The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

“If I don’t find her a tower soon,” Tidy confessed to Alderman Doyle one day in June, “my life won’t be worth living.”

  “As it happens,” the alderman replied, “I have news for you. There is a tenancy coming free and I can secure it for you. You could have it quite soon. On the Feast of Corpus Christi.”

  If Margaret Walsh looked back over the last eight years, she could feel reasonably pleased with herself. The worst years had been the first, when Butler had been in charge. It had come as no surprise that Doyle should have become a member of the Irish Parliament at that time while her own husband had not; but it had hurt all the same. On the rare occasions when she encountered Joan Doyle, the Dublin woman would always greet her warmly, as if they were friends, but Margaret had perfected a technique of smiling enigmatically and as soon as she politely could, moving away.

  But two years later, when the Gunner was made Lord Deputy and Kildare was allowed to return to the island on condition that he supported the artilleryman, Walsh’s hopes of a seat in the Parliament had revived. Whatever suspicions had been raised about Walsh at the time of his visit to Munster, the passage of a few years and the changes in administration had been enough to erase them. “I’ve been told that the Gunner has nothing against me,” he reported to Margaret, “and Kildare’s on my side. I think it’s time for another try.” The opportunity to help him came one day in spring.

  “I need you,” Walsh announced, “to come to Dublin Castle and be nice to the Gunner.”

  The entertainment took place the following week. Though the grey old castle was normally dark and rather shabby, Margaret could see that an effort had been made to smarten up the big courtyard, and the great hall, decked with hangings and lit by a thousand candles, looked quite festive. She had gone to endless trouble over her appearance. She had taken out her best gown, hardly worn for many a year, and made some cunning alterations, adding a panel of fresh silk brocade down the centre so that it looked like new. Thanks to the judicious use of dye, carefully applied by her eldest daughter, she entered the hall with hair that was restored to almost the same shade of red that it had been a decade ago. She had even put on scent, from a little phial of oriental perfume which she had guiltily bought some years before at Donnybrook Fair. And when her handsome, distinguished husband turned to her and said with admiration, “Margaret, you’re the most beautiful woman in the castle,” she actually blushed with pleasure.

  “All you need to do is make a good impression on the Gunner,” he had explained. “Most of the nobles make it clear that they despise him, so he’s glad enough if anybody’s civil. You can even flirt with him, if you like,” he added with a grin.

  As it happened, she had rather liked the Gunner. He was a short, sharp-eyed, bristling man; she could imagine him directing his cannon with great effect. For a moment, as they approached and saw that the group around him included the Doyles, she had felt her heart sink. Nor had it helped when Joan Doyle, seeing her, had smiled and declared, “It’s my friend with the wonderful red hair. It looks better than ever,” she had added, while Margaret smiled back and thought: if that’s your way of saying I dyed it, you won’t succeed in embarrassing me. But when she was presented to the little Lord Deputy, he made her a very handsome bow. And a few moments later, when a visiting English nobleman joined the group, he introduced the alderman’s wife as “Dame Doyle,” whereas Margaret, as the wife of a gentleman landowner, he introduced as “The lady Walsh”—a distinction which pleased her considerably.

  She must have made a good impression anyway, for some time later, when she happened to be standing alone, she saw the Gunner coming briskly in her direction to engage her in conversation. The military man certainly made himself very pleasant. He asked her questions about her house and her family, and she took good care to stress her origins amongst the loyal English gentry of Fingal. This seemed to reassure him, and soon he was telling her very frankly of the difficulties of his position.

  “We must have order,” he declared. “If only all Ireland were like Fingal. But look at the troubles we suffer from. It’s not only the Irish chiefs who raid and plunder. Look at the killing of poor Talbot, or the kidnap of one of our own commanders not a year ago.” As Margaret had applauded the first, and knew very well that the Fitzgeralds had been behind the second, she contented herself with murmuring tactfully that something must be done. “Money’s the problem, Lady Walsh,” he confessed. “The king gave me cannon and soldiers but no money. As for the Irish Parliament …”

  Margaret knew how the Parliament, like all legislatures, hated paying taxes. Even when the former Butler deputy had got his own men like Doyle into Parliament, they had still kept him short of funds.

