"Dear God," O'Byrne murmured, "the fools got lost in the dark."

But if O'Byrne could see the Royalist men, so could the garrison in Dublin. The column reached its objective. The sun was well up in the sky. Then he saw what he had feared.

A large column was coming out of Dublin. He could judge the numbers by the dust in the distance. It was almost a mile long. Perhaps five thousand men. Against fifteen hundred troops who'd just spent the night lost in the dark, and who hadn't had time to entrench their position. They were going to be massacred.

Moments later, Ormond sounded a general attack.

They were moving too quickly. There was no time to lose, but as they moved across the open ground towards the hillock, O'Byrne could see that the forward companies were almost breaking into a run. His own cavalry troop was well trained. He kept them in close formation. But he saw another company breaking into a gallop. They were anxious to save their comrades. But what were their commanders thinking of?

He wondered where Walter Smith was. He hadn't caught sight of him.

A young officer came up with orders.

"Wheel." They were to join a concerted charge on the enemy's right flank. A sensible move, thank God.

During the next minutes, O'Byrne had little time to think. He could no longer see the enemy. There were two waves of cavalry in front of him, thundering forward. The first wave broke upon the enemy line. But the troops from Dublin were in perfect formation, presenting an impregnable wall of pikes. As the second wave crashed, he saw ahead of him a churning mass of fallen horses and men, into which the enemy was pouring musket fire. There was no hope of getting through. Seconds later he was wheeling, streaming along the line, the forest of pikes gleaming horribly on his right, through the acrid smoke. A musket ball hissed past his head. He saw one of his men go down. "Back," he cried. Time to regroup.

All the rest of the morning the battle continued. The fifteen hundred men who got lost in the night were mostly wiped out. Again and again, Ormond's men tried to take the enemy positions. Finally, around the middle of the day, the enemy made a lightning advance. Ormond's men were fighting back, but to left and right, O'Byrne could see them giving ground. Then, suddenly, the lines collapsed. Whole companies were turning to flee. The enemy were harrying them. O'Byrne saw a cavalry regiment racing round the right flank to cut them off. It was going to be a bloodbath. Ormond's army was going to be destroyed, and there was nothing to be done.

"Save yourselves," he told his men, and wheeled his horse round.

Some way off, he could see open ground. From there, tracks led westward. If he could work his way to reach the open ground, he might be able to get away. From there he should be able to travel south, then up to Rathconan. It was worth a try. He started off.

Men were fleeing across his path. He encountered two skirmishes but rode swiftly round them. It seemed to him that he might be getting clear. He had gone about half a mile when he saw Walter Smith. He was held at bay in front of a stand of trees by three enemy horsemen. The first was upon him, hacking at his leg. A red gash appeared on Walter's thigh. The merchant had drawn his sword, flailing wildly, but in another few moments they would have him down.

Just then, by some miracle, he caught his assailant in the face and the man fell back, howling. But the other two were racing up. It would be all over for Walter Smith.

O'Byrne let out a shout and spurred his horse forward. The men saw, and one of them veered round to meet him. O'Byrne drew his sword and they came together. He could not look out for Smith now, as they parried and thrust. The Englishman was skilful. For a moment, O'Byrne thought he might lose. But by the grace of God, the fellow's horse missed his footing, the man's head jerked back, and O'Byrne caught him with a thrust to the neck that split his windpipe open.

As the Englishman fell, O'Byrne saw Walter. Amazingly, the merchant was still there. The remaining horseman, distracted by the fight between his comrade and O'Byrne, had not yet struck him down. Now the Englishman hesitated. Walter came at him, brandishing his sword. O'Byrne made straight for him, hoping to reach him first. The fellow thought better of it and fled.

"Come." O'Byrne was beside Walter now, taking his arm. "We must go." He nodded at Walter's leg. "You're wounded."

Walter Smith stared. In the heat of the battle, he had hardly noticed the wound in his leg, which was bleeding considerably. He was flushed.

"We beat them."

