1607

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His other two children said nothing, though Lawrence looked at Anne sharply, then glanced enquiringly at his father.

“I met him once or twice, Father,” she answered. “When I was in Dublin with Mother.”

“You spoke with him?”

“A little.”

“What opinion had you of him—of his character, I mean?”

“That he is honest and pious.”

“He pleased you?”

“I think so.”

Martin Walsh considered. He knew the family slightly. Smith was a respectable Dublin merchant and a Catholic. That much was certain. But beyond that? Though Smith lived in Dublin, he had twenty years ago lent money to a landowner south of the city on the collateral of the landowner’s estate; after which, as was the custom with Irish mortgages, he had enjoyed the use of the estate himself until he was repaid. Smith was, in Walsh’s view, at least half a gentleman. And he had a strangely aristocratic air about him. There had always been a little doubt about the family’s origins—Walsh didn’t like that. Peter Smith hadn’t discouraged the rumour that his own father Maurice had been born a Fitzgerald. The MacGowans said he’d been the natural son of O’Byrne of Rathconan up in the Wicklow Mountains. Take your pick. Noble, you might say, either way. But the truth was that he hardly knew the family. He’d heard there were several children, though he wouldn’t have recognised them. He would have to find out more. His cousin Doyle, no doubt, would know something.

As for Peter Smith’s letter, he found no fault with it. After some pleasant compliments about his daughter, and her reputation, it had asked whether he would discuss the possibility, nothing more, of bestowing this jewel upon his son, who was so greatly struck by her beauty and her good character. It would be discourteous if he didn’t at least speak to the Dublin merchant.

“The letter speaks of a betrothal. It seems strange that he should ask for you upon so small acquaintance,” he remarked. Princes might marry with nothing more than an ambassador’s report and a miniature portrait, but the gentry around Dublin usually were well acquainted before they married.

“I should wish to know him better, Father, if his interest in me is serious.”

“Of course, my child.” He nodded, and let his eyes turn again towards the sea.

So he did not notice the look that Orlando gave his sister, or the warning glare she gave him in return.

Orlando was so excited. And he felt so pleased with himself. Because he had guessed.

The first time had been the previous summer, while Anne was home from France. They had gone for a walk together and were about a mile away from home when they encountered the young man. Anne and the man had seemed to recognise each other, but Orlando had not learned the stranger’s name. They had strolled together a little way to some trees and, finding a large log, Anne and the man had sat on it to talk, while Orlando had explored the wood. For some reason, Anne had made him promise to keep the meeting a secret; and it had made him feel very proud that his big sister would trust him like this.

Although she was six years older, Anne had always been a presence in his life. His older brother Lawrence was always kind, and was Orlando’s hero; but he had already been abroad at his studies ever since Orlando could remember, and so he was at best an occasional presence in the house. Until two years ago, Anne had still been doing her lessons with Father Benedict in the chamber they called the schoolroom beside the hall. It was she who, before it was his turn to begin with Father Benedict, had taught him his alphabet, and she who, in the summer evenings, would sit and read to him, with her brown hair falling thickly down one side so that he could lean his head on her shoulder and bury his face in the soft scent of her hair as he listened. Or often she would tell him stories about silly people she had invented and make him laugh. She was a wonderful older sister.

Then their father had sent her away to a French family in Bordeaux. “I don’t want my daughter growing up like some provincial English girl,” he’d said. But if, after her first year away, she had become rather serious, she was always kind, and the funny Anne he loved would sometimes break through. When she told him to keep a secret, he’d rather have died than give her away.

In the weeks that followed, they had ridden out several times to meet the young man. Twice these encounters had taken place on the long, sandy beach opposite the little island with the cleft in the cliff, and Anne and the man had ridden off along the strand while Orlando played in the dunes. Each time she had sworn him to secrecy, telling her parents, “I took Orlando riding along the beach,” and no one had been any the wiser.

On her return home this summer, the meetings had resumed. He had also taken letters from her and delivered them to the young man, who was waiting in the nearby wood. Yet still he had not known the young man’s name, or the nature of their relationship. And when, once or twice, he had dared to ask, his sister’s answers had only confused him.

“He gives me messages for another girl at the seminary in France. He talks to me about her. That’s all.”

“Is he going to see her?”

“One day, I expect.”

“Is he going to marry her?”

“That’s a secret.”

“What’s her name? And what’s his name? And why does he have to give messages to you? And why can’t we tell anyone?”

“Those are all secrets. You’re too young to understand. If you ask any more questions, you silly boy, I won’t take you out with me anymore.” He wasn’t sure what it all meant, but he didn’t want to risk being left behind, so Orlando asked no more. Only yesterday morning, she had taken him aside and earnestly made him promise never, at any time, to tell what he had seen; and he had sworn on his life he would not. But he had wondered why.

