Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [347]
Late that morning, Margaret rode out to the meeting place up in the hills, where Sean O’Byrne had told her he would come to give her news of the previous night’s expedition. She waited there half the afternoon, but he never came. She was almost tempted to ride down to Rathconan, but decided it would be too great a risk. By evening she was glad that she had not.
Richard Walsh had gone into Dublin alone that morning. He returned in the evening with a report that Dame Doyle had been attacked near Dalkey. “But luckily,” he added, “she escaped.” Four of the assailants had been killed. “It seems they came from up near Rathconan. They say Sean O’Byrne was involved.” MacGowan had been knocked off his horse, but was not much hurt.
“You say Dame Doyle is safe in Dalkey now?” asked Margaret.
“She is, thank God.”
“What will they do about O’Byrne?” she enquired.
“Nothing, I should say. Doyle’s shut up in the castle. Lord Thomas doesn’t care. And O’Byrne’s boys had the worst of it anyway.”
There hadn’t seemed much point in going to see O’Byrne after that.
It was a few days later that MacGowan arrived at the house. As always, the lawyer was glad to see him, remarking cheerfully that the grey merchant looked none the worse for his recent encounter. And MacGowan seemed grateful to rest inside and take a little wine. He appeared tired as they sat down in the hall.
“It’s on account of the other night that I’ve just come from Sean O’Byrne’s,” he said wearily. “For I was at the wake for his son.”
“His son?” Margaret looked up in surprise. “He lost a son?”
“He did. Fintan. The other night. A sad wake it was. A terrible thing.”
“But …” she gazed at him in astonishment as she considered the implications of this news. “It must have been the men you hired that killed him.”
“There is not a doubt of it.”
“I’m surprised you went to the wake,” she said.
“I went to his wake out of my respect for his father,” MacGowan quietly replied. “His death was no fault of mine, and the O’Byrnes know that. What’s done is done.”
She was silent. MacGowan closed his eyes.
“Did he tell you how it was he came to know of Dame Doyle’s going to Dalkey?” asked Walsh. “That is the thing that puzzles me.”
“He did not.” MacGowan’s eyes were still closed.
“Nothing’s a secret in Dublin, I know,” the lawyer remarked. “I had to conclude that when I asked for the safe-conduct, one of the men around Lord Thomas must have set up the ambush.”
“They would know Sean O’Byrne,” agreed MacGowan, apparently still seeking sleep; and neither man spoke for a moment of two. “Whoever carried the information,” he continued quietly, “has the death of young Fintan O’Byrne on their conscience.” And now he opened one eye. And with it he stared straight at Margaret.
Margaret gazed back. His eye remained fixed upon her. It seemed so large, so accusing, so all-knowing.
What did he know? How much had the clever merchant guessed? Had O’Byrne said something? If he did know, did he mean to tell her husband, or the Doyles? She tried to keep calm, to give nothing away. But she felt only a cold, awful dread. Her gaze fell. She could not, any longer, look at that terrible eye.
Slowly MacGowan rose.
“I must be on my way,” he announced. “I thank you,” he said to Walsh, “for your hospitality.” To Margaret he said not another word. She wasn’t sorry to see him go.
But if she thought that her tribulation was at an end with his departure, she was wrong.
It was about an hour later, after attending to some business, that her husband came into the hall to find her sitting alone. As she had been brooding about the uncomfortable interview with MacGowan, she was grateful to have someone to distract her thoughts and turned to him with a hopeful smile as he sat down in the heavy oak chair by the table. He seemed to have something on his mind also, since he paused thoughtfully before he began.
“It’s as well, you know, that no harm came to Joan Doyle the other night. For us as a family, I mean.”
“Oh?” She felt a little catch in her