"We did." O'Byrne smiled. Does the man realise that I've just saved his life? he wondered. Apparently not. "We must get away now, though," he said kindly. But to his amazement, Smith shook his head.

"We cannot leave the field of battle." He said it with a stubborn determination.

O'Byrne gazed at him, then grinned.

"You're too brave for me." He chuckled. "But we're obliged to go, you know. It's orders. The retreat has been sounded."

"Oh." Smith looked confused, but allowed himself to be led.

It took them an hour, skirting the remains of the battle. O'Byrne didn't say so to Smith, but it was obvious that the broken forces of Ormond were being caught piecemeal and butchered. He wondered how many would be left at the end of the day. After a couple of miles, with the battle behind them, O'Byrne thought it was safe to stop a few minutes so that he could look at Walter's leg. Fortunately, the wound was not deep, but Walter had lost a good deal of blood. O'Byrne tore a strip off his shirt and bound the leg tightly.

It was late afternoon as they began to go up the track that led to Rathconan. Walter by now had grown pale and quiet, but O'Byrne wasn't too concerned about him. The merchant might not be much of a soldier, but he was surprisingly strong. When they reached the house, they found the old priest, who was still in residence, and a couple of the serving women. They carefully bathed Walter's wound and bandaged it. He seemed grateful, and well enough to eat the evening meal with them.

"We have to hope that Cromwell doesn't come here for a few days," O'Byrne remarked.

"What will you do now?" the priest asked him.

"I hardly know," O'Byrne answered. "It will depend upon the military situation." He did not add what he was sure of-that there was nothing, now, between Cromwell and Dublin.

After the meal, they helped Walter up to the chamber, where they put him in the bed which once O'Byrne and Anne had occupied. He lay there, gazing around him.

"It's a fine place, Rathconan," he said sleepily.

"It is. And your own home, too," O'Byrne reminded him. "For you're still an O'Byrne."

"I know." Smith nodded and closed his eyes.

O'Byrne waited a moment, then, thinking the merchant had fallen asleep, turned to go.

"We fought bravely today, didn't we?" Walter murmured, his eyes still closed.

"We did," said Brian O'Byrne. "You fought like a lion." And seeing the merchant smile, he bent down and kissed him.

That night, he slept deeply and awoke long after the sun had risen.

Going to the chamber where he had left Walter Smith the night before, he was surprised not to find him there, and still more to discover, after searching the house and stable, that both Walter and his horse had vanished.

Doctor Pincher was now in his seventy-seventh year, but he hadn't been so excited since he was a boy. For Barnaby Budge had arrived, and they were to meet today.

Doctor Pincher had been greatly pleased that, even while Cromwell's fleet was disembarking, Barnaby had courteously sent him a message by a soldier to ask where and at what time it would please his uncle to receive him. Doctor Pincher had already given much thought to the manner of their meeting. He had hoped to find an excuse to arrange it within the hallowed precincts of Trinity College, so that his nephew should first see him in those august surroundings rather than his more humble lodgings. The matter was solved by the soldier, who informed him that General Cromwell himself was to be taken in a carriage to College Green, where he would address the people of Dublin.

"I shall be there to receive General Cromwell," the doctor told him. "Let Captain Budge," for so he now learned Barnaby was styled, "walk into the college beside the green afterwards, and he shall find me."

It couldn't have been better. A speech from Cromwell, whom Parliament, besides giving him military command, had also designated with the title of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Then one of his brave officers and the distinguished Trinity professor would have a public family reunion. It would do honour to the family. Within the hour, he had made sure that several of the lecturers, a selection of the best young scholars, and even the Tidy family would be there to witness the event. So pleased was he that, in the privacy of his lodgings, Doctor Pincher actually hugged himself.

The arrival of Oliver Cromwell and his Roundhead army in Ireland was an impressive business. A hundred and thirty ships came into the Liffey estuary and began to disembark their troops: eight thousand foot soldiers, three thousand ordinary horse, twelve hundred dragoons. There were also the several thousand English troops already in the Dublin garrison. These numbers, though large, were not awesome, but they belonged to what was probably the best fighting force in Europe. The ships also brought quantities of artillery, and last but not least, the sum of seventy thousand pounds to pay for any supplies they might need.

