Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [349]
This return to stalemate had one other result. Dublin Castle opened its gate, and Henry Tidy came home.
It was a pity that one of the children had upset a pitcher of milk just before he came, and Cecily was not in a good temper. She had been waiting for this day for so long. Time and again, while her husband was in the castle, she had thought about the moment of his return. What was it she wanted? As she looked at her children and remembered the early days of their marriage, she knew very well. She longed to return to the warmth of their married life. She couldn’t change her religious views. That was impossible. And she didn’t suppose that her husband could change his attitude, either. But surely they could manage to live in peace.
If only he would be kind. When he had struck her that awful day, it had not been the blow itself that hurt—although she had been shocked—but the coldness she had sensed behind it. And something within her had died. Could it be revived?
She needed to know that he loved her. Whatever her views about King Henry, however much she embarrassed him in front of Doyle and the city authorities, she needed to know that he truly loved her. That was what she would be watching for, upon his return. How would he act? What would it mean? Could she trust him?
It was a pity therefore that, in a moment of irritation, she should have turned when he appeared at the door and greeted him coldly.
“You don’t seem very pleased to see me.”
She stared at him. She wanted to smile. She had meant to. But now that the moment she had waited for had come, and had started all wrong, she felt strangely paralyzed. She felt something inside her shrink back.
“You left your family,” she answered bleakly.
Would he apologise? Would he make the first move? Would he give her some reassurance?
“You refused to come with me, Cecily.”
No. Not a word. Nothing had changed.
“It is not my fault that King Henry is excommunicated.”
“I am still your husband.”
She gave a tiny shrug. “And the Holy Father is still the Holy Father.”
“I have returned, anyway.” He tried a smile. “You could make me welcome.”
“Why?” She could not help the bitterness in her voice. “Do you wish to be here?”
He stared at her. What was he thinking? He’s thinking what a cold and cruel woman I am, she thought. This is partly my fault.
“No.”
So that was it. He’d spoken the truth. Was it the truth, though, or was he just hitting back? She waited for him to add something else. He didn’t.
“We’ve nothing to say to each other,” she said, feeling strangely helpless, and stood there waiting as the coldness descended, falling quietly between them.
By the next day, the Tidy household had evolved a new way of life. The workshop was at the street level. There Tidy and the apprentice worked and slept. On the floor above was the main room, where the family ate together. Above that, in the tower, Cecily and the children slept. From her window up there, Cecily overlooked some potteries where they made crockery.
It became a refuge for her, that window in the tower. Sometimes during the day she would go up there to be alone and watch the crockers, or even catch sight of Fitzgerald’s men in the distance. In the evenings, cut off from her husband, after the children had gone to sleep, she would sit there for hours watching the sunset or the stars, and thinking of what was passing in the world.
Soon after she began her vigils came the news that the Earl of Kildare had died of his sickness in England. Sad though this was, it also meant that Silken Thomas was now the new earl, with all the authority and prestige that name evoked. It could not be long now, she hoped, before the cause was won. In mid-October, the English ships at last arrived. Doyle and the other aldermen welcomed the Gunner and his men into Dublin. The English troops were numerous and seemed to be trained; they also brought artillery. She had hoped to see them destroyed in an open battle with Silken Thomas, and felt some