"I thought most of the Parliament men were here for that reason," said Maurice.

"Probably." His father smiled. "Though they and their class have had so many of their lands taken from them in the past," he continued more seriously, "that they are hardly to be blamed if they try to protect themselves from losing any more."

Wentworth's object was simple: to get the Irish Parliament to raise money and troops for the king to use against the Scots. It didn't take long for the Parliament to comply. "They voted the money to get rid of Wentworth," his father remarked drily. And indeed, by April, Wentworth was back in London, where the English Parliament was called.

But the English were in no mood to help King Charles. For eleven years he had ruled without a Parliament; he had abused them with illegal taxes and petty tyranny; he had forced upon them a Church that was hateful to his mostly Puritan subjects. In the last decade, almost a fiftieth of the population had left for America. Now was the time of reckoning. The parliamentary leaders were in league with the Scots, and they knew their hand was strong. Meeting Doyle one day, the Smiths had discussed the situation in London.

"They'll hold the king's feet to the fire," Doyle had told them with a grim smile. And so they had. King Charles was furious. In less than a month, word came: "He's sent them all home."

That month, Maurice saw the first of the new troops that the Irish Parliament had agreed to raise. He had met Doyle near the entrance to Dublin Castle when a troop of about a hundred men came marching up the hill and in through the gates.

"Those will be the men they raised in Kildare," the merchant remarked. Maurice could see that the troops were mostly poor fellows, Catholic labourers and the like. At their head, however, rode a small, hard-faced man who looked foreign to Maurice. "That's the colonel, the man who raised the troops," Doyle explained. "The men are Catholic, but the officers will be Protestant. Some of them, like that fellow, are mercenaries from the continent whom Parliament has paid to recruit and train the men." He sighed. "That's how armies are raised, Maurice. It's a business like any other. For the moment, Maurice learned, the troops would be garrisoned in Ulster.

They had turned away from the castle and were walking towards Christ Church when Maurice noticed the old man and the girl approaching. The elderly man, to whom Doyle made a polite bow, and who returned a discreet smile of recognition, was a distinguished little figure, hardly higher than Maurice's shoulder, but very neatly dressed. He had a narrow face, snowy white beard, and kindly eyes, the palest blue that Maurice had ever seen.

"That's Cornelius van Leyden," Doyle murmured as soon as they were past. "A Dutch merchant." Maurice knew of several Dutchmen in the town but was quite sure he had never seen the old man before. "He only came here recently," Doyle explained. "His son had been doing business here, but he died and the old man came over to look after the business. He says he likes it here and has decided to stay. I hear he's just taken a lease on an estate up in north Fingal."

"He's a Protestant?"

"Yes. Like most of the Dutch. And he has some big connections. He knows the lord of Howth, and it seems he's an old friend of Ormond himself." Of the two great Old English dynasties of Ireland, the Fitzgeralds had mostly kept their Catholic faith, but the head of the Butlers, the rich Lord Ormond, had joined the Protestant Church of Ireland. "The Dutchman's a gentle old fellow," Doyle concluded. "And wealthy."

"And the girl?" Maurice asked.

"His granddaughter." Doyle gave him a quick look. "Pretty, don't you think?"

Maurice turned to stare after her. The old man had one hand resting upon her arm as he walked stiffly along the street. Maurice wondered how it would feel to touch her arm like that. She was a bit younger than he was, he had guessed. Her body was slim and elegant. She wore her golden hair long so that it framed her face. She had creamy skin and perfect white teeth. She had glanced at him with a hint of interest. She seemed quiet, but something told him that her nature was sensuous. He continued to stare until he felt a nudge from Doyle, and looked up to see the merchant looking at him with amusement.

"She's Protestant, Maurice," he said quietly. "You can't marry her."

"Of course not," said Maurice. But he wondered if he'd see her again.

The summer was a gloomy one. There were frequent rains. In the Dublin region, the harvest was bad; up in Ulster, he heard, it was ruined. As for the girl, there was no further sign of her. He supposed she might be up in Fingal, unless she and her grandfather had sailed back to the Netherlands.

