1640

NOBODY HAD TOLD Maurice what they were doing with the baby. So it came as a complete surprise.

Shortly after Christmas, he had accompanied his mother and the baby Daniel back to Fingal, where they stayed for three pleasant days. Maurice spent most of the time with his uncle Orlando; his mother and his aunt Mary were occupied with looking after the baby. But then, just as they were departing for Dublin again, his mother told him that they would be leaving the baby behind.

“It’s best for little Daniel,” she said with a smile, though he could see there was a tear in her eye. “It’s best for everyone.” More than that she wouldn’t say.

Maurice had to ask his father to get a proper explanation.

“It was your uncle Orlando’s idea,” Walter explained to him. “It’s hard for your aunt Mary, having no child, you see. He wrote to me late in the year asking if they could bring up little Daniel, and after I discussed it with your mother, we thought it would be for the best. It will bring joy to your aunt and uncle, and I’m quite certain little Daniel will be happy there.” Maurice was sad to lose his baby brother but supposed that his parents knew best.

“Can I visit him?” he asked.

“Of course you may,” his father answered.

The first months of the year passed quickly. News came of O’Byrne’s wedding. Maurice would have liked to go, and asked his parents if they were not going, but was told that they were not. “Could I go with my uncle Orlando?” he asked. “I’m sure he must be going.” But Orlando was not going. A little while after this conversation, he saw his mother sitting alone, staring out into space, and looking very sad. He was just about to go in to ask her if something was wrong when his father came up behind him and, taking his arm, told him quietly that he needed his help outside. When he remarked that his mother looked sad, Walter said: “Your mother just needs to be alone for a little while.” Later that day, he saw his father quietly put his arm round his mother, which was not a thing he often did; and it seemed to him that in the days and weeks that followed, his mother looked happier than before.

In March, Dublin became busy, because the Irish Parliament was called. Wentworth briefly came back to preside over it. The king was so pleased with him that he had given him a title, Earl of Strafford. The Parliament brought all sorts of important figures into the city. There were the New English landowners who had taken up the big land grants in Ulster and Munster, together with the Protestant gentlemen representing new boroughs, who would guarantee Wentworth a majority of Church of Ireland Protestants. But there were still plenty of Old English gentlemen, and some Irish aristocrats, too. One day as he was walking with his father in the street, Walter Smith pointed out one of these Irish princes, Sir Phelim O’Neill himself. Knowing of his connection to O’Byrne, Maurice looked at the Ulster aristocrat with interest. But if he was expecting a brooding, impressive presence, a figure from the days of the Flight of the Earls, he saw only a fellow in his late thirties, whom he might have taken for a Fingal gentleman like his uncle Orlando, sharing a joke with two similar fellows as they sauntered along.

“The two men with him are Rory O’More and Lord Maguire,” his father murmured. “O’Neill is a kinsman of the great Tyrone— distant, of course—but they say he’s up to his ears in debt. Truth to tell, the other two don’t amount to much either. They’re hardly the Irish chiefs their forbears were.”

“But they’re important in the Parliament?”

“They speak for old Ireland, you could say, and for the Catholic cause. They’re also in the Parliament to see what they can get out of it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s a Protestant?”

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

“And the girl?” Maurice asked.

“His granddaughter.” Doyle gave him a quick look. “Pretty, don’t you think?”

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

“She’s Protestant, Maurice,” he said quietly. “You can’t marry her.”

“Of course not,” said Maurice. But he wondered if he’d see her again.

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

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

“They’ve humiliated him,” Walter Smith remarked. “He cannot let that stand.”

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

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

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

“You are the granddaughter of Cornelius van Leyden?”

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

“I’d rather speak to you,” he said boldly.

She looked at him coldly.

“And who might you be?”

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

“Oh.” Her face brightened. “We know him.”

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

“Perhaps I shall see you there,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I tell you,” Faithful told his parents, “I think the old fool’s gone mad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting times? I suppose so,” O’Byrne therefore replied.

“Sir Phelim’s views would be interesting,” the Jesuit quietly led again.

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

“All Europe is watching us, you know,” the Jesuit said, eyeing O’Byrne carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am Cornelius van Leyden.”

Maurice had been in the market for less than an hour when he heard the news. A merchant he knew came up to him. Looking worried.

“They’ve arrested thirty people. And can you believe it? One of them is Lord Maguire.”

A parliamentary leader. The plot might have miscarried, but if a man of that importance was involved, then the business must be serious. And Maurice had just begun to question the merchant further when he saw his mother, accompanied by one of the servants, hurrying towards him.

“Maurice,” she told him urgently, “you must come home at once.”

He had never seen his mother look so distraught before. There was little time upon the way, but she told him what he’d been accused of. “Tell me it’s not true,” she begged. How could he explain?

“It’s true,” he said. Yet strangely, she hardly seemed to hear him.

“It’s me your father will blame,” she cried with a sad shake of her head—which made no sense at all.

“Oh, you and Father would never have done such a thing,” he said with some bitterness. “I know that.”

“You know nothing,” his mother snapped, and spoke no more until they were home.

His father was white with anger. His eyes were blazing. But the eyes of the old Dutchman were even worse. They gazed at him silently, but with an awful, pale blue certainty that, before his family and before Almighty God, he stood accused and guilty. Maurice cast his eyes down before them.

“You have been paying court to this gentleman’s granddaughter.” His father’s face was tight with suppressed anger. “Without our knowledge. Without any reference to me. Or to you, Sir.” He turned to old Cornelius van Leyden.

“It is true, Father.”

“That is all you have to say?”

“I should have spoken to you.”

“But you deceived me, because you knew very well what I should have said. Do you not see the disgrace you have brought upon yourself and upon us all? And worse by far, do you not understand the terrible wrong you have done to this gentleman and his family, not to mention his granddaughter herself? Do you not see the wickedness of it, Maurice?” The Dutchman might be a Protestant, but it was clear that Walter had already conceived a respect and liking for old Cornelius van Leyden, and that he was hugely embarrassed as well as angry. “How long has this been going on?” his father demanded.

In fact, it was not so long. Maurice had encountered Elena several times in Dublin the previous autumn, but it was only in the spring that they had started walking out together. They had kissed. Matters had gone a little further. He had hesitated to go beyond that. Marriages between Catholics and Protestants might not be uncommon in his class, but it depended on the family. If Elena had been the daughter of Doyle, whose Protestantism was entirely pragmatic, and who wouldn’t have cared much what church his daughter’s children belonged to, then things might have been different. But the van Leyden family were as sincere in their faith as Walter Smith and the Walshes were in theirs. It had been Elena who had been less bashful, more eager to experiment than he. For much of the summer, however, she had been away in Fingal, and they had only had the opportunity to meet a few times.

