The offer from the High King came the third day that the archbishop and Gilpatrick rode out.

“Let Strongbow keep Dublin, Wexford, and Waterford,” he said, “and we need not quarrel.”

In many ways it was a handsome offer. The High King was ready to give up the most important port in Ireland to the English lord. But it seemed to Gilpatrick that it was also a very traditional offer. The archbishop summarised it when, on their way back, he remarked: “I suppose, in a way, it’s just exchanging the English for the Ostmen in the ports.”

That was it, Gilpatrick thought. Even now, after three centuries of living side by side, the Irish still saw the old Viking ports, crucial though they were to Ireland’s wealth, as places apart. To the ancient clans, and to the O’Connor High King from Connacht, it hardly mattered who held the ports so long as they did not encroach upon the green and fertile Irish hinterland.

But the O’Connor king was no fool. There was cunning in the offer, too. If he was willing to give up Dublin, he had also wanted to ensure that Strongbow reduce the size of his army. Therefore he must deny them the one thing that would allow them to remain: land. The feudal grants of land for military service. That was what they had all come for, from poor young Peter FitzDavid to the family of Strongbow himself. The High King’s offer did not give them that.

“Let us hope Strongbow will accept,” the saintly archbishop said. But Gilpatrick had his doubts.

It was the next day, before any answer was returned, that he saw Peter FitzDavid in the Fish Shambles. They greeted each other in a friendly way but with a trace of awkwardness. With the siege in progress, a visit to his parents’ house outside the walls was inadvisable. Besides, since his father was naturally on the side of the High King, he might not have cared to meet Peter again just now. They chatted pleasantly enough, however, until Peter casually asked, “And how are the plans for your sister’s betrothal?”

Gilpatrick frowned. Why did the question strike a false note? Could it be that his young friend entertained a hope in that direction? After all, he had once had that idea himself, some years ago. But Peter’s prospects did not seem very bright at present. Hardly a good match. He smiled ironically to himself. He wasn’t sure it would be such a kindness to wish his temperamental sister onto young FitzDavid anyway, come to that.

“You’d have to ask my parents,” he said curtly, and moved away.

There was no doubt, Una had to concede, that Fionnuala had changed. She might not be able to come every day, but when she did come, she worked hard and without complaint. There was only praise now, from the inmates. Ailred was pleased and made a point of telling her father how much she’d improved. Sometimes she stayed the night at the hospital, sometimes she had to leave during the afternoon. But she always let Una know in advance.

There was never any trouble from the English soldiers. Their forward sentries were quite close, but they knew who she was and where she was going. Once she and Una even went for a walk on the bridge, but nobody troubled them and after exchanging a few words with the English soldiers on the far side, they had been free to return.

Nonetheless, as the second week of the siege turned into the third, the cordon round the city was beginning to have its effect. As well as the various forces round the walls, the men of Ulster out at Clontarf had successfully turned away all ships wanting to enter the Liffey. No supplies were reaching Dublin by any of the roads, and stocks of everything were slowly running down. Nor could news get through.

It had been months since she had heard from her father in Rouen. A sailor had come to the hospital and delivered a message from MacGowan, saying that he and the rest of the family were well, that he had found work as a journeyman under another master, but that life was hard and that if she was safe with the Palmer, Una should stay where she was. The sailor had also been told to ask if she had found the dog she had lost when the family left.

The dog. She realised that her father meant the strongbox. This was the moment she had been dreading. For weeks after she had made her terrible discovery, she had wondered what to tell her father. She couldn’t bear to think of the misery and anxiety it would cause if he knew the truth. But the Palmer had been firm with her.

“You must tell him, Una. Imagine if he were to return believing he had this wealth behind him, and then discovered he had nothing. That would be a shock far worse.” So she had sent back a message: “The dog is lost.” And she had not heard from her father since. She had no means of knowing if he was alive or dead.

Despite the fact that he had kissed her, Peter hadn’t really expected to see Fionnuala again. But two days after her visit, one of the soldiers in the yard came into the house to tell him that there was a young lady at the gate who said she had a message for him from one of the priests. Seeing her there, he assumed that she had indeed brought a message from Gilpatrick. His greeting was as formal as it was friendly; and when she asked him if he could accompany her to Christ Church, he politely agreed. He was much astonished, as they entered the Fish Shambles, when she turned to him with a smile and remarked: “I haven’t a message from Gilpatrick, you know.”

“You haven’t?”

“I was thinking,” she went on calmly, “that I might be coming by your lodgings again, when it isn’t so crowded.”

“Oh.”

She paused by a stall, looking at the fruit to see if it was fresh, then passed on.

“Would you like that?”

There could be no mistaking her meaning. Unless she was playing some kind of game with him, and he didn’t think she was, the girl was making an assignation.

“I should like it very much,” he heard himself say.

“I could come tomorrow, late in the afternoon perhaps?”

The men-at-arms, he knew, would be on sentry duty then. The knight with whom he shared the house might be there, but he could probably make some arrangement with him.

“Tomorrow would be convenient,” he replied.

“Good. I must go home now,” she said.

The next day, waiting alone in the house, he had some anxious moments. He didn’t think the girl was a spy. Yet there was no chance that her father or her brother would allow her to lose her virtue for any reason at all. The other possibility was that, behind a demure mask, she concealed a quite different character. For all he knew she’d already slept with half the men in Dublin.

Did he mind? He thought about it. Yes, he did. He was a healthy young fellow with all the sexual appetites of any man his age; but he was also quite fastidious. He didn’t want to be seduced by the town whore. Why, she might even be unclean. Sexual diseases existed, especially in the ports, all over Europe. It was said that there had been more since the Crusades began. Peter had never heard of anyone being infected in Ireland, but you never knew.

Then he told himself that his fears were foolish. She was just an ordinary girl who happened to be the daughter of a priest. But that in itself contained further dangers, which he tried not to think about. As a result of all these doubts, by the time she arrived the next day, he was considerably nervous.

When Fionnuala arrived, somewhat late, it seemed to him that she was pale, and nervous, too. She asked him if they were alone and when he said they were, she seemed pleased but somewhat distracted, as if she was not certain what to do next. He had prepared warm mead and oatcakes and asked her if she would like some. She nodded gratefully and sat down with him on the bench by the bread oven to eat them. She drank the mead. He gave her more. Only when she had drunk that and was starting to look a little flushed did she turn to him and demand, “You have made love to women before, haven’t you?”

And then he understood, and smiled kindly.

“Yes,” he said, “I have. You needn’t worry.”

So he led her into the house where it was shadowy except for the patch of afternoon sunlight coming through the doorway. And he was going to help her off with her cloak, but she motioned him back; and then, in front of him, she calmly stepped out of her clothes and stood before him naked.

He caught his breath. Her body was pale and slim, her breasts a little fuller than he had expected—she was the most beautiful woman, he thought, that he had ever seen. He moved towards her.

Two days later, they met again. It was necessary this time to take the knight in his lodgings into his confidence. With some amusement, and a congratulatory pat on the back, his companion assured Peter that he would be gone until nightfall, and he was as good as his word. Before she left this time, Fionnuala had arranged to return the following evening. How could she make these arrangements to visit him in the town without arousing suspicion, he had asked her. It was simple, she had explained. She had started working at the hospital again, and passed through the town on her way. “So when I want to come here, I tell them at the hospital that I need to go home; and when I get home, I say I’ve just come from the hospital. Nobody will ever be the wiser.”

Soon they were making passionate love every other day. And then Fionnuala suggested: “I could spend the night tomorrow.”

“Where would we meet?” he asked.

“There’s a storehouse down by the quay,” she said.

It turned out to be a delightful place. The storehouse stood at the end of the wood quay. It had a loft containing bales of wool. There was a large double door at one end of the loft that opened over the water, with a view eastwards down the river towards the sea. The summer night was short and warm; the bales of wool made a pleasant bed; and at dawn, they opened the doors and saw the sun rising over the estuary, flooding the Liffey with light, while they made love again.

Later, after they had eaten the provisions they had brought with them, Fionnuala slipped away towards the western gate, where they would assume that she had just come through the town from her home. Peter waited awhile and then, just as the first people were stirring on the quay, he made his way back towards his lodgings.

He had started up the Fish Shambles when he saw Gilpatrick.

For a moment, he wondered if he could avoid him. But Gilpatrick had already seen him. He was coming towards him, smiling.

“Good morning, Peter. You are up early.” Gilpatrick was surveying him with some amusement. Peter realised that he probably looked a mess after last night. He put his hand up to his hair to smooth it. “You look as if you had a rough night,” Gilpatrick said, with a twinkle in his eye. “You had better go to church and make a good confession.” But behind the gentle teasing, Peter also sensed a hint of priestly reproof.

“I couldn’t sleep actually,” he said. “Have you ever stood on the quay and watched the sun come up the estuary? It’s beautiful.”

He could see that Gilpatrick didn’t believe him.

“I saw my sister just now,” Gilpatrick said.

Peter felt himself going pale. He fought it.

“Your sister? How is she?”

“Working hard at the hospital, I’m glad to say.”

Was the priest looking at him in a different way? Had he guessed? Peter yawned and shook his head to cover his confusion. What was Gilpatrick saying?

“She and Una were coming in from the hospital. Do you know Una MacGowan? It’s her house you’re living in.”

“Ah, no. No, I don’t.”

Fionnuala must have moved fast. Gratefully, he muttered that he had to go, and made his escape.

But as he sat in his lodgings soon afterwards, Peter had some uncomfortable moments. His affair with Fionnuala had been so unexpected and so exciting that until now he hadn’t thought much about the risks. The encounter with Gilpatrick had suddenly shaken him into a new awareness. The young priest had guessed he had spent the night with a woman. The people in the house knew it, too. He had seen them exchange glances as he came in. That meant that soon most of the English troops in Dublin would have heard. Within the army, of course, this would only enhance his reputation. But it was also dangerous. People would be asking who the girl was. They might try to find out.

And if they did discover? A terrible, cold panic came over him at the thought of it. Consider who the girl was. The daughter of a churchman close to Lawrence O’Toole, and chief of an important local family. The sister of a priest involved in the negotiations with the High King. These were exactly the people that, if he was to take Diarmait’s place in Leinster, Strongbow needed as his friends. No matter that it was the girl who had practically seduced him. By sleeping with her he had dishonoured her family. For he had no doubts about the behaviour required of the unmarried daughter of an important family like this. He had abused his friendship with Gilpatrick and the hospitality of his parents. They would never forgive him. They’d demand his head and Strongbow would sacrifice him without blinking an eye. He was finished.

Was there any way out? What if he ended the affair now, and if nobody found out? The memory of the night he had just spent with her filled his thoughts: the scent of her, the warm, intense passion they had shared, the long, erotic passages of time as her pale body entwined with his, the things they had done. A man, he thought, would almost face death itself for such nights as these. Did he have to give this up?

Perhaps not. For now another calculation came into his mind.

Even if he got caught, the outcome needn’t be so bad. What if he were to brazen it out? Treat the whole business like a military engagement? That, he felt sure, was what a man like Strongbow would do. If Fionnuala were discovered, if word got out that she had been dishonoured, her chances of marriage to an Irish prince wouldn’t be too high. To keep her reputation, her family would have to consent, however unwillingly, to her marrying him. He considered her father’s situation: the income from the Church properties, the great tract of land he owned down the coast, his many cattle. Fionnuala was bound to receive a handsome dowry, if only to preserve her family honour. As the husband of a girl from such a prominent Leinster family, wouldn’t Strongbow, who was married to a Leinster princess himself, be likely to take an interest in him? If he kept a cool head, this business could turn out to be the best thing he ever did.

Two days later, he spent the night with Fionnuala again.

The siege of Dublin continued for weeks. Around the city, the besiegers had a pleasant time. The cattle and livestock, the gardens, orchards, fields, all the produce of the area were in their hands. In their camps, they could enjoy the warm summer and wait for the harvest to ripen.

Inside the city, however, things were not so pleasant. Although the watercourse from the south was cut off, there was plenty of water; there were fresh fish from the Liffey, though not enough. There were still the city’s grain stores; there were vegetable patches and some pigs. But by the time six weeks had passed, it was clear to Strongbow that, even keeping his troops on short rations, he could only hold out another three or four weeks at most. After that, they would have to start killing the horses.

It was not a surprise to Gilpatrick, therefore, in the sixth week of the siege, to be summoned by Archbishop O’Toole to join him on a mission to the High King’s camp. On this occasion, it seemed, he was to be the only person accompanying the great man. They set out at noon, riding across the long wooden bridge to Liffey’s northern side and then westwards a little way along the stream, to a point where the king had said he would meet them.

The archbishop looked tired. His ascetic, finely drawn face was showing lines of stress around the eyes; and Gilpatrick knew this was not only because he felt the weight of his responsibilities but because his sensitive, poetic nature suffered almost a physical pain when he contemplated the suffering of others. When the King of Dublin had been killed after his unsuccessful attack the previous year, the saintly bishop had been visibly distressed. He was clearly concerned now, since the offers made by the High King to Strongbow had still not been accepted, and he saw only suffering and bloodshed ahead. “He blames himself,” Gilpatrick told his father. “It isn’t his fault, of course; but that’s his nature.”

When they reached the meeting place, they found that a handsome reception had been prepared for them. A big thatched hall had been set up with a wicker wall on the north side and the other sides left open. Inside this were benches covered with woollen cushions and cloths, and tables piled with a splendid feast. The High King, accompanied by some of his greatest chiefs, gave them a warm and respectful greeting and invited them to eat, which Gilpatrick, at least, was glad to do. Nor, for all its genuine kindness, was the significance of the feast lost upon him. The High King was letting them know that he had ample supplies, while the sight of Gilpatrick’s face had told the king what he had suspected, that food was getting short in the city.

The O’Connor king was a tall, powerful man, with a broad face and a mass of curly black hair that fell with an almost oily thickness to his shoulders. His dark eyes had a soft glow that, Gilpatrick had heard, was fascinating to women.

“I’ve been here for six weeks,” he told them. “But as you can see, we are out of sight in the city, so please don’t tell them where we are.

I can go down and bathe in the Liffey every morning.” He smiled. “If Strongbow likes I’d be happy to stay here a year or two.”

Gilpatrick ate heartily. Even the ascetic archbishop consented to take a glass or two of wine. And to Gilpatrick’s delight they were entertained by a skilful harpist; and better yet, a bard recited for them one of the old Irish tales, of Cuchulainn the warrior and how he got his name. It was in a mellow mood that the little group of men got round to discussing the problem of the English.

