Princes of Ireland

  It had been one thing to have English mercenaries in the pay of Diarmait, but it was quite another to have Strongbow himself and his army setting up as a power in the land. He knew that some people in Dublin were quietly cynical about the situation. “We’re probably no worse off with Strongbow than we were with that rogue Diarmait,” a friend had remarked to him the day before. But the chief of Ui Fergusa was not so sure. “There’s been nothing like this in Ireland since the Ostmen first came,” he grumbled. “Unless the High King can stop them, this will be an English occupation.”

  “Yet even the Ostmen never really went beyond the ports,” his friend reminded him.

  “The English are different,” he had retorted.

  Now his son Gilpatrick, with whom he had only recently begun to speak again, was bringing this young soldier of Strongbow’s to his house. Irish courtesy and hospitality demanded that he give the stranger a polite welcome, but he was hoping that the visit would be short.

  And if all this wasn’t enough, his wife was choosing this day to bother him again with a subject he didn’t wish to discuss.

  “You’ve done nothing,” she was saying, with perfect truth. “Though you’ve been saying you would for these last three years.”

  They were a curious couple to look at: the priest, tall and rangy, his wife short and stout; but they were devoted to each other. Nor did Gilpatrick’s mother blame her husband for putting off this part of his duty for so long. She understood very well that he was afraid. Who wouldn’t be, when the problem was Fionnuala?

  “If we don’t marry her soon, I don’t know what people will say. Or what she’ll do,” she added.

  It should have been the easiest thing in the world. Wasn’t she good-looking? Wasn’t she the daughter of the chief of the Ui Fergusa? Couldn’t her father afford to give her a handsome dowry? It wasn’t as if she had a bad reputation. Yet.

  But in her mother’s view it was only a matter of time. If when she first returned from the Palmer’s, her father remarked that Fionnuala seemed to have improved, her mother had watched her with more scepticism. She had tried not to quarrel with her daughter and she had kept her busy; but after a few weeks the signs of stress had begun to occur again. There had been tantrums and sulks. More than once Fionnuala had run out of the house and not come back all day. Her parents had suggested she should return to the Palmer’s, but she had refused; and on the occasions when they met Una in the town, it was clear that a coolness had developed between the two girls. “We’d better get her safely married,” her mother declared.

  It wasn’t as if no thought had ever been given to the subject. Fionnuala was sixteen now. Her father had been talking about finding her a suitor for years. But if he’d been lazy when she was younger, she suspected he was nervous now. There was no knowing how Fionnuala would react to anyone they proposed. “She’ll certainly know how to put them off if she wants to,” her father remarked glumly. “God knows whom she’ll insult.” There was also the question of dowry. Negotiating with the future husband was always an anxious process. If word got out that Fionnuala was difficult, “twelvescore cattle won’t be enough,” her father said bitterly. The whole business seemed so likely to lead to costly embarrassment that the priest had to admit he had been secretly putting it off every month.

  “Anyway,” his wife now said coaxingly, “I might have a candidate.”

  “You might?”

  “I was talking to my sister. There’s one of the O’Byrnes.”

  “O’Byrne?” This was promising news indeed. His wife’s sister had done well when she married into that family. The O’Byrnes, like the O’Tooles, were one of the finest princely families in northern Leinster.

  “It wouldn’t be Ruairi O’Byrne?”

  “It would not.” Even the O’Byrne family, amongst its many members, had the occasional weak link. Ruairi, as it happened, belonged to the senior branch of the family; but young though he was, he had already acquired a dubious reputation. “I am speaking,” she continued, “of Brendan.”

  This was quite another matter. Though only a junior member of the princely clan, the priest had always heard that Brendan was a sound fellow. For his daughter in her present state to marry any O’Byrne, apart from Ruairi, should be counted a blessing.

  “Have they ever met?” he enquired.

  “He saw her once in the market. It seems he asked my sister about her.”