“We became friends in the spring, but we hardly saw each other all summer.” In so far as it went, this was true.

“How far has this matter gone?” Cornelius van Leyden’s voice was quiet but insistent.

Maurice gazed at the floor. How much did the old man know? How much had Elena told him?

“Not too far.” Cautiously, he allowed his eyes to lift and observe the two men. He saw that his father was about to ask him what he meant, but then thought better of it.

“You will wait outside, Maurice,” his father said. “I shall speak to you later.”

As soon as the door had closed behind his son, Walter Smith turned to Cornelius.

“No words can tell my shame, Sir, for the wrong my son has done your family.”

“The girl was at fault also,” the old man said simply. “It was ever thus.”

“You are generous.”

“If there had been a child . . .”

“I know. I know.” Walter groaned. “I give you my word, he shall never come near her again. He shall also keep silent about the matter,” he added meaningfully.

“It would be best.” The old Dutchman sighed. “Were we of the same faith, our conversation might have been different.”

It was true, Walter thought, that if only the girl had been Catholic, she might have made an excellent match for his son. But there was nothing to be done about it, and soon afterwards, old Cornelius van Leyden went upon his way.

Alone with his son, Walter Smith did not hold back. He accused Maurice roundly of seducing the girl. It was bad enough that she came from a respectable family; that they were Protestant only made it worse. “What will they think of us?” he cried. Had matters gone further, he pointed out, had she conceived a child, there would either have had to be an impossible marriage, or Elena would have been ruined. Maurice was lucky not to be cast out of his family forever, he went on. “To think that your mother and I . . .” he began; but then, suddenly remembering Anne’s behaviour with O’Byrne, he fell silent and threw up his hands in despair.

“You are never to see her again. Swear to me.”

“I swear,” said Maurice reluctantly.

And Walter Smith might have had more to say, but just then, from outside, came the sound of the great bell of Christ Church ringing out, not as it usually did, in a sonorous manner, but with a wild, urgent clamour. Tidy must have been hauling on the bellrope with all his might and main. Turning to the door, they both rushed out into the street.

People were running by. There seemed to be a general panic. Walter stopped an apprentice and demanded to be told what was going on.

“It’s war, Sir,” the young man cried. “The whole of Ulster has risen. And they’re on their way here.”

Though the news of the revolt in Ulster was certainly disturbing, and though within weeks it would spread across all Ireland, at no time in the months that followed did it ever occur to Walter Smith or any of his family, or anyone they knew, that one of the great watersheds of Irish history had just been passed. For centuries to come it would be portrayed as either a mass, nationalist uprising of the Catholic people against their Protestant oppressors, or else as a wholesale massacre of innocent Protestants.

It was neither.

On October 22, the Irish gentry of Ulster began a series of coordinated operations. In the absence of any trained commander, Sir Phelim O’Neill had assumed the leadership. He had, after all, the blood of the old High Kings in his veins. The aim of the rising was quite limited. Having decided that neither the Irish nor the English Parliaments would ever give them the security for their lands or the concessions to their Catholic faith as matters stood, Sir Phelim and his friends had decided to put pressure on the government by taking over the province and refusing to budge until some concessions were granted. Well aware that if the Scottish settlers in Ulster were harmed, the mighty army of the Covenanters might come over from Scotland to punish him, O’Neill had given strict orders that the Ulster Scots were to be left alone.

But it didn’t work. Sir Phelim O’Neill was not a soldier. A few small inland towns let him in, but Ulster’s strongly defended ports were all in the hands of tough Scottish Presbyterians; he led his men up to their walls, but the citizens weren’t impressed and he couldn’t take a single one of them. Worse, out in the countryside, he couldn’t control the people or even his own troops. Soon bands of looters were roving the land. Quite often they were helped by O’Neill’s ragtag troops. Falling on Protestant farmsteads—English or Scots were all the same to them—they looted, stripped, and, if the people resisted, they frequently killed them. Nor was it long before Protestant settlers sallied forth from their walled boroughs to take their revenge in a similar manner. There was no single massacre; but day by day, week after week, there were scenes of scattered chaos and killing. Protestant deaths mounted: hundreds, a thousand; still it continued and spread beyond Ulster. The settlers, some of them stripped even of their clothes, were soon straggling into the ports to leave for England, or making their way south to the safety of Dublin, fifty miles away.

Meanwhile, the Justices in Dublin hastily called upon the head of the mighty Butler dynasty, the rich and powerful Lord Ormond, who, thanks be to God, was a member of the king’s Protestant Church of Ireland, to take command of whatever forces the government could muster to deal with this terrible threat.

All through the month of November, the refugees were streaming into Dublin. And it was no surprise that some of them should seek sanctuary in the great cathedral of Christ Church. Still less was it surprising that they should find a ready welcome from the verger’s wife.

Tidy’s wife had never been busier. If one of the cathedral clergy should see a cluster of children’s faces staring unexpectedly from the window of some underused lodgings in the precincts, or suddenly come upon a family camping by some old tomb in the crypt, and should ask the verger, “Is it really necessary, Tidy, for these people to be in the cathedral?” Tidy would only sigh and answer, “I can’t stop her, Sir.” And since every Protestant in Dublin was united in outrage at what had been done to the godly folk in the north—and Christian charity should in any case have stifled any criticism— there was really nothing to be done. Nor could they very well complain at the substantial bill that the verger submitted for ringing the great bell for several hours when news of the rising had first come.

In all these ministrations, besides, the Tidys had one powerful champion.

If people had formerly considered Doctor Pincher an eccentric, if young Faithful Tidy had even thought the old man was going mad, nobody thought so now. Hadn’t he warned of the Catholic menace? Hadn’t he believed a Catholic conspiracy was brewing? He had. And now he was revealed as a prophet.

Doctor Pincher emerged into his new role like a swan. Every day he came to Christ Church, where he was received by Tidy’s wife as a hero and taken to see the new arrivals. His thin, inky-black figure strode among them, but to each one he would bend kindly and say: “Take heart. I know what it is to suffer for the cause.” He was especially gratified one day when a grim Scots Presbyterian declared: “The fault was our own. It was a judgement of God upon us for taking the Black Oath.”

In the middle of November, the doctor even preached in the cathedral again, to a congregation swelled to capacity with Ulster refugees. Once again, he took for his text the words, rendered so timely now:

I come not to send peace, but a sword.

