A man, he thought, would almost face death itself for such nights as these. Did he have to give this up?

Perhaps not. For now another calculation came into his mind.

Even if he got caught, the outcome needn't be so bad. What if he were to brazen it out? Treat the whole business like a military engagement? That, he felt sure, was what a man like Strongbow would do.

If Fionnuala were discovered, if word got out that she had been dishonoured, her chances of marriage to an Irish prince wouldn't be too high. To keep her reputation, her family would have to consent, however unwillingly, to her marrying him. He considered her father's situation: the income from the Church properties, the great tract of land he owned down the coast, his many cattle. Fionnuala was bound to receive a handsome dowry, if only to preserve her family honour. As the husband of a girl from such a prominent Leinster family, wouldn't Strongbow, who was married to a Leinster princess himself, be likely to take an interest in him? If he kept a cool head, this business could turn out to be the best thing he ever did.

Two days later, he spent the night with Fionnuala again.

The siege of Dublin continued for weeks. Around the city, the besiegers had a pleasant time. The cattle and livestock, the gardens, orchards, fields, all the produce of the area were in their hands.

In their camps, they could enjoy the warm summer and wait for the harvest to ripen.

Inside the city, however, things were not so pleasant.

Although the watercourse from the south was cut off, there was plenty of water; there were fresh fish from the Liffey, though not enough. There were still the city's grain stores; there were vegetable patches and some pigs. But by the time six weeks had passed, it was clear to Strongbow that, even keeping his troops on short rations, he could only hold out another three or four weeks at most. After that, they would have to start killing the horses.

It was not a surprise to Gilpatrick, therefore, in the sixth week of the siege, to be summoned by Archbishop O'Toole to join him on a mission to the High King's camp. On this occasion, it seemed, he was to be the only person accompanying the great man. They set out at noon, riding across the long wooden bridge to Liffey's northern side and then westwards a little way along the stream, to a point where the king had said he would meet them.

The archbishop looked tired. His ascetic, finely drawn face was showing lines of stress around the eyes; and Gilpatrick knew this was not only because he felt the weight of his responsibilities but because his sensitive, poetic nature suffered almost a physical pain when he contemplated the suffering of others. When the King of Dublin had been killed after his unsuccessful attack the previous year, the saintly bishop had been visibly distressed. He was clearly concerned now, since the offers made by the High King to Strong- bow had still not been accepted, and he saw only suffering and bloodshed ahead. "He blames himself," Gilpatrick told his father. "It isn't his fault, of course; but that's his nature."

When they reached the meeting place, they found that a handsome reception had been prepared for them. A big thatched hall had been set up with a wicker wall on the north side and the other sides left open.

Inside this were benches covered with woollen cushions and cloths, and tables piled with a splendid feast. The High King, accompanied by some of his greatest chiefs, gave them a warm and respectful greeting and invited them to eat, which Gilpatrick, at least, was glad to do. Nor, for all its genuine kindness, was the significance of the feast lost upon him. The High King was letting them know that he had ample supplies, while the sight of GilPatrick's face had told the king what he had suspected, that food was getting short in the city.

The O'Connor king was a tall, powerful man, with a broad face and a mass of curly black hair that fell with an almost oily thickness to his shoulders.

His dark eyes had a soft glow that, Gilpatrick had heard, was fascinating to women.

"I've been here for six weeks," he told them. "But as you can see, we are out of sight in the city, so please don't tell them where we are.

I can go down and bathe in the Liffey every morning." He smiled. "If Strongbow likes I'd be happy to stay here a year or two."

Gilpatrick ate heartily. Even the ascetic archbishop consented to take a glass or two of wine. And to Gilpatrick's delight they were entertained by a skilful harpist; and better yet, a bard recited for them one of the old Irish tales, of Cuchulainn the warrior and how he got his name. It was in a mellow mood that the little group of men got round to discussing the problem of the English.

"I have a new offer," the archbishop began, "and it will surprise you. Strongbow still wants Leinster. But," he paused, "he is prepared to hold it from you in the proper Irish manner. He'll swear an oath to you, give hostages. In English terms, you would be his overlord." He looked at the High King carefully. "I know you believed he was intending to conquer the whole island, but it isn't so. He's ready to accept Leinster from your hands, and give you the respect that is your due. I think this has to be taken seriously."

"He would hold it as Diarmait did?"

"He would."

The High King sighed, then he stretched his long arms. "But isn't that just the problem, Lorcan?" They were speaking in Irish and he used the archbishop's Irish name. "You wouldn't have trusted Diarmait. The man was ready to sacrifice his own son to break his oath. Are you saying that Strongbow's any better?"

"I don't like the man," O'Toole answered frankly, "but he is a man of honour."

"If that is so, Lorcan, then will you tell me this: how is it that this man of honour can be ready to swear an oath to me as his overlord when he has already sworn one to King Henry of England? Is there not a contradiction in that?"

