The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  So what would she do when Doyle turned the Palmer down?

  This was the question she brooded on while the Bristol merchant ate alone with Ailred and his wife that evening. The case seemed hopeless, but she couldn’t let it go at that. If necessary, she decided she would seek the man out and plead with him herself. She had no choice.

  She tried to imagine it. Merely begging for charity was obviously a waste of time; but what could she possibly offer him? To work free for him as a servant? That would hardly be enough to get the house back. Sell herself as a slave? Probably no better. What else?

  There was only one thing she could think of. Her body. What if she were his servant and gave him that as well? She supposed a man like Doyle would want some such condition. If he even found her attractive: she had no idea as to that. She thought of his tall, swarthy form, and his hard face, and shuddered. To give her body, like a harlot, to a man like that: could she bring herself to do it? For a girl like Fionnuala, she imagined, it mightn’t be so difficult. She almost wished she were like that herself. But she wasn’t, and she knew she never could be. Then the thought of her poor little father came to her, and biting her lip she told herself, Yes, if I must, for him I will do it.

  Ailred the Palmer remembered Doyle well enough, although their business dealings, which had taken place six or seven years ago, had not been extensive. He was aware of the man’s importance in Bristol and somewhat flattered that Doyle should have come to seek his counsel at such a time.

  “Since I started this hospital,” he informed the merchant, “I have hardly taken any part in the trade of the port, and so I’m not sure I shall be able to help you much.”

  As Doyle looked at the fine old Norseman and his kindly wife, he felt sorry that the man should have fallen on such evil times and wondered whether, as an incomer, the Palmer might somewhat resent him. However, he had his own mission to accomplish and he was not a man to be deflected from his purpose. Politely but firmly, therefore, he plied Ailred with questions about the city, what craftsmen it contained, what was bought and sold, which merchants were to be trusted. And as he had expected, the Palmer in fact knew a great deal. By the time they had finished their meat, and fruit pies and cheeses were brought in, the Bristol merchant could relax, drink his wine, turn to more general subjects, and answer some of the questions which Ailred had for him.

  In particular the Palmer wanted to know about the city of Bristol and its organisation—its aldermen, its trading privileges, and what taxes it paid the king. “For this, I suppose,” he said, “is what we must now expect in Dublin.” On these and other points, Doyle was able to satisfy him.

  While they were talking, Ailred had also been observing the Bristol merchant carefully. He was not sure exactly what he was looking for: something perhaps to give him an insight into his visitor’s mind; some clue as to his character that he might be able to use, for instance, to persuade him to do a kindness to Una and her family. Doyle’s name suggested an Irish origin, and Ailred thought he had heard the man had family in Ireland. Perhaps that might provide a way in.

  “Will you be moving to Dublin yourself, to live?” he enquired.

  “Not at present,” Doyle replied. “I’ve a young partner who’ll be looking after things for me here, for the time being. He’s very competent.”

  “You’ve no family in Dublin, then?” the Palmer ventured.

  “Waterford’s where we came from. I have a few relations there,” Doyle answered. Then, for the first time, he smiled. “The last of my family that was in Dublin left his body here. At the battle of Clontarf. A Norseman like yourself, but Danish. One of the old sea rovers.”

  “There were many brave men died in that battle,” Ailred agreed. “I might have heard of him.”

  “You might. To tell you the truth,” Doyle continued, “the family in Waterford never knew a great deal about him except that he was a tremendous fighter. He was one of those that attacked the camp of Brian Boru. He may have struck a blow at the king himself for all I know.”

  It was evident that the swarthy Bristol merchant, dour though he was, felt pride in this ancestor.

  “And what happened to him?” the Palmer asked.

  “We never discovered. They say he went off in pursuit of the enemy and was never seen again. Killed by the guards of Brian Boru, I dare say.”

  “And what was his name?”

  “Sigurd,” the merchant said proudly. “The same as mine. Sigurd.”