He did not see much military activity. The recruiting of troops had been quite successful. An army of over nine thousand men had been raised. But they and their colonels were up in Ulster, where they were being billeted on the farmers and townsmen. "With the harvest ruined, there's a lot of bad feeling up there at having so many troops to house and feed," his father told him. At the end of the summer, however, came further news. The Scots had advanced across the English border. The royal army had retreated. Soon afterwards, the merchants coming into port announced: "King Charles has had to cave in to the Scots. They're to keep their religion, and he's got to pay them an indemnity, too."

"They've humiliated him," Walter Smith remarked. "He cannot let that stand."

In September, Maurice was allowed to go to visit his uncle Orlando and see the baby Daniel. It was a successful visit, and he stayed several days. It was evident that Daniel was happy. There was no way of telling whether he remembered his mother, but it was obvious that he thought of Mary Walsh as his mother now, and it was a joy to see her play with him and cuddle him like her own. Orlando was very friendly, and took Maurice to visit several neighbours. One morning, they called upon the Talbots at Malahide, and made a visit to the village and the oyster beds in the estuary just above the castle. As they were leaving, Orlando said: "I have to ride into Swords, Maurice, if you want to come."

The small town of Swords lay four miles inland from Malahide village. Formerly the home of a monastery, on the road that led north towards Ulster, it was a rich little borough that returned two members to the Irish Parliament. While Orlando was seeing a merchant there, Maurice inspected the place. The busy main street boasted a cheerful inn called The Boot. There was a small castle keep, two old chapels, and, in a churchyard, a fine old round tower that surely dated back to Viking times rose impressively into the sky.

Maurice was just going back along the main street when he saw the girl. She was waiting outside a saddlers. This time her hair was braided and scooped up inside a hat. It made her look a little older, more womanly. He went up to her.

"You are the granddaughter of Cornelius van Leyden?"

"Yes. If you want him, he is in there." She indicated the saddlers.

"I'd rather speak to you," he said boldly.

She looked at him coldly.

"And who might you be?"

He explained quickly who he was and added: "I am a kinsman of Doyle the merchant, in Dublin."

"Oh." Her face brightened. "We know him."

He learned that her name was Elena, that their estate was only a few miles to the north, near the coast, that she had been there with her grandfather all summer, but that they would soon be returning to Dublin.

"Perhaps I shall see you there," he said.

"Perhaps."

At this moment, her grandfather came out, and Maurice introduced himself.

"The son of Walter Smith? Ah, yes." The old gentleman was polite but reserved, and as he indicated that he and his granddaughter had business to attend to, Maurice withdrew. But he noticed that, when she thought her grandfather wasn't looking, Elena glanced back at him over her shoulder.

As the year of 1640 approached its end, Faithful Tidy had had enough. "I shall be glad when I'm finished with Trinity," he told his father, "just to be rid of the old devil." Indeed, he was even starting to wonder if Doctor Pincher was right in the head.

During November, it was clear that Pincher was in a state of suppressed excitement. King Charles, humiliated by the Scots and short of the funds to pay the indemnity to them, had been forced to call the English Parliament again. As soon as they assembled, its angry members had moved decisively. Convinced by now that the king and his minister were planning a Catholic coup, and that the Catholic troops raised in Ireland would be used against them, they struck by impeaching the newly ennobled Wentworth. "He's been imprisoned in the Tower of London," Pincher told young Faithful with glee. It was a devastating blow at King Charles. The Parliament was out to destroy his chief advisor. "Give him to us," they effectively said, "or you won't get a penny." Some people suspected the Parliament men would like to keep the king under their thumb on a permanent basis.

Since the impeachment was a court proceeding, evidence of Wentworth's misdeeds would be needed, and soon there were messengers going back and forth between London and Dublin. With his domineering ways, the Lord Deputy had no shortage of enemies in Ireland, Catholic and Protestant alike, and now that it was safe to do so, Pincher made no secret of his loathing for him. One morning, Faithful saw one of the men preparing Wentworth's prosecution coming from the old man's lodgings.

