They watched in silence as the sticklike figure crossed the empty plain, seemingly unaware of their presence.

"That," his father said at last, "is Doctor Pincher."

It had been that morning when Doctor Pincher came round the side of the mound on the slope above the River Boyne. Like so many others who had come that way, he had gazed down to where the swans glided in their stately fashion upon the Boyne's waters, and noted the quiet peace of the place. Like others, he had stared at the huge grass-covered mounds that stood like silent giants along the little ridge and wondered what the devil they were and how they came to be there. Had anyone been able to tell him-which they couldn't-that the ancient mounds had once been tombs constructed according to precise astronomical calculation, he would have been astonished. Had any Irish-speaking local informed him- which they didn't, because he spoke no Irish and wouldn't have asked them anyway-that under those mounds lay the bright halls of the legendary Tuatha De Danaan, the genius warriors and craftsmen who had ruled the land before the Celtic tribes had come, he would have snorted with disgust. But he did notice that, in front of the largest of the mounds, there seemed to be a broad scattering of white quartz stones. He wondered if, perhaps, they had any value.

As Doctor Pincher crossed the Boyne below the ancient tombs and made his way southwards that morning, his mind had been busily occupied. For he had just spent several days up in Ulster, and they had been interesting. Very interesting. So much so that, during all that morning and afternoon, he had not spoken a single word to his servant, not even when they stopped to eat.

He had been ten years in Ireland now, and his views on the Irish had not changed. King James himself had it correctly: he referred to the native Irish Catholics as wild beasts.

Some might have thought-given that the king's own mother, Mary Queen of Scots, had been a notable Catholic, and that the rulers of Scotland descended from Irish tribes-that these opinions seemed strange. But since the new Stuart monarch was divinely anointed, and a scholar besides, the correctness of his judgement could not be doubted. As for their governance, the repeated Irish attempts to evade British rule proved that they were incapable of governing themselves.

As he came to the Plain of Bird Flocks, Doctor Pincher saw the Walshes. He ignored them.

Whatever his views about the Irish, his teaching position at the new foundation had given Pincher some cause for satisfaction. Trinity College was resolutely Protestant, and he was not the only teacher there with Calvinist learning. Hardly surprisingly, therefore, the Catholics avoided Trinity, while the government servants and other new arrivals from England gave it their enthusiastic support. Pincher's successful lectures on the classics, philosophy, and theology soon ensured that he was asked to preach at Christ Church Cathedral itself, where he earned a good reputation with his listeners. His stipends from teaching and preaching allowed him to live well.

Especially as, so far, he had not married. He had it in mind to do so, but although he had met young women, from time to time, to whom he was attracted, sooner or later they had always said or done something that indicated to Pincher that they were unworthy, and so he had never brought the business to any conclusion. He had other family, however. A sister who after a somewhat prolonged spinsterhood had married a worthy man called Budge. And not six months ago, a letter had come with the announcement that she had borne her husband a son and that his name was Barnaby. Barnaby Budge. It was a solid, godly sounding name. And until such time as he should marry and produce children himself, Pincher considered this infant child his heir.

"I mean to do something for him." So he had written to his sister. And though he wrote it out of natural family affection, he had a further reason, too. For, if truth were told, in years past, his sister had sometimes shown a slight lack of respect in her manner towards him. The fault was his own. He couldn't deny it: certain features of his youth; that foolish business that had caused his rapid departure from Cambridge-she had known about that too, alas. These remembrances gave Pincher some pain. His exemplary career in Dublin had put to rest any question about his character long ago. His reputation was solid. He'd worked hard and he'd earned it. For years he had saved. He had been prudent. But he still lacked the tangible proof of his position: property; best of all, some land. And now, it seemed, the means were at hand.

Ulster. It was God's reward.

