Yet the remarkable feature of the next two months was how little seemed to happen. Having made this point, Silken Thomas and his troops didn't linger in Dublin. First he withdrew across the river, then sent out detachments all over the Pale. Within ten days they reported that no one was offering any resistance. The countryside was secure.

But not Dublin.

"I can't think why Fitzgerald let us do it,"

Doyle confessed to MacGowan. "Perhaps he just assumed that we wouldn't dare." But while the Fitzgerald troops were busy securing the countryside, the city fathers quietly closed all the Dublin gates. "It's a gamble," Doyle confessed, "but we're betting on the English king." were they right? It wasn't long before news came back that the Earl of Kildare was still alive. He hadn't been executed, although as soon as King Henry had heard of the revolt he had put the earl in the Tower. MacGowan suspected the earl probably approved of his son's actions.

Kildare was a dying man, but King Henry was clearly rattled. His officials at court were denying that there was any trouble in Ireland at all. As for the Gunner, who should have been rushing to Ireland with troops and artillery, he was showing no sign of wanting to take up his post at all. Meanwhile, a Spanish envoy had arrived, given Lord Thomas supplies of gunpowder and shot, and told him that Spanish troops would follow. This was exciting news indeed. If people had suspected his declaration in Dublin had just been a bluff, the usual Fitzgerald troublemaking to force King Henry to restore them to office again, the news from Spain put matters in a different light.

"With Spanish troops," young Lord Thomas told his friends, "I can remove Ireland from King Henry by force." And soon afterwards he issued a startling proclamation. "The English are no longer wanted in Ireland. They must get out." Who was English?

"Anyone not born here," Fitzgerald declared. That meant King Henry's men. Everyone could agree about that. Archbishop Alen of Dublin and the other royal servants hastily locked themselves up in Dublin Castle. In a fine gesture, Silken Thomas even turned out his young English wife and sent her back to England, too.

And if many people had been sympathetic to Lord Thomas's cause, during the summer their feelings were strengthened by events in England. All Christendom knew that King Henry had been excommunicated.

Spain was talking of invasion; even the cynical King of France thought Henry a fool. But now, in the summer of 1534, the Tudor king went further. Brave men like Thomas More had refused to support his claims to make himself, in effect, the English pope; now, when the English order of friars likewise refused, Henry closed their houses and started throwing them into prison. The holy friars: the men most loved and revered in Ireland, inside and outside the Pale. It was an outrage.

No wonder then that Silken Thomas now declared to the Irish people that his revolt was in defence of the true Church as well. Envoys were sent with this message to the Hapsburg Emperor and to the Holy Father.

"My ancestors came to Ireland to defend the true faith," Fitzgerald declared, "in the service of an English king. Now we must fight against an English king to preserve it."

At the end of July, Archbishop Alen made a run for it and tried to jump on a ship leaving Ireland. Some of Fitzgerald's men caught him, there was a skirmish, and the archbishop was killed. But nobody was shocked. He was only a royal servant wearing a bishop's mitre. The friars were holy men.

As August began, it seemed to MacGowan that young Silken Thomas might get away with it. The city was in a curious mood. The gates were closed by the council's orders, but since Fitzgerald was out at Maynooth and his troops widely scattered, the small doors in the gates were open for people to pass in and out, and life was proceeding almost as normal.

MacGowan had just been on his way to visit Tidy in his gatehouse when he chanced to meet Alderman Doyle in the street, and pausing to talk, expressed the opinion that Dublin would soon be forced to welcome Lord Thomas with his Spanish troops as its new ruler. But Doyle shook his head.

"The Spanish troops will be promised, but they will never arrive. The Emperor will gladly embarrass Henry Tudor, but open war with England would cost him too much. Lord Thomas will have to manage alone.

He'll be weakened also by the fact that the Butlers are already using this opportunity to get favours from Henry. Fitzgerald may be stronger than the Butlers, but they can undermine him."

"Yet King Henry has difficulties of his own,"

MacGowan pointed out. "Perhaps he can't afford to subdue Lord Thomas. He's done nothing so far, after all."

"It may take time," Doyle replied, "but in the end Henry will crush him. There's no doubt in my mind. He'll fight, and he will never give up. For two reasons. The first is that Lord Thomas has made a fool of him in the eyes of all the world. And Henry is deeply vain. He will never rest until he has destroyed him. The second is more profound. Henry Tudor now faces the same challenge that Henry Plantagenet faced nearly four centuries ago when Strongbow came to Ireland. One of his vassals is threatening to set up a kingdom of his own just across the western sea. Worse, it would become the platform for any power like France or Spain which wishes to oppose him.

He cannot allow that to happen."