In December came further news. Some of the London Puritans in Parliament were openly proposing that all the bishops should be abolished, and that England should have a Presbyterian Church instead. After hearing this, Pincher's face seemed to be transformed into a kind of ecstasy.

So why, with all his enemies in retreat, should Doctor Pincher have been so obsessed with a sense that he was under threat?

"There are dark forces approaching, Faithful," he would insist, "and we must prepare to meet them."

Christmas passed. During January and February of 1641, Dublin was fairly quiet. As the trial of Wentworth approached, it was clear that, by whatever legal means, the English Parliament was determined to destroy him. There was proof, it was said, that he meant to bring over the troops raised in Ireland and use them against the English Parliament itself. "He won't come out of his trial alive," his enemies declared. But none of this seemed to satisfy Pincher. Once, when Faithful dared to remark to the doctor that he couldn't see why he was worried, Pincher admonished him.

"You must look beyond this day, Faithful Tidy," he explained. "Wentworth is evil. But he is strong. Once he is gone, the ship of state will be without a master. And then there will be everything to play for."

"But if the English and the Scots force the king to give them a Presbyterian Church," Faithful began, "then here in Ireland . . ."

"Look beyond England. Look beyond Scotland. You must look to Europe, to all Christendom, Faithful, if you wish to understand what is passing in Ireland," the doctor urged. And as usual, he added: "The forces of darkness are gathering."

It had been early in December when the doctor had started to give Faithful the most tiresome of his errands. At certain times-the young man never knew how Pincher chose them-he would be told to loiter near the home of a known Catholic. Often it was the lodgings of the Jesuit, Father Lawrence Walsh. Sometimes he would be told to go out in the early morning, sometimes after dark. "But I always get frozen," Faithful complained to his father. If someone came to see the Jesuit, for instance, Faithful was to take note and try to establish his identity. If Father Lawrence went out, Faithful was to follow him, report where he went and, if possible, whom he saw. Sometimes a week or two would go by without the doctor bothering him. "But it's only to be raining for him to send me a message," Faithful declared. "And always, when I tell him what I saw, he tells me I'm doing the Lord's work."

"You must do it all the same," his father said.

As the months of 1641 continued, Pincher gave no sign of ending these demands.

"I tell you," Faithful told his parents, "I think the old fool's gone mad."

Easter had just passed when, in the house of Orlando and Mary Walsh, something wonderful occurred.

During the last year, Orlando's work had kept him very busy, and while he had followed political events closely, he had not taken any active part. But the greatest change had been in his home life.

At first, the presence of the baby Daniel in the house had seemed disruptive. He had no doubt that he and Mary had done the right thing in offering to give the child a home away from the Smith household, where his presence could only cause distress. Even so, the baby seemed to need so much attention that several times Orlando had secretly wondered if the whole business had been a mistake. As time went on, however, he came to another way of thinking.

It was the change in Mary. For, as the months went by and she became accustomed to motherhood, there could be no doubt that an alteration was taking place. Her face seemed to soften. When he watched the mother and child together, she radiated a gentle glow. She became more relaxed, laughed more. A cloud of warmth and softness descended upon the house. At Christmas, she had confided to him: "It's strange, yet I feel as though the child's my own."

"I feel the same," he answered with a smile, as he put his arm around her. And if this was not quite true, his love for her was so great that, feeling the rush of happiness that went through her when he said it, he believed it for her sake. He felt no sense of lack anymore. They were a happy little family just as they were-small, but complete. He even gave up going to the holy well at Portmarnock.