  “Ah,” said Ailred.

  “You have heard of him?” Doyle was almost eager.

  “I might have,” said Ailred. “I would have to think, but I might have.”

  There seemed little doubt of it. This must be the Sigurd who had come out to his ancestor Harold’s farmstead and been killed by the priest. Who would know of him now, he wondered? Probably only himself, and the family of Fionnuala, no doubt. Evidently Doyle had no idea of his ancestor’s evil reputation. And here the Palmer was, his honest fortune lost, about to beg a favour from this descendant of a vicious murderer, who thought his ancestor a hero. For a moment, just for a moment, he was tempted to humiliate this man who had gained power over him; but then he thought of poor little Una, and his own good nature prevailed.

  “I think I heard,” he said without lying, “that he was a devil of a man.”

  “That would be him,” said Doyle, with satisfaction.

  In the slight lull that followed, it seemed that the Bristol merchant might be about to introduce another topic of conversation, but seeing that the discussion about his ancestor had brought him so much pleasure, Ailred now seized the opportunity to raise the delicate subject of Una.

  “I have,” he proceeded, “a small kindness to ask of you.” He saw Doyle’s eyes grow wary, but he pressed on and briefly explained the sad case of Una and her father. “You see my situation here,” Ailred continued. “I could give the family temporary shelter but … Could you see your way to helping them?”

  Doyle looked at him steadily. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but somewhere in his dark eyes Ailred thought he saw a faint gleam of amusement. He didn’t know the reason, unless perhaps the Bristol man was reflecting on the irony of his own fall from prosperity and his having to beg like this. But those who ask favours cannot afford resentments, so he waited patiently for Doyle’s response.

  “I was going to put my young partner in there,” Doyle remarked. “He mightn’t like to lose his lodgings. I am not in the habit,” he added quietly, “of doing favours for people I don’t know and to whom I owe nothing.”

  If this was a warning to the Palmer not to presume too far, Ailred took it and said nothing in reply. But his wife, ever kindly, went on.

  “We have always felt,” she said sweetly, “that we gained more happiness from the work we do in this hospital than we ever did from our former good fortune. I am sure,” she smiled at him gently, “that you have given and received kindnesses before in your life.”

  Ailred had glanced at Doyle rather nervously while she made this little speech, afraid that their visitor might not like it. But whether it was her innocent manner, or something else in her words, the Bristol man did not seem to mind.

  “It is true,” he acknowledged, “that I have received kindnesses once or twice in my life.” He gave her a wry look. “Whether I’ve returned them is another matter.” Then he fell silent and it seemed he had no further wish to discuss the issue. But Ailred’s wife was not to be so easily put off.

  “Tell me,” she pressed him, “what is the greatest kindness you ever received?”

  Doyle gazed at her thoughtfully for a few moments, as if he were considering something else; then, having apparently reached a conclusion of some kind, he spoke again.

  “I could tell you of one. It happened many years ago.” He nodded slowly, as if to himself. “I’ve two sons. My eldest has always been steady, but my second, when he was young, fell into bad company. I never worried about it, because I thought, being my son, he’
d have too much sense to do anything stupid.” He sighed. “That shows you how much I know. So one day, he disappeared. Just like that. Days went by and I’d no idea where he was. Then I found out that he’d been stealing money from me, for gambling, mostly, and other things. A large sum, too. He couldn’t repay it, of course. He was so afraid of me—with reason—and so ashamed, he’d run away. Left Bristol. Not even his brother knew where he’d gone. Months went by. Years.” He stopped.

  “What did you do?” Ailred’s wife asked.

  “Actually,” Doyle confessed, “I lied. I wanted to protect his name, but my own pride, too, I dare say. So I gave out that he’d gone to France on family business. But as we never heard from him, I thought he might be dead.

