Dublin (106 page)

  "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."

  "B…" 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?"

  "Because…" 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 estate…

  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.

  If Silken Thomas was offering to save Ireland for the one true Church, they didn't seem to care.

  "Heretics," she called them furiously. But Silken Thomas was back outside Dublin now, and though he put the city under siege again, he couldn't get back in. Within days, Silken Thomas and the aldermen agreed to a six week truce. "He won't fight us," the Dubliners said, "he'll wait and fight the English."

  This return to stalemate had one other result.

  Dublin Castle opened its gate, and Henry Tidy came home.

  It was a pity that one of the children had upset a pitcher of milk just before he came, and Cecily was not in a good temper. She had been waiting for this day for so long.

  Time and again, while her husband was in the castle, she had thought about the moment of his return. What was it she wanted? As she looked at her children and remembered the early days of their marriage, she knew very well.

  She longed to return to the warmth of their married life. She couldn't change her religious views.

  That was impossible. And she didn't suppose that her husband could change his attitude, either. But surely they could manage to live in peace.

  If only he would be kind. When he had struck her that awful day, it had not been the blow itself that hurt-although she had been shocked-but the coldness she had sensed behind it. And something within her had died. Could it be revived?

  She needed to know that he loved her. Whatever her views about King Henry, however much she embarrassed him in front of Doyle and the city authorities, she needed to know that he truly loved her. That was what she would be watching for, upon his return.

  How would he act? What would it mean? Could she trust him?

  It was a pity therefore that, in a moment of irritation, she should have turned when he appeared at the door and greeted him coldly.

  "You don't seem very pleased to see me."

  She stared at him. She wanted to smile. She had meant to. But now that the moment she had waited for had come, and had started all wrong, she felt strangely paralyzed. She felt something inside her shrink back.

  "You left your family," she answered bleakly.

  Would he apologise? Would he make the first move?

  Would he give her some reassurance?

  "You refused to come with me, Cecily."

  No. Not a word. Nothing had changed.

  "It is not my fault that King Henry is excommunicated."

  "I am still your husband."

  She gave a tiny shrug. "And the Holy Father is still the Holy Father."

  "I have returned, anyway." He tried a smile. "You could make me welcome."

  "Why?" She could not help the bitterness in her voice. "Do you wish to be here?"

  He stared at her. What was he thinking? He's thinking what a cold and cruel woman I am, she thought. This is partly my fault.

  "No."

  So that was it. He'd spoken the truth. Was it the truth, though, or was he just hitting back? She waited for him to add something else. He didn't.

  "We've nothing to say to each other," she said, feeling strangely helpless, and stood there waiting as the coldness descended, falling quietly between them.

  By the next day, the Tidy household had evolved a new way of life. The workshop was at the street level. There Tidy and the apprentice worked and slept. On the floor above was the main room, where the family ate together. Above that, in the tower, Cecily and the children slept. From her window up there, Cecily overlooked some potteries where they made crockery.

  It became a refuge for her, that window in the tower.

  Sometimes during the day she would go up there to be alone and watch the crackers, or even catch sight of Fitzgerald's men in the distance. In the evenings, cut off from her husband, after the children had gone to sleep, she would sit there for hours watching the sunset or the stars, and thinking of what was passing in the world.

  Soon after she began her vigils came the news that the Earl of Kildare had died of his sickness in England. Sad though this was, it also meant that Silken Thomas was now the new earl, with all the authority and prestige that name evoked. It could not be long now, she hoped, before the cause was won. In mid-October, the English ships at last arrived.

  Doyle and the other aldermen welcomed the Gunner and his men into Dublin. The English troops were numerous and seemed to be trained; they also brought artillery.

  She had hoped to see them destroyed in an open battle with Silken Thomas, and felt some disgust when, from her window, she saw parties of Thomas's troops quietly withdrawing. But she took comfort from the prevailing view amongst Kildare's supporters.

  "He'll wait at Maynooth. The Fitzgeralds still have all their strongholds. He'll wear the Gunner down, and when the Spanish troops arrive, they'll kick the English out of Ireland forever."

  Within a month, the Gunner set out. Word came that he had taken back one of the castles Fitzgerald had seized, at Trim. Still more ominous came the news that two of Thomas's five Fitzgerald uncles were cooperating with the Gunner.

  As she looked out of her window after hearing that, it was hard not to feel a sense of dismay. How was it possible, she wondered, that there could be such treachery?

  But when she prayed, she knew she must keep faith, and so she told herself to have patience.

  And indeed, in the winter months, there was reason to hope. The winter was cold and wet. The Gunner retired to Dublin and stayed there, and soon complained that he was unwell. Cecily would see him occasionally, riding through the streets with his escort.