"Shall I accompany you to the city gate?"

"No. There's no need." She gave him a curious little look. "Would you like it if I came to see you again?"

"Ia" he stared at her. "Why certainly," he stammered.

"Good." She glanced at the gateway to the street.

It was empty. "Tell me, Peter FitzDavid," she said quietly, "would you like to kiss me before I leave?"

He gazed at her. The demure priest's daughter, the Irish princess, was asking to be kissed. He checked himself. He was being stupid.

Politely he kissed her on the cheek.

"That wasn't what I meant," she said.

It wasn't? What was all this about? He almost blurted out, "Aren't you about to be married?" Then he told himself not to be a fool. If she was asking, who but an idiot would refuse? He moved closer.

Their lips met.

Una was surprised the next day to find Fionnuala at the entrance of the hospital, and still more so when Fionnuala informed her why she'd come.

"You want to work here again?"

"I've nothing to do at home, Una. I can't just sit around being useless. My parents want me to live at home, but I could spend the days here and some nights. That is," she smiled ruefully, "if you don't mind." She paused, and then continued seriously, "You were quite right to be angry with me, Una. But I think I've grown up a bit now."

Had she? Una stared at her. Perhaps. Then she told herself not to be stupid. Didn't they always need help at the hospital? She smiled.

"The floor needs washing," she said.

The only person who was doubtful was Ailred the Palmer. He was concerned for her safety. But Fionnuala was able to convince him without too much difficulty.

"I can come down through the small gate into the town," she told him. For there was a small gate in the city wall almost directly below her father's church. "Then I can come out of the west gate and walk across to the hospital. Nobody's going to hurt me coming from the church or going to the hospital." It had to be said that neither the English nor the High King's forces had troubled any of the religious houses round the city.

The priest's daughter could go about unmolested even in the middle of a military siege.

"I will talk to your father," the Palmer promised.

And so by that evening it was agreed. Fionnuala would come down several days a week to the hospital. Sometimes she would sleep there.

"Who knows," her father remarked to Ailred, "perhaps she is growing up."

The offer from the High King came the third day that the archbishop and Gilpatrick rode out.

"Let Strongbow keep Dublin, Wexford, and Waterford," he said, "and we need not quarrel."

In many ways it was a handsome offer. The High King was ready to give up the most important port in Ireland to the English lord. But it seemed to Gilpatrick that it was also a very traditional offer.

The archbishop summarised it when, on their way back, he remarked: "I suppose, in a way, it's just exchanging the English for the Ostmen in the ports."

That was it, Gilpatrick thought. Even now, after three centuries of living side by side, the Irish still saw the old Viking ports, crucial though they were to Ireland's wealth, as places apart. To the ancient clans, and to the O'Connor High King from Connacht, it hardly mattered who held the ports so long as they did not encroach upon the green and fertile Irish hinterland.

But the O'Connor king was no fool. There was cunning in the offer, too. If he was willing to give up Dublin, he had also wanted to ensure that Strongbow reduce the size of his army. Therefore he must deny them the one thing that would allow them to remain: land. The feudal grants of land for military service. That was what they had all come for, from poor young Peter FitzDavid to the family of Strongbow himself. The High King's offer did not give them that.

"Let us hope Strongbow will accept," the saintly archbishop said. But Gilpatrick had his doubts.

It was the next day, before any answer was returned, that he saw Peter FitzDavid in the Fish Shambles. They greeted each other in a friendly way but with a trace of awkwardness. With the siege in progress, a visit to his parents' house outside the walls was inadvisable. Besides, since his father was naturally on the side of the High King, he might not have cared to meet Peter again just now. They chatted pleasantly enough, however, until Peter casually asked, "And how are the plans for your sister's betrothal?"

Gilpatrick frowned. Why did the question strike a false note? Could it be that his young friend entertained a hope in that direction? After all, he had once had that idea himself, some years ago. But Peter's prospects did not seem very bright at present.

Hardly a good match. He smiled ironically to himself. He wasn't sure it would be such a kindness to wish his temperamental sister onto young FitzDavid anyway, come to that.

"You'd have to ask my parents," he said curtly, and moved away.

There was no doubt, Una had to concede, that Fionnuala had changed. She might not be able to come every day, but when she did come, she worked hard and without complaint. There was only praise now, from the inmates. Ailred was pleased and made a point of telling her father how much she'd improved. Sometimes she stayed the night at the hospital, sometimes she had to leave during the afternoon. But she always let Una know in advance.