The archbishop looked flummoxed. He glanced at Gilpatrick.

"I think," Gilpatrick said, "that I can explain that. You see, technically, I don't believe Strongbow has actually given homage to King Henry for his Irish lands. So you would be his overlord for Leinster, and Henry for his lands in England." And seeing the other two men look blank, he explained: "Over there, every yard of land has a lord, and so you may do homage to a different lord for each piece of land you hold." He smiled. "Many of the great lords, like Strongbow, for instance, do homage to Henry for their lands in England, and to the King of France for their lands in France."

"So where does their loyalty lie?" demanded the High King.

"It depends on where they are."

"Dear God, what sort of people are these English?

No wonder Diarmait liked them."

"An oath is not so much a personal matter with them," Gilpatrick said. "It's more a legal form." He searched for a characterisation that would convey the spirit of Plantagenet feudalism. "You might say, I suppose, that they are more interested in land than in people."

"God forgive them," murmured the archbishop as he and the O'Connor king exchanged looks of horror.

"Do you think that if he had Leinster and the ability to reward all his armed men, and any others he might import, that Strongbow could be trusted not to attack the other provinces of Ireland?" the O'Connor king asked. And before the saintly archbishop could even formulate a reply, he continued: "We have him safely walled up in Dublin, Lorcan. There's nothing he can do. Let him stay there until he accepts our offer to keep the ports. It's either that or starvation. We've no need to bargain with him or to accept these English oaths that are not made with the heart."

For Fionnuala, the heady weeks of summer had been a revelation. She had never realised how boring her life had been before.

She had known she was bored, of course: bored by her parents, bored by her brothers-not that she saw so much of them, thank God-bored by her life in Dublin and at the hospital. Bored by the kindly Palmer and his wife. She was even bored with Una, who meant well but was always trying to restrain her. In Una's company, she felt like a horse, bred to race, that is being forced into pulling a sturdy little cart.

What was it she wanted? She hardly knew. Something else: a bigger sky, a brighter light.

What did a girl do when she was bored? Stealing apples wasn't much fun. There were the local boys to flirt with. She knew it would annoy her parents.

But the truth was, the local boys bored her. And those old men in the hospital had just been a joke.

More recently there had been the English soldiers to think about. The men mostly seemed coarse; she was more afraid of being raped than seduced. Some of the knights were quite handsome, but they seemed too old and she was a little afraid of them.

But when Gilpatrick's friend, the knight from Wales, had appeared in their house, she thought he was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen in her life. And she knew at once that it was he who could be the one to open the gates to life's next great adventure. The result had been beyond her wildest dreams.

"Welshman," she called him as her father had done.

"My Welshman." She knew every curl of his hair, every inch of his proud young body. She was almost lost in wonder, sometimes, that she could be in possession of such a thing.

Was she in love? Not exactly. She was too excited, too pleased with herself even to be in love.

The sexual awakening, of course, was wonderful, quite the best thing, she told herself, that had ever happened to her. But the adventure, the game was the greatest thrill. It was knowing that she was deceiving them all that aroused her excitement as she made her way towards her assignations. It was knowing she had just come from his bed while Una went about her serious business that made the mornings in the hospital seem full of light and life. It was knowing that what she did was dangerous and forbidden that made her tremble with anticipation as her young lover came to her and which brought the fire and climax to her passion.

There was the other risk, too, beyond being discovered.

Even in medieval times women knew of barriers to conception, but they were imperfect, permeable, uncertain. She knew the risk, yet tried not to know. She would not give it up. And so the affair continued. It was love, it was passion-it was something to do.

It was three days after her brother's unsuccessful mission to the High King that Fionnuala, standing by the hospital entrance, saw Una hurrying from the city's western gateway. It was nearly noon.

Fionnuala had spent the night before with Peter by the quay, arriving as usual at the hospital in the early morning. An hour ago, Una had gone on an errand into the town. Her friend was scurrying back now, Fionnuala thought, as if she'd been stung by a bee. It didn't take long to find out why.

"I was after visiting the cathedral to say a prayer for my poor family-and for you, too, Fionnuala-when who is it sees me but your father." She had dragged Fionnuala to the corner of the building where they couldn't be overheard. "And he says to me, "It's a fine thing that Fionnuala's spending so much time at the hospital. But as she was with you last night, I couldn't tell her to be sure to be back at the house before this evening. We have visitors. Will you tell her that?"' And there's myself, standing there like an idiot and saying, "Yes, Father, I will." And it was almost out of my mouth to say you weren't at the hospital at all." She was staring at Fionnuala now in wide-eyed reproach. "So if you weren't here and you weren't there, then in the name of God where were you?"

"I was somewhere else." Fionnuala looked at her friend enigmatically. She was enjoying this.

"What do you mean you were somewhere else?"

"Well, if I wasn't here, and I wasn't there a"

"Don't play games with me, Fionnuala."