And now he had guessed. The young man must be Peter Smith’s son. And it was Anne herself he’d been courting. And nobody knew except him. His eyes were shining at the thought that he had taken part in such an adventure. And if Anne, for whatever reason, had felt she must deceive their father, he scarcely gave it a thought.

Lawrence cleared his throat. He was looking serious. If there had been friction between Martin Walsh and his eldest son, they were both careful to hide it from Anne and Orlando, especially since their mother had died. Respectfully, therefore, he indicated that he would like to speak with his father apart.

“Are we sure,” he quietly asked, “of the family’s religion?”

For that was where the danger lay.

If the Reformation, like a series of earthquakes, had opened great chasms across Europe, the tremors in Ireland, at first, had been minor. King Henry had closed some monasteries and disposed of their land; there had been outrages, like the burning of holy relics in Dublin and the loss of Saint Patrick’s Staff. But the reign of the boy-king Edward—in which there had been a Protestant revolution in England—had been so short that the Protestants hadn’t had time to make much headway across the water in Ireland, before Queen Mary had brought her father’s kingdom back to Rome. Bloody Mary, they called her in England, yet you had to feel sorry for her. Proud and royal, she had seen her poor mother rejected and humiliated. No wonder she was so fiercely loyal to her Catholic heritage. Had she even understood the disgust of her English subjects, who valued their island independence, when she married her cousin Philip II of Spain? Childless, deserted by Philip, she had soon died and the English had told her Spanish husband not to show his face there again. In Ireland, however, the reign of Mary had been quiet enough. The lands of the monasteries Henry had dissolved were not given back to the Church—Catholic Irish gentlemen were not so pious that they wanted to part with this welcome windfall. But in things spiritual, Mary’s reign had been a return to normality.

No, it was in Elizabeth’s long reign that Ireland’s religious troubles had really begun. Yet for all this, you could scarcely blame the queen.

The watchword of Queen Bess had always been compromise. There must be a national Church, it was argued, or there would be disorder. But the English Church that Elizabeth designed was such a clever amalgam that, it was hoped, moderate Catholics or Protestants could find it acceptable. The message to her subjects was clear. “If you will outwardly conform, you may in private believe what you like.”

But history was against her. The whole of Europe was separating into armed religious camps. The Catholic powers were determined to fight back against the Protestant heretics. King Philip of Spain, having failed with her half sister Mary, even offered to marry Elizabeth to secure England for his family and the Catholic faith. But Elizabeth’s subjects were becoming more Protestant, even Puritan, and when in 1572 the French royal family organised a great massacre of Protestants on Saint Bartholomew’s Day, in which thousands of innocent women and children were killed, the Catholic cause in England was hugely damaged. But the greatest blow to Elizabeth’s hopes of compromise had come from Rome itself.

“The Pope has excommunicated the queen.” His grandfather Richard had come home with the news one day. It was one of the earliest events in his childhood that Martin Walsh remembered. “And I could wish,” his grandfather would always say afterwards, “that he had not done it.” Catholics no longer owed the queen any allegiance. Soon the Council in England, afraid that Catholics might be traitors, clamped down on them. Priests arriving from the continent were arrested as spies and insurgents. A number were executed. And when, at last, Philip of Spain had sent his mighty Armada across the seas to conquer the heretic island—and might have succeeded if a great storm hadn’t blown his galleons round the coast—the minds of most Englishmen became set in a simple prejudice: the Catholics were the enemy.

Except, perhaps, in Ireland. “In the time of my father,” Queen Elizabeth could remember, “when the Jesuits went to the O’Neills advocating treason, the O’Neills sent them away.” Even as late as the Armada, when a Spanish galleon had been shipwrecked on his coast, Tyrone had massacred the unlucky crew, just to show the English queen that her native Irish lords could be trusted. The English Council did understand that their Catholic faith, as such, would not necessarily lead the Irish princes into conflict with the crown. As for the Old English, proud of their loyalty, where nearly all the gentry and most of the merchants were quietly Catholic, the queen and her Council had tried to maintain the compromise. If Richard Walsh was unwilling to renounce the Pope for Elizabeth’s Church—“the Church of Ireland, as she is pleased to call it,” he would say with a wry smile—he did admit, after attending a service once: “They follow the proper forms so closely, you’d almost think you were in a Catholic church.” If you didn’t attend, you had to pay a fine; but these weren’t always collected. Even Catholic priests, so long as they gave no trouble, were usually left alone. More serious, and more insulting, was the rule that Catholics could not hold public office. “But they can’t apply it, you know,” Richard liked to point out. “Often as not, the only local gentleman fit to be a magistrate is a Catholic.” The rule would then be ignored. In such an environment, men like Richard Walsh could manage their dual loyalties.

