Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [318]
“If I don’t find her a tower soon,” Tidy confessed to Alderman Doyle one day in June, “my life won’t be worth living.”
“As it happens,” the alderman replied, “I have news for you. There is a tenancy coming free and I can secure it for you. You could have it quite soon. On the Feast of Corpus Christi.”
If Margaret Walsh looked back over the last eight years, she could feel reasonably pleased with herself. The worst years had been the first, when Butler had been in charge. It had come as no surprise that Doyle should have become a member of the Irish Parliament at that time while her own husband had not; but it had hurt all the same. On the rare occasions when she encountered Joan Doyle, the Dublin woman would always greet her warmly, as if they were friends, but Margaret had perfected a technique of smiling enigmatically and as soon as she politely could, moving away.
But two years later, when the Gunner was made Lord Deputy and Kildare was allowed to return to the island on condition that he supported the artilleryman, Walsh’s hopes of a seat in the Parliament had revived. Whatever suspicions had been raised about Walsh at the time of his visit to Munster, the passage of a few years and the changes in administration had been enough to erase them. “I’ve been told that the Gunner has nothing against me,” he reported to Margaret, “and Kildare’s on my side. I think it’s time for another try.” The opportunity to help him came one day in spring.
“I need you,” Walsh announced, “to come to Dublin Castle and be nice to the Gunner.”
The entertainment took place the following week. Though the grey old castle was normally dark and rather shabby, Margaret could see that an effort had been made to smarten up the big courtyard, and the great hall, decked with hangings and lit by a thousand candles, looked quite festive. She had gone to endless trouble over her appearance. She had taken out her best gown, hardly worn for many a year, and made some cunning alterations, adding a panel of fresh silk brocade down the centre so that it looked like new. Thanks to the judicious use of dye, carefully applied by her eldest daughter, she entered the hall with hair that was restored to almost the same shade of red that it had been a decade ago. She had even put on scent, from a little phial of oriental perfume which she had guiltily bought some years before at Donnybrook Fair. And when her handsome, distinguished husband turned to her and said with admiration, “Margaret, you’re the most beautiful woman in the castle,” she actually blushed with pleasure.
“All you need to do is make a good impression on the Gunner,” he had explained. “Most of the nobles make it clear that they despise him, so he’s glad enough if anybody’s civil. You can even flirt with him, if you like,” he added with a grin.
As it happened, she had rather liked the Gunner. He was a short, sharp-eyed, bristling man; she could imagine him directing his cannon with great effect. For a moment, as they approached and saw that the group around him included the Doyles, she had felt her heart sink. Nor had it helped when Joan Doyle, seeing her, had smiled and declared, “It’s my friend with the wonderful red hair. It looks better than ever,” she had added, while Margaret smiled back and thought: if that’s your way of saying I dyed it, you won’t succeed in embarrassing me. But when she was presented to the little Lord Deputy, he made her a very handsome bow.