"There he is. There's my man." Joan Doyle waved a silk handkerchief. "He still doesn't see me," she said laughing. "One thing we know," she announced cheerfully. "They'll be hungry."

Joan Doyle had known sorrow; but it seemed to her nowadays that she was the luckiest person alive. At eighteen she had been married, very happily, to a gentleman near Waterford. Six years later, having lost two children to fever, she lost her third child and her husband in a shipping accident. At twenty-four she was a widow, and for many months she entered a place of silent sadness from which she did not see any escape.

But then she met John Doyle who, with great patience, coaxed her out of her misery and, after more than a year, into marriage. That had been six years ago and now, with a home and two children, Joan Doyle knew more happiness than she had ever dreamed to be possible.

And being in any case a warm and affectionate soul, and having known what it was to suffer great pain, she made a point never, if possible, to give pain to others. She was always doing little kindnesses; and it would amuse her rich and genial husband that hardly a week went by without her coming to him with a new scheme to help someone in trouble.

"It must be your Spanish blood that makes you so warm," he would laugh. Having no malice herself, she could never imagine it in others. This, too, her husband loved: it made him feel protective.

Joan became aware of Margaret when she was still a dozen yards away. She didn't turn to look at her, at first, because the woman beside her had just started to engage her in conversation; but even out of the corner of her eye, she could see that it was the woman she had noticed the other week at Donnybrook Fair.

For there couldn't, surely, be two women in the Dublin area with such wonderful dark- red hair. Not a trace of grey in it, either, though she guessed that the woman might be a little older than herself.

Joan's own hair had a few strands of grey, which she skilfully disguised; indeed, she had been smiling with rueful amusement at the thought that this redheaded woman clearly had no need of such artifice, when Margaret had seen her and taken that expression for a contemptuous smirk.

For Margaret's assessment of Joan Doyle was based upon a misapprehension. Of the quarrel between their two families, Joan knew nothing at all. The dispute over the inheritance had been so ancient that Henry Butler had never bothered to tell his daughter about it. As for the present, Joan hadn't the least idea who Margaret was.

So it was unfortunate that by chance, as Margaret came within earshot, the woman beside Joan had been talking about a recent case of a disputed inheritance in Dublin. The family who lost, she had just remarked, were very bitter.

"My husband says that the time to secure an inheritance is be fore someone dies, not after," Joan had replied.

"He's a terrible man," she continued with a laugh.

"Do you know what he says?" And now, to imitate the alderman's voice, she spoke more loudly. "The disinherited have only themselves to blame."

It was these last words that Margaret heard, as Joan laughed and turned to look at her.

If people usually hear what they expect to hear, then every expectation Margaret might have had was now fulfilled. There was no doubt in her mind: she had heard what she had heard. This rich little Dublin woman, whose family had stolen her own poor father's inheritance, was mocking her to this group of women, insulting her in public. Well then, she thought, let her mock me to my face.

"Tell me," she calmly intruded on the conversation, "how would you feel if you were disinherited yourself?" And with that she gave her a cold, unyielding stare.

Joan Doyle did not return this gaze, though she certainly looked at Margaret. She thought it perhaps a little rude of this stranger to butt in as she had, and she seemed to be wearing rather a long face for such a festive occasion. But it wasn't in Joan's nature to criticise. And there really was no question, she thought, that this severe-looking woman had the most wonderful hair.

"I don't know," she answered simply. And then, thinking to lighten the other's apparently solemn mood with a cheerful compliment, she went on with a laugh: "I'm sure I could bear it if I had your hair." She had no sooner said it than she was distracted by one of the other women pointing out that the riders were on the bridge and that her husband was waving to her. By the time she turned back again, the red-haired woman was gone. She asked her companions who she was, but none of them knew.

She was to learn, however, the following month.

If there was one thing the English of the Pale were proud of, it was their religion. They had their language, laws, and customs, of course, and these were important; but after three centuries of living side by side with the Irish on the island, what could the English point to as the one important thing which held them together as a community and proved their superiority to even the best of the natives? What gave them the moral high ground?

