The thunder of hoofs began quite suddenly. It seemed to be coming from two places at the same time, so that the raiding party paused for a moment in confusion, looking from one side to the other. Then, gazing in horror, they saw what it was.

The two herds of cattle came round the tower house from both sides. They were already running hard, and as the two bodies came round the tower and converged, they became a single mass of horned heads, the riders behind them whooping, shouting, and cracking whips so that they broke into a stampede.

One, two, three hundred cattle were pounding and thundering down the shallow slope, a great wall of horns, a huge weight, ten, a dozen beasts deep, bearing down upon the raiders unstoppably.

The men looked for an escape. There was nowhere to go.

The great herd filled the whole space between the trees and the wall, and in any case, there was no time to reach either of these. They turned to flee, but the cattle were already upon them. There was a crack, a crash, a terrible roar.

From where she was riding, by the line of trees, Eva saw the moving wall of cattle smash into the men.

She saw a sword fly up into the air, heard a shout and a horse scream; and then, only the flowing banks of the cattle, like a river in spate. Behind her, also mounted, she could hear the old bard, whooping and laughing, as excited as a boy; across on the other side near the wall, his face tensely concentrated, his cheeks lightly flushed, she could see Maurice riding in amongst the herd. How handsome he looked, how fearless. Just for an instant she realised that she was half in love with him. Perhaps in all the heat and excitement she had become a young woman again herself, but in the magnificent illusion of the moment, it seemed to her that the young aristocrat was what her own husband might have been, in the years of their youth, if he'd been finer.

The cattle had passed over the attackers now, and were spilling down the slope below. Maurice was working his way round, skilfully turning them. Behind, where the raiding party had been, was a scene of carnage.

If the horsemen had been quicker, if they had not hesitated, they might have survived by wheeling round and running with the herd.

Several had tried, but too late, and had collided either with each other or the foot soldiers. Three had started to run, but not fast enough. The great engine of the herd had either smashed into the horses or overtaken them from behind, borne them down and then trampled them into the earth. The destruction of the men on foot had been even more complete. It made no difference whether they were horsemen, kerne, or the mighty gallowglasses: the herd had passed over them all.

Arms, legs, skulls, and breastbones had been cracked and crushed; their bodies mangled or pulped. The great axes of the gallowglasses lay with cracked shafts, their heads useless.

For this was the ancient stampeding of the cattle, an Irish battle tactic as old as the hills.

Though Eva had only seen it done once, when she was a child, it was not something you could ever forget; and as every person at Rathconan, from herself down to Seamus's youngest child, was adept at driving cattle, it had not been too difficult for them, few though they were, to stampede and drive a herd of three hundred.

Seamus's wife was coming across now. She'd been driving them from behind. The women from the house arrived, too. They surveyed the wreckage. A number of the men were already dead. Others lay groaning. One of the big mercenaries was even trying to get up. The women knew what to do. At a nod from Eva they took out their knives and went from one man to another, slitting their throats. Eva dismounted and did the same for the unfortunate horses. It was a bloody business, but she felt triumphant; she had saved them all.

And as Maurice came back, just as she was finishing, he too gave her a look of triumph, love, and joy.

Sean O'Byrne took his time. They had rested for some hours once they had got back into the safety of the hills. They had not been followed. There was no reason to hurry. It was a little before dawn when they set out to cross the mountains with their burden.

The ambush had been well prepared. Before dusk he had found the place he was looking for. The men had been carefully placed. He and Fintan were to go in and make straight for the Doyle woman while the rest of the party, led by Seamus, drove off her escorts.

Though all his men were armed, he had told them to use the flats of their swords unless they encountered serious opposition. With luck they could accomplish the business without having to kill anybody. In particular he was concerned about MacGowan. Walsh's wife had been certain that the grey merchant would be escorting Dame Doyle to Dalkey, and O'Byrne couldn't imagine him giving her up without a fight. He liked MacGowan and would be sorry to harm him, but there wasn't much he could do about it. The game had to be played; the rest was up to fate.

The only other problem might be in seeing her. There was a half- moon, however. That should give enough light.

He had waited, therefore, in reasonable confidence with Fintan close beside him.

Darkness had fallen. The moon gave a soft light on the road as it wound between the trees. If she had left the castle at nightfall, assuming the party rode at a reasonable speed, he had estimated when they should get there; but the time passed and there was still no sign of them. He waited patiently all the same. The Walsh woman had seemed clear enough. They might have been delayed. An hour passed, and he was beginning to have doubts, when he heard something. Footfalls. Quite a number of them. That was strange. He'd assumed the party would be on horseback. He hissed to his men to be ready.

He could hear them mounting. He felt his own body tense in expectancy. Then in the moonlight he saw the party coming round the bend.