  “Let him come here,” said her husband, “as soon as he likes.” And he might have said more had not one of the slaves appeared to tell them that Gilpatrick was approaching.

  Of course Gilpatrick had been glad to see his old friend when Peter had turned up at his door.

  “You told me to come to see you if ever I came to Dublin,” FitzDavid said with a smile.

  “I did. Aha. I did,” said Gilpatrick. “Once a friend, always a friend.”

  It wasn’t quite true. You couldn’t ignore the fact that things had changed. Even amongst the churchmen with the closest English connections, the murder of Becket had soured their view of the English king. Gilpatrick’s father never missed the opportunity to remark to him, “Your English king is still a friend to the Church, I see.” And the disturbing new presence of Strongbow and his army had begun to worry many of the bishops. Gilpatrick had accompanied Archbishop O’Toole to a council up in the north where the elderly Archbishop of Armagh had declared, “These English are surely a curse sent by God to punish us for our sins.” The assembled churchmen had even passed a resolution suggesting that all the English slaves in Ireland should be freed. “For perhaps,” some had suggested, “it is our making slaves of these English that has caused offence to God.” Gilpatrick hadn’t noticed many people freeing their slaves on this account, but the perception remained in the community: the English were a penance. Nonetheless, it would have been unnatural not to greet his former friend and he did so warmly.

  “You haven’t changed at all,” he cried.

  That wasn’t true either. And now, as they made their way up to his parents’ house, he glanced at Peter FitzDavid and thought that, though he could see the same boyish face and innocent hope, there was something else in his friend now. A hint of anxiety. For the fact was that, although Peter had been on active service for three years, no one had rewarded him with so much as a single cow.

  “You must get yourself some land, Peter,” he remarked kindly. It was strange, he realised, that he, an Irishman, should be saying such a thing to a foreign mercenary. In traditional Ireland, of course, a warrior would be rewarded with livestock which he could pasture on the open lands of his clan; but at least since Brian Boru, Irish kings like Diarmait of Leinster had been known to reward their followers by granting them estates which lay on what would formerly have been considered to be tribal lands. Yet if you failed to obtain material rewards, he reflected, the traditional system was kinder. A brave warrior returned to his clan with honour. A feudal knight, though he might have a loving family, had no clan system to support him. Until he got an estate, though he might be a man of honour, he had no substance. The Irish priest felt a little sorry for his foreign friend.

  If Gilpatrick had also been a little uncertain what sort of reception FitzDavid would receive from his father, he needn’t have worried. His father welcomed Peter with stately dignity. And for his part, Peter observed that the priest’s stone house was well furnished and comfortable enough, even if he did notice with wry amusement that the churchman kept a gold-rimmed drinking skull in the corner.

  No mention was made of Becket. His parents asked the visitor about his family and his experiences with King Diarmait in the south. And when at last his father couldn’t resist remarking that, as a priest, he felt a little nervous of the English king, “seeing what he does to archbishops,” Peter passed this off by laughing. “We’re afraid of him, too.”

  If any proof of his father’s friendliness were needed, it came when he remarked to his son, “I would not really say your friend was English.”

>   “My family was Flemish, in fact,” Peter said.

  “But you were born in Wales? And your father before you?”

  “That is true,” Peter agreed.

  “You speak Irish almost like one of us, I would say. That would be because you speak Welsh?”

  “All my life.”

  “Then I think,” said the Irish chief, “that you are Welsh.” He turned to his wife.

  “He is Welsh.” She smiled.

  “You’re Welsh.” Gilpatrick grinned.

  “I am Welsh,” Peter wisely agreed.

  And it was just as this fact about his identity had been established that a new figure appeared in the doorway.

  “Ah, Welshman,” said the chief, his voice suddenly lowering, “this is my daughter, Fionnuala.”

