The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  As for his own ambitions, it seemed that they were bound up with the great Dublin bishop to whom he had been recommended.

  “He is a saintly man, and of great authority,” Gilpatrick declared. “My father is a senior churchman himself, you see.” He paused. “My mother is also a kinswoman of Archbishop Lawrence. That’s what we call him in the Church. We Latinise his name to Lawrence O’Toole; in Irish that would be Lorcan Ua Tuathail. The Ua Tuathail are a princely family in north Leinster. In fact, the archbishop is actually a brother-in-law of King Diarmait as well. Though I don’t know that he much likes him,” he added confidentially.

  Peter smiled at this complex web of relationships.

  “Does this mean your family is princely, too?” he enquired.

  “We are an old Church family,” Gilpatrick said, and seeing Peter look a little puzzled, he explained. “The custom in Ireland is somewhat different to that of other countries. There are ancient ecclesiastical families, greatly honoured, with ties to monasteries and churches; often those families are the kinsmen of kings and chiefs whose histories go back into the mists of time.”

  “Your family is linked to a particular church?”

  “We endowed our monastery, as you would say, at Dublin.”

  “And your family history goes back into the mists of time?”

  “The tradition,” Gilpatrick said impressively, “is that our ancestor Fergus was baptised at Dublin by Saint Patrick himself.”

  It was the mention of the saint that had prompted Peter to ask another question.

  “Your name is Gilla Patraic. That means ‘the Servant of Patrick,’ doesn’t it?”

  “It does.”

  “I wondered why your father didn’t give you the saint’s name without any addition. Why not just ‘Patrick’? My name is a single Peter, after all.”

  “Ah.” The priest nodded. “That is something you should know if you are going to spend time in Ireland. No good Irishman would ever be called Patrick.”

  “They wouldn’t?”

  “Only Gilla Patraic. Never Patrick.”

  So it had been for centuries. No Irishman in the Middle Ages would dare to take the name of the great Saint Patrick for himself. It was always Gilpatrick: the Servant of Patrick. And so it would remain for centuries more.

  He was a slim, dark, handsome young fellow. His grey eyes were unusual for they were curiously flecked with green.

  It would have been hard not to like the priest, with his kindness, his not quite hidden pride in his family, and his obvious affection for them. Peter learned a little about his brothers, his pretty sister, and his parents. He did not quite understand what sort of senior churchman the priest’s father could be if he were married, nor what he meant by “our” monastery, but when he began to raise this subject, Father Gilpatrick hurried on to another subject and Peter had not pressed the matter further. It seemed clear not only that the friendly priest liked him personally but that he by no means disapproved of the presence of these Plantagenet vassals on his native soil. Peter was not sure why.

  But it was one night on the ship that Peter saw something more, a deeper side to the Irishman. It turned out that Gilpatrick was a fine harpist, and that he could sing. He proved to be versatile. He knew some popular English ballads. He even gave them a saucy song of the troubadours from the south of France. But finally, as the night had grown deeper, he had turned to the traditional music of Ireland, and another kind of quiet had fallen over his listeners, Flemish though many of them were, as the soft, mournful melodies had come from the strings and floated out to haunt the waters of the sea. Afterwards, he had remarked to the priest, “It seemed to me that I was listening to your soul.”

  His friend had given a quiet smile and responded, “They are traditional tunes. It’s the soul of Ireland you were hearing.”

  And now the young priest was walking rapidly away. Peter watched him until he was out of sight, then remained on the shore observing the horses, glancing up from time to time at the hills that rose in the distance, and thinking to himself that the place was really not so unlike his native Wales. Perhaps, he considered, I might be happy if I settled here. When the opportunity arose, he would certainly pay a visit to the priest and his family in Dublin.

  So he was most surprised, half an hour later, to see his friend returning.