There were only two riders: MacGowan and the woman rode in front. Behind them, however, marched twenty men on foot. They were a mixed collection: armed townsmen, regular soldiers; even Brennan, armed with a long pike, had been brought in from Doyle's new estate. But it was the eight men marching at the front who caught O'Byrne's attention. He stared in disbelief. Gallowglasses. Their huge axes and swords were carried sloped over their shoulders.

MacGowan must have hired them. He cursed under his breath and hesitated.

Should they still attack? Their numbers might be roughly even, but the gallowglasses were each worth two or three of his own untrained men. He didn't like the risk.

He felt a nudge at his side. Fintan.

"Aren't we going?" the boy whispered.

"Gallowglasses," he hissed back.

"But they're on foot. We can ride in and out and they'll never catch us." It sounded so reasonable.

He saw exactly what his son was thinking. But Fintan didn't understand. He shook his head.

JN-O.

"But, Fathera" There was a hint not just of disappointment but even of reproach. How could his father be such a coward? "Watch."

Sean couldn't believe it. Fintan was kicking his horse forward, breaking out of their cover, racing towards the soldiers in the moonlight. Thinking the signal had been given, Seamus and the rest of his men were racing out, too. MacGowan and the woman had stopped. The gallowglasses were moving swiftly round them in a protective ring. It was too late now. There was nothing he could do but go forward himself. He dashed towards the gallowglasses to help his son.

Perhaps, after all, the boy was right.

1.

It had only been hours ago, yet already, such is the strangeness of battle, their fight with the gallowglasses seemed an age away, as if it had taken place in another world. It was not even the fight that he remembered but, just after he had knocked MacGowan off his horse, the sight of Fintan reaching out his arms to try and grasp the Doyle woman, and then the feel of the boy brushing close beside him as they all raced away. They'd left four men on the road with the gallowglasses, but that couldn't be helped. Even in the moonlight he could see from their wounds that they were dead or dying already. He remembered the dash up the slope with the voices of the gallowglasses hurling curses from far behind, and then Seamus coming beside him and laughing in a friendly way at Fintan for the boy's wild bravery.

Then Fintan fainting.

The stars were beginning to fade as they left the dark outlines of the mountaintops behind them and began the slow descent towards Rathconan.

And the sun was already rising over the eastern sea, its fierce light flashing up the slopes and into the crevices of the Wicklow Mountains, when Sean O'Byrne and his party came in sight of the house.

Long before they reached it, Eva and Maurice and old Father Donal were coming out to meet them, their faces smiling broadly until they saw that they brought with them no trophy, no captive, but only their burden, wrapped tightly in a blanket and tied to his horse: Fintan, who had bled to death on the mountainside from the huge wound, which Sean had failed to see, made as it happened, not by the great two-handed sword of a gallowglass, but by Brennan's long spear which, like a dark spike, had pierced Fintan's ribs as he reached for Joan Doyle.

Late that morning, Margaret rode out to the meeting place up in the hills, where Sean O'Byrne had told her he would come to give her news of the previous night's expedition. She waited there half the afternoon, but he never came. She was almost tempted to ride down to Rathconan, but decided it would be too great a risk. By evening she was glad that she had not.

Richard Walsh had gone into Dublin alone that morning. He returned in the evening with a report that Dame Doyle had been attacked near Dalkey.

"But luckily," he added, "she escaped." Four of the assailants had been killed. "It seems they came from up near Rathconan. They say Sean O'Byrne was involved." MacGowan had been knocked off his horse, but was not much hurt.

"You say Dame Doyle is safe in Dalkey now?" asked Margaret.

"She is, thank God."

"What will they do about O'Byrne?" she enquired.

"Nothing, I should say. Doyle's shut up in the castle. Lord Thomas doesn't care. And O'Byrne's boys had the worst of it anyway."

There hadn't seemed much point in going to see O'Byrne after that.

It was a few days later that MacGowan arrived at the house. As always, the lawyer was glad to see him, remarking cheerfully that the grey merchant looked none the worse for his recent encounter. And MacGowan seemed grateful to rest inside and take a little wine. He appeared tired as they sat down in the hall.

"It's on account of the other night that I've just come from Sean O'Byrne's," he said wearily. "For I was at the wake for his son."

"His son?" Margaret looked up in surprise.

"He lost a son?"

"He did. Fintan. The other night. A sad wake it was. A terrible thing."

"Ba" she gazed at him in astonishment as she considered the implications of this news. "It must have been the men you hired that killed him."

"There is not a doubt of it."

"I'm surprised you went to the wake," she said.

"I went to his wake out of my respect for his father," MacGowan quietly replied. "His death was no fault of mine, and the O'Byrnes know that.

What's done is done."

She was silent. MacGowan closed his eyes.

"Did he tell you how it was he came to know of Dame Doyle's going to Dalkey?" asked Walsh. "That is the thing that puzzles me."

