Princes of Ireland

  Twenty-five years had passed since her father and she had seen the family of Henry Butler, and if it hadn’t been for the terrible thing her father had told her about them, and the pain it had caused him, she would certainly have forgotten what they looked like long ago. But because of that, all three faces—Butler, his wife, and the little girl—had remained stamped upon her mind. And now, she was suddenly aware, this woman at Donnybrook Fair looked exactly like the Butler woman all those years ago. Was it possible that this could be the little girl? With a shock, Margaret realised that she would be the right age.

  She had turned to study her, and noticed that the woman, meanwhile, had been observing her—with what, it seemed to Margaret, was a look of recognition. So, she thought, she knows who I am. And she was just wondering what she should feel about the Butler girl now and whether she should speak to her or not, when she saw something that first made her freeze, then sickened her. The woman had smirked. There was no mistaking it, she thought—a little smirk of triumph and contempt. Then, while Margaret stared in sudden fury, she had turned away. Soon after that, Margaret saw her leave the fair.

  Margaret had done nothing about it. What could she do? She did not even try to find out anything more about the woman. When her husband had asked her that evening why she seemed upset, she had made up some excuse. She wanted to put the incident out of her mind.

  But now, standing on the waterfront, she had discovered who the woman was. The wife of a rich alderman, with a big house no doubt, and all the luxuries that money could buy. Not, she reminded herself, that she had anything to be ashamed of. Doyle might be rich, but he was still a merchant. Her own husband was a gentleman, a grandson of Walsh of Carrickmines, no less, and significant enough to be invited to take part in the Riding of the Franchises today. Their estate might be down in the southern borderlands rather than in Fingal, as she would have liked, and it might yield only a modest income, but her husband had been educated in England, and his earnings as a lawyer made up for the shortcomings of the estate. She had no reason, she told herself, to feel at any disadvantage if she encountered this woman whose family had stolen from hers. But when she remembered that ugly little smirk, she still found herself tensing with anger. It would be better to avoid her entirely. Stay away, and not think about her.

  So what spirit of self-destruction was it that caused her, a few moments later, to edge forward in the Doyle woman’s direction?

  “There he is. There’s my man.” Joan Doyle waved a silk handkerchief. “He still doesn’t see me,” she said laughing. “One thing we know,” she announced cheerfully. “They’ll be hungry.”

  Joan Doyle had known sorrow; but it seemed to her nowadays that she was the luckiest person alive. At eighteen she had been married, very happily, to a gentleman near Waterford. Six years later, having lost two children to fever, she lost her third child and her husband in a shipping accident. At twenty-four she was a widow, and for many months she entered a place of silent sadness from which she did not see any escape.

  But then she met John Doyle who, with great patience, coaxed her out of her misery and, after more than a year, into marriage. That had been six years ago and now, with a home and two children, Joan Doyle knew more happiness than she had ever dreamed to be possible. And being in any case a warm and affectionate soul, and having known what it was to suffer great pain, she made a point never, if possible, to give pain to others. She was always doing little kindnesses; and it would amuse her rich and genial husband that hardly a week went by without her coming to him with a new scheme to help someone in trouble.

  “It must be your Spanish blood that makes you so warm,” he would laugh. Having no malice herself, she could never imagine it in others. This, too, her husband loved: it made him feel protective.

  Joan became aware of Margaret when she was still a dozen yards away. She didn’t turn to look at her, at first, because the woman beside her had just started to engage her in conversation; but even out of the corner of her eye, she could see that it was the woman she had noticed the other week at Donnybrook Fair. For there couldn’t, surely, be two women in the Dublin area with such wonderful darkred hair. Not a trace of grey in it, either, though she guessed that the woman might be a little older than herself. Joan’s own hair had a few strands of grey, which she skilfully disguised; indeed, she had been smiling with rueful amusement at the thought that this red-headed woman clearly had no need of such artifice, when Margaret had seen her and taken that expression for a contemptuous smirk.

  For Margaret’s assessment of Joan Doyle was based upon a misapprehension. Of the quarrel between their two families, Joan knew nothing at all. The dispute over the inheritance had been so ancient that Henry Butler had never bothered to tell his daughter about it. As for the present, Joan hadn’t the least idea who Margaret was.

  So it was unfortunate that by chance, as Margaret came within earshot, the woman beside Joan had been talking about a recent case of a disputed inheritance in Dublin. The family who lost, she had just remarked, were very bitter.

  “My husband says that the time to secure an inheritance is before someone dies, not after,” Joan had replied. “He’s a terrible man,” she continued with a laugh. “Do you know what he says?” And now, to imitate the alderman’s voice, she spoke more loudly. “The disinherited have only themselves to blame.”

  It was these last words that Margaret heard, as Joan laughed and turned to look at her.

  If people usually hear what they expect to hear, then every expectation Margaret might have had was now fulfilled. There was no doubt in her mind: she had heard what she had heard. This rich little Dublin woman, whose family had stolen her own poor father’s inheritance, was mocking her to this group of women, insulting her in public. Well then, she thought, let her mock me to my face.

