To Harold's knowledge, the King of England nowadays received only around two thousand pounds a year from Ireland; back in the days of Long- shanks, it had been three times that amount. The king sent out his Justiciars, his royal servants, and even once his son; but the royal interest in the island was halfhearted.

Some years ago, in a fit of panic when they had supposed, quite wrongly, that Dublin wasn't safe, the royal Exchequer officials had decamped with all the accounts to a stronghold down in Carlow. It was the sort of feebleminded cowardice that Harold most despised. He had no great faith in the king's men.

"If the English in Ireland want to keep order, then they must do it themselves," Harold liked to say. They had their own parliaments, with considerable powers, which often met in Dublin. "But we haven't enough leaders," he would add. "That's the trouble."

It wasn't only the crown which had suffered. Many great lords with estates in England as well as Ireland had decided that the western island with its disaffected native population was not worth the trouble. They left their Irish estates in the hands of stewards and remained, absentees, across the water. Just as bad, some of the greatest feudal holdings, like the huge inheritance of Strongbow himself, had been subdivided amongst heiresses, and in later generations split up yet again. So the magnates who might have formed a bulwark against the forces of disorder were largely missing. Recognising this weakness, the English king had enacted one important measure: he had created three great earldoms which could only pass down, without subdivisions, in the male line. The earldom of Ormond he gave to the mighty Butler family; the earldoms of Kildare and of Desmond went to two branches of the Fitzgeralds, who had come over with Strongbow. These earldoms dominated regions that lay beyond the king's Dublin rule; but though they were certainly mighty enough to impose English order on large areas of the Irish hinterland, they were also more like independent Celtic kings than English noblemen and they were treated as such by the Irish chiefs. Their interests were all in Ireland. Privately, Harold suspected that if ever English rule collapsed in Ireland, the great earls would probably still be there, alongside the Irish kings.

No, it was up to the gentry, men like himself, to maintain English order, if not in all Ireland, at least in the broad arc of territory around the Dublin seaboard. Manor house, parish church, and village; market towns with their little town councils; English shires with their courts and royal justices.

This was the settled order that Harold wanted to preserve, safe for himself and modest folk like Thomas Tidy. And it could be preserved, if only the English in Ireland themselves held firm.

But would they? Not long ago, down in the south, a descendant of bad old King Diarmait had proclaimed himself King of Leinster. Kavanagh, they called the fellow. It was an empty gesture, of course, just a native chief blowing his trumpet uselessly in the wind. But it was a reminder all the same. Show weakness now, and there would be other Kavanaghs. The O'Connors and the O'neills could always rise again. This planned raid on Carrickmines might or might not be serious; but failure to deal with it would be seen as a token of the weakness of the English will, and be noted all over Ireland. It must be dealt with, and dealt with firmly.

Tidy was nearly finished.

"The essential thing," he pointed out, "is that we give no hint to the O'Byrnes or their friends that they are expected. If troops are moved up from Dublin, it will need to be at the last moment, under cover of darkness."

"I agree." Harold nodded.

"And the squadron in Dalkey," Tidy continued anxiously. "They'll need to remain where they are.

So as not to give the game away," he explained.

And so as not to put yourself under suspicion, thought Harold grimly. Aloud he said, "Do not worry, Thomas Tidy. We shall be careful." And he gave Tom a reassuring smile.

Did the poor fellow really imagine that they could afford to leave an entire squadron sitting uselessly at Dalkey while Carrickmines was attacked? Well, that would be up to the Justiciar, anyway. But Tidy had better realise one thing.

If he wanted to live in a secure Ireland, then he would have to take some risks, like the rest of them.

Harold had no wish to sacrifice Tom Tidy.

But if necessary, he would.

The conference was scheduled for noon. Doyle's dark eyes surveyed the quay with satisfaction. So far, things were working out very well. If Ireland had suffered during the last century, you would not have known it from looking at Dublin quay. For a start, since the days of Strongbow, a steady process of land reclamation on both banks had altered the shape of the River Liffey so that, beside the town, it was only half its former width. A new stone wall now ran all the way along the waterfront from Wood Quay to the bridge, a hundred and fifty yards in front of the old rampart. Outside the city's wall, straggling suburbs had grown up, especially along the road to the south so that, if you included Oxmantown across the river, there were nearly three people living in the suburbs for every one inside the walls. Parish churches as well as monastic buildings graced the suburbs. And to ensure an adequate water supply, one of the southern rivers had been diverted to flow through channels and aqueducts into the growing city in a fresh and constant stream.

