Margaret stared at the window. There was still a little light outside. The glass panes formed a faint, greenish rectangle.

It was Joan Doyle. It had to be. She must have told her husband.

Had she done so innocently, in confidence? Or had she done it with malice? Margaret remembered her parting words: "I'm sorry you don't like the Talbots." Yes, that was it. She had got the information with which to damage the Walsh family, and she was letting Margaret know she remembered the insult and that she was her enemy. And suddenly now the thought came to Margaret with a cold, sinking feeling. The story the Doyle woman had told about the man going to Munster. Might she have made it up? After the little awkwardness with Richard about his father's whereabouts, had Joan Doyle guessed it was William's journey down into Munster that the family was hiding?

With all her sweet words during the night, had the Dublin woman just been fishing for information?

"No," she said. "There isn't." She was ashamed of the lie. But how could she tell him it was she herself who was the cause of the rumour? How would he ever forgive her? She supposed the Doyle woman had probably foreseen that, too.

"I shall never find out," Walsh said sadly. "When these people decide not to talk, you could be asking questions of a grave." He sighed. "Silence."

"Perhaps," she said, without much hope, "they'll change their minds about the Parliament."

"Perhaps," he said. She knew he didn't believe it.

And so all Margaret could do was to think of Joan Doyle and wonder when, and in what form, she could have her revenge.

Eva O'Byrne didn't say a word when her husband came home. She had prepared everything with the greatest care.

Tomorrow would be Michaelmas, the twenty-ninth of September, one of the main days of the Church calendar for the settling of accounts. She couldn't help smiling to herself at that coincidence. It was so appropriate.

During the morning, she had walked down to the Brennans' place. Brennan was out in the field with his cattle, and she saw him glance curiously in her direction. His wife was standing by the door of their hut. She had a broad face, freckled skin; her eyes, Eva considered, looked dishonest. She was a pretty little slut, she thought, hardly worth her attention. There was a three-year-old boy playing in the dirt at the girl's feet. The thought suddenly crossed her mind that the child could be her husband's. She looked at the little boy sharply but couldn't see any likeness. Then she shrugged. What did it matter? She said a few words of no consequence to the girl. More important, she wondered what the hut was like inside. It had been bare enough when she had last been in there some years ago, but she couldn't really see from outside.

She let her eye wander over the field that ran down the slope. It was good land. After a few moments, she nodded to the girl and walked back towards the house.

The Brennans must have wondered why she had come.

Let them wonder.

The rest of the morning she had spent with her children.

Seamus, her eldest son, had gone out with his father.

There were five others, a boy and four girls. She loved them all. But if she had a favourite child-which she would never admit-it would be Fintan. Five years old, he looked very much like her: the same fair hair; the same blue eyes. But above all, it seemed to her, he thought the same way as she did.

Straightforward, honest. Trustworthy. She had spent an hour telling him stories about her own family in the Midlands. He loved to hear about her side of the family, and she always reminded him, "They are your people, too, as well as the O'Byrnes."

He had told her the day before that he'd like to visit her family. "I promise I'll take you there one day," she had said; and then added: "Maybe soon."

The friar from Dublin had arrived early in the afternoon.

She had seen him approaching and gone out to meet him.

"You have brought it?"

He had nodded. "It is here." He had tapped a small bulge under his habit.

Like most people on the island, whether in the English Pale or the Irish heartlands, Eva revered the friars. Father Donal was a good man, and she respected him. When she received the sacrament from his hands, she had no doubt that the miracle of the Mass was accomplished; when he heard her confession, gave her penance and absolution, the fact that he was himself a husband in all but name, and a father of children, did not trouble her in the least. He was a fatherly man, he was learned, he carried the authority of the Church within him, which by itself was fearsome. His rebuke, also, had that same, unanswerable moral authority. But the friar was something special. He was a holy man. His thin, ascetic face was not unkindly, but it contained an inner fire. He was like a hermit, a desert dweller, a man who had walked alone in the terrible presence of God Himself.

His eyes, when they fixed upon you, seemed to cut through to the truth like a knife.

It had been back in the spring, when he was leaving in the morning on his way to Glendalough, that she had first sought his advice. His words then had been kindly, but not encouraging. It was while he was away in the mountains that she had conceived her inspired idea, however, and when he had passed through again, on his return, she had come to him in private and made her request. Even then, it was only after much pleading that he had finally agreed to help her.