  “Finally, we did hear. He’d been taken in by a London merchant. Funnily enough, I only knew the man slightly. But he’d taken my son into his house, acted as a father to him—quite a stern one—and helped him set up in business so he could start to pay me back. Then this merchant had made him come to me and ask my forgiveness. That was a kindness, if you like.” He paused. “You can’t really repay a thing like that. You just have to accept it.”

  “And did you forgive your son?” asked Ailred’s wife.

  “I did,” the dark Bristol merchant replied. “To tell the truth, I was just grateful he was alive.”

  “He returned to live with you?”

  “I made two conditions. He was to let me forgive him the rest of what he owed me. It was my own guilt which made me do that, I should think. I blamed myself, you see, for being such a stern father. I drove him away.”

  “And the other condition?”

  “He was to marry a wife I chose for him. Nothing unusual in that. I found him a good, steady girl. They’re happy.” He rose abruptly. “It’s getting late. I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned to Ailred’s wife. “One good turn deserves another, I dare say. I’ll think about this girl and her family and let you know in the morning.”

  When he had departed, the Palmer and his wife sat alone in their hall.

  “I’m sure he will help her,” she said.

  “Say nothing to Una,” he replied. “Let’s wait and see what he does.”

  For some time after that, they sat together, saying nothing. It was she who finally broke the silence.

  “How strange that his son did the same as Harold. He even gave out a story, the same way we did. Except we said Harold had gone on pilgrimage.”

  “He got his son back,” said Ailred grimly. “I suppose I drove Harold away, too.”

  “You were never stern.”

  “No. I was too kind.” He gestured towards the dormitories. “What can you do when you steal from your father and he is Ailred the Palmer?”

  She was about to say, Perhaps Harold is alive, too, but she realised that the subject was too painful for him.

  “Let us hope,” she said instead, “that Doyle will do something for Una.”

  Una was in the road outside the hospital the next morning when the man arrived. A tall, handsome, red-haired man with a weather-beaten face. He asked for the Palmer, but she did not realise that he had come from Doyle the Bristol merchant.

  She started to show him the way, but he seemed to know it. He went through the gateway just as it happened that Ailred had come into the yard from the hospital doorway. She was following behind. She saw Ailred look at him, puzzled, but she did not think he knew him. And certainly the Palmer stared with the utmost astonishment when the man went suddenly down on his knees and called him, “Father.”

  It was the following midwinter, nine months after King Henry of England had departed the island, that Archbishop O’Toole of Dublin summoned Father Gilpatrick to his private quarters and handed him three documents. When he had finished reading them, the young priest continued to stare at the parchments as though he had seen a ghost.

  “You are sure this is genuine?” he asked.

  “There is not a doubt of it,” replied the archbishop.

  “I wonder,” Gilpatrick said quietly, “what my father will say.”

  It had been a trying year. The marriage of Fionnuala to Ruairi O’Byrne had been necessary, of course. Her father had been unshakeable, and rightly so. The O’Byrnes themselves had been equally insistent. “Ruairi will not dishonour the Ui Fergusa,” they had declared. Indeed, Gilpatrick suspected that the presence of Brendan O’Byrne at the wedding was partly to make sure that Ruairi turned up and that the business was successfully concluded. Everyone had put the best face on it. Gilpatrick’s father had officiated. But there had been no mistaking the bride’s condition and though, as a mark of friendship, Archbishop O’Toole had attended, the whole family felt they had been lowered in everyone’s eyes. After the king taking their lands, it had been a bitter blow.

  Indeed, these had been grim times for most of the old families in Dublin, with one notable exception.