But there was no need for him this time to warn his congregation of the Catholic menace. They knew it all too well. His theme, on this occasion, was more inspiring. If their suffering had been terrible, he told them, they should not despair. For had not Our Lord declared: “The Son of man must suffer many things”?

The sword of Christ, he reminded them, divided the elect from the damned.

“Ye are the salt of the earth,” he cried. “Ye are the light of the world.” A quiver of grateful recognition passed through the congregation. “Be glad, therefore,” he admonished them, “for your suffering.”

The Catholic idolators might wield the sword and seek their blood. But in due time, the sword of Christ should strike them down.

“The unrighteous shall perish, and we, God’s chosen, shall be brought into Israel, and there we shall build a new Jerusalem,” and now the doctor’s voice grew in strength so that, despite his age, it thundered, “from which we shall never be driven out again, no, not in a thousand years.”

It was, by universal agreement, one of the finest sermons ever heard.

During this period, the Catholic forces of Sir Phelim O’Neill were laying siege, without much success, to the port of Drogheda, fifty miles up the coast from Dublin. The Justices in Dublin, meanwhile, were still taking Depositions from anyone who could give them evidence of who was behind the original plot. Informers were coming forward regularly, though it was hard to know how much of their evidence was true and how much invented. In the last week of November, the Dublin administrators did manage to send out a force of six hundred poorly trained troops to relieve Drogheda. Two days later, however, the news came back: “The Catholic rebels have smashed them.”

It was time for the Justices in Dublin to take more serious measures.

It was at this juncture that Tidy’s wife witnessed a curious meeting. She was taking Doctor Pincher to visit a family lodged in Dame Street when they saw Father Lawrence Walsh coming towards them. She expected the two men to ignore each other; but after the triumph of his recent sermon, Doctor Pincher was in no mood to avoid anyone. He began to reprimand the Jesuit from ten paces.

“I am surprised, Priest, that you show your face in the street after the evil that you papists have done,” he cried.

“I do not condone the killing of innocents,” Father Lawrence calmly replied. But Pincher took no notice.

“O’Neill and his friends are traitors. They’ll pay with their lives,” he announced grimly. “And you, too, Priest. You, too.”

“Yet I hear,” Father Lawrence mused, “that Sir Phelim is acting with the king’s support.”

Nothing about the Ulster rebellion was more infuriating to the Protestants than this. Partly to confuse the opposition, and partly to induce the loyal Old English Catholics to join him, Sir Phelim had announced that he was acting on the king’s behalf. He had also produced a written commission to prove it. The document was a forgery, as it happened. But was the king capable of using this Catholic army against his own Protestant Parliament? Nothing was more likely, in Doctor Pincher’s estimation. He gave Father Lawrence a look of pure hatred.

“Do not imagine that I am ignorant, Priest,” he answered bitterly. “All over Europe you papists have been planning this for years. You would convert or kill us all.”

Father Lawrence regarded him dispassionately. In a sense, what Pincher said was partly true. Holy Church meant to recover Christendom. For a generation and more, brave souls in Ireland, many educated on the continent, had patiently awaited the chance of deliverance. Outside Ireland’s shores, Irish soldiers in Europe’s Catholic armies, the huge network of priests and friars, and watchful Catholic rulers had all looked for an opportunity. Over the years, Father Lawrence could remember a dozen hopeful plots and plans, some plausible, some absurd. To his certain knowledge, the plan to take Dublin Castle had originated on the continent. But in his own estimation, none of these dreams, and none of the vague promises of help from overseas would ever materialize until there was a Catholic army with a proper organization and plan, on the ground, in Ireland itself. That was why, the moment he had received hints of what Sir Phelim and Lord Maguire were planning, he had shown such an interest. For the first time, it had seemed to him, there might be a realistic chance.

Faced with Pincher’s accusation, however, he gave no ground at all.

“I am surprised at what you say,” he replied blandly. “For as far as I can see, Sir Phelim O’Neill, who proclaims his loyalty to the king, asks only for a promise that the lands of loyal Catholics will not be stolen and that the Graces, granted long ago, should be honoured. True, he has occupied Ulster to force the government’s hand. But where did he learn that trick—if not from your own friends the Scottish Covenanters?” There was nothing that Pincher could say to this. It was well known that Sir Phelim had already stated, “It was those Scots who taught us our ABC?” And Father Lawrence could not resist gently asking: “Or would you call the Covenanters traitors, too?”

Pincher could only scowl. But he was not going to let the Jesuit get the better of him.

“I know a traitor when I see one, Priest, and I see one now. No doubt your brother is another. Your whole family is a nest of vipers. But be assured, it will be crushed underfoot.”

Father Lawrence turned. There was no point in continuing the conversation.

After he had gone, Pincher stared after him with loathing. And the doctor had almost forgotten Tidy’s wife, when he heard her voice beside him: “I know the Jesuit is wicked, Sir, but I am sorry all the family are traitors.” Pincher glanced down at her and saw there was no trace of irony in her words.

“There can be no truth in a papist,” he muttered irritably.

Any day now. It would be any day. For Orlando Walsh, awaiting the birth of his child, his house was now a private haven—specially blessed, and quite apart from the angry sounds of the world, which seemed far away, almost unreal, and hardly important anymore.

There had been no difficulty with the pregnancy, no alarms. His wife was healthy, and he had no doubt the child would be born healthy, too. Had he, once or twice, wondered whether the baby might not turn out like little Daniel? Not really. Whatever God gave, he would accept it gratefully. But in his own mind he was sure that, after so many years of faithful waiting, God’s gift to him would be perfect in every way.

“If it’s a girl, I think we should call her Donata,” he said to Mary. Donata: the one given. “And Donatus if it’s a boy,” she said, to which he readily agreed.

At the start of December, several small Catholic foraging parties raided Protestant farms in Fingal. They wanted provisions, but when some of the farmers resisted, there were some scuffles and a few people were hurt. At Orlando’s estate, however, everything was quiet.

On the second day, a man he knew slightly from Swords came by with a message. “We’ve got to defend ourselves, Orlando Walsh,” he announced. “The men in Dublin won’t do anything for us.” It was true that during the whole of the last month, the men in Dublin Castle had ignored most of the Fingal gentry. Orlando hadn’t been surprised. He knew the mentality of the government’s Protestant servants. “We’re Catholic, so they don’t really trust us,” he mildly remarked. “That’s all it is.”