The friar had spent the afternoon with Father Donal, while Eva, helped by her children, had made preparations for the evening.

She was proud of her home. In most respects, the tower house of O'Byrne was not unlike that of Walsh. The modest stone stronghold had a hall in which most of the activities of the household took place. Though there were separate larders and storerooms, Eva cooked over the fire in the centre of the floor, in the traditional manner, rather than in a kitchen; but she and Sean O'Byrne had their own bedchamber-a concession to the modern fashion which Sean's father would not have troubled with. The O'Byrnes spoke Irish. The Walshes spoke English, and because Walsh was a lawyer, educated in London at the Inns of Court, that English was of a high standard. But the Walshes would have been perfectly comfortable speaking Irish in the O'Byrne's house. Walsh wore an English tunic and hose; O'Byrne wore his shirt and cloak and usually preferred his legs bare. Walsh played the lute badly; O'Byrne played the harp well. Walsh had a small collection of printed books; O'Byrne possessed a hand-sized illuminated Psalter and could recite poetry with the visiting bards for hours. Walsh's eyes, through reading by candlelight, were a little weak; O'Byrne's were keen. But the meal that Eva now prepared for her visitor, the fresh rushes she spread on the floor, and the big platters and beakers her daughters placed upon the table were no different to those that Margaret Walsh would have used. As she looked round this domestic scene, with her children and the two servants all so fruitfully engaged, she hoped very much that the evening would be successful. She would be sorry, indeed, to leave all this.

When Sean O'Byrne came home, he was rather surprised to find the friar and Father Donal at his house. But naturally, they must be given hospitality; and the household gathered for the evening meal in a good humour. The harvest might have been ruined, but Eva had provided delicious oatcakes, a watercress salad, blood pudding, and a meat stew in the visitors' honour. The friar blessed the food, and though he ate sparingly, he tasted everything out of courtesy to his hosts and accepted a little of the wine that Sean offered.

He took a particular interest in the children, especially Seamus, the eldest boy. "You are becoming a man," he told him seriously, "and you must take on the responsibilities of manhood." Only when the meal was over did the friar indicate that he would like to have a private conversation with the two O'Byrne parents.

Eva watched her husband. If he looked slightly surprised, she could tell that he had no idea what was coming. Perhaps he'd forgotten how he swore his innocence before the two men that spring. Knowing him, even that was possible, she thought wryly. When the children had left: them and the four of them were alone, the friar began to speak.

He spoke very softly. They must both understand, he told them, that the sacrament of marriage was not just a matter of convenience for the better ordering of society.

"Here in Ireland," he remarked, "the inviolate nature of marriage and the importance of cha/y have not traditionally been regarded as absolute requirements. Yet that is a pity. For if we follow the teachings of Our Lord, they should be.

Above all, even if we fail to achieve these high standards, there must between two married people be an understanding and a respect for each other's feelings. We may have to ask forgiveness of each other, but husbands must not scorn their wives, nor wives their husbands."

He looked at Sean severely. "To humiliate the one we should love is a greater crime than to be unfaithful." He spoke with such quiet authority that even Sean could hardly complain.

Yet the friar himself had originally counselled her not to pursue the matter, when they had discussed it in the summer. "Your husband has sworn an oath," he had told her, "and you would be wise to accept it."

"Even when I know it is a lie?" she had asked.

"Perhaps, yes," he had answered frankly, and given her a little lecture on her duty humbly to submit to these trials. "God may be testing you," he explained. But she had been unable to accept this counsel, even from the saintly friar.

"It's the humiliation," she had burst out, "the scorn of his lie that allows him to continue sleeping with that girl almost in my own house. It's too much," she had cried, "I can't bear it anymore. He does nothing but lie to me, and if I try to pin him down, he just slips away, leaving me with nothing. Something has to change." She had looked at the friar desperately. "If he goes on, I won't answer for what I might do. Perhaps," she added with a wild menace, "I'll put a knife in his heart while he's asleep." And as he looked at her in horror, she had repeated the threat.

"Even if I go to Hell for it," she swore.

Only then had he reluctantly agreed to consider her request for help. "There is one thing I could do," he had suggested.

As she looked at her husband now, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. He must have some idea, by this time, what was coming, and no doubt he was already preparing his usual defence.

But there was one thing he didn't know.

"Your tenant Brennan," the friar began, giving Sean a hard look, "has a wife, with whom you a"

"I have already sworn as to that," Sean cut in, quick as a flash.

