Dublin (90 page)

  Perhaps, she considered, both assessments might be true. As for young Tidy, his case was simple enough. "The Tidy family are good people," her husband had informed her. "One of the best of the craftsmen families, and very devout." Henry Tidy was going to be a glover. A good trade. In a few years, she supposed, young Tidy would be looking for a wife. Perhaps, she thought contentedly, she could help him find a good one.

  Late in the morning the Doyle party arrived at the castle of Maynooth in a happy mood. And this was appropriate for it was immediately clear that, on this day at least, all quarrels were to be forgotten.

  Everyone was there. Fitzgeralds and Butlers, Talbots and Barnewalls, royal officials from Dublin and some of the greatest Irish chiefs from beyond the Pale. For though the new college was clearly a triumph for the Fitzgeralds, and situated within the English Pale, it was still, in its way, a foundation that did honour to the whole island.

  No sooner had the Doyles arrived than a host of people came up to greet them. Even the Talbots of Malahide came over to say a few friendly words.

  For all his riches, it wasn't every day that the proud Talbots would walk across to talk to Alderman Doyle. "It's because they know you were born a Butler," he said with a smile to Joan. But what Joan was really hoping for was a chance to see, at close quarters, the Earl of Kildare himself.

  Of course, she had seen him from time to time in Dublin, coming or going at the castle or the great Kildare town house. But he had always been a distant presence, protected by retainers. Even at his town house, there were sentries on duty at the gates, armed with German muskets. The last time she had seen him in the street, he had been surrounded by a phalanx of gallowglasses, as they called the fearsome Scottish mercenaries with their terrible battle axes, which some of the island's chiefs had taken to using as bodyguards and shock troops nowadays.

  If twenty years earlier, Henry Tudor had cynically decided it was easier to leave the old earl alone than it was to break him, the relationship of the new generation was closer. The present earl and King Henry VIII were friends, and in the last few years, the English king had let his friend rule Ireland almost as he pleased. Kildare was allowed all the crown revenues, and so long as he kept order, he didn't even have to render accounts.

  "The truth is," Doyle had remarked to Joan one day, "Kildare is practically the High King of Ireland now." And the analogy was valid. For after generations of intermarriage with the greatest Irish princely families, the head of the Fitzgeralds not only had a huge political network amongst the native Irish princes but the blood of Irish kings flowed in his veins, too. In his strongholds beyond the Pale, Irish bards at the banquets sang songs about his Irish ancestors, and he dispensed law according to the old Irish brehon laws just as easily as he would use English law elsewhere. "He uses whichever law suits him best," some litigants grumbled. To the English king he would say, "Sire, without you I am nothing."

  To the mighty O'neills, his kinsmen, who acknowledged him as their overlord, he'd point out,

  "We're doing very well out of this." As for keeping order, just as the High Kings had done in the centuries before, he would raid the territories of any chiefs who gave him trouble and carry off their cattle. The only difference between the old days and now was that Kildare had Tudor artillery.

  As it happened, Joan got her wish sooner than she expected. It was after the Talbots had moved on that she became aware of an other party coming in their direction. They were being escorted by the mayor of Dublin, but they seemed to be foreigners. There was a priest whom, by the look of him, she judged to be Italian; an aristocratic gentleman dressed in black who was undoubtedly from Spain; and two ladies, whose bodices and gowns flashing with jewels were altogether richer than anything to be seen in Dublin. But what struck her most was the handsome figure who accompanied them.

  He was dressed in hose with padded feet. His tight-fitting doublet, sewn with golden thread and studded with pearls, had huge slashed puffs at the shoulders. She had not seen anyone dressed quite like this before, but she knew enough to guess that this must be the aristocratic fashion at the English court. He came forward with the graceful pad of a great cat; she heard him say a few words in French to the ladies, who laughed, and she wondered who this gorgeous, courtly creature might be. Then suddenly she recognised him, with a little start. It was the Earl of Kildare.

  A moment later, the mayor was introducing them.

  Kildare, his eyes twinkling pleasantly, said a few appropriate words, and the group moved on, leaving Joan to watch them, fascinated.

  She had known that the earl had been sent for many years to the English court by his father. That was where he had formed his friendship with the present king, Henry VIII.

  And she had known that the English court was nowadays a centre of learning, where courtiers would be expected to be familiar with classical literature and the arts as well as be able to dance, and play the lute, and compose a verse. But this was the first time that she had glimpsed the gilded face of the Renaissance, and she sensed that new world even if she did not know exactly what it was.

  "Impressed?" Her husband was looking at her with amusement.

  "He seems like a man who lives in another world."

  She smiled. "With the angels in paradise."

  "He does indeed," Doyle nodded thoughtfully as Kildare and his party moved farther away. "And some say," he went on softly, "at our expense.

  He billets his troops on people whenever he likes.

  He taxes high and keeps all the money. That's how he can so easily endow this new college of his. Some people would welcome reform."

  Joan had heard people muttering about reform in Ireland for most of her life, but she had learned not to take it too seriously. "My Butler relations used to complain about the Fitzgeralds," she remarked with a laugh, "but given the chance I'm sure they'd behave just the same." She looked at Doyle more seriously. "He has the friendship of the king," she pointed out. "Now more than ever, they say."

  Doyle nodded thoughtfully. She saw his eyes following Kildare as he continued his progress round the guests.

  "I'll tell you a story," he said. "Years ago, the king's father had two councillors. They had served him very faithfully for many years, and thanks to them, when Henry Tudor died, there was more money in the royal treasury than ever before in England's history. Our present king had known the two men all his life. They were like uncles to him. But by serving his father so well, they had made many enemies. So when the old king died, the English Parliament wanted to impeach them." He paused. "So you know what young Henry did? Executed both men. Without a second thought. Because it suited him." He paused.