“And they can’t defend us, either,” the man from Swords declared. “Or won’t. The only force the government has sent out so far was smashed. We can expect nothing from that quarter, and we’ve farms to protect. That’s why you have to come with us.” A party of gentlemen from the area were planning, he told him, to meet with some of Sir Phelim’s men. Given his wife’s condition, Orlando explained, he couldn’t come; but he agreed that the parley was probably sensible. “With luck, as we’re mostly Catholic, Phelim O’Neill and his troops will agree to leave us in peace,” he told Mary.

On the third day of December, he received a summons from the Justices in Dublin. It seemed that they were taking an interest in the Fingal landowners after all.

“They’re calling us all to meet in Dublin,” he told Mary. “In five days’ time.” He saw the anxious look on her face. “I shan’t go if the baby’s not born,” he promised, and saw her look of relief. He wasn’t inclined to go anyway. He had no wish to be involved in their military operations, either, if he could avoid it.

It was midafternoon on the fourth day when Doyle arrived. He was looking grim.

“You must both come to Dublin at once,” the merchant told him.

“Mary can’t travel in her condition, and I don’t want to leave the estate when everything is so uncertain,” Orlando explained. But Doyle shook his head.

“You don’t understand the mood in Dublin,” he declared. “The castle men are in a state of panic, and the city’s being stirred up by men like Pincher.” And when Orlando mentioned that he knew some of the Fingal gentry had gone to meet Phelim O’Neill’s men up at Tara, Doyle almost exploded. “No, you don’t know. You know nothing, Orlando. Do you hear? The very fact,” he went on more quietly, “that they came to you at all places you under suspicion.” Orlando had received a short letter from Lawrence describing his passage of words with Pincher, but until now he had not supposed that the old man’s threats and talk of treason should be taken so seriously. “Come to Dublin,” Doyle urged him, “and prove your loyalty. Otherwise you will be under suspicion.” It annoyed Orlando that anyone would seriously question his loyalty, but he still didn’t see that he could leave at present.

“Tell the Justices,” he replied, “that I shall come to the meeting in Dublin if my wife is safely delivered of her child.”

“I shall tell them,” answered his kinsman, “and I pray that the child comes in time.”

The next morning, the gentleman from Swords came again. He was in a hurry and did not even dismount. “It’s been agreed,” he cried. “We’re joining with Phelim O’Neill.”

“In rebellion?”

“Not at all. That’s just the point. Every Catholic gentleman in Ireland will come together in a grand league and proclaim our loyalty to the king. There’s to be a big meeting at Swords on the eighth of December, three days from now. I’m going round every estate in the area to spread the word. Mind you’re there.”

“But that’s the same day we’re all supposed to be in Dublin,” Orlando objected.

“You can ignore the damned Protestants in Dublin,” the Swords man cried impatiently. “Stick with your own.”

“I shall come,” Orlando told him also, “if my wife is safely delivered of her child.”

“And what,” Mary asked him when he told her afterwards, “if the baby has come before then?”

“I shall go to neither meeting,” Orlando said quietly. It seemed to him the safest thing to do.

Two days later, a servant arrived from Doyle with a letter begging him to come to Dublin at once, without delay. He did not go. That night, Mary went into labour.

The next day, the eighth of December, early in the morning, the child was born. It was healthy, and it was a boy. They called him Donatus.

Maurice Smith was delighted with the news that his aunt had had the baby. He had been wondering what to do for nearly a week— ever since the letter from Elena had come.

It had been handed to him in the marketplace by one of van Leyden’s men, who had asked him to give an immediate reply, as he must return at once to the Dutchman’s estate in Fingal. Maurice had never received a letter from Elena before. He noticed that although her English was still imperfect, her writing was firm and regular. The letter was not long. She wrote that her grandfather had kept her in Fingal for two months now, and that although the old man went into Dublin quite often, he refused to take her with him. Now, with the rebels getting closer, she was afraid. What did Maurice think she should do?

Taking the letter into a scrivener, where they lent him pen and ink, he wrote his reply onto the letter. She was in no danger, he told her. The rebels might come to forage; they might even take some valuables. But though they might turn nasty if they encountered some of the hated English Protestant settlers, he thought it unlikely they’d hurt a harmless old Dutchman and his granddaughter.

It was clear to him that the real message in Elena’s letter was that she was frightened and wanted him to come and comfort her, and he felt a great urge to do so. Yet how could he? It had been wrong to court her when he had. He’d given his father his word never to see her again.

So what could have possessed him, at the end of his message, to add “I shall come to see you as soon as I can”?

For when Orlando’s message had brought the glad tidings of the birth, there had also been a request that Maurice should go to his uncle’s straightaway, so that he could be godfather to the baby, whose christening would be performed by the old priest from Malahide as quickly as possible. Walter was delighted. “It’s a great honour, Maurice,” he told him. He also saw it as a useful opportunity. “While you are there, you must do everything you can to persuade your uncle to come to Dublin. He failed to appear on the eighth, but that can be explained by the birth of Donatus. Your cousin Doyle has seen to that. But as soon as the child is christened, your uncle should go in to the castle at once and establish his loyalty. I, too, as a Catholic, would be under suspicion if I were not here in Dublin. Tell him all this and that I join my voice to Doyle’s, and urge him to come.”

It was a charming little ceremony. It was held in the house. Present were just Maurice, a lady from a neighbouring estate who acted as godmother, the happy parents, the old priest from Malahide, and little Daniel, who, miraculously, kept quiet throughout the ceremony. Maurice stayed with them until the following day; and that evening, when he found himself alone with Orlando, he delivered his father’s message. His uncle listened carefully, nodded thoughtfully, and thanked him, but made no further comment.

In the morning, Maurice left. But as soon as he was out of sight, instead of riding south, back towards Dublin, he turned his horse and took the track towards Swords. From Swords he turned north-west, and an hour later, he was in sight of van Leyden’s stone and timber farm.

Here he had to pause. He could not go up to the door, for fear of encountering the old man, so he waited for a long time in the cold until he saw a farmhand coming towards him. Telling the fellow that he was a scout sent out from Dublin to look out for rebels, he quickly learned that none had been seen, that the old man was in Dublin, though expected back that afternoon, and that Elena was in charge of the house in his absence. Asking the man to fetch her, he rode slowly towards the farm. And moments later, Elena appeared.

She seemed pleased to see him. Despite the cold, they walked together so that they should not be heard. If at first she seemed a little constrained, he could well understand it, for he felt the same. But more than anything, she seemed to need reassurance that they would not be attacked by Phelim O’Neill’s men. “I told my grandfather that we should go to Dublin for safety,” she complained. “But he does not want me to be there.” She made a wry face. “Because of you.”

