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 W
illiam 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.
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