Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [327]
What was a pretty woman like herself doing alone? Where was her husband? On the stage, she told them. Who was he? Adam. This was greeted uproariously. Then she must be Eve. Was she a temptress? Which one of them would she tempt? All this she could take in good part. But as the next play began, and they started to make lewder remarks, she decided she had to put them in their place.
“Attend to the play, Sirs,” she cried, “not to me. Remember,” she added, “that this is still the Feast of Corpus Christi.”
Yet if she supposed that this reproof would quieten them, it had quite the opposite effect. They started making vulgar puns, asking her if she would be “corporal” on Corpus Christi day, until finally she had had enough.
“Do not mock the miracle of the Mass,” she called out sharply, expecting this to silence them once and for all. So she was utterly astonished when one of the young bloods, who was clearly English, made a disparaging remark about the Mass. It wasn’t said very loudly, but it was audible; and even more amazing, some of his companions laughed.
She even forgot the play. She stared at them in disgust. Who did these English fops think they were? And why were their Irish companions letting them get away with it? They might be the sons of great lords—she didn’t know and she didn’t care—but they shouldn’t be allowed to come and utter profanities in Dublin. She stepped towards them.
“You may be Protestants and heretics in London,” she called out firmly, “but you need not bring your blasphemy to Dublin.” Some of them, she thought, looked awkward, but not all.
“Oh, Tom,” called the impudent one, “you have some fiery women in Ireland.” She could hear that he was a little drunk, but that was no excuse. And when he made her a mocking and insolent bow, that only infuriated her more. Why should the foreign fop think he could be condescending to her just because this was Ireland and she was only a woman? “Are we heretics, then, in England, Madam?” he taunted her.
“Since your new queen,” she emphasised the last word with contempt, “is a heretic, you may all be so,” she snapped.
“A hit, Tom, a hit,” the young lordling cried. He clasped his hand to his heart. “I am hit.” He staggered to one side as though wounded. The people around, instead of watching the play, were turning to look at him. But now, switching abruptly from this comedy, he gave her a dangerous stare. “Have a care, Madam, before you accuse the queen of heresy. The king is Supreme Head of our Church.”
“Not of my Church, Sir,” she answered bitterly. “The Holy Father is Head of my Church, thank God,” she added with fervour.
Technically, this was still true. As the matter of King Henry’s supremacy had not been brought before the Irish Parliament, it was not yet the law in Ireland, and Cecily could correctly say that she answered to the Pope. She stared at him angrily. Was there something effeminate about this fashionable young man with his sudden changes of mood? Her look became contemptuous. He saw it.
“Why, Madam,” he called out so that all around should hear, “I believe you do speak treason.” He almost sang the last word. It hung, horribly, in the air. Even Cain and Abel on their stage paused for a moment to glance towards her nervously. But Cecily was by now so angry that she did not notice.
“I would rather be guilty of treason than deny the true faith and the Holy Father,” she cried out. “As for you,” she shouted, “you’ll rot in Hell beside King Henry!”
The play stopped. Everyone turned to look at her, the woman who had just condemned the king to Hell. Outraged though she was, Cecily knew that she had gone too far. This was dangerous territory, the borderland of treason. But even worse than the stares of the crowd was the look on the face of the man who was now striding towards her.
Tidy’s face was as pale