Maurice told her again that the rebels had no quarrel with the Dutch. “These are not criminals or animals,” he reminded her. “I promise that you and your grandfather will be safe.”

He had never seen her afraid before. Their relationship had been several things. He’d enjoyed her company, for they made each other laugh. There had been the excitement, with the added thrill that their relationship was forbidden. He had found her wonderfully sensuous. But if the truth were told, neither of them had felt real love or passion. Now, however, seeing her afraid, he felt a sudden wave of tenderness. Putting his arm around her, he did his best to comfort her and stayed with her for nearly an hour. They kissed before he left, and though he didn’t say it to her then, he found himself wondering seriously whether—he did not yet know how—they might be united after all.

It was midafternoon when he entered Swords again. To reach Dublin before dark, he needed to press on. The city gates would be closed at dusk, and it would certainly be hard to explain himself to his parents if he were locked out. But he also felt uncommonly thirsty, and as he passed down the main street and saw the inn, he couldn’t resist turning in there for a small tankard of ale. There was time, surely, for that.

It was gloomy inside the tavern. The windows were small and the day outside was grey. A large fire at the end of the place provided what light there was. A narrow table with benches ran along one side of the room. The floor was covered with rushes. There were only a few people in there. The innkeeper soon brought Maurice his ale, and he sat at the end of the table nearest the fire, drinking it quietly. At the far end of the table, in shadow, two men were playing at dice, small piles of coins on the table between them. One was a small, wizened man; the other had his back turned to him. After a few minutes, this fellow gave a sad laugh and pushed his coins towards the small man.

“Enough.” He spoke in Irish. “I’ve lost enough for one day.” His voice sounded familiar. The small man rose, scooped up the coins, and started to move away. The other turned, glanced at Maurice, and then stared. “Well, Mwirish,” he said in English, “what brings you here?”

And Maurice found himself a moment later sitting beside his friend Brian O’Byrne.

They talked for a long time. Maurice told him everything: about the birth of Donatus, at which O’Byrne was greatly delighted; about Elena, at which the Irishman shook his head. “Leave that, Mwirish. Your father is right. You can do no good there.”

O’Byrne himself, he explained, had been on a visit to Rathconan and was now returning to Drogheda. He had been with Phelim O’Neill since the start of the rising. “I’d have joined him anyway, Mwirish,” he said, “but with my wife being his kinswoman . . .” He shrugged. “It was fate.”

O’Byrne ordered more ale. As they drank together, it seemed to Maurice that his old friend was uncharacteristically moody. At one point, O’Byrne turned to him and suddenly remarked: “You belong at Rathconan, you know. I saw it from the first.”

“I feel at home there,” Maurice acknowledged, though he did not know what had made O’Byrne say it just then. In any case, the Irishman hardly seemed to be listening.

“It’s where you belong,” he said, almost to himself. He gazed at the fire and sighed. “Perhaps that’s how it will be,” he mused. And he seemed so intent upon his own thoughts that Maurice did not like to interrupt.

Glancing out of the window, Maurice saw that the afternoon light was waning. He looked back at the handsome Irish chief, whose green eyes he shared. The firelight was catching his face, giving it a brooding, romantic quality. And whether it was the fear that he might be late back to Dublin and his visit to Elena be discovered, or whether he was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to be in the company of this man he loved and admired, fighting for the sacred Catholic cause that was their heritage, he burst out:

“I want to come with you. Take me with you to Drogheda.”

O’Byrne gave him a long look and slowly smiled. But he shook his head.

“No, Mwirish, I’ve brought enough trouble to your house. I’ll not take Walter Smith’s son away as well.” This didn’t make sense to Maurice, and he wanted to ask him what he meant; but O’Byrne had not finished. “Tell me, Mwirish,” he asked, “do you like to gamble?”

“I don’t know.”

“Every Irishman likes to gamble, Mwirish,” said O’Byrne. “It’s in the blood.” Perhaps it was the play of the firelight on his face, but it seemed to Maurice now that his friend looked strangely sad. “This rising, Mwirish, it’s just a gamble, you see. A roll of the dice.”

“Gamblers can be lucky.”

“True.” O’Byrne gave a wan smile. “Though few are lucky all the time. I was rolling the dice when you came in, Mwirish. But I lost.”

“I want to come with you.”

“We’ll meet again, Mwirish. But go back to Dublin now. You must leave, for I’ve other business.”

So Maurice left, and rode as fast as he could back to Dublin, arriving there just before the gates were closed.

After he had gone, O’Byrne sat alone at the table for a little while. If he had other business, there was no sign of it. He sat moodily, rolling the dice on the table by himself.

At last he got up. He would be going north in the morning, and who knew when he would pass this way again? He had been much moved by what young Maurice Smith had told him about Orlando and Mary. How truly wonderful that after all these years God had granted them a child. He had heard of such cases but never encountered such a case himself. It was like a biblical story: a holy thing. He felt a great desire to see his friend again, to take his hand in friendship once more and congratulate him. If he left now, he could be at the Walsh estate before dark.

It was not long before he was riding south towards Orlando’s house. His mind was occupied by many things as he rode through the gathering December dusk.

It did not occur to him that he was being followed.

Faithful Tidy had not been best pleased when Doctor Pincher had made him follow the priest to Swords. Though he had tracked him dutifully, he hadn’t been able to discover anything except that the priest had gone to spend the evening in the house of an old lady who turned out to be his mother. All the same, since the meeting of the Fingal Catholics at Swords the other day—of which everyone in Dublin had been immediately aware—the town almost counted as enemy territory. So when Faithful had stopped for a drink at the inn there, he had sat quietly in a corner and kept his eyes open.

And his vigilance had been rewarded when he saw the handsome Irishman he knew to be O’Byrne of Rathconan entering the place. Faithful had watched him carefully, observed his conversation with young Maurice Smith, and then followed him until he saw him go into the estate of Orlando Walsh. As it was dusk, he had returned to the inn at Swords. But the following morning, he rode back to Dublin to report to Pincher.

The worthy doctor listened avidly to his account of the evening.

“And you saw O’Byrne ride off alone?”

“He’d been talking to Maurice Smith for a long time.”

“Never mind the Smith boy,” cried Pincher excitedly. “He’s nothing. Do you not see? O’Byrne’s the key. He’s connected to Sir Phelim O’Neill, the greatest traitor of them all. And he went straight to the house of Orlando Walsh?”

“There isn’t a doubt of it.”

