But if the role of Peter FitzDavid was to be quickly forgotten, the part that Fionnuala played in these great events was never to be known at all. Peter never referred to it once, not even to Strongbow. It was only the next day, as the rumour of Peter's role reached her, that she guessed some of what had happened.

After half an hour spent in tears, she also understood that she could never tell anyone, not even Una, of his infamous conduct, since it would also implicate herself. Indeed she realised, with a terrible coldness, he had the power to do her terrible damage if he ever chose to reveal what she had done.

Two days later, she caught sight of him in the market. He came towards her smiling, but she could see the embarrassment in his eyes. She let him come up to her, then, mustering all the dignity she could, she said with quiet coldness: "I never want to see your face again."

He seemed to want to say something, but she turned her back on him and walked away. He had the good sense not to follow her.

In his calculations of the likely benefits that would accrue to him from Strongbow's triumph, there was one thing that Peter FitzDavid forgot.

One month after the defeat of the High King, Peter happened to be walking past the king's hall when he saw Strongbow coming out. He bowed his head to the great man and smiled, but Strongbow didn't seem to see him. He looked distracted, almost haggard. Peter wondered what the reason could possibly be. The next day, he heard that Strongbow had gone. He had taken a ship during the night. Where had he gone, Peter asked one of the commanders, who gave him a strange look. "To find King Henry, before it's too late," the man replied. "Strongbow's in trouble."

King Henry Plantagenet was the most dynamic ruler of his age. His genius for exploiting situations to his own advantage, his success in expanding his sprawling Plantagenet empire, his highly aggressive administration-all these made him feared. Henry also had one other, devastating ability. He moved with incredible speed. All medieval kings had peripatetic courts which moved about their domains. But the itineraries of Henry were dizzying. He would move to and fro across the English Channel several times in a season, seldom stopping anywhere for more than two or three days. He would race from one end of his empire to the other just when you least expected it. And anyone who imagined that this ruthless and mercurial monarch would tolerate one of his vassals setting up a rival power base anywhere within his empire would be in for a shock.

For some time Henry had been watching the progress of Strongbow in Ireland. While King Diarmait was alive, the English magnate remained effectively a mercenary, no matter what Diarmait might have promised. Hard on the heels of Diarmait's death came news that Strongbow was trapped in Dublin. But now, suddenly, Strongbow had a kingdom in Leinster and obviously the possibility to conquer the whole island.

It was both a threat and an opportunity.

"I did not give Strongbow permission to become a king," he announced. He'd already had enough trouble from one subordinate after he'd made Becket Archbishop of Canterbury. "He is my vassal. If Ireland is his, then it is mine," he judged. And soon the word reached Strongbow: "King Henry is not pleased. He is coming to Ireland himself."

With the ending of the siege, Una received word of her father.

It made her sad. The continual fretting over the loss of the strongbox, it seemed, was taking a toll on his health; and she knew he was not robust. The fact that she blamed herself for the business and that they were separated made her still more distressed. The message he sent had, once again, asked her to remain where she was. She considered disobeying and going to see him in Rouen, but the Palmer told her she should not. She did, however, send word that, depending how events turned out, it might be possible for him in a few months to return and that she and the Palmer would surely be able to help him make a start again. So she worked hard at the hospital and waited to see what would come.

One thing that pleased her was the change in Fionnuala. There's no doubt, she thought, that visit from the priest did her good. In the days that followed, Fionnuala had looked so sad and thoughtful. A new quietness and seriousness seemed to have descended upon her. "You have changed, Fionnuala," she once ventured with a gentle approbation, "and I was thinking it would be the long time you spent with the priest that was the cause." And she was so glad when Fionnuala murmured, "That would be it."

It was during this time that two new people came into her life. She had heard from Fionnuala that the two O'Byrnes were making a second visit and had been to see her father, but she had not somehow expected them to call in at the hospital. They did so, however, one morning and were conducted round by the Palmer, who showed great respect to Brendan O'Byrne and, it seemed to Una, slightly less to his cousin Ruairi. At the end of the visit, since it was time for Fionnuala to leave, the two O'Byrnes were going to accompany her when she turned to the Palmer and asked whether Una could be spared a little while to walk with them. "Of course, she may," cried that kindly man. And so the four of them set off. The day being fine, they decided to walk some way along the Slige Mhor.

