The Murderer Inside the Mirror, page 12
Drifting into sleep, she wondered if Thomas’s man, Maguire, was down there. He had not seemed to be someone who would join in raucous laughter or bawdy songs, although you never knew. But he was most likely already on his way to Dublin and the Black Boar.
As she drifted into sleep, she heard again the laughter from the courtyard below.
As Dubhgall Maguire rode past the stables and the low-roofed buildings where the gallowglass soldiers were housed, he heard the laughter as well. It would be the soldiers celebrating the Earl’s appearance in the abbey earlier in the day, of course. Some of them had started up an extremely rude song, too – Maguire could hear it as he rode across the courtyard. He did not even know what some of the words of the song meant, but it was disgusting and depraved behaviour, and the Earl ought to know about such behaviour, although Maguire would not be the one to tell him.
The gallowglasses would be telling one another that Silken Thomas had given a fine speech today, and saying wouldn’t the whole of Dublin City – the whole of Ireland, in fact! – be rallying to the call. It was gall and wormwood to Maguire when people became spellbound by the Earl and vowed to do anything he asked of them. Reclaiming Ireland for the Irish was a praiseworthy cause – Maguire would acknowledge that – but it would mean a great many people dying in the process. As Maguire’s own father had died, abandoned and virtually penniless …
Maguire had never forgotten the day his father rode out at the Battle of Knockdoe in the service of the old Earl of Kildare. He had left the small house and the struggling little smallholding, saying hadn’t they to stop the powerful English landowners trampling the Irish tenancy? And he’d return a hero, he said, and as for their bit of land and the crops – why, Himself of Kildare had promised to reward all his faithful followers richly. Grants of money there’d be – enough to buy more land for the Maguires, and for them to become prosperous. Wasn’t that worth fighting for?
Riding through the spiteful rain towards Dublin, the memory of his father’s eagerness that day scalded Maguire’s mind afresh. Because his father had not returned a hero – he had not returned at all, for he had died on the battlefield. Soon afterwards the old Earl had been imprisoned by Henry Tudor’s men in the Tower of London, where the English put their villains. Almost certainly to be executed, people said.
And the struggling Maguire smallholding had failed altogether, and Maguire’s mother had died of despair and grief.
But then Silken Thomas had stepped up to the fight. He made impassioned speeches, and he promised to save Ireland – to take the English by the scruff of their necks and send them to the rightabout. He had paid homage to the men who had served his father as well – Maguire had been instantly grateful; he had thought his father had not died in vain after all, and before long the Maguire land could be reclaimed.
He had waited and hoped and trusted, but when nothing happened, he had come to understand that the new Earl was not going to honour his father’s wishes. Nothing could bring back Maguire’s father, slaughtered in battle, or his mother, dead of grief, of course, but the conviction that Thomas should be made to pay – and not just in squalid coinage – took root in his mind.
That had been when he had managed to get into the new Earl’s household. It had been easier than he had dared hope; it seemed there were always opportunities for willing, hard-working men prepared to serve the nobility – for a pittance of a wage albeit! – and, once in Kildare’s service, Maguire made himself not just useful, but indispensable. He found he could be as two-faced and as double-tongued as any belted earl. He bided his time and watched his chances, and wove his plans.
The Earl frequently came and went between Maynooth and Dublin, of course. Sometimes Maguire was required to accompany him, but generally the journeys were military, and it was the gallowglasses who went with him. Maguire supposed that if you were an occupying army, you had to make sure the place you had occupied remained under the sole of your boot. He had no quarrel with Dublin City having been reclaimed for the Irish – dear goodness, of course he had not – and the absences meant he could make a thorough search of all the papers and documents in Thomas’s library and also his bedchamber. At first, he found nothing except notes for plans and strategies; letters from various fighting men giving advice. But he persisted, because he needed to know for sure what the old Earl had said or promised, and he would not damn Silken Thomas without being sure of the facts. So he went on searching, and, at last, after several attempts, he found what he sought.
It was a dim old document, carelessly written, spattered with ink and wine stains and blobs of sealing-wax, but as soon as he had carried it over to the window to read more easily, his heart began to thud, because the intention within the document was perfectly clear.
To the faithful men who served me in the Battle of Knockdoe in County Galway in the Year of Grace, 1504, and very especially to those who died on the battlefield, I promise that on my death the sums herein named shall be settled …
There followed a list of names, and Maguire, reading as quickly as he could, listening for anyone outside the door and his heart racing with apprehension, finally found what he wanted. It was halfway down the list:
To Diarmuid Maguire, the sum of one hundred crowns for faithful service in battle in the army of myself, Gerald Fitzgerald, the 9th Earl of Kildare.
At the foot of the document, the same writing stated, very clearly:
I lay this charge on my son, Tomás an tSíoda, that is Thomas Fitzgerald, who one day will inherit my title and become the 10th Earl of Kildare, that if I have not fulfilled these promises at my death, he afterwards honour my wishes faithfully and fully.
Hereto I set my hand and my seal.
Gerald Fitzgerald, 9th Earl of Kildare, Lord Deputy of Ireland.
