"I didn't mean to intrude upon your family," he said to Dame Doyle politely. "I only came to leave with you what was owed," and he passed to her a small bag of coins. "I can return another time."

"Not at all." Joan Doyle took it with a kindly smile. "I shan't need to check it," she remarked.

"I hear you're holding everything together while your father and I get through this session of Parliament," Doyle remarked with a friendly nod; and Richard was grateful for this implication that the rich alderman and his father were on collegial terms. "He speaks well of you," he added.

It seemed to Richard that the alderman's son, despite these encouraging words, was looking at him without much respect; the daughter Mary was watching him also, but he couldn't tell what she was thinking. It was the youngest girl-she might have been thirteen, he supposed-who giggled.

He looked at her enquiringly.

"You're all dirty." And she pointed.

He hadn't seen the great dirt mark he had collected down one side of his sleeve. He also noticed that the cuff was frayed. He might have blushed. But fortunately the years in London as a fashionable fellow now came to his aid.

He burst out laughing.

"So I am. I hadn't noticed." He glanced at Doyle. "This is what comes of working in the Christ Church records. I hope," he turned to Joan Doyle, "that I haven't been dropping dust all over your house."

"I don't expect you have."

"It has to be said, Richard," Doyle's tone might have been used to a member of his own family, "that you need some new clothes."

"I know," Richard answered him frankly. "It's true. I suppose that until our affairs are in a better state, I'm putting it off as long as I can." He turned to the girl who had giggled and gave her a charming smile. "And when I get a nice new tunic, you may be sure I'll come straight and show it to you."

Doyle nodded, but apparently bored by the subject of clothes, now cut in.

"You mean to make your fortune, Richard?"

"I do. If I can."

"A lawyer like yourself can do well enough in Dublin,"

Doyle remarked, "but there's more money in trade.

A legal training can be useful in trade."

"I know, and I considered it; but I've no means of starting in that line. I must work with the assets I have."

Doyle nodded briefly, and the interview was over.

Richard bowed politely to them all and turned to go.

Just as he reached the door, he heard Joan Doyle.

"You've wonderful hair," she said.

He was already out in Skinners Row when Mary Doyle spoke. caret She was quite a handsome girl, with her mother's Spanish looks and her father's hard, intelligent eyes.

"He was at the Inns of Court?" She addressed her father. He was.

"Is he a Walsh of Carrickmines?"

"A branch of them, yes." He gazed at her.

"Why?"

She looked back at him, with the same eyes.

"Just wondering."

It was early in the year 1538 that MacGowan, chatting to Alderman Doyle one afternoon, was rather surprised when the rich merchant turned to him and asked him what he thought of young Richard Walsh.

"It seems," he confessed, "that my daughter Mary's interested in him."

MacGowan considered. He thought of all that he knew of the parties concerned. He thought of the O'Byrne business, and of the strange figure who had come to Rathconan. O'Byrne had refused to tell him who it was. If O'Byrne wouldn't tell him, MacGowan reckoned, he wouldn't be telling anybody. But then he already knew. The idea had occurred to him as soon as the attack had begun. Apart from a few people around Silken Thomas, no one else could have known of Joan Doyle's journey. And when, on the way back from poor Fintan's wake, he had learned that Margaret had ridden out early that fatal day, he had been certain.

He wasn't sure why she'd done such a thing, but it had to be the Walsh woman. And hadn't he seen it all in her face when he had stared at her: fear, guilt, terror?

Could he prove it? Would any purpose be served if he could? Would it do his friend Doyle any good to know such a thing? No, he did not think it would. There were some secrets that were so dark they were better left at rest, under the hills. Let Margaret Walsh fear him and be grateful for his silence. That had always been his power: to know secrets.

"I've heard nothing against young Richard Walsh at all," he answered with perfect truth.

"Everyone seems to like him." He looked at Doyle curiously. "I'd have thought that you might be looking for a rich young gentleman. A girl like Mary-why, she's even got the freedom of the city-would be a fine match for any family in Fingal."

Doyle grunted. "I thought of that, too. The trouble is," and here the merchant sighed with a lifetime of experience, "rich young gentlemen don't usually want to work."

"Ah," MacGowan acknowledged quietly, "this is true."

When, in the summer of 1538, her son Richard asked her to call upon Joan Doyle, Margaret experienced a moment of panic. To enter the big Dublin house, to find herself face-to-face with the woman whose daughter Richard was about to marry-and she still has no idea, she thought, that I tried to kill her.

How could she sit there and look the woman in the eye?

"She keeps asking when you're coming to see her,"

Richard reported. "She'll think it very rude if you don't."