“Then I have him,” shouted Pincher with a glee he did not trouble to conceal. “I can destroy Orlando Walsh.”

All through that December, Orlando Walsh stayed on his estate with his little family, as quiet as a mouse.

There was no question, the winters were colder, now, than they had been when he was a boy; and this year turned out to be the coldest anyone could remember.

As midwinter approached, a howling blizzard swept down from the north. For a day and a night, the snow fell on Fingal until there was more than two feet of it. After that, the storm moved on and the landscape froze.

Some days, the sky was blue and the landscape sparkled. But if the sun melted the surface, the frost turned every drop of water back to ice. Soon there were icicles, tall as a man, hanging from the eaves of the big barn. By Christmas, Orlando heard that down at Dublin, the River Liffey had ice upon it.

Around the Walsh estate, the countryside was quiet. To the north, there were still stories of Protestant farms being raided. To the south, the Protestants in Dublin Castle sent out parties to burn the property of local Catholics they suspected. “They want to provoke them to rebel,” Orlando explained to Mary, “to prove that Catholics are all traitors.” Meanwhile, the powerful Lord Ormond, the only man of real stature in the government’s camp, was reportedly drawing together a military force which he had promised to bring to Dublin.

The morning after Christmas, the gentleman from Swords came by again.

“We’re arming our men, Walsh,” he told Orlando. “There’s bound to be a fight. Are you joining us?”

“I am not,” Orlando told him.

“Afraid?” The man sneered. “We’ve already smashed them once.”

“I’ve no wish to fight Ormond,” Walsh answered simply.

For a start, the great magnate had probably assembled a fighting force to be reckoned with. But as he also pointed out: “Ormond’s our best hope.” The mighty head of the Butler dynasty might have sworn to uphold the king’s Protestant church, but he was a moderate man with dozens of Catholic relations himself. “We should be talking to him, not fighting him,” Orlando said.

“Everyone else is with us,” the Swords man declared. This was quite untrue. Orlando knew very well that a number of Catholic landowners, including his neighbour Talbot of Malahide, were holding back. Others were allowing younger sons or brothers to go while they themselves stayed cautiously at home. So Walsh made him no further answer and let the man depart.

A few hours later, a dozen fellows arrived at the house. They were labourers, but not from the locality. Orlando didn’t like the look of them but was careful to be polite. The man who was their leader said he was a friar of the Franciscan order. Orlando wasn’t sure he believed him, but thought it best not to argue. Having established that this was a devout Catholic house, they were civil enough. When Orlando asked their business, the friar told him they were scouting accommodation and fodder for when O’Neill’s army came that way. This was almost certainly a lie. Nonetheless, Orlando brought them inside and fed them, and secretly prayed that they would not wish to stay. Mercifully, they decided to move on. The friar said they were heading north for the territory above Swords. As they departed, he heard one of the men remark: “When we find some Protestants, we’ll stretch their necks.”

After this visit, all was quiet.

Maurice Smith gazed down at the scene from the bridge. The Liffey was a remarkable sight. Big sheets of ice covered most of the stream. The sun had made the surface gleam. Children were sliding on the edges, and an enterprising fellow had organised horse-drawn sled rides upstream along the bank.

The first of January. Amongst the Protestants, at least, there was a festive mood. The day before, Ormond and his well-drilled men had marched out across the bridge onto the icy plain of Fingal. Reaching Swords, they had found the untrained brigade gathered by the local Catholic gentry and easily crushed them in a short skirmish. By that evening, Tidy was ringing the great bell of Christ Church to announce the victory, and Doctor Pincher was out in the streets proclaiming that the Protestants in Dublin could take heart at this proof that God was on their side.

Maurice had been standing there for some time when he noticed the little cortege enter the bridge from the northern end. Five riders, heavily muffled against the cold. As they came closer, he saw that their covered heads were encrusted with ice, suggesting that they had made a long journey across the snows. He wondered who they were. On reaching the bridge, they had slowed their horses to a walk. As they brushed by, he observed that the rider in the centre was a woman. Her face was half covered, but it looked familiar. She caught sight of him and seemed to give a start, but they were already past when he realised that it was Elena.

Her grandfather was not one of the party. He was sure of it. So he called out: “Elena.”

If she had ridden on, he would have understood that she needed to be discreet. But instead, after a momentary pause, she pulled up, and the men accompanying her did the same. He ran over and came level with her. He was excited.

As she turned to look down at him, she unwrapped the black scarf that had covered the lower part of her face. Though flushed from the cold, her face looked strangely pallid and drawn, as though she had suddenly grown older. She gazed down at him, stonily, saying nothing.

“So your grandfather has changed his mind,” he said, and smiled. She continued to smile at him. “I mean, you are in Dublin.” He stopped, fell silent. At last she spoke.

“My grandfather is dead.” Her voice was cold, as if he were a stranger.

“Dead?”

“Yes. Dead. A party of your friends came,” she said bitterly. “They were led by a priest.”

“A priest?”

“Priest, friar.” She shrugged contemptuously. “What does it matter? One of your unholy orders. They came to steal. They started looting. They even took my mother’s locket. Tore it from my neck. My grandfather protested and they killed him. In front of me. I was lucky they did not kill me, too. Or worse.”

“But this is terrible.” He felt the blood draining from his face as he remembered the advice he had given her, assuring her she was safe.

“Yes. It is terrible.” He heard the pain in her voice; but in her eyes he saw only rage and contempt. He gazed at her helplessly. She seemed to be another person. The sensuous girl he knew had gone. There was not a trace of her. In her place was a young woman who was looking at him with loathing. “It is true, what they say,” she went on with a cold fury. “You Catholics are not just ungodly. You are animals. Cut open a papist and you will find the devil.”

She let the words fall. They lay there between them, worse than a curse. For a moment, he was too shocked to reply.

“Elena,” he pleaded. “I am as shocked as you by what has happened . . .”

She did not let him continue.

“I do not wish to hear what you feel. Do not come near me again, you dirty papist.” She kicked her horse into a trot, but as she left him behind, she cried out the word a final time: “Papist.”

When the grey-bearded merchant arrived at the house late in January and asked to speak with Orlando Walsh, he was politely shown into the hall. And until he was within two feet of him, Orlando himself did not realise who it was.

“I have come to say farewell,” explained Lawrence.

