Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [306]
When reports from spies, that the Fitzgeralds were sending envoys to his enemies, had begun to filter through to the royal council in England, King Henry at first could scarcely believe it. “What the devil,” he wanted to know, “are these damnable Fitzgeralds up to now? It looks to me,” he added ominously, “like treason.”
In fact it was the other great Fitzgerald lord, Kildare’s kinsman the Earl of Desmond, down in Munster, who had sent the envoys to the King of France; and it was not quite so strange as it seemed. With its ancient trading links to France and Spain, the province of Munster had always looked after its own interests overseas, and the earls of Desmond had been known to send representatives to France and the court of Burgundy since Plantagenet times. In this case, however, King Henry was right to be suspicious: for what Desmond had actually agreed, in a secret treaty, was that if Tudor rule in Ireland became too unpleasant, he would transfer his allegiance to France and seek her king’s protection. To Desmond, accustomed to generations of old Irish independence down in his Munster lordship, this might be cheeky, but it was still business as usual. To Henry, Desmond was a subject, and his embassy looked like treason. When Henry challenged Kildare about the reports, the Irish magnate laughed it off. “Desmond’s a strange fellow,” he told him. “I can’t answer for everything he gets up to in Munster.” “You’d better,” the king let him know, “because I’m holding you responsible.” That had been some months ago, and in Dublin, at least, the matter seemed to be dormant.
But recently Walsh had heard another and even more disturbing rumour. There were still members of the Plantagenet dynasty at large. Most preferred to stay out of trouble, and out of England. But it was always possible that one of them could be used by a foreign power to mount an expedition against King Henry, like the invasion of Lambert Simnel against his father. It was something Henry dreaded. So when Walsh heard the rumour that the King of France was now planning such a challenge with one of the Plantagenets, he could be sure of two things: that the Tudor king would be suspicious of anyone who went to see the French-loving Desmond; and that he would be sure to have spies in Dublin and the other ports watching out for people travelling to Munster.
“The trouble is,” he now explained to Margaret, “not only do I, a lawyer who’s had favours from the Fitzgeralds, have to go down into Munster but part of my business there is to see the Earl of Desmond himself.”
“Must you go?”
“I really have to. I’ve been putting it off, but the business can’t wait.”
“What can I do to help you?”
“I shall go straight to the monastery. With luck I may even be able to see Desmond there. But I shan’t say I’m going into Munster, and I don’t want you to say so either. If anyone asks, which they won’t, just say I’m up in Fingal. On no account say I’m to see Desmond.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
By the second week in August, it should have been harvest time. But there was no harvest. The stalks in the fields were brown and sodden. Summer had collapsed. Recently, however, a strange, damp heat seemed to have been building up in the atmosphere, and even in the ground. Out in Dublin Bay, under the grey sky, the sea looked whitish and sullen, like milk in a pan before it swells and froths over. As the groom had remarked to Joan Doyle that morning, “It isn’t this time of year at all.”
Joan and her husband had gone down to Dalkey three days earlier. The village had not changed its overall shape much in the last century and a half, but the Doyle’s fortified house had been joined by half a dozen similar merchant forts belonging to important traders and gentry, including