The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Warfare has always been an expensive and specialised business, conducted on a temporary basis, and so the instruments of war have always been for hire. Arms and equipment were traded. Transport in particular was hired for the occasion. Only two years earlier, the men of Dublin—as the merchants of Dyflin were usually calling the big port now—had offered their great fleet to King Henry of England for a campaign against the Celtic princes of Wales, a deal which fell through only when Henry changed his mind.

  But above all, across the huge patchwork of tribal lands and dynastic lordships that, since the fall of the ordered Roman Empire, now made up most of Christendom, it was armed men who were for hire. When William the Conqueror came to England, it was not just his Norman vassals that he led but a whole collection of armed adventurers from Brittany, Flanders, and other places, and who were granted estates in the conquered country. After their defeat, a large contingent of English warriors travelled right across Europe and formed what was called the Saxon regiment in the service of the Emperor of Byzantium. Adventurers from England, France, and Germany had already gone on Crusade to get land in the kingdom of Jerusalem and other crusader colonies in the Holy Land. Celtic kings in Ireland had been hiring Vikings to fight for them for generations. It was not strange, therefore, that any young man from Wales in search of his fortune should have gone to the Plantagenet King of England to see if that mighty monarch needed some hired help.

  When Peter FitzDavid first set out, it was to the great English port of Bristol that he had travelled. His father had once had some acquaintance with a merchant there.

  “After I’m gone,” his father had advised Peter, “you could pay him a visit. He might be able to do something for you.”

  Bristol lay more than a hundred miles away, across the huge estuary of the mighty River Severn which traditionally separated Saxon from Celtic Britain. It had taken Peter five days to reach the Severn, and another half day riding up its western bank to a place where there was a horse ferry across. When he arrived at the ferry, however, he was told that on account of the Severn’s swift and complex currents, he would have to wait some hours. Looking about he saw that on the slopes just above there was a small fort and, set in an oak grove nearby, there seemed to be some ancient ruins. Making his way up to these, he had sat down to rest.

  It was a pleasant place with a fine view over the river. Without particularly thinking about it, he sensed that the ruins had a religious air. And indeed they had, for the site he had come upon was the old Roman temple to Nodens, the Celtic god of healing. Christianity had long since submerged the god as well as his temple: in England he had been quite forgotten, and across the sea in Celtic Ireland, under the name of Nuada of the Silver Hand, he had long since been converted by the monkish scribes from a deity to a mythical king.

  And as he was sitting there, gazing across the river to the distant shore, it had struck Peter with a terrible force, that when he crossed the River Severn, he would be leaving everything he knew behind. For whatever his family’s troubles, Wales was his home. He had never lived anywhere else. He loved the green valleys, the coastline with its rocky outcrops and sandy coves. Though he spoke French to his parents, the tongue of his childhood was the Celtic Welsh of the local people with whom he had grown up. Once across the Severn, however, the people would speak English, of which he knew not a word. And after he got to Bristol and encountered the English, would he stay in that country or go farther away, across the seas, never perhaps to see his native land again? For a while he felt so sad he almost turned to go home again.

  But he couldn’t go home. They loved him, but they didn’t want him. And late that afternoon, with a heavy heart, he had led his charger and his packhorse onto the big raft that would take them across the river.

  Entering Bristol the following evening came as a revelation. He had seen some impressive stone castles in Wales and several great monasteries, but never before had he encountered a city. After London, Bristol was England’s greatest port.

  He walked through its busy streets for a while before he found the house he was looking for and entered it with some trepidation, for the place had its own stone gateway, a cobbled court surrounded by timbered, gabled buildings, and a handsome hall with a high roof. His father’s friend, he saw at once, must be a man of great wealth.

  And it was still more disconcerting when, on being ushered into the hall by a servant, it was immediately clear to him that the merchant was not entirely sure who he was. Some anxious moments passed while the merchant asked him not once but twice to repeat his father’s name. At last, while Peter felt himself blushing, the man seemed to recall who his father was, if not with great interest, and asked him how he could be of help.