The seal had been affixed to the page – bits of the wax had flaked off, but Maguire knew it for what it was.
One hundred crowns. It was not a fortune, but it was a very substantial amount indeed – more than most men of Maguire’s standing would be able to amass in a lifetime. And it was a sum that would have bought back that lost piece of land and allowed it to be worked and cultivated – or perhaps would have realized Maguire’s own dream of founding a small business, something that would endure and that could be passed down in the family.
It was now over a year since the old Earl’s death had been reported – Maguire did not know if he had been executed or if he had died from his battle wounds. But he knew – everyone knew – how Silken Thomas had vowed to avenge his father’s death. Maguire could certainly understand that, for hadn’t he been planning all this time to avenge his own father’s death?
But it was clear by now that Thomas was not going to honour his father’s promise, and a conviction began to take hold of Maguire that not only must he get the money promised to his family, the Earl himself should be brought to a reckoning. The more he thought about this, the better he liked the prospect.
The Earl had the occasional female entanglement, of course, but Maguire had never paid them much attention, or especially worried over them. There was said to be – or maybe to once have been – a wife in England. It was vaguely believed it had been one of those child marriages frequently arranged between noble families, but nobody in Maynooth seemed to know much about the lady, although Maguire had heard a whisper that she had not regarded him with any especial favour. He certainly did not worry about the random females who came fleetingly in and out of the Earl’s life. Until today, when the whey-faced little bitch, Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh arrived at Maynooth. Because even in the first hours, Maguire could see that the Earl regarded her as different.
He supposed you would have to say the circumstances of the meeting had been romantic, with Thomas galloping to the rescue of a beleaguered maiden (always supposing she was a maiden in the true sense), and carrying her off to his castle. Maguire was not one for such nonsense, but he would allow that it had a place in the world.
What he would not allow, though, was the skew-eyed female getting her claws so deeply into the Earl that she would also get her hands on his money, to the extent that there would be none left for those people to whom it had been promised.
But Maguire was more than equal to dealing with the likes of Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh.
FOURTEEN
After the first few days, Catherine found the time inside Maynooth Castle began to drag. It had been foolish to imagine she would be spending each evening with Thomas – to have visualized the two of them supping together, listening to his music by firelight, sipping wine, becoming ever closer …
Or had it been so foolish? He had kissed her that first night, and although it was actually the first time Catherine had ever been kissed in that way, it had seemed to hold deep emotion. And there was nothing wrong with a kiss, and Catherine would not believe there would be anything wrong if matters developed beyond a kiss. She had no idea if Thomas had a wife – nobody had mentioned her, and there did not seem to be any trace of one in the castle. Catherine had not searched for traces, but she had opened one or two cupboards, and there had not seemed to be any items that could be regarded as feminine.
There was plenty of time for her to search if she had cared to, though. Thomas was not at Maynooth very much; he spent a great deal of his time with his soldiers, frequently riding off with them, generally setting out in the early morning. Catherine did not like to ask where he went, and when he returned – usually late at night – he was often exhausted and drained, and clearly it would not be right to start asking questions at such an hour. You’re afraid, said her mind accusingly. You’re afraid that if you start questioning and asking about what he does and where he goes, he’ll decide it’s safe for you to return to Westmeath, and you’ll find yourself back in the boring life and you’ll never be free.
She began to measure and to cut the silk fabric to fashion a gown for herself. In one of the cupboards were several bales of cloth, as well – perhaps they would be intended as gifts for the servants – but Catherine thought she could use some of them to make a day gown for herself. It would be something definite to do.
She explored the castle, and she spent a great many hours in the dim, dusty library. It had an air of being set apart – sounds from the courtyard did not penetrate it, so it was always quiet. Catherine liked the feeling that over the centuries people had come here to study and be undisturbed, and she liked the shelves of books – many in Latin, Irish, French and English, and many of which did not appear to have been opened for years. There were sermons and journals, written by long-dead, religiously inclined Fitzgeralds, which were the dullest things Catherine had ever read, but there were also old legends of Ireland and a few books detailing the history of the Fitzgerald family. There, again, was the motto that had been carved into the great hearth in the hall. Non Immemor Beneficii … ‘Not forgetful of a helping hand’.
It was on one of the afternoons when she was exploring these books, thinking she should call for the wall sconces to be lit because it was growing dark, that the library door was flung open. Thomas’s voice said, ‘Catherine! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
It suddenly seemed unnecessary to call for lights, because it was as if he had brought a brilliance and a glow into the room with him. Catherine saw that there was such triumph and such delight in his expression that she wanted to run across the room to him. But he was already coming to her – holding out his hands, seizing her own hands, his eyes alight with triumph.
‘Dublin is ours,’ he said. ‘We have wrested it from the English, and it’s in Ireland’s possession again at last.’
His voice thrummed with such joy and triumph that Catherine felt it engulf her. She said, ‘Oh, how marvellous. It’s what you’ve wanted all the time, isn’t it? Can you tell me about it?’
