The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “I was.” She couldn’t help it, whether the man was her enemy or not, she was touched.

  “And it’s yourself, I should say,” Bishop Patrick continued, “who holds everything together here. Isn’t that so?”

  “It is,” she said with feeling.

  “Thanks be to God for that.” He smiled at her kindly. “You are afraid for your son’s safety?” She nodded. “What good mother would not be?” He paused thoughtfully. “Tell me, is it God that you fear, Deirdre, or is it the druids?”

  “The druids.”

  “You do not think that the God who made all things can protect your son?”

  She was silent; but he did not seem offended. Then he turned to Morna.

  “And so, young man.” He was staring keenly into Morna’s eyes. “You are the young man who this is all about. The kinsman of the High King.” He took a step back as though to survey the youthful chief. “You have been summoned to him, have you not?”

  “It is true,” Morna answered respectfully.

  Bishop Patrick appeared to be meditating. His eyes seemed to be half closed as he considered the subject before him. There was no question, she thought, he might have been some royal druid prince. Was he going to encourage Morna, or perhaps rebuke him? She had no idea.

  “And you would like to go to the High King’s feis at Tara?”

  “I should.” Morna wasn’t certain whether this was the correct response, but it was the truth.

  “It would be a strange young man who did not,” said Bishop Patrick. “And you have quarrelled with your mother?”

  “It is …” Morna was about to explain, but the bishop went on gently.

  “Honour your mother, young man. She is the only one you possess. If it is God’s will that you should do a certain thing, she will be led to understand the rightness of it.” He considered for a moment. “You wish to serve the one true God. Is that correct?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so.” Bishop Patrick paused. “His service, Morna, is not always easy. Those who follow the Christian path have to try to do God’s will, not their own. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices.” At the mention of sacrifices, Deirdre tensed; but if Bishop Patrick saw this, he took no notice. “Are you prepared to make sacrifices to serve the God who gave His only Son to save the world?”

  “Yes.” He said it quietly, but he did not seem to hesitate.

  “From those who follow me, Morna, I expect complete obedience. My followers have to trust me. These young men,” he indicated the princes standing nearby, “obey my commands, which are sometimes hard.”

  Morna glanced at them. They looked a noble group, the sort of group to which any young chief would be proud to belong. But having told him this, the bishop did not seem to be expecting any reply. For turning round abruptly, he went over to where one of the priests was holding his staff. Taking it from him, he held it firmly in his hand and in a clear voice addressed them.

  “This is the staff which gives me strength, for it is the staff of life, the staff of Jesus, the only Son of God the Father, who died for our sins. Jesus who sacrificed his life that each of us may live eternally. I, Patrick, bishop, humble priest, penitent sinner,” he continued solemnly, “I, Patrick, come here not on my own authority—for I have none—but at the command of God the Father, made known to me through His Holy Spirit, to bear witness for His Son and to bring you the good news, that you, too, if you believe in Him, may have eternal life in Heaven and not perish into nothingness or the terrible fires of Hell. I shall not try to impress you with great learning, for my own is modest. I shall not persuade you with eloquent words, for I have no eloquence unless it be that given to me by the Holy Spirit. But listen to my poor words carefully, for I have come to save your souls.”

  It was strange: Deirdre could not afterwards remember exactly what he had said. Some of it she recognised from what Larine had told her; but when Patrick spoke, it was different. He told them the story of Christ, and how he had gone to sacrifice. He described the cruel old island gods and explained that they were not real. They were stories, he told them, to give pleasure or to frighten children. How much greater, he explained, was the single, all-powerful God, who created the whole world.

  One part of the sermon she did recall in detail. He had made much of the fact that, like so many of the gods from the ancient days, this Supreme Being had three aspects: Father, Son, Holy Spirit—the Three in One, he called it. Nor should this be surprising, he explained. All nature was full of triads: the root, stem, and flower of a plant; the spring, stream, and estuary of a river; even the leaves of plants, like that of the tripartite shamrock, for instance, showed this principle of Three in One. “This,” he explained, “is what we mean by the Holy Trinity.”