“I have a new offer,” the archbishop began, “and it will surprise you. Strongbow still wants Leinster. But,” he paused, “he is prepared to hold it from you in the proper Irish manner. He’ll swear an oath to you, give hostages. In English terms, you would be his overlord.” He looked at the High King carefully. “I know you believed he was intending to conquer the whole island, but it isn’t so. He’s ready to accept Leinster from your hands, and give you the respect that is your due. I think this has to be taken seriously.”

“He would hold it as Diarmait did?”

“He would.”

The High King sighed, then he stretched his long arms. “But isn’t that just the problem, Lorcan?” They were speaking in Irish and he used the archbishop’s Irish name. “You wouldn’t have trusted Diarmait. The man was ready to sacrifice his own son to break his oath. Are you saying that Strongbow’s any better?”

“I don’t like the man,” O’Toole answered frankly, “but he is a man of honour.”

“If that is so, Lorcan, then will you tell me this: how is it that this man of honour can be ready to swear an oath to me as his overlord when he has already sworn one to King Henry of England? Is there not a contradiction in that?”

The archbishop looked flummoxed. He glanced at Gilpatrick.

“I think,” Gilpatrick said, “that I can explain that. You see, technically, I don’t believe Strongbow has actually given homage to King Henry for his Irish lands. So you would be his overlord for Leinster, and Henry for his lands in England.” And seeing the other two men look blank, he explained: “Over there, every yard of land has a lord, and so you may do homage to a different lord for each piece of land you hold.” He smiled. “Many of the great lords, like Strongbow, for instance, do homage to Henry for their lands in England, and to the King of France for their lands in France.”

“So where does their loyalty lie?” demanded the High King.

“It depends on where they are.”

“Dear God, what sort of people are these English? No wonder Diarmait liked them.”

“An oath is not so much a personal matter with them,” Gilpatrick said. “It’s more a legal form.” He searched for a characterisation that would convey the spirit of Plantagenet feudalism. “You might say, I suppose, that they are more interested in land than in people.”

“God forgive them,” murmured the archbishop as he and the O’Connor king exchanged looks of horror.

“Do you think that if he had Leinster and the ability to reward all his armed men, and any others he might import, that Strongbow could be trusted not to attack the other provinces of Ireland?” the O’Connor king asked. And before the saintly archbishop could even formulate a reply, he continued: “We have him safely walled up in Dublin, Lorcan. There’s nothing he can do. Let him stay there until he accepts our offer to keep the ports. It’s either that or starvation. We’ve no need to bargain with him or to accept these English oaths that are not made with the heart.”

For Fionnuala, the heady weeks of summer had been a revelation. She had never realised how boring her life had been before.

She had known she was bored, of course: bored by her parents, bored by her brothers—not that she saw so much of them, thank God—bored by her life in Dublin and at the hospital. Bored by the kindly Palmer and his wife. She was even bored with Una, who meant well but was always trying to restrain her. In Una’s company, she felt like a horse, bred to race, that is being forced into pulling a sturdy little cart.

What was it she wanted? She hardly knew. Something else: a bigger sky, a brighter light.

What did a girl do when she was bored? Stealing apples wasn’t much fun. There were the local boys to flirt with. She knew it would annoy her parents. But the truth was, the local boys bored her. And those old men in the hospital had just been a joke. More recently there had been the English soldiers to think about. The men mostly seemed coarse; she was more afraid of being raped than seduced. Some of the knights were quite handsome, but they seemed too old and she was a little afraid of them.

But when Gilpatrick’s friend, the knight from Wales, had appeared in their house, she thought he was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen in her life. And she knew at once that it was he who could be the one to open the gates to life’s next great adventure. The result had been beyond her wildest dreams.

“Welshman,” she called him as her father had done. “My Welshman.” She knew every curl of his hair, every inch of his proud young body. She was almost lost in wonder, sometimes, that she could be in possession of such a thing.

Was she in love? Not exactly. She was too excited, too pleased with herself even to be in love. The sexual awakening, of course, was wonderful, quite the best thing, she told herself, that had ever happened to her. But the adventure, the game was the greatest thrill. It was knowing that she was deceiving them all that aroused her excitement as she made her way towards her assignations. It was knowing she had just come from his bed while Una went about her serious business that made the mornings in the hospital seem full of light and life. It was knowing that what she did was dangerous and forbidden that made her tremble with anticipation as her young lover came to her and which brought the fire and climax to her passion.

There was the other risk, too, beyond being discovered. Even in medieval times women knew of barriers to conception, but they were imperfect, permeable, uncertain. She knew the risk, yet tried not to know. She would not give it up. And so the affair continued. It was love, it was passion—it was something to do.

It was three days after her brother’s unsuccessful mission to the High King that Fionnuala, standing by the hospital entrance, saw Una hurrying from the city’s western gateway. It was nearly noon. Fionnuala had spent the night before with Peter by the quay, arriving as usual at the hospital in the early morning. An hour ago, Una had gone on an errand into the town. Her friend was scurrying back now, Fionnuala thought, as if she’d been stung by a bee. It didn’t take long to find out why.

“I was after visiting the cathedral to say a prayer for my poor family—and for you, too, Fionnuala—when who is it sees me but your father.” She had dragged Fionnuala to the corner of the building where they couldn’t be overheard. “And he says to me, ‘It’s a fine thing that Fionnuala’s spending so much time at the hospital. But as she was with you last night, I couldn’t tell her to be sure to be back at the house before this evening. We have visitors. Will you tell her that?’ And there’s myself, standing there like an idiot and saying, ‘Yes, Father, I will.’ And it was almost out of my mouth to say you weren’t at the hospital at all.” She was staring at Fionnuala now in wide-eyed reproach. “So if you weren’t here and you weren’t there, then in the name of God where were you?”

“I was somewhere else.” Fionnuala looked at her friend enigmatically. She was enjoying this.

“What do you mean you were somewhere else?”

“Well, if I wasn’t here, and I wasn’t there …”

“Don’t play games with me, Fionnuala.” Una flushed with anger now. She looked at her friend searchingly. “You don’t mean … Oh God, Fionnuala, was it with some man you were?”

“I may have been.”

“Are you out of your wits? In the name of Heaven, who?”

“I’m not telling.”

The slap that struck her face took Fionnuala by surprise and almost sent her reeling. She struck back, but Una was ready for her and caught her hand.

“You childish fool!” Una cried.

“You’re jealous.”

“Isn’t it like you to think so? Have you no thought for what will become of you? Not a care for your reputation and your family?”

Fionnuala flushed. She felt herself starting to get angry now.

“If you shout any more,” she said crossly, “the whole of Dublin’s going to know anyway.”

“You must stop it, Fionnuala,” Una dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “You’ve got to stop it at once. Before it’s too late.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.”

“I’ll tell your father. He’ll stop you.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I am. That’s why I’ll tell him. To save you from yourself, you stupid child.”

Fionnuala was silent. In particular she resented her friend’s patronising tone. How dare she order her about like this?

“If you tell, Una,” she spoke slowly, “I’ll kill you.” It was said so quietly, and with such force, that Una, despite herself, blanched. Fionnuala looked at her steadily. Did she mean it? She hardly knew herself. Was she in the act of destroying their friendship? Anyway, she realised, it wouldn’t do any good to threaten Una.

“I’m sorry, Fionnuala. I have to.”

Fionnuala paused. Then she looked down. Then she sighed. Then she stared longingly towards the west gate. Then she looked down and did not move for a minute or so. Then she groaned. “Oh it’s so hard, Una.”

“I know.”

“You really think I have to?”

“I know you must.”

“I’ll stop seeing him, Una. I will.”

“Now? You’ll promise?”

Fionnuala gave her an ironic smile. “You’ll tell my father if I don’t. Remember?”

“I’d have to.”

“I know.” She sighed again. “I promise, Una. I’ll give him up. I promise.”

Then they hugged each other and Una cried and Fionnuala cried, too; and Una murmured, “I know, I know,” and Fionnuala thought, you know nothing at all you little prig, and so the matter was settled.

“But you mustn’t tell on me now, Una,” Fionnuala said. “Because even if I never set eyes on the man again in my life, you know what my father would do. He’d whip me till I couldn’t stand and then he’d put me in the convent over at Hoggen Green. He already threatened me with it before, you know. Will you promise Una?” She looked at her pleadingly. “Will you promise?”

“I will,” said Una.

Fionnuala was in a thoughtful mood that evening when she went home. If she was to continue the affair without interference from Una, then she’d have to take some fresh precautions. Perhaps she should come to the hospital with her father or her brother one morning, to show that she’d been at home. She’d have to meet Peter in the afternoon a few times. Once she’d allayed Una’s suspicions, then no doubt the affair could resume its previous pattern. She was so busy thinking about these arrangements that she almost forgot the reason that she had to be home in good time.

She came to the gateway to the house, which stood just beside the little church. She noticed the two horses there and remembered the visitors, but without curiosity. She had the good sense, however, to straighten her clothes and brush her hand over her hair before she walked through the gateway. As it was summer, they had set out benches and trestles upon the grass. Her father and mother were both there and they were smiling. So was her brother Gilpatrick.

They turned in a way that suggested they had all been waiting for her, talking about her.

Her mother was coming towards her now, smiling still, but with a strange look in her eye.

“Come Fionnuala,” she said, “our guests have arrived already. Come and give a fitting welcome to Brendan and Ruairi O’Byrne.”

A week after Una’s threat, Peter FitzDavid was still seeing Fionnuala. They had been careful, meeting in the afternoons or early evenings, not spending the night together. The arrival of the O’Byrne cousins had helped. Fionnuala had cleverly encouraged her father to bring them both to visit her while she was working at the hospital one day. They had seen her, demure and pious, working with Una and the Palmer’s wife; and Una in turn had seen that Fionnuala now had a serious suitor in prospect. “She can’t even imagine,” Fionnuala had told Peter laughingly, “that I could look at another man when I’ve a chance to marry an O’Byrne.”

Peter did not treat the new arrivals so lightheartedly. From Gilpatrick he learned that Brendan O’Byrne was the one his parents wanted for their daughter; but whether he would like her, and whether the princely O’Byrnes might feel Brendan could do better, remained to be seen. His cousin Ruairi was another matter, and Gilpatrick’s parents had not been best pleased to see him. “Brendan’s a fine upstanding man, but Ruairi’s the taller of the two.” Gilpatrick gave Peter a wintry look. “I don’t know why he’s here,” he muttered.

Peter thought he could guess. Brendan had probably brought his cousin, whatever his reputation, for cover. If he’d come alone, it looked too obvious; if he decided not to make an offer for Fionnuala, it might disappoint or even give offence to the chief; but if the two cousins paid a friendly visit and then left again, nobody could say anything against him.

Should he be jealous of this cautious young prince? Peter wondered? Probably. O’Byrne had all the wealth and position that he himself lacked. He was an excellent match for Fionnuala. If I’ve any decency at all, he thought, I ought to step aside and stop wasting this girl’s time. You’re nothing better, he angrily told himself, than a thief in the night. But then she had come to his lodgings again, and pressed up against him, and he had given way at once.

Besides her body, Fionnuala also brought him food. For food was getting scarcer in the city all the time. Even Gilpatrick was going hungry. “My father’s got plenty at the church,” he explained. “And nobody stops me going to see him. But the difficulty is the archbishop. He says we must suffer with the people in the city. The trouble is, he never eats more than a crust of bread anyway.” Peter could hardly tell him that Fionnuala was smuggling food to him from her father’s house almost every day.

He was coming in from his sentry duty on the walls one morning, having dismissed his men, and looking forward to the rendezvous he had with Fionnuala that afternoon, when passing Christ Church he saw Strongbow. The great lord was standing alone, staring down towards the river, apparently lost in thought; and Peter, supposing that Strongbow was unaware of him, was walking quietly past when he heard the magnate say his name. He turned.

The magnate’s face was impassive, but it seemed to Peter that Strongbow looked depressed. It was hardly surprising. Though the besiegers were comfortably camped well back from the walls, they were keeping a sharp eye on the gates. It had been impossible to send out patrols. Two days ago, Strongbow had sent a boat under cover of darkness to see whether any supplies could be sneaked in by water; but the enemy had caught it opposite Clontarf and sent it back, on fire, on the incoming tide. Amongst the remaining Dublin inhabitants, and the English soldiers as well, the word was the same: “The High King’s got him.” But Strongbow was a seasoned commander; Peter didn’t think he’d give up on him yet. Strongbow’s eyes were surveying him as if he were considering something.

“Do you know what I need at the moment, Peter FitzDavid?” he asked quietly.

“Another fog,” Peter suggested. “Then at least we could sneak out.”

“Perhaps. But what I need more than that is information. I need to know where the High King is and the exact disposition of his forces.”

So, he’s planning a breakout, Peter thought. There was no other option, really. But to have any hope of success, he’d need to take the besiegers by surprise.

“Do you want me to go out tonight and scout?” he asked. If he came back successfully that would certainly put him in high favour.

“Perhaps. I’m not sure you’d get through.” His eyes fixed on Peter’s, then lowered. “The archbishop and the young priest probably know. What’s his name? Father Gilpatrick. But I can’t ask them, of course.”

“I know Gilpatrick, but he’d never tell me.”

“No. You might ask his sister, though.” Strongbow’s gaze moved back towards the river. “Next time you see her.”

He knew. Peter felt himself go pale. He and how many others? But worse than the fact that he knew about the illicit affair, was what he was asking him to do. To use Fionnuala as a spy, or at least dupe her into revealing information. She probably didn’t even know anything, he thought; but that was hardly the point. If he wanted Strongbow’s favour, he’d better discover something.

Amazingly, his chance came that very afternoon, and it turned out to be easier than he could have imagined. They had made love in the house. They had an hour before she had to leave. They were talking casually about the O’Byrnes, who were due to come again the next day, and about her life at home. “I think,” he had remarked, “that Strongbow will have to give in to the High King soon. I can’t see this going on another month, and there’s no chance of anyone coming to help us.” He grinned. “I’ll be glad when it’s over. Then I can come and eat at your house as your father promised.

If you haven’t already married Brendan O’Byrne by then, that is,” he added uncertainly.

“Don’t be silly.” She laughed. “I shan’t marry Brendan. And the siege is bound to end.”

It was his opportunity.

“Really?” He seemed to be looking for reassurance. “Does Gilpatrick think so?”

“Oh, he does. I overheard him telling my father only yesterday that the High King has a camp only a short way upstream. He knows so well the English haven’t a chance that his men go bathing in the Liffey, every day.”

“They do?”

“With all the great chiefs. They haven’t a care in the world.”