But as the years went by, it had become harder. The New English arrived and took up position. Little by little, the Old English Catholics were being squeezed out of the business of government. The rules against their religion were tightened. “We’re treated like strangers in our own country,” the Old English began to complain.

With the death of Queen Elizabeth, the throne had passed to her cousin James Stuart, King of Scotland. His tempestuous mother, Mary Queen of Scots, had been a Catholic whose plots against the heretic Queen Elizabeth had finally cost Mary her head. Her son James had been brought up a Protestant by the Scottish lords. But might the new king show more sympathy towards the loyal Catholic gentry of Ireland? There had been hints that he might. Until last year.

November 5, 1605: the date that shook all England. A group of Catholic conspirators, led by one Guy Fawkes, attempted to blow up the Houses of Parliament, Lords, Commons, and King James as well—only to be discovered by the royal network of spies. For centuries to come, the outrage would be rehearsed in popular rhyme.

Remember, remember
The fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

For the Puritans of England, and the English Parliament, there could be no trusting of Catholics after that.

So where did that leave the Walshes? In difficulty. Perhaps, one day, in danger. That was how Martin Walsh saw it. And so what sort of son-in-law did he need? A Catholic, of course. He had no wish to have Protestant grandchildren. A man like himself: loyal, but intelligent and courteous. A man who did not allow his head to be ruled by his heart. A man ready to compromise. Was young Smith such a man? He didn’t know.

All this time, he realised, his elder son had been watching him intently. Martin smiled.

“Do not fear, Lawrence, I shall make diligent enquiries, you may be sure.”

But Lawrence did not return his smile. Indeed, it seemed to Martin that the glance he now received from his son was suspicious and cold. Then Lawrence spoke.

And, as he winced, Martin gazed at him sadly. It was not easy for a father to be despised by his son.

Lawrence almost wished he hadn’t spoken. He hated to hurt his kindly father. If only this great chasm didn’t lie between them—yet he hardly knew what could be done about it. The chasm had opened because of education.

Martin had bought a pleasant estate in Fingal, on the edge of the ancient Plain of Bird Flocks, the heart of the Old English Pale. Though his friend the lord of Howth had joined Elizabeth’s Church of Ireland, most of the local gentry, like the nearby Talbots of Malahide, were loyal Catholics who would employ Catholic tutors to teach their children. Yet deep compromises, you couldn’t deny it, were built deep into the system. The very money for their own house, for instance, derived from an estate that old Richard’s wife, a Doyle, had bought cheap when the monasteries were dissolved. Their Doyle cousins—purely for worldly advantage—had gone across to the Church of Ireland Protestants ten years ago. Lawrence had been disgusted, but his father, good Catholic though he was, had taken it philosophically and was still on friendly terms with his Protestant cousins. Only when it came to his own education had such compromise been impossible.

“The English aren’t only Protestant. They’re turning Puritan,” Martin had declared. “You couldn’t possibly be educated there.” But what were the alternatives? Ireland had always lacked a university of its own; but recently a new place of learning, called Trinity College, had been set up in Dublin to supply that lack. It had soon become clear, however, that Trinity was intended for the New English Protestants, and so the Catholics naturally shunned it. That left only the seminaries and colleges of continental Europe. And so, like many other gentlemen of his kind, Martin Walsh had sent his son to a continental college: that of Salamanca, in Spain. And there, thanks be to God, thought Lawrence, he had encountered a different world.

When the mighty Catholic Church had been confronted by the Protestant Reformation, some within it had reacted with outrage; but often brave and pious Catholics took a different view.

“The Protestants are right,” they agreed, “when they say that corruption and superstition can be found in the Church. But that is no reason to destroy a thousand years of spiritual tradition. We must purify and renew Holy Church; when that is done, the faith will shine out with a new and intense light. And that sacred flame must then be protected. We must be prepared to fight to defend the Church against its enemies.” Thus was born the movement known as the Counter-Reformation. The Catholic faith—pure, incorruptible, simple but strong—was going to fight back. Its best men and women were to prepare for battle. And where would the Church find recruits for the great cause? Why, in the places where the best young men were educated, of course. The seminaries.

Lawrence had loved Salamanca. He had lived at the Irish college and attended the University, where the curriculum had been rich and varied.

