Dublin (98 page)

  How like her own dear father he sounded when he said that.

  She could almost hear her father declaring that her brother John should not go to England as a common foot soldier. Poor John, who never returned; poor father, with his desire to be a gentleman. And looking at her husband now, she understood that Richard in London was an extension of himself, and she felt a wave of affection for them both. "He could live as a gentleman and be a credit to you in Dublin, too," she pointed out, "for less expense."

  So great was the flow of money out that, although Walsh was doing well, she knew that their income could not possibly be meeting their expenses. Once or twice she raised this with William, but he assured her that he had matters under control; and since he had always been a careful manager, she supposed it must be true. Yet it seemed to her that her husband was more preoccupied than usual. One hope for increasing their income would have been to acquire another Church estate on easy terms. Walsh was well placed to do this, and he had already let it be known that he was looking for something. But here a new difficulty had arisen. It came from no less a person than the Archbishop of Dublin.

  Now that King Henry had made himself Supreme Head of the English Church, his eye had soon fallen on its huge, underused wealth. The Church needed reform, he declared, by which he did not mean a move towards Protestant doctrines-for King Henry still considered himself a better Catholic than the Pope-but that it should be better organised and yield more revenues. The rumour was that the royal servants were also casting hungry eyes at some of the rich old monasteries whose huge revenues were used to support only a handful of monks. So it was not surprising if Archbishop Alen, an English royal servant who also held the post of Chancellor, and who was naturally eager to please his royal master, should have announced, "No more of these easy leases. Whoever they are, Irish tenants must start paying the Church the proper rents for their land."

  "Of course," Walsh conceded to his wife, "he has a point. But it's the way things have always been done in Ireland. This won't be liked by the gentry."

  He made a face. "I can't say I like it much myself."

  "Will we manage?" she asked a little anxiously.

  But though he assured her that they would, she could see, by the spring of 1533, that William was worried.

  It was sometime around midsummer that she detected an alteration in her husband's mood. He appeared to walk more lightly. The worry lines on his face were not so deep. Had he word of a Church estate, she asked? No, he told her, but his business affairs were looking better. Yet it seemed to Margaret that there was a new happiness, almost an excitement in his manner. He had been a distinguished, grey-haired man for many a year now, but in some strange way, as she remarked, "You look younger." Nearly three weeks after midsummer, they received a long letter from Richard describing the entertainments at the house of a gentleman in the country, where he had evidently been staying, promising to come to see them in Dublin soon, and asking for a substantial sum of money. It frightened her, but William seemed to view it with perfect equanimity- so much so that she honestly wondered if his mind might be elsewhere. And then a week after the letter, MacGowan came to call.

  Margaret liked MacGowan. His position in the merchant society of Dublin was special. Most of the Dublin merchants bought and sold their goods within the Dublin markets; yet they also needed to buy commodities like timber, grain, and cattle from the huge hinterland beyond the Pale. There were a number of merchants, therefore, who traded freely across these borderlands, acting as go-betweens for the English and Irish communities. They were known as grey merchants, and MacGowan was one of the most successful. His specialty was in purchasing timber from the O'Byrnes and O'Tooles in the Wicklow Mountains, but he carried out all kinds of business, and frequently carried out commissions for Doyle. As a result of his travels, MacGowan not only made an excellent living but he was also a mine of information about what was going on in the country.

  William, who happened to be at home on the day he called, was also delighted to see him.

  He arrived in the middle of the day. He had just spent the night, he said, at the house of Sean O'Byrne of Rathconan, farther to the south. Margaret had heard of Sean O'Byrne as a man for the ladies, but did not know him. She tried to persuade MacGowan to stay with them, too, but after taking some light refreshment he said that he must be on his way to Dublin, and William had gone outside with him to see him off. It was completely by chance that she should have gone up into the big bedchamber and happened to hear the two men talking below the casement.

  "Your business with Doyle goes well?" she heard William enquire.

  "It does. And yours-your private business, I mean, with his wife?" This was said in a low tone. "She thinks you very handsome, you know. She told me herself," the traveller added with a chuckle.

  William's private business with Joan

  Doyle? What could that possibly be?

  "You know everybody's secrets," Walsh murmured. "That makes you a dangerous man."

  "If I know secrets," MacGowan answered,

  "I assure you it's because I am very discreet. But you did not answer my question about the lady."

  "All is well, I think."

  "Does Doyle know?"

  "He doesn't."

  "And your wife?"

  "No. God forbid."

  "Well your secret is safe with me. And have you brought matters to a conclusion?"

  "On Corpus Christi day it shall be consummated.

  She has promised me."

  "Farewell."

  She heard the sound of MacGowan moving off.

  She stood there, transfixed. Her husband and the Doyle woman. They might both be quite long in years, but she knew her husband was physically capable of consummating an affair.

  Entirely so. But that he would ever do such a thing to her: that was what stunned her. For a moment or two she could hardly believe what she had heard. They seemed like voices from another world.

  Then she remembered: the Doyle woman thought him handsome. So he was. But what had he said about her, all those years ago when they had met at Maynooth? That he thought she was pretty. They were attracted. It made sense. The voices had not come from another world. They had come from her own. And her own world, it seemed, had just collapsed in ruins.

  Corpus Christi. That was in two days. What was she going to do?

  When Eva O'Byrne considered the last eight years, one thing was clear to her. She had done the right thing when she had called in the friar. For the years that followed had been some of the best in her life.

