Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [263]
“So if this information is correct,” the Justiciar had summarised, “they will strike at Carrickmines in a few days’ time. The question is, what should we do?”
If Doyle had not been entirely surprised, he did not say so. He considered carefully.
“Even if the information turns out to be wrong,” Doyle had carefully replied, “I don’t see how you can ignore it. I think you need to call in Walsh, and Harold, and some of the other men you can trust, as soon as possible for a council of war.”
“Tomorrow, at noon,” the Justiciar had said, decisively. “I shall want you, too,” he had added, “of course.”
As he made his way up from the quay towards the meeting, Doyle noted the scene around him with pleasure. Of the several streets leading down to the new river wall, the finest, which ran west of and parallel to the old Fish Shambles, was Winetavern Street, where the greatest wine merchants, including Doyle himself, had their houses. And some of these were truly splendid.
For the most striking change in the last two centuries in Dublin lay not so much in the area covered as in its architecture. It was the same across most of Europe. Instead of thatched-and-wattle dwellings behind wooden fences, the streets of Dublin were lined with stout, timber-framed houses now, two or three storeys high, with pointed gables and upper floors that jutted out to overhang the street. Some of the roofs were thatched, but many were covered with slates or tiles. The windows were mostly protected with shutters, though those of rich men like Doyle had glass panes as well. As he walked up Winetavern Street with an air of satisfaction, wearing his rich red robe and soft blue hat, Doyle looked exactly what he was: a wealthy city father in a prosperous medieval town. At the top of the street he paused by a stall and bought a little mustard. He liked the sharp taste of mustard with his meat. Yet though he looked well contented, his long, saturnine face still seemed to bring a hint of something dark to this clear and sunny morning.
He went through a gateway in the old wall, and thence up into the precincts of Christ Church Cathedral. He did not go inside to say a prayer, but skirted the great church, coming out at the crossroads above the Fish Shambles where the pillory stood. A short distance away to his right the city’s great High Cross, twenty feet tall, rose in the middle of the street opposite the big, many gabled town hall, the Tholsel, where the city’s greatest men would gather for a guild meeting four times a year. Symbols of order; symbols of stability. Doyle stood for such things.
And was all this order threatened by the Carrickmines affair? He knew that Harold would believe it was. The Justiciar, too. Good men, both. And possibly right, in the long term. But as Doyle stood in the centre of the high-gabled medieval city he alone of them had further, secret information. Only he understood the true nature of the danger to Walsh and to Harold, to Tom Tidy and to MacGowan down at Dalkey, and even to himself. Whatever action was decided upon at the meeting today, there were hidden risks.
He was prepared to take them. Doyle liked taking risks. He turned left and continued towards the castle.
As Doyle was making his way up from the quay, John Walsh had already reached the city outskirts. The summons from the Justiciar had come the evening before but without any explanation. Neatly groomed and wearing his best tunic, Walsh had left Carrickmines early to be sure he was in good time. He passed the looming Gothic mass of Saint Patrick