Una had a chance to observe them all. Fionnuala was behaving beautifully. She was demure, serious, her head down, but looking up to smile pleasantly at Brendan from time to time. Una felt so proud of her. Brendan himself she found impressive.

Dark-haired, with an early touch of grey, good-looking, he had an air of serious solidity about him that she liked immensely. He talked quietly but well. He considered before uttering an opinion. He asked thoughtful questions about the hospital. If Fionnuala could just get him for a husband, she thought, wouldn't that be a wonderful match?

His cousin Ruairi was very different. He was taller than Brendan, longer boned. His hair was light brown and trimmed short. He had a few days" growth of light stubble on his face, which made him seem manly, like a young warrior. He did not appear to be as heavy and serious as Brendan; but rather than ask questions as they went round the hospital, he had seemed content to listen and watch with a half smile on his face so that, after a time, one became curious about what he was thinking. Though his pale eyes sometimes seemed unfocussed, as though he was engaged in an interior dialogue with himself, Una also had a sense that he had noted everything he saw. She wondered what he had noted about herself and Fionnuala.

At first they walked as a group, side by side, along the track, talking easily. Ruairi said something about one of the hospital inmates he had observed which made them all laugh. Then they fell into two pairs, Brendan and Fionnuala walking ahead, Ruairi and Una behind.

For a while Ruairi seemed content to walk along, making the occasional chance remark. Una, who still felt a little shy, was glad to find everything so easy.

When she asked him some questions about himself, however, he did begin to talk, and then he talked well.

He appeared to have been everywhere, and done everything.

She was amazed that anyone of his age-he surely wasn't twenty-five- could have done so many things, even for a short time. He told her about the horse traders and cattlemen he knew in Ulster and Munster, and some of their tricks. He described the coasts of Connacht and the islands there. He told her about his voyages with the merchants "from the time I was down in Cork." He'd been to London and Bristol, and France, too. She asked him eagerly if he had been in Rouen. He hadn't, but he told her a good story about a merchant from there who was caught in a shady deal.

"Does your cousin Brendan travel so much, also?" she enquired.

"Brendan?" A look she could not read crossed his face. "He prefers to stay at home and tend to his affairs."

"And you? Do you not tend to your affairs at home?"

"I do." He stared ahead of him as if he were thinking of something else for a moment. "But I've another voyage to make shortly. I'll be going to Chester."

For some reason Una was sorry to learn this. It seemed to her that, for all the wonders he might see upon his travels, there was something missing in the life of this fine young man with his restless soul.

"It's by a warm fire in your own home that you should be," she said. "At least some of the time."

"It's the truth," he said. "And perhaps when I return that's what I'll do."

Brendan and Fionnuala were turning round now. It seemed that they still wished to walk together, and Una was anxious to encourage this, so she quickly turned round herself so that she and Ruairi would be walking in front of them for the journey back. Ruairi talked less during the return, but she didn't mind. Though she hardly knew him, it was strange how comfortable she felt in his company. She had never known such a feeling of ease, not even with the Palmer. And he was a good man, none better. She couldn't account for it at all.

Exchanging a few words now and then, they made their way back to the hospital; and although it was a considerable distance, she had no sense of time passing. As they parted, she couldn't help wishing, though she knew it was foolish, that they might meet again someday.

On the seventeenth day of October in that year of 1171, King Henry II of England arrived in Ireland, the first English monarch ever to do so. He landed at the southern port of Waterford with a large army. His intention in coming was not at all to conquer Ireland, in which he had little interest, but to take away the power of his vassal Strongbow and reduce him to obedience. To an extent, he had achieved his object before he arrived, because a worried Strongbow had already managed to intercept him in England and had offered him all his Irish gains. Now, however, Henry meant to inspect the place and see to it that Strongbow's submission to him was made good.

The army that King Henry brought with him was truly formidable: five hundred knights and nearly four thousand archers. With this, let alone with the addition of Strongbow's already large forces, the English king could, if he chose, have swept across the entire island and devastated any and all opposition in open battle. Henry knew this very well. But as his subsequent actions were to show, the ruthless Plantagenet opportunist intended to proceed cautiously, and with limited objectives. Try to subdue an island whose native population are against you? He was far too clever. Would he watch, though, for signs and situations that might be of advantage to him? Of course he would.