The answer was simple.

The English knew they were superior because they were Roman Catholic.

The native Irish were Catholic, too, of course. But outside the Pale, in the great native hinterland, everybody knew that the Celtic Church was much as it had always been. Divorce was allowed, priests married, monasteries were run by local chiefs-in short, the native church was still tolerating those degenerate practices which the Pope had asked the English to clean up when they first invaded the island.

To the English in Ireland, the thing was clear as day: true Catholicism, Roman Catholicism, was only to be found within the English Pale.

Indeed, of all the kingdoms in Christendom, none was more loyal to the Pope in Rome than the kingdom of England. In Germany, or in the Low Countries, the heretical Protestants, those followers of Luther and others who threatened good Catholic order, might be tolerated. But not in England. Young Henry VIII and his loyal wife, Catherine, the princess from Spain, would see to that. The King of England detested Protestants; he was ready and willing to execute them. The English in Ireland, therefore, could truly claim, "We are the guardians of the Roman faith."

But one thing, in Ireland, had for a long time been missing. The Church was the repository of culture and learning; the higher priesthood were nearly always educated men. But Ireland had no university.

Ambitious young men thinking of the priesthood had to travel to Paris or Italy-or, more usually, to Oxford or Cambridge. And in 1518, a first step was taken to correct that situation.

They were a lively party. There was Doyle, tall and handsome, and sporting a splendid fur hat into which he'd pinned a circular badge encrusted with jewels. Joan, in rich brown velvet laced with pearls, was sitting happily beside him. The wagon was handsome- padded seats, silk curtains. Inside the wagon also rode James MacGowan and his wife. They were more quietly dressed, as befitted their less exalted station. For though MacGowan could probably have afforded clothes as fine as Doyle's, he was far too clever to wear them. Perched up in front, beside the coachman, was Tidy, a glover just finishing his apprenticeship, whom MacGowan had brought along with him. The October day was overcast, but there were bright gashes in the clouds, and no sign of rain, as they rolled westwards. They were going to Maynooth.

The castle of Maynooth lay about a dozen miles west of Dublin. Far larger than the fortified manors of the gentry like Malahide, it was one of several impressive centres where the mighty Earl of Kildare held court. And no doubt it was because of Maynooth's proximity to Dublin and the heart of the Pale that the earl had chosen it for his new religious foundation.

For if the English of the Pale were proud of their faith, they invested in it, too. In Dublin especially, rich men like Doyle might be reluctant to contribute to civic buildings, but in the churches their memorials and the chantries where the priests sung masses for their souls were more splendidly endowed than ever. What then should the Fitzgeralds do, if not something on a grander scale?

The new College of Maynooth was housed close to the castle. It had a hall, a chapel, and a dormitory. Its stated purpose was to be a small community for religious study and instruction. "But if I know anything about the ambition of the Fitzgeralds," Doyle had remarked, "this will only be a beginning." For everyone knew that it was in just such small colleges that the universities of Oxford and Cambridge had first begun.

Andwiththe building completed, the earl had invited people from far and wide to witness the service of consecration.

Joan looked at her companions with affection. Her husband: tall, dark, capable; some people, she knew, were afraid of him, but to her he was strong as a lion, yet gentle as a lamb. MacGowan, younger than her husband, strangely ageless, with his thinning hair, drooping lip, and his eye always so sharp. He traded all over the Pale and far beyond. "I know a lot," her husband had once remarked, "but our friend MacGowan knows everything." And on several occasions he had returned home shaking his head with wonderment and told her, "That fellow is more cunning than the devil himself." But MacGowan and his homely wife had always seemed a warm and kindly couple to Joan.

Perhaps, she considered, both assessments might be true. As for young Tidy, his case was simple enough. "The Tidy family are good people," her husband had informed her. "One of the best of the craftsmen families, and very devout." Henry Tidy was going to be a glover. A good trade. In a few years, she supposed, young Tidy would be looking for a wife. Perhaps, she thought contentedly, she could help him find a good one.