And so, inwardly quaking, on a warm summer day, Margaret Walsh found herself entering through the heavy street door whose lineaments she remembered so well, to find herself moments later sitting comfortably in the parlour, alone with the wealthy little woman who thought she was her friend-and who disconcerted her even more, after embracing her warmly, by declaring with the happiest smile: "I'll tell you a secret. I always thought that this would happen."

"You did?" Margaret could only stare at her in confusion.

"Do you remember the time I came to you for shelter in the storm and he talked to us? I thought then: that's just the boy for Mary. And look how well he's turned out."

"I hope so. Thank you," poor Margaret stammered.

There was a pause, and hardly knowing how to fill the little silence, Margaret offered, "You were very good to us with the loan." She thanked God that at least the royal fine had all been paid off recently so that, William had told her, he would soon be able to start the repayments to the Doyle woman. At the mention of the loan, Joan positively beamed.

"It was my pleasure. As I said to your husband, "If it will help that lovely boy, that's all I need to know." was She sighed. "He has your wonderful hair."

"Ah," Margaret nodded weakly. "He does."

"And our husbands being in this Parliament together-my husband has such a high regard for yours, as you know-it has brought our two families quite close together."

For a moment Margaret wondered whether to say it was a pity they'd been on opposite sides in Silken Thomas's revolt, and then thought better of it. But one question did come into her mind.

"There was a time," she was watching the Doyle woman carefully, "when my husband had hoped to enter Parliament and was denied."

"Ah." Joan Doyle looked thoughtful. "My husband told me." She paused for only a moment.

"He told me I mustn't speak of it, but that was long ago. Did you know what happened? Some busybody down in Munster, a royal spy, put your husband under suspicion. My husband spoke up for him, you know. He was furious. He said the whole business was absurd and he'd vouch for your husband. But there was nothing he could do." She sighed.

"These men and their endless suspicions. Affairs of state are mostly foolishness. That's what I think."

Margaret was learning so much, however uncomfortable it might be to her own former understandings, that she could not help raising one other matter.

"I'm surprised all the same that you allowed your daughter to marry my son, and not a boy from one of the important families." She paused. "Like the Talbots, at Malahide."

Joan Doyle looked at her curiously.

"Now why do you mention them?" She thought for a moment.

"You told me you didn't like them, didn't you? But I never knew why."

"They weren't very kind to me when I went there," she said. "At least, the mother wasn't. I was just a girl."

"The old lady Talbot that would have been." Joan Doyle gazed at the wall behind Margaret for a few moments. "I never saw her myself. She died just before I first went to Malahide. I didn't know you'd met her. The rest of them were all very kind." Then she smiled. "You know, my daughter Mary is quite in love with your son. were you in love when you married?"

"Yes," said Margaret. "I think so."

"It's better to be in love," sighed Joan Doyle. "I know plenty of couples who aren't."

And then she smiled a contented smile. "I've been very fortunate myself. I came to love John Doyle quite slowly, but I was in love when I married, and I've been in love with him every day of my life since." She gave Margaret a look of great sweetness. "Think of that. In love every day for more than twenty years." And there could be no doubt, Margaret realised, no possible shadow of a doubt, that every word that Joan Doyle had spoken since they sat down together had been the truth. The Doyles had never informed against Walsh, she knew nothing about her humiliation by the Talbots, she had never been unfaithful to her husband. There was only one thing left to discover.

"Tell me," Margaret said, "did you know that your family and mine had had a falling out, a long time ago?" And she told her the story of the disputed inheritance.

There was no question-Joan Doyle was not an actress-her look of astonishment and of horror was not, could not have been dissembled. She had never heard of the inheritance in her life.

"This is terrible," she cried. "You mean we had your father's money?"

"Well, my father certainly believed the Butlers had it unjustly,"

Margaret corrected. "He may," she felt she had to add, "have been wrong."

"But it must have caused him terrible pain." Joan looked thoughtful again, then had an idea. "At least," she suggested, "we can cancel the loan."

"Dear God," said Margaret, in utter confusion now. "I don't know what I should say."

But Joan Doyle appeared hardly to hear her.

She seemed lost in a contemplation of her own.

Finally she stretched out her hand and touched Margaret's arm.

"You might have disliked me," she said with a smile.

"It was very good of you not to dislike me."

"Oh," said Margaret helplessly, "I could never do that."

On a raw, cold day in the middle of that winter the city of Dublin witnessed a most extraordinary scene, which drew the curious from all over the area.

When Cecily Tidy heard what was going on, she ran quickly from the western gate up toward Skinners Row. For there, in the broad precinct of the Cathedral of Christ Church, and observed by a crowd that included Alderman Doyle, a bonfire was burning. It was not to warm the poor folk of that area, to whom the monks gave food and shelter every day.

