“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. T
he 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.
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