"That may be so," MacGowan allowed. "But they are young bloods who'd been drinking. It was all in jest."

Tidy shook his head.

"Now Kildare and the royal councillors will hear that my wife has cursed the king," he said miserably.

And though he said nothing more, at that moment he was frankly thinking: I wish I had married someone else.

It was with a heavy heart, and without any smile of pleasure, that late in the afternoon, he took Cecily to the tower apartment and, showing her the splendid accommodation asked her, "Do you think that you could be more contented now?"

"I believe I could," she answered. "Yes, I do."

But he wondered if it was true.

By the time that the Tidys were inspecting their tower, Margaret had arrived home. She had waited over an hour outside Doyle's house, seen Joan Doyle finally go out, followed her down towards the Dame's Gate, and then lost sight of her. In the end she had given up and returned home.

William did not arrive until late in the evening. He looked pleased with himself. He said he had dined in the city, and he seemed to have drunk a good deal. Saying he was tired, he went up to the chamber and fell asleep.

The next day he spent quietly at the house. The day after, he had business in Dublin, but was back by early evening. And so for two weeks life continued in the usual way. Was he having illicit meetings with Joan Doyle in Dublin? She couldn't be sure. At least once, after spending the day in Dublin, he returned and made love to her in the usual way.

So what did it all mean? Had something happened on Corpus Christi day in Dublin? Assuming it had, was it being repeated? Margaret found it hard to believe that it wouldn't be. Yet what was she to do?

Share her husband with Joan Doyle until their affair ended? Confront him with something she couldn't prove? Wait? Watch? She had not known that uncertainty could bring such pain.

Two weeks later he went into Dublin early and returned very late at night. A week after that he was away in Fingal for a few days. There was nothing unusual in these absences, but now all his movements had taken on a new significance. And Margaret hardly knew what she might have done next if, during the month of August, he hadn't come in looking concerned one day and told her, "The monastery needs me to go down into Munster again; but I hardly know if it's wise."

"You should go," she said, "at once."

He was gone for three weeks. When he got back, he was so busy that she hardly thought he could find time for an affair.

And besides, during his absence she had made one change in her own lifestyle. She had started going into Dublin.

She did not follow any set pattern. Some weeks she mightn't go at all. But from the end of that summer, she would ride in to visit the markets and return later in the day. In the city, walking past the Doyle house in Skinners Row, or picking up a casual conversation at a market stall, it was easy to find out the whereabouts of the Doyles; so that when in October William had to spend several days in Fingal, she was able to ascertain that Joan Doyle was safely in her own house and nowhere near William.

It was an imperfect check, but it was something. In November, the Doyles both went to Bristol and remained there almost four weeks. Nor, she thought, did William and the Doyle woman meet in December. As Christmas approached, it seemed possible that the affair, if indeed it had begun, might have been abandoned. She could even suppose that the whole business might have been a figment of her imagination.

So it was in quite a cheerful mood that, just a few days before Christmas, she accompanied William into Dublin to attend a winter banquet given by the Trinity Guild.

It was the usual, good-humoured city celebration. A splendid company attended, city fathers in their robes and liveries, gentlemen from the Pale, many of them members of the Trinity Guild or freemen of the city. But the particular interest of the banquet was whether the head of the Fitzgeralds would attend.

It had not been a surprise to anyone when, during the autumn, King Henry had yet again summoned the Earl of Kildare to London. Everyone knew that the king was still smarting from the way that the Fitzgeralds had forced him to give them back the Lord Deputy's post, and you could be sure that the Butlers were supplying the English court with information to use against him. While Kildare had sent polite excuses to the king, he had muttered to his friends that he would take his own good time before he went to England again; and to remind the English monarch that the Fitzgeralds were not to be trifled with, he had coolly removed the king's cannons from Dublin castle and put them in his own strongholds. For the last few months Kildare had remained calmly in Ireland while Henry was left fuming.

But recently Walsh had heard that Kildare was unwell. Injuries he had received on campaign had returned to trouble him. He was said to be in great pain, then seriously unwell. "I wondered if it was a pretended sickness, an excuse for not going to England," Walsh told Margaret, "but the word is that the earl has suffered a real decline." And indeed, instead of coming to the banquet, Kildare was sending his son Thomas to represent him instead. The Kildare family was large: the earl had no less than five brothers.

"But if anything should happen to the earl," Walsh pointed out, "it's Thomas and not his uncles who will succeed to the title and the lordship. Few people in Dublin knew very much about the young man, except that he was a fashionable fellow who had appeared with some English fops who got drunk at the last Feast of Corpus Christi. "Silken Thomas, his friends call him," the lawyer said with some disapproval.