It was clear to Eva that Silken Thomas had given her husband a new lease on life. Sean O'Byrne had been slowing up a bit in the last year or two. But since the revolt began, he'd been looking ten years younger. Almost like a boy. The chance of action, a fight, excitement, and even danger-she supposed that the need for these things was as deeply ingrained in her husband's nature as the need to have children was in hers. It was the thrill of the chase. Most men were the same, in her opinion-at least, the best ones were.

Sean O'Byrne wasn't alone. The excitement had spread throughout the communities in the Wicklow Mountains-a sense that something was going to change. No one could quite say what. The rule of the Fitzgeralds wasn't so light. The O'Byrnes and other clans like them had no illusions that they would be allowed to sweep down into the Pale and kick the Walshes and the rest of the gentry off their ancient lands. But once the English king was removed from the scene, a new freedom of some kind would inevitably be born.

If the Fitzgeralds and the Walshes had been English Irish up to now, henceforth they would be Irish, and so would Ireland.

Sean had thrown himself into the business with gusto. There was plenty to do. He'd been out on several patrols down into the southern Pale, ensuring that the country was solid for the Fitzgeralds. As an O'Byrne, with a Fitzgerald for a foster son, no less, Sean was highly trusted, and this gave him pleasure.

He'd taken his sons and young Maurice with him.

Eva had been a little nervous seeing them go, but there hadn't been any trouble. Soon, Sean believed, there would be a big raid down into Butler territory. "Just to make sure they keep quiet," he told her cheerfully. She wasn't certain what she felt about that. Would he be taking the boys?

Her boys: she didn't count Seamus as a boy anymore. He was a family man with his own children now. He'd enlarged the house where the Brennans had lived and built up a cattle herd nearly half the size of his father's. But Fintan and Maurice were still her boys.

Some children will look like one parent for a few years, and then come to resemble the other. But not Fintan. He still looked so like her it was absurd. "Could you not have let him take after me in some respect?" Sean had jokingly chided her once. "He is like you.

He's wonderful with the cattle," she replied. "But so are you," he had pointed out, with a laugh.

Fintan's hair was as fair as it had been when he was a child, his broad face still broke easily into an innocent smile. He had the same sweet nature. And Maurice, too, was still the same boy, handsome and thoughtful, his fine eyes looking distant and melancholy sometimes. "A poetic spirit," as Father Donal would say. There had been moments when she had felt almost guilty, half afraid that she loved him as much as her own son; but then a glance into Fintan's blue eyes would remind her, with a little rush of warmth, that however dear Maurice was to her, it was Fintan who was her own flesh and blood, to whom she had given birth, who was her true son.

It made her smile to watch the two boys together.

They were getting so manly-bursting with energy, still a little shy, yet so proud of themselves. She would see the two of them walking together, Maurice slim and dark, somewhat taller, and fair Fintan, as squarely built as a young ox now, sharing their private jokes together; in the evenings, sometimes, Maurice would play the harp, her husband would join him on the fiddle, and Fintan, who had a pleasant voice, would sing.

Those were the best times of all.

The patrol in early August was routine. The previous patrols had toured the areas where some trouble might have been anticipated; now it had been decided to go to the houses of even the Fitzgerald supporters. For Lord Thomas wanted to try out a new oath of loyalty; and Sean O'Byrne had been given quite a broad area to cover. Eva couldn't say why she should have had a sense of unease about this patrol. There was no reason to expect any trouble.

All the men were going: Seamus had come up from his house, Maurice and Fintan were ready to go. But just before they set off, she called out to Sean, "Are you taking all my men away?" And giving him a little look, "Am I to be left alone?"

He glanced at her and seemed to guess her feelings. He decided to be kind.

"Which one will you keep?"

"Fintan," she said, after a moment's hesitation, and regretted it immediately. She saw his face fall.

"But Fathera" he began.

"Don't argue," said Sean. "You'll stay with your mother."

And I shall be blamed, Eva thought sadly; but she didn't change her mind, though her heart went out to her son as he came and stood by her side, doing his best to smile at her affectionately. As the party drew away, she put her arm round him.

"Thank you for staying with me," she said.

Margaret Walsh was already standing outside her door with her husband when the patrol arrived. There were a dozen riders. The Walsh estate was the third that O'Byrne and his men had come to.

So this was Sean O'Byrne who was such a devil with the women. She took a good look at him. He was a dark, handsome fellow certainly. She could see that.

There was some grey in his hair now, but he looked lean and fit. She saw his vanity and did not dislike it, though she didn't think she was attracted to him as he greeted William and herself with cool politeness.

To Walsh's offer that they should all come in for refreshment, he answered that it was only himself and two of the other men who need detain him inside for a few moments and so, without more ado, Walsh was obliged to go in with them to the big oak table in the hall where, with an official air, Sean O'Byrne took out a little book of the Gospels in Latin, and laying it on the table asked William to kindly place his hand upon it.