Peter gasped. His face was just about to register his delight but he checked himself, looked glum, and murmured, “We haven’t a chance then. It’s as good as over.” He paused. “You’d better not tell anyone I said that, Fionnuala. If Strongbow ever heard it … they’d doubt my loyalty.”

“Don’t worry,” she said.

But already his mind was working fast.

The following afternoon, the sentries at the Irish forward posts saw Fionnuala leave the hospital and walk back as usual to the city’s western gate. Since they could not see the southern gate they never knew how long she spent in Dublin before returning to her home, and so they had no idea that she had proceeded to Peter’s lodgings and remained there until it was nearly dusk, at which time the lookout post near her father’s house observed her leave the southern gate and walk home.

It was almost dark when the sentries on the west side observed Fionnuala, with her saffron shawl wrapped over her head, returning to the hospital. It was unusual for her to leave and return the same day, but they saw her go through into the hospital yard and thought no more about it. They were puzzled therefore the following evening, when they saw her going to the hospital yet again. “Did you see her go back into Dublin today?” one of the sentries asked his companion. Then he shrugged. “Must have missed her.” At dawn the next morning, she flitted back from the hospital to the western gate. But then, an hour later, she made the same journey again. This was clearly impossible. The sentries concluded that there was something odd. They decided to maintain a closer watch.

When Peter had reached the hospital the first evening, he had passed through the gateway and then sunk down with his back to the fence. Nobody could see him. The inmates were all inside at this hour. He unwrapped the shawl from his head and waited. The darkness fell slowly. At this time in the summer, there would be only about three hours of real darkness. The sky was full of passing clouds but there was a sliver of moon. That was good. He needed a little light but not too much. He waited until well after midnight before he made his move.

Outside the hospital ran the broad track of the ancient road, the Slige Mhor that led towards the west. There was a large contingent of men less than a mile along the road, blockading it. He intended to avoid the Slige Mhor entirely. He knew that on the river side of the hospital enclosure there was a small gate. Stealing round to this, he went out. In front of him lay open ground, dotted with bushes, leading to the marshy banks of the river. With luck, in the darkness, he might be able to slip through there.

It took him an hour, working his way carefully, moving only when clouds covered the moon, to get past the Irish camp that straddled the road. After that he was able to move more quickly, but always with caution, following the line of the river until he came opposite the place where he guessed the High King’s encampment might be. Then, finding concealment in some bushes on a slope which made a little vantage point, he prepared to wait the rest of the night.

It turned out that he had been nearly right. The next morning he could see the High King’s camp, only about half a mile farther upstream. Early in the morning he saw the patrols go out. A few hours later they returned. And soon afterwards, he saw at least a hundred men come down into the water. They remained there quite a long time. They seemed to be throwing a ball between them in some sort of game. Then they all went up the bank again. He could see the sun glinting on their wet and naked bodies.

He spent the rest of the morning in his place of concealment. He had brought half a loaf of precious bread with him and a small leather flask of water. He also took good care to note the terrain around. That would be essential if he was to carry out the rest of his plan. In the early afternoon he realised that there was one more thing he would have to do that day, which was dangerous. An hour later he left his hiding place and very cautiously worked his way across some meadows to a patch of wooded higher ground. He did not return to his hiding place until evening; but by the time he did so, he was satisfied that his plan could work. Not until it was dark did he make his way back to the hospital again. It was strange waiting at the hospital gate because he knew that Fionnuala was working there that night, only yards away from him; but he remained there until dawn and then, wrapped in his shawl, returning past the Irish forward post at dawn where he was taken for Fionnuala by the sentries. By midmorning he had seen Strongbow.

He told Strongbow everything, how he had gone out scouting and discovered the High King bathing, with one small difference: he omitted all reference to Fionnuala. If Strongbow guessed the truth, he said nothing. When he had finished, Strongbow was thoughtful. “To get the best advantage from this information,” the magnate said, “we need to catch them when they’re bathing and their guard is down. But how can we know?”

“I have thought of that,” said Peter. And he told Strongbow the rest of his plan.

“You can get out, past the sentries again?” Strongbow asked, and Peter nodded. “How?”

“Do not ask me,” Peter replied. “It will be low tide tomorrow morning,” he added, “so you could use the ford as well as the bridge to send the men across.”

“And where should we station the man to receive your signal?”

“Ah.” Peter smiled. “On the roof of Christ Church Cathedral.”

“So,” Strongbow summarised, “the plan is by no means without risk.” He ran over the details, step by step. “But if it works, you will have done well. It is, however, contingent upon one other thing. A clear and sunny morning.”

“That is true,” Peter admitted.

“Well,” Strongbow concluded, “it’s worth a chance.”

It was sunset that day when the sentries at the forward post saw a figure leave from the western gate and start walking towards the hospital. They had already stopped both Una that morning and Fionnuala an hour ago to make certain who they were. Once again, they decided to check, and one of them rode quickly forward. The figure was dressed as a priest, but the sentry was suspicious. It could be a disguise. The fellow wore a hood over his head.

“Who are you and where are you going?” The sentry addressed him in Irish.

“Father Peter is my name, my son.” The answer was delivered in a comfortable Irish also. “On my way to visit a poor soul in the hospital there.” He pulled back his hood, to reveal a tonsured head and gave the sentry a pleasant smile. “I am expected, I believe.”

At this moment, the gate of the hospital opened and Fionnuala appeared. She gave a sign of recognition to the priest and waited respectfully by the entrance.

“Proceed, Father,” said the sentry, a little embarrassed.

“Thank you. I do not expect to be returning until tomorrow. God be with you, my son.” Pulling his hood on again, the priest continued on his way and the sentry saw Fionnuala usher him through the gate, which closed behind them.

“A priest,” the sentry reported. “He’ll be going back tomorrow.” And no one thought any more about it.

Inside the hospital, meanwhile, Fionnuala was leading Peter to the room they were to use—a separate compartment, entered by an outside door, at the end of the men’s dormitory, where kind, gullible Una had promised her they would not be disturbed.

As they got inside and Peter pulled back his hood again, Fionnuala could hardly restrain her laughter.

“You’ve got a tonsure,” she whispered, “just like Gilpatrick.”

“It’s as well, or I might have been in trouble with that sentry.”

So far, Peter congratulated himself, everything had worked out perfectly. His quick thinking and foresight two days ago had made everything possible. He was sorry that it had meant that he must deceive Fionnuala, as he was doing now, and make use of her; but he told himself that it was for a greater cause.

His calculations had been precise. Discovering that she was due to be in the hospital the next two evenings, he had decided it would be unwise to attempt the female disguise twice. On the assumption that, after his return from his scouting expedition, he would want to go straight back out again, he had hit upon this new device.

“The day after tomorrow, we’ll spend the night together,” he’d said.

“By the wharf?” She’d looked uncertain.

“No, in the hospital.”

“The hospital? You’re mad!” she had cried.

“Is there a quiet place there, somewhere?” he asked. She had thought and said there might be. “Listen, then.” He had grinned. “This is what we’re going to do.”

And now, as Fionnuala looked at him in wonderment, she decided this was the most daring thing she had ever done. Amazingly enough, it hadn’t even been very difficult. Once she had told Una that she felt the need for spiritual counselling, her friend had been sympathetic. “I want to make my confession to a priest, Una,” she told her. “And then I need to have a long talk with him.” She smiled apologetically. “It’s those O’Byrne boys. I don’t know what to do.” When Una asked how she could help, Fionnuala explained: “I don’t want to be seen going to a priest’s house. It always feels as if people are watching me in Dublin. So I asked the priest to come here.” The Palmer and his wife always went to sleep early. The priest could visit, see her alone, and leave as late as necessary. To her relief, Una had agreed that this was a good idea. It was Una who had suggested the room at the end of the men’s dormitory. She had even offered: “If anyone asks, I’ll say the priest came to see me.” She had taken Fionnuala by the arm and murmured, “I do understand, Fionnuala.” And Fionnuala had thought: it’s as well you don’t.

There was no one about. If Una was watching from somewhere, she had made herself scarce. They entered the room, in which Fionnuala had already lit two candles and placed a little food. She reached up and stroked his tonsured head. “Now I shall think,” she said slyly, “that it’s a priest I have for a lover.” She gazed at him, puzzled. “How will you explain your bald head in the next few days?”

“I’ll cover it,” he said.

“And you did all this for me?”

“I did,” he lied. “And I’d do it again.”

They talked for a while. Before they made love, Peter removed his priest’s robe. Fionnuala noticed that he also took off a stiff pad that was strapped round his lower back. “Backache,” he explained sheepishly. “I’ll massage it,” she said.

It was nearly dawn when she awoke to find that he had gone.

Peter had moved carefully, but swiftly. After letting himself out of the hospital’s northern gate, he had followed the same route as before. By dawn, he was approaching the little wooded rise he had marked out the day before. His vantage point was already chosen: a tall tree with a commanding view. In the early light of the day, he climbed up to the branch he had selected. From there, parting the leaves, he could see the opposite riverbank, down which the Irish king’s men would come; he also had a clear view eastwards towards Dublin. In the distance, he could see the southern headland of the bay. The city’s low ridge was mostly obscured by the intervening woods. But it was possible to make out, quite clearly, the roof of Christ Church Cathedral. Slowly now, he loosened the straps round his waist and pulled the pad from his back. Taking his time, he unwrapped the cloth covering and extracted the thin, hard object from its centre. He inspected it carefully. Not a mark or a blemish.

It was a metal plate of polished steel. Strongbow had given it to him. It was so highly polished that you could see every pore of skin on your face in its reflection. The magnate used it as a mirror. Peter held it, keeping its polished surface towards him. He did not want to risk giving his position away. He looked eastwards and smiled. The sky was clear. Time passed. The eastern sky grew lighter, then red, then gold: it began to shimmer. And then, over the distant bay, he saw the fiery orb of the rising sun.

Everything was ready. There was a risk, of course, that when he sent the signal he would give himself away. If the Irish besiegers caught him, they would surely kill him. He’d have done the same in their place. But that was a small risk compared to the favours he could expect from Strongbow if the operation succeeded. He was excited, but he waited patiently. It grew warmer. The sun was rising over the bay.

The High King’s patrols would be out now. He had seen some of them leaving the royal camp. Midmorning passed and there was no sign of activity. The patrols were out later than yesterday. Perhaps they would not bathe after all. He cursed under his breath. Another hour went by; it was nearly noon. Then, at last, he saw that something was happening at the camp. Above the riverbank, he saw a group of men appear, bearing a large object; but he couldn’t decide what it was. They set their burden down at the top of the slope. Now more men were coming. It looked as if they were carrying buckets. They kept coming and going, swarming round the big object. And now he understood what they were doing. It was a huge tub they were filling. He knew that the Irish liked to have a bath in a tub whose water had been heated with hot stones. The setting up of this great tub, therefore, could only mean one thing.

The High King of Ireland was about to take a ceremonial bath.

So it proved. Before they had finished filling the tub, the first patrols started to return. There seemed to be even more of them this time. Peter guessed that at least two hundred were going down into the river, and others were still arriving. And as soon as everything at the top of the slope was ready, he saw a single figure emerge from the camp, accompanied by about a dozen men, who lifted the figure into the great bathtub. While his men splashed about in the river below, the O’Connor king, surrounded by his companions, was performing the royal ablutions.

It was perfect. Peter couldn’t believe his luck. He turned the steel reflector over, carefully judging the angle. He started to rotate it, back and forth.

On the roof of Christ Church, the waiting sentry saw the tiny flash of light, greenish from the tree, reflecting the brightness of the burning sun. And moments later, the southern and western city gates burst open; a hundred lightly armed horsemen, with five hundred more foot soldiers running behind them, made for the ford, while two hundred armoured knights thundered at a gallop across the wooden bridge.

The sudden breakout of the English from their trap in Dublin that summer’s day proved to be the pivotal event in the history of England and Ireland. The Irish besiegers, perhaps complacent after the weeks of inaction, were caught completely off guard. As the English forces burst through the Irish lines and stormed along the Liffey towards where the High King was bathing, the O’Connor king had only time to gather his clothes and make a dash for safety to avoid them. The Irish foot soldiers round his encampment were slaughtered. Within hours, all the besieging forces knew that the High King had been humiliated and that Strongbow’s army was out in the open. The English war veterans now moved with the utmost speed. The approaches to the city were secured. Spearhead attacks by the armoured cavalry devastated each of the various encampments. The Irish were unable to cope with the highly trained European fighting machine once it was free to operate in the open field. Opposition melted away. For the time being at least, the High King wisely withdrew. Leinster, its rich farmland, its cattle, and its great harvest lay in Strongbow’s ruthless and capable hands.

For Peter FitzDavid, it seemed the future would be bright. That very night, Strongbow had rewarded him with a small bag of gold. No doubt still better things would follow. He was not a public hero. After all, he had only been a secret scout. It was the bold breakout of Strongbow and the humiliation of the High King caught bathing in the Liffey that would be everywhere reported and engage the attention of the chroniclers.

But if the role of Peter FitzDavid was to be quickly forgotten, the part that Fionnuala played in these great events was never to be known at all. Peter never referred to it once, not even to Strongbow. It was only the next day, as the rumour of Peter’s role reached her, that she guessed some of what had happened. After half an hour spent in tears, she also understood that she could never tell anyone, not even Una, of his infamous conduct, since it would also implicate herself. Indeed she realised, with a terrible coldness, he had the power to do her terrible damage if he ever chose to reveal what she had done.

Two days later, she caught sight of him in the market. He came towards her smiling, but she could see the embarrassment in his eyes. She let him come up to her, then, mustering all the dignity she could, she said with quiet coldness: “I never want to see your face again.”

He seemed to want to say something, but she turned her back on him and walked away. He had the good sense not to follow her.

In his calculations of the likely benefits that would accrue to him from Strongbow’s triumph, there was one thing that Peter FitzDavid forgot.

One month after the defeat of the High King, Peter happened to be walking past the king’s hall when he saw Strongbow coming out. He bowed his head to the great man and smiled, but Strongbow didn’t seem to see him. He looked distracted, almost haggard. Peter wondered what the reason could possibly be. The next day, he heard that Strongbow had gone. He had taken a ship during the night. Where had he gone, Peter asked one of the commanders, who gave him a strange look. “To find King Henry, before it’s too late,” the man replied. “Strongbow’s in trouble.”

King Henry Plantagenet was the most dynamic ruler of his age. His genius for exploiting situations to his own advantage, his success in expanding his sprawling Plantagenet empire, his highly aggressive administration—all these made him feared. Henry also had one other, devastating ability. He moved with incredible speed. All medieval kings had peripatetic courts which moved about their domains. But the itineraries of Henry were dizzying. He would move to and fro across the English Channel several times in a season, seldom stopping anywhere for more than two or three days. He would race from one end of his empire to the other just when you least expected it. And anyone who imagined that this ruthless and mercurial monarch would tolerate one of his vassals setting up a rival power base anywhere within his empire would be in for a shock.