It was at the start of his third year that the principal had summoned him and quietly asked if he had a vocation for the religious life. “Both I and all your teachers agree that you should continue, and undertake a study of divinity. Indeed, we think you have the makings of a Jesuit.”

To join the Jesuit order—this was an honour indeed. Founded only seven decades before by Ignatius Loyola, the Jesuits were some of the Church’s intellectual elite. Teachers, missionaries, administrators, their task was not to withdraw from but to interact with the world. As the Counter-Reformation assembled the army of soldiers of Christ, the Jesuits were in the vanguard. Intellect, worldly skill, strength of character: all were required. Since the days when the family first came to strengthen the faith in Ireland four centuries ago, all his heritage, it seemed to Lawrence, had prepared him for such a role. “It may be,” the principal told him, “that we are destined to light in Ireland a brighter and a purer fire than has ever flamed there before.”

It had rather surprised Lawrence that his father had not been pleased.

“I’d hoped for sons from you,” Martin complained. Though he understood this well enough, such considerations seemed to Lawrence to be unworthy. “You’re still a dear fellow,” his father had once remarked to him sadly one day, “but something’s come between us. I can sense it.”

“I hardly know what,” Lawrence had answered in genuine surprise.

“It’s a glint in your eye. You’re no longer one of us anymore. You might be French or Spanish.”

“We are all members of a universal Church,” Lawrence reminded him.

“I know.” Martin Walsh had smiled sadly. “But it’s a hard thing for a father to be judged by his son and found wanting.” There was some truth in this complaint. Lawrence couldn’t deny it. Nor was the problem confined to his own family. He knew of several other young men who had returned from the seminaries to find the easygoing religion of their families lacking in urgency and correctness. He understood his father and sympathised. But there was nothing he could do.

So this business of the Smiths and his sister, it seemed to Lawrence, was a potentially serious matter. What influence might such an alliance have upon the family? He tried to remember anything he had heard about them. There were two sons, he believed. Hadn’t one of them failed to complete his schooling?

Even more important was the question of their faith. Were they sound? Were they compromisers? If only he could feel confident in his father’s rigour on such matters; but he wasn’t sure he could.

Even so, it was a little tactless of him now to say to his father: “I hope there is no chance that Smith could turn into a heretic like your cousin Doyle.”

He realised as soon as he said it that he should have phrased it differently. It had sounded faintly accusing, as though Doyle were his father’s relation, for whom Martin was somehow responsible, and nothing to do with himself. He saw his father wince.

“I have already told you, Lawrence, that I shall attend to this matter. Go to Spain, Sir, and attend to your studies.”

Nor was it forgivable that in an instant of anger he had replied:

“And you may be sure, Father, that I shall cause enquiries to be made, too.” It was said quietly, so that Orlando and Anne should not hear. But the message was clear: his father was no longer to be trusted. His authority was questioned.

What were they saying? Anne listened, but she couldn’t hear. They seemed angry. Did they know she had deceived them? She hadn’t meant to deceive them. Not at all. But she had fallen in love. She hadn’t meant to do that, either. But then it had been too late.

Her mother had still been alive the first time she had seen him. Two years ago. They had gone out to a festival at the Curragh. It had been a big affair; English and Irish had come there from far and wide. She had paused for a while to listen to some pipes, while her parents had wandered off to watch a horse race. After listening to the pipers, she had begun to walk across the big open space when she had noticed, a little way off, that some of the young Wicklow men had started a hurling match and that, although this was an Irish game, some of the English youth of Dublin had gone out to challenge them. It was a spirited game, which the Wicklow men were winning easily; but just before the end, a pair of Dubliners in a daring move had broken through and the younger of them had scored dramatically. Moments later, the game had ended, and she had just begun to move away when she saw the two young Dublin men coming in her direction. Hardly realising she was doing so, she waited for them to come near. She could see they had noticed her. They were grinning like a pair of boys after their game.

“Did you enjoy watching?” The elder of the two was a dark-haired young man with firm, regular features and a pleasant smile. “I am Walter Smith and this is my brother Patrick.” He laughed. “As you see, we did not win our battle.” He gave her a discreet, searching look, but she did not see it, for her eyes were already upon Patrick.

He was taller than his brother. Slim and athletic. Yet there was something gentle in his manner. His face was oval and wore a couple of days’ stubble—obviously, his beard grew thickly. His brown hair was close-cropped, and she noticed that over his brow it was already thinning. His eyes, also brown, were soft, and they rested upon her.

“Did you see me score?”

“I did.” She laughed. He’s pleased with himself, she thought.

“I did well at the end,” he said.

“They let us through once,” his brother remarked amiably, “out of charity.”