And few men in the new Dublin had done better than Doyle. Even the Black Death had worked to his advantage: for though the trade of the city had been hit, two of his business rivals had died, and he had been able to take over their trade as well as buy up all their property at very reasonable prices. Twenty years after the terrible plague, much of Dublin's trade had recovered. Wars no longer provided shiploads of captives and coastal raids were a thing of the past, so Dublin's old slave market had ceased to function. But Ireland had plenty of goods to export to Britain, France, and Spain.

The greatest export from the English realms, for many generations, had been wool. The trade was regulated through a limited number of ports, known as the Staple Ports, where customs duties were levied. Dublin was one of them. "We have never bred sheep with the finest fleeces, like the best of the English flocks," Doyle would readily admit. "But there's a market for coarse wool, too." Huge quantities of hides from the island's great cattle herds and furs from her forest animals went out from the Dublin quays. The fishing catch from the Irish Sea was enormous. Fish, fresh or salted, were constantly being carried across the seas. Timber also from Ireland's endless forest tracts was supplied to England. The roof timbers of some of England's greatest cathedrals, such as Salisbury, came from Irish oaks.

Doyle had a hand in all these shipments. But he found himself more interested in the import trade. The stout cogs with their single masts and deep bellies brought in all kinds of goods: iron from Spain, salt from France, pottery from Bristol, fine textiles from Flanders. Italian merchants would arrive with loads of oriental spices for the great summer fairs outside the western gate. But the trade that he liked the best was the shipping of wine from southwest France. Hogsheads of ruby red wine from Bordeaux: he loved the look, the texture, the scent of the great sixty-three gallon barrels as they were lowered off the ships; though the shipments were so huge that they were usually reckoned by the tun-two hundred and fifty-two gallons each. It was the wine trade that had made Doyle, with all his ships, such a rich man.

The Justiciar had summoned Doyle to the castle the day before, soon after Harold had been there. Indeed, the king's representative had called for the merchant even before he had informed the city's mayor. Like most of the larger cities in England, Dublin had a council of forty-eight who governed its roughly seven thousand inhabitants. The inner council, from which the mayor was chosen each year, consisted of only twenty-four of the city's most powerful men, and Doyle was one of these. It was because he was so impressed with Doyle that the Justiciar had let him collect the valuable prise on the imports through Dalkey and he knew that the merchant was extremely well-informed. "Doyle has eyes and ears everywhere," the Justiciar would say. "He is powerful, but he is also subtle. If he wishes something to happen, he will make it happen."

The Justiciar had given him a full and private account of the news that Robert Harold had just brought, and Doyle had listened attentively.

"So if this information is correct," the Justiciar had summarised, "they will strike at Carrickmines in a few days' time. The question is, what should we do?"

If Doyle had not been entirely surprised, he did not say so. He considered carefully.

"Even if the information turns out to be wrong,"

Doyle had carefully replied, "I don't see how you can ignore it. I think you need to call in Walsh, and Harold, and some of the other men you can trust, as soon as possible for a council of war."

"Tomorrow, at noon," the Justiciar had said, decisively. "I shall want you, too," he had added, "of course."

As he made his way up from the quay towards the meeting, Doyle noted the scene around him with pleasure. Of the several streets leading down to the new river wall, the finest, which ran west of and parallel to the old Fish Shambles, was Winetavern Street, where the greatest wine merchants, including Doyle himself, had their houses. And some of these were truly splendid.

For the most striking change in the last two centuries in Dublin lay not so much in the area covered as in its architecture. It was the same across most of Europe. Instead of thatched-and-wattle dwellings behind wooden fences, the streets of Dublin were lined with stout, timber-framed houses now, two or three storeys high, with pointed gables and upper floors that jutted out to overhang the street. Some of the roofs were thatched, but many were covered with slates or tiles.