Late in the morning the Doyle party arrived at the castle of Maynooth in a happy mood. And this was appropriate for it was immediately clear that, on this day at least, all quarrels were to be forgotten.

Everyone was there. Fitzgeralds and Butlers, Talbots and Barnewalls, royal officials from Dublin and some of the greatest Irish chiefs from beyond the Pale. For though the new college was clearly a triumph for the Fitzgeralds, and situated within the English Pale, it was still, in its way, a foundation that did honour to the whole island.

No sooner had the Doyles arrived than a host of people came up to greet them. Even the Talbots of Malahide came over to say a few friendly words.

For all his riches, it wasn't every day that the proud Talbots would walk across to talk to Alderman Doyle. "It's because they know you were born a Butler," he said with a smile to Joan. But what Joan was really hoping for was a chance to see, at close quarters, the Earl of Kildare himself.

Of course, she had seen him from time to time in Dublin, coming or going at the castle or the great Kildare town house. But he had always been a distant presence, protected by retainers. Even at his town house, there were sentries on duty at the gates, armed with German muskets. The last time she had seen him in the street, he had been surrounded by a phalanx of gallowglasses, as they called the fearsome Scottish mercenaries with their terrible battle axes, which some of the island's chiefs had taken to using as bodyguards and shock troops nowadays.

If twenty years earlier, Henry Tudor had cynically decided it was easier to leave the old earl alone than it was to break him, the relationship of the new generation was closer. The present earl and King Henry VIII were friends, and in the last few years, the English king had let his friend rule Ireland almost as he pleased. Kildare was allowed all the crown revenues, and so long as he kept order, he didn't even have to render accounts.

"The truth is," Doyle had remarked to Joan one day, "Kildare is practically the High King of Ireland now." And the analogy was valid. For after generations of intermarriage with the greatest Irish princely families, the head of the Fitzgeralds not only had a huge political network amongst the native Irish princes but the blood of Irish kings flowed in his veins, too. In his strongholds beyond the Pale, Irish bards at the banquets sang songs about his Irish ancestors, and he dispensed law according to the old Irish brehon laws just as easily as he would use English law elsewhere. "He uses whichever law suits him best," some litigants grumbled. To the English king he would say, "Sire, without you I am nothing."

To the mighty O'neills, his kinsmen, who acknowledged him as their overlord, he'd point out, "We're doing very well out of this." As for keeping order, just as the High Kings had done in the centuries before, he would raid the territories of any chiefs who gave him trouble and carry off their cattle. The only difference between the old days and now was that Kildare had Tudor artillery.

As it happened, Joan got her wish sooner than she expected. It was after the Talbots had moved on that she became aware of an other party coming in their direction. They were being escorted by the mayor of Dublin, but they seemed to be foreigners. There was a priest whom, by the look of him, she judged to be Italian; an aristocratic gentleman dressed in black who was undoubtedly from Spain; and two ladies, whose bodices and gowns flashing with jewels were altogether richer than anything to be seen in Dublin. But what struck her most was the handsome figure who accompanied them.

He was dressed in hose with padded feet. His tight-fitting doublet, sewn with golden thread and studded with pearls, had huge slashed puffs at the shoulders. She had not seen anyone dressed quite like this before, but she knew enough to guess that this must be the aristocratic fashion at the English court. He came forward with the graceful pad of a great cat; she heard him say a few words in French to the ladies, who laughed, and she wondered who this gorgeous, courtly creature might be. Then suddenly she recognised him, with a little start. It was the Earl of Kildare.

A moment later, the mayor was introducing them.

Kildare, his eyes twinkling pleasantly, said a few appropriate words, and the group moved on, leaving Joan to watch them, fascinated.

She had known that the earl had been sent for many years to the English court by his father. That was where he had formed his friendship with the present king, Henry VIII.