“No so.” He looked disappointed. “Do not listen to this fellow.” The soft brown eyes were looking into hers now, and to her surprise, she felt herself blush. “What is your name?” he asked.

She hardly knew whether to expect to meet Patrick Smith or his brother again. So she had experienced a little stab of excitement a few days later when, coming into Dublin with her mother, she had caught sight of him beside Christ Church. He had come over at once, introduced himself to her mother politely, and chatted easily enough to discover that it was often her habit to ride over on a Thursday to Malahide to visit an old priest who lived there. The following week, he had been waiting by the path to Malahide, and rode with her for a mile along the way.

Soon after this, she had gone away to France, and during that year her mother had died. Only days after the news had come, she received a letter from him, sending his sympathy and saying that he was thinking of her. In the long months that followed, when she experienced great loneliness, she thought of him quite often. And, though she loved her brother, and knew that her father loved her perfectly, there was nonetheless an aching emptiness in her life where her mother’s love and presence had always been.

He came to meet her within days of her return. It had been Anne’s idea to take Orlando with them. After all, a girl like herself could hardly disappear alone day after day without exciting comment. As for walking out alone with a young man, and without her father’s permission, it was unthinkable. So she had practised the subterfuge.

She didn’t enjoy it. She was a normal girl, but she was also serious. She believed in the true faith of her ancestors. She loved her family and trusted them. Each night, she said prayers for her mother’s soul and asked the Blessed Virgin to intercede for her. She hated deceiving her father; she knew it was a sin. If her mother had still been there, she supposed, she would have talked to her about Patrick Smith; but a father was different. Even so, she longed to ask his advice. And she would have done, except that one thing held her back. Fear. Fear that her father might refuse to let her see him anymore.

She needed him. When they went along the pathways together, she felt an ease and happiness unlike any other she had known before. When he stood close to her, she sometimes almost trembled. When his soft eyes looked down into hers, she felt as if they were melting. The excitement of their meetings, and the growing sense of being loved, filled the void her mother’s death had left. By that summer, it had seemed to her she could not do without him.

And what would her father have said if he knew? He’d certainly have intervened. As for her brother Lawrence, she didn’t like to think what he’d have said. No, there would be an end to her meetings with Patrick Smith if her family discovered them.

It was a week ago that Patrick had asked her to marry him. They knew that the thing must be done carefully and in the proper manner. His father would approach hers. The two families would consider each other—they’d be bound to do that anyway. And whether or not Patrick’s father had any previous knowledge of his younger son’s courtship, they both agreed that Martin Walsh must be kept in ignorance. “I daren’t tell him now,” Anne said, “for if he supposed we had deceived him, it would only hurt him and perhaps set him against us.”

For an awful moment, she had been afraid that Orlando might blurt something out; but he had remembered his promise and kept quiet. She resolved to have one more talk with him—a very firm one—before she left in the morning.

With luck, by the time she returned from France, she and Patrick would be betrothed. And her dear father would think he’d arranged it all.

Martin Walsh had turned his face from Lawrence and gazed thoughtfully back at Anne. She was already a handsome young woman now, and she reminded him of his dear wife. Yet she was also still a girl. Innocent. To be protected. Well, he’d talk to his cousin Doyle about the Smith family. But on one matter he was quite determined: he would consider Anne’s happiness above everything. That must be his guide.

Behind her in the water below, the little island with its cleft rock seemed to be bathed in a dying orange flame. Across the landscape, far away to the north-west, lay the hump of the Hill of Tara. The sun, bloodred now, was dropping behind it. Martin turned round once more, to gaze southward across Dublin Bay. It was darkening. On the far side of the bay, the little borough of Dalkey, too, was darkening. And farther to the south, where the distant volcanic hills had been caught by the evening sunlight, the entire coastline was sinking to a monotone beside the iron-grey, sullen sea.

They came down from the Ben of Howth and began riding westwards across the old Plain of Bird Flocks towards their home. The sun was sinking behind faraway Tara, but the sky overhead was still pale and a great gleam was coming from behind the horizon in the north so that you could see the landscape clearly. They were still some way from home when, about half a mile in front of them, they saw two figures riding down the road from the north towards Dublin. The shapeless form behind, who led a packhorse, was no doubt a servant; but the man who led the way was a striking figure. At that distance, and in the fading light, his tall, thin body, leaning slightly forward, seemed like a stick or, as he moved continually forward, like a single black pen, drawing an inky line across the land.

So absorbed was Orlando in watching this strange sight that he hardly heard his father’s murmured curse, or realised that he was supposed to stop, until he felt Lawrence’s restraining hand upon his arm.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“A man you do not wish to meet.” His father’s voice was very quiet.