The windows were mostly protected with shutters, though those of rich men like Doyle had glass panes as well. As he walked up Winetavern Street with an air of satisfaction, wearing his rich red robe and soft blue hat, Doyle looked exactly what he was: a wealthy city father in a prosperous medieval town. At the top of the street he paused by a stall and bought a little mustard. He liked the sharp taste of mustard with his meat. Yet though he looked well contented, his long, saturnine face still seemed to bring a hint of something dark to this clear and sunny morning.

He went through a gateway in the old wall, and thence up into the precincts of Christ Church Cathedral.

He did not go inside to say a prayer, but skirted the great church, coming out at the crossroads above the Fish Shambles where the pillory stood. A short distance away to his right the city's great High Cross, twenty feet tall, rose in the middle of the street opposite the big, many gabled town hall, the Tholsel, where the city's greatest men would gather for a guild meeting four times a year.

Symbols of order; symbols of stability.

Doyle stood for such things.

And was all this order threatened by the Carrickmines affair? He knew that Harold would believe it was. The Justiciar, too. Good men, both. And possibly right, in the long term. But as Doyle stood in the centre of the high-gabled medieval city he alone of them had further, secret information.

Only he understood the true nature of the danger to Walsh and to Harold, to Tom Tidy and to MacGowan down at Dalkey, and even to himself.

Whatever action was decided upon at the meeting today, there were hidden risks.

He was prepared to take them. Doyle liked taking risks. He turned left and continued towards the castle.

As Doyle was making his way up from the quay, John Walsh had already reached the city outskirts. The summons from the Justiciar had come the evening before but without any explanation. Neatly groomed and wearing his best tunic, Walsh had left Carrickmines early to be sure he was in good time.

He passed the looming Gothic mass of Saint Patrick's Cathedral, and soon afterwards entered the city through one of its southern gates.

The castle sat in the city's south-eastern corner.

Where the old royal hall had once been, there was now a large courtyard separated from the rest of the city by a high curtain wall and a ditch. The entrance, across a drawbridge, was through a big gateway with two round turrets. Inside stood the Great Hall, the mint where coins were issued, and the numerous offices and residences of the royal officials. There was also a small chapel, dedicated to the former English king and saint, Edward the Confessor.

On arrival, Walsh was taken to a large, richly furnished chamber where, standing before the great fireplace, he found half a dozen men he knew, including Doyle and Harold. The Justiciar opened the proceedings.

"Nothing that is said in this meeting must be repeated outside," he cautioned them. "Otherwise we could lose the essential element of surprise." He paused. "Today, gentlemen, we face a very serious threat." He outlined the expected attack on Carrickmines. "We have one week to prepare. That is all." He turned to Walsh. "Had you any hint of this?"

Walsh was about to say that he had not, but then he remembered the dark-haired little O'Byrne girl. He briefly described the way she had been lurking about near Carrickmines. "I didn't think it was significant," he confessed.

"It was," Harold interrupted. The others looked at him. "I'd prefer not to tell you how I know, but this girl is the message carrier. That is certain."

"Do we have any idea of the size of this supposed attack?" Walsh asked. "I'm not sure the O'Byrnes would be strong enough to take Carrickmines anyway."

He heard a grunt of impatience from Harold.

"We must take this threat seriously, Walsh," the Justiciar reproved him. "That is our responsibility. And yours," he added with a stern look.

"I can bring ten fully armed and mounted men,"

Harold volunteered. "No doubt Walsh can come up with as many."

Two of the other gentlemen indicated that they could bring small contingents. The Justiciar told them that he was awaiting news of what forces the city could produce.

"But the important thing," he pointed out, "is to collect our forces without being seen. I don't want word getting out to the O'Byrnes that we're expecting them. That of course," he added, "may limit how many men we can pull together."

"What about the squadron down at Dalkey?"

Walsh asked. "That's a valuable force of fully trained men."

But to his surprise, the Justiciar looked doubtful and Harold also pursed his lips.

"We can't be sure," Harold pointed out, "that O'Byrne won't strike Dalkey as well.

We must also consider," he glanced at the Justiciar, "that if we move the squadron from Dalkey to Carrickmines before the attack, O'Byrne is sure to hear of it. We don't want to warn him off."

There was an awkward pause. Though Harold's point seemed reasonable enough, Walsh had the feeling that there was something he was not being told about the squadron at Dalkey. He also noticed that so far Doyle had listened, but said nothing. Now, however, the saturnine merchant spoke.