For some time Henry had been watching the progress of Strongbow in Ireland. While King Diarmait was alive, the English magnate remained effectively a mercenary, no matter what Diarmait might have promised. Hard on the heels of Diarmait’s death came news that Strongbow was trapped in Dublin. But now, suddenly, Strongbow had a kingdom in Leinster and obviously the possibility to conquer the whole island. It was both a threat and an opportunity.

“I did not give Strongbow permission to become a king,” he announced. He’d already had enough trouble from one subordinate after he’d made Becket Archbishop of Canterbury. “He is my vassal. If Ireland is his, then it is mine,” he judged. And soon the word reached Strongbow: “King Henry is not pleased. He is coming to Ireland himself.”

With the ending of the siege, Una received word of her father. It made her sad. The continual fretting over the loss of the strongbox, it seemed, was taking a toll on his health; and she knew he was not robust. The fact that she blamed herself for the business and that they were separated made her still more distressed. The message he sent had, once again, asked her to remain where she was. She considered disobeying and going to see him in Rouen, but the Palmer told her she should not. She did, however, send word that, depending how events turned out, it might be possible for him in a few months to return and that she and the Palmer would surely be able to help him make a start again. So she worked hard at the hospital and waited to see what would come.

One thing that pleased her was the change in Fionnuala. There’s no doubt, she thought, that visit from the priest did her good. In the days that followed, Fionnuala had looked so sad and thoughtful. A new quietness and seriousness seemed to have descended upon her. “You have changed, Fionnuala,” she once ventured with a gentle approbation, “and I was thinking it would be the long time you spent with the priest that was the cause.” And she was so glad when Fionnuala murmured, “That would be it.”

It was during this time that two new people came into her life. She had heard from Fionnuala that the two O’Byrnes were making a second visit and had been to see her father, but she had not somehow expected them to call in at the hospital. They did so, however, one morning and were conducted round by the Palmer, who showed great respect to Brendan O’Byrne and, it seemed to Una, slightly less to his cousin Ruairi. At the end of the visit, since it was time for Fionnuala to leave, the two O’Byrnes were going to accompany her when she turned to the Palmer and asked whether Una could be spared a little while to walk with them. “Of course, she may,” cried that kindly man. And so the four of them set off. The day being fine, they decided to walk some way along the Slige Mhor.

Una had a chance to observe them all. Fionnuala was behaving beautifully. She was demure, serious, her head down, but looking up to smile pleasantly at Brendan from time to time. Una felt so proud of her. Brendan himself she found impressive. Dark-haired, with an early touch of grey, good-looking, he had an air of serious solidity about him that she liked immensely. He talked quietly but well. He considered before uttering an opinion. He asked thoughtful questions about the hospital. If Fionnuala could just get him for a husband, she thought, wouldn’t that be a wonderful match?

His cousin Ruairi was very different. He was taller than Brendan, longer boned. His hair was light brown and trimmed short. He had a few days’ growth of light stubble on his face, which made him seem manly, like a young warrior. He did not appear to be as heavy and serious as Brendan; but rather than ask questions as they went round the hospital, he had seemed content to listen and watch with a half smile on his face so that, after a time, one became curious about what he was thinking. Though his pale eyes sometimes seemed unfocussed, as though he was engaged in an interior dialogue with himself, Una also had a sense that he had noted everything he saw. She wondered what he had noted about herself and Fionnuala.

At first they walked as a group, side by side, along the track, talking easily. Ruairi said something about one of the hospital inmates he had observed which made them all laugh. Then they fell into two pairs, Brendan and Fionnuala walking ahead, Ruairi and Una behind.

For a while Ruairi seemed content to walk along, making the occasional chance remark. Una, who still felt a little shy, was glad to find everything so easy. When she asked him some questions about himself, however, he did begin to talk, and then he talked well.

He appeared to have been everywhere, and done everything. She was amazed that anyone of his age—he surely wasn’t twenty-five—could have done so many things, even for a short time. He told her about the horse traders and cattlemen he knew in Ulster and Munster, and some of their tricks. He described the coasts of Connacht and the islands there. He told her about his voyages with the merchants “from the time I was down in Cork.” He’d been to London and Bristol, and France, too. She asked him eagerly if he had been in Rouen. He hadn’t, but he told her a good story about a merchant from there who was caught in a shady deal.

“Does your cousin Brendan travel so much, also?” she enquired.

“Brendan?” A look she could not read crossed his face. “He prefers to stay at home and tend to his affairs.”

“And you? Do you not tend to your affairs at home?”

“I do.” He stared ahead of him as if he were thinking of something else for a moment. “But I’ve another voyage to make shortly. I’ll be going to Chester.”

For some reason Una was sorry to learn this. It seemed to her that, for all the wonders he might see upon his travels, there was something missing in the life of this fine young man with his restless soul.

“It’s by a warm fire in your own home that you should be,” she said. “At least some of the time.”

“It’s the truth,” he said. “And perhaps when I return that’s what I’ll do.”

Brendan and Fionnuala were turning round now. It seemed that they still wished to walk together, and Una was anxious to encourage this, so she quickly turned round herself so that she and Ruairi would be walking in front of them for the journey back. Ruairi talked less during the return, but she didn’t mind. Though she hardly knew him, it was strange how comfortable she felt in his company. She had never known such a feeling of ease, not even with the Palmer. And he was a good man, none better. She couldn’t account for it at all. Exchanging a few words now and then, they made their way back to the hospital; and although it was a considerable distance, she had no sense of time passing. As they parted, she couldn’t help wishing, though she knew it was foolish, that they might meet again someday.

On the seventeenth day of October in that year of 1171, King Henry II of England arrived in Ireland, the first English monarch ever to do so. He landed at the southern port of Waterford with a large army. His intention in coming was not at all to conquer Ireland, in which he had little interest, but to take away the power of his vassal Strongbow and reduce him to obedience. To an extent, he had achieved his object before he arrived, because a worried Strongbow had already managed to intercept him in England and had offered him all his Irish gains. Now, however, Henry meant to inspect the place and see to it that Strongbow’s submission to him was made good.

The army that King Henry brought with him was truly formidable: five hundred knights and nearly four thousand archers. With this, let alone with the addition of Strongbow’s already large forces, the English king could, if he chose, have swept across the entire island and devastated any and all opposition in open battle. Henry knew this very well. But as his subsequent actions were to show, the ruthless Plantagenet opportunist intended to proceed cautiously, and with limited objectives. Try to subdue an island whose native population are against you? He was far too clever. Would he watch, though, for signs and situations that might be of advantage to him? Of course he would.

Gilpatrick stood with his father and gazed at the extraordinary scene before him. He didn’t know what to think. There, on the edge of the ancient Hoggen Green, between the city’s eastern gate and the Thingmount where their ancestor was buried, a huge wicker-walled hall had been erected. It was the sort of great hall that would have been put up for the High King in days of old, but it was bigger. “It makes the Thingmount look like a pimple,” he had heard a workman remark. And in that huge hall was the King of England.

He hadn’t wasted any time. Twenty-five days after he had landed at Waterford, he had settled all the affairs in southern Leinster and arrived at Dublin. Now he was holding court there in perfect safety, surrounded by an army of thousands. Even Gilpatrick’s father was awestruck.

“I didn’t know,” he quietly confessed, “there were so many soldiers in the world.”

And the kings and chiefs of Ireland had all been coming to submit to him, ever since he arrived on the island. The High King and the great men of Connacht and the west held aloof, but from every other province, willingly or unwillingly, the chiefs of the great Irish clans were seeking him out.

Gilpatrick’s father was contemptuous, but fatalistic.

“They’ll come into his house now, even quicker than they did to Brian Boru, because he has an army to compel them. But once he’s gone, they’ll forget their pledges quick enough.”

Gilpatrick, however, had noticed a subtler process at work. Henry, he realised, was a canny statesman. As soon as he arrived in Ireland, he had announced that he personally would take over Dublin and all its territories, Wexford, and Waterford. Strongbow was allowed to hold the rest of Leinster as his feudal tenant; but another great English magnate, the lord de Lacy, whom Henry had brought with him, was to remain in charge of Dublin as Henry’s personal representative or viceroy. So on the face of it, any Irish chief looking to the eastern part of the island would see a traditional Irish arrangement: a king of Leinster, a king of Dublin, and some partly foreign ports. Behind them, however, would be a rival High King—far more powerful even than Brian Boru—a High King across the water. And if they wanted protection against the O’Connor High King in Connacht, as they might, or if Strongbow, or even de Lacy, started to behave as they themselves had always done and tried to encroach upon their territory, then wouldn’t it be wise to come into the house of King Henry and have him as a protector against their neighbours, Irish or English? That was how things had always been done on the island. You paid tribute in cattle; you got protection. He’s using his own lords to keep an eye on each other and to frighten the other chiefs into his camp as well, he thought.

“The man’s very clever,” Gilpatrick muttered. “He’s playing our own game even better than we do.”

Then there was the question of Dublin city. It was being given to the merchant community of Bristol, apparently, but no one was quite sure what that would mean. The Bristol men would have the same trading rights in Dublin as they had at home. The mighty city of Bristol had ancient privileges, huge fairs, and was one of the great gateways to the English market. Its merchants were rich. Did this mean that the port of Dublin would enjoy a similar status? The word was that the king also wanted the merchants and craftsmen who had left to return.

“It’s very hard to know at this stage,” the Palmer had remarked to him the day before, “but if the Bristol men bring in extra money and trade, this could actually turn out to be good for Dublin.”

What had really surprised Gilpatrick, however, was the news that he had learned that morning. And now, as they gazed at the huge royal camp, he imparted it to his father.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I had it from Archbishop O’Toole this morning.”

“The man murders an archbishop and then summons the bishops to a council? To discuss Church reform?” His father looked at him in stupefaction. “What does O’Toole say?”

“He’s going. He’s taking me with him. It’s not certain, you know, that King Henry was at fault.”

The question of whether King Henry had ordered the killing of Thomas Becket the previous Christmas was still being eagerly discussed all over Europe. The general feeling was that even though he probably hadn’t actually ordered the killing, he was still responsible for the fact that it happened, and therefore culpable. The Pope had not ruled on the matter yet.

“And where and when is this council to be?” asked his father.

“This winter. Down in Munster, I believe. At Cashel.”

During the autumn months, Una watched Fionnuala with interest and with concern. Ruairi O’Byrne had gone to Chester, but in the weeks before the arrival of King Henry, Brendan made two visits to Dublin. On each occasion he went to see Fionnuala before departing, but his intentions remained unclear. Fionnuala continued to spend time helping her at the hospital, perhaps to keep her mind off the situation. Una couldn’t tell. She could quite imagine that Brendan had other things on his mind than marriage at such a time.

It was soon after King Henry’s arrival that Brendan’s cousin reappeared in Dublin. They did not see him at first, but they heard that he had been spotted in the town. Whether he was just there for a few days before leaving again or whether he had some other plans, she did not know.

“I saw him down at the quay,” the Palmer’s wife told her one morning.

“What was he doing there?” she asked.

“Wasn’t he just playing at dice with the English soldiers?” she answered. “As if he’d known them all his life?”

Una met him the next day. Though the gates were open and the market was busier than ever, with all the English troops in the vicinity, Una did not feel inclined to go into the city usually; and when she did, she made a point of avoiding the lane where her own house was because it brought back memories that were too painful. But for some reason, as she came down from the Fish Shambles in the darkening afternoon, she decided to turn across that way for a quick look. And she had just glanced in through the gateway and observed her father’s little brazier, when she noticed, in the lane just in front of her, a figure sitting on the ground with his back to the fence. He was staring thoughtfully at the ground in front of him, but as she was about to go past, something about the hang of his head and the smell of ale told Una that he was drunk. She wasn’t in the least afraid, but as she skirted him so as not to step on him, she glanced down at his face and saw with astonishment that it was Ruairi.

Had he seen her? She didn’t think so. Should she speak to him? Perhaps not. She wasn’t shocked. Most young men got drunk once in a while. She walked on a little way and then realised that she was going in the wrong direction, and so she’d have to retrace her steps anyway. With the November darkness drawing in, it was getting cold, and she thought she could feel a biting wind beginning. As she drew close to Ruairi she saw that now his eyes were closed. What if he stayed there in the darkness and nobody saw him or took any notice of him during the night? He’d freeze to death. She stopped and spoke his name.

He blinked and looked up. In the darkness, she supposed he could not clearly see her face. His eyes were blank.

“It is Una. From the hospital. Do you not remember me?”

“Agh.” Was it the beginning of a smile? “Una.”

Then he keeled over sideways and lay entirely motionless.

She stood there several minutes to see if he came round. He didn’t. Then a man came along the lane, pulling a handcart from the Fish Shambles. It was time to take action. “I am from the hospital,” she told him. “This is one of our inmates. Could you help me get him home?”

“We’ll have him home in no time at all. Open your eyes, me darlin’,” he shouted into Ruairi’s ear. But when this had no effect he bundled him, not without a few jarring bumps, into the cart and started off behind Una, who led the way.

Father Gilpatrick was rather surprised, late in November, to find Brendan O’Byrne at his door. He wondered for a moment whether, for some reason, Brendan wanted to discuss his sister with him and tried to think what he could say in her favour that would not be at variance with the truth.

But it seemed that Brendan had more important business to discuss. Explaining that he had felt in need of advice, Brendan let him know further that he had come to him in particular because of his discretion and his knowledge of England after his residence there.

“You will know,” he continued, “that the O’Byrnes, like the O’Tooles, with their territories to the south and west of Dublin, have always had to take careful note of events both in Dublin and in Leinster. Now it seems we are to have English kings in both. The O’Byrnes are wondering what to do.”

Gilpatrick liked Brendan O’Byrne. With his quiet precision, he had the brain of a scholar. As far as Gilpatrick knew, the chief of the O’Byrnes had not yet come down to King Henry in his wicker palace. He told Brendan, therefore, exactly the game he thought Henry was playing in tempting the Irish kings into giving him homage by threatening them with Strongbow. “And note the man’s cleverness,” he added, “for as well as de Lacy in Dublin as a counterweight, Henry has Strongbow’s other lands in England and Normandy which he can threaten any time Strongbow gives him any trouble.”

O’Byrne listened carefully. Gilpatrick could see that he had immediately appreciated all the finer points of the assessment. But his next question was even more impressive.