“A Protestant.” From his tone, Lawrence might have said, “The devil himself.”

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. 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 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. . . . 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.

“You tell her yourself,” he heard his father say irritably.

“It is for the best, I assure you,” Lawrence’s voice replied. “I shall be kind.”

And so, it seemed, he was.

“I was sitting on the bench in front of the house, just sitting there in the sun,” Anne told Orlando afterwards, “when he came and sat beside me. He was kind. He talked of love.”

“Lawrence talked of love?”

“Yes. It seems he was once in love. Think of that!” She smiled, then frowned. “I believe he was speaking the truth.”

“He is on your side against Father?”

“Oh no. He spoke of Patrick. He said that first love is strong, but that we may not come to see whether a lover’s character will truly suit us until we have known them for a long time. ‘Then how are those to find happiness who are betrothed to a person they scarcely know?’ I asked him.”

“He had no answer for that?”

“He did. ‘Their parents are better judges than themselves—or hope they are,’ he said. Then he laughed. I was quite surprised. ‘And Father thinks that Walter would suit me better?’ I said. ‘There is no question of family fortune here,’ he says. ‘They are brothers, after all. It’s a question of character. You love Patrick at present, but in years to come, I promise you,’ and he gave me one of his earnest looks, ‘it is Walter who will be a good husband and bring you a far greater happiness than you imagine.’ That’s what he told me.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked him if Father would compel me to marry Walter. ‘No,’ he cries, ‘not at all. He will not. Ask him yourself. He wishes you to return to France until the spring. When you return, you shall meet Walter and come to know him. But if then he is not to your liking, if you do not think I mean that you could love and honour him, then the betrothal shall be undone.’”

“He said nothing else?”

“Yes. After I had been silent a little while, he took my arm and smiled and said to me: ‘Remember, Anne, this little rhyme, for there’s much wisdom in it.

Head over heart,

The better part.

Heart over head,

Better dead.

I assure you I know it to be true.’ ”

“That was all?”

“No. There was one thing more. I shan’t be seeing Patrick again.”

“He forbade you? I’ll go to Dublin and bring him here if you like,” Orlando cried.

“You don’t understand.” She grimaced. “He’s gone. He’s not here anymore. He’s left on a ship.”

“Where to?”

“Who knows? England, France, Spain—America, for all I know. He’s been sent away and won’t be back until I’ve married someone else—I can promise you that.”

“Is it Peter Smith’s doing? Surely Patrick himself didn’t just . . .”

“No. Don’t you see? It was Lawrence. Behind my back he’d already arranged it all. Oh, I could see it. I could see it all. I hate him,” she suddenly screamed. Then she burst into tears.

But three days later, quietly enough, she left with Lawrence to return to France. There was, after all, nothing else that she could do.

With Anne and Lawrence gone again, the house reverted to its habitual peace in the great quiet of Fingal. Orlando resumed his studies. Martin Walsh went into Dublin once or twice a week. On Sundays, they went across to Malahide Castle, where the priest said mass or conducted a service discreetly within the old stone house. September was warm. The weather was fine. Martin Walsh, enjoying the genial calm of his estate, had not gone into Dublin for some days, when one afternoon, just as he was about to go into the house after a walk, Orlando saw the figure of their cousin Doyle riding towards him. The big man dismounted quickly and gave Orlando a friendly nod.

“Is your father here? Ah. Here he is,” he continued as Martin Walsh appeared at the door. “I’ve news for you, Cousin—unless you’ve already heard?”

“I’ve heard nothing.” He glanced at Orlando and gave Doyle a questioning look.

“The boy may hear it. All the world will know soon enough. It’s the news from Ulster.” He took a long breath. “The Earl of Tyrone has gone.”

“Died?”

“No. Taken a ship and sailed away. O’Donnell, Earl of Tyrconnell, has gone with him, and others besides. The earls have flown, Cousin Walsh, they’ve turned their backs upon Ireland, and they won’t return.”

Walsh stared. For a moment or two, he didn’t speak. Then he shook his head in amazement and asked a single question.

“Why?”

The Earl of Tyrone. Orlando had never seen him, of course, but he had been there, a tall, dark figure in his imagination, heroic, almost godlike, the last great prince of ancient Ireland, heir to the O’Neill High Kings, dwelling up in Ulster. Orlando had an idea that Tyrone might still return and drive the English officials out of Dublin one day; then no doubt he’d resume the kingship of his ancestors at royal Tara. And Old English though he was, Orlando had found this vision of an ancient Irish ascendancy more exciting than frightening. As for O’Donnell, he was the greatest Irish prince in Donegal. The north and north-west, the remains of the ancient tribal lands; Tyrone and Tyrconnell, last of the ruling princes of Ireland: fled.