"It always seemed unlikely to me," he quietly observed, "that O'Byrne would strike at Dalkey. If he wants to plunder the land around Dublin, then he must take Carrickmines first, because he cannot afford to have the fort operating behind him. As for Dalkey, the only thing of value there is my own house where, as it happens, I have few goods stored at the moment. But I would gladly sacrifice my house and a ship's cargo, in any case, for a more important cause." He looked around them all grimly. "The Justiciar has said that we face a serious threat. I beg to differ. If this information is correct, then this is not so much a threat as a great opportunity. By attacking Carrickmines, O'Byrne would give us all the provocation that we need. Let him come. Let us be waiting for him.

Let him fall into a terrible trap. Then we smash him." He pounded his fist into his hand. "We destroy him entirely. Kill his men. And let all Ireland hear of it."

Even Harold looked a little shaken. Walsh felt himself grow pale at the Dublin man's dark cruelty. But Doyle had not yet done.

"Fill Carrickmines with men the night before. Bring them up in darkness. Concentrate our strength. The Dalkey squadron should be brought back to Dublin straight away. This very day. Nobody will think anything of that. They've only been kicking their heels down there anyway. Then hide them in Carrickmines with the rest."

"If we put all the troops into Carrickmines, there's a risk that O'Byrne may spot them,"

Harold pointed out.

"Hide them wherever you like," said Doyle with an impatient shrug. "Hide them in Saint Patrick's Cathedral for all I care. But you must be ready to bring them up decisively when O'Byrne arrives. That is what matters."

"I agree," the Justiciar said. "This is a chance to break these people once and for all."

And despite his loyalty to the English crown, Walsh could not help feeling sorry for the O'Byrnes and their people.

The following day the squadron left Dalkey.

Tidy had made anxious enquiries as to where they were going, but the soldiers assured him that they had been told there was no further need for them to be there, and that they were to return to Dublin. Since there had been no sign of the O'Byrnes since their arrival, these orders did not seem to surprise them. A much relieved Tom Tidy and Michael MacGowan watched them go.

Tom had not told MacGowan about his meeting with Harold; nor had MacGowan ever asked him whether he had passed on the secret. Tom imagined that he must be curious, however. While the troops were leaving, neither man said anything; but after they had gone and the two of them were walking up the street together, MacGowan asked, "Do you think they'll be going to Carrickmines?"

"They say they're going to Dublin."

MacGowan didn't ask anything else.

The next day was quiet. In the morning, Tom walked up to the high headland above the village and gazed out. The great bay of Dublin was a serene blue. Eastwards the sky melted into the sea.

Looking down the coastline to the south, where beyond a green carpet of coastal plain the gentle cones of the hills rose in hazy tranquillity, it was hard to believe that, somewhere behind those hills, the O'Byrnes were preparing a terrible attack on Walsh's castle.

That afternoon, a small ship came into the anchorage behind the island. It was a bright little vessel, broad in the beam; just below the top of its single mast, there was a wooden basket in which a lookout could stand. Many of the cogs had these crow's nests. Above the crow's nest a red-and-blue pennant fluttered jauntily in the breeze. The Dalkey men went out in their boats and unloaded five barrels of nails, five of salt, and ten hogsheads of wine. Thus lightened, the vessel continued on its way, while the goods were taken to Doyle's fortified house where MacGowan carefully made up the tallies. That evening he asked Tom if he would cart the salt into Dublin the next morning.

When Tom came to load up at dawn, MacGowan announced that he would accompany him.

"I've got to give the tallies to Doyle," he explained, "and then I'm going to see my betrothed."

The morning was fine; the journey passed without incident, and the stalls were opening when they reached the High Cross and started down towards Winetavern Street.

Tom spent the day rather pleasantly in Dublin. The weather was fine. He visited the Palmer's old hospital of Saint John; he walked across the bridge to Oxmantown; later on, he went out of the eastern gate, wandered over to Saint Stephen's, and followed the little stream that led down to the old Viking Long Stone that still stood by the estuary beyond the Thingmount. By late afternoon, when he picked MacGowan up to take him home, Tom was feeling rather cheerful.

MacGowan seemed contented, too, though perhaps a little thoughtful as the cart rolled out past Saint Patricks.