  Father Gilpatrick was smiling broadly. Beside him, on a small but sturdy horse, rode a splendid and rustic figure: he had a long grey beard; over his head he wore a hood that came down to his chest; he had a loose shirt, not too clean after his journey, and woollen leggings with feet. If he had any boots with him, Peter couldn’t see them. He was riding the little horse bareback without saddle, stirrups, or spurs, his long legs hanging down to the horse’s knees. He seemed to be guiding the horse with taps from a crooked stick. His face was curious: with its half-closed eyes and sardonic expression, it made Peter think of a wise old salmon. He supposed the fellow might be a shepherd or a cowman whom his friend had hired to guide him up into the mountains.

  “Peter,” the priest said proudly, “this is my father.”

  His father? Peter FitzDavid stared. The senior churchman? Peter had known men who had taken vows of poverty, but he did not think that Gilpatrick’s father was one of them, nor was he wearing any sort of clerical dress. Wasn’t he supposed to be a large landowner? He didn’t look like any lord that Peter had ever seen. Had his friend lied to him about his father? Surely not. And if he had, he’d hardly bring him back to meet like this. Perhaps Gilpatrick’s father was an eccentric of some kind.

  He greeted the older man respectfully and the Irishman addressed a few words to him in his native tongue, some of which Peter understood; but their conversation did not go further than this, and it was clear that Gilpatrick’s father wished to depart. As they were leaving, however, Gilpatrick took Peter by the arm.

  “You were surprised by my father’s appearance.” He was smiling with amusement.

  “I? No. Not at all.”

  “You were. I saw your face.” He laughed. “Don’t forget, Peter, I’ve been living in England. You’ll find a lot of men like my father, here in Ireland. But his heart’s in the right place.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ah,” Gilpatrick smiled. “Wait till you see my sister.” Then he was gone.

  “Well?” Father Gilpatrick waited until they were some distance from the port of Wexford before he asked his father’s opinion.

  “A nice young man, no doubt,” his father, Conn, allowed.

  “He is,” the priest agreed. He glanced at his father to see if the older man was going to say anything more on the subject, but it seemed he was not. “I still have not asked you,” he continued, “how you came to be here yourself.”

  “A Bristol vessel arrived in Dublin last week. They said that Diarmait had set off to pick up men in Wales on his way to Wexford. So I came down to take a look.”

  Gilpatrick eyed his father shrewdly.

  “You thought you’d see if King Diarmait would be getting his kingdom back.”

  “You saw Diarmait,” his father asked, “on your ship?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you speak with him?”

  “A little.”

  The older man was silent for a moment.

  “That’s a terrible man,” he remarked sadly. “There were many in Leinster who were not sorry to see him go.”

  “Are you impressed with what you have seen?”

  “These ships?” His father pursed his lips. “He’ll be needing more men than that when he meets the High King. O’Connor is strong.”

  “Perhaps there will be more. The King of England is behind this business.”

  “Henry? He has given permission. That is all. Henry has other things to think about.” He shrugged. “Irish kings have been hiring fighting men from over the sea for hundreds of years. Ostmen, Welshmen, men from Scotland. Some stay, others go. Look at Dublin. Half my friends are Ostmen. As for these,” he
glanced back towards Wexford, “there aren’t enough of them. By next year most of them will be dead.”

  “I was thinking,” Gilpatrick ventured, “that Peter might like to meet Fionnuala.”

  This was greeted with such a long pause that Gilpatrick was not even sure if his father had heard, but he knew better than to press the matter; so for some time they continued on their way in silence. Finally his father spoke.

  “There are things you do not know about your sister.”

  II

  1170

  “You aren’t going to do anything stupid today, are you?” Fifteen-year-old Una glanced at her friend nervously. It was a warm May morning and it ought to be a perfect day.

  “Why would I do something stupid, Una?” Her green eyes wide, innocent, laughing.

  Because you usually do, Una thought; but instead she said, “He really means it this time, Fionnuala. He’ll send you home to your parents. Is that what you want?”

  “You’ll look after me.”