  The next two days were interesting, but not enjoyable. The merchant was a swarthy man. His father had been an Ostman, a Dane who had come from Ireland. With him he brought a Celtic name Dubh Gall—“the dark stranger”—which in Bristol they pronounced as Doyle. Though born in Bristol, the merchant had been given neither an English nor a Norman name, but instead had been christened Sigurd. No one used his first name, though. All Bristol referred to him as Doyle.

  The dark stranger: he was certainly that. Dark and silent. He was hospitable enough: Peter even had an entire chamber to himself beside the hall. To Peter, as he would to any nobleman or substantial merchant, he spoke in the courteous tongue of Norman French. But he spoke little, and smiled not at all. Perhaps it was because he was a widower, Peter thought. Perhaps when his married daughters visited, or his sons returned home from their business in London, he would show a better humour. But for the two days that Peter was there, conversation was minimal. And since the numerous servants, grooms, and underlings spoke only English, he felt rather lonely.

  The first morning, Doyle took him round the port. They visited his countinghouse, his warehouse, two of his ships down by the slave pens on the waterfront. Doyle was certainly still in full possession of his vigour; his dark eyes seemed to be everywhere; he spoke very quietly, but men watched him apprehensively and jumped to obey his orders when he gave them. By the end of the day, Peter had learned a good deal about the business of the port, the organisation of the town with its courts and aldermen, and its trade with other ports from Ireland to the Mediterranean. But he had also decided that Doyle was rather frightening.

  This feeling was reinforced by a small incident that evening. He and the merchant had just sat down in the big hall and the servants were about to bring the food, when a young man of about his own age entered and, after bowing respectfully to them both, seated himself at some distance from them. Doyle, having given the young man a curt nod and grunted to Peter, “He works for me,” took no further notice of him. The young man, who was wearing a hood which he did not remove, was served a goblet of wine, which was not refilled; and as his host continued to ignore him, and the young man himself never once looked up, Peter did not know how to address him. As soon as he had eaten, the young man left; he looked depressed. I should think I’d look depressed, too, if I worked for Doyle, Peter thought.

  It was later that evening, when he had retired to his chamber, that he heard their voices out in the courtyard. At least, it was certainly Doyle’s voice, low and menacing, that murmured something he could not catch, and then: “You’re a fool.” It was said in French. “You can never repay.”

  “I’m completely in your power.” The voice was that of a young man, urgent and plaintive. It must be the fellow he had seen that evening. This was followed by a harsh murmur from Doyle. The words were indistinct, but the tone was threatening. “No!” the young man cried. “Don’t do that, I beg you. You promised.”

  They moved away after that and Peter heard no more. But one thing was very clear to him: Doyle was sinister, and the sooner he left the better.

  The following morning, without warning, Doyle told him to saddle his horse, take his weapons, and accompany him to an exercise yard near the eastern gate. There he found several men-at-arms prac
tising swordplay, and after some words from Doyle, he was invited to join them. The dark merchant watched him for some time and then quietly departed, leaving him to make his own way home later on. Peter did not see him again until the evening.

  It was that evening, however, that Doyle remarked to him, in his usual saturnine way, “There is talk of an expedition. To Ireland.”

  If nobody had succeeded in dominating all Ireland since the days of Brian Boru, it was not for lack of trying. One after another the great regional dynasts had tried to gain supremacy; Leinster and Brian’s grandson from Munster had both had their turn. The ancient O’Neill were always watching for a chance to regain their former glory. At present, the O’Connor dynasty of Connacht claimed the High Kingship. But no one had truly achieved mastery, and the chronicles of the time adopted a telling formula to describe the position of most of these monarchs: “High King, with Opposition.” So while the rulers in the huge patchwork of Europe began to amalgamate territories into ever greater holdings—the Plantagenets now controlled a feudal empire consisting of most of the western side of France, as well as Normandy and England—the island of Ireland continued to be split between ancient tribal lands and rival chiefs.