“I am wondering, Father Gilpatrick, to what it is exactly that our Irish chiefs are swearing. When an Irish king comes into the house of a greater king, it means protection and tribute. But across the sea in England, it may mean something different. Can you tell me what that is?”

“Ah. That is a good question that you have asked.” Gilpatrick looked at him with admiration. Here was a man who looked for deeper causes. Wasn’t this exactly the conversation he had started with the O’Connor High King and with the archbishop, neither of whom, he realised, had really understood what he was trying to tell them. Carefully he outlined to Brendan how the feudal system operated in England and in France.

“A vassal of King Henry swears loyalty to him and promises to provide military service each year. If a knight cannot appear fully equipped and armed himself, he pays for a mercenary instead. So you might think that this is similar to the cattle tribute an Irish king would receive. A vassal also goes to his lord for justice, just as we do. But there the similarity ends. Ireland since time out of mind has been divided into tribal territories. When a chief swears an oath, he does so for himself, his ruling clan, his tribe. But over there, the tribes have long ago disappeared. The land is organised into villages of small farmers and the serfs, who are almost like slaves or chattels. They go with the land. And when a vassal there does homage, he isn’t offering loyalty in return for protection, he’s confirming his right to occupy that land, and the payments made will depend on its value.”

“Such arrangements are not unknown in Ireland,” Brendan remarked.

“That is true,” Gilpatrick agreed. “At least since the time of Brian Boru, we have seen Irish kings grant estates to their followers on what would formerly have been thought of as tribal lands. But these are exceptions; whereas across the sea, everybody has to hold their land that way. Nor is that all. When a vassal dies, his heir must pay the king a large sum in order to inherit—it’s called the relief fine. There are numerous other obligations as well.

“And in England in particular, an even harsher system operates. For when William the Norman took England from the Saxons, he claimed that all of it belonged to him personally by right of conquest. He had every square yard of England assessed for what it could yield and had it all written down in a great book. His vassals there only occupy their land on sufferance. If anyone gives trouble, he doesn’t just come to punish them and take tribute. He takes the land away and gives it to anyone else he chooses. These are powers far beyond anything any High King in Ireland has ever dreamed of.”

“These English are harsh people.”

“The Normans are, to be precise. For some of them treat the Saxon English like dogs. An Irishman is a free man, within his tribe. The Saxon peasant is not. It has generally seemed to me,” Gilpatrick confessed, “that these Normans care more for property than they do for people. Here in Ireland, we dispute, we fight, we sometimes kill, but unless we are truly angry, there is a human kindness and consideration among us.” He sighed. “Perhaps it is just a question of conquest. After all, we ourselves are content to own English slaves.”

“Do you think any of our Irish princes imagine they could be making these English commitments when they come into Henry’s house?” asked Brendan.

“I don’t suppose so.”

“Has Henry told them?”

“Surely not.”

“Then I think I see,” Brendan said thoughtfully, “how it will go. At a later date, the English—not Henry, who is clearly very devious—but the English lords will genuinely believe the Irish have sworn to one thing, and the Irish will think they have sworn to another, and both sides will mistrust the other.” He sighed. “This Plantagenet king comes from the devil.”

“It has been said of all his family. What will you do?”

“I do not know. But I thank you, Father, for your counsel. By the way,” he said smiling, “I have not had the chance to see your family and your sister. Will you give them my greetings. Fionnuala especially, of course.”

“I will,” Gilpatrick said as Brendan left. And a fine thing for this family it would be, he thought, if you married her. But you’re far too good for her, Brendan O’Byrne. Far too good.

It didn’t take Una long to see the good in young Ruairi O’Byrne. After the first night’s sleep at the hospital he appeared well enough in the morning, and she had supposed he would leave. But by the middle of the day he was still there. Indeed, he was quite content to talk to the inmates, who seemed to like his company. Fionnuala was not there, and seeing Una in need of assistance, he more than once stepped over to help her with her tasks. The Palmer’s wife thought him a very pleasant young man. The Palmer himself, though not unfriendly, muttered that a young man of that age ought to have better things to do, for which his wife rebuked him.

Ruairi showed no desire to move on that day, but said he would be glad to sleep in the men’s dormitory. The next morning he told Una that he must buy a horse in Dublin so that he could return to the O’Byrnes. Fionnuala was due in, but he left early before she arrived and did not return until after she had left. When he came back, he was looking a little pale. The trader he had been dealing with had tried to sell him a horse that was unsound, but he had spotted the weakness just in time. He seemed irritated at not being able to leave, but spent another night at the hospital.

The next morning Ruairi seemed to be depressed. He sat in the yard looking gloomy and it wasn’t clear if he meant to go anywhere. When she could spare a little time from her duties, Una came and sat with him. For a while he didn’t say much, but when she gently asked him why he seemed sad, he confessed that he was trying to make a difficult decision. “I should go back.” He indicated southwards towards the Liffey valley and the Wicklow Mountains, so she assumed he meant back to the O’Byrnes. “But I have other plans.”

“Is it another voyage you’ll be making?” she asked, thinking to herself that he had only recently returned from one.

“Perhaps.” He hesitated, and then said quietly, “Or a greater journey.”

“Where would you go?”

“It’s a pilgrimage I’m thinking of,” he confessed. “To Compostela maybe, or the Holy Land.”

“By all the saints!” she exclaimed. “That’s a long and perilous way to go walking the world.” She looked at him carefully to see if he was serious. “Would you really go, like the Palmer, all the way to Jerusalem?”

“It would be better,” he muttered, “than going back there.” And once again he indicated the direction in which his family lived.

She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him and wondered why he should be so unwilling to be with his family.

“You should stay here a few days,” she counselled. “This is a quiet place in which to rest your mind as well as your body. Have you prayed about it?” she asked, and when he seemed uncertain, she begged him: “Pray and your prayers will surely be answered.” Secretly she already intended to pray for him herself.

So he stayed another day. When she told the Palmer about poor Ruairi’s troubles and his plans, he only gave her a wry glance, and remarked, “You can waste a lot of time with a young man like that.”

She was surprised that so good a man, and a pilgrim himself, would say such a thing, and she could only conclude that he didn’t understand. She bridled also, a little, at his tone which she thought was patronising. The Palmer, seeing her annoyance, quietly added, “He reminds me of a boy I used to know.”

“And perhaps,” she said testily, “you didn’t know that boy so well either.” She had never spoken to the Palmer in such a tone before and she wondered if she had gone too far. But to her surprise, he gave no sign of anger.

“Perhaps,” he said, with a sudden sadness for which she could find no explanation.

The next morning, Fionnuala was back. She greeted Ruairi politely, but she did not seem particularly interested in talking to him. When Una remarked on this Fionnuala gave her a look and said quietly, “It’s Brendan I’m interested in, Una.” So they discussed the matter no further.

But in the afternoon, while Fionnuala was speaking to one of the inmates, Una came upon Ruairi sitting gloomily in the yard. It had occurred to her since their conversation that it must be different being part of a princely family like the O’Byrnes, especially when you had to measure yourself against the reputation of a man like Brendan. A pilgrimage to the Holy Land would certainly have the effect of making Ruairi a notable figure. But was it, she wondered, what he truly wanted to do?

“They torment me! They despise me!” he suddenly broke out. Then he relapsed into gloom. “Ruairi’s a poor thing! That’s what they say. ‘Brendan’s the man.’ He is. It’s true. And what have I ever been doing all my life?”

“You must have patience, Ruairi,” she urged. “God has a plan for you as he does for us all. If you would pray and listen, Ruairi, you’ll discover what it is. I’m sure you have it in you to do great things. Is that what you desire?” she asked, and he confessed that it was.

She felt honoured as well as touched that he should have shared such intimate thoughts with her. At that moment, with his long body stooped and his handsome young face sunk in sadness, he seemed to her so noble and so fine that her heart within her swelled at the thought of what he could become. If only he can find himself, she thought, he will do greater things than people imagine. Hardly thinking what she did, she took his hand in hers for a moment. Then she heard Fionnuala calling her, and had to go.

If only she had not spoken to Fionnuala. If only she had kept Ruairi’s confidence to herself, as indeed she should have done. She could never forgive herself, afterwards, for her foolishness. But so it was. For while they were working together, didn’t she like an idiot have to tell Fionnuala that young Ruairi was thinking of going to the Holy Land, and that she was worried about him.

Yet even then, she asked herself, what could have possessed the stupid girl to blurt out to him that very evening: “So it’s to Jerusalem you are going, is it Ruairi? And will there be plenty of drinking along the way?” Then she had laughed, and Ruairi had said nothing to Fionnuala, but he’d given Una a look of reproach that almost broke her heart. The next morning, he was gone.

And as if all this wasn’t bad enough, who could ever have supposed the reaction of Fionnuala when Una rightly rebuked her for treating poor Ruairi so shamefully. She laughed in Una’s face.

“You’re in love with him, Una,” she cried. “Don’t you know?”

“You’re a liar! Are you mad?”

“No more than you, Una, for falling in love with such a poor useless fellow.”

“He is not. I am not!” Una was so flustered and angry that she could hardly speak. And Fionnuala was still laughing, which made Una hate her even more. Then the foolish girl ran off and Una could only wonder, in her fury, how it was possible for people so completely to misunderstand.

She did not see Ruairi again until December. It was the day after Father Gilpatrick had gone down to Cashel for the big council there. Many of the royal camp had also left and Dublin was quieter than it had been recently. The Palmer’s wife had gone into the market. Just before Fionnuala was due to return home, she and Una were surprised to see the Palmer’s wife returning with a young man. It was Ruairi.

“I met him in the market,” she explained. “I wasn’t going to let this good young man leave us without coming to see our two girls here.”

If Ruairi had not particularly wanted to come, he had the good grace not to show it. He went to greet one or two of the inmates, which gave them pleasure; and he explained that he had been with his family recently. Una wanted to ask him about his plans for going on pilgrimage, but she didn’t like to. It was Fionnuala, after a few moments’ awkward pause, who made the conversation.

“Have you seen your cousin Brendan?” she asked. “He’s not been here this last few weeks.”

“I have.” Did he look a little uncomfortable? Una thought he did; and when she glanced at Fionnuala it seemed that she had thought so, too.

“He’s keeping well, then, is he?” Fionnuala pursued.

“Oh. Ah, he is, indeed. Always well is Brendan.”

“Is he getting married yet?” Fionnuala continued boldly. And now it was clear that Ruairi was truly embarrassed.

“There is talk of it, I believe. One of the O’Tooles. But I couldn’t say if the thing is definite. No doubt,” he added wryly, “I’ll be one of the last to know.”

No, Una thought, it’s Fionnuala who’ll be the last to know; and she looked at her friend with compassion. But Fionnuala was putting a brave face on it.

“Well he’s a fine man to be sure,” she said. “His wife may not have cause to laugh very often; but so long as she’s of a serious disposition she’ll be happy I’m sure.” She smiled brightly. “Are you going back into Dublin, Ruairi?”

“I was.”

“Then you can walk with me, as I’m on my way home.”

Fionnuala never mentioned Brendan after that. As for Ruairi, Una didn’t see him again. She heard once or twice that he’d been in Dublin and asked Fionnuala if she’d seen or heard of him; but Fionnuala said that she hadn’t.

The rock of Cashel. It was seventy years since an O’Brien king had granted the ancient Munster stronghold, with its dominating views over the countryside, to the Church for the use of an archbishop. It was certainly a magnificent place to hold such a council, and appropriate, too, thought Gilpatrick: for a number of the Munster churchmen he knew were as keen reformers as he was. It was to be a great gathering. Most of the bishops, many abbots, and a papal legate were to be there. Yet even so, as he approached its grey stone eminence, he had felt a sense of uncase.

It had been interesting to watch King Henry.

For the most part, though he had convened the council, he had asked the papal legate to take the chair, outwardly deferring to him in everything and sitting quietly to one side of the great hall where they met. Most days he dressed without ceremony in the simple green hunting tunic he favoured. His hair, which he cut short, had a faint reddish tinge, reminding one of his Viking Norman ancestors. But his face was sharp, devious, watchful; and Gilpatrick couldn’t help thinking that he was like a fox watching so many ecclesiastical chickens.

As well as the legate, there were several distinguished English churchmen present, and it was one of these, on the first day of the proceedings, who gave Gilpatrick and Lawrence O’Toole some interesting information.

“You have to understand,” he told them quietly, during a break in the proceedings, “that King Henry is very anxious to make a good impression. This business with Becket …” Here he dropped his voice. “There are bishops in England, you know, who think Becket just as much to blame as Henry. And I can tell you, for reasons of statecraft if nothing else, it is inconceivable that Henry would have ordered the murder. Howsoever that may be,” he continued, “the king is anxious to display his piety—which I assure you is genuine,” he added hastily, “and he is most determined that the Pope should see him making every effort to aid the Irish Church in the reforms we know you both wish to make. Of course,” he went on with a faint smile, “not all Irish churchmen are as dedicated to purifying the Church as you.”

The legate desired them first to compile a report on any present shortcomings of the Irish Church. As in previous councils of this kind, the bishops were generally keener to bring Irish practice closer to that of the rest of western Christendom, where power resided in bishoprics and parishes rather than in the monasteries. The hereditary abbots, not unreasonably, argued that the old monastic and tribal arrangements were still better suited to the country as it was. Gilpatrick was fascinated to hear Archbishop O’Toole, an abbot as well as a priest, and a prince like many of them, give the abbots a qualified support. “There is still room, I think, for both systems, depending on the territory.” As for the demand that there should be no more hereditary churchmen, he again was kindly. “The real issue surely,” he pointed out, “is whether a churchman is qualified for his post. If he is unsuited, then he must give it up; but the fact it has been passed down his family should not be a disqualification. In ancient Israel, all priests were hereditary. The spirit comes from God, not from the making of arbitrary rules.” He pressed them further on other matters, however: on reform within their houses; the ordering of parish priests, who were often lax; the extension of parishes; and the collection of tithes. It was wonderful to see how amongst these men, many of whom came from families as noble as his own, this saintly and unworldly man could command such respect through his spiritual authority alone. In due course they produced a report which, it was generally felt, would suit the case.

It was the English priest who took the archbishop and Gilpatrick aside.

“The report is promising,” he said, “but incomplete. It lacks,” he searched for a word, “conviction.” He looked seriously at the archbishop. “You, of course, Archbishop, are a reformer. But some of your colleagues … The report as it stands could be used by the legate, or even by King Henry were he so minded—and I do not say he is—to claim that the Irish Church is not serious about reform. In Rome they might even say, perhaps, that other bishops are needed, from outside Ireland.”

“I think not,” said O’Toole.

“What is in your mind?” Gilpatrick enquired.

