Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
She had thought he would hesitate to lie to the priest.
Especially when there happened to be a friar there as well. For whatever his behaviour might be, she knew that her husband had a respect for his religion. She had seen him giving extra money to the travelling friars when he thought she wasn't looking. And she had loved him for that. Like most people, even those who were cynical about the worldly priests, or the sedentary monks, he liked to give alms to the poor friars who preached and tended the sick, and led a simple life.
And he wasn't without reverance, either. Once, when they had gone into the Cathedral of Christ Church to see the Bachall Iosa and the other sacred relics there, she had seen him gaze at them with awe and fear in his eye. Sean O'Byrne might like to give out that he was a bold fellow, but he was still afraid of the sacred relics, like anybody else.
Yet he'd just lied again. He'd sworn a sacred oath as casually as he had seduced the girl. It had probably been a mistake to choose Father Donal for the task, she decided. The priest was too familiar to him. He somehow thought he could lie to Father Donal, and that it did not matter. As for the friar, he was just a bystander who could hardly be involved. And so after this embarrassing scene, she was no better off than she had been before. She knew very well that he was looking at her, even now, with a smile of triumph on his face. It was too painful. She had failed to get anywhere at all.
No wonder she had turned away.
The friar, who had been brought to the house by Father Donal, was on his way to visit a hermit who lived over at Glendalough. Her husband was turning to the friar now, inviting him in. Of course, the good friar should be fed. She took a deep breath and prepared to do her duty. But even in defeat, she secretly vowed that she was not done with Sean O'Byrne yet.
Cecily was just walking through the Dame's Gate that same morning when they seized her. Two men grabbed at her arms; the third marched in front, looking pleased with himself. For a moment when it happened, she had been so taken by surprise that she could only give a little scream. By the time she had understood what they were doing, they were triumphantly marching her up the slope. "You can't arrest me," she protested,
"I've done nothing wrong." "We'll see about that," the man in front replied, "at the Tholsel." The ramshackle old town hall with its heavy gables was not a building the Dublin corporation could be very proud of. Every year someone among the aldermen would declare that the place must be refurbished, and everyone would agree; but somehow the funds were never available. "We'll get to it next year," they always said. Nevertheless, as its battered old face gazed sleepily towards Christ Church, the Tholsel had a kind of shabby dignity.
And today, from their confabulations therein, a group of city officials had decided to send out parties of men to sweep the city streets in search of offenders-and useful fines. They were waiting for Cecily in an upper chamber.
Her offence-and it was a minor crime-was that she was wearing a saffron-coloured scarf over her head.
"Your name?"
She gave it. Cecily Baker. A straightforward English name, misleading only to the small extent that, like plenty of other people with English names in Dublin, she had an Irish mother-an O'Casey, as it happened. She was English officially though, resident in Dublin, and therefore not allowed to wear the saffron-coloured scarf that was popular amongst the native Irish.
It wasn't only the long-prohibited Irish dress that the guardians of the law had been looking for that day. In Dublin, as in London and other cities, there were plenty of ancient laws regulating what people could wear. Craftsmen weren't to dress themselves up like aldermen, who were their betters; nuns were forbidden to wear fine furs. It was all part of the business of maintaining social order and morals. Some of these laws were more observed than others, but they were there to be remembered whenever the authorities decided to assert themselves or needed to collect some money. In answer to their questions, she told them that she was unmarried, though betrothed, a seamstress, and that she lived a short distance outside the city's southern gate.
"Can I go now?" she asked. If they wanted to prosecute, they knew where to find her. But to her irritation, they still wouldn't let her go.
Someone had to come and answer for her, they insisted. So she gave them the name of the young man she was to marry:
Henry Tidy, the glover. And they sent a man off to fetch him. Then they told her she could sit on a wooden bench while she waited.
Cecily Baker was a serious young woman. She had a round face, red cheeks, a pointed nose, and a sweet smile. She was a very nice young woman.
She also had some very strong opinions.
It was Cecilys opinion that Holy Church was sacred; others might criticise the shortcomings of some of the religious orders, but it was the faith that was important, and the faith should be firmly defended.
Those people in other countries-she had heard of Luther and the so-called Protestant reformers on the Continent- who wanted to upset the order sanctified by the centuries were wreckers and criminals as far as she was concerned; and if sound Catholic monarchs like King Henry VIII of England wanted to burn them, she had no objection. She thought it was probably for the best. She went to mass regularly, and confessed her sins to her priest; and when once he forgot how many Ave Marias he had given her as a penance for a small offence the previous month and allotted her too few the next time, she gently but firmly reminded him of his mistake. She also had very clear ideas about what a young couple, like herself and Tidy, once they were betrothed and soon to be married, should do together. And these ideas were physical and unrestrained-so much so that young Tidy had been quite startled. The fact that these sins of the flesh should then be confessed to her priest was, as far as she was concerned, a very proper part of the process.
And perhaps it was the confidence of knowing she'd fulfilled all her religious obligations that gave Cecily an equal conviction that the secular authorities had no right to impose on her unjustly. She knew perfectly well that her arrest-just for wearing an old scarf of her mothers-was an absurdity. She knew about the rule, but she could see that the men at the Tholsel were simply trying to collect a few fines. She wasn't impressed, and she certainly wasn't afraid. But she did wish that Henry Tidy would turn up. After a while, she began to feel quite lonely, sitting on the hard bench.
She had to wait nearly an hour. When he finally appeared, he wasn't alone. And he was looking worried.
