.

"Come down to the parlour. We can sit down there."

He did not move.

"Is this bad news?"

"No. Not bad, I think." She smiled at him, but in her eyes there was still a trace of fear. "Good news, Walter."

"Tell it to me now."

"Let's go down."

"No." He was mild, but firm. "I've things to attend to here. I should like you to tell me now."

She paused.

"We are going to have another child, Walter. I am with child."

It was a cause of rejoicing when, at the end of January 1639, Anne Smith was successfully delivered of a baby son. All the family visited. Her daughters had been coming in and out almost every day for months; they had taken great delight and amusement in their parents' unexpected good fortune after so many years, and showed a gentle concern for their mother's health, as well as teasing their father a little about his continued potency-all of which he accepted with a show of cheerfulness.

The previous August, Walter had gone to see Lawrence and had a long and frank conversation with him. "It's for the honour of your sister," he'd concluded, "for the sake of the children, and for my own dignity, too." And not without admiration, the Jesuit had agreed to all he asked. After that, both Lawrence and Orlando had made regular visits to the house; and presented with this united family front, it had never occurred to anyone, at least in Dublin, that the child in virtuous Anne Smith's womb could belong to any man but her husband.

For Anne, the months of her pregnancy had been a strange mixture of joy and loneliness. The stage had been set by that first interview with Walter in the attic. She had gone for a walk beforehand to prepare herself, to prepare for the part that she must play.

"It must have been in April, just before Maurice was hurt," she had said.

"Ah." He studied the strongbox in front of him. His face had registered neither pleasure nor pain. "That would be it."

He had not looked up at her at all. Slowly, almost absently, he had replaced the papers one by one in the box. Then, carefully, he had locked the three locks one by one. Only after that did he get up, and as he rose he gazed straight into her eyes and gave her a single, terrible look that told her at once that he knew everything. Before that look, she quaked.

"The children will be glad to know that we are to have another child." He said it quietly. It was both an act of mercy and an order, and she hardly knew whether she felt relief, or that a knife had been stabbed, deservedly, in her heart. And as he gazed down at her, for he was still by some way the taller, she thought: Dear God, but he is terrible. Terrible, and fair. You had to admire him. She did admire him. But she felt nothing. She saw him, as never before, for the fine and noble man he was. And felt nothing. She could think only of Brian O'Byrne. The child was his. She was sure of it.

All the time the baby was growing, she had longed for O'Byrne. She had imagined him at his house and up in the mountains. How she wanted him to be with her, to put his hands on her and to feel the little life within her, to share it with her. His absence was like a nagging pain. She wanted to write to him, and discovered she could do so through the new Post Office. Making the letter look like a business communication of some kind, she sent him a carefully worded message, indicating that she hoped he would come to call at the house of Smith the merchant soon. And then she waited.

Heart over head, as Lawrence would have said. She had not reckoned with this agony of separation and uncertainty; and yet, she told herself, she'd have done it all again, for the wild release the affair had given her, and for the new joy it had brought into her life. She saw the irony-that her joy was only by courtesy of her husband's kindness-but she could not be answerable for that. Life was as it was. There was no more to say.

He came at last, with Maurice. He had waited, cleverly, at a place in the town where he knew her son would pass. And with a cry of joy at seeing him, Maurice had brought him to the house. When they were alone for a moment, she had reminded him: "The child is yours. I know it." And he had smiled.

"I've dreamed of running away with you," she told him. "Running off to the mountains with you in the old Irish way."

"You would, too." He laughed softly. "You would if you could. I think you're even wilder than I am."

"Perhaps I will," she said.

He stroked her hair affectionately.

"You're better off here."

"Do you love me?" She looked at him in doubt.

"Is your memory so short?" He was still stroking her hair.

"I'm getting very big."

"You are magnificent." It was said with real feeling. Then he continued softly: "You are so beautiful, you know. So beautiful."

They had heard Walter enter the house. O'Byrne had kissed her lightly and left the room. She heard his voice outside in the passage as he encountered Walter, and gave him the usual congratulations. She heard Walter reply quietly but firmly: "She is with her family now." And she knew that O'Byrne would not visit the house again.

You are so beautiful-those meaningless words had brought her joy and comfort many times in the weeks ahead.

When the baby was born, everyone had made a fuss of it. Maurice in particular had looked again and again to see if the baby had his green eyes. "Babies' eyes often look blue for a little while," she had told him. "You can't be sure of the colour at first." But the tiny boy's eyes were not green. They were blue.

It was only a little while after the birth that she realised that something was wrong.