But like the rest of the gentlemen of Dublin, he was quite curious to take a look at him.

In fact, young Lord Thomas made quite a favourable impression. He had the aristocratic good looks of his family; he was certainly dressed in the finest silk tunic and belt that would have been the height of fashion in the court of England or France, but his clothes were not gaudy; as he made his tour of the company before the meal began, he treated everyone with the greatest courtesy, and after being called across to speak to him, Walsh returned and reported, "He's young, but well informed. He's no fool."

The banquet was excellent. After they had eaten, the company mingled once more. And it was while she was accompanying her husband round the hall that Margaret suddenly found herself confronted with Joan Doyle.

The alderman had just stepped over to talk to Silken Thomas and his wife was standing alone. Seeing the Walshes, Dame Doyle's face lit up.

There was no way of escaping her. In response to her greeting, Margaret put on her best masklike smile. The three of them exchanged the usual, meaningless courtesies; then Joan Doyle turned to Margaret.

"You really should come into Dublin more often," she said.

"I come in to the markets sometimes," Margaret replied quietly.

"Don't you think she should?" Joan said to Walsh.

"Oh, I do," he answered politely.

Margaret considered the two of them. The conversation sounded so innocent. But if they were fencing round her, they did not realise how closely she was observing them.

"Perhaps you're right," she said. "I should at least come in for the festivals." She nodded, as though to herself. "Like Corpus Christi."

Did they, just for an instant, glance at each other?

Yes, she was sure they did. Then the Doyle woman laughed.

"Corpus Christi was a wonderful day," she said with a smile to Walsh, who also smiled and nodded.

They were mocking her. They thought she didn't know it.

"As a matter of fact," Margaret said brightly, "I came in for Corpus Christi this year."

There was no mistaking it. Her husband blanched.

"You did?"

"I never told you, did I? Just a sudden impulse. I saw the pageants going along Skinners Row." She gave them both a smile.

"I saw all sorts of things."

It was a perfect moment. The two of them seemed stunned into silence. Joan Doyle recovered first.

"You should have come into the house," she cried. "We were all up at the window. You'd have had a better view."

"Oh, the view I had was fine," said Margaret.

She had them. She felt a wonderful sense of power. It was almost worth the pain. She could see them trying to work out how much she knew, whether her remarks were ironic or not. They couldn't tell.

She had them on the run.

She smiled and took her husband by the arm. "We should pay our respects," she murmured, indicating a gentleman from Fingal standing nearby, and moved away, leaving the Doyle woman standing alone.

Yet it was a hollow triumph. For if they were left in uncertainty, their awkwardness had told her all she needed to know about their complicity. They had deceived her before; so they probably meant to do it again.

That night she turned to him in bed.

"So how attractive is Joan Doyle?"

"You think I find her attractive?" he responded cleverly. He paused, as though considering. "She's a good woman," he answered easily, "but I prefer redheads."

Over Christmas he was especially loving and attentive, and she was grateful for that. Knowing Joan Doyle's devious nature, she didn't even blame her husband so much. She had never thought he would do such a thing to her, but now that he had, her main concern was to bring it to an end. She made no reference to their affair, but she did take care to warn him.

"You can't trust that Doyle woman. She's two-faced and dangerous."

Her feelings for Joan Doyle, however, hardened into a secret, ice- cold rage. She's been mocking me and cheating me all my life, she thought, and now she's busy stealing my husband. She wasn't yet sure what form her defence was going to take, but if Joan Doyle thought she would get away with it, she promised herself, she would discover the meaning of revenge.

Perhaps it was this state of flux in her own life, but sometimes in the spring of 1534, it seemed to Margaret as if everything around her was changing. There was a sense of instability in the air.

Soon after Christmas there was a heavy fall of snow and the winter weather kept Walsh at home for most of January. In February he made several journeys into Dublin, returning each evening. The situation there, he reported, was uncertain.

"Kildare is undoubtedly sick. He's finally going to London, but the word is that he's only going because he wants to persuade King Henry to confirm his son Thomas as Lord Deputy in his place."

The week after Kildare's departure, Walsh stayed in Dublin for three days, and Margaret wondered if he was seeing Joan Doyle; but when he returned he was looking grave, and the news he brought put all other considerations out of her mind.

"It's the lease on our Church land," he told her. "You know it's up for renewal this year. I've just had Archbishop Alen's terms." He shook his head. "It seems," he added grimly, "that he won't even negotiate." The terms were crushing.

