Dublin (97 page)

  But she knew he'd heard the stories, too. And when a rumour came to the port that the Emperor might invade the English kingdom and seek help in Ireland, she irritably remarked, "Let him come, I say."

  "Dear God don't even think such things," he cried in horror. "That would be treason. How can you say such wickedness?"

  "Wickedness?" she retorted. "And is it wicked of poor Queen Catherine to refuse to deny her wedding vows and the Holy Father, and to make herself a heretic like King Henry's whore?"

  For it seemed to Cecily that she saw the matter very clearly. She imagined the poor queen's pain.

  Didn't Tidy think of that? She saw the cruelty of the English king. Did such things count for nothing? Not in the harsh world of politics. The unhappy queen in England was being put upon, just as, in her insignificant way, she had been put upon that day years ago when she'd been so stupidly arrested. It was all the same thing, the tyranny of men who would never be happy until they forced every woman to submit to their foolishness. She admired the queen for standing up for the truth and for her rights; and she admired, certainly, the few like Thomas More who had the courage of their convictions. But as for the rest of the men, whether in England or in Dublin, who thought they knew everything, she saw now that behind their pompous bluster, there lay only cowardice. And it was painful to think that her husband was no better than the rest of them. As the years of these stormy events in England went by, therefore, in her heart-though she never admitted it to her confessor and scarcely even to herself-she loved her husband less.

  It was soon after this last conversation that Cecily began to want a new house.

I

  Their lodgings lay outside the city walls in the Liberty of Saint Patrick and consisted of a workshop and two rooms. They had been happy enough there, but the rooms were not large and were overlooked by everyone else in the little courtyard; the children were growing, and so it was not unreasonable that Cecily should one day tell her husband, "We need more space." During the last two years, Tidy had become aware of Cecily's occasional irritation and dissatisfaction, but he had never quite known what to do about it; so he was only too glad of the chance to do something that would apparently make her happy. He started to look for something at once. But after a month, he had still not found anything that seemed satisfactory, and he was wondering what to do, when one day as he and Cecily were walking into the old walled city, she suddenly remarked, "I wish we could live in one of the towers."

  There were numerous towers nowadays in Dublin's city wall; each century seemed to have added a few. There were gate towers at the five big entrances in the outer wall, not counting the various river gates along the waterfront. Besides these, there were numerous small towers at intervals between the gates, some of which were habitable. A number of these gates provided lodgings, mostly for city functionaries of some kind, but some were let to craftsmen.

  "It would be nice to look out on something, instead of being overlooked," she sighed.

  "If you had one of those towers, do you think you would be happy?" he had asked.

  "Yes," she said, "I believe I should."

  "I shouldn't think there's much chance," he said; but secretly he set to work to secure one if he could, applying to Doyle himself for help. It would be a wonderful way to surprise and delight her.

  The months that followed had been particularly trying.

  Several times he heard that there might be a tower becoming available, but each time it proved to be a false report. He was so determined to surprise her that he never told her about his efforts, with the result that she would often badger him to find lodgings, and several times went out to look for something herself. In the meantime, events in England were going from bad to worse. Not only had King Henry made all the clergy submit to him, but he had appointed his own archbishop, who declared his marriage void and obligingly married him to Anne Boleyn who, whatever her earlier scruples, was now visibly pregnant. The final shocking event came in May of that year, when, with every pomp and ceremony, Anne was formally crowned queen. Cecily was beside herself with disgust.

  "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, histo 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 bought 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."