As Easter approached, the Lenten fast had begun. For Orlando, the forty days of Lent was always a very special time. He went about his business on the estate and in Dublin as usual; but in the privacy of his home, he tried to create a place apart, upon which the events of Dublin or London would impinge as little as possible. It was his hope that this would be the case all the year round, but it always seemed to him that the days of Lent, that great mirror of the forty days Christ spent in the wilderness, provided the opportunity to rebuild, as it were, the spiritual walls of his house, to ensure that it remained, as it should be, a still and silent centre in a turning world. And this he shared with Mary. So this year, as in years before, meat and fish, eggs and cheese, milk and wine were banished from their table, except where the dispensations of the Church allowed- though the baby Daniel, of course, was fed as normal. But beyond this ordinary fasting, he and Mary chose to observe a further fast- one of abstinence from marital relations. For over forty nights, they would occupy the same bedchamber yet abstain from all things carnal. And as the years went by, this almost six-week period of abstinence shared, by no means easily, had become for both of them a time of extraordinary tenderness.

Holy Week arrived. On Palm Sunday, prompted by an impulse, he walked out to the holy well at Portmarnock. But once there, he felt such a surge of love for his wife, and the peace of his house, that instead of asking the saint to intercede for him, he asked for nothing, but only gave thanks for the blessing of the baby Daniel and the happiness of Mary, before going home.

During the rest of the week, through the dark and awesome days of Good Friday and Easter Saturday, he and Mary maintained their life of quiet fast and prayer. Then they went to Malahide Castle for the lighting of the Paschal candle and the Easter Vigil, and attended the Easter Mass. They both felt tired that night, Mary especially. But on Easter Monday, their fast of food now broken, they dined together late in the afternoon and then retired to their chamber. And that evening, as he took his wife in his arms with great love and tenderness, Orlando had an intimation that something extraordinary had occurred.

When Brian O'Byrne caught sight of Father Lawrence Walsh, he hesitated. Meeting him might be awkward.

Although it was a late-summer day, a steady drizzle was falling. It seemed to have been raining for weeks. The summer of 1641 was going to be even worse than the summer of '40. Two years of harvests ruined.

He hadn't been into Dublin for months, but a message from his wife's kinsman, Sir Phelim O'Neill, who was still attending the Irish Parliament, had brought him down from Rathconan. Sir Phelim had written to say that he wished to see him at once. O'Byrne had already spent the evening before with him, and was due to see him again later that day. Meanwhile, he was whiling away a few hours, visiting the markets and attending to a little business. He had avoided the Smith house. He had no wish to encounter Walter; and with his new wife to think of now, Anne was relegated to the past. He would have been glad to see young Maurice, but that couldn't be helped.

As for Anne's two brothers, he wasn't sure how matters stood. He hadn't seen his friend Orlando for a couple of years. He'd heard that Orlando and his wife had adopted the child he had given Anne; but what their feelings might be about himself, he didn't know, nor was he sure he wanted to inquire. But he knew very well that Lawrence must have disapproved strongly of the affair.

So he was rather surprised to see Father Lawrence coming towards him now with a smile, and proclaiming: "Just the fellow I wanted to see."

O'Byrne instantly became watchful. His instincts were excellent. There had to be some ulterior motive for this friendly greeting. As he greeted the Jesuit politely and glanced at his clever, ascetic face, he found himself silently asking: "What is it you want to find out?"

"You have been with Sir Phelim, no doubt?" A question. Brian inwardly thought: "You know very well that I have." He allowed himself to be taken to the side of the street, where the copious wooden overhang of a merchant's house kept the drizzle from their heads and provided a damp enclave. "These are interesting times for Catholics, O'Byrne," the Jesuit said.

In May, the English Parliament had got their way. The trial of Wentworth had actually been a travesty, but they'd forced the king to sign Wentworth's death warrant, and his head had been struck off while the crowd cheered. For the time being, there was no new Lord Deputy in Ireland, but two lesser men, each called a Lord Justice, administered the island from Dublin. Next, the delighted English Parliament had disbanded the nine thousand recruits in Ulster who had looked such a threat to them. King Charles had almost no military forces in Ireland anymore.

