Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [358]
Could he prove it? Would any purpose be served if he could? Would it do his friend Doyle any good to know such a thing? No, he did not think it would. There were some secrets that were so dark they were better left at rest, under the hills. Let Margaret Walsh fear him and be grateful for his silence. That had always been his power: to know secrets.
“I’ve heard nothing against young Richard Walsh at all,” he answered with perfect truth. “Everyone seems to like him.” He looked at Doyle curiously. “I’d have thought that you might be looking for a rich young gentleman. A girl like Mary—why, she’s even got the freedom of the city—would be a fine match for any family in Fingal.”
Doyle grunted. “I thought of that, too. The trouble is,” and here the merchant sighed with a lifetime of experience, “rich young gentlemen don’t usually want to work.”
“Ah,” MacGowan acknowledged quietly, “this is true.”
When, in the summer of 1538, her son Richard asked her to call upon Joan Doyle, Margaret experienced a moment of panic. To enter the big Dublin house, to find herself face-to-face with the woman whose daughter Richard was about to marry—and she still has no idea, she thought, that I tried to kill her. How could she sit there and look the woman in the eye?
“She keeps asking when you’re coming to see her,” Richard reported. “She’ll think it very rude if you don’t.”
And so, inwardly quaking, on a warm summer day, Margaret Walsh found herself entering through the heavy street door whose lineaments she remembered so well, to find herself moments later sitting comfortably in the parlour, alone with the wealthy little woman who thought she was her friend—and who disconcerted her even more, after embracing her warmly, by declaring with the happiest smile: “I’ll tell you a secret. I always thought that this would happen.”
“You did?” Margaret could only stare at her in confusion.
“Do you remember the time I came to you for shelter in the storm and he talked to us? I thought then: that’s just the boy for Mary. And look how well he’s turned out.”
“I hope so. Thank you,” poor Margaret stammered.
There was a pause, and hardly knowing how to fill the little silence, Margaret offered, “You were very good to us with the loan.” She thanked God that at least the royal fine had all been paid off recently so that, William had told her, he would soon be able to start the repayments to the Doyle woman. At the mention of the loan, Joan positively beamed.
“It was my pleasure. As I said to your husband, ‘If it will help that lovely boy, that’s all I need to know.’ ” She sighed. “He has your wonderful hair.”
“Ah,” Margaret nodded weakly. “He does.”
“And our husbands being in this Parliament together—my husband has such a high regard for yours, as you know—it has brought our two families quite close together.”
For a moment Margaret wondered whether to say it was a pity they’d been on opposite sides in Silken Thomas’s revolt, and then thought better of it. But one question did come into her mind.
“There was a time,” she was watching the Doyle woman carefully, “when my husband had hoped to enter Parliament and was denied.”
“Ah.” Joan Doyle looked thoughtful. “My husband told me.” She paused for only a moment. “He told me I mustn’t speak of it, but that was long ago. Did you know what happened? Some busybody down in Munster, a royal spy, put your