Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [359]
Margaret was learning so much, however uncomfortable it might be to her own former understandings, that she could not help raising one other matter.
“I’m surprised all the same that you allowed your daughter to marry my son, and not a boy from one of the important families.” She paused. “Like the Talbots, at Malahide.”
Joan Doyle looked at her curiously.
“Now why do you mention them?” She thought for a moment. “You told me you didn’t like them, didn’t you? But I never knew why.”
“They weren’t very kind to me when I went there,” she said. “At least, the mother wasn’t. I was just a girl.”
“The old lady Talbot that would have been.” Joan Doyle gazed at the wall behind Margaret for a few moments. “I never saw her myself. She died just before I first went to Malahide. I didn’t know you’d met her. The rest of them were all very kind.” Then she smiled. “You know, my daughter Mary is quite in love with your son. Were you in love when you married?”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “I think so.”
“It’s better to be in love,” sighed Joan Doyle. “I know plenty of couples who aren’t.” And then she smiled a contented smile. “I’ve been very fortunate myself. I came to love John Doyle quite slowly, but I was in love when I married, and I’ve been in love with him every day of my life since.” She gave Margaret a look of great sweetness. “Think of that. In love every day for more than twenty years.” And there could be no doubt, Margaret realised, no possible shadow of a doubt, that every word that Joan Doyle had spoken since they sat down together had been the truth. The Doyles had never informed against Walsh, she knew nothing about her humiliation by the Talbots, she had never been unfaithful to her husband. There was only one thing left to discover.
“Tell me,” Margaret said, “did you know that your family and mine had had a falling out, a long time ago?” And she told her the story of the disputed inheritance.
There was no question—Joan Doyle was not an actress—her look of astonishment and of horror was not, could not have been dissembled. She had never heard of the inheritance in her life.
“This is terrible,” she cried. “You mean we had your father’s money?”
“Well, my father certainly believed the Butlers had it unjustly,” Margaret corrected. “He may,” she felt she had to add, “have been wrong.”
“But it must have caused him terrible pain.” Joan looked thoughtful again, then had an idea. “At least,” she suggested, “we can cancel the loan.”
“Dear God,” said Margaret, in utter confusion now. “I don’t know what I should say.”
But Joan Doyle appeared hardly to hear her. She seemed lost in a contemplation of her own. Finally she stretched out her hand and touched Margaret’s arm.
“You might have disliked me,” she said with a smile. “It was very good of you not to dislike me.”
“Oh,” said Margaret helplessly, “I could never do that.”
On a raw, cold day in the middle of that winter the city of Dublin witnessed a most extraordinary scene, which drew the curious from all over the area.
When Cecily Tidy heard what was going on, she ran quickly from the western gate up toward Skinners Row. For there, in the broad precinct of the Cathedral of Christ Church, and observed by a crowd that included Alderman Doyle, a bonfire was burning. It was not to warm the poor folk of that area, to whom the monks gave food and shelter every day. Nor was it part of any midwinter celebration. It had been gathered and lit on the orders of no less a person than George Browne, the Archbishop of Dublin who, only minutes before Cecily’s arrival, had been outside to make sure that its flames were bright.
The purpose of the archbishop’s fire was to burn some of the greatest treasures in Ireland.
When Cecily arrived, two small carts, accompanied by half a dozen gallowglasses,