Dublin (57 page)

  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 Glastonbury, 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."

  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

I

  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 re turning. Father Gilpatrick was smiling broadly.

  Beside him, on a small but sturdy horse, rode a splendid and rustic figure: he had a lon g g re y 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."