  It seemed to Peter FitzDavid, as she stepped through the doorway, that Fionnuala was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. With her dark hair, her pale skin, her red mouth: wasn’t she the perfect object of any man’s desire? If her brother Gilpatrick’s eyes were curiously flecked with green, Fionnuala’s were an astounding pure emerald. Yet what struck him most, after only the briefest acquaintance, was her modesty.

  How demure she was. Most of the time her eyes were downcast. She spoke to her parents and her brother with a respectfulness that was charming. When he addressed her himself, she answered him so quietly and simply. Only once did she allow a little animation to creep into her voice, and that was when she spoke about the Palmer and his good works at the hospital where, until recently, she had been working. He was so fascinated by this virtuous young woman that, if any looks of surprise passed between her family, he did not see them.

  Gilpatrick’s parents indicated after a while that they wished to have some words with their son alone, so it was suggested that Fionnuala should show their guest round the little church. He duly admired it. Then Fionnuala took him across to Saint Patrick’s Well, and pointing to the dark pool and to the Thingmount in the distance, she told him the story of her ancestor and Saint Patrick and explained how old Fergus was buried there. Listening respectfully, Peter now understood what Gilpatrick had meant about his family’s ancient status. Looking at the girl, observing her beauty, her gentle seriousness, and her piety, he wondered if she might be contemplating the religious life—and hoped that she was not. It seemed a waste that she should not be married. He was sorry when it was time to return.

  It had been agreed that this was to be only a short visit, but Gilpatrick’s parents were warm in their invitation that they should both return to be feasted and entertained in the Irish manner in the near future. Gilpatrick’s mother pressed a gift of sweetmeats upon him. As he escorted them to the gateway, Gilpatrick’s father gazed out over the estuary and remarked, “Take care tomorrow, Welshman, there’ll be a mist.” As the sky was entirely clear, Peter thought this unlikely, but he was too polite to say so.

  As he and Gilpatrick walked away, Peter could not help bringing up the subject of Fionnuala.

  “I see what you mean about your sister.”

  “Oh?”

  “She is altogether remarkable. A pious soul.”

  She is?

  “And very beautiful. Is she to be married soon?” he added, a little wistfully.

  “Probably. My parents were telling me they have someone in mind.” He sounded rather vague.

  “A lucky man. A prince, no doubt.”

  “Something like that.”

  Peter secretly wished he were in a position to ask for her himself.

  When he opened his eyes the next morning, Peter glanced towards the open doorway and frowned. Had he woken too early? It seemed still to be dark.

  There were six people in the place where he lodged. He and another knight occupied the house. Three men-at-arms and a slave slept in the yard outside. He’d heard that the place had belonged to a silversmith called MacGowan who had left the city when it was first taken. Nobody seemed to be stirring. Beyond the doorway there was a strange, pale greyness in the yard. He got up and went out.

  Mist. Cool, damp, white mist. He couldn’t even see the gate a few yards away. The men were awake and sitting huddled under their blankets in the little shelter where the silversmith had presumably worked. They had stoked up the brazier. The slave was preparing some food. Peter found the gate. If there was anyone about in the lane, he could neither see nor hear them. The mist clung to his face, kissing him wetly. He supposed the sun would burn the mist away later; there’d be nothing much to do until then. Gilpatrick’s father had been right. He shouldn’t have doubted him. He returned to the yard. The slave had some oatcakes by the oven. He took one and munched thoughtfully. The oatcake smelled and tasted good. He thought of the girl. Though he had no recollection of dreaming during the night, it seemed to him that she had been in his thoughts while he slept. He shrugged. What was the point of thinking about a girl who was unattainable? He’d better put her out of his head.

  There hadn’t been many women in Peter’s life. There was a girl with whom he’d spent some happy nights in a Wexford barn. In Waterford, he had experienced some weeks of vigorous lovemaking with a merchant’s wife while her husband was away on a voyage. But in Dublin the prospects did not look good. The place was full of soldiers and half the inhabitants had fled. The knight he shared the house with had told him about his exploits across the river in the suburb on the northern bank.