Several times as he rode southwards that day, he had found fragments of the Twenty-third Psalm coming into his head with wonderful appropriateness. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He had been a faithful servant, God knew. He should have faith now that the Lord would provide. He had been a faithful servant, God knew. He should have faith now that the Lord would provide. Thou preparest a table before me in the Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies . . . my cup runneth over presence of mine enemies . . . my cup runneth over. Yes, the chosen congregation would be fed, feasted even, in the midst of the Irish. Thou makest me to lie down in green pastures. . . . Thou makest me to lie down in green pastures. . . . Ah, those he had seen, this very week. The green pastures of Ulster. The reward of the Lord. Very soon, the sower should sow his seed upon the good ground there. Ah, those he had seen, this very week. The green pastures of Ulster. The reward of the Lord. Very soon, the sower should sow his seed upon the good ground there.

It had been a friend, a godly man, who had told him of a farm up there. The leaseholder was planning to give it up in a year or so, and the place could probably be bought at a good price. The land was excellent. If he went up there now, he might secure a promise that it would be offered to him first.

So he had visited Ulster and been much impressed. The place was wild, of course, but fertile. In particular, he had been glad to find, along the coast, that communities of Scots, staunch Calvinists like himself, had already crossed the sea and set up little farming and fishing colonies of their own. As for the property in question, he had inspected it, and there had been a meeting of minds. The place, if he wished it, could be his. But more inspiring even than this prospect, for a godly man, had been another thought that the sight of the land, and the good people he found there, had put into his mind.

Just think, he had said to himself, if this land could be planted.

Plantation. It was actually the Catholic queen, Mary Tudor, who had begun the process of plantation. Despite the fact that the Irish were Catholic, she distrusted them; and so she had set up two areas on the edge of South Leinster, which were called Kings Country and Queens Country, in which colonies of English settlers were established to act as a sort of military garrison for the area. The process was known as plantation. Other plantations had also been tried, especially down in Munster, where tracts of land had been seized by the government after the big rebellion in Queen Elizabeth's reign, in the hope that the settlers might teach the Irish how to live as sturdy English yeomen. Although these plantations had not always been successful, the English royal council was still enthusiastic for them. As for Pincher, it seemed to him that the plantations were a wonderful opportunity to do God's work. Weren't they exactly the same as the new colonies-Virginia and others-in the New World? Armed communities of godly pilgrims amongst native heathens who, in due course, would either be converted or pushed back into the wilderness, and probable extinction?

The procedure of plantation was straightforward enough. A huge area would be set aside for subdivision into parcels of land of various sizes. English and Scottish investors-they were called undertakers-would be invited to underwrite the venture, and they in turn were to manage their land grant, supply sturdy tenants from England-yeomen, craftsmen, and the like, of good Protestant persuasion-and enjoy the eventual profits of their enterprise. Thus, they would become landowners of an ideal community. And for a modest investor like himself, there should be excellent opportunities to acquire leases from the undertakers, which could be sublet for a handsome profit.

No wonder then that his heart rose in exaltation as he considered the idea: a huge tract of Ulster, rid of its papists.

Would it ever come to pass? Who knew? In God's good time, he had to believe that it would. Meanwhile, he would begin, if all went well, with a little foothold in the place.

So he was in a cheerful mood as, coming to the Plain of Bird Flocks, he caught sight of the Catholic Walshes away to his left. He did not let their presence trouble him.

Since that embarrassing first meeting, he had only encountered the Catholic lawyer occasionally. He suspected that Martin Walsh did not like him, though Walsh was far too much of a gentleman ever to show it. For Walsh's Jesuitical son, he had only loathing. Of his two other children he knew nothing. But he bore families like the Walshes no special ill will. The fact was-you couldn't escape it-that Walsh was a gentleman even if he was a papist. So long as he was loyal to the English crown-and Martin Walsh was certainly that-there was no need to dispossess them as if they were mere Irish. Pincher wasn't quite certain what the fate of families like the Walshes should be. They'd be pushed quietly out of power, of course. Some, like the Jesuit Lawrence, would be dealt with in due course. Others would gradually be worn down. They were not the first priority.

And then a happy thought struck him. By the time his nephew Barnaby Budge was a man of his own age, would Walsh's younger son still be a papist, enjoying all the fruits of the Walsh family estate? No, he did not think so. Indeed, Pincher cheerfully considered, he could practically guarantee it. By then, to be sure, the Walshes and their kind would be finished.

