Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [286]
The castle of Malahide lay on the far side of the ancient Plain of Bird Flocks, on land that adjoined the rolling fields upon which, centuries before, Harold the Norseman had gazed out from his farmstead. On the northern edge of the estate, where a small river flowed to the sea past some fine oyster beds, stood the busy little village of Malahide. Down its eastern flank lay the open sea. The estates of the gentry in Fingal were not large—most ran to hundreds rather than thousands of acres—but the Malahide land was good and the estate was valuable. The castle was set in pleasant parkland sprinkled with fine old oaks and ash trees which gave the place a stately air. For a long time it had been only a bleak defensive tower; but two decades ago, the Talbots had added several features, including a great hall, so that it had become a more impressive and domestic building. In front of the main entrance stretched an expanse of open grass. To one side was a walled garden. As they approached, the light on the stone gave the castle a pleasing look of softness in the afternoon sun.
A large company had already gathered. It was warm and they had set up trestle tables outside heaped with sweetmeats and other delicacies. Servants in livery were serving wine. As she looked around, Margaret could see numerous faces she recognised—aldermen and royal officials from Dublin, gentry from various parts of the region. “The flower of Fingal,” her father murmured, before adding, as if they had all come there for her benefit, “take your pick.”
If she had felt a little daunted by such a crowd of important people, she was glad to see several young people she knew, including her former friend the St. Lawrence girl; so that in no time she found herself engaged in easy conversation. She was conscious also that she had attracted some attention. When she moved, several male heads turned. Her mother had been right: the combination of the green silk with her red hair was working well. A distinguished old gentleman even came over to compliment her—one of the notable Plunkett family, her friend told her.
The banquet in the castle hall was a splendid affair. The hall was packed. Her father was seated some distance away from her, but she had cheerful young people for company. Three fish courses were served. There was roast beef turning on a spit, venison, pork, and even swan. She knew only a little of wines, but she could tell that the French wines being served were of the best. She had never been to such a sumptuous affair before, but she took care to remember her father’s advice, “Taste everything that is offered, but take only a tiny portion of each. That is the way to enjoy a great feast.” There were so many guests that there was not room for dancing, but there were pipers and a harpist playing. When the sweet courses were being served, Edward Talbot, in whose honour all this was done, stood up and made a charming speech of welcome. He was in his early twenties, with an oval face and finely drawn features. Margaret thought he looked pleasant and intelligent. His hair was brown with a trace of ginger in it and was already thinning; but she decided that the fine, domed forehead it revealed would make him, if anything, more attractive as he grew older. Once he sat down, however, he was hidden from her view, and she did not catch sight of him again.
At the end of the banquet, she was reunited with her father. It was still light outside, and entertainments were to be provided by a troupe of dancers. Some