She rose to greet him. The young man she loved. She smiled. She took a step towards him, expecting at least a kiss. But to her surprise, he made no move towards her at all. He stood where he was, his face strained, and his blue eyes gazing at her reproachfully.
"You gave my name."
Of course she had. Weren't they getting married?
Wasn't he supposed to protect her?
"They said they needed someone to answer for me."
"I brought MacGowan."
"So I see." She nodded politely to the merchant. Why did he make her feel uncomfortable? Was it his searching eye? Or was it just the fact that he had the reputation of being clever, and she could never make out what he was thinking? Yet she knew that many people trusted MacGowan and went to him for advice.
"He has the freedom," Tidy explained.
Having the freedom of the city was an important matter of status in Dublin. Being a freeman of the city entitled you to vote for the city council, to trade freely without paying tolls, and even to trade with merchants from overseas. Henry Tidy, ready to set up on his own as a master craftsman, was due to be considered for the freedom quite soon; a committee of aldermen would decide whether it was granted or not. The fact that he had brought a freeman of the city with him now showed that, in his mind at least, this foolish arrest was a serious matter.
MacGowan had already moved over to talk to the men who were sitting comfortably behind a trestle table. They seemed to treat him with more respect than they had used towards her. She heard them murmuring.
Meanwhile, Henry Tidy wasn't being very nice.
He was gazing at her as if there was something about the business that he couldn't believe.
"How could you do it, Cecily? You know the law." Of course she knew the law. But the arrest was absurd.
Couldn't he see that? "You know the law, Cecily." He'd said it again. His attitude was starting to hurt her. Did he have to be so timid?
The men at the table had finished their conversation. She saw MacGowan nod. A moment later he came across and told her that she could leave. But when Tidy glanced at him questionably, MacGowan shook his head; and as soon as they were outside, he announced,
"They won't drop it."
"What shall we do?" asked Tidy.
"My advice? We should go and see
Doyle."
"Doyle." Tidy looked thoughtful. She knew that he had known the alderman slightly for many years, because he had told her about the fact with some pride.
She also knew that Henry was in some awe of him. He turned to her. "I suppose," he said doubtfully,
"that you'd better come, too."
She stared at him. That was all he had to say? Still not a word of sympathy? Did he really think this was all her fault?
His shoulders stooped forward slightly. She had never noticed it much before, except to think that it made him look determined. A sign of strength. Now she suddenly wondered: did it make him look like a hunchback? His little, pointed yellow beard jutted forward. It irritated her, though she couldn't exactly say why.
"There's no need," she said abruptly. "I'm going home." She turned and started to walk away.
And he didn't even try to stop her.
The alderman's house was close by. Doyle was out, but his wife was at home. So MacGowan left Tidy with her while he went to find the alderman.
Sitting in the alderman's big house in the company of his attractive, Spanish-looking wife, Henry Tidy felt a little awkward at first. He had known Dame Doyle, as he respectfully referred to her, ever since he was an apprentice, and secretly he had always admired her; but he had never kept company in her house like this before. She was in her parlour, sitting quietly at her spinning wheel with one of her daughters; they did not talk much, but from time to time she would ask him a question, to which he would shyly reply. After a while, she sent her daughter out on an errand, so that he was alone with her.
Then she gave him a kindly smile.
"You're worried, aren't you?"
It didn't take long for him to confide in her. The trouble wasn't just the arrest, he explained; he knew Cecily had been roughly treated, and he wanted to defend her. But it wasn't as simple as that. Word travelled fast in Dublin. He knew what people would be saying: "Young Tidy's got himself a foolish girl. A troublemaker." Didn't Dame Doyle feel Cecily should have thought about that? He didn't want to be angry, but shouldn't Cecily have shown him more consideration? It worried him also that she hadn't displayed much wisdom. During all this complaint, Joan Doyle watched him carefully.
"You're betrothed, aren't you?" she asked. He nodded. "And you're having doubts? It's not unusual, you know."
"It's not that," he confessed. "But you see," he went on awkwardly, "I'm up for the franchise soon."
And now Dame Doyle understood entirely.
"Oh dear," she said. "That is a problem."
In Dublin, as in most cities, there were several ways to become a freeman of the city. One was through guild membership; the other, just as frequently used, was by a direct grant from the city fathers. What made Dublin unusual, however, was the role it allowed to women. Perhaps it reflected the traditionally high status of women on the island, but they certainly had more opportunity in Dublin than they had in any English city. Not only did a widow take over her husband's freedom if he died; women in Dublin, married or single, could be granted the freedom in their own right. More remarkable still, a man who married a woman who had the freedom was then given it as well. Doyle had already promised his wife that he would obtain the freedom for each of their daughters. In addition to the dowries he could afford, this would make them highly desirable brides.
But if a man's widow would succeed him in the freedom of the city, then it seemed to Tidy that the city fathers might reasonably consider what sort of woman a man was marrying when that man was applying for the franchise. And judging by today's performance, he wasn't too sure what they'd think of Cecily.
Indeed, he could hardly blame them if they thought she was unsuitable. What could have possessed her to behave like that?
"I'm wondering if I should be marrying her," he confessed miserably, "after what she did to me today."
"I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt you," the alderman's kindly wife assured him. She observed him carefully. "Do you love her?"
"Yes. Oh yes." He did.
"Good." She smiled. "Ah," she cried, "here comes my husband."
The alderman entered briskly, kissed his wife, and gave Tidy a friendly nod.