  "The friendship of King Henry VIII is a dangerous thing. For he loves only himself."

  And now Joan found herself gazing after the golden figure of Kildare and the grey October light upon his back seemed more sombre, even melancholy.

  Then she saw the woman with the red hair.

  This time she discovered who she was quite easily.

  MacGowan was still standing close by and he knew at once. "She's the wife of William Walsh.

  I've done business out at their place. She hardly ever comes to Dublin."

  "William Walsh the lawyer?" asked Doyle.

  "They say he's a good man. Will you bring them over?" he said to MacGowan.

  William Walsh looked at his wife in surprise.

  "It will look very strange," he said, "if you don't." He was a tall, rangy man with long arms, long legs, close-cropped grey hair, and a nervous energy in his kindly face; but his square jaw still gave a hint of his military forebears. He couldn't imagine why his wife was so reluctant to come and speak to the Doyles, especially on such a happy occasion; and though he was used to Margaret's occasional moods, he felt he must be firm.

  "They're not people I'd wish to offend," he admonished her gently as she unwillingly accompanied him.

  Doyle greeted them courteously. He seemed to Margaret to be straightforward enough. Joan Doyle smiled her pretty smile. "I know who you are," she said to William Walsh, and continued, as she turned her smile towards Margaret: "I know everything about you." It was one of those bright little phrases that could mean anything or nothing. Margaret did not reply, but remained watchful.

  Doyle did most of the talking, but it was clear that he wanted to hear William Walsh's views on various subjects. Margaret's impression was that the alderman prided himself on knowing everyone who mattered in the Pale, and that, being acquainted with William Walsh the lawyer, he had decided to know him better. As far as she could judge, William had impressed him.

  During this time, neither of the wives was called upon to speak. But then the conversation turned to families.

  "You're a kinsman of Walsh, at Carrickmines, I believe," Doyle remarked. It was a signal, a polite acknowledgement of the lawyer's status amongst the gentry.

  "A kinsman, yes," William answered pleasantly.

  "We were speaking to the Talbots of Malahide just now," Doyle continued, with evident pleasure. "My wife knows them well," he exaggerated just a little, "being a Butler herself. You know them perhaps?"

  "Slightly," said William Walsh, with perfect truth. Then with a quiet smile, he added:

  "Malahide's a long way from where we live."

  And now, with her ready little smile, Joan Doyle turned to Margaret.

  "You wouldn't want to go out there, I'm sure." She turned back to the rest of them. "All that way up in Fingal."

  It sounded so harmless. No one but herself, Margaret realised, could know what the Doyle woman really meant. "I know all about you," she had said. And how slyly, now, she was humiliating her with this knowledge. She clearly knew that Margaret's family came from Fingal. The Talbots must have told her how they'd sent Margaret packing when she was a young woman. The bitter memory of it still cut deep after all these years. And now the alderman's wife had decided to taunt her with it under the guise of friendly conversation.

  The viciousness of the dark little woman almost took her breath away.

  But nobody else had noticed anything, and a moment later the conversation moved on to the new college, and then to Kildare himself.

  "I have to say," Walsh told the alderman, "that the earl has been very good to me." Indeed, it was partly as an expression of loyalty and gratitude that he had made a point of coming to Maynooth with his wife that day. "For it's thanks to him," he explained, "that I've just got to farm some good Church land."

  If the English of the Pale were proud supporters of the Church, the Church in turn was good to them. As a lawyer, William Walsh looked after the business of several religious houses, including the house of nuns whose affairs Margaret's father had turned over to him some years before his death. Another way that the Church could reward the local gentry was to lease Church lands to them at very modest rents. The Walsh family-solid gentry who had supplied several distinguished churchmen down the generations, too- were good candidates for such treatment; but it had been a friendly word from Kildare that had recently ensured William Walsh the lease of a monastic farm at a rent that was almost laughable.

  Margaret well understood that by informing Doyle of this, her husband was skilfully letting the alderman know two things: first, that he had the favour of Kildare and was loyal to him; and second, that he was actively engaged in acquiring wealth. Doyle seemed impressed.

  "Do you think of standing for Parliament?" the alderman enquired.

  Though the Irish Parliament was supposed to represent the whole island, in practice nearly all of its thirty or forty members came from Dublin and the nearby Pale. Parliament's power might be limited by the English king, but there was prestige in membership.

  "I think of it," said Walsh. "And you?" There were several rich merchants in the Parliament.

  "I, too," Doyle agreed, and gave Walsh a look which said: we'll talk further.

  During this exchange, Margaret had watched in silence. She knew how hard her husband had worked for his family-it was one of the many things she loved about him-and she was glad to see him having some success.

  She had nothing in particular against Doyle. If only his wife had been someone else.

  The conversation moved on. The two men were discussing the king. She was not paying close attention but she heard the Doyle woman say to her husband, "You should tell him the story you just told me." And the alderman started to relate the tale about the two councillors that the king had executed. "These Tudors are quite as ruthless, perhaps more so, than the Plantagenets ever were," she heard him say. As he said it, she found her mind carried back to that fatal expedition in her childhood, when the Irish gentlemen had so unwisely invaded England and Henry Tudor had killed them all. And suddenly, for the first time in years, the youthful face of her brother John rose up before her-that happy, excited face, before he had gone to his death-and she felt a wave of sadness pass over her.

  She hadn't been listening. The Doyle woman was talking.