  “I’m sure my husband understands your needs,” she said firmly. This seemed to please the little Englishman, and he soon turned to the political situation.

  “You know,” he explained, “with this business of the king’s divorce, we truly fear that the Emperor might try to use Ireland as a place to foment trouble for His Majesty. The Earl of Desmond, for a start, can never be trusted not to intrigue with foreign powers.”

  He was giving her a hard look. Had he heard about her husband’s trouble over Munster? Was this a warning?

  “My husband always says,” she answered carefully, “that the Earl of Desmond seems to live in another world from the rest of us.” This seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded briskly.

  “Your husband is a wise man. But privately, I can tell you, we are watching all the merchants, in case any of them are in contact with the Emperor.”

  And now Margaret saw her chance.

  “That must be difficult,” she said. “There are so many merchants in Dublin trading with Spain and other ports where the Emperor has agents. Look at Doyle, for instance. Yet you surely wouldn’t imagine that the Doyles would be involved in anything like that.”

  “True,” he conceded; but she saw him look thoughtful, and she felt a little thrill of excitement at what she had done. For hadn’t she just put the idea into his mind in the same breath as she assured him that the Doyles were innocent? She had never done such a thing before and it seemed to her to be a masterpiece of diplomacy. She could play Joan Doyle at her own game. Soon after this, the Gunner moved on, but not without giving her hand a tiny squeeze.

  Two months later, William Walsh had heard that he would have a seat in the next Parliament, and she felt justified in taking some of the credit. Though whether the Gunner ever investigated the Doyles during his remaining time in office, she never discovered.

  Another success for the family had been her son Richard. It had been his father’s idea that he should go away to Oxford. At first she had opposed the plan—partly because she hated to part with him, but also because, charming though he was, he had never shown much interest in study. “He has a good brain, all the same,” his father had insisted, “and since he’ll have no inheritance to speak of, he’ll have to make his way in the world. He must get an education. And that means going to England.” For although there had been high hopes for the Fitzgeralds’ new college at Maynooth, it had never developed into anything approaching a university. It was still necessary to go overseas for that.

  Walsh had prepared the boy himself, teaching him every day that he could spare and driving him on firmly. And Richard had applied himself manfully and made such progress that after a year his father had told Margaret, “He’s ready.” And hiding her tears behind a smile, Margaret had watched him sail away to England. He had not returned. From Oxford, he had proceeded to the Inns of Court in London, to train as a lawyer like his father. “If he can make his way in London, so much the better,” William told Margaret. “And if not, he’ll return with excellent prospects here.” Margaret hoped he would return. It was hard, never to see him.

  But these successes brought one problem. As William rose to a higher position in society, he spent more time in Dublin, and it was sometimes necessary for Margaret to accompany him. He dressed more expensively; he b
ought Margaret new clothes—things that were necessary, but did not come cheap. Richard in England was also a greater drain upon the family resources than Margaret had expected. As a poor scholar at Oxford, he spent a lot; but once he went to the Inns of Court, his letters requesting money had become frequent. To Margaret, who sometimes worried that her husband was working too hard, it had seemed strange that he should need so much, but William would shake his head with wry amusement and tell her, “I remember how it was when I was there. Living with those young bloods …” When she had wondered if her favourite child couldn’t lead a quieter, less fashionable life, her husband would only say, “No, let him live as a gentleman. I wouldn’t wish it otherwise.” There were hints in his letters that he was popular with the ladies, and Margaret remembered how, even as a boy, he had so quickly charmed Joan Doyle. But such things involved expense. Shouldn’t he be paying for himself now, she asked? “It’ll be a while before he earns much,” William explained. “Meanwhile he must have decent lodgings and be seen in the world.”

  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 ye
ars 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 little 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.”