It was early in August when Orlando was told by his father: "You're going to meet young Smith. The man your sister is to marry."

Orlando knew that his father had been busy with the matter ever since Anne and Lawrence had left for the continent. There had been discussions with his cousin Doyle, long talks with certain Dublin priests, and meetings with the Smiths themselves. After each of these negotiations, his father would return from Dublin looking preoccupied, but as to the substance of the discussions, his father had never divulged anything. So when his father told him that the young man was to come out to their house alone on a Saturday afternoon, spend the night there, and then go to Mass with them the following morning, he was highly excited, as well as full of joy for his sister.

"I think you'll like him," his father said kindly.

"Oh, I'm sure I shall," Orlando replied.

And how carefully he had prepared himself. He had not forgotten his promise to his sister. No one should ever know about the clandestine meetings of the lovers. Neither by word nor by sign would he give anything away. When he met young Smith, he would look as if he had never seen him before in his life. Again and again, he went over it in his mind. He thought of every foolish slip he could make and prepared for them all. As the day approached, he felt nervous and excited; but he was sure of himself also. He would not let them down.

He spent the morning with one of the farmhands. He was unloading a cartload of turves, brought down from a bog to the north, when he saw the figure in the distance, riding towards the house. His father was inside, and for a moment he wondered whether he should run out to meet young Smith, to let him know that his secret was safe and that he wouldn't be giving him away. But after a moment's hesitation, he decided that this might make Fintan suspicious and that it would be better to leave everything exactly as he'd planned it. So he turned round instead and went into the house, and found his father and told him that a stranger was approaching.

It was his father, therefore, who went out through the door to greet the young man and call to the groom to take his horse, while Orlando, pretending to be shy, remained inside in the shadows of the hallway.

From where he stood, it seemed to Orlando as if he were gazing along a tunnel towards the great gash of bright sunlight of the open doorway. He heard the voices outside, saw shadows move briefly before the entrance, then saw two figures, his father leading, blocking out the sunlight. They were inside, moving towards him. This was his moment.

"Well," he heard his father say, "here he is."

And then, blinking slightly as the sunlight came pouring in again though the doorway behind them, he found himself staring with horror and evident astonishment at the face of young Smith.

For it wasn't young Smith at all. It was somebody else entirely.

It had been Doyle who began the business. When Martin Walsh had gone to see him about the letter from Peter Smith, he had answered without hesitation.

"The Smiths are of good reputation, Cousin Martin. The father is a worthy man, and a man of substance. And a good Catholic, too, you'll wish to know, although others can inform you of that better than I. He has two sons, however. For which of them does he ask your daughter?"

"The name he gives is Patrick."

"Ah." Doyle shook his head. "That won't do. It's Walter you want: the older one. He isn't betrothed, so far as I have heard."

"The objection to Patrick?"

Doyle drew a long breath and let the air out slowly between his teeth.

"No crime, Cousin. No great wickedness. The younger son, of course. But his character . . ." He paused. "He was sent to a seminary, you know. But he never completed his studies. He never completes anything. A lack of steadfastness. A weakness, I'd say, which he masks with his gallant manners."

"Gallant?"

"Oh yes." The merchant grinned as he launched into a little parody of the courtly style. "He is a very paragon of all the noble virtues. He rides, and shoots an arrow, runs like a deer. He writes a verse and sings in tune, and dances. They say that women melt before his eyes."

"I see," said Martin grimly.

"Patrick is Smith's first offer, Cousin. But Walter is your man. He is capable and industrious, and a very pleasant fellow. Smith will be only too glad to contract a marriage with the Walsh family, so you may dictate the terms."

Doyle was able to give Martin Walsh a good deal of other useful information, and Walsh had parted from him with his last words singing in his ears.

"Remember, Cousin Walsh, don't let him fob you off with Patrick."

When Walsh had called upon Smith, he had asked to see both his sons and had quickly decided for himself that Doyle's assessment had been right. Patrick, he considered, was ambitious, but ingratiating and soft. Walter, who, though polite, made fewer efforts to please, was clearly his own man. When he informed Smith that he preferred Walter, a look of fleeting concern had crossed the merchant's face.