  But above all, it was the way he spoke that impressed her. He had such passion, such certainty, such warmth. He brought her a sense of peace. Even if she did not exactly understand why this God of love of whom he spoke should necessarily be all-powerful, she found that she wanted it to be so. The cruel old gods were being chased away, like dark clouds fleeing over the horizon. And good riddance to them, she thought. The sense of warmth emanating from the preacher enveloped her. His confidence told her that he must be right. She glanced across at Morna. His eyes were shining.

  By the time Bishop Patrick had finished speaking, the idea of doing as he wished did not seem so strange. When he asked if they would join in fellowship with him and be baptised, she realised that she wished he could stay with them longer. She did not want him to depart. Joining his new faith seemed a way of keeping his comforting presence with them. If she followed her heart, she was ready to do as he wished. But she had followed her heart once before, and so had Conall. The heart was a dangerous thing. Dangerous for Morna.

  “Baptise me,” she suddenly cried out. “Baptise the rest of us. But spare Morna.” She couldn’t help it.

  “Spare him?” Bishop Patrick was glaring at her. “Spare?” She saw the terrible flash of anger in the old man’s eyes. He took several steps towards her and for a moment she thought he might even be about to strike her, or curse her like a druid. Instead, to her surprise, he stopped in his tracks, shook his head, apparently at himself, and then, to her utter astonishment, went down on his knees in front of her.

  “Forgive me, Deirdre,” he said. “Forgive my anger.”

  “Why …” She didn’t know what to say.

  “If I failed to touch your heart, the fault is mine, not yours. It is my own shortcomings that made me angry.”

  “It was beautiful, what you said,” she protested. “It’s just …”

  He had got to his feet again and he cut her off with a gesture of his hand.

  “You do not understand,” he growled. He turned to Morna. “It is you who are chief of the Ui Fergusa now,” he said solemnly. “Is it your wish that your family should be baptised?”

  “It is,” said Morna.

  “And if you accept baptism from my hands, will you submit to my authority in matters concerning religion, and follow my instructions, as these young princes do?”

  “I will,” said Morna.

  “Come then,” the bishop commanded, “and I will tell you what we must do.”

  The baptism they were to undergo required a simple immersion in water. A glance at the shallows of the Liffey had convinced Bishop Patrick that the river was not a very convenient place. The three local wells, which he now briefly inspected and blessed, were not suitable either. But the dark pool of Dubh Linn would do very well, he decided, and he told them to assemble there at once.

  And so a little group of Deirdre, her two brothers, and Morna, dressed in only linen shifts under their cloaks and attended by their half-dozen slaves, trooped down on that fine but slightly chilly September afternoon to the edge of Dubh Linn to be baptised. And one by one they stepped into its dark waters, where Bishop Patrick was standing, and sank down under its surface for a cold moment to emerge back into the light, baptised by Pa
trick’s own hand, in the name of Christ.

  They dried themselves quickly. Everyone except Deirdre seemed cheerful. And they were just starting back up towards the rath when they were brought to an unexpected halt by Deirdre’s youngest brother, Rian. He had just thought of something.

  “Is it true that only Christians go to the good place?” he asked.

  “It is,” they assured him.

  “And the others all go to the fiery place?”

  That was so, too, they said.

  “Then what about my dad?” he asked, with genuine concern. “That means he’ll be going to the fire.” And after a few moments of consultation with his brother, they both agreed. Their logic might be a little strange, but it was held with conviction. Their father was resting with the family’s gods. Right or wrong in the visitors’ eyes, those gods had always been there and, somehow, would protect their own. But if Dubh Linn and the rath of Fergus became Christian, then the family would have turned their backs on the gods. Insulted them. Fergus would be left, as it were, stranded. The old gods would probably want nothing more to do with him, while the Christian God, apparently, would consign him to hellfire.