Against them would be arrayed a coalition of forces. Ormond's army had been shattered at Rathmines. Four thousand men had been killed, and another two and a half thousand taken prisoner. Others had melted away to their homes. Ormond still had about three thousand men, however, camped on the edge of the Midlands. There were also the Royalist forces down in Munster, and the town garrisons in every province-some of them protected by mighty walls. But the coming of Cromwell had also provoked one other important figure.

Owen Roe O'Neill might be proud, but faced with the arrival of Cromwell himself, he had finally agreed: "We must forget our differences and combine the Confederates again." The papal Nuncio might have been furious, but the Irish prince was now rejoining the Royalist cause. He was sick with a gangrenous leg, but he had five thousand men with him and could call on as many again.

The numbers were with the Royalists. In addition to that, neither the native Irish, nor the Old English in the countryside, nor the Presbyterian Scots of Ulster had any wish to see him there. Cromwell was entering hostile territory.

It was while his army was being received by the Dublin garrison that Oliver Cromwell was taken by carriage to College Green.

The day had started badly for the Tidy family. Perhaps it was Tidy's fault.

The two Roundhead officers who arrived at Christ Church that morning were looking for quarters where troops could be billeted. Considering all that Tidy's wife had done to house the Protestant refugees eight years before, it was not surprising that they should have come to the cathedral precincts.

But they did not understand about the bell.

There was no question, old Tidy had given it his best. Hour after hour, as Cromwell's fleet came into the Liffey, the great bell of Christ Church had tolled its Protestant welcome. For seven whole hours the old sexton had pulled on the bellrope, only letting his son take a short stint each hour while he drank a tankard of ale to revive him, and attended to the calls of nature. And it had been his intention to ring the bell again today, to mark the entrance of Cromwell into Dublin.

So delighted had he been with these efforts that he had not hesitated, as perhaps he should have done, when he saw the two officers, but presented them with a bill for the princely sum of forty shillings. This had not been well received. Indeed, blunt words had been spoken by the officers when, not knowing the custom of the place, they had refused to pay. The sexton having then informed them that they'd be quartering no troops in the precincts of Christ Church, the larger officer, who seemed to be under the impression that this was a papist church, had remarked: "General Cromwell will quarter his horses in this cathedral if he pleases." To which Tidy had riposted that the general might put his horses in the nave of Saint Patrick's, but not Christ Church. They had parted on no good terms, despite the efforts of Tidy's wife and Faithful to reassure the officers of their loyal intentions.

It was not a happy Tidy family that walked, while no bell tolled, to listen to Oliver Cromwell.

The crowd at College Green was impressive. The aldermen and city councillors were all there; the great men of Trinity College, old Doctor Pincher easily visible among them; the city's Protestant parish clergy, still a small and unimpressive collection; and a large gathering of citizens. They all watched with interest as, with a cavalry escort, the general arrived in a simple open carriage.

When the carriage stopped, Cromwell did not leave it. He took off his hat and stood up. He was a strongly built, soldierly man, an inch or two under six feet. His greying hair was parted in the centre and hung to his shoulders. His face was not ugly, but plain, and seemed to have warts on one side. When he spoke, his voice was rough and his manner blunt. And the message which Oliver Cromwell now delivered to the people of Ireland was plain and brief.

He had been brought there by Almighty God, he told them, to restore them to liberty. Those who, recognising God's Providence, were amongst the godly-by which he meant any good Protestant-could be assured that the barbarous and bloodthirsty Irish would be subdued, and that the Parliament of England would protect them. Those who opposed the authority of the Parliament with arms would be crushed. Let there be no doubt of that.

But let them also understand, he continued, that he had no desire to hurt tender consciences. Those who were well-affected need not fear. The watchword of the army of God was justice: punishment for those who were guilty of shedding innocent blood, but for the rest, gentleness. Virtue and order should be their guide.