  “Ostmanby they call it, because so many of the Norse families went over there when we arrived. They had to build shelters beside the existing houses. Some of the poorer craftsmen and labourers are struggling to feed their families, so their wives and daughters come over here … I had a delicious one last week.”

  Peter had soon come to the conclusion that most of his companion’s exploits were invented. Certainly the women he had seen on his brief visit across the bridge to Ostmanby hadn’t offered themselves to him, and the few loose women he had seen in the streets hadn’t looked very appetising. He’d decided he’d sooner do without.

  The morning was spent sitting by the brazier playing dice with the men. He had expected the summer sun to burn off the mist, but though by late morning there was a faint brightness overhead, he couldn’t see thirty paces down the lane. As for the girl, her image was still there, floating vaguely like a spirit in his mind. And partly in the hope that this vaguely unsettling presence would float away and get lost in the mist, he decided at noon to go for a walk.

  As he left the Fish Shambles, he intended only to go a short distance, keeping careful note of how he went, so that he could find his way back again; but he soon realised that he had failed to do so. He was fairly sure he was going westwards and after a while he supposed he might be getting close to the market by the western gate. The hospital where Fionnuala had been working lay outside that gate, he remembered. He might take a look at it. He’d probably get a sense of the place, even in the mist.

  But after a while, he still hadn’t found the market. From time to time, figures appeared in the mist and if he’d been sensible he could have asked the way. But he hated asking directions. So he continued until at last he saw it. There were a couple of men-at-arms on sentry duty.

  The mist outside the gate was so thick that he decided that, in order to see anything of the hospital, he’d have to go inside it. He almost turned back, but the sentries were watching him, so sooner than admit his mistake he continued past them casually, remarking: “I think I’ll see if the mist is lifting across the river.” And he made his way down the track towards the river.

  It was silent on the bridge. He was alone. He could hear his own footfalls sounding dully on the timbers over the water. On his right, the ships by the wood quay appeared in the shrouds of mist like insects caught in a dewy spider’s web. He could see a hundred yards down the river, but as he went over he realised that the mist was finally starting to lift. Halfway across, he saw a patch of blue sky. Then he could see the mudflats on the Liffey’s northern side, and the scattered th
atched roofs of the suburb beyond. To the left of the bridge end he caught sight of green, grassy banks in the sunlight. There was a sprinkling of yellow flowers. Then he saw …

  Horsemen. All along the bank, coming out of the mist. Scores of them. Then footmen, carrying spears and axes. Hundreds. God knows how many. And in a few moments, they would be on the bridge.

  It could mean only one thing. The High King had come. And he was about to take Dublin by surprise.

  He turned. He started to run. He ran faster than he had ever run before, back across the misty bridge. He heard his own footfalls and he thought he heard his heart. Did he also hear the drumming of hoofbeats on the timbers, too? He didn’t think so but he didn’t dare look back. He reached the end of the bridge, raced up the track, came to the gate, and saw the two sentries staring at him in surprise. Only when he was through the gate did he turn, glance back at the empty path behind him, and order the sentries, “Close the gate. Quick.” And he told them what he’d seen. Then he set to work.

  In the next few minutes, Peter FitzDavid acted quickly and decisively. Gathering some men-at-arms, he sent them flying to their tasks. One he despatched immediately to Strongbow. “Go straight to him. Don’t stop.” Two more went to alert the riverside defences and the eastern gate. Taking one more as a guide, he set off for the southern gate himself. If the High King’s men used the ford as well as the bridge, it would be the big western gate they made for. When he arrived, no troops had yet come in sight. He got the gate closed and barred and, stirring up the garrison there, he hurried along the street towards Christ Church and the royal hall.

  When he reached the old hall where Strongbow had taken up residence, he found the magnate, accompanied by a dozen knights, about to mount his horse to find out what was going on. He was looking angrily round, demanding answers and receiving none.