  “We can’t let that happen to him,” he protested. His brother, Ronan, was looking worried, too.

  Yet if Deirdre felt embarrassed, she observed that none of the priests seemed in the least surprised.

  For this was by no means an uncommon problem for Christian missionaries. If we are to be saved, their converts would ask, then what is the fate of our revered ancestors? Are you telling us they were wicked? The normal answer to this question was that God would make at least a partial dispensation for those who, through no fault of their own, had not the opportunity of accepting Christ. Only for those hearing Christ’s message and then refusing it could there be no salvation. It was a reasonable explanation, but it did not always satisfy. And it was typical of the great northern bishop that he had, upon occasion, employed a method of dealing with this problem which was all his own.

  “How long is he dead?” he asked.

  “Five days,” they replied.

  “Then dig the man up,” he ordered. “I’ll baptise him now.”

  And that is what they did. With the help of the slaves, the brothers disinterred their father from his mound down by the Liffey’s edge. While the pale form of Fergus lay stiffly on the ground, looking remarkably dignified in death, Bishop Patrick splashed some water upon him and, with the sign of the cross, brought him into the Christian world.

  “I cannot promise you he will reach heaven,” he told the brothers with a kindly smile, “but his chances have greatly improved.”

  They reburied the old man in his mound, and Larine placed two pieces of wood, joined in the sign of the cross, above it.

  They had returned to the rath and were about to enter the big thatched hall where the fire was burning, when Bishop Patrick stopped and turned to the members of the family.

  “There is now,” he announced, “a small kindness that you can do for me.” They asked him only to tell them what it might be. He smiled. “You may not like it. I am speaking of your slaves.” At these words the slaves standing around looked up hopefully.

  “Your British slaves.” He smiled. “My fellow countrymen. They are Christians, you know. Part of my flock.” He turned to Deirdre. “The life of a slave is hard, Deirdre, daughter of Fergus. I know because I was one myself. Seized from their homes. Stolen from their families and their Church. I wish you to set your British slaves free.” He smiled again. “They do not always leave, you know. I see you treat your slaves well. But they must be free to return to their homes if they wish. It’s a barbarous trade,” he added with sudden feeling.

  Deirdre saw Larine and the priests nod automatically. Obviously they were used to these strange proceedings. For herself, she wasn’t sure what to say. Morna looked astonished. It was Ronan who spoke up.

  “Are you saying we should set them free without payment?”

  Patrick turned to him. “How many slaves have you?”

  “There are six.”

  “The raids produce so many. They cannot have cost you much.”

  Her brother thought a moment.

  “But three of those are women,” he pointed out. “They do all the heavy work.”

  “Lord preserve us,” the bishop murmured, and turned up his eyes to heaven. A silence followed. With a sigh, Bishop Patrick nodded to Larine, who reached into a small pouch hanging from his belt and produced a Roman coin.

  “Will that do?” Larine enquired. It seemed he was used to making such bargains to help the British Christians.

  “Two,” said Deirdre’s brother quickly. He might be stupid, she thought, but he was still her father’s son when it came to bargaining for livestock.

  Larine glanced at Bishop Patrick, who nodded. A moment later, the British slaves were on their knees before the bishop kissing his hands.

  “Give thanks to God, my children,” he told them kindly, “not to me.” Deirdre wondered how much he spent like this each year.

  But none of these events, as far as Deirdre was concerned, did anything to lessen her agony.

  Morna was a Christian. He was going to Tara. The missionary bishop might possess the tongue of an angel, he might be sent by God, but he was still going to place her only son in mortal danger. And there was nothing she could do about it. A heavy gloom descended upon her.