"Is it an oath you're wanting?" Walsh enquired.

"It is," O'Byrne replied easily.

"And what kind of an oath should that be?" asked Walsh.

"Of loyalty to Lord Thomas."

"Of loyalty?" Walsh's face clouded. "I hardly think," he said with some feeling, and drawing himself up to his full height, "that Lord Thomas would wish to compel an oath from me who has so freely given his loyalty to his father the earl all these years." He gave O'Byrne a look of gentle rebuke. "You offend me," he said with quiet dignity.

"There is no compulsion."

"You come here with armed men."

"I will tell the Lord Thomas that you gave the oath freely," O'Byrne answered smoothly, "if that will satisfy you."

It did not seem to satisfy Walsh, for he looked seriously displeased. Going to the door, he asked his wife to call all the men into the hall at once, and stood by the door until they were assembled. Then with a glare at O'Byrne, he went swiftly to the table, slammed down his hand upon the Gospels and declared: "I swear on the Gospel the same love, respect, and loyalty to the Lord Thomas Fitzgerald that I have always given, and still give, to his father the Earl of Kildare." He picked up the Gospels and handed them back to O'Byrne with finality. "I have sworn, which given my known affections I should never have been asked to do. But I swear gladly all the same. And now," he added with some coldness, "I bid you good day." He indicated with a brief bow that he wished O'Byrne to leave.

"It's not enough," said Sean O'Byrne.

"Not enough?" It was not often that William Walsh became angry, but it seemed that this was about to happen. Some of O'Byrne's men were looking awkward. "Have you come here to insult me?" he cried.

"I have sworn. I will swear no more. If the Lord Thomas doubts my loyalty-which he does not-then let him come here and say it to my face. I have done." Andwitha furious expression he started to stalk out of the hall.

But O'Byrne placed himself before the door.

"The oath requires that you swear loyalty to Lord Thomas," he said evenly, "and also to the Holy Father, and also to the Holy Roman Emperor Charles of Spain."

This triad had been carefully devised. Once you had sworn to it, there could be no going back to the English king. As far as King Henry VIII was concerned, once you had given that oath you had sworn to treason, for which the fearful penalty was to be hung, drawn, and quartered. For those who understood its implications, the oath was awesome in its finality.

But Walsh was so heated now that he was scarcely listening.

"I'll swear no more," he shouted. "Let the Lord Thomas come here with a thousand men and I'll offer him my own head to cut off if he doubts me. But I'll not be treated like a villain by you, O'Byrne." He gave the man from the Wicklow Mountains a look of contempt, while he himself had gone red in the face. "To you I'll swear nothing.

Now leave my house," he shouted in fury.

But Sean O'Byrne did not move. He drew his sword.

"I have already killed men better than you, Walsh," he stated dangerously, "and burned down houses bigger than this," he added, with a glance towards Margaret. "So," he concluded softly, "you have your choice."

There was a pause. Walsh stood very still. Margaret watched him anxiously. Nobody said a word.

"I do it," Walsh said, with infinite disgust, "at sword point. You are witnesses," he looked round the men gathered there, "at how I have been treated by this man."

Moments later, at the table, O'Byrne administered the oath, and Walsh, looking dignified and contemptuous, with his hand on the Gospels, repeated the words tonelessly. Then the patrol left.

It was not until they were safely out of sight that Walsh spoke.

"I'm glad Richard was down in Dublin today," he remarked. "I hope he won't have to take that oath."

"I was afraid for a moment that you wouldn't," said Margaret.

"I was trying not to," her husband explained. "The oath I swore voluntarily, to support Lord Thomas as I had his father, was harmless enough.

Kildare, after all, was the king's deputy in Ireland. But I'd already heard about this new oath of theirs, and I knew what a terrible thing it was. The reference to the Emperor is the worst part. It's treason pure and simple." He shook his head.

"If he wasn't going to let me get out of it, then I had to have witnesses that it was extracted from me under compulsion. That's why I called everybody in. It's not a complete defence, but if things go badly for Lord Thomas, it might save my neck."

Margaret looked at her husband with admiration.

"I didn't realise that was what you were doing," she said. "You act very well."

"Don't forget," he said with a smile, "that I'm a lawyer."

"But do you really think that Lord Thomas will fail?" she asked.

"When the Fitzgeralds fight the Butlers it's one thing," he replied. "But when they make war on the King of England it's another. We'll have to see how it turns out."

That night, as she fell asleep, Margaret found two sets of images coming into her mind. The first was of Sean O'Byrne with his sword, threatening her husband who, she realised, was the finer and cleverer man. The second was of her brother as she imagined he might have looked, sword in hand, as he went into battle against the Tudor King of England. She slept badly after that.