  The latest Irish dispute concerned the kingdom of Leinster.

  For some time now, the ancient province of Leinster had been controlled by an ambitious dynasty from Ferns in the southern, Wexford part of the territory. But ambitious King Diarmait of Leinster had made enemies. In particular, he had humiliated a powerful king, O’Rourke, by eloping with his wife. Now this cheated husband, together with others, had turned on Diarmait of Leinster and forced him to flee.

  It was a considerable surprise to Plantagenet King Henry, who was down on his domains in France, when they told him: “King Diarmait of Leinster has arrived here to see you.”

  And it was with some curiosity that he answered, “An Irish king? Bring him to me.”

  The meeting was certainly strange: the Plantagenet monarch, sandy-haired, clean-shaven, quick and impatient in his movements, dressed in tunic and hose, sophisticated, French in language and culture, face-to-face with the provincial Celtic king, with his thick brown beard and heavy woollen cloak. Henry actually spoke some English—an achievement of which he was rather proud—but no Irish. Diarmait spoke Irish, Norse, and some French. But there was no difficulty in communicating. For a start, Diarmait had brought with him his interpreter—Regan by name—and failing that, the clerks employed by both sides spoke Latin, as did every educated churchman in western Christendom. The two men also had things in common: both had eloped with another man’s wife; both had uncertain relationships with their own children; both were self-centred and cynical opportunists.

  King Diarmait’s request was simple. He’d been driven out of his kingdom and he wanted to get it back. He needed to raise an army. He couldn’t pay them much, but there would be property and land to be distributed if he was successful. It was the usual deal, upon which the present aristocracy of many parts of Europe, including England, had been founded. He also knew, however, that he couldn’t raise men in any of the Plantagenet dominions without getting Henry’s permission.

  King Henry II was a very ambitious man. He had already built up an empire and his main occupation now was in taking territory away from the rather ineffectual king of France, whom it amused him to bully. As it happened, a dozen years earlier, he had briefly considered the possibility of annexing Ireland as well, though he had dropped the idea and had little interest in the island now. But he was also an opportunist.

  “Are you offering to become my vassal?” he gently enquired.

  His vassal. When an Irish king recognised the supremacy of a greater monarch and submitted to him, he “came into his house,” as the expression was. He gave hostages for his good behaviour and promised to pay tribute. When a French or English feudal lord became the vassal of another, however, the obligations were more comprehensive. Not only did he owe military service, or payment in lieu, but when he died, his heirs had to make payment to inherit their land, and if the inheritance was in dispute, the overlord decided it. In conquered England, moreover, the Normans had been able to take an even stronger line. For if any vassal there gave trouble, the English king could take his lands away and give them to another. A feudal vassal could not, theoretically, fight or travel without his overlord’s permission. Beyond even this, Henry Plantagenet was constantly extending the royal power. In England, he wanted to give ordinary freemen the right to go past their own lords and appeal directly to his royal courts for justice. It was the start of a centralised administration undreamed of in the informal world of the Celtic Irish kings.

  But King Diarmait needed men. Besides, he knew very well that whatever King Henry’s views about feudal vassals might be, Ireland lay far beyond the Plantagenet monarch’s reach.

  “That would be no trouble at all,” he said.

  And so the deal was struck. King Henry of England gained for the first time a provincial Irish king who recognised him, however cynically, as his overlord. It might be of no practical value at present. “But,” he could point out, “it has cost me nothing.” And King Diarmait got a letter in which the ruler of the sprawling Plantagenet empire gave permission to any of his vassals to fight for Diarmait if they wished.