"Yet she and Patrick so delight in each other," he protested, "they are like two turtle doves."

"She scarcely knows him," Walsh replied firmly.

"Ah." Smith had looked a little strange, but quickly recovered himself. "That must be considered further," he had said.

There had been some negotiations over the next two weeks, but it had seemed to Martin Walsh that his cousin Doyle's assessment had been correct and that Smith would yield his better son rather than lose the chance of the connection with the Doyles. Meanwhile, he had several conversations with young Walter and found him admirable in every respect. In due course, the betrothal had been arranged to everyone's satisfaction-or so he had thought.

Orlando hardly knew what to say or think. All that day and the next, he said very little. Indoors and at meals, he sat on his three-legged stool and stared at Walter Smith like an idiot. Fortunately, his father took this for childish shyness and thought nothing of it. But all the time Orlando was wondering: Did Anne know about this? Shouldn't he tell her, and if so, how? On the Sunday evening, after Walter Smith had departed, he went to his father.

"I should like to write to Anne, Father."

"A letter to your sister. I am glad to hear of it," Walsh kindly replied. "You may add your word to the letter I am already writing."

This was not what Orlando had in mind, but there was nothing he could do about it. And so, below his father's neatly organised script, the following message appeared in Orlando's childish hand: "Father says I may rejoice with you, since you are betrothed to Walter Smith. He seems a fine gentleman, but I had never seen him before." He had done his best to use more ink on the last few words, so that they would stand out more boldly. His father glanced at it, briefly remarked upon his poor penmanship, but made no other comment.

After that, there was nothing more Orlando could do. He did his lessons with the old priest as usual. The house was quiet.

The sudden arrival of Anne ten days later took everyone by surprise. After receiving the letter from her father and Orlando, she had left Bordeaux, without permission or anyone's knowledge, the very same day. Pawning a gold crucifix and chain her father had given her, she had used the money to travel to the coast, where she had found a ship bound for Dublin. Her father hardly knew whether to be impressed by her courage or furious at her disobedience.

Then she told him she was in love with Patrick. And so shaken was he by her vehemence that he even wrote to Lawrence to ask his advice. He was even more distressed because, until that moment, he had not known she had any strong feelings about the young man at all; and even his natural anger and hurt at her deception had been overwhelmed by the sight of her tears. "I was thinking only of your happiness, my child," he assured her. And yet, whatever pain she was suffering now, he knew that in fact his decision was correct. She might be in love with Patrick, but in the long run, he wouldn't make her happy. Walter would. Gently and earnestly, he tried to make this clear to her. "There are times when it is not wise, Anne, to let your head be ruled by your heart," he urged her. But she was not really listening to him. "At least meet Walter and come to know him," he suggested. But she only wanted to see Patrick, her own true love, and poor Martin Walsh, wishing more than ever that his dear wife was still alive, was not sure whether to allow this or not. A week went by. She moped about the house. They had several unsatisfactory conversations. He wondered whether to send her back to the seminary. He also considered whether he should summon Walter Smith to visit so that she could see for herself what a good fellow he was; but he feared that she might reject him so firmly that the young man wouldn't want her anymore. Should he change his own mind about Patrick? He knew that would be a mistake, but it was terrible for him to see his daughter in such pain and to feel that he was failing her. The second week, she became pale and listless, and he was about to send for a physician.

Then Lawrence arrived.

He had come with remarkable speed. To his own surprise, Martin was actually glad to see him. Lawrence did remark that he assumed his sister had been soundly whipped; but when his father had been shocked, he had said no more on the subject. And indeed, from that moment, his presence had been a blessing.

He had been quiet and very calm. With his sister, he had been gentle, offering no reproofs, but asking only that, each day, they might pray together. He kept a friendly eye on young Orlando, took him for one or two long walks, and even went out hunting rabbits with him.

For Orlando, the arrival of Anne had come as a relief. Within hours, he had been closeted with her and told her all he knew about Walter Smith.

"I didn't tell about your meetings," he assured her.

"I know. And I shan't tell anyone how you helped, either. Though as to my seeing Patrick," she shook her head, "it hardly seems to matter now anyway."