“Why?” Doyle shrugged. “The word in Dublin is that O’Donnell’s been plotting with the King of Spain, just as Tyrone did before, and he discovered that the government had got wind of it. So he ran while he could.”

“But Tyrone? The man was well set. They left him a free land in his own territory. He had no good reason to flee.”

“I would agree. But he saw it otherwise. The English officials are starting to buzz around Ulster. And no one will believe he wasn’t involved somehow with O’Donnell and the King of Spain.” He sighed. “Besides, an Irish prince like that is not bred for times like these. He’ll never be a royal servant.”

“To be Earl of Tyrone is hardly to be a servant.”

“But to him it is. The Irish are free, Martin. They have their clans, their ancient tribes, their hereditary family positions, but their spirits are free. As for their princes, they answer to themselves. Tyrone will never do the bidding of some puffed-up little English official with nothing but his temporary office behind him—and whom Tyrone regards as a heretic anyway. It’s not in the man’s nature.”

“So he’s flown.”

“Like a bird. Like an eagle, I should say.”

“What will he do?”

“Wander Europe. Find a Catholic prince he may serve without dishonour to his name or his religion. Command his armies. Remember, he knows those Catholic kings and their armies already. They will honour him.”

“That is true.” Walsh nodded and sighed. “You’ll eat with us, and drink with me tonight?”

Doyle smiled.

“It was my intention.”

They ate early in the evening in the house’s spacious hall, and Orlando was able to observe the two men as they talked—his father, with his quiet, stately manner, and Doyle, dark, somewhat shorter, more intense. Through the meal, the talk was naturally about the politics of Tyrone’s departure and what it would mean.

“Undoubtedly the government will confiscate all the earl’s land,” Walsh remarked. “The legal means can be found to do it.”

“I suspect they will end by making a plantation up there. All the men who want land on easy terms will be rejoicing tonight,” Doyle said. But the thought did not seem to give him much pleasure personally.

When the meal was ended, the two men continued to sit at the table, drinking quietly together; and though Orlando knew that his participation was not required, he was able to sit quietly at the end of the hall by the big open fireplace, where the two men seemed to forget his presence. For even if they said little, or he failed to understand what they said, he wanted nonetheless to be in the company of his father and his cousin upon such an important occasion. He observed them both closely, therefore. And, young though he was, he sensed their mood and imbibed it, and for the rest of his life it would become a part of him.

This much was certain: for both these men, the evening was full of melancholy and a sense of loss. Doyle, descendant of Vikings and generations of Dublin merchants, a Protestant in name—or Church of Ireland, anyway—and Walsh, his cousin, a Catholic gentleman whose family had been a mainstay of the Old English gentry in Ireland for nearly five hundred years; two men at the heart of the English Pale, yet two Irishmen, too: for both of them, the departure of Tyrone and Tyrconnell was a personal blow. They clearly felt emotionally closer to the native Irish prince than to any Englishman sent out from London.

“The Flight of the Earls,” Doyle mused. “It’s the end of an age.”

“May God bring them better fortune.” Walsh raised his wine goblet.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Doyle.

And young Orlando, silently watching, understood that, in ways not yet clear, the world in which he lived had just changed forever.

It was the following morning, after Doyle’s departure, that his father called Orlando. “You’re coming with me,” he told him; and when Orlando asked where they were going: “Portmarnock.”

The little seaside hamlet of Portmarnock lay by the road strand of sand dune and beach that stretched southwards for several miles along the edge of the ancient Plain of Bird Flocks. Orlando supposed he would be required to saddle up his pony, but his father told him: “No, we shall walk.”

There was a light breeze. Clouds drifted across the sky, which changed accordingly from blue to grey. Orlando contentedly went along, side by side with his father, speaking a little from time to time, eastwards towards Portmarnock. As they left their own land, they passed the little deserted chapel where he had waited for Patrick Smith. “It’s shameful that our own government forbids us to use it,” his father remarked.

As they walked, evidence of the Old English medieval occupation was all around: fields of wheat and barley; high, dark hedgerows; stone walls; here and there a stone church or a small fortified house. But soon they came to a somewhat less tidy terrain where the cattle grazed—the open seaward sweep down towards the coastline, which still possessed the echoing bareness of the days long ago when Doyle’s ancestor, Harold the Viking, and others like him had laid out their Nordic farmsteads on the plain of Fingal.

Their destination, however, which they reached in less than an hour, was older by far than any of these. It stood alone, just apart from the hamlet of fishermen’s cabins.