There was never any trouble from the English soldiers.

Their forward sentries were quite close, but they knew who she was and where she was going. Once she and Una even went for a walk on the bridge, but nobody troubled them and after exchanging a few words with the English soldiers on the far side, they had been free to return.

Nonetheless, as the second week of the siege turned into the third, the cordon round the city was beginning to have its effect. As well as the various forces round the walls, the men of Ulster out at Clontarf had successfully turned away all ships wanting to enter the Liffey. No supplies were reaching Dublin by any of the roads, and stocks of everything were slowly running down. Nor could news get through.

It had been months since she had heard from her father in Rouen. A sailor had come to the hospital and delivered a message from MacGowan, saying that he and the rest of the family were well, that he had found work as a journeyman under another master, but that life was hard and that if she was safe with the Palmer, I.

Una should stay where she was. The sailor had also been told to ask if she had found the dog she had lost when the family left.

The dog. She realised that her father meant the strongbox. This was the moment she had been dreading. For weeks after she had made her terrible discovery, she had wondered what to tell her father. She couldn't bear to think of the misery and anxiety it would cause if he knew the truth. But the Palmer had been firm with her.

"You must tell him, Una. Imagine if he were to return believing he had this wealth behind him, and then discovered he had nothing. That would be a shock far worse." So she had sent back a message: "The dog is lost." And she had not heard from her father since. She had no means of knowing if he was alive or dead.

Despite the fact that he had kissed her, Peter hadn't really expected to see Fionnuala again. But two days after her visit, one of the soldiers in the yard came into the house to tell him that there was a young lady at the gate who said she had a message for him from one of the priests.

Seeing her there, he assumed that she had indeed brought a message from Gilpatrick. His greeting was as formal as it was friendly; and when she asked him if he could accompany her to Christ Church, he politely agreed. He was much astonished, as they entered the Fish Shambles, when she turned to him with a smile and remarked: "I haven't a message from Gilpatrick, you know."

"You haven't?"

"I was thinking," she went on calmly, "that I might be coming by your lodgings again, when it isn't so crowded."

"Oh."

She paused by a stall, looking at the fruit to see if it was fresh, then passed on.

"Would you like that?"

There could be no mistaking her meaning. Unless she was playing some kind of game with him, and he didn't think she was, the girl was making an assignation.

"I should like it very much," he heard himself say.

"I could come tomorrow, late in the afternoon perhaps?"

The men-at-arms, he knew, would be on sentry duty then. The knight with whom he shared the house might be there, but he could probably make some arrangement with him.

"Tomorrow would be convenient," he replied.

"Good. I must go home now," she said.

The next day, waiting alone in the house, he had some anxious moments. He didn't think the girl was a spy. Yet there was no chance that her father or her brother would allow her to lose her virtue for any reason at all. The other possibility was that, behind a demure mask, she concealed a quite different character.

For all he knew she'd already slept with half the men in Dublin.

Did he mind? He thought about it. Yes, he did.

He was a healthy young fellow with all the sexual appetites of any man his age; but he was also quite fastidious. He didn't want to be seduced by the town whore. Why, she might even be unclean.

Sexual diseases existed, especially in the ports, all over Europe. It was said that there had been more since the Crusades began. Peter had never heard of anyone being infected in Ireland, but you never knew.

Then he told himself that his fears were foolish. She was just an ordinary girl who happened to be the daughter of a priest. But that in itself contained further dangers, which he tried not to think about. As a result of all these doubts, by the time she arrived the next day, he was considerably nervous.

When Fionnuala arrived, somewhat late, it seemed to him that she was pale, and nervous, too. She asked him if they were alone and when he said they were, she seemed pleased but somewhat distracted, as if she was not certain what to do next. He had prepared warm mead and oatcakes and asked her if she would like some.

She nodded gratefully and sat down with him on the bench by the bread oven to eat them. She drank the mead. He gave her more. Only when she had drunk that and was starting to look a little flushed did she turn to him and demand, "You have made love to women before, haven't you?"

And then he understood, and smiled kindly.

"Yes," he said, "I have. You needn't worry."

So he led her into the house where it was shadowy except for the patch of afternoon sunlight coming through the doorway.