The rent was more than doubled. "And the trouble," explained Walsh, "is that as a lawyer and steward myself, I'd do the same in the archbishop's place. The land is worth what he asks." He sighed. "But he's taken away most of my profit."

For two days he considered the problem from every angle.

Then, finally, he announced, "I shall have to go to London to see Richard." He left at the start of March.

They were not the only ones affected in this way. During the coming weeks Margaret heard of several families who were being forced off their Church estates, some of them even kinsmen of Kildare himself. Under normal circumstances, even the Archbishop of Dublin would hesitate to offend the Fitzgeralds, and she wondered what this meant. Meanwhile, the news from England suggested that events there had reached a crisis.

"The Pope's excommunicated Henry." London was secure, but there were fears that there could be risings in the outer regions, especially the north and west, where the traditional loyalties were very strong. It was rumoured, even, that the Hapsburg Emperor might send an invasion from Spain. For all his arrogant bluster, the Tudor king could lose his throne if this came to pass. And then, at the end of the month, William Walsh returned. She would never forget the evening he arrived, standing in the doorway, and announced, "I have brought someone with me."

Richard. Her Richard. The same Richard, with his red hair, merry eyes, and smiling face, but taller, stronger, even more handsome than when he had left. Richard, the strapping young man, who enfolded her in his arms. If he had felt bitter disappointment at being forced to leave London and return home, he concealed it for her sake. For this, Walsh told her that night, was the conclusion he and Richard had come to when they discussed the business together in London. "We can't afford to keep him in London anymore. He'll come and live with us for a while. I can certainly help him get a start in Dublin." So he was home at last, to stay. Every cloud, she thought privately to herself, has a silver lining. And what, she wondered, was to be done with the Church estate? "I shall give it up," said Walsh. "In the meantime," he grimaced, "there'll be no new gowns for you or cloaks for me for a while."

The month of April was mainly devoted to Richard.

His father did not leave him at home to be idle. For several days he took him up into Fingal. Then they went down into Munster for ten days. He also took him into Dublin where, his father was glad to report, "He charmed all he met."

Margaret had to admire her husband's activity.

By early May, Richard seemed to know everybody.

"And who in Dublin has impressed you most?" she asked her son one evening, as they were sitting by the fire together.

"I think," he replied after a moment's thought, "perhaps the merchant, Doyle. I've never met a man who knew his business better. And of course his wife," he added cheerfully, "is lovely."

If Walsh was pleased with his son, however, the news he was hearing in Dublin caused him more concern. When the Earl of Kildare arrived in London, he had been courteously received. But in mid-May, a number of his household arrived back in Dublin with the news that his health was failing and that King Henry had abruptly deprived him of his governorship and refused to give it to his son.

Even worse: "Can you believe it," they protested, "he's sending the Gunner again." Word also came that several of the Butler clan were to have key appointments in the new administration. But perhaps the most ominous rumour was that the Butlers had given a guarantee to King Henry that they would not support any claims made in Ireland by the Pope. "That can mean only one thing," Walsh declared. "Henry believes the Spanish will invade."

What would the Fitzgeralds do? Everyone was watching young Silken Thomas and his five uncles. There had already been one furious quarrel with Archbishop Alen over the Church estates. Before May was out, the young Fitzgerald heir had been up in Ulster talking to the O'neills, and down in Munster, too. There was no sign of the Gunner yet. Would the Fitzgeralds bide their time or start stirring up the provinces right away? The measure of the danger, for Margaret, was the day late in May when her husband arrived at the house carrying an arquebus, gunpowder, and shot. "I bought the gun off a ship's captain," he explained. "Just in case."

So how was it, in the middle of all this uncertainty, that William Walsh found time and energy to pursue his affair with Joan Doyle?

Margaret could hardly believe it, yet this was what he seemed to be doing.

There had been several occasions, since his return with Richard, when she had guessed that her husband might be seeing the alderman's wife. In early May, he had gone into Dublin with Richard and then-she only discovered later-sent Richard on an errand into Fingal for two days. The same thing had happened the following week, when he had dispatched Richard to Maynooth and a nearby monastery. How could he use their own son to provide his cover, she wondered? But it was no doubt the Doyle woman who'd suggested it, she thought in disgust. If there was any doubt in her mind about what was going on, however, it was dispelled in early June.

A ship had arrived in Dublin with news that the invalid Earl of Kildare had been executed in London. The Fitzgeralds were beside themselves. "It may not be true," Walsh pointed out. He went into Dublin anyway, to find out more, taking Richard with him. Two days later, Richard appeared back at the house.