  Ailred the Palmer had got back his son. That had been a wonderful thing to see. Though he had not succeeded in making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, as his father had done, he had returned as the partner of Doyle the Bristol merchant and thereby ensured himself a position of some wealth in the port of Dublin. He was nowadays living in a house on the Fish Shambles. But most remarkable of all had been his marriage, not long after his return, to Una MacGowan. It seemed that he had taken her in deference to the wishes of his father, and more particularly his mother. And as a happy result of this union, when Una’s father had returned, a sick man, with his family that summer, his new son-in-law had been able to install him in his own house once again, since it was now in the ownership of Doyle the merchant. Though he did not know them intimately, Gilpatrick was happy for the family, and especially for Una, whom he had once rescued from a worse fate. But if this turn of events had reminded him that God was always watching over the lives of men, the parchment in his hands now seemed to show—if it were not sacrilege even to suppose it—that the eyes of God must be resting elsewhere.

  The documents in question were letters from the Pope in Rome. One was addressed to the archbishop and his fellow bishops; the second was addressed to the kings and princes of Ireland. The third was a copy of a letter to King Henry of England.

  The shortest was to the Irish princes. It commended them for submitting to “Our most dear son in Christ, Henry.” This was how the Pope referred to the man who caused the murder of Becket! He told them that Henry had come to reform the Church in Ireland. And he warned them to be humbly and meekly obedient to the English king, or risk the papal wrath. To the bishops, he commended Henry as a Christian ruler who would rid the Church in Ireland of its terrible vice and corruption, and urged them to enforce obedience “with ecclesiastical censure.”

  “Does he mean we should excommunicate any of our chiefs who don’t obey him, do you think?” O’Toole asked in wonder. “The Holy Father also seems to think,” he added crossly, “that every prince in Ireland has come into King Henry’s house, which they haven’t.”

  But it was actually worse than that. For as he had read the letters, Gilpatrick had noticed something else. It was the terminology. For the Pope had used exactly the terms of feudal obedience and obligation that he would have used to French or English barons. And remembering his conversation with the intelligent Brendan O’Byrne, he realised how difficult it would be to explain all these differences to the archbishop.

  “The Holy Father does not understand Irish conditions,” he said sadly.

  “He most certainly does not,” O’Toole burst out. “Look at this,” he pointed to a phrase in the first letter, “and this!” He jabbed his finger at the second. “As for this …” He picked up the third letter, then threw it down on the table in disgust.

  There was no question, the letters were not only inappropriate, they were downright insulting. The Irish, according to the Pope, were an “ignorant and undisciplined” race, wallowing in “monstrous and filthy vice.” They were “barbarous, uncultured, ignorant of the divine law.” You might have
thought that the seven hundred years since the coming of Saint Patrick, the great monastic schools, the Irish missionaries, the Book of Kells, and all the other glories of Irish Christian art had never existed. And the Holy Father was quite content, it seemed, to address the Irish bishops and princes and say it to their faces.

  “What can he mean? What can he be thinking of?” the saintly archbishop demanded.

  But Gilpatrick already knew. He saw it very clearly. The answer lay in the third letter, the letter to King Henry.

  Congratulations. There was no other word for it. The pontiff sent the English king congratulations for this wonderful extension of his power over the stubborn Irish, who had rejected the practice of the Christian faith. Furthermore, to obtain complete forgiveness for his sins—these, no doubt, would chiefly be his complicity in killing the Archbishop of Canterbury—the king has only to keep up the good work. So Henry had got everything he wanted: not only a pardon, it seemed, for killing Becket but a blessing for his crusade against the Irish. “It might,” O’Toole complained, “have been written by the English Pope.”

  And how had Henry done it? The text of the letter made it plain. The Pope had heard, he explained, of the disgraceful state of morals on the western island from an unimpeachable source: namely, the very churchman whom King Henry had sent him! And were not his words confirmed by the very report which they, the Irish churchmen, had sent him? He enumerated some of the abuses: improper marriages, failure to pay tithes, all the very things which the Council of Cashel had taken good care to address. Yet the Pope made no mention of the Cashel council. He was evidently quite unaware that it had taken place and of the reforms enacted there; just as he seemed also to be ignorant of all the fine work already done by Lawrence O’Toole and others like him.