Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [357]
It was in the autumn of 1537, with the Parliament still in full deliberation, that Richard Walsh called at the house of Alderman Doyle to deliver a payment to his wife. He had only meant to remain there for as long as it took her to check the amount, and as he had been busy investigating some records in Christ Church that morning, he was in a rather dusty state. He was a little disconcerted, therefore, on being ushered into the parlour to find several of the Doyle family there. Besides Dame Doyle, there was the alderman, looking resplendent in a tunic of red and gold, one of his sons, his daughter Mary, and a younger sister. They might, he thought, have been taken for the family of a rich merchant or courtier in fashionable London whereas he, now, looked like a dusty clerk. It was a little humiliating, but it couldn’t be helped. They eyed him curiously.
“I didn’t mean to intrude upon your family,” he said to Dame Doyle politely. “I only came to leave with you what was owed,” and he passed to her a small bag of coins. “I can return another time.”
“Not at all.” Joan Doyle took it with a kindly smile. “I shan’t need to check it,” she remarked.
“I hear you’re holding everything together while your father and I get through this session of Parliament,” Doyle remarked with a friendly nod; and Richard was grateful for this implication that the rich alderman and his father were on collegial terms. “He speaks well of you,” he added.
It seemed to Richard that the alderman’s son, despite these encouraging words, was looking at him without much respect; the daughter Mary was watching him also, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. It was the youngest girl—she might have been thirteen, he supposed—who giggled. He looked at her enquiringly.
“You’re all dirty.” And she pointed.
He hadn’t seen the great dirt mark he had collected down one side of his sleeve. He also noticed that the cuff was frayed. He might have blushed. But fortunately the years in London as a fashionable fellow now came to his aid. He burst out laughing.
“So I am. I hadn’t noticed.” He glanced at Doyle. “This is what comes of working in the Christ Church records. I hope,” he turned to Joan Doyle, “that I haven’t been dropping dust all over your house.”
“I don’t expect you have.”
“It has to be said, Richard,” Doyle’s tone might have been used to a member of his own family, “that you need some new clothes.”
“I know,” Richard answered him frankly. “It’s true. I suppose that until our affairs are in a better state, I’m putting it off as long as I can.” He turned to the girl who had giggled and gave her a charming smile. “And when I get a nice new tunic, you may be sure I’ll come straight and show it to you.”
Doyle nodded, but apparently bored by the subject of clothes, now cut in.
“You mean to make your fortune, Richard?”
“I do. If I can.”
“A lawyer like yourself can do well enough in Dublin,” Doyle remarked, “but there’s more money in trade. A legal training can be useful in trade.”
“I know, and I considered it; but I’ve no means of starting in that line. I must work with the assets I have.”
Doyle nodded briefly, and the interview was over. Richard bowed politely to them all and turned to go. Just as he reached the door, he heard Joan Doyle.
“You’ve wonderful hair,” she said.
He was already out in Skinners Row when Mary Doyle spoke.
She was quite a handsome girl, with her mother’s Spanish looks and her father’s hard, intelligent eyes.
“He was at the Inns of Court?” She addressed her father.
“He was.”
“Is he a Walsh of Carrickmines?”
“A branch of them, yes.” He gazed at her. “Why?”
She looked back at him, with the same eyes.
“Just wondering.”
It was early in the year 1538 that MacGowan, chatting to Alderman Doyle one afternoon, was rather surprised when the rich merchant turned to him and asked him what he thought of young Richard Walsh.
“It seems,” he confessed, “that my daughter Mary’s interested in him.”
MacGowan considered. He thought of all that he knew of the parties