If Tidy had supposed that finding the new accommodation in the tower might bring greater harmony to his family, by that August he decided that it was the worst thing he had ever done in his life.

In early August, Silken Thomas returned to Dublin, to find the gates closed. He demanded admittance. The mayor and aldermen refused. He told them he would attack, but they weren't impressed. So Silken Thomas had to sit outside the walls.

The siege of Dublin that followed was a desultory affair. Fitzgerald hadn't enough troops to rush the walls. He burned some houses in the suburbs, but it did no good. And even if he had been able to cut off all the supplies to the city, the aldermen had already seen to it that there were enough provisions within the walls to last for months. Young Lord Thomas could only make a show of force from time to time and hope to frighten the Dubliners into changing their minds. And this was what he was doing one morning in August when Alderman Doyle came across to inspect the defences at the western gate.

The instructions to the guards at the western gate were simple. The gate itself was double barred. They were not to provoke Fitzgerald and his men, but if attacked, they were to respond with arquebus and bows from the battlements. Just before Doyle arrived, Tidy had seen from one of the tower windows that Lord Thomas and about a hundred horsemen were approaching the gate, and he had gone down to make sure the sentries were aware. As a result, he found himself standing beside the alderman on one side of the gate as Lord Thomas reached the other, and heard quite clearly as the young lord called out to anyone on the battlements or behind the gate who could hear, that if they did not soon open the city to him, he would be forced to bring up his cannon.

"Even with what the Spanish envoy gave him, and his own supplies," Doyle calmly pointed out to the men standing round, "I know for a fact that he hasn't enough powder and shot to take the city. It's an empty threat." And it seemed that Fitzgerald was to get no reply at all, when suddenly another voice was heard. It came from a window somewhere up in the tower.

"Is that the Lord Thomas himself?" A woman's voice, calling down. It was followed by a pause, and the sound of horses wheeling about. Perhaps Fitzgerald's men thought someone was going to take aim at him. But Tidy knew better. He froze.

The voice belonged to Cecily. A moment later, to his even greater astonishment, the aristocrat replied, "It is."

Was it true, Cecily called down, that he would defend the Holy Church against the heretic Henry?

It was. He didn't deny the Mass? Certainly not. But now Tidy thought he could hear a trace of humour in Fitzgerald's voice when he asked if she was the woman who had cursed King Henry at Corpus Christi last. She was, she replied, and she'd curse Lord Thomas and his friends, too, if they denied the Mass.

"No friends of mine, I promise," he cried. And why was he being kept out of Dublin, he demanded genially. Was he not welcome?

"You'll be welcomed by all except a few heretic aldermen," she called down, "who need to learn a lesson."

Until this moment, Tidy had been so surprised that he hadn't moved. He'd known how Cecily felt, of course. As the events of that spring had unfolded, she had told him just what she thought of the excommunicated English king. But he had begged her to keep her thoughts private within the home, and though she had seemed rather moody of late it had never occurred to him that she would do anything like this. He glanced at Doyle, his best patron, who had just been called a heretic. The alderman's face was growing dark.

He raced into the tower and up the spiral stairs.

Breathless, he burst into the upper room from which Cecily was calling down to Lord Thomas's men that they'd find a warm welcome if they broke down the gate, and dragged her away from the window. She struggled, and he struck her, once in anger and the second time in fear- because he thought she might start again-much harder, so that she fell, bleeding, to the floor. Hardly caring, he dragged her to the door and down the stairs to the lower chamber where there was no window that looked out from the wall. Then he locked her in there and went down to the gate again to apologise to Doyle. But the alderman had gone.

Cecily did not speak to her husband very much in the days that followed. They both understood what had happened; there was nothing to say. In front of their children and the apprentice they were quietly civil; when alone, silent. If either was waiting for the other to apologise, the wait seemed to be in vain. Nor did matters improve.

A little later in the month of August, Silken Thomas decided to send a party to raid the farms in Fingal. For the task he chose a contingent of Wicklow men led by the O'Tooles. When the Irish cattlemen got out of hand, burning down and plundering the rich Fingal farms, a large column of Dubliners, many of whom had property up there, broke out of the city and raced northwards to the Fingal farmers' aid.

Cecily saw them returning from the tower. They were streaming across the bridge. She could tell from the way they rode that they were fleeing, and as they crossed the bridge she could see that many were wounded. It was an hour later that Tidy came back to the house with the awful news.

"There were eighty men killed." His face was pale as he stared at her solemnly. "Eighty."

She watched him quietly. She knew this was the moment for her to say something, to express the sympathy that might break the barrier between them. She knew it, but found that she could not.