And she had known that the English court was nowadays a centre of learning, where courtiers would be expected to be familiar with classical literature and the arts as well as be able to dance, and play the lute, and compose a verse. But this was the first time that she had glimpsed the gilded face of the Renaissance, and she sensed that new world even if she did not know exactly what it was.

"Impressed?" Her husband was looking at her with amusement.

"He seems like a man who lives in another world."

She smiled. "With the angels in paradise."

"He does indeed," Doyle nodded thoughtfully as Kildare and his party moved farther away. "And some say," he went on softly, "at our expense.

He billets his troops on people whenever he likes.

He taxes high and keeps all the money. That's how he can so easily endow this new college of his. Some people would welcome reform."

Joan had heard people muttering about reform in Ireland for most of her life, but she had learned not to take it too seriously. "My Butler relations used to complain about the Fitzgeralds," she remarked with a laugh, "but given the chance I'm sure they'd behave just the same." She looked at Doyle more seriously. "He has the friendship of the king," she pointed out. "Now more than ever, they say."

Doyle nodded thoughtfully. She saw his eyes following Kildare as he continued his progress round the guests.

"I'll tell you a story," he said. "Years ago, the king's father had two councillors. They had served him very faithfully for many years, and thanks to them, when Henry Tudor died, there was more money in the royal treasury than ever before in England's history. Our present king had known the two men all his life. They were like uncles to him. But by serving his father so well, they had made many enemies. So when the old king died, the English Parliament wanted to impeach them." He paused. "So you know what young Henry did? Executed both men. Without a second thought. Because it suited him." He paused.

"The friendship of King Henry VIII is a dangerous thing. For he loves only himself."

And now Joan found herself gazing after the golden figure of Kildare and the grey October light upon his back seemed more sombre, even melancholy.

Then she saw the woman with the red hair.

This time she discovered who she was quite easily.

MacGowan was still standing close by and he knew at once. "She's the wife of William Walsh.

I've done business out at their place. She hardly ever comes to Dublin."

"William Walsh the lawyer?" asked Doyle.

"They say he's a good man. Will you bring them over?" he said to MacGowan.

William Walsh looked at his wife in surprise.

"It will look very strange," he said, "if you don't." He was a tall, rangy man with long arms, long legs, close-cropped grey hair, and a nervous energy in his kindly face; but his square jaw still gave a hint of his military forebears. He couldn't imagine why his wife was so reluctant to come and speak to the Doyles, especially on such a happy occasion; and though he was used to Margaret's occasional moods, he felt he must be firm.

"They're not people I'd wish to offend," he admonished her gently as she unwillingly accompanied him.

Doyle greeted them courteously. He seemed to Margaret to be straightforward enough. Joan Doyle smiled her pretty smile. "I know who you are," she said to William Walsh, and continued, as she turned her smile towards Margaret: "I know everything about you." It was one of those bright little phrases that could mean anything or nothing. Margaret did not reply, but remained watchful.

Doyle did most of the talking, but it was clear that he wanted to hear William Walsh's views on various subjects. Margaret's impression was that the alderman prided himself on knowing everyone who mattered in the Pale, and that, being acquainted with William Walsh the lawyer, he had decided to know him better. As far as she could judge, William had impressed him.

During this time, neither of the wives was called upon to speak. But then the conversation turned to families.

"You're a kinsman of Walsh, at Carrickmines, I believe," Doyle remarked. It was a signal, a polite acknowledgement of the lawyer's status amongst the gentry.

"A kinsman, yes," William answered pleasantly.

"We were speaking to the Talbots of Malahide just now," Doyle continued, with evident pleasure. "My wife knows them well," he exaggerated just a little, "being a Butler herself. You know them perhaps?"

"Slightly," said William Walsh, with perfect truth. Then with a quiet smile, he added: "Malahide's a long way from where we live."

And now, with her ready little smile, Joan Doyle turned to Margaret.