Gilpatrick stood with his father and gazed at the extraordinary scene before him. He didn't know what to think. There, on the edge of the ancient Hoggen Green, between the city's eastern gate and the Thingmount where their ancestor was buried, a huge wicker-walled hall had been erected. It was the sort of great hall that would have been put up for the High King in days of old, but it was bigger. "It makes the Thingmount look like a pimple," he had heard a workman remark. And in that huge hall was the King of England.

He hadn't wasted any time. Twenty-five days after he had landed at Waterford, he had settled all the affairs in southern Leinster and arrived at Dublin. Now he was holding court there in perfect safety, surrounded by an army of thousands. Even Gilpatrick's father was awestruck.

"I didn't know," he quietly confessed, "there were so many soldiers in the world."

And the kings and chiefs of Ireland had all been coming to submit to him, ever since he arrived on the island.

The High King and the great men of Connacht and the west held aloof, but from every other province, willingly or unwillingly, the chiefs of the great Irish clans were seeking him out.

Gilpatrick's father was contemptuous, but fatalistic.

"They'll come into his house now, even quicker than they did to Brian Boru, because he has an army to compel them. But once he's gone, they'll forget their pledges quick enough."

Gilpatrick, however, had noticed a subtler process at work. Henry, he realised, was a canny statesman. As soon as he arrived in Ireland, he had announced that he personally would take over Dublin and all its territories, Wexford, and Waterford. Strongbow was allowed to hold the rest of Leinster as his feudal tenant; but another great English magnate, the lord de Lacy, whom Henry had brought with him, was to remain in charge of Dublin as Henry's personal representative or viceroy. So on the face of it, any Irish chief looking to the eastern part of the island would see a traditional Irish arrangement: a king of Leinster, a king of Dublin, and some partly foreign ports. Behind them, however, would be a rival High King- far more powerful even than Brian Boru-a High King across the water. And if they wanted protection against the O'Connor High King in Connacht, as they might, or if Strongbow, or even de Lacy, started to behave as they themselves had always done and tried to encroach upon their territory, then wouldn't it be wise to come into the house of King Henry and have him as a protector against their neighbours, Irish or English? That was how things had always been done on the island. You paid tribute in cattle; you got protection. He's using his own lords to keep an eye on each other and to frighten the other chiefs into his camp as well, he thought.

"The man's very clever," Gilpatrick muttered.

"He's playing our own game even better than we do."

Then there was the question of Dublin city. It was being given to the merchant community of Bristol, apparently, but no one was quite sure what that would mean. The Bristol men would have the same trading rights in Dublin as they had at home. The mighty city of Bristol had ancient privileges, huge fairs, and was one of the great gateways to the English market. Its merchants were rich. Did this mean that the port of Dublin would enjoy a similar status? The word was that the king also wanted the merchants and craftsmen who had left to return.

"It's very hard to know at this stage," the Palmer had remarked to him the day before, "but if the Bristol men bring in extra money and trade, this could actually turn out to be good for Dublin."

What had really surprised Gilpatrick, however, was the news that he had learned that morning. And now, as they gazed at the huge royal camp, he imparted it to his father.

"You cannot be serious."

"I had it from Archbishop O'Toole this morning."

"The man murders an archbishop and then summons the bishops to a council? To discuss Church reform?"

His father looked at him in stupefaction. "What does O'Toole say?"

"He's going. He's taking me with him. It's not certain, you know, that King Henry was at fault."

The question of whether King Henry had ordered the killing of Thomas Becket the previous Christmas was still being eagerly discussed all over Europe. The general feeling was that even though he probably hadn't actually ordered the killing, he was still responsible for the fact that it happened, and therefore culpable. The Pope had not ruled on the matter yet.

"And where and when is this council to be?" asked his father.

"This winter. Down in Munster, I believe. At Cashel."

During the autumn months, Una watched Fionnuala with interest and with concern. Ruairi O'Byrne had gone to Chester, but in the weeks before the arrival of King Henry, Brendan made two visits to Dublin. On each occasion he went to see Fionnuala before departing, but his intentions remained unclear. Fionnuala continued to spend time helping her at the hospital, perhaps to keep her mind off the situation. Una couldn't tell. She could quite imagine that Brendan had other things on his mind than marriage at such a time.

It was soon after King Henry's arrival that Brendan's cousin reappeared in Dublin. They did not see him at first, but they heard that he had been spotted in the town. Whether he was just there for a few days before leaving again or whether he had some other plans, she did not know.

