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stepped back. ‘All right, James,’ he said, ‘tell me. What’s it this time? Who’s the new Messiah?’ It was a shot in the dark; James’s new enthusiasms came weekly, but this was different. It was as if a portcullis had dropped between the two of them. A change was coming over James’s face. His eyes lost their sparkle and became dark and steady, like water in a bog pool reflecting light but letting nothing in. Fion recognised that look:
So there really is something going on!
He was looking into the eyes of a fanatic. He shivered. When James spoke, he sounded like someone else.
    ‘Us – us Normans,’ he said, ‘we’re not Irish, you know, we never were. We came here from England, and that’s where our allegiance must lie.’
    Fion wasn’t a proud O’Neill for nothing. Red anger obscured his sense and his vision.
Traitor!

    Sinéad was far away in her mind when the first fragments of the boys’ furious exchanges began to get through to her. Then, to her horror, she heard the challenge: ‘Choose your weapons!’
    Duelling was taboo, to her an act of folly. She wrenched herself out of her reverie. Later she would think of her return as a giddying plunge from the sky, the wind tearing at her pinions; in fact, it took no longer than it took for her to whip about and face the boys. There they stood, white-faced and rigid, Fion pointing to the hawking gauntlet that he had just thrown down at James’s feet.
    ‘Pick it up, if you dare.’
    Without taking his eyes off Fion’s face, James bent and picked up the gauntlet.
    ‘Your weapon?’ demanded Fion.
    ‘Swords, Mr O’Neill. Sharpened, naturally.’
    ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘You can’t, you won’t …’ She rushed towards them, and then faltered as if she had hit a wall. For the first time ever, she felt truly frightened of them. ‘Oh stop!’ she cried, but she might as well have been shouting at the wind. The boys had moved into a world of their own. She watched them walk away. They were relaxed now, their differences apparently forgotten in the technicalities of a proper duel. This could not be real – but in her heart she knew it was. Neither of them would stop now, not unless
she
could find some way to stop them! Surely the armourer would never let them take out their real swords. But they were good talkers. They’d spin him some yarn. She shuddered: swords likerazors! She must get help, but who could she turn to? Who would they listen to? Father? Yes, but he was too ill to stir from the castle. There was just one other possibility.

CHAPTER 4
Sir Arthur Chichester
    s he looked at Sir Arthur Chichester, Con grew up. No longer was he just a young rascal riding out for an adventure; he was Con O’Neill, the son of the Earl of Tyrone. All summer Father had been talking about this man, Chichester, and how he had been hounded by him. Now, suddenly, here was the very man, riding out through the Pale with what seemed to Con to be a whole army. Where could he be going? Uncle de Cashel’s castle? And if so, why? To Con it was quite obvious:
He’s going there to catch Father!
His mind raced.
What can I do?
Here he was, jammed up against a wall.
I must warn Father – but how?
    He slid off his pony; he was far too obvious up there.
Dandelion indeed!
Head down, he led Macha towards the gate. The crowd had closed across the road with the passing of the horsemen, like water in the wake of a ship. People seemed much larger to him down at ground level. Con kept his head down and thrust into them. If they objected to being pushed aside by a small boy, they had to argue with the dogged pony that followed him faithfully, breathing downhis neck. He could see the gates ahead; the last of the horsemen were just passing through.
Oh no!
The gates were closing, but Con wasn’t the only one wanting to get out. There was a murmur among the crowd, early risers who had finished their business and wanted to get home.
    ‘Stand back from the gates there,’ shouted the