Nor was it part of any midwinter celebration. It had been gathered and lit on the orders of no less a person than George Browne, the Archbishop of Dublin who, only minutes before Cecilys arrival, had been outside to make sure that its flames were bright.

The purpose of the archbishop's fire was to burn some of the greatest treasures in Ireland.

When Cecily arrived, two small carts, accompanied by half a dozen gallowglasses, had just pulled up beside the fire. The two clerks who now began to unload them had just returned from a tour of some of the suburban churches. One of them carried a hammer and chisel. His colleague, at that moment, with the help of one of the soldiers, was manhandling a small but somewhat heavy wooden statue of the Blessed Virgin onto the fire. The statue's crime, to merit such punishment, was that it had been prayed to.

"Dear God," murmured Cecily, "are we all to be made Protestants?"

The views of Archbishop Browne of Dublin had not always been easy to follow. Appointed by King Henry, during his first year in Dublin he had done nothing. His main contribution in the last eighteen months had been to insist that his clergy should lead prayers for King Henry as Supreme Head of the Church. Browne was, after all, the king's appointed man, and the Irish Parliament had passed the necessary legislation.

"Yet the fact that legislation has been passed,"

Alderman Doyle gently informed the English bishop one day, "does not necessarily mean that anything is going to happen."

"I assure you, Sir, that when the king's will is known and his Parliament has proclaimed it, there can be no resistance of any kind," Browne had retorted.

"Orders must be obeyed."

"That may be so in England," the alderman had answered courteously, "but in Ireland you will find that matters are arranged differently. Above all," he cautioned, "do not forget that the English gentry of the Pale are very devoted to the ancient forms and customs of their faith."

And so the new archbishop had discovered. The gentry might, under the threat of fines, have passed the legislation; the clergy might even have taken a cursory oath to the king. But in practice, most of the time, nobody bothered with the royal prayer. When he protested, "My orders are not obeyed," even a fellow bishop, who knew the territory better, counselled him wisely: "I wouldn't worry about that too much, Archbishop, if I were you." But Archbishop Browne did worry. He preached the supremacy in every church he visited. And merchants like Alderman Doyle, or gentlemen like William Walsh, listened but were not impressed. He thought them sluggish or disreputable. It did not as yet occur to him that they, who were neither, thought he was rather stupid. And perhaps it was because of his growing frustration that the reforming archbishop had turned his attention that winter to a new campaign.

If there was one aspect of the Catholic faith which angered Protestants, it was the practice, as they saw it, of paganism in the ancient Church.

Saints days were celebrated, they said, like pagan festivals; relics of the saints, genuine or fake, were treated like magic charms; and the statues of saints were prayed to like heathen idols. These criticisms were not new: they had been made within the body of the Catholic Church before; but the weight of tradition was heavy, and even thoughtful, reforming Catholics might conclude that by such celebrations and venerations, properly guided, the faith could be made strong.

That King Henry VIII of England was a perfect Catholic could not be in doubt: for he said so himself. But since his Church had broken away from the Holy Father's, then it must show itself to be better in some way. The English Church, it was claimed, was Catholicism purified and reformed. And what was the nature of this reform? The truth was that nobody, least of all Henry himself, had much idea. The ordinary laity were told to be more devout, and Bibles for them to read were placed in churches. Few good Catholics found this objectionable. The practice of indulgences-time off purgatory for a payment to the Church-was clearly an abuse and was to be stopped.

And then there was the question of pagan rites, idols, and relics. were they acceptable or not? Churchmen whose reformist views had a Protestant flavour were sure these were abuses. The king, whose mind seemed to change like the wind, hadn't told them they were wrong; and so Archbishop Browne could believe that he was doing not only God's but, more importantly, the king's will when he announced, "We must cleanse the Church of all these popish superstitions."

There was quite a collection of relics in the carts.

Some, like the fragments of the cross to be found all over Christendom, might not be genuine.

An object belonging to one of the Irish saints, however, was quite likely to have been preserved down the centuries for pious veneration. Having got the statue on the fire, the two clerks were turning their attention to these. On the cart next to the pyre, amidst the reliquaries and jewelled boxes, lay a skull with a gold rim, a vessel of some kind. An English soldier had taken it from the home of an insolent apprentice with blazing green eyes. The soldier didn't know exactly what it was, but his orders were to burn anything that stank of the pagan, idolatrous past, so he'd thrown it in with the rest of the swag. The gold could be worth something, anyway. The green-eyed apprentice protested vehemently that the skull was a family heirloom and had tried to fight him for it before the soldier had drawn his sword and the young fellow reluctantly let him past.

Cecily stared in horror. If anything was needed to prove the true nature of the heretic king and his servants, surely this was it. She felt a wave of fury at their impiety and of despair at the thought of such terrible loss. She gazed at the crowd.