Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [297]
That same little phrase: the identical words she had used before about the inheritance. Was it possible that the woman could be so vicious, so low as to make a cruel reference to the loss of her brother? Margaret looked at the two men. Neither of them had noticed anything, but then they wouldn’t. Wasn’t this exactly the trick that this dark little woman had played before? She was smiling, too, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and turning to her.
“You really do have wonderful hair.”
“Thank you.” Margaret smiled back. I see through you, she thought, but this time you’ve gone too far. If it was war the Doyle woman wanted, she would get it.
As she and her husband moved away a few minutes later, Margaret murmured, “I hate that woman.”
“Really? Why?” Walsh asked.
“It doesn’t matter. I have my reasons.”
“I thought,” he unwisely remarked, “that she was pretty.”
III
1525
Sean O’Byrne’s face remained very calm. That was his way. But he wasn’t pleased. A damp March breeze ruffled his hair. He glanced up at the pale blue sky, then stared at their accusing faces: how superior they thought themselves.
As it happened, the accusation was true. He’d slept with the girl. But they couldn’t possibly know. That was what annoyed him. They were accusing him on the basis of suspicion and of his reputation. And as far as he was concerned, that made it unfair. In fact, it was intolerable. In the curious mind of Sean O’Byrne, that made them more at fault than he was.
Not that he could really blame his wife. God knows, he’d given her enough to complain about, down the years. And he probably shouldn’t resent the friar, since the friar was a good and holy man who, so far at least, hadn’t said a word. The priest, however, was another matter. In a little place like this, people needed to stick together.
Sean O’Byrne never forgot that he was of princely blood. Four generations ago his forebear, the younger son of the chief of the O’Byrnes, had been given some desirable lands on the eastern side of the Wicklow Mountains. Much of that inheritance had gone by now; the portion which remained was called Rathconan; and Sean, who was known as O’Byrne of Rathconan, loved it.
He loved the small, square stone tower—four storeys high, one room per floor—that had once been the fortified centre of his family’s local rule and was now, in truth, no more than a modest farm. He loved the tufts of grass that grew everywhere from its crumbling masonry. He loved to look out from its roof at the great, green sweep down towards the coast. He loved the gaggle of farm buildings where his untidy children were playing at this moment, and the tiny stone chapel where Father Donal administered the sacraments. He loved his few fields, the little orchard, the pasture where he kept the catde, which were his main occupation, in winter; and above all, he loved the open ridges of the hills behind where, in summer, he drove his herds and where he could wander, free as a bird, day after day.
He loved his children. The girls had grown up strong and were turning into beauties. The eldest was dark, her younger sister fair. Both had their mother’s blue eyes. He’d already had a few offers for the dark one. “You’ll hardly have to give more than a token dowry to see them well married,” a neighbour had said to him recently. He was pleased to hear that and hoped that it was true. His only concern was his eldest son, Seamus. The boy was a good worker, and he knew his cattle. But he was sixteen now and Sean could sense that he was restless. He had the idea that he should give him some responsibility, but he didn’t yet know what. His little son Fintan was only five. There was no need to worry about him yet.
Sean also loved his wife. He’d chosen her well. She was an O’Farrell, from the island’s Midlands, out past Kildare. Cattle country. A fine, upstanding, fair-haired woman. He’d wooed her and won her in the old-fashioned