"Silken Thomas has just been summoned to London. We still don't know what's happened to Kildare," he told Margaret. "Father says you should hide anything valuable and prepare for trouble.

We may even need the arquebus." Nobody in Dublin knew what was going to happen. Even the king's men in Dublin Castle seemed in the dark, he reported. "I told Father he should discuss the situation with Doyle," Richard went on confidently. "He's got the best judgement. But we can't," he said regretfully, "because he's away in Waterford all this week."

"Away all week?" Without meaning to, she allowed her voice to rise almost to a shriek. He looked at her, surprised.

"Yes. What of it?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Nothing." So that was it.

She saw their game. It had all been arranged.

The Doyle woman had known her husband would be away. Joan Doyle had made a fool of her yet again, and sent her own unsuspecting son to her with the message. What was she supposed to do? Send Richard back? Risk his discovering the truth? The woman's evil cunning passed belief. But still nothing had prepared her for what came next.

"I'll tell you a strange coincidence, by the way," Richard said. "Father and I found out this morning." He smiled a little sadly. "Do you know who just took up the lease on that Church land we surrendered? Alderman Doyle. Still," he added philosophically, "I suppose he can afford it."

Doyle? It took a moment for the full implication to sink in. But then, gradually, it seemed to Margaret that she understood. Wasn't this exactly what Joan Doyle had done before? First she had lulled her into a false security, the night of the thunderstorm, and then used the information she had so foolishly provided to strike at the family. Now she had deliberately set out to seduce William while her own husband, who was no doubt close to Archbishop Alen, stole away the Walshes' land.

Was there no limit to what she'd do to destroy them?

Poor William. She even felt sorry for her husband now. What was any man, after all, in the hands of a really determined and unscrupulous woman?

Joan Doyle had seduced and duped him just as viciously as she'd duped Margaret herself before. At that moment, she hated Joan Doyle more completely than she had ever hated any human being in her life.

She saw it all. Even now William, clever though he was, probably didn't realise that he had been betrayed. The Doyle woman would have had an explanation for everything: you could be sure of that.

He was probably making love to her at that very moment, the poor fool.

That was when Margaret knew she was going to kill her.

MacGowan was standing with Walsh and Doyle in front of the Tholsel when the business began. It was the day after Walsh had sent his son back home; Doyle had arrived from Waterford that morning. They had just been discussing the political situation when the commotion started.

It happened so fast. That was what astonished him. The first shouts from the gate that a body of men was approaching had scarcely died away before the clattering and jingling and drumming of hoofs began; and as the three men pulled back into the doorway of the Tholsel, the huge cavalcade of riders, three abreast, came past-there were so many that it took several minutes-followed by three columns of marching men-at-arms and gallowglasses. MacGowan estimated more than a thousand men. In the centre, accompanied by twelve dozen cavalry in coats of mail, rode the young Lord Thomas-not in armour but wearing a gorgeous green-and- gold silk tunic and a hat with a plume. He looked as blithe as if he were partaking in a pageant. Such was the style, the confidence, and the arrogance of the Fitzgeralds.

Arrogant it might be, yet carefully calculated, too. Having ridden through the city and then clattered over the bridge to the hall where the royal council was meeting, Silken Thomas calmly handed them the ceremonial sword of state which his father, as Lord Deputy, had in his keeping, and renounced his allegiance to King Henry. The gesture was medieval: a magnate was withdrawing his oath of loyalty to his feudal overlord. Not only was the English king losing his vassal but the Fitzgeralds were now declaring themselves free to give their allegiance to another king instead-the Holy Roman Emperor in Spain, for instance, or even the Pope. There had been nothing like it since Lord Thomas's grandfather had crowned young Lambert Simnel and sent an army to invade England nearly fifty years ago.

It only took an hour before all Dublin knew.

MacGowan spent the rest of that day with Walsh and Doyle. Though well-informed, both men had been taken by surprise at Silken Thomas's radical move, and they looked shaken. Seeing them together, MacGowan could not escape a sense of irony. The grey- haired, distinguished-looking lawyer and the dark, powerful merchant-one tied to the Fitzgeralds, the other to the Butlers-were opposites in politics; Doyle had just taken over Walsh's best land; as for Walsh's dealings with Doyle's wife, MacGowan still wasn't sure what Doyle knew about that business. Yet whatever reasons these two men might have had to fall out during all these years, here they both were, still courteous and even cordial towards each other. Until today, when young Silken Thomas, whom they hardly knew, had provoked a crisis so serious that it would probably lead to civil war. Would they now be forced into deadly opposition? Perhaps it was this same thought which caused Doyle to sigh, as they parted: "God knows what will become of us now."