The situation for the Jesuit had been getting worse by the day. The political situation was in a state of great confusion. In England, King Charles and his Parliament had reached a point of complete rupture. The king had left London; Parliament was effectively ruling the capital. Across the water in Ireland, Lord Ormond continued to keep military order for the government in the region around Dublin—but whether the government now meant king, Parliament, or both, nobody was sure. In Dublin itself, the Protestant authorities were behaving as if the city were under siege. The gates were guarded. No strangers were allowed in without permission. “Even you couldn’t get in now, Brother,” Lawrence told him, “because you’re a Catholic.” As for his own position, he explained, Pincher had been agitating constantly at the castle. “Any day, he’ll have me arrested. I grew my beard for ten days and slipped out in disguise.”

“We can hide you,” Orlando offered at once, but Lawrence shook his head.

“No, Brother. You and your family shall not be put in danger on my account. In any case, I have a boat waiting for me at Clontarf. I’m going abroad.”

“You’re leaving forever?”

“Not exactly.” He paused. “Sir Phelim is a good man, Orlando. But he is not the military commander that we need now, and he’d be the first to say it. There is, however, another O’Neill who has just the qualifications, if he will come.”

“You mean Owen Roe O’Neill?”

“I do.”

Of all the princes of Ireland who had risen to high command in the great Catholic armies of the continent, none was more famous than this scion of the house of the old High Kings. The nephew of the Earl of Tyrone himself, rumour said that he had been privy to the plans to take Dublin Castle the previous autumn. But a man living the princely life of a great European general still needed some inducement before he would leave all that to risk life and fortune in a rebellion, even in the sacred land of his fathers. If he did decide to come, however, neither his kinsman Sir Phelim, nor anyone else in the Catholic cause, would hesitate in yielding him command.

“You think he will come?”

“I am going to add my voice to those which are begging him to come without delay. If I am successful, I shall return with him.” Lawrence smiled. “And now, if you will give me a glass of wine, I shall greet your wife, and bless your son, and be on my way.”

Shortly afterwards, as he watched his elder brother depart, Orlando felt a surge of affection for him. Lawrence could be stern and unbending—but he had always acted for the best. He was a loyal servant of the true Faith. There was no doubt about that. If necessary, he would die for it.

Two weeks passed. The weather grew warmer. The snows melted, and after nearly a week of sunny days, Orlando saw a sprinkling of snowdrops, and even a crocus or two in front of his door. News came of scattered skirmishes elsewhere, but Fingal was now quiet. Lord Ormond had done his work well. Several of the local gentry who had taken up arms were fleeing the country; others had surrendered to him personally and had been sent to Dublin. Orlando heard that the gentleman from Swords was one of these. So far, however, no one had come to trouble Orlando, and he was beginning to hope that they wouldn’t.

It was early one afternoon, when Mary and the baby were both asleep, and he was quietly playing with little Daniel, that Doyle arrived. His cousin’s large, burly form filled the doorway as he entered the house and strode into the hall, where he threw his cloak impatiently on a bench and announced the bad news at once.

“They’re passing sentence on you tomorrow. I had the whole thing from Tidy the sexton, who knows it, of course, from Pincher. You’re to be outlawed.”

“Outlawed?” It was an old medieval English sentence, and a vile one. An outlaw had no legal protection at all. He could be robbed or killed with impunity. An outlaw could only run for his life or turn himself in. It was the way the ancient state made its enemies destroy themselves.

“You’re not the only one. Half the gentlemen involved in the rising are being outlawed. Some of them have already fled the country, as you know. The estate will be taken, of course. You must save what valuables you can.”

“But I was never in the rising,” Orlando protested.

“I know. But your brother is a Jesuit who’s disappeared. You’re a Catholic. You didn’t come to Dublin . . .” Doyle shook his head furiously. “I spoke up for you and I thought I’d convinced them you were innocent. But I underestimated Pincher. The man has spies everywhere. It seems you were visited by O’Byrne, who’s in the thick of the rebels, at the very time when you should have been in Dublin. Pincher had a spy out at Swords who followed O’Byrne to your house. I didn’t discover who the spy was, but it doesn’t matter. The whole thing has been reported to the Justices, who want to dispossess every Catholic they can. The men at the castle aren’t concerned with legal niceties at present. Pincher’s accusations were enough for them.” He paused. “You know those men who surrendered to Ormond?”

“Yes.” Orlando thought of the gentleman from Swords.

“Well,” Doyle continued, “when Ormond sent them to Dublin, do you know what the Justices did? They’ve put one of them on the rack.” He shook his head again, in disgust at the cruel torture. “They’re out for blood.”

“But if they take the estate, we’ll be almost ruined,” cried Orlando, aghast. “What shall I do?”

“If you flee the country or go to the rebels, you proclaim your guilt. If you stay here, they’ll arrest you. I’ll try to persuade the men at the castle to take a different view—and of course we’ll all take care of Mary and the children—but in the meantime, I think you should hide.” He looked at Orlando thoughtfully. “Is there anywhere you can think of?”

There was still smoke in the distance when the soldiers came—several hundred of them—on a mild March day.

Mary Walsh was waiting at the door of the house, with a baby in her arms and little Daniel beside her, as the cavalcade of officers at their head rode up.

She had known they would be coming and, after a long talk with Orlando in his hiding place, she had prepared herself carefully. The soldiers were a frightening sight, and she might have found it even harder to conceal her fear if she had not seen, riding at the centre, the unmistakable figure she had been hoping for.

James Butler, twelfth Earl of Ormond, was a well-set man with a broad, intelligent face. Though still only thirty-two, he was born to such great wealth and position that he obviously wore his command easily. Dismounting, he came towards her courteously and asked for her husband.

“He is not here, Lord Ormond,” she answered politely.

His eyes rested on her.

“You know he is to be arrested?”

“So I have heard, my lord. But I do not know why, since he is loyal. Perhaps,” she added drily, “the Justices in Dublin know something that we do not.” Though he said nothing, at the mention of the Justices, she saw a flicker of aristocratic contempt cross his face, which told her what he privately thought of the Dublin authorities.

“I should like to step inside,” he said quietly.

Two officers accompanied him, and half a dozen men. The officers and men began to search the house from top to bottom. Outside, she had no doubt, the troops would be combing the farm buildings also for Orlando. While the search went on, Lord Ormond himself remained in the big hall, where she politely offered him a glass of wine, which he accepted. As they waited, and knowing that she must use the time well, she probed a little further.

“Tell me, my lord: we still see smoke in the distance, and we have seen it for days. It seems that the Justices have given orders for Catholic farms to be destroyed. Their men have said they will burn all the crops as they grow. But if they do that, how will Dublin and your own troops be fed?” It was another example of the vicious stupidity of the men in Dublin Castle that they should have ordered this pointless destruction. They had even wanted to destroy the local fisheries as well.