The area around Saint Patrick's had a particular character. Several religious houses had manors there whose privileges made them almost independent of the royal courts and administrators. Such independent feudal holdings were known as "Liberties" and the Dubliners had come to refer to the area by that name. It was just after they had passed the Liberties and taken the track eastwards towards the sea that MacGowan turned to Tom and remarked, "Someone was asking questions about you."

"Oh, who was that? Someone in Dublin?"

"No." MacGowan hesitated. "In Dalkey." He paused again before continuing. "A fisherman. Never mind who. It doesn't matter anyway. He came up to me yesterday and he asked me, "I saw Tom Tidy coming out of the church the other evening. Any idea why he went in there so late?"' I told him I didn't know.

Reckoned you'd been delayed. Then he said to me, "He didn't say anything to you about it then? Nothing unusual?"' So I just looked at him a bit puzzled and I said, "Nothing at all. What would he have to say?"' And he nodded and told me, "Forget it.

You're all right." was MacGowan stared ahead, not wanting to look at Tom, it seemed. "I wasn't sure whether to tell you, yesterday. But this can only mean one thing, Tom. They're wondering if you heard anything. I don't know if you told anyone what you told me, but if anything goes wrong at Carrickmines, it's you they'll be coming after. I thought I ought to let you know."

For a little while the cart rolled on in silence. Tom said nothing. MacGowan supposed that, when he had finished digesting this information, Tom would say something.

But he didn't. The cart took the lane that led southwards through a village called Donnybrook.

"Tom," MacGowan said at last, "you'd better go back into Dublin for a time. You can stay at my brother's house. He'll be glad to have you. I told him today you might be needing to stay with him awhile-though of course I didn't tell him why.

He lives inside the wall. No one will trouble you there. I'll watch your house in Dalkey for you.

Maybe in a month you can come back. I'll try to find out. But don't run the risk of staying, Tom. There's no need."

Tom didn't reply. Soon afterwards they went down the long track that led to the big strand of the bay, but even then, as they passed round the friendly headland at the bay's southern end and came in sight of Dalkey island, still Tom Tidy spoke not a word.

If Doyle put a silver penny between two of his fingers, he could make it move across his knuckles from one finger to another with easy rapidity. This act of prestidigitation amused and relaxed him and he often did it when he was thinking. He was doing it now, as he sat in his countinghouse and thought about the situation in Dalkey.

Doyle's house on Winetavern Street consisted of three floors above a cellar. The main hall and kitchen were at ground level. On the floor above, which jutted out to overhang the street, there were three chambers, one of which served Doyle as his countinghouse. It had a window with glass panes looking down onto Winetavern Street, and beside the window an oak table on which were several stacks of silver pennies. Also on the table lay a scattering of pennies cut in two, or into four, to be used as halfpennies and farthings for smaller transactions.

If the penny had now made its progress back and forth across Doyle's knuckles a dozen times, it was because the question occupying his mind was by no means easy.

The arrangements for defending Carrickmines and dealing with the O'Byrnes had been carefully planned.

Everything was working out very well. Their preparations had been so thorough that he did not think he could have improved on them had he made all the arrangements himself. There were only two days to wait.

There was just one problem: Tom Tidy. He knew that many people considered him a harsh man, but his secret discussion with MacGowan had left him in no doubt: Tidy must not remain in Dalkey. He had already served his purpose and done so very well; but if Tidy remained in Dalkey now, it seemed to Doyle inevitable that the carrier would be killed; he couldn't see any way round it. While Doyle was ready to run big risks himself-and to be ruthless when necessary-he had no wish to see Tom Tidy sacrificed. With luck, after MacGowan had given him the chilling piece of information, Tidy would return to Dublin of his own accord. Doyle certainly hoped so.

Two more nights. When Tom Tidy had parted from Michael MacGowan he had managed, at least outwardly, to appear unruffled. He had still made no mention of the danger he might be in, and bade MacGowan good night, he was pleased to note, in the calmest way imaginable. Then, just as deliberately, he saw to the horses, exactly as usual. After that, he went into his house, cut two large slices from yesterday's loaf of bread, two generous pieces of cheese, and poured himself a tankard of ale. All as usual. Then he sat down, very quietly, and began to consume them, staring straight ahead as he did so.