Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [295]
“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.”
And now Joan found herself gazing after the golden figure of Kildare and the grey October light upon his back seemed more sombre, even melancholy.
Then she saw the woman with the red hair.
This time she discovered who she was quite easily. MacGowan was still standing close by and he knew at once. “She’s the wife of William Walsh. I’ve done business out at their place. She hardly ever comes to Dublin.”
“William Walsh the lawyer?” asked Doyle. “They say he’s a good man. Will you bring them over?” he said to MacGowan.
William Walsh looked at his wife in surprise.
“It will look very strange,” he said, “if you don’t.” He was a tall, rangy man with long arms, long legs, close-cropped grey hair, and a nervous energy in his kindly face; but his square jaw still gave a hint of his military forebears. He couldn’t imagine why his wife was so reluctant to come and speak to the Doyles, especially on such a happy occasion; and though he was used to Margaret’s occasional moods, he felt he must be firm. “They’re not people I’d wish to offend,” he admonished her gently as she unwillingly accompanied him.
Doyle greeted them courteously. He seemed to Margaret to be straightforward enough. Joan Doyle smiled her pretty smile. “I know who you are,” she said to William Walsh, and continued, as she turned her smile towards Margaret: “I know everything about you.” It was one of those bright little phrases that could mean anything or nothing. Margaret did not reply, but remained watchful.
Doyle did most of the talking, but it was clear that he wanted to hear William Walsh’s views on various subjects. Margaret’s impression was that the alderman prided himself on knowing everyone who mattered in the Pale, and that, being acquainted with William Walsh the lawyer, he had decided to know him better. As far as she could judge, William had impressed him.
During this time, neither of the wives was called upon to speak. But then the conversation turned to families.
“You’re a kinsman of Walsh, at Carrickmines, I believe,” Doyle remarked. It was a signal, a polite acknowledgement of the lawyer’s status amongst the gentry.
“A kinsman, yes,” William answered pleasantly.
“We were speaking to the Talbots of Malahide just now,” Doyle continued, with evident pleasure. “My wife knows them well,” he exaggerated just a little, “being a Butler herself. You know them perhaps?