“You are correct,” he answered without looking at her. “I have persuaded them to stop. By tomorrow, I hope, you will see no more smoke.”

“This is a sad business,” she remarked. “We are to be ruined for no offence. How many other honest Old English gentlemen are to suffer in this way?”

“I have no wish to make traitors of the Fingal gentry,” he told her frankly. “But whatever they or Sir Phelim may claim, the fact is that they went into rebellion against the king’s government. That is what the king thinks, I assure you.”

“And I can assure you that my husband did not join them. He was here with me at all times, I give you my word. You will find no one of the rebels who will tell you he was there.”

“He did not give them aid?”

“Not unless you count the party of ruffians, attached to nobody, who came by once. We fed them and prayed they would leave, which they did, thank God. That is all.”

Ormond indicated that, as far as he was concerned, this was not an offence.

“Your husband has gone to the rebels now?”

“He has not.”

“Has he fled overseas?”

This was a dangerous question. If they thought he had done so, the authorities might stop looking for him; but it would also indicate his guilt.

“No, my lord, he has not fled overseas.”

“Shall we find him here?”

“I do not think so.”

“Then where is he?” Ormond asked quietly.

This was it. The moment she had been dreading. But they had agreed what she must say.

“My lord,” she answered gently, “I am his wife, and I shall not tell you.” She held her breath. His eyebrows rose. “Unless,” she added softly, “you mean to put me on the rack.” She watched him. Had she gone too far?

But thank God, he did not turn on her in fury. Instead—she saw it clearly—he winced with embarrassment. They fell silent.

A minute later, the men came back and the officers reported: “Nothing.” Ormond indicated that they should wait for him outside.

“The Dublin men are eager to confiscate this estate, Madam,” he remarked to her when they were alone, “so that they can get their hands on it themselves. However, I find that I shall need to garrison some of my troops here. About a hundred,” he added bleakly. “The estate will need to be properly farmed, to ensure that they are fed. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“If your husband is loyal to the king and the king’s government, then he must be loyal to me.”

“That,” she said with feeling, “you could depend upon, my lord.”

“I cannot reverse the proclamation against your husband. It is not in my power. But if he is here, supplying my troops on my orders, he will not be touched—for the moment. That is all I can promise you.”

“I am grateful.” She hesitated. “For how long might this last?”

“Who can say?” He sighed. “Everything is uncertain. I scarcely know from whom my own orders will come next month. We must live from day to day.” He gave her a long look. “Find your husband by tomorrow, Madam.”

She nodded. He gave her a brief bow, and before she even had time to curtsey in return, he was gone.

There was a light mist over the sea, early the following morning, as Mary came down to the shore. So at first, as he looked out from the little island with the cleft in its cliff, where he had been hiding for the last three weeks, Orlando did not notice her.

But then, as the rays of the rising sun came racing over the sea and burst upon the shore, he saw her, waving to him from the beach. And he pushed out the little curragh he had been using and rowed towards her with the rising sun behind him, to learn what tidings she brought.

Doctor Simeon Pincher gazed at the letter. He was still astonished.

The month of April 1642 had not been encouraging. In England, the split between King Charles and his Parliament had grown so wide that it seemed likely to develop into civil war. Here in Ireland, though Ormond had done good work around Dublin, the rising was spreading even wider. Leaders of the Old English and Irish gentry, with ancient names like Barry and MacCarthy, were now taking up arms down in Munster and beyond. Even Ormond’s own Catholic uncle had joined the rebels. Still more disturbing were the rumours, growing more persistent with every passing day, that the great general Owen Roe O’Neill had finally agreed to come to Ireland and command the Catholic forces.

Yet all these troubles seemed to melt into the background as Pincher read, and reread, the letter.

In the first place, it informed him that his sister was dead. He was not sorry, and had the honesty to admit it. He had received no word of kindness from her in the last forty-five years; and though he trusted that she was predestined for Heaven rather than Hell, he caught himself hoping that the heavenly regions were large, so that their future meetings could be infrequent.

The rest of the letter was even more heartening.

He looked at the handwriting: it was firm and manly. That, he thought, augured well. The style was not learned, not even elegant, perhaps, but rather that of a plain, devout gentleman. Such was the conclusion he was able to draw by his third reading. Of the writer’s religious conviction there could be no doubt. He was a vehemently godly man.

So this was his nephew, Barnaby Budge.

It gratified him that his nephew wrote to him in terms of such respect: and he could not help wondering whether perhaps the departure of his sister might have removed an invisible barrier to what might, long ago, have been a closer family relationship. Why, it was possible, he supposed, that with acquaintance his nephew might even feel affection for him. After all, Barnaby was his heir.

Despite his years, Doctor Pincher was prepared to brave another sea voyage, if necessary, to visit his nephew. But it seemed there might be no need. For at the end of the letter came the most wonderful news of all. Barnaby hoped to come to Ireland soon. Indeed, he might even be coming to live there.

“For trusting in God’s providence,” he wrote, “I have taken up the Parliament’s cause, and have invested five hundred pounds.”

It was only the month before that the English Parliament, wondering how it could finance both Ormond’s troops in Ireland and a possible armed conflict with the king at home, had hit upon a new ruse for how to make use of Ireland. Settlement and plantation had been tried; Irish chiefs had rebelled and friends of the government had been able to buy their land at cut prices; but the Act for Adventurers of March 1642 was a new advance in English ingenuity. It was inspired.

For now the English Parliament invited all good Protestants: “Give us cash today, and in due time, we will give you Irish land.” The promised land in question, though not available yet, would be confiscated in time from those who had just rebelled. By this means, the English Parliament men hoped to raise a million pounds—a stupendous sum. On looking at the terms, Pincher had calculated that they would require no less than two and a half million acres: four thousand square miles, almost a quarter of Ireland, and many times the holdings of all those who had rebelled so far. “Don’t worry,” one of the castle men assured him when he asked about it. “If they can raise the money, we’ll find the rebels.”

On such terms, five hundred pounds could secure Barnaby a thousand acres, a gentleman’s estate. With help from his uncle, he might do even better. Doctor Pincher had been disappointed when Orlando Walsh had been allowed to remain on his estate. But now it seemed to him that there might be another hand at work in this. For it was only a stay of execution. Ormond would not need Walsh forever. By the time Walsh was kicked out, Barnaby Budge might be able to get the place. Could it be that this was, indeed, the divine plan?

He wondered how soon Barnaby would come, and what he would be like.