“This question of hereditary churchmen,” the English priest said to O’Toole, “will be a problem. And married priests,” here he glanced at Gilpatrick, “were stopped in England a century ago. The Pope won’t stand for it.” Gilpatrick thought of his father and blushed. “But the most important thing is the care of our flock. Can we really turn our eyes away from the laxities that have been permitted in so many parts of the island? Why, even in Dublin, we are told, marriages are contracted openly that are clearly outside canon law. A man marrying his brother’s wife, for instance? Intolerable.” He shook his head while Gilpatrick went even redder. “Yet not a word of it in this report.”

“What do you think we should do?” asked Gilpatrick.

“I suggest,” said the Englishman smoothly, “that a small committee of us see what we can do to strengthen those parts which need to be strengthened while leaving in place those parts which are excellent already.” He turned to Archbishop O’Toole. “I wonder whether Father Gilpatrick, as your representative, might work with us in preparing a revised draft for your consideration?”

And so the thing was done. And a few days later a new report emerged which the legate himself recommended to the council. It took some days to persuade the Irish churchmen to agree to this, which was hardly surprising. For the report was damning. Every vice, every malpractice, every Irish deviance from the accepted continental code was ruthlessly laid bare. When Gilpatrick and the English priest showed it to O’Toole, the archbishop was doubtful.

“This is harsh,” he said.

“It is. I agree,” said the English priest. “But think of the zeal it shows.” He smiled. “No one could accuse the Irish Church of any lack of conviction now.”

“Should there not be some mention of the reforming work already done in Ireland, and of what we intend to do in the future?” O’Toole queried.

“Absolutely. That is the key to the whole business. And that is what we must address in the second of our reports. The sooner we can get on to that,” he added encouragingly, “the better.”

So the damning report was approved, and the legate moved them on to consider what reforms had already been done, and how the good work could best be forwarded. This part of the council was by no means easy, but by the start of February the work was done and a second report produced. The legate thanked them, and King Henry, who had remained modestly watching, rose to congratulate them upon their great work. So ended the Council of Cashel.

Archbishop O’Toole was by no means happy with all the details; but Gilpatrick felt, on the whole, that they had done rather well.

The sailor arrived on a grey March morning. Wet clouds were sweeping over the Liffey. The Palmer and his wife had gone to the king’s camp, leaving Una and Fionnuala in charge of the hospital until they returned. There were raindrops in the sailor’s hair. He was asking for Una.

“I have a message from your mother,” he informed her. “Your father has been very sick. But if he is able to walk again, he will return to Dublin, because he wants to see Ireland before he dies.”

Una’s eyes filled with tears. She had so longed to see her family, but not like this. Practical questions also crowded into her mind. How would they live? If her father died or was too sick to work, her brothers were still too young to be successful craftsmen. She and her mother would have to support them as best they could. And where would they lodge? If only, she thought, they could get their old house back upon whatever terms. If anything might help her father recover, she thought, it would be that. She wondered if perhaps the Palmer would do something for them, and decided to ask his advice as soon as he returned.

She discussed the problem with Fionnuala meanwhile. Her friend had been a little subdued since the loss of Brendan in the winter. Sometimes she had been her lively self, but in the last two or three weeks she had seemed abstracted, as if something was secretly worrying her. To her credit though, she was sympathetic today, putting her arm round Una and telling her that everything would be all right.

When the Palmer and his wife returned soon after noon, however, it was clear that he was in no mood to talk; for as she went up to him he smiled sadly and saying, “Not now, my child,” he went past her into his quarters, accompanied by his wife. Two hours passed and neither of them came out again. The girls could only wonder what was amiss.

Fionnuala was in the yard when she saw the figure coming through the gate. The sky had cleared somewhat, but the March breeze was making a cross, hissing sound in the thatch and caused the gate to bang as the figure entered. Una appeared from the women’s dormitory at just that moment and Fionnuala was conscious of her eyes upon them both. She realised that Una probably didn’t know who the figure was. Fionnuala stared at him.

Peter FitzDavid looked at her. His face was grave. If he felt embarrassment under her stony gaze, he was being careful not to show it.

“Your brother Gilpatrick asked me to fetch you,” he said quietly. “I’m to take you home. I met him at the king’s camp,” he added, to explain his presence.

Fionnuala felt a little stab of fear. Was one of her parents hurt? Una was at her side now.

“Why?” she asked.

“You have not heard? The Palmer has not told you?” He looked surprised, then nodded slowly. “It’s King Henry,” he explained. “He’s finished his business in Ireland. He’s ready to leave. There are just the affairs of Dublin to put in order and that’s what he’s doing now. I’m afraid, Fionnuala,” he paused a moment, “that this has not been good for your father; although he has been treated with special consideration,” he added. “He keeps the southern part of his lands, down where your brother is. Those, of course, he will hold directly from the king as his vassal. But all the northern part of his land, near Dublin, has been granted away to a man called Baggot. Your father is very upset.” He stopped. “I’m afraid,” he added, “these sort of grants and regrants are quite normal in the circumstances.”

The two girls stared at him, stunned. It was Una who was the first to recover.

“Is that what has happened to the Palmer?”

“He has fared worse, you might say. The king has taken all his lands in Fingal for his knights. He’s left the Palmer with his land near Dublin, which is just enough to support himself and the hospital. The king is mindful, of course, that the Palmer hasn’t any heirs. It’s only the hospital he really cares about.”

Una was silent. After such a blow as this, how could she trouble the Palmer with her own poor family’s difficulties?

“There have been charters floating down upon the fortunate like leaves in autumn,” said Peter. “For the houses inside the city, too.”

“And what are you getting out of it?” Fionnuala asked coldly.

“I?” Peter shrugged. “I am getting nothing, Fionnuala. Strongbow has his own relations to think of, and once King Henry came, Strongbow’s power to give was greatly reduced. King Henry scarcely knows me. I’ve received nothing in Ireland. I’m probably leaving when King Henry does. Strongbow persuaded him to take me on, so perhaps I’ll make my fortune in some other land.”

Fionnuala took this information in. Then she gave a sad smile.

“We shan’t be seeing you again then, Welshman,” she said more gently.

“No.”

“Well, I hope you enjoyed your time here.”

“I did. Very much.”

They looked at each other silently for a moment. Then Fionnuala sighed. “You’ve no need to escort me to my home, Welshman. I’ve a few things to do here and then I’ll be on my way.”

During this little exchange, which she thought rather pointless, Una’s mind had focussed on one thing Peter had just said.

“I wonder what has happened to my father’s house,” she murmured to Fionnuala.

“Welshman,” Fionnuala said. “This is Una MacGowan whose family lived in your lodgings. She’s wondering what’s to become of them.”

“I do know, as it happens,” Peter answered. “There are a number of Bristol merchants coming over and that house, along with others, has been granted to one of them. A man I met, actually. His name’s Doyle.”

Una had expected Fionnuala to leave almost at once after Peter FitzDavid had gone. Rather to her surprise, half an hour passed and she realised that Fionnuala was still there. When she went to look for her, she found her in the room at the back of the men’s dormitory where once she had had her private meeting with the priest. She was kneeling on the floor, silently weeping. Thinking to comfort her, Una sat down beside her.

“It could be worse, Fionnuala,” she reminded her. “Your family is still richer than most. I’m sure your brother will be a bishop one day. And there’ll be no shortage of fine young men wanting to marry you.”

But none of this seemed to help. Fionnuala’s shoulders still shook. She murmured, “Brendan’s gone. My Welshman’s gone. Everyone.” This seemed a little beside the point to Una; but wishing to comfort her she suggested: “Perhaps you should see that priest again.” This only caused poor Fionnuala to weep the more. At last, however, she raised her head and turned her face, streaked with tears, towards her friend.

“You don’t understand, Una, you poor silly creature. You don’t understand at all. I’m pregnant.”

“You are? In the name of God, Fionnuala, by whose doing is that?”

“By Ruairi O’Byrne. God help me. By Ruairi.”

There were all kinds of people on the ship: potters, carpenters, saddlers, stonemasons, artisans, and small traders. He’d brought many of them from Bristol himself. The ship was his, too, of course. The April day was breezy but bright as the ship came in from the greenish sea.

Doyle’s dark eyes watched the wood quay as Dublin grew nearer.

“Are you ready?” Doyle did not turn round to ask the question.

“As ready as I shall ever be,” said the younger man standing behind him. If he had been youthful when he had first come into Doyle’s house half a dozen years ago, his close-cut, pointed beard was wiry now; and his face was weather-beaten from the sea voyages on which he had been sent.

“You’ll take the consequences for your crime?”

“I’ll have to. You gave me no choice.” He smiled grimly. “Once I do, you won’t have a hold over me anymore.”

“You’ll be working for me still, don’t forget.”

“True. But I’ll make my fortune in Dublin and then I’ll be rid of you.”

Doyle did not reply. Who knew, thought the younger man, what resided in the deep, dark passages of that devious brain? And indeed, the Bristol merchant had much to think about. Though he had traded with Dublin, he had not visited the place himself in years. In taking up the new opportunities opened by King Henry, who had just departed, he was going to have to move carefully. It was a compliment to the young man standing behind him that Doyle should have chosen him to run the Dublin operation. When he had first come to his house, he had been a youthful wreck, good for nothing at all. But over six years Doyle had turned him into a competent merchant and a man. If things went well in Dublin, then in due course one of Doyle’s grandsons might come and take over; but that would be years away. Before he left this young man in charge, however, Doyle knew he would need to get a good feel of the place and its present trade. Many of the merchants he had dealt with until recently had gone, at least for the time being; but there were a couple he trusted. And then, of course, there was that kindly man with whom, years ago, he had struck up an acquaintance on a previous visit. Ailred the Palmer. He would be going to see him first.

The moment she saw him, Una’s heart sank.

When she had discovered earlier that day who Ailred’s visitor was to be, she had still hesitated to speak to the Palmer. She was so anxious not to ask him for help which she knew he could no longer give that, even now, she hadn’t told him about her father’s return. But since he was going to find out anyway in due course, and think it very strange then if she’d never mentioned it, she had plucked up her courage and gone to him that afternoon.

“So this Bristol merchant that wants to see me has your father’s house? And you say your father may shortly return.” Ailred looked thoughtful. “I shall certainly explain to him the facts of your situation. But what he will do is another matter.” He sighed. “I’ve never had to beg before, Una, but I must learn how to do it.” How her heart went out to him when he said that.

But when Una saw the merchant come through the hospital gate and disappear into the small hall at the back with the Palmer and his wife, any hope she might have harboured in her heart had sunk. Tall, hard, swarthy, with a fearful dark-eyed stare: one look at Doyle and she knew she was lost. A man like that does no kindnesses, she thought. A man like that takes what he wants and strikes down anyone in his path. She could see her father being left to die at his own door, and her mother forced to beg in the street, at least until the Palmer gave her shelter.

So what would she do when Doyle turned the Palmer down?

This was the question she brooded on while the Bristol merchant ate alone with Ailred and his wife that evening. The case seemed hopeless, but she couldn’t let it go at that. If necessary, she decided she would seek the man out and plead with him herself. She had no choice.

She tried to imagine it. Merely begging for charity was obviously a waste of time; but what could she possibly offer him? To work free for him as a servant? That would hardly be enough to get the house back. Sell herself as a slave? Probably no better. What else?

There was only one thing she could think of. Her body. What if she were his servant and gave him that as well? She supposed a man like Doyle would want some such condition. If he even found her attractive: she had no idea as to that. She thought of his tall, swarthy form, and his hard face, and shuddered. To give her body, like a harlot, to a man like that: could she bring herself to do it? For a girl like Fionnuala, she imagined, it mightn’t be so difficult. She almost wished she were like that herself. But she wasn’t, and she knew she never could be. Then the thought of her poor little father came to her, and biting her lip she told herself, Yes, if I must, for him I will do it.

Ailred the Palmer remembered Doyle well enough, although their business dealings, which had taken place six or seven years ago, had not been extensive. He was aware of the man’s importance in Bristol and somewhat flattered that Doyle should have come to seek his counsel at such a time.

“Since I started this hospital,” he informed the merchant, “I have hardly taken any part in the trade of the port, and so I’m not sure I shall be able to help you much.”

As Doyle looked at the fine old Norseman and his kindly wife, he felt sorry that the man should have fallen on such evil times and wondered whether, as an incomer, the Palmer might somewhat resent him. However, he had his own mission to accomplish and he was not a man to be deflected from his purpose. Politely but firmly, therefore, he plied Ailred with questions about the city, what craftsmen it contained, what was bought and sold, which merchants were to be trusted. And as he had expected, the Palmer in fact knew a great deal. By the time they had finished their meat, and fruit pies and cheeses were brought in, the Bristol merchant could relax, drink his wine, turn to more general subjects, and answer some of the questions which Ailred had for him.

In particular the Palmer wanted to know about the city of Bristol and its organisation—its aldermen, its trading privileges, and what taxes it paid the king. “For this, I suppose,” he said, “is what we must now expect in Dublin.” On these and other points, Doyle was able to satisfy him.

While they were talking, Ailred had also been observing the Bristol merchant carefully. He was not sure exactly what he was looking for: something perhaps to give him an insight into his visitor’s mind; some clue as to his character that he might be able to use, for instance, to persuade him to do a kindness to Una and her family. Doyle’s name suggested an Irish origin, and Ailred thought he had heard the man had family in Ireland. Perhaps that might provide a way in.

“Will you be moving to Dublin yourself, to live?” he enquired.

“Not at present,” Doyle replied. “I’ve a young partner who’ll be looking after things for me here, for the time being. He’s very competent.”

“You’ve no family in Dublin, then?” the Palmer ventured.

“Waterford’s where we came from. I have a few relations there,” Doyle answered. Then, for the first time, he smiled. “The last of my family that was in Dublin left his body here. At the battle of Clontarf. A Norseman like yourself, but Danish. One of the old sea rovers.”

“There were many brave men died in that battle,” Ailred agreed. “I might have heard of him.”

“You might. To tell you the truth,” Doyle continued, “the family in Waterford never knew a great deal about him except that he was a tremendous fighter. He was one of those that attacked the camp of Brian Boru. He may have struck a blow at the king himself for all I know.”

It was evident that the swarthy Bristol merchant, dour though he was, felt pride in this ancestor.

“And what happened to him?” the Palmer asked.

“We never discovered. They say he went off in pursuit of the enemy and was never seen again. Killed by the guards of Brian Boru, I dare say.”

“And what was his name?”

“Sigurd,” the merchant said proudly. “The same as mine. Sigurd.”

“Ah,” said Ailred.

“You have heard of him?” Doyle was almost eager.