"I saw him down at the quay," the Palmer's wife told her one morning.

"What was he doing there?" she asked.

"Wasn't he just playing at dice with the English soldiers?" she answered. "As if he'd known them all his life?"

Una met him the next day. Though the gates were open and the market was busier than ever, with all the English troops in the vicinity, Una did not feel inclined to go into the city usually; and when she did, she made a point of avoiding the lane where her own house was because it brought back memories that were too painful. But for some reason, as she came down from the Fish Shambles in the darkening afternoon, she decided to turn across that way for a quick look. And she had just glanced in through the gateway and observed her father's little brazier, when she noticed, in the lane just in front of her, a figure sitting on the ground with his back to the fence. He was staring thoughtfully at the ground in front of him, but as she was about to go past, something about the hang of his head and the smell of ale told Una that he was drunk. She wasn't in the least afraid, but as she skirted him so as not to step on him, she glanced down at his face and saw with astonishment that it was Ruairi.

Had he seen her? She didn't think so. Should she speak to him? Perhaps not. She wasn't shocked. Most young men got drunk once in a while. She walked on a little way and then realised that she was going in the wrong direction, and so she'd have to retrace her steps anyway. With the November darkness drawing in, it was getting cold, and she thought she could feel a biting wind beginning. As she drew close to Ruairi she saw that now his eyes were closed. What if he stayed there in the darkness and nobody saw him or took any notice of him during the night? He'd freeze to death. She stopped and spoke his name.

He blinked and looked up. In the darkness, she supposed he could not clearly see her face. His eyes were blank.

"It is Una. From the hospital. Do you not remember me?"

"Agh." Was it the beginning of a smile? "Una."

Then he keeled over sideways and lay entirely motionless.

She stood there several minutes to see if he came round. He didn't. Then a man came along the lane, pulling a handcart from the Fish Shambles. It was time to take action. "I am from the hospital," she told him. "This is one of our inmates. Could you help me get him home?"

"We'll have him home in no time at all. Open your eyes, me darlin'," he shouted into Ruairi's ear. But when this had no effect he bundled him, not without a few jarring bumps, into the cart and started off behind Una, who led the way.

Father Gilpatrick was rather surprised, late in November, to find Brendan O'Byrne at his door. He wondered for a moment whether, for some reason, Brendan wanted to discuss his sister with him and tried to think what he could say in her favour that would not be at variance with the truth.

But it seemed that Brendan had more important business to discuss. Explaining that he had felt in need of advice, Brendan let him know further that he had come to him in particular because of his discretion and his knowledge of England after his residence there.

"You will know," he continued, "that the O'Byrnes, like the O'Tooles, with their territories to the south and west of Dublin, have always had to take careful note of events both in Dublin and in Leinster. Now it seems we are to have English kings in both. The O'Byrnes are wondering what to do."

Gilpatrick liked Brendan O'Byrne. With his quiet precision, he had the brain of a scholar. As far as Gilpatrick knew, the chief of the O'Byrnes had not yet come down to King Henry in his wicker palace. He told Brendan, therefore, exactly the game he thought Henry was playing in tempting the Irish kings into giving him homage by threatening them with Strongbow. "And note the man's cleverness," he added, "for as well as de Lacy in Dublin as a counterweight, Henry has Strongbow's other lands in England and Normandy which he can threaten any time Strongbow gives him any trouble."

O'Byrne listened carefully. Gilpatrick could see that he had immediately appreciated all the finer points of the assessment. But his next question was even more impressive.

"I am wondering, Father Gilpatrick, to what it is exactly that our Irish chiefs are swearing.

When an Irish king comes into the house of a greater king, it means protection and tribute. But across the sea in England, it may mean something different. Can you tell me what that is?"

"Ah. That is a good question that you have asked."

Gilpatrick looked at him with admiration. Here was a man who looked for deeper causes.

Wasn't this exactly the conversation he had started with the O'Connor High King andwiththe archbishop, neither of whom, he realised, had really understood what he was trying to tell them. Carefully he outlined to Brendan how the feudal system operated in England and in France.