  “Tell me,” she calmly intruded on the conversation, “how would you feel if you were disinherited yourself?” And with that she gave her a cold, unyielding stare.

  Joan Doyle did not return this gaze, though she certainly looked at Margaret. She thought it perhaps a little rude of this stranger to butt in as she had, and she seemed to be wearing rather a long face for such a festive occasion. But it wasn’t in Joan’s nature to criticise. And there really was no question, she thought, that this severe-looking woman had the most wonderful hair.

  “I don’t know,” she answered simply. And then, thinking to lighten the other’s apparently solemn mood with a cheerful compliment, she went on with a laugh: “I’m sure I could bear it if I had your hair.” She had no sooner said it than she was distracted by one of the other women pointing out that the riders were on the bridge and that her husband was waving to her. By the time she turned back again, the red-haired woman was gone. She asked her companions who she was, but none of them knew.

  She was to learn, however, the following month.

  If there was one thing the English of the Pale were proud of, it was their religion. They had their language, laws, and customs, of course, and these were important; but after three centuries of living side by side with the Irish on the island, what could the English point to as the one important thing which held them together as a community and proved their superiority to even the best of the natives? What gave them the moral high ground? The answer was simple.

  The English knew they were superior because they were Roman Catholic.

  The native Irish were Catholic, too, of course. But outside the Pale, in the great native hinterland, everybody knew that the Celtic Church was much as it had always been. Divorce was allowed, priests married, monasteries were run by local chiefs—in short, the native church was still tolerating those degenerate practices which the Pope had asked the English to clean up when they first invaded the island. To the English in Ireland, the thing was clear as day: true Catholicism, Roman Catholicism, was only to be found within the English Pale.

  Indeed, of all the kingdoms in Christendom, none was more loyal to the Pope in Rome than the kingdom of England.
In Germany, or in the Low Countries, the heretical Protestants, those followers of Luther and others who threatened good Catholic order, might be tolerated. But not in England. Young Henry VIII and his loyal wife, Catherine, the princess from Spain, would see to that. The King of England detested Protestants; he was ready and willing to execute them. The English in Ireland, therefore, could truly claim, “We are the guardians of the Roman faith.”

  But one thing, in Ireland, had for a long time been missing. The Church was the repository of culture and learning; the higher priesthood were nearly always educated men. But Ireland had no university. Ambitious young men thinking of the priesthood had to travel to Paris or Italy—or, more usually, to Oxford or Cambridge. And in 1518, a first step was taken to correct that situation.

  They were a lively party. There was Doyle, tall and handsome, and sporting a splendid fur hat into which he’d pinned a circular badge encrusted with jewels. Joan, in rich brown velvet laced with pearls, was sitting happily beside him. The wagon was handsome—padded seats, silk curtains. Inside the wagon also rode James MacGowan and his wife. They were more quietly dressed, as befitted their less exalted station. For though MacGowan could probably have afforded clothes as fine as Doyle’s, he was far too clever to wear them. Perched up in front, beside the coachman, was Tidy, a glover just finishing his apprenticeship, whom MacGowan had brought along with him. The October day was overcast, but there were bright gashes in the clouds, and no sign of rain, as they rolled westwards. They were going to Maynooth.

  The castle of Maynooth lay about a dozen miles west of Dublin. Far larger than the fortified manors of the gentry like Malahide, it was one of several impressive centres where the mighty Earl of Kildare held court. And no doubt it was because of Maynooth’s proximity to Dublin and the heart of the Pale that the earl had chosen it for his new religious foundation.

  For if the English of the Pale were proud of their faith, they invested in it, too. In Dublin especially, rich men like Doyle might be reluctant to contribute to civic buildings, but in the churches their memorials and the chantries where the priests sung masses for their souls were more splendidly endowed than ever. What then should the Fitzgeralds do, if not something on a grander scale?

  The new College of Maynooth was housed close to the castle. It had a hall, a chapel, and a dormitory. Its stated purpose was to be a small community for religious study and instruction. “But if I know anything about the ambition of the Fitzgeralds,” Doyle had remarked, “this will only be a beginning.” For everyone knew that it was in just such small colleges that the universities of Oxford and Cambridge had first begun.

  And with the building completed, the earl had invited people from far and wide to witness the service of consecration.

  Joan looked at her companions with affection. Her husband: tall, dark, capable; some people, she knew, were afraid of him, but to her he was strong as a lion, yet gentle as a lamb. MacGowan, younger than her husband, strangely ageless, with his thinning hair, drooping lip, and his eye always so sharp. He traded all over the Pale and far beyond. “I know a lot,” her husband had once remarked, “but our friend MacGowan knows everything.” And on several occasions he had returned home shaking his head with wonderment and told her, “That fellow is more cunning than the devil himself.” But MacGowan and his homely wife had always seemed a warm and kindly couple to Joan. 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 another 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 wit
h 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.”