“I might have,” said Ailred. “I would have to think, but I might have.”

There seemed little doubt of it. This must be the Sigurd who had come out to his ancestor Harold’s farmstead and been killed by the priest. Who would know of him now, he wondered? Probably only himself, and the family of Fionnuala, no doubt. Evidently Doyle had no idea of his ancestor’s evil reputation. And here the Palmer was, his honest fortune lost, about to beg a favour from this descendant of a vicious murderer, who thought his ancestor a hero. For a moment, just for a moment, he was tempted to humiliate this man who had gained power over him; but then he thought of poor little Una, and his own good nature prevailed.

“I think I heard,” he said without lying, “that he was a devil of a man.”

“That would be him,” said Doyle, with satisfaction.

In the slight lull that followed, it seemed that the Bristol merchant might be about to introduce another topic of conversation, but seeing that the discussion about his ancestor had brought him so much pleasure, Ailred now seized the opportunity to raise the delicate subject of Una.

“I have,” he proceeded, “a small kindness to ask of you.” He saw Doyle’s eyes grow wary, but he pressed on and briefly explained the sad case of Una and her father. “You see my situation here,” Ailred continued. “I could give the family temporary shelter but … Could you see your way to helping them?”

Doyle looked at him steadily. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but somewhere in his dark eyes Ailred thought he saw a faint gleam of amusement. He didn’t know the reason, unless perhaps the Bristol man was reflecting on the irony of his own fall from prosperity and his having to beg like this. But those who ask favours cannot afford resentments, so he waited patiently for Doyle’s response.

“I was going to put my young partner in there,” Doyle remarked. “He mightn’t like to lose his lodgings. I am not in the habit,” he added quietly, “of doing favours for people I don’t know and to whom I owe nothing.”

If this was a warning to the Palmer not to presume too far, Ailred took it and said nothing in reply. But his wife, ever kindly, went on.

“We have always felt,” she said sweetly, “that we gained more happiness from the work we do in this hospital than we ever did from our former good fortune. I am sure,” she smiled at him gently, “that you have given and received kindnesses before in your life.”

Ailred had glanced at Doyle rather nervously while she made this little speech, afraid that their visitor might not like it. But whether it was her innocent manner, or something else in her words, the Bristol man did not seem to mind.

“It is true,” he acknowledged, “that I have received kindnesses once or twice in my life.” He gave her a wry look. “Whether I’ve returned them is another matter.” Then he fell silent and it seemed he had no further wish to discuss the issue. But Ailred’s wife was not to be so easily put off.

“Tell me,” she pressed him, “what is the greatest kindness you ever received?”

Doyle gazed at her thoughtfully for a few moments, as if he were considering something else; then, having apparently reached a conclusion of some kind, he spoke again.

“I could tell you of one. It happened many years ago.” He nodded slowly, as if to himself. “I’ve two sons. My eldest has always been steady, but my second, when he was young, fell into bad company. I never worried about it, because I thought, being my son, he’d have too much sense to do anything stupid.” He sighed. “That shows you how much I know. So one day, he disappeared. Just like that. Days went by and I’d no idea where he was. Then I found out that he’d been stealing money from me, for gambling, mostly, and other things. A large sum, too. He couldn’t repay it, of course. He was so afraid of me—with reason—and so ashamed, he’d run away. Left Bristol. Not even his brother knew where he’d gone. Months went by. Years.” He stopped.

“What did you do?” Ailred’s wife asked.

“Actually,” Doyle confessed, “I lied. I wanted to protect his name, but my own pride, too, I dare say. So I gave out that he’d gone to France on family business. But as we never heard from him, I thought he might be dead.

“Finally, we did hear. He’d been taken in by a London merchant. Funnily enough, I only knew the man slightly. But he’d taken my son into his house, acted as a father to him—quite a stern one—and helped him set up in business so he could start to pay me back. Then this merchant had made him come to me and ask my forgiveness. That was a kindness, if you like.” He paused. “You can’t really repay a thing like that. You just have to accept it.”

“And did you forgive your son?” asked Ailred’s wife.

“I did,” the dark Bristol merchant replied. “To tell the truth, I was just grateful he was alive.”

“He returned to live with you?”

“I made two conditions. He was to let me forgive him the rest of what he owed me. It was my own guilt which made me do that, I should think. I blamed myself, you see, for being such a stern father. I drove him away.”

“And the other condition?”

“He was to marry a wife I chose for him. Nothing unusual in that. I found him a good, steady girl. They’re happy.” He rose abruptly. “It’s getting late. I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to Ailred’s wife. “One good turn deserves another, I dare say. I’ll think about this girl and her family and let you know in the morning.”

When he had departed, the Palmer and his wife sat alone in their hall.

“I’m sure he will help her,” she said.

“Say nothing to Una,” he replied. “Let’s wait and see what he does.”

For some time after that, they sat together, saying nothing. It was she who finally broke the silence.

“How strange that his son did the same as Harold. He even gave out a story, the same way we did. Except we said Harold had gone on pilgrimage.”

“He got his son back,” said Ailred grimly. “I suppose I drove Harold away, too.”

“You were never stern.”

“No. I was too kind.” He gestured towards the dormitories. “What can you do when you steal from your father and he is Ailred the Palmer?”

She was about to say, Perhaps Harold is alive, too, but she realised that the subject was too painful for him.

“Let us hope,” she said instead, “that Doyle will do something for Una.”

Una was in the road outside the hospital the next morning when the man arrived. A tall, handsome, red-haired man with a weather-beaten face. He asked for the Palmer, but she did not realise that he had come from Doyle the Bristol merchant.

She started to show him the way, but he seemed to know it. He went through the gateway just as it happened that Ailred had come into the yard from the hospital doorway. She was following behind. She saw Ailred look at him, puzzled, but she did not think he knew him. And certainly the Palmer stared with the utmost astonishment when the man went suddenly down on his knees and called him, “Father.”

It was the following midwinter, nine months after King Henry of England had departed the island, that Archbishop O’Toole of Dublin summoned Father Gilpatrick to his private quarters and handed him three documents. When he had finished reading them, the young priest continued to stare at the parchments as though he had seen a ghost.

“You are sure this is genuine?” he asked.

“There is not a doubt of it,” replied the archbishop.

“I wonder,” Gilpatrick said quietly, “what my father will say.”

It had been a trying year. The marriage of Fionnuala to Ruairi O’Byrne had been necessary, of course. Her father had been unshakeable, and rightly so. The O’Byrnes themselves had been equally insistent. “Ruairi will not dishonour the Ui Fergusa,” they had declared. Indeed, Gilpatrick suspected that the presence of Brendan O’Byrne at the wedding was partly to make sure that Ruairi turned up and that the business was successfully concluded. Everyone had put the best face on it. Gilpatrick’s father had officiated. But there had been no mistaking the bride’s condition and though, as a mark of friendship, Archbishop O’Toole had attended, the whole family felt they had been lowered in everyone’s eyes. After the king taking their lands, it had been a bitter blow.

Indeed, these had been grim times for most of the old families in Dublin, with one notable exception.

Ailred the Palmer had got back his son. That had been a wonderful thing to see. Though he had not succeeded in making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, as his father had done, he had returned as the partner of Doyle the Bristol merchant and thereby ensured himself a position of some wealth in the port of Dublin. He was nowadays living in a house on the Fish Shambles. But most remarkable of all had been his marriage, not long after his return, to Una MacGowan. It seemed that he had taken her in deference to the wishes of his father, and more particularly his mother. And as a happy result of this union, when Una’s father had returned, a sick man, with his family that summer, his new son-in-law had been able to install him in his own house once again, since it was now in the ownership of Doyle the merchant. Though he did not know them intimately, Gilpatrick was happy for the family, and especially for Una, whom he had once rescued from a worse fate. But if this turn of events had reminded him that God was always watching over the lives of men, the parchment in his hands now seemed to show—if it were not sacrilege even to suppose it—that the eyes of God must be resting elsewhere.

The documents in question were letters from the Pope in Rome. One was addressed to the archbishop and his fellow bishops; the second was addressed to the kings and princes of Ireland. The third was a copy of a letter to King Henry of England.

The shortest was to the Irish princes. It commended them for submitting to “Our most dear son in Christ, Henry.” This was how the Pope referred to the man who caused the murder of Becket! He told them that Henry had come to reform the Church in Ireland. And he warned them to be humbly and meekly obedient to the English king, or risk the papal wrath. To the bishops, he commended Henry as a Christian ruler who would rid the Church in Ireland of its terrible vice and corruption, and urged them to enforce obedience “with ecclesiastical censure.”

“Does he mean we should excommunicate any of our chiefs who don’t obey him, do you think?” O’Toole asked in wonder. “The Holy Father also seems to think,” he added crossly, “that every prince in Ireland has come into King Henry’s house, which they haven’t.”

But it was actually worse than that. For as he had read the letters, Gilpatrick had noticed something else. It was the terminology. For the Pope had used exactly the terms of feudal obedience and obligation that he would have used to French or English barons. And remembering his conversation with the intelligent Brendan O’Byrne, he realised how difficult it would be to explain all these differences to the archbishop.

“The Holy Father does not understand Irish conditions,” he said sadly.

“He most certainly does not,” O’Toole burst out. “Look at this,” he pointed to a phrase in the first letter, “and this!” He jabbed his finger at the second. “As for this …” He picked up the third letter, then threw it down on the table in disgust.

There was no question, the letters were not only inappropriate, they were downright insulting. The Irish, according to the Pope, were an “ignorant and undisciplined” race, wallowing in “monstrous and filthy vice.” They were “barbarous, uncultured, ignorant of the divine law.” You might have thought that the seven hundred years since the coming of Saint Patrick, the great monastic schools, the Irish missionaries, the Book of Kells, and all the other glories of Irish Christian art had never existed. And the Holy Father was quite content, it seemed, to address the Irish bishops and princes and say it to their faces.

“What can he mean? What can he be thinking of?” the saintly archbishop demanded.

But Gilpatrick already knew. He saw it very clearly. The answer lay in the third letter, the letter to King Henry.

Congratulations. There was no other word for it. The pontiff sent the English king congratulations for this wonderful extension of his power over the stubborn Irish, who had rejected the practice of the Christian faith. Furthermore, to obtain complete forgiveness for his sins—these, no doubt, would chiefly be his complicity in killing the Archbishop of Canterbury—the king has only to keep up the good work. So Henry had got everything he wanted: not only a pardon, it seemed, for killing Becket but a blessing for his crusade against the Irish. “It might,” O’Toole complained, “have been written by the English Pope.”

And how had Henry done it? The text of the letter made it plain. The Pope had heard, he explained, of the disgraceful state of morals on the western island from an unimpeachable source: namely, the very churchman whom King Henry had sent him! And were not his words confirmed by the very report which they, the Irish churchmen, had sent him? He enumerated some of the abuses: improper marriages, failure to pay tithes, all the very things which the Council of Cashel had taken good care to address. Yet the Pope made no mention of the Cashel council. He was evidently quite unaware that it had taken place and of the reforms enacted there; just as he seemed also to be ignorant of all the fine work already done by Lawrence O’Toole and others like him.

And now at last Gilpatrick saw the cunning of the Plantagenet king. He had tricked the Irish churchmen into issuing that damning report, then run to Rome with it as proof of the state of things in Ireland. He’d suppressed all word of the council. The officials in Rome, who only knew a little of Ireland anyway, had found Pope Adrian’s earlier letter. And the trick was completed. The English king’s foray into Ireland to sort out Strongbow was now a papal crusade. “And we gave him the pretext. We condemned ourselves by our own hand,” Gilpatrick murmured.

It was devious. It was a betrayal. It was a brilliant lesson in politics from a master at the game.

IV

1192

On Saint Patrick’s Day in the year of Our Lord 1192, an important ceremony took place at Dublin. Led by the city’s archbishop, a procession of ecclesiastical dignitaries emerged from Christ Church Cathedral and made its way out through the city’s southern gate. Among them was Father Gilpatrick. Two hundred yards away down the road was the Well of Saint Patrick beside which, for a long time, there had been a tiny church. But today, on its site, there now stood a large though still uncompleted structure. Indeed, its size and its handsome proportions suggested that it might almost be intended to rival the great cathedral of Christ Church itself. Nor was it to be only a church; for the foundations of the accompanying school could already be seen. One thing might have struck the onlookers as incongruous about the procession to this fine new foundation dedicated to Ireland’s patron saint. The Archbishop of Dublin who led it was named John Cumin: and he was resolutely English.

Indeed, everything about the new Saint Patrick’s was to be English. It was being built in the new Gothic style, now in fashion in England and France. Unlike the important Irish foundations, which were monastic, the new college of Saint Patrick was to be a collegiate church for priests, not monks—in the latest English fashion. Most of the priests were English, not Irish. And it could hardly have escaped anyone’s notice that this new English headquarters of the English bishop was situated outside the city wall and several hundred yards distant from the old Christ Church, where the monks still remembered the saintly Archbishop O’Toole with reverence and affection.

The wet March breeze caught Father Gilpatrick in the face. He should, he supposed, have felt grateful. It was, after all, a compliment that the English archbishop should have chosen him, an Irishman, to be one of the new canons. “You are held in high regard by everyone,” Cumin had told him frankly. “I know you will use your influence wisely.” Given the circumstances as they were nowadays, Gilpatrick had no doubt that it was his duty to accept. But as he glanced across at the site of his family’s old monastery on the rise to his left, and as he thought of the man he had asked, most reluctantly, to meet him as soon as the consecration was over, he could only think: thank God at least that my poor father is no longer alive to see this.

His father’s last years had not been happy. After the visit of King Henry, the old man had seen his world gradually being butchered, like a body losing limbs, one at a time. The final blow for him had been when a new Church council had declared that all the hereditary priests like himself should be thrown out of their positions and dispossessed. Archbishop O’Toole had utterly refused to let such a thing happen to him, but the heart had gone out of the old man after that. The end had come only half a year after the death of Lawrence O’Toole himself. His father had gone for a walk down to the old Thingmount. And there, by the tomb of his ancestor Fergus, he had suffered a single, massive seizure and fallen dead on the spot. It was a fitting end, Gilpatrick thought, for the last of the Ui Fergusa.

For his father had turned out to be the last chief. He himself, as a celibate priest, had no heirs. And his brother Lorcan, whether by chance or as divine punishment for marrying his brother’s widow, had been granted daughters but no son. In the male line, therefore, the family of the chiefs who had guarded Ath Cliath since before Saint Patrick came was about to die out.

There was one final indignity, however, which had been reserved for this day. It was a mercy, indeed, that his father was not there to see what he must do after the consecration.