  Bishop Patrick had indicated that he would depart the following day. Until then, he and all his party must be treated as honoured guests. The bishop retired for a while to rest by the fire. Larine wandered down to the estuary and paced about there for a time, before returning to sit alone by the entrance to the rath. Deirdre and the slaves set to work to prepare a feast. Morna, meanwhile, had joined the company of the young princes who formed the bishop’s retinue. She heard them laughing together outside, and it was obvious that Morna was impressed with them. Once he appeared and told her, “They are splendid fellows. Every one is a prince. They travel about with Bishop Patrick and treat him like a king.”

  It was only after he had rested that Bishop Patrick, looking much refreshed, sent one of his priests to summon Larine and Morna, and called upon Deirdre to join them. When the four of them were gathered by the fire, he turned to Morna.

  “You will recall that you promised to obey me,” he began

  Morna bowed his head.

  “Very well, then,” the bishop continued. “Let me tell you what I wish you to do. You are to accompany me tomorrow. I wish you to join these young men who are travelling with me. I want you to remain with us for a time. Would you like that?”

  “I should indeed.” Morna’s face lit up with delight.

  “Do not be too pleased,” Bishop Patrick cautioned him. “I also told you that there would be sacrifices, and there is to be one now.”

  He paused. “You are not to go to Tara.”

  Deirdre stared. Not go to Tara? Had she heard him correctly? Evidently she had. Morna’s face had fallen, and Larine was looking horrified.

  “I may not go to the feis?”

  “You may not. I forbid it.”

  Larine opened his mouth to say something, but Bishop Patrick gave him one look and he was silent.

  “But the High King …” Morna began.

  “He will probably notice your absence. But as you will have gone tomorrow, any travellers to Tara who come across the ford will say you were not here. And if in time the High King hears that you have gone away with me,” he smiled, “he is used to me making a nuisance of myself. It was I, after all, who took away Larine. It is I who would be blamed, not you. You may be sure of that.” He turned to Deirdre. “You will miss him, I dare say.”

  Yes, she would miss him. She would miss him desperately. But he would not be at Tara. That was all that mattered. She could scarcely believe it was happening.

  “Where would he be?” she asked.

  “In the north and west with me. I have protectors, Deirdre. He’ll
be safe enough.”

  “And would he … would I …”

  “See him again? You would indeed. Didn’t I tell him to honour his mother? I would send him to you after a year. You and your brothers could manage at Dubh Linn until then, I should think, could you not?”

  “Yes,” she said gratefully. “We could.”

  Morna was looking utterly downcast, but the bishop was firm.

  “You swore to obey,” he reminded him sternly. “Now you must honour your oath.” Then he smiled kindly. “Do not grieve for Tara, my young friend. Before the year is out, I promise you, I will show you even better things.”

  It was a pleasant little feast that they all enjoyed in the rath that night. The company was in a cheerful mood. Deirdre was so relieved that she was radiant. Her brother Ronan, with the prospect of acting as chief for a year, was looking pleased with himself. And even Morna, in the company of the young nobles, was visibly brightening. The food was well prepared, ale and wine flowed. And if the old drinking skull that gleamed softly in the corner might have seemed inappropriate at such a Christian feast, no one appeared to think of it. Not only did the kindly bishop prove to have a rich store of good stories and jokes, but he even insisted upon Larine reciting some of the tales of the ancient gods.

  “They are wonderful stories,” he told them, “full of poetry. You must not worship the old gods anymore. They have no power, because they are not real. But never lose the stories. I make Larine recite them whenever I spend an evening with him.”

  As she looked back over the day’s extraordinary events and the wonderful turn that they had taken, there was only one small thing that puzzled Deirdre. Towards the end of the evening, she confided it to Larine.

  “You say that Bishop Patrick is austere? He never touches a woman?” It was one aspect of the new religion she found a little strange.

  “That is true.”

  “Well, when I went into the water, I was just wearing my shift, you know. So when I came out, it was all stuck to me.” She glanced across to make sure the bishop could not hear her. “And … I saw his eyes light up. He noticed me, you know.”