"He did not." MacGowan's eyes were still closed.

"Nothing's a secret in Dublin, I know," the lawyer remarked. "I had to conclude that when I asked for the safe-conduct, one of the men around Lord Thomas must have set up the ambush."

"They would know Sean O'Byrne," agreed MacGowan, apparently still seeking sleep; and neither man spoke for a moment or two. "Whoever carried the information," he continued quietly, "has the death of young Fintan O'Byrne on their conscience." And now he opened one eye. And with it he stared straight at Margaret.

Margaret gazed back. His eye remained fixed upon her. It seemed so large, so accusing, so all-knowing.

What did he know? How much had the clever merchant guessed? Had O'Byrne said something? If he did know, did he mean to tell her husband, or the Doyles? She tried to keep calm, to give nothing away. But she felt only a cold, awful dread.

Her gaze fell. She could not, any longer, look at that terrible eye.

Slowly MacGowan rose.

"I must be on my way," he announced. "I thank you," he said to Walsh, "for your hospitality." To Margaret he said not another word.

She wasn't sorry to see him go.

But if she thought that her tribulation was at an end with his departure, she was wrong.

It was about an hour later, after attending to some business, that her husband came into the hall to find her sitting alone. As she had been brooding about the uncomfortable interview with MacGowan, she was grateful to have someone to distract her thoughts and turned to him with a hopeful smile as he sat down in the heavy oak chair by the table. He seemed to have something on his mind also, since he paused thoughtfully before he began.

"It's as well, you know, that no harm came to Joan Doyle the other night. For us as a family, I mean."

"Oh?" She felt a little catch in her breath, to hear him bring the subject of Joan Doyle up like that. "Why?"

"Becausea" he hesitated a moment, "there is something I never told you."

So, it was coming at last. She felt a coldness, a sinking sensation. Did she want to hear it? Half of her wanted to stop him. Her throat was dry.

"What?"

"On Corpus Christi day, last year, I borrowed a large sum of money from her."

"On Corpus Christi?" She stared at him.

"Yes. You may recall," he went on quickly, "that Richard had caused us great expense in London. I was embarrassed for money, worried.

More worried than I wanted you to know. It was our friend MacGowan, seeing me looking rather glum in Dublin one day, who suggested she might be able to help me.

So I went to see her for a loan."

"She makes loans herself? Without her husband?"

"She does. You know our Dublin women have more freedom than even the London women do. I discovered she makes quite a few. She usually consults the alderman but not always. In my case, because I felt embarrassed, she lent me the money privately. There's a written agreement, of course, properly drawn up, but so far as I know it's private between myself and Dame Doyle." He paused. Then he gave a small laugh. "Do you know why she made the loan? She remembered Richard. That time she took shelter at this house.

"He's a sweet boy," she said. "He must be helped." And she gave me the money. On very easy terms as well."

"On Corpus Christi day?"

"I went to see her. She was quite alone, apart from an old servant. The rest of the house had gone to see the plays. And she gave me the money there and then."

"When will it have to be repaid?"

"It was due after a year. I thought I could manage it. But after we lost the Church estatea She's given me another three years. Generous terms."

"But it's her husband who got our land."

"I know. "Your loss has been our gain," she said to me. "I can hardly refuse to extend your loan after that, can I?"' was He shook his head. "She has treated us-me, if you like-uncommonly well. My crime, Margaret, is that because I was ashamed, I concealed it from you. If she had been killed the other night, the loan document would have been found in her papers, and Doyle might have come after the money. I don't know." He sighed. "Anyway, it was time I told you. Can you forgive me?"

Margaret gazed at him. Was this the whole truth?

She had no doubt about the loan. If her husband said there was a loan, then there was one. The story about Corpus Christi was probably true, also. But was there more to it than her kindness and her liking for Richard?

Wasn't there still something between this woman, who had always despised her, and her husband?

For if there was not, then she had sent Sean O'Byrne to attack her, and caused the death of his boy for nothing. Nothing at all.

"Dear God," she said, in sudden doubt. "Oh dear God."

For Cecily, the month of September brought a new and awkward decision. Two days after MacGowan's return from Fintan O'Byrne's wake, the city changed its mind. Perhaps it was the increasingly urgent news that an English army was about to arrive, or that the citizens were tired of billeting Fitzgerald's troops, or a perception amongst the council members that Silken Thomas's rule lacked conviction; but whatever the reasons, the city turned.

The first Cecily knew was when one of the children ran up the tower stairs looking frightened. Then she heard bangs and shouts in the street. Looking out, she saw a party of Fitzgerald's gallowglasses beating a hasty retreat through the western gateway. And close behind them followed a huge angry tide of people armed with spears, swords, axes, staves-whatever they could get their hands on- flooding out through the gate. They caught and killed dozens of Fitzgerald's men.