"I know you have." The friar raised his hand. "But you may wish to reconsider. It would be a terrible thing, Sean O'Byrne, to have the sin of a false oath upon your conscience, when all you need to do is ask forgiveness of this woman," he indicated Eva, "who loves you and is ready to let bygones be bygones. Can you not see," he went on urgently, "that your cruelty is hurting her?"

But if Sean did see, he wasn't admitting it.

His face was set stubbornly.

"I have sworn," he said, "to Father Donal here."

"So you wouldn't object to swearing again, to me?" asked the friar.

Did her husband hesitate now, just for a moment? It seemed to Eva that he did. But he was cornered.

"I'd swear to the bishop himself," he declared angrily.

"Very well." Reaching into his habit now, the friar drew out the small parcel.

"What's that?" asked Sean suspiciously.

Slowly and carefully, the friar unwrapped the cloth that had been wound around the small wooden box, blackened with age, which he placed upon the table.

Reverently, he took the lid off the box to reveal, contained within it, another box, this one made of silver, its top encrusted with gems.

"This comes from the Church of Saint Kevin in Dublin," he said quietly. "It contains the finger bone of Saint Kevin of Glendalough himself."

And this time, Eva heard her husband give a little intake of breath as they all gazed at the jewelled box with awe.

The most splendid of the holy relics, like the Bachall Iosa of Saint Patrick, were to be found in the Cathedral of Christ Church; but several of the lesser churches had treasures of great sanctity which, everybody knew, had awesome powers. When you touched the relic before them now, you were in the presence of the Saint of Glendalough himself.

"Will you place your hand, Sean O'Byrne, over the body of Saint Kevin and swear that you have never had carnal knowledge of the Brennan woman?" the friar invited quietly. "Will you do it?"

There was silence. The three of them watched him. Sean stared first at the friar, then at the little box. For a moment it really seemed that he might stretch forth his hand.

But whatever his faults, Sean O'Byrne still had a healthy fear of God and of the power of His saints. After an agonising hesitation, he scowled at the three of them and drew his hand back.

"You cannot do it," said the friar. "And you should be glad you could not; for if you had, Sean O'Byrne, it would have been a sin so terrible that nothing could have kept you from the eternal fire of Hell. Thank God that you did not."

But if Sean O'Byrne was thanking God, he did not show it. As the friar put the lid back on the dark little box, he sat sullenly staring at the table, saying not a word. In the end, it was Eva who spoke.

"The Brennans go. Seamus can take over their place."

Sean turned towards her and gazed, fixedly, at her face.

"I will decide about that," he said.

"You can decide what you like," she answered. "But if the Brennans stay, then it's me who'll be leaving, tomorrow." She meant it, and he could see it. She'd thought it all out. She'd take little Fintan and the youngest girl with her; the older ones could stay. There wasn't much Sean could do about it. Anything was better than staying here with Sean and the Brennan girl mocking her every day.

The silence that followed was broken by Father Donal.

"It would be good for Seamus to have that land," he remarked.

There was a pause.

"I should lose the Brennans' rent."

"The land might still be worth more to you," the priest observed.

"The Brennans will have to go," O'Byrne said finally, as if by saying it he was recovering control of the situation. "They're tenants-at-will, you know. They can be told to go at any time." He glanced at Eva, who quietly nodded. "They'll be told we need the farm for Seamus."

The next day, the Brennans were sent away. The explanation given was that their place was required for young Seamus. Whether Brennan believed this or not was unclear.

He might have done. For just as O'Byrne himself occupied a small portion of the wide territories of his princely ancestors, so, all over Ireland, as one generation succeeded another, these smaller holdings were being subdivided amongst the descendants until even their humblest tenants might find themselves turned out to make way for one of the family's many heirs. O'Tooles, O'Byrnes, even the mighty O'neills-it was always the same. "Every damned Irish cottager seems to think he's the descendant of princes," the English would sometimes complain. The reason was that many of them were.

So the Brennans left in search of another place, and young Seamus O'Byrne made himself a home in their hut, and Eva repaired her dignity.

Before he had left, the friar had given the couple some good advice. "It's the right thing that you've done," he told Sean. "You've a fine wife and I hope you've the wisdom to see it. And you," he turned to Eva, "have a fine husband. Remember that now and honour him."