  If Sean O'Byrne had other women, he kept them out of sight. When he was at home, he was an attentive husband. A year after the Brennans left, she had another baby girl, who kept her busily occupied. The baby seemed to delight Sean as well; watching him play with her on the grass in front of the old tower, she experienced moments of pure joy. Meanwhile Seamus had made a great success of the Brennans' place. He'd practically rebuilt it with his own hands; and two years ago he'd found a wife as well-not a great catch, perhaps, the daughter of one of the lesser O'Tooles, but a sensible girl whom Eva liked.

  As for Fintan, the boy became her special companion. It was almost funny, she knew, to see her with her youngest son; for it was clear by now to everyone that he both looked and thought like her. They would go for walks together, and she would teach him all the plants and flowers that she knew; as for the cattle and livestock, he was a born farmer. He often reminded her of her own father. And he gave her affection, constantly. Every winter he would make something for her-a wooden comb, a butter press-and these lit tie gifts became like treasures, bringing a smile to her face when she used them every day. She and the boy were so close that she had almost feared that her husband might become jealous. But Sean O'Byrne seemed more amused than anything and glad that the boy should bring her such happiness. As for his own relationship with Fintan, it was very simple. "Thank you," he would say, "for giving me a son who's such a good cattleman."

  And he, in his turn, had brought his wife one other wonderful gift in return. Their baby girl was two years old when Sean arrived back from a journey into Munster one day and casually asked her,

  "How would you like an addition to our family?" And she was wondering what he meant when he explained: "A foster son. A boy of Fintan's age."

  Though the practice of fostering went back into the depths of Celtic history, it was still very much alive amongst the noble families, English or Irish, on the island. When the son of one family went to live with another, it formed a bond of loyalty between them almost like a marriage. To send one's child into the house of a great chief was to give him a step up in the world; and for an important family to confide their son to your keeping was a huge compliment. Assuming that her husband was doing a favour to some poorer family, Eva did not look overjoyed; but seeing this Sean only grinned.

  "It's one of the Fitzgeralds," he calmly informed her. "A kinsman of Desmond."

  A Fitzgerald, related to the mighty Earl of Desmond. Quite a distant kinsman, from a modest branch of the southern Fitzgeralds. But still a Fitzgerald.

  "How did you manage that?" she asked in frank admiration.

  "It must be my charm." He smiled. "He's a nice boy. You've no objection?"

  "It would be a fine thing for Fintan to have such a friend," she answered. "Let him come as soon as he likes."

  He came the following month. His name was Maurice. He was the same age as Fintan, but dark where Fintan was fair, slimmer, a little taller, with finely drawn Celtic features that served to remind you that the Fitzgeralds were as much Irish princes as English nobles, and beautiful eyes, that she found strangely compelling. He was very polite, and declared that her house was exactly like that of his parents-"Except," he added, "that ours is beside a river." Though slim, he was athletic, knew his cattle, and seemed to slip easily into Fintan's life as an unassuming friend. But you could tell, she observed, that he came from an aristocratic household. His manners, though very quiet, were courtly. He always referred to her as "the lady O'Byrne"; he obeyed her husband with instant respect, and said "please" and "thank you" more than they were used to. He could also read and write considerably better than Fintan, and played the harp. But beyond all this, there was a fineness about him that she couldn't quite describe, but which marked him out, and privately she confessed to her husband, "I hope that Fintan will learn from him."

  Certainly the two boys became good friends. After a year, they seemed as close as brothers, and Eva came to think of Maurice as an extra son.

  Sean was a good foster father. Not only did he ensure that the boy came to know all that there was to know about the farming and the local affairs of the Wicklow Mountains and the Liffey Plain, but he would send him out with MacGowan sometimes, to visit the farms and houses of people like the Walshes, or to go down to Dalkey or even to Dublin itself with the grey merchant.

  Eva had supposed that perhaps the boy would wish to meet his Kildare kinsmen also on these occasions. But Sean had explained to her that with the suspicions attaching to the Earl of Desmond recently, this might not be wise. "His parents will make those arrangements when they see fit," he said. "It's not for us to introduce him to his relations." And Maurice seemed perfectly content with his quiet life in the O'Byrnes' household.

  Yet, in some strange way, he was also a being apart.

  It was not only his love of music-for sometimes, when he played his harp, he seemed to drift away into a sort of dream. It was not only his aptitude for the things of the intellect-for Father Donal, who taught the two boys, would sometimes wistfully remark, "It's a pity he is not destined to become a priest." It was his melancholy moods.

  They were rare, but when they fell upon him, he would wander up into the hills alone and be gone for perhaps a day, not striding vigorously over the mountains like Sean, but walking alone as if in a trance. Even Fintan knew better than to offer to accompany him at such times, but left him alone until the mood had passed. And when it had he would emerge, it seemed, refreshed. "You're a strange fellow," Fintan would say affectionately. And it surprised no one that, when the friar had passed once or twice on his way to visit the hermit at Glendalough, he had sat for hours with the boy and upon departing given him his blessing.

  Yet none of this seemed to affect the Fitzgerald boy's friendship with Fintan. They worked together, went hunting, and played practical jokes exactly as other healthy boys of their age would do; and once, when she had asked Fintan who his greatest friend was, he had looked at her in astonishment and said, "Why Maurice, of course."

  As for Maurice's relationship with her, it was like that of a son to a mother except that, with the faint reserve of a priest, he always held himself just a little distant from her-a fact which after a year or two had almost grieved her until she had realised that he was doing so to ensure that he did not encroach upon her relationship with Fintan; and she admired his fineness.

  Though no one could say quite when or why, the atmosphere in the house of O'Byrne of Rathconan subtly changed with the coming of Maurice Fitzgerald. Even Sean seemed gradually to become more thoughtful towards her. And what better proof could there be than the fact that, as the day of her birthday approached in the summer of 1533, he invited all the neighbours to a feast at the house.