"Civil liberties for peaceful people," he announced.

Then he sat down, put on his hat, and was driven away.

Doctor Pincher frowned. This was not what he had expected at all.

The message was carefully calculated. That was to be expected. And the tactical situation in which Cromwell found himself was well understood. He was a general. He had come to Ireland to protect the Parliamentary forces' western flank. Those opposing the authority of Parliament with arms-in other words, the Royalist forces-would be crushed. This was clear. Of course.

Those who had shed innocent blood would be brought to justice. Did he mean the Irish bands who had run riot when Sir Phelim and Lord Maguire had begun the rebellion in 1641? Presumably. The memory of those massacres, and the refugees coming into Dublin, was still fresh, though identifying the remaining culprits now would not be easy.

But what was this talk of "tender consciences"? The phrase was a code, well known to every listener. It meant those of another faith. If those with tender consciences were "well-affected," the general had announced, they had nothing to fear. The political language was unmistakable. The hint to the townsmen gathered on College Green was clear. As far as this blunt English general was concerned, respectable Catholic merchants like the Smiths of Dublin, if they gave him no trouble, could be left alone. It sounded suspiciously as if Cromwell might even let them continue to worship if they did so discreetly and out of sight. Doctor Pincher was appalled.

Was this the general of the army of God? Were the Catholics not even to be forced to convert? Were they not to be dispossessed? Pincher had been waiting for this all his life. Perhaps this speech was just a tactic to keep the Catholics quiet until they could be properly dealt with. He hoped so. But another possibility also occurred to him: could it be that General Cromwell, beyond smashing the Royalists and punishing the guilty, had no plan for Ireland at all? Pincher glanced around the crowd. Everywhere, people were looking at each other with surprise.

It was in some confusion, and with disquiet in his soul, that Pincher prepared for the meeting with his nephew.

By the time that the Tidy family had entered the sanctuary of Trinity College, Pincher had already set the scene. He himself was standing alone, black-gowned and erect, looking towards the gateway where a group of students was watching. By a doorway on the right, several of his fellow lecturers had gathered, waiting to be introduced. The Tidys stood just inside the gateway.

Through which, moments later, a large figure, dressed in the leathers of a Roundhead officer, strode with a heavy tread. He saw Doctor Pincher at once and made straight towards him. And Tidy groaned.

"God's blood," he muttered. It was the officer with whom he'd quarrelled that morning.

Doctor Pincher stared. The figure coming towards him was tall, but there all family resemblance ended.

Barnaby Budge was burly. His chest was broad, his big breeches clearly housed legs like tree trunks, his leather riding boots were huge. But it was the sight of his face that transfixed the doctor.

Barnaby Budge's face was large and flat. It made Doctor Pincher think of a saddle of mutton. Was it really possible that this brutish fellow lumbering towards him was really his sister's son?

"Doctor Pincher? I am Barnaby."

The doctor inclined his head. Words would come, no doubt, but at that moment he could think of none. Meanwhile, he realised that the big soldier was studying his physiognomy with interest. Then Pincher heard him mutter to himself: "My mother was wrong."

"Wrong? How so?" Pincher asked sharply.

Barnaby looked surprised, then embarrassed. He had not imagined that his uncle's hearing, at such an advanced age, would be so keen.

"I see, Sir," he answered heavily but truthfully, "that you are not ill-looking at all."

Pincher gazed.

"Come, Nephew," he said quietly, with a glance towards where the lecturers of Trinity College were watching, "let us discuss family matters at my lodgings." And giving the Tidys not even a nod, he passed stiffly out through the college gateway with Barnaby striding at his shoulder.

Once at his lodgings, it did not take long to dispose of the necessary family enquiries. The doctor learned that Barnaby had been solidly set up in the drapery trade before joining the army of Cromwell, that he had inherited a little property and a good house. He spoke dutifully of his mother but, it seemed to Pincher, without much affection. He also spoke of the matter of his investment in Ireland.

