Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [352]
“I am,” said Sean. “And what is your message?”
“For some years, Sean O’Byrne, this Maurice has lived in your house as your foster son.” He paused, eyeing Sean, it seemed to Eva, a little severely. “But as you also know, this young man has a greater claim upon you.”
Sean acknowledged this odd statement with a gracious inclination of his handsome head.
“And under the ancient usages of Ireland,” the brehon continued, “I’m to tell you, Sean O’Byrne, that his mother the lady Fitzgerald is now calling upon you to admit your responsibility in this matter and to make the proper provisions.”
“She names me?”
“She does.”
Maurice was listening to this dialogue with utter astonishment. Eva was staring at the old man with a look of horror on her pale face. Only Sean seemed quite at ease, sitting in his big chair and nodding quietly in recognition of what the brehon was saying.
“What responsibility?” Eva broke in. “What provision?” A sudden panic added a sharpness to her voice. “What is it you’re saying?”
The brehon turned towards her. It was hard to tell what expression was in his face, which seemed as old as the hills.
“That your husband, Sean O’Byrne, is the father of this boy.” He indicated Maurice. “The lady Fitzgerald has named him. You did not know?”
She did not reply. Her face was entirely white; her mouth formed into a small O, from which no sound emerged. The old man turned to Sean.
“You do not deny it?”
And now Sean was smiling. “I do not. She has the right.”
It was the law and custom in Ireland that if a woman named a man as the father of her child and it was acknowledged, then the child was entitled to make claims upon the father, including a share of the father’s estate when he died.
“When?” Eva found her voice at last. “When was this known?”
Sean did not seem in any hurry to reply, so the old man answered. “It was admitted privately between the parties when Sean O’Byrne came down to ask for Maurice as a foster son.”
“When Maurice first came here. He brought Maurice here because he was his son?”
“That would be it,” said the brehon. “The lady Fitzgerald’s husband did not wish to embarrass himself or his wife at that time, so once he had been informed of the matter, he agreed that Maurice should go with his father as a foster son. But as he’s not wanting to provide for him now, Sean O’Byrne is named.”
“You are my father?” It was Maurice who spoke now. He was very pale. He had been watching Eva; now he turned to Sean.
“I am.” Sean smiled. He seemed delighted.
“But why?” Eva’s voice was a cry of pain. She couldn’t help it. “Why in God’s name would you have your own son by another woman to live in my house all these years, under my very nose, and never a word to me about who he was? You watched me look after him and love him like my own. And it was all a lie! A lie to make a fool of me. Was it for that you did it, Sean? For my humiliation? In the name of God, when I think of the good wife I’ve been to you, why would you do such a thing?” She paused, staring at him. “You were planning this for years.”
And now, as he looked at her with the blandest of smiles on his handsome face, she saw, also, a little gleam of angry triumph in his eye.
“It was you who brought the friar here and made me swear upon the Saint Kevin.” He paused and she saw his fingers close upon the arms of the oak chair as his body leaned forward in the seat. “It was you that humiliated me, Eva, in front of the friar and the priest,” his voice was rising in suppressed fury, “in my own house.” He threw himself back in his seat. Then he smiled. “You’ve done a good job looking after my son. I’ll say that.”
And in a terrible, searing flash, Eva understood as she had never understood before the vanity of a man, and the long, cold reach of his vengeance.