"A vassal of King Henry swears loyalty to him and promises to provide military service each year. If a knight cannot appear fully equipped and armed himself, he pays for a mercenary instead. So you might think that this is similar to the cattle tribute an Irish king would receive. A vassal also goes to his lord for justice, just as we do. But there the similarity ends. Ireland since time out of mind has been divided into tribal territories. When a chief swears an oath, he does so for himself, his ruling clan, his tribe. But over there, the tribes have long ago disappeared. The land is organised into villages of small farmers and the serfs, who are almost like slaves or chattels. They go with the land. And when a vassal there does homage, he isn't offering loyalty in return for protection, he's confirming his right to occupy that land, and the payments made will depend on its value."

"Such arrangements are not unknown in Ireland," Brendan remarked.

"That is true," Gilpatrick agreed. "At least since the time of Brian Boru, we have seen Irish kings grant estates to their followers on what would formerly have been thought of as tribal lands.

But these are exceptions; whereas across the sea, everybody has to hold their land that way. Nor is that all. "When a vassal dies, his heir must pay the king a large sum in order to inherit-it's called the relief fine. There are numerous other obligations as well.

"And in England in particular, an even harsher system operates. For when William the Norman took England from the Saxons, he claimed that all of it belonged to him personally by right of conquest. He had every square yard of England assessed for what it could yield and had it all written down in a great book. His vassals there only occupy their land on sufferance. If anyone gives trouble, he doesn't just come to punish them and take tribute. He takes the land away and gives it to anyone else he chooses. These are powers far beyond anything any High King in Ireland has ever dreamed of."

"These English are harsh people."

"The Normans are, to be precise. For some of them treat the Saxon English like dogs. An Irishman is a free man, within his tribe. The Saxon peasant is not. It has generally seemed to me," Gilpatrick confessed, "that these Normans care more for property than they do for people. Here in Ireland, we dispute, we fight, we sometimes kill, but unless we are truly angry, there is a human kindness and consideration among us." He sighed.

"Perhaps it is just a question of conquest. After all, we ourselves are content to own English slaves."

"Do you think any of our Irish princes imagine they could be making these English commitments when they come into Henry's house?" asked Brendan.

"I don't suppose so."

"Has Henry told them?"

"Surely not."

"Then I think I see," Brendan said thoughtfully, "how it will go. At a later date, the English-not Henry, who is clearly very devious-but the English lords will genuinely believe the Irish have sworn to one thing, and the Irish will think they have sworn to another, and both sides will mistrust the other." He sighed.

"This Plantagenet king comes from the devil."

"It has been said of all his family. What will you do?" "I do not know. But I thank you, Father, for your counsel. By the way," he said smiling, "I have not had the chance to see your family and your sister. Will you give them my greetings.

Fionnuala especially, of course."

"I will," Gilpatrick said as Brendan left.

And a fine thing for this family it would be, he thought, if you married her. But you're far too good for her, Brendan O'Byrne. Far too good.

It didn't take Una long to see the good in young Ruairi O'Byrne. After the first night's sleep at the hospital he appeared well enough in the morning, and she had supposed he would leave. But by the middle of the day he was still there. Indeed, he was quite content to talk to the inmates, who seemed to like his company. Fionnuala was not there, and seeing Una in need of assistance, he more than once stepped over to help her with her tasks. The Palmer's wife thought him a very pleasant young man. The Palmer himself, though not unfriendly, muttered that a young man of that age ought to have better things to do, for which his wife rebuked him.

Ruairi showed no desire to move on that day, but said he would be glad to sleep in the men's dormitory. The next morning he told Una that he must buy a horse in Dublin so that he could return to the O'Byrnes. Fionnuala was due in, but he left early before she arrived and did not return until after she had left. When he came back, he was looking a little pale. The trader he had been dealing with had tried to sell him a horse that was unsound, but he had spotted the weakness just in time. He seemed irritated at not being able to leave, but spent another night at the hospital.

The next morning Ruairi seemed to be depressed. He sat in the yard looking gloomy and it wasn't clear if he meant to go anywhere. When she could spare a little time from her duties, Una came and sat with him. For a while he didn't say much, but when she gently asked him why he seemed sad, he confessed that he was trying to make a difficult decision. "I should go back." He indicated southwards towards the Liffey valley and the Wicklow Mountains, so she assumed he meant back to the O'Byrnes. "But I have other plans."

"Is it another voyage you'll be making?" she asked, thinking to herself that he had only recently returned from one.

"Perhaps." He hesitated, and then said quietly, "Or a greater journey."