"I have come here to do the work of the Lord, Uncle, and I am owed five hundred pounds."

"Quite so," said Doctor Pincher.

For seven years, he explained, the five hundred pounds he had contributed to the Parliamentary cause had naturally been much in his mind. And as it was now to be repaid handsomely with confiscated Irish land, he would be glad to hear his uncle's advice. He looked forward, he told the old man, to settling in Ireland and becoming his friend. "We shall turn this into a godly land, Uncle, I promise you," he said, and clapped the old man on the back. To all of which Doctor Pincher, who was beginning to wonder if he really wanted this large relation to embarrass his declining years, replied: "All in good time, Barnaby, when the battle is won."

Nor did it take Pincher long to take the measure of his nephew's intellect. Barnaby was not a scholar. Indeed, though familiar with many parts of the scriptures, it did not appear to the doctor that Barnaby had ever read a book in his life. His religious faith, as a solid, God-fearing Protestant, was commendably strong. When asked if he believed he should be saved, he answered firmly: "I serve in the army of God, Sir, and hope to be saved." But when it came to church membership and Calvin's understanding of Predestination, Barnaby seemed less certain. "Only God knows, I suppose, whom He has chosen," he remarked-which, while undoubtedly being true, was not very satisfactory. And probing further, Pincher came to understand, as he had never really done before, how, quite apart from their English dislike of being told what to do by Scottish Presbyterians, the godly men of Cromwell's army had come to believe that it was their years of fighting fellowship that proved they were of the Elect, rather than belonging to any church. While it pleased Pincher that his nephew should know himself to be chosen of God, it irked him that he should know it for the wrong reason, and he hoped that once peace was established, Barnaby should be led to a better understanding.

He was interested, however, to hear more about the puzzling figure of Cromwell. He quickly learned that his nephew, and the entire army, revered the blunt general.

"He is a godly man," Barnaby assured him. "If he has a fiery temper, he shows it only in the cause of righteousness." No man in his regiment, the doctor was glad to hear, could blaspheme or even swear an oath, on pain of punishment. Cromwell had been content with his lot as a country squire and Member of Parliament, according to Barnaby. Only the impossible tyranny of King Charles had forced him into opposition; and only Parliament's complete inability to bring the business with the king to any conclusion after the war had forced him, with the other army men, to take control. "He had no wish to execute the king," Barnaby declared. "Only cruel necessity made him do it. He told me so himself." Though whether this was the agonising of a plain man or the self-justification of a politician, Doctor Pincher did not know. But one other piece of information was encouraging.

"Cromwell is strenuous for the Lord, and he knows that the Catholic priests are the greatest devils of all. Any priests he catches, I can promise you, he will kill."

Whatever the general said about tender consciences, therefore, it did not seem that the Catholics could hope for much. Pincher was relieved to hear it.

It was when Barnaby spoke about the feelings of the army who marched with Cromwell, however, that his statements became startling.

"We know why we have come, Uncle," Barnaby assured him. "We have come to punish the barbarous Irish for the massacres. We'll avenge the rebellion of '41, I promise you."

"It was a terrible thing," Pincher agreed. "I preached to the survivors in Christ Church Cathedral," he added with some pride.

But Barnaby was scarcely listening.

"I am fully informed, Uncle," he assured him. "The whole Irish nation rose," he recited. "They turned upon the Protestants, man, woman, and child, and they butchered them. There was no mercy given, no limit to their Irish cruelty. They killed them all, except the few who got away. Three hundred thousand innocent Protestants died. There has been nothing like it in all the history of Man."

Doctor Pincher stared at him. The actual loss of life in the rising of 1641 was somewhat uncertain. He believed that when it was all done, perhaps five thousand Protestants lost their lives across the whole of Ireland, though it might well be less. Another thousand or two Catholics had been killed in reprisals. Since then, of course, the figures had swollen in the telling, but Barnaby's statement was astounding. Pincher wasn't sure there were even that many Protestants on the island.

"How many?"