In the weeks and months that followed, she had done her best to take his advice, and to make herself agreeable and attractive to her husband in every way she knew. It seemed to work. He became quite amorous, if not exactly affectionate. And God knows, she thought, one might as well be grateful for that. During that winter and far beyond she had no cause, she thought, to regret what she had done.

It did not occur to her that in the mind of Sean O'Byrne, only one thing had happened on the day that the friar brought the relic. He, Sean O'Byrne of Rathconan, a prince among men, had been tricked and humiliated by her in front of the priest. He had had his position usurped. He wasn't the master in his own house.

That was all that he knew; but he said nothing.

NINE.

SILKEN THOMAS.

The years that followed her marriage should have been happy for Cecily; and in a way they were. She loved her husband. She had two pretty little girls. Tidy's business was thriving: he made some of the best gloves in Dublin; MacGowan and Dame Doyle recommended him to all their friends; he already had a boy apprentice in the workshop. He had also become a busy and rising member of his craft guild; on feast days, Cecily would watch him go off dressed in the guild's bright livery, so pleased with himself that it was touching to see. And, of course, he had the freedom of the city.

"Your husband is making quite a name for himself," Dame Doyle remarked to her with a smile when they met in the street one day. "You must feel very proud of him."

Did she? She knew she should. Wasn't he everything a good Dublin craftsman should be?

Hardworking, reliable. When she saw him sitting in his chair in the evening, with a little girl on each knee, she felt a deep sense of joy and contentment; and she would go to him and kiss him, and he would smile happily up at her, and she would secretly pray for more children, and hope that she might also give him the son for whom-though he denied it-she knew he longed. Yes, her husband was a good man, and she loved him. She could go to her confessor with a clear conscience, secure in the knowledge that she was never cold towards her husband, never denied him her body, scarcely ever showed anger, and always made amends if she did. What could she possibly confess except that, from time to time-perhaps quite frequently-she wished he were different?

Yet the occasion for their first serious disagreement had nothing to do with their own lives at all. It had to do with events in faraway England.

To most people in Dublin, the last eight years had seemed like business as usual. The rivalry between the Butlers and the Fitzgeralds had continued. Building on King Henry's suspicions of the Fitzgerald family's foreign intrigues, the Butlers had persuaded him to give them the office of Lord Deputy for a while, but the great pincer of Fitzgerald power had soon squeezed them out again.

Dublin itself had been quiet enough, but out in the hinterland, the Irish allies of the Fitzgeralds had been extorting protection money from the weaker chiefs and landowners-Black Rent, they called it-and on one occasion they had kidnapped one of the Butler commanders and held him for ransom for several months. Even in Dublin, these shenanigans were viewed with some wry amusement. "The cheek of those fellows," people said. For in Ireland, there was always an element of sport in these skirmishes. Hadn't brave young Celtic warriors been raiding their enemies since time immemorial?

But blunt King Henry in London and his order-loving officials never saw the joke. "I have told you before that if you will not govern yourselves, we'll rule you from England," he declared. And so, in 1528, an English official arrived to take over the ordering of the island. Nobody wanted him, of course; but he also came with one enormous handicap.

As far as King Henry was concerned, if he sent a royal servant to govern in his name, then that servant was invested with his kingly authority, and should be obeyed, no matter who you were. But that wasn't how things were seen in Ireland at all. The genealogies of Irish chiefs, whether real or imagined, stretched back into the mists of Celtic time. Even the English magnates like the Butlers and Fitzgeralds had been aristocrats when they first came to the island more than three centuries ago.

Irish society was and always had been aristocratic and hierarchical. Irish servants in traditional Irish houses might eat and sleep beside their masters, but the family of the chief was treated with reverence. The thing was mystical.

The new Lord Deputy was the king's Master of Artillery. A bluff soldier, whose blood was fiery red but not blue. "I have come to bring English order," he let the Irish know. "Has he indeed," they responded. "Princes of Ireland bow the knee to this lowborn fellow?" they protested.

"Never." The Gunner, they contemptuously called him. And though he did his best, and though Kildare himself, on King Henry's orders gave him a grudging support, it wasn't long before they undermined him.

King Henry was furious. And had there not been other larger problems to deal with in his realm, he might have taken sterner measures. But as he had neither money nor energy to involve himself more deeply with Ireland just then, he impatiently gave the island back to Kildare. "Let him rule there for the time being," he declared grumpily, "until we can think of something better." To the Irish it seemed that, once again, they had proved that the English king could never impose himself upon them. For better or worse, Kildare was back. It was business as usual.