So it was hardly surprising that the members of the Irish Parliament were also wondering what they could get out of the king's weakness. "Let Ireland be a separate kingdom," some of the Old English said. "King Charles will be king, of course; but we shan't have to answer to the London Parliament anymore. Ireland will be ruled by the Irish." By which, of course, they meant themselves. It was an attractive idea to loyal gentlemen like Orlando Walsh, who might reasonably have hoped that any such government would end up being Catholic. At the least, the king would surely be forced to grant all the Graces and to end any plans for further plantation-in return for their support.

O'Byrne wasn't sure what he felt. Native Irish aristocrats like Sir Phelim would no doubt form part of the governing class; thanks to his wife's connections, he might benefit himself. But he doubted whether many of the lesser Irish landowners would gain much.

Besides, would these Catholic hopes ever come to anything? Both were anathemas to the New English Protestants in the Irish Parliament, let alone the Puritans in London. The king might give way, but the Protestants never would.

The meeting yesterday evening had been a very secret affair. Only when he had arrived in Dublin had he discovered how his wife's kinsman wanted to make use of him. "I want you to go in my place and report back," he'd explained. "This business is too dangerous for me to commit to it yet. Go therefore, take note, and tell me what you think." Given their relationship, O'Byrne had not been able to refuse. Following instructions, he had gone to the house of a Catholic gentleman in the parish of Saint Audoen's. At intervals, during three hours, other people had slipped in, arriving one by one. Lord Maguire had appeared. Then three or four others. Then O'More. Their discussions had been wide-ranging. Some of the things he had heard were frightening. Before leaving, with everyone else, he had taken an oath never to divulge what had been said.

"Interesting times? I suppose so," O'Byrne therefore replied.

"Sir Phelim's views would be interesting," the Jesuit quietly led again.

"He's a very good man. There can be no doubt of that," O'Byrne replied blandly. "His relationship with my wife is quite distant, you know, but he has done her many kindnesses." And he gently bored Father Lawrence for a minute or two with a story of O'Neill's good nature.

"All Europe is watching us, you know," the Jesuit said, eyeing O'Byrne carefully.

On this subject, Father Lawrence undoubtedly knew more than O'Byrne did. And the Jesuit had cause for satisfaction. It was not just a question of influence and education.

All over Europe, during the last few decades, the forces of the Catholic Counter-Reformation had scored significant successes. In France, the Calvinists were a threatened minority, permitted to exist, but in retreat. The mighty Lutherans of Germany, though helped by sympathetic English, Danes, and Dutch, had been driven out of many areas, and saved from total collapse only by the Protestant army of Sweden. In the east, half the Protestant churches of Poland were already gone. In central Europe, the Protestants had been thrown out of Austria; and a powerful coalition of Spanish, German, and papal forces had smashed the great Protestant communities of Bohemia and Moravia, and returned those lands to the Catholic faith.

"There are good Irishmen on the continent who are ready to serve the holy cause," Father Lawrence continued quietly. For two generations, Irishmen who had left their native shores had been enlisting in the armies of Catholic Europe. Irish chiefs and princes had become skilled continental commanders and attained high positions. "And perhaps," the Jesuit said, watching O'Byrne carefully, "the opportunity will arise for them to serve the cause in their native land."

O'Byrne took a moment before replying. He did not know what hopes the Catholic powers of Europe might entertain for Ireland at present, or what the dreams of Irish exiles might be. No doubt Father Lawrence did. He certainly had no wish to insult the Jesuit. But it was not his place to bring him into the counsels of the other men, and he had taken an oath to divulge nothing of what he had heard the evening before. If they wished Father Lawrence to know something, they'd tell him soon enough. So he wisely took refuge in innocence.

"Do you think so?" he asked. In return for which he received an exasperated look. It was time to change the subject. "What news of Orlando?" he enquired.

And it was then that he discovered, to his great astonishment, that Mary Walsh was pregnant.

"It must have occurred just after Easter," the Jesuit explained. "They told no one, not even me, until quite recently. If all is well, she will have the child in December, I believe." He smiled. "After so many years, it is indeed a gift of God." And with that O'Byrne could only agree.

He wondered whether he should go and see his former friend.