The service was well done, you couldn’t deny it. And afterwards they were all very friendly to him, complimentary indeed. But it gave him no pleasure. He had no illusions. The Church was still predominantly Irish, so they needed a man like him as a go-between. For the time being. Until the English were in the majority. The present archbishop was not a bad man, in his way. He’d encountered other churchmen like him during his time in England. An administrator, a servant of the king: intelligent, but cold. How he longed, sometimes, for the less worldly spirit of O’Toole. When the business was over, he went outside and looked around. After a moment or two, he saw the lordly figure approaching, and inwardly he cringed. It was all his brother’s fault.

For a brief time, after King Henry had completed his visit to the island, it had seemed that the two parties occupying the land might live in an uneasy peace. The Plantagenet monarch and the O’Connor High King had even made a new treaty dividing the island between them, rather as it had been divided into the two halves of Leth Cuinn and Leth Moga, north and south, in times before. All over the English-occupied territory, the Norman motte and bailey castles started to appear. Big wooden palisades enclosed a high earthwork mound crowned with a timber keep. These stout little working forts certainly dominated the estates, the new manors that Strongbow and his followers had set up. But had it stopped at that? Of course not. The Irish were unhappy; the settlers were greedy for still more land. Before long the truce had broken down and the lords of the borderland manors were raiding into the High King’s domain, stealing territory. Ironically, during this process, Strongbow, who had been the cause of it all, had died. But that had made no difference. The land grabbing had developed a momentum of its own. One aristocratic adventurer named de Courcy had even raced into Ulster and seized a little kingdom for himself up there.

These events in the borderlands had not much affected Gilpatrick’s family in the relative quiet of Dublin; but a new development was to have profound consequences for his brother. For in the year 1185, Ireland had received a second royal visit; not from Henry, this time, but from his youngest son.

Prince John had none of the glamour of his elder brother, Richard the Lionheart. All his life he seemed to make enemies. He was clever but tactless; he did everything by fits and starts. Arriving in Ireland and meeting Irish chiefs whose dress and flowing beards he thought funny, the young man mocked them to their faces and cheerfully insulted them. But behind this arrogance and vulgarity lay another, darker calculation. Prince John cared nothing for the feelings of the Irish: he had come to impose order, and with him he brought ruthless henchmen with names like de Burgh, and the family of administrators known as the Butlers, who were very good at imposing order indeed.

For occupied Ireland was to be administered on English lines: ancient tribal territories were to be administered as baronies; townlands, like the English hundreds, were to be set up. The seats of modest chieftains would become the fortified manors of English armed knights. English courts, English taxes, English customs, even English counties were planned. There were also the further contingents of knights, many of them friends of the prince, who must be given Irish estates. And if that meant kicking a few more of the Irish off their land, Prince John couldn’t have cared less.

Amongst those who had suffered had been Ailred the Palmer. One day he had suddenly been informed that his holdings to the west of the city, which supported the hospital, had been given to two Englishmen of Prince John’s acquaintance; and although both his son, Harold, and the grandson of Doyle were by now important men in Dublin, not even their influence had been able to prevent it. But within months, the kindly Palmer and his wife, instead of giving way to anger, had persuaded both the men who had obtained his land to grant most of it back to the hospital, which received a formal blessing from the Pope himself soon afterwards. “So you see,” his wife sweetly declared, “in the end everything turned out for the best.”

If only his brother could have been as wise, thought Gilpatrick. But was it, he asked himself, partly his fault? Had he been too busy with Church affairs to realise the danger his brother was in?

When King Henry had taken the ancient lands of the Ui Fergusa, he had split them into two great manors, north and south. The northern manor was still held by Baggot; the southern had remained in his brother’s hands. To his brother’s way of thinking, therefore, he was still the chief. And the fact that he had never fully understood his new status, Gilpatrick considered, was partly because of wishful thinking, but also because, as an Irishman, he could not comprehend one important feature of European feudal life: the absentee landlord.

It was a commonplace in England or France. The king gave his great lords scattered territories to hold; they in turn had tenants. The lord of the manor might be resident there; or he might be away; or he might hold several manors and be represented by a steward to whom the various people on the estate, from the tenants of the larger farms to the humblest serf, would answer.

In the case of the Ui Fergusa lands, the lord of the manor was the king himself, represented by the Justiciar. A steward handled the daily business. For convenience, so far, Gilpatrick’s brother had been left as the sole tenant farmer of the place; during the first few years, the rents demanded by the steward had been modest and Gilpatrick’s brother had rationalised these as the customary tribute due from an Irish chief to his king. With the arrival of Prince John’s new administrators, however, the situation had changed, and the trouble had begun. When the steward had demanded payments for the knight service due from the estate, Gilpatrick’s brother had failed to pay. Summoned to the lord of the manor’s court, he had failed to turn up. When the steward, a patient man, had come to see him, he had treated the royal servant with contempt.

“We have been chiefs here since before your king’s family was ever heard of,” he told the steward with perfect truth. “A chief does not answer to a servant. When the king is in Ireland again,” he had conceded, “I will come into his house.” The steward had said no more, but had gone away.

Yet was it, perhaps, his own fault, Gilpatrick now asked himself, that his brother had behaved so stupidly? If he hadn’t been busy with Church affairs, could he not have made sure that his own family’s position was secure and in proper order? It had been three weeks ago that his brother had arrived at his house. And the moment he had asked his question, Gilpatrick’s heart had sunk.

“Explain to me, Gilpatrick,” he had demanded, “what is a tenant-at-will?”

There were various kinds of men on any manorial estate. The lowest were the serfs, tied to the land, and little better than slaves. Above these came various classes, some of them specialist workers with clearly defined rights and duties. At the top of the hierarchy were the free tenants, holding a farm or two on formally contracted rents. These might be free farmers of substance, or even another feudal lord or a religious foundation with a cross-holding or part share in a manor. But below the free tenant lay a precarious class. The tenant-at-will was normally a freeman, able to come and go as he pleased, but he held his land in the manor on no fixed contract. The lord had the right to terminate his tenancy at any time.

When King Henry had taken the Ui Fergusa land, no one had ever bothered to obtain a proper charter. Because they had been left in place, Gilpatrick’s family had assumed they had security of tenure. After all, they’d been there a thousand years. Didn’t that make their position plain enough? Of course it didn’t, Gilpatrick thought, and he of all people should have known it.

The steward had struck a double blow. He had reminded the Justiciar that the next time the king needed to reward one of his men, the southern Ui Fergusa manor was still available. And now that the manor had just been granted, the steward had informed the new lord that he had a troublesome tenant. “However,” he had explained, “as there has never been any formal agreement, we can consider him as a tenant-at-will.” Last week the steward had gone down to see Gilpatrick’s brother and calmly informed him, “The new lord will be coming here shortly. He wants you out before he arrives. So pack up and leave.”

“And where am I to go?” Gilpatrick’s brother had furiously demanded. “Up into the Wicklow Mountains?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” the steward coolly answered, “you are free to go to hell.”

So now it was up to Father Gilpatrick to try to save the situation.

The realisation that the ancestral lands would probably be lost to the family, even in the female line, for the rest of time was a bitter one. Mercifully, most of his brother’s daughters were safely married by now; but there were two still to be provided for. At least, Gilpatrick thought, I may be able to buy him a few more years. For, as his brother had quite rightly pointed out, if anyone had a hope of persuading the new lord of the manor to relent, it must be himself. After all, he knew him.

So he did his best to smile as the once familiar figure reached him and gazed down at him from his horse.

“It has been a long time,” Gilpatrick said, “since last we met, Peter FitzDavid.”

It had been a long time. Peter FitzDavid would not have denied it. A quarter century since he had first set out; twenty years and more that he had been hoping for his reward. Some of those years had been spent outside Ireland; but he had found himself back there often enough. He had fought in the west, in Limerick; he had organised garrisons, commanded under the Justiciar. He had become well known and well respected amongst the armed men on the island. Peter the Welshman, the Irish called him; and the English-speaking troops and lesser settlers similarly referred to him as Peter Welsh or, as it often sounded to the ear, Walsh.

Peter FitzDavid, better known as Walsh, had been kept hard at work down the years because he was trusted. He had learned to be patient and watchful. But at the right time, he had let it be known that a reward should be forthcoming; and now, when it had finally come, it was better than he had dared to hope. A fine estate, not on the borderlands where the angry Irish were always likely to raid in revenge for what had been stolen from them, but here in the rich, safe, coastal farmland of Leinster, close by the garrison of Dublin itself.

It was time to settle down. Time, late though it was, to marry and produce an heir. Years of service followed by a late marriage—it was not an uncommon career for a knight. He had already found a bride—a younger daughter of Baggot, the knight whose estate marched with his. He had every intention of enjoying the good fortune he had earned.

He had thought of Gilpatrick, of course, when he learned he was to be given the Ui Fergusa estate; but he wasn’t embarrassed to meet him. He had reached the point of middle age where he had no more time or emotion to waste. The land was his now. That was that. The fortunes of war. The business about Gilpatrick’s younger brother, however, was another matter. He knew perfectly well that this must be the reason the priest had asked to see him and he knew that, out of courtesy, he must listen to what Gilpatrick had to say. But perhaps there was an element of calculation in the fact that, on reaching his former friend, he did not dismount. Nor when Gilpatrick suggested they should walk a little did he do so, but allowed the priest to walk beside him.

Their route took them a short way eastwards, to the open common from which the stream ran down towards the old Viking stone at the estuary’s edge. Recently a second hospital, a small one for lepers, had been set up there and dedicated to Saint Stephen. It was past this little foundation beside the marshland that the two figures went, one still mounted, the other on foot; and Peter listened to the woes of poor Gilpatrick’s brother. And as he listened, he felt …

Nothing. He listened to the family story, the extenuating circumstances, the fact—the priest felt sure, he said, that Peter would understand—that his brother had not fully appreciated the new situation. Gilpatrick recalled to him his old father, and their friendship in the past. And still, almost to his own surprise, Peter still felt nothing. Or rather, after a while, he did begin to feel something. But that was contempt.

He despised Gilpatrick’s brother. He despised him because he had not fought, and yet had lost. He despised him for being as arrogant as he was weak. He despised him for being wilfully ill informed, for being unbusinesslike, and for being stupid. Hadn’t he himself had to fight, and to endure hardship, and to learn wisdom and patience? Success despises failure. Peter stayed on his horse. And at last, as they gazed down towards the Thingmount and the Viking stone he said: “Gilpatrick, I can do nothing.” And he continued to gaze straight ahead.

“You have grown hard with the years, I see,” the priest said sorrowfully.

Peter turned his horse’s head and slowly wheeled round. The interview was over. He’d had enough. He wanted to kick his horse into a trot and leave his former friend standing. And rude though this would have been, he might have done it if, just then, he hadn’t seen a woman coming across the green towards them. For now, instead of moving off, he stared.

Fionnuala. There was no mistaking her. It was nearly twenty years since they had parted, but even in the distance he’d have known her at a glance. As she came up, she gave Gilpatrick a brief nod.

“They told me you’d be here.”

“I did not know you were in Dublin,” the priest began. He seemed a little put out. “Do you remember my sister, Fionnuala?” He turned to Peter.

“He remembers,” she cut in quietly.

“I was explaining to Peter that our brother …”

“Has been a fool.” She looked straight at Peter. “Nearly as great a fool as his sister once was.” She said it simply, without any malice. “They told me you were meeting him,” she said to Gilpatrick. “So I thought I’d come up to Dublin, too.”

“Unfortunately—” Gilpatrick began again.

“He’s turned you down.” She transferred her gaze back to Peter. “Haven’t you, Welshman?”

The years had been more than kind to Fionnuala. If as a girl she had been lovely, thought Peter, there was only one way to describe her now. She was magnificent. A brood of children had left her body lithe, but fuller. Her hair was still raven black, her head held proudly, her eyes the same astounding, emerald green. At ease with herself and all the world, she looked exactly the Irish princess that she was. And this is the woman, thought Peter, that in different circumstances I might have married.

“I’m afraid that I have,” he admitted with a trace of awkwardness.

“He’s been dispossessed,” she suddenly cried out. “We have all been robbed of the land we have loved for a thousand years. Do you not see that, Welshman? Can you not imagine his rage? We were not even conquered. We were deceived.” She stopped, and then in a lower voice continued, “You do not care. You owe him nothing.”

He did not reply.

“It is to me that you owe something,” she said quietly.

The two of them gazed at each other, while Gilpatrick looked puzzled. He couldn’t imagine why the knight should owe his sister anything.

“You are enjoying good fortune now, Welshman,” she went on bitterly. “But it was not always so.”

“It is usual to be rewarded for twenty years of service,” he pointed out.

“Your English king has rewarded you. But it was I, like a fool, who caused you to be noticed when I gave you Dublin.”

“It was yourself you gave to me. Not Dublin.”

“You betrayed me.” She said it sadly. “You hurt me, Welshman.”

He nodded slowly. Every word of it was true. He noticed Gilpatrick looking mystified.

“What is it you want, Fionnuala?” he asked at last.

“My brother still has two daughters to find husbands for. Leave him on his farm at least until they’re wed.”

“That is all?”

“What else could there be?”

Did she, he fleetingly wondered, wish that she had married him? Or could she only hate him now? He would never know.

“He must pay his rents,” he said.

“He will.”

He pursed his lips. He could imagine the future trouble his tenant would probably cause him. There would be years of sullen looks and anger. How could it be otherwise? Perhaps Fionnuala would be able to keep her brother in order, perhaps not. One day, no doubt, it would end with his kicking her brother off his ancestral land. That was just the way of things. But he supposed he could live with the fellow until these last two daughters had gone to their husbands with suitable dowries.

“You ask nothing for yourself,” he remarked. “Will your own daughters not be looking for good husbands? English knights perhaps?” For if they look like you, he thought to himself, that might not be impossible.

She answered with a laugh. “My children? I’ve seven of them, Welshman, running free with the O’Byrnes in the hills. They won’t be marrying English knights. But take care,” she added, looking straight into his eyes, “for they may come down from the hills one day, to take their land back again.”

“Well, Fionnuala,” he said slowly, “that may be. Your brother can stay, at least. I’ll do it for your sake. You have my word for that. If you’ll trust my word, that is,” he added wryly.

She nodded, then turned to her brother.

“So Gilpatrick,” she asked, “am I to trust the word of the King of England’s man?” And as she said it, she glanced back at her former lover with a faint, ironic smile.

But Father Gilpatrick, confused though he was by their conversation, had witnessed too much since the days when he’d crossed the sea with Peter. And so now, though the knight had been his friend, he could only answer her question with a silence.