  Yes, thought Una, I always do. And perhaps I shouldn’t. Fionnuala was loveable because she was funny and good-hearted—when she wasn’t quarrelling with her mother—and somehow when you were with her, life seemed brighter and more exciting, because you never knew what was going to happen next. But when a man as kind as Ailred the Palmer ran out of patience …

  “I’ll be good, Una. I promise.”

  No you won’t, Una could have screamed. You won’t at all. And we both of us know it.

  “Look, Una,” Fionnuala suddenly cried. “Apples.” And with her long, dark hair flying behind her, she was running across the little marketplace towards a fruit stall.

  How could Fionnuala behave the way she did? Especially when you considered who her father was. The Ui Fergusa might long ago have ceased to be a power in the land, but people still looked up to them with respect. Their little monastery on the slope above the dark pool had been wound up some while ago and the chapel converted into a small parish church for the family and their dependants; but as head of the family, Fionnuala’s father, Conn, was the priest and was much respected. With his ancient position and his ancestral lands in the area, he was treated with courtesy by the King of Dublin and by the archbishop equally. With his tall, stately presence and his dignified way of speaking, Una had always held him in awe. But she was sure he was kindly. She couldn’t imagine him mistreating Fionnuala. How could Fionnuala think of doing anything to let him down?

  Her mother, admittedly, was another matter. She and Fionnuala were always fighting. She wanted her daughter to do one thing; Fionnuala wanted to do something else. But Una wasn’t sure she blamed the mother for the constant rows. “If I were your mother I’d slap you,” she’d several times told her friend. Two years ago, however, the friction in the household up by the little church had become so bad that it had been agreed that Fionnuala should reside during the week with Ailred the Palmer and his wife. And now even Ailred had had enough.

  Una sighed. It would be hard to imagine any nicer people. Everyone in Dublin loved the rich Norseman whose family had owned the big farmstead out in Fingal for so long. His mother had come from a Saxon family who’d left England after the Norman conquest and she had given him the English name of Ailred; but she was blue-eyed like her husband, and Ailred looked just like his red-haired Norwegian ancestors. He was generous and kindly. And he was religious.

  The Irish had always made pilgrimages to holy places. There were many holy sites in Ireland. If they went across the seas, they might journey as far as the great shrine of Saint James at Compostela in Spain. But a few, a very few, had gone all the way on the perilous journey to the Holy Land, and if they reached Jerusalem they would enter the Holy City holding a palm. Upon their return, such a pilgrim would be known as a “Palmer.” Ailred had done this.

  And God it seemed had rewarded him. As well as the big farmstead in Fingal, he had other lands. He had a loving wife. But then their only son, Harold, had gone on pilgrimage, it was said, and never returned. Five years had passed. No word had come; and his unhappy parents had finally accepted that they would not see him again. Perhaps it was to compensate for this loss that Ailred and his comfortable wife had started a hospital on a piece of land he owned just outside the city gate where the ancient Slige Mhor came in from the west. As a pilgrim he had often seen such places, where the sick could be tended and weary travellers could rest; but until now there had never been such a facility at Dublin. He and his wife spent much of their time there nowadays. He named it the Hospital of Saint John the Baptist.

  But despite all this activity, Una suspected that Ailred and his wife were still lonely. So perhaps it was that reason as well as their natural kindness that caused them, when Fionnuala’s father was lamenting his difficulties with his daughter one day, to offer to take her into their home.

  “There will be plenty to keep her busy helping us in the hospital,” Ailred had explained. “She’d be like our daughter.” And so it had all been arranged. On Saturdays Fionnuala returned to her parents’ house and spent Sunday with them. But from Monday to Friday she lived with Ailred and his wife and helped at the hospital.

  The arrangement had worked admirably for nearly a week.

  Una remembered so well the day when the Palmer had come to see her father. Fionnuala had been at the hospital only a week. “But it’s wrong for the child to be alone in our house with nothing but old people,” the Palmer had explained. “We’d like her to have a companion, a girl of her own age but a sensible girl, who could help to steady her.”