‘I can,’ he said, pulling her across to a deep settle drawn up to the fire, his hands still holding hers tightly. ‘Riding home just now, I was planning how I would tell you everything. I wanted you to know it all, Catherine.’ He pulled her closer, and his arm went around her shoulders.
‘It was the finest battle you’d ever imagine,’ he said. ‘We swept everything aside – the soldiers were with me all the time; they fought like heroes, every last one … Oh, we lost some and others are wounded, but they’ll be taken care of, and their families. Most of them are celebrating now in their own part of the castle.’ Then, for a moment, a shadow fell across his face, and in a different voice, he said, ‘But it isn’t complete. Dublin Castle held out against us.’ His free hand clenched in anger. ‘We couldn’t break them down.’ Then the light flared again, and he said, ‘But I shall have that castle, Catherine, I shall take it all – all of Ireland for the Irish. I shall avenge my father completely one day.’ He looked down at her. ‘And this has been a great victory,’ he said, and pulled her closer.
The blood had begun to sing through Catherine’s veins. She knew quite surely what was about to happen, and she knew she should be afraid and that it was a sin – that it was the act you did not do unless you were married – but she no longer cared.
His hands were exploring her body now, slowly but with assurance, sliding over her shoulders and inside the bodice of her gown … His fingers felt soft and sure, and his eyes were dark with passion.
Catherine managed to say something about the servants – Maguire, about someone coming into the room without warning, and he laughed, and got up and dropped a latch on the heavy old door that led out into the big hallway. Then he pulled her down onto the thick fur rugs in front of the fire, and as the warmth and the glow fell over her body, she felt as if the fire had leaped out and enclosed her. He was reaching beneath her skirts, and murmuring that wasn’t this what they had both wanted and intended from that first moment …? Catherine heard herself whisper that, yes, from the very first moment.
His hands were gentle and strong, and the room was beginning to spin and blur all around her, and of their own accord her hands were reaching down for him. She heard her own voice again, this time gasping something about never having done this – of not knowing how … But he only gave a soft laugh and said it did not matter, the body had its own knowledge anyway, and the only thing that mattered was that they were finally together like this.
When he entered her, it was with the same gentle, strong assurance, and Catherine gasped, and then clung to him, because she would not bear it if he stopped now. The fire burned up even more brightly, and she had the wild thought that it would pull them both into its depths, because it felt as if she was drowning in the fire, except she did not care, as long as he was there with her.
Through the spinning, whirling waves of delight, she thought one of them was saying they would never let go of this feeling – that there had never been anything like it in the world, and there never would be ever again … She had no idea if it was his voice or her own, though. And then the fires burned up even more fiercely and the whirlpool took them up and up, as if it had seized them and was carrying them out of the room and out of the castle and out of the world …
Thomas moved convulsively and cried out, and in the same moment Catherine felt the whirlpool explode in a cascade of purest delight, and then descend softly around them like a melted rainbow. And after all they had not left the room – the fire still burned brightly and they were still lying before it on the thick rugs. Thomas’s head was on her shoulder, the soft bright hair like velvet against her skin. She reached up and took his face in her cupped hands, and kissed him, because even though he was strong and brave, like this, he was suddenly very young and dreadfully vulnerable, and she could bear him being strong and brave, but she could not bear his vulnerability …
She supposed that what they had done would be regarded as mortal sin – Liam would be horrified, and the nuns at St Joseph’s would be shocked to their toes and forecast that the fires of hell would be waiting. Catherine did not care if she was forced to enter the fires of hell, as long as Thomas entered them at her side.
Maguire could hardly bear it. There they were, the two of them, clearly locked in a disgraceful and sinful love affair – Maguire would not use a stronger term than that – and whatever the outcome, the ending would be that the skew-eyed little cat would get her hands on Fitzgerald money, and there would be none – or precious little – left for Maguire himself. And, of course, for those other families listed in the old Earl’s pledge.
Going about his daily tasks in the castle, he gradually became aware that a number of the soldiers believed that although Thomas had taken Dublin, he would not keep it. He had not managed to take Dublin Castle, said these doubters, and whispered behind their hands that there was a growing belief that the Earl would end in being captured by the English.
Maguire considered this. Thomas’s capture would certainly result in his execution for high treason. And then what would happen to his estates and his possessions – what would be left of them? Maguire had little knowledge of the law, but he knew there was a half-brother who he thought would inherit the title. Titles were what he believed was called entailed – they passed straight to the legal heir without question or argument. There were those murmurs about a wife, too, although he had never been able to find out where she was or even if she was still alive.
The half-brother would most likely inherit Maynooth Castle along with the title, but there was other property. Maguire knew there was, because he had been to some of the places with the Earl. Could heirs and wives inherit those properties and lands without specific instructions set down? Maguire had no idea.
What he did know, though, was that in an excess of emotion, or gripped by love or lust or both – faced with death, the Earl might direct that everything that was not entailed, and everything that was left in his coffers passed to Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh. And she would seize it all greedily, and live richly on the proceeds for the rest of her life. Which would mean Maguire would never get his hands on anything, and his father’s death would have been a worthless one.