Although he knew all about her conversations with his father, and saw her tears, Orlando learned little more from his sister for several days. It was clear that she did not want to discuss it with him. Then one afternoon she called him to her and quietly told him: "There is something, little brother, you can do."

The next morning, he rode out alone. He had no lessons that day, and his father was too preoccupied to take much notice. He rode his pony down the road across the Plain of Bird Flocks, and by midmorning he was in sight of the city. Crossing the Liffey by the old bridge, he entered the gate and made his way across Winetavern Street, where the house of the Smiths was. At the entrance to the yard at the back, he found a servant boy and asked him if Patrick Smith was there. Learning that he was, he asked the boy to tell him that a friend of his was waiting outside. A few minutes later, the young man appeared.

When Orlando saw him, he almost cried out for pleasure. Patrick Smith looked so exactly as he remembered him, not changed at all. Handsome, smiling, his soft brown eyes registering their pleasure at seeing Orlando.

"You have probably heard, Orlando, that my brother and not I is to be betrothed to your sister," he said gently.

"She is back. She is at the house."

"She is here?" He looked astonished. "Come, let's walk down onto the quay. Tell me everything."

So Orlando told him about his sister's tears, and her arguments with her father.

"She wants to marry you," he blurted out. It was hard to tell whether Patrick looked more shaken or pleased by this news. "She wants to see you, but my father does not give his permission. You must meet her in secret."

"I see. You must understand, Orlando, that my father has also forbidden me to see your sister."

Orlando gazed at him in astonishment.

"But you'll come?" He could not imagine that the handsome young hero would allow such a small thing to stand in his way. "You want to see her?"

"Oh, I do. You may be sure."

"I shall tell her you will come, then?" And he explained how the meeting could be arranged.

"I shall need to ride out without my father's knowledge. Or my brother's." He paused a moment, glancing along the quay. "I shall come as soon as I can get away. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day or two after. Very soon."

"I'll wait for you there," said Orlando.

And wait he did. The place was well-chosen-a disused chapel, seldom visited, by the edge of the Walsh estate. Rather than have Anne wait out there each day, which might have seemed suspicious, Orlando would wait. As soon as Patrick Smith arrived, Orlando would run back to the house, which wasn't far, to fetch her, and then keep watch outside while they met.

The next day, he waited three hours until dusk. The day after it was raining, but he waited all the same and walked home soaked. The third day, the weather was fine but there was no sign of Patrick Smith. The next day, the same.

"Why doesn't he come?" Anne cried. "Doesn't he care for me?"

"He'll come. He said he would," Orlando cried. And the next day, he waited once more. "Perhaps I should ride into Dublin again," he said that evening.

"No, he is not coming," Anne said quietly. "Wait no more." And soon after that, he heard her weeping. But though she became sad and listless, he did wait at the chapel several more days. But from then until Lawrence arrived and upset the routine, there was no sign of Patrick Smith, nor any word from him.

The first day that Lawrence took him for a walk, he had been anxious to get back so that he could run out to the meeting place again; but Lawrence kept him too long. He also asked Orlando several questions.

They were all very friendly, about his studies and trivial things, to put him at his ease. At one point he told Orlando: "I am worried about Anne. It grieves me to see her in such pain. Do you think she truly cares for this Patrick?"

"I think she does," said Orlando.

"And Walter Smith-what did you think of him?"

Orlando gave him the best account he could of the young man, from what he had seen during his visit. "I think he is a good enough man," he admitted, and Lawrence nodded approvingly.

"How does he compare with Patrick, though?" he enquired.

"Oh, well . . ." He was just about to answer when he spotted the cunning trap, and inwardly cursed his elder brother. "I can't really tell. Anne says that Patrick is taller."

"You have not seen him yourself?" The dark eyes were piercing. Lawrence seemed to see every guilty secret in his mind.

"She was with our mother when they met, but I was not there," Orlando answered with a shake of the head. A clever answer, which was even true. "Hmm," said Lawrence.

He did not bring up the subject again. Not long after that, he had gone into Dublin for the day. It was the following morning that Orlando overheard his father in conversation with him.