Una flushed with anger now. She looked at her friend searchingly. "You don't meana Oh God, Fionnuala, was it with some man you were?"

"I may have been." be be :"

I I.

"Are you out of your wits? In the name of Heaven, who?"

"I'm not telling."

The slap that struck her face took Fionnuala by surprise and almost sent her reeling. She struck back, but Una was ready for her and caught her hand.

"You childish fool!" Una cried.

"You're jealous."

"Isn't it like you to think so? Have you no thought for what will become of you? Not a care for your reputation and your family?"

Fionnuala flushed. She felt herself starting to get angry now.

"If you shout any more," she said crossly, "the whole of Dublin's going to know anyway."

"You must stop it, Fionnuala," Una dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "You've got to stop it at once. Before it's too late."

"Maybe I will. Maybe I won't."

"I'll tell your father. He'll stop you."

"I thought you were my friend."

"I am. That's why I'll tell him. To save you from yourself, you stupid child."

Fionnuala was silent. In particular she resented her friend's patronising tone. How dare she order her about like this?

"If you tell, Una," she spoke slowly, "I'll kill you." It was said so quietly, and with such force, that Una, despite herself, blanched. Fionnuala looked at her steadily.

Did she mean it? She hardly knew herself. Was she in the act of destroying their friendship? Anyway, she realised, it wouldn't do any good to threaten Una.

"I'm sorry, Fionnuala. I have to."

Fionnuala paused. Then she looked down. Then she sighed. Then she stared longingly towards the west gate. Then she looked down and did not move for a minute or so. Then she groaned. "Oh it's so hard, Una."

"I know."

"You really think I have to?"

"I know you must."

"I'll stop seeing him, Una. I will."

"Now? You'll promise?"

Fionnuala gave her an ironic smile.

"You'll tell my father if I don't.

Remember?"

"I'd have to."

"I know." She sighed again. "I promise, Una.

I'll give him up. I promise."

Then they hugged each other and Una cried and Fionnuala cried, too; and Una murmured, "I know, I know," and Fionnuala thought, you know nothing at all you little prig, and so the matter was settled.

"But you mustn't tell on me now, Una,"

Fionnuala said. "Because even if I never set eyes on the man again in my life, you know what my father would do. He'd whip me till I couldn't stand and then he'd put me in the convent over at Hoggen Green. He already threatened me with it before, you know.

Will you promise Una?" She looked at her pleadingly. "Will you promise?"

"I will," said Una.

Fionnuala was in a thoughtful mood that evening when she went home. If she was to continue the affair without interference from Una, then she'd have to take some fresh precautions. Perhaps she should come to the hospital with her father or her brother one morning, to show that she'd been at home. She'd have to meet Peter in the afternoon a few times. Once she'd allayed Una's suspicions, then no doubt the affair could resume its previous pattern. She was so busy thinking about these arrangements that she almost forgot the reason that she had to be home in good time.

She came to the gateway to the house, which stood just beside the little church. She noticed the two horses there and remembered the visitors, but without curiosity. She had the good sense, however, to straighten her clothes and brush her hand over her hair before she walked through the gateway. As it was summer, they had set out benches and trestles upon the grass. Her father and mother were both there and they were smiling. So was her brother Gilpatrick.

They turned in a way that suggested they had all been waiting for her, talking about her.

Her mother was coming towards her now, smiling still, but with a strange look in her eye.

"Come Fionnuala," she said, "our guests have arrived already. Come and give a fitting welcome to Brendan and Ruairi O'Byrne."

A week after Una's threat, Peter FitzDavid was still seeing Fionnuala.

They had been careful, meeting in the afternoons or early evenings, not spending the night together. The arrival of the O'Byrne cousins had helped. Fionnuala had cleverly encouraged her father to bring them both to visit her while she was working at the hospital one day.

They had seen her, demure and pious, working with Una and the Palmer's wife; and Una in turn had seen that Fionnuala now had a serious suitor in prospect. "She can't even imagine," Fionnuala had told Peter laughingly, "that I could look at another man when I've a chance to marry an O'Byrne."

Peter did not treat the new arrivals so lightheartedly. From Gilpatrick he learned that Brendan O'Byrne was the one his parents wanted for their daughter; but whether he would like her, and whether the princely O'Byrnes might feel Brendan could do better, remained to be seen. His cousin Ruairi was another matter, and Gilpatrick's parents had not been best pleased to see him. "Brendan's a fine upstanding man, but Ruairi's the taller of the two." Gilpatrick gave Peter a wintry look. "I don't know why he's here," he muttered.

Peter thought he could guess. Brendan had probably brought his cousin, whatever his reputation, for cover. If he'd come alone, it looked too obvious; if he decided not to make an offer for Fionnuala, it might disappoint or even give offence to the chief; but if the two cousins paid a friendly visit and then left again, nobody could say anything against him.