"You wouldn't want to go out there, I'm sure." She turned back to the rest of them. "All that way up in Fingal."

It sounded so harmless. No one but herself, Margaret realised, could know what the Doyle woman really meant. "I know all about you," she had said. And how slyly, now, she was humiliating her with this knowledge. She clearly knew that Margaret's family came from Fingal. The Talbots must have told her how they'd sent Margaret packing when she was a young woman. The bitter memory of it still cut deep after all these years. And now the alderman's wife had decided to taunt her with it under the guise of friendly conversation.

The viciousness of the dark little woman almost took her breath away.

But nobody else had noticed anything, and a moment later the conversation moved on to the new college, and then to Kildare himself.

"I have to say," Walsh told the alderman, "that the earl has been very good to me." Indeed, it was partly as an expression of loyalty and gratitude that he had made a point of coming to Maynooth with his wife that day. "For it's thanks to him," he explained, "that I've just got to farm some good Church land."

If the English of the Pale were proud supporters of the Church, the Church in turn was good to them. As a lawyer, William Walsh looked after the business of several religious houses, including the house of nuns whose affairs Margaret's father had turned over to him some years before his death. Another way that the Church could reward the local gentry was to lease Church lands to them at very modest rents. The Walsh family-solid gentry who had supplied several distinguished churchmen down the generations, too- were good candidates for such treatment; but it had been a friendly word from Kildare that had recently ensured William Walsh the lease of a monastic farm at a rent that was almost laughable.

Margaret well understood that by informing Doyle of this, her husband was skilfully letting the alderman know two things: first, that he had the favour of Kildare and was loyal to him; and second, that he was actively engaged in acquiring wealth. Doyle seemed impressed.

"Do you think of standing for Parliament?" the alderman enquired.

Though the Irish Parliament was supposed to represent the whole island, in practice nearly all of its thirty or forty members came from Dublin and the nearby Pale. Parliament's power might be limited by the English king, but there was prestige in membership.

"I think of it," said Walsh. "And you?" There were several rich merchants in the Parliament.

"I, too," Doyle agreed, and gave Walsh a look which said: we'll talk further.

During this exchange, Margaret had watched in silence. She knew how hard her husband had worked for his family-it was one of the many things she loved about him-and she was glad to see him having some success.

She had nothing in particular against Doyle. If only his wife had been someone else.

The conversation moved on. The two men were discussing the king. She was not paying close attention but she heard the Doyle woman say to her husband, "You should tell him the story you just told me." And the alderman started to relate the tale about the two councillors that the king had executed. "These Tudors are quite as ruthless, perhaps more so, than the Plantagenets ever were," she heard him say. As he said it, she found her mind carried back to that fatal expedition in her childhood, when the Irish gentlemen had so unwisely invaded England and Henry Tudor had killed them all. And suddenly, for the first time in years, the youthful face of her brother John rose up before her-that happy, excited face, before he had gone to his death-and she felt a wave of sadness pass over her.

She hadn't been listening. The Doyle woman was talking.

"My husband's very cautious," she was saying, "especially about the English. He says"-and now it seemed to Margaret that the Doyle woman glanced sideways to make sure she was listening-"he says that if people get into trouble with the Tudors, they have only themselves to blame."

That same little phrase: the identical words she had used before about the inheritance. Was it possible that the woman could be so vicious, so low as to make a cruel reference to the loss of her brother?

Margaret looked at the two men. Neither of them had noticed anything, but then they wouldn't. Wasn't this exactly the trick that this dark little woman had played before? She was smiling, too, as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and turning to her.

"You really do have wonderful hair."

"Thank you." Margaret smiled back. I see through you, she thought, but this time you've gone too far. If it was war the Doyle woman wanted, she would get it.

As she and her husband moved away a few minutes later, Margaret murmured, "I hate that woman."

"Really? Why?" Walsh asked.

"It doesn't matter. I have my reasons."

"I thought," he unwisely remarked, "that she was pretty."