“Your brother does not approve of this place,” Walsh remarked with a small grimace, “or of my coming here.” It was the first time Orlando had ever heard his father say anything that hinted at the friction between himself and Lawrence. “But I come here by myself from time to time.”

It was nothing much to look at. Orlando had often passed within a quarter mile of it on his way to the beach. An old well, surrounded by a little stone wall. At some time a conical stone roof had been built over it, though this had now fallen into disrepair. The well was quite deep, but leaning over the parapet, Orlando could see the faint, soft gleam of the water far below. The well at his own house was nearly as deep but had never seemed especially interesting; this well, however, was different. He didn’t know why—perhaps the relative isolation of that lonely place—but there was something strange and mysterious about that water down below. What was it? Was it a glimmering entrance to another world?

“The well is sacred to Saint Marnock,” his father’s voice spoke quietly behind him. “Your brother Lawrence says it was a pagan well long ago. Before Saint Patrick came, no doubt. He says such things are superstition, unworthy of the faith.” He sighed. “He may be right. But I like the old ways, Orlando. I come here like the simple folk to pray to Saint Marnock when I am troubled.”

Saint Marnock: one of scores of local saints, their identities half forgotten except in their own localities, but often as not with a saint’s day, and a well or sacred place where they might be remembered. “I like the old ways, too,” said Orlando. He was sure he did, because it made him feel close to his father.

“Then you can say a prayer for your sister, and ask the saint to give her guidance.” And moving round to the other side of the well, Walsh himself went down on his knees and fell into his own silent prayers for a short while. Orlando, having knelt also, did not like to get up until his father did; but once Walsh had done so, Orlando went round to his side, where, to his surprise, his father put his arm around his shoulders.

“Orlando,” he said gently, “will you promise me something?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Promise me that you will marry one day, and have children— that you will give me grandchildren.”

“Yes, Father, I promise. If it is God’s will.”

“Let us hope that it is, my son.” He paused. “Swear it to me, here by this well, upon Saint Marnock.”

“I swear, Father. Upon Saint Marnock.”

“Good.” Martin Walsh nodded quietly to himself, then, glancing down at his son, gave him the sweetest smile. “It is good that you have sworn. I should like you always to remember this day, when your father took you to the Holy Well of Saint Marnock. Will you remember this day, Orlando?”

“Yes, Father.”

“All your life. Come.” And, still with his arm round his son, Walsh led him along the path through the dunes and out onto the broad, sandy beach. It was low tide and the beach extended far out into the sea, which was glittering softly in the sun.

To their right, the strand stretched away in a pale swath towards the Ben of Howth, whose hump rose high out of the waters. In front of it, the little island of Ireland’s Eye rested like a ship at anchor. Far away in the other direction, hazily visible in the northern horizon, the blue Mountains of Morne, guardians of Ulster, seemed asleep.

Orlando glanced up at his father. Martin Walsh was staring out to sea, apparently lost in thought. Orlando looked down at the litter of broken seashells at his feet. A cloud gently cut out the sun, and the sparkle left the sea.

“The end of an age, Orlando.” His father’s voice was no more than a murmur. Then he felt his father’s hand gently squeeze his shoulder. “Remember your promise.”

It was a wet, wintry day in Bordeaux, early the following year, when Anne Walsh received the letter from her father.

My dearest Daughter,

You must prepare yourself, for I have news of great sadness to impart. Two weeks ago, Patrick Smith embarked from the port of Cork on a merchant ship, on which he had arrived the week before. The morning they left, the weather was calm. But that same day, towards evening, a great storm arose, and having swept the ship back towards the Irish coast, overwhelmed it and dashed it against the rocks. In this wreck, it is my grief to tell you, all that were aboard were lost.

I know, my dearest Anne, how sorrowful these tidings must be to you, and can do no more than mourn with you and tell you that you are never out of my thoughts.

Your loving Father.

It was over, then. Her love had departed and was lost forever, without hope of recall. She burst into tears and wept, without ceasing, for over an hour.

After the first spasm of grief, however, came rage. Not at her father—he had not done this—but at Lawrence. It was he, she thought bitterly—Lawrence with his interference and his conniving, self-righteous Lawrence with his sneaking ways—who had killed Patrick. Had it not been for Lawrence, he’d never have gone away, never have been in Cork, not have been drowned. And leaving off her tears, in a paroxysm of hurt and fury, she cursed her brother and wished him dead in Patrick’s place.

Then she gazed out, as the rain outside pattered and ran down the windowpanes, pointlessly, and stared at the greyness, and felt a great desolation. She scarcely cared what happened to her now.