When Faithful Tidy saw them part a few moments later, he made a note of the time and then followed the Jesuit back to his lodgings. Once he was safely inside, Faithful could go home himself. He couldn't see that a street encounter between the Jesuit and O'Byrne of Rathconan could be of much interest. But he carefully noted it for old Pincher all the same.

Walter Smith was an honest man, but he believed he was shrewd. His business dealings over the years had left him rich. When Anne had fallen in love with O'Byrne, he had perceived it a great deal sooner than she had realised. As for public affairs, he followed them closely. And on most counts, in the autumn of 1641, he was modestly hopeful.

Was Anne still in love with O'Byrne? Probably. But she had been hurt by him, and disappointed. She had yearned for the wild freedom of the Wicklow Mountains, but they had turned out to be a harsh terrain. O'Byrne might be a romantic figure, but in Walter's estimation, he was ultimately cold. With O'Byrne's baby safely out of sight in Fingal, the warmth and security of her loving family and the comfortable house in Dublin may not have looked so bad. That, her sense of guilt, and her gratitude for his forgiveness had helped to reconcile his wife to him, and they were now, he supposed, as happy as many couples at their time of life.

He was also pleased about Maurice. His son was turning into a hardworking young man. If his green eyes sometimes flashed splendidly, they made him look handsome, and no doubt that would be attractive to women. But he always attended to business in a thorough manner, and Walter was really becoming rather proud of him.

As he looked at the political situation, Walter believed that there were grounds for cautious optimism. Dublin was quiet. In August the Parliament was prorogued, and Phelim O'Neill and his friends had gone home to their estates to salvage what they could of the harvest. King Charles was still getting nowhere with the Scots. With the king so weak, it still seemed to Walter that he might be induced to grant the Catholics of Ireland some concessions. Even failing that, he supposed that the usual uneasy tolerance would continue.

One thing worried him a little. The troops that had been sent home in the summer had not all been paid, and bands of them would appear from time to time. "It's a pity the government won't allow them to be recruited by some of the mercenary commanders in Europe," he told his son. "At least it would get rid of them." But his greatest concern as October began was the food supply for the winter. On the land he still held above the Liffey, he had been able to save part of the harvest, and according to Orlando, most of the Fingal farmers had been able to do the same. Farther north, in Ulster, the situation was worse. In Dublin, bread prices, which had been rising since last year, were even higher. Rich men like himself would get by, but the poorer folk would need help. "In my grandfather's youth, before the Protestants abolished the monasteries," he liked to say, "it was the religious orders who fed the poor in time of trouble." He, Doyle, and several other merchants had already discussed what measures might be proposed to the city council if things got too bad.

Saturdays were market days in Dublin. Carts with all kinds of produce rolled in from the surrounding countryside, and a stream of people came to buy, or to enjoy themselves, too. Saturdays were cheerful, busy days. And Saturday the twenty-third of October 1641 began like any other. Almost.

The rumour started early in the morning. Maurice, who had gone out to the market, brought it to the house.

"There are troops at all the city gates, and the castle is closed and guarded. There's been a revolt up in Ulster. They say that a plot was discovered here in Dublin, too. Nobody knows what's going on." Shortly afterwards, Doyle looked in with further news.

"A fellow got drunk at an inn last night and started boasting that he and his friends would be taking over Dublin Castle in the morning. Someone went to the justices, and he was taken in for questioning late last night. At first nobody took him seriously, but then fires were seen up in Ulster. We're still waiting for news. The Castle men are in a ferment. They're rounding people up. It's a Catholic plot, apparently," he added, with a sidelong glance at Walter. "Though it seems to have been poorly planned."

"I know nothing of it," Walter replied with perfect truth.

"I did not suppose it," Doyle said pleasantly, and went on his way. Maurice went back to the market at once to try to learn more.

So it was with great surprise that, half an hour later, being told by Anne that a gentleman had arrived at the door asking to see him privately, Walter entered the parlour to find an old man sitting there whom he had never seen before, and who, rising stiffly to his feet, bowed politely and informed him: "I am Cornelius van Leyden."