Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [290]
“Oh,” the woman’s voice dropped respectfully, “that is the wife of Alderman Doyle. She’s very rich, they say.” She looked at Margaret with some surprise. “Do you not know Alderman Doyle? He’s a powerful man in Dublin.”
Dublin people were proud of their wealth and power. That, after all, was exactly what the ceremony today was about. In the Riding of the Franchises, the mayor and his company were inspecting and confirming the outer boundaries of the city’s extensive land. It was a ceremonial, but also a legal event. And if any other landholder, even the Holy Church, disputed the extent or boundary line of the city’s holdings, they could be sure the mayor would make good his claim, either with a lawsuit or by physical force. Dublin might be only a tenth of the size of mighty London, but it was a major city by any standard and was the key to holding Ireland. For a long time now, the rich aldermen of Dublin had become used to kings of England courting their favour and feeding their pride. The great sword carried before the mayor had been given to the city a century ago by a grateful king after a former mayor had led a successful campaign into the Wicklow Mountains against the troublesome O’Byrnes. The mayor nowadays held the office of Admiral, too, which gave him the right to the royal customs dues from the harbours on the Dublin coast, all the way down to Dalkey and beyond—though the royal officials may have been ready enough to grant these taxes away since they had always had such difficulty collecting the dues themselves.
Even the involvement of the Dublin men in the business of Lambert Simnel the boy king had done them no harm. Indeed, it had only made Henry Tudor more anxious to cultivate good relations with them; and for the last nine years his son, Henry VIII, had continued the same policy. The message from the royal court to Dublin’s leading citizens was clear: “The King of England wants you for his friends.” It was no small thing, therefore, to be the wife of Alderman Doyle.
It was not the first time that Margaret had seen the Doyle woman. She had caught sight of her only two weeks ago.
One of the few Dublin events that Margaret always attended was the Donnybrook Fair. It took place late in August, at the village just a mile south of Saint Stephen’s. Sometimes her husband came to buy or sell cattle there; all kinds of cloth were on sale, with traders from all over Europe; she would usually pick up some delicacies and spices for the larder at home. Then there were the eating booths and entertainments—singers and jugglers, music makers and magicians. “Donnybrook’s my outing for the year,” she would say.
It had been during the fair. She had noticed the woman at once because of her Spanish looks, but she had not thought much about her. Not at first. Only as she was inspecting a stall of medicinal herbs a short time later did she realise that the woman’s face was familiar. But why?
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