  There hadn’t been a mad rush. The prospect of helping a dispossessed provincial chieftain from an island out in the western seas was not a great attraction. But one of King Henry’s magnates—the mighty lord de Clare, best known to fighting men as Strongbow—met the Irish exile and took an interest. Strongbow had land holdings in several parts of the Plantagenet domains, but the ones in south-west Wales had been under pressure. It was clear that King Diarmait was ready to let him name his own price.

  “You could marry my daughter and inherit my entire kingdom,” he wildly suggested. As Diarmait had sons, and at present controlled not a yard of his former kingdom, this offer was worth just about as much as his oath of fealty to the Plantagenet monarch. But Strongbow decided to take a calculated gamble. He told the Irish king to recruit in the territories of which he was overlord in south Wales. Perhaps a contingent could be raised which would serve as an advance party. After all, he concluded privately, if they all get killed, it really doesn’t matter.

  It had been Peter’s good fortune that Doyle should have encountered Strongbow that day on one of the magnate’s periodic visits to the great port that lay so close to his territories. Strongbow had been speaking to a group of merchants about the Irish king’s desire to raise troops in the region.

  “There’s a young man in my house, the son of a friend, who might like to go along,” the Bristol merchant mentioned. “I’m wondering what to do with him.”

  “Send him,” said Strongbow. “Tell Diarmait I chose him.”

  And so it was that Peter FitzDavid, having crossed the sea in ships supplied by Doyle, found himself disembarking with King Diarmait of Leinster and a contingent of assorted fighting men in Wexford on this sunny autumn day.

  The horses were coming ashore now. From where he was standing on the beach, Peter had a good view of King Diarmait, who had already mounted a horse, and the lord de la Roche, the Flemish nobleman who was directing operations. They were disembarking at some distance from the town of Wexford. Roche had already taken care to set up a defensive position, but no one so far had come out of the town to challenge them. It was a small port with modest ramparts not unlike the ones he had known in south Wales. Compared to a proper castle, or the great city of Bristol, it was nothing: they’d take it easily. For the time being, however, there was nothing for Peter to do but wait.

  “Well, goodbye then.” His friend was bidding him farewell. While the soldiers set up their camp, it was time for him to depart. During their journey together, Peter had had cause to be very grateful to young Father Gilpatrick. The priest was only five years older than Peter, but he knew far more. He had spent the last three years at the famous English monastery of Glastonbu
ry, south of Bristol, and now he was returning home to Dublin, where his father had secured him a position with the archbishop. He had joined the ship to Wexford because he wanted to go up the coast to Glendalough for a brief stay at that sanctuary before he arrived in Dublin.

  Seeing that Peter was young and perhaps lonely, the kindly priest had spent much time in his company, learned all about him, and in return told him about his family, Ireland, and its customs.

  His learning was impressive. From his childhood he had spoken Irish and Norse, and also become a good Latin scholar. While at Glastonbury in England, he had made himself familiar with English and Norman French.

  “I suppose I could be a ‘latimer’—that’s what we churchmen call an interpreter,” he had said with a smile.

  “You’re probably better than King Diarmait’s interpreter Regan,” Peter suggested admiringly.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Gilpatrick laughed, though not unpleased.

  He was able to reassure Peter that he would be able to learn the Celtic that the Irish spoke without much difficulty. “The languages of Ireland and of Wales are like cousins,” he explained. “The principal difference is in a single letter. In Wales, when you make a ‘p’ sound, we make a ‘q’ sound. So in Ireland, for instance, if we say ‘the son of,’ we say ‘Mac.’ In Wales you say ‘Map.’ There are many differences of course, but in a while you’ll find you can understand what is said easily enough.”

  He gave Peter some account of Dublin—it sounded to Peter more like “Doovlin” when the Irishman said it. The Irish port was almost on a scale with Bristol, it seemed. And he explained some of the politics of the island.

  “Whatever success you bring King Diarmait against his enemies, he will still have to go to Ruairi O’Connor of Connacht—that’s the High King now, you know—and O’Connor will have to recognise him and take hostages before Diarmait can call himself king of anything in Ireland.”