Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [281]
Yet however much they preferred the House of York, why would the great men of the English community of Ireland choose to defy the Tudor king? Seen from a later century it may seem strange, yet in the year 1487, after decades of power shifting back and forth between York and Lancaster, there was no particular reason to suppose that the only half-royal Henry Tudor would be able to keep his crown. If many of the great nobles believed they would be better off under a Yorkist prince than a Lancastrian conqueror, the bishops, abbots, and royal officials would hardly have crowned the boy if they weren’t honestly convinced that he was, indeed, the rightful heir.
The procession had just started down the street when Margaret and her father were joined by a young man to whom her father remarked pleasantly, “Well, John, have you decided?”
Her eldest brother, John. Like Margaret, he had inherited red hair from their mother’s family, for she had been a Harold. But where Margaret’s was dark, almost auburn, John’s was light and rose like a carrot-coloured flame from his head. Twenty years old, tall, athletic, to Margaret he had always been a hero. And never more so than today. For the last week he and his father had been discussing whether he should join the coming expedition. Now he announced: “I have, Father. I’m going with them.”
“Very well.” Her father nodded. “I’ve been talking to a man who knows Thomas Fitzgerald. That’s the brother of Kildare himself, you know,” he explained to Margaret. “We’ll not have you going as a common foot soldier. I should hope that my son,” he added rather grandly, “would be shown some consideration.”
“Thank you, Father.” Her brother smiled affectionately. He had a beautiful smile.
“You are going to England?” Margaret asked him excitedly. “To fight for the boy?”
He nodded.
“You’re right to go, John,” her father said. “Do well, and there could be rewards.”
“Let’s follow the procession,” her brother cried, and scooping Margaret up, he placed her on his shoulders and started to stride along the street with his father walking in a dignified manner beside him. And how happy and proud Margaret felt, to be riding on her brother’s shoulders, just like the boy king ahead of them, on that sunny morning in May.
They went down the street between the high-gabled houses, with the fifes and drums sounding cheerfully in front; out through the eastern gateway known as Dame’s Gate, and across to Hoggen Green and the ancient Thingmount. Having made the circuit of that, the procession, still followed by a large crowd, made its way back to the city before finally disappearing through the gateway into Dublin Castle where there was to be a banquet given in the boy king’s honour.
“Are you going to the banquet, Father,” Margaret asked, as her brother put her down.
“No,” he replied, then smiled confidently. “But many of the great lords in there would be your kinsmen. Always remember this day, Margaret,” he went on firmly, “for it will go down in history. Remember you were here, with your brave brother and your father.”
It was not only her father who was so confident. Within days, the Parliament of Ireland had met and the English gentlemen and Church representatives had enthusiastically ratified the crowning. They had issued a proclamation of his kingship. They had even caused new coins—groats and half-groats—to be struck with the boy’s head depicted on them. As well as the German landknechts, Thomas Fitzgerald had collected Irish mercenaries and young enthusiasts like John so that before