  Why did everyone always call her sensible? Una knew they did and she supposed it was true. But why? Was it just her nature? Or was it because of her family? When her eldest sister had died while her brothers were still little boys, she had known that her parents had relied on her. In a way, it had always seemed to Una that her father needed her most of all.

  Kevin MacGowan the silversmith was not strong. With his small, spindly body, he was certainly nothing much to look at. And then there was his face: when he was concentrating hard on his work, he would unconsciously twist it into a grimace, so that one of his eyes seemed to be bigger than the other. It made him look as if he were in pain, and she suspected that he sometimes was. Yet within this fragile body lay a fiery soul. “Your father’s a strange, poetical fellow,” a kindly friend had once said to her. “I only wish he was stronger.” Others saw it, too. They certainly respected his work. For that was when Una loved to watch him—while he was working. His fingers, slim and bony like his body, seemed to take on a new strength. His twisted face might be tense, but his eyes shone, and he became transformed into something else, something so fine it was almost like a spirit. Unaware that she was watching him, he would work on, absorbed, and she would be filled with love for her little father and a desire to protect him.

  MacGowan. The family name had made a gradual transition down the generations. Some scribes would still have written it MacGoibnenn, in the old manner, but it was mostly written and pronounced MacGowan now.

  In the last few years, her father’s hard work had brought the family some prosperity. Outside Dublin, men still measured their wealth in cattle. But the wealth that Kevin MacGowan had saved was the little hoard of silver that he kept in a small strongbox. “If anything should happen to me,” he would tell Una with gentle pride, “this will see the family through.”

  He had planned for his family so carefully. The old church in the centre of Dublin had been raised, some years after the battle of Clontarf, to the rank of cathedral and since then transformed into quite a noble building. Western Europe might be moving to the light and delicate Gothic style of architecture, but in Ireland, the heavy, monumental Romanesque style of former times, with its high blank walls and thick curved arches, was still in vogue, and the cathedral in Dublin was a fine example. With its thick walls and its high roof, it towered over the little city. Officially it was the Church of the Holy Trinity, but everyone called it Christ Church. And it was to Christ C
hurch Cathedral that, at least once a month, Kevin MacGowan would take his daughter.

  “There is the true cross on which Our Lord was crucified,” he would say, pointing to a small piece of wood encased in a golden casket. Christ Church was becoming famous for its growing collection of relics. “There is a portion of the cross of Saint Peter, a piece of the vest of Our Lady, and there, that is a bit of the manger in which Christ was born.” The cathedral even had a drop of the Blessed Virgin Mary’s milk, with which she had fed the baby Jesus.

  But even more revered than these sacred objects were the two treasures that every visitor to Dublin came to see. The first was a great crucifix which, like some ancient pagan stone from earlier times, would sometimes speak. And greatest of all, was the beautiful staff that, it was said, an angel had given to Saint Patrick from Jesus Christ himself: this was the famous Bachall Iosa, the Staff of Jesus. It was kept at a shrine to the north of Dublin but was brought into Christ Church on special occasions.

  And as she gazed at these marvels with awe, her father would say to her, “If ever the city is in danger, Una, we shall bring the strongbox to the cathedral monks. In their keeping it will be as safe as are these relics that you see before you.” It gave them both comfort to know that their little worldly treasure would be protected by the keepers of the true cross and the Bachall Iosa of Saint Patrick.

  Every day, Una knew, her father carried the thought of that box of silver around with him in his mind like a talisman or a pilgrim’s amulet.

  Thanks to his efforts, her father had an assistant now, and her mother had an English slave girl to help her in the house. Her two brothers were healthy, lively boys. There was no reason, therefore, why Una couldn’t spend three days a week at Ailred the Palmer’s hospital which, in any case, was only a few hundred yards from her own home. And before long, she was coming in on Mondays and leaving on Fridays. Since Fionnuala was required to spend Sundays with her parents, this meant that the Palmer and his wife only had to keep her under control for one day of the week which, they bravely declared, was no trouble at all.