And he was going to help her off with her cloak, but she motioned him back; and then, in front of him, she calmly stepped out of her clothes and stood before him naked.

He caught his breath. Her body was pale and slim, her breasts a little fuller than he had expected-she was the most beautiful woman, he thought, that he had ever seen. He moved towards her.

Two days later, they met again. It was necessary this time to take the knight in his lodgings into his confidence.

With some amusement, and a congratulatory pat on the back, his companion assured Peter that he would be gone until nightfall, and he was as good as his word.

Before she left this time, Fionnuala had arranged to return the following evening. How could she make these arrangements to visit him in the town without arousing suspicion, he had asked her. It was simple, she had explained. She had started working at the hospital again, and passed through the town on her way.

"So when I want to come here, I tell them at the hospital that I need to go home; and when I get home, I say I've just come from the hospital.

Nobody will ever be the wiser."

Soon they were making passionate love every other day.

And then Fionnuala suggested: "I could spend the night tomorrow."

"Where would we meet?" he asked.

"There's a storehouse down by the quay," she said.

It turned out to be a delightful place.

The storehouse stood at the end of the wood quay.

It had a loft containing bales of wool. There was a large double door at one end of the loft that opened over the water, with a view eastwards down the river towards the sea. The summer night was short and warm; the bales of wool made a pleasant bed; and at dawn, they opened the doors and saw the sun rising over the estuary, flooding the Liffey with light, while they made love again.

Later, after they had eaten the provisions they had brought with them, Fionnuala slipped away towards the western gate, where they would assume that she had just come through the town from her home. Peter waited awhile and then, just as the first people were stirring on the quay, he made his way back towards his lodgings.

He had started up the Fish Shambles when he saw Gilpatrick.

For a moment, he wondered if he could avoid him.

But Gilpatrick had already seen him. He was coming towards him, smiling.

"Good morning, Peter. You are up early."

Gilpatrick was surveying him with some amusement.

Peter realised that he probably looked a mess after last night. He put his hand up to his hair to smooth it. "You look as if you had a rough night," Gilpatrick said, with a twinkle in his eye. "You had better go to church and make a good confession." But behind the gentle teasing, Peter also sensed a hint of priestly reproof.

"I couldn't sleep actually," he said. "Have you ever stood on the quay and watched the sun come up the estuary? It's beautiful."

He could see that Gilpatrick didn't believe him.

"I saw my sister just now," Gilpatrick said.

Peter felt himself going pale. He fought it.

"Your sister? How is she?"

"Working hard at the hospital, I'm glad to say."

Was the priest looking at him in a different way?

Had he guessed? Peter yawned and shook his head to cover his confusion. What was Gilpatrick saying?

"She and Una were coming in from the hospital. Do you know Una MacGowan? It's her house you're living in."

"Ah, no. No, I don't."

Fionnuala must have moved fast. Gratefully, he muttered that he had to go, and made his escape.

But as he sat in his lodgings soon afterwards, Peter had some uncomfortable moments. His affair with Fionnuala had been so unexpected and so exciting that until now he hadn't thought much about the risks. The encounter with Gilpatrick had suddenly shaken him into a new awareness. The young priest had guessed he had spent the night with a woman. The people in the house knew it, too. He had seen them exchange glances as he came in. That meant that soon most of the English troops in Dublin would have heard. Within the army, of course, this would only enhance his reputation. But it was also dangerous. People would be asking who the girl was. They might try to find out.

And if they did discover? A terrible, cold panic came over him at the thought of it. Consider who the girl was. The daughter of a churchman close to Lawrence O'Toole, and chief of an important local family. The sister of a priest involved in the negotiations with the High King. These were exactly the people that, if he was to take Diarmait's place in Leinster, Strongbow needed as his friends.

No matter that it was the girl who had practically seduced him. By sleeping with her he had dishonoured her family. For he had no doubts about the behaviour required of the unmarried daughter of an important family like this. He had abused his friendship with Gilpatrick and the hospitality of his parents. They would never forgive him. They'd demand his head and Strongbow would sacrifice him without blinking an eye. He was finished.

Was there any way out? What if he ended the affair now, and if nobody found out? The memory of the night he had just spent with her filled his thoughts: the scent of her, the warm, intense passion they had shared, the long, erotic passages of time as her pale body entwined with his, the things they had done.