Dublin (65 page)

  "Ah, Welshman," said the chief, his voice suddenly lowering, "this is my daughter, Fionnuala."

  It seemed to Peter FitzDavid, as she stepped through the doorway, that Fionnuala was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. With her dark hair, her pale skin, her red mouth: wasn't she the perfect object of any man's desire? If her brother Gilpatrick's eyes were curiously flecked with green, Fionnuala's were an astounding pure emerald. Yet what struck him most, after only the briefest acquaintance, was her modesty.

  How demure she was. Most of the time her eyes were downcast. She spoke to her parents and her brother with a respectfulness that was charming. When he addressed her himself, she answered him so quietly and simply.

  Only once did she allow a little animation to creep into her voice, and that was when she spoke about the Palmer and his good works at the hospital where, until recently, she had been working. He was so fascinated by this virtuous young woman that, if any looks of surprise passed between her family, he did not see them.

  Gilpatrick's parents indicated after a while that they wished to have some words with their son alone, so it was suggested that Fionnuala should show their guest round the little church. He duly admired it. Then Fionnuala took him across to Saint Patrick's Well, and pointing to the dark pool and to the Thingmount in the distance, she told him the story of her ancestor and Saint Patrick and explained how old Fergus was buried there. Listening respectfully, Peter now understood what Gilpatrick had meant about his family's ancient status. Looking at the girl, observing her beauty, her gentle seriousness, and her piety, he wondered if she might be contemplating the religious life-and hoped that she was not. It seemed a waste that she should not be married.

  He was sorry when it was time to return.

  It had been agreed that this was to be only a short visit, but Gilpatrick's parents were warm in their invitation that they should both return to be feasted and entertained in the Irish manner in the near future.

  Gilpatrick's mother pressed a gift of sweetmeats upon him. As he escorted them to the gateway, Gilpatrick's father gazed out over the estuary and remarked, "Take care tomorrow, Welshman, there'll be a mist." As the sky was entirely clear, Peter thought this unlikely, but he was too polite to say so.

  As he and Gilpatrick walked away, Peter could not help bringing up the subject of Fionnuala.

  "I see what you mean about your sister."

  "Oh?"

  "She is altogether remarkable. A pious soul."

  "She is?"

  "And very beautiful. Is she to be married soon?" he added, a little wistfully.

  "Probably. My parents were telling me they have someone in mind." He sounded rather vague.

  "A lucky man. A prince, no doubt."

  "Something like that."

  Peter secretly wished he were in a position to ask for her himself.

  "When he opened his eyes the next morning, Peter glanced towards the open doorway and frowned. Had he woken too early? It seemed still to be dark.

  There were six people in the place where he lodged. He and another knight occupied the house. Three men-at-arms and a slave slept in the yard outside.

  He'd heard that the place had belonged to a silversmith called MacGowan who had left the city when it was first taken. Nobody seemed to be stirring. Beyond the doorway there was a strange, pale greyness in the yard. He got up and went out.

  Mist. Cool, damp, white mist. He couldn't even see the gate a few yards away. The men were awake and sitting huddled under their blankets in the little shelter where the silversmith had presumably worked. They had stoked up the brazier. The slave was preparing some food. Peter found the gate. If there was anyone about in the lane, he could neither see nor hear them. The mist clung to his face, kissing him wetly. He supposed the sun would burn the mist away later; there'd be nothing much to do until then. Gilpatrick's father had been right.

  He shouldn't have doubted him. He returned to the yard. The slave had some oatcakes by the oven.

  He took one and munched thoughtfully. The oatcake smelled and tasted good. He thought of the girl. Though he had no recollection of dreaming during the night, it seemed to him that she had been in his thoughts while he slept. He shrugged. What was the point of thinking about a girl who was unattainable? He'd better put her out of his head.

  There hadn't been many women in Peter's life.

  There was a girl with whom he'd spent some happy nights in a Wexford barn. In Waterford, he had experienced some weeks of vigorous lovemaking with a merchant's wife while her husband was away on a voyage. But in Dublin the prospects did not look good. The place was full of soldiers and half the inhabitants had fled. The knight he shared the house with had told him about his exploits across the river in the suburb on the northern bank.

  "Ostmanby they call it, because so many of the Norse families went over there when we arrived. They had to build shelters beside the existing houses.

  Some of the poorer craftsmen and labourers are struggling to feed their families, so their wives and daughters come over here… I had a delicious one last week."

  Peter had soon come to the conclusion that most of his companion's exploits were invented. Certainly the women he had seen on his brief visit across the bridge to Ostmanby hadn't offered themselves to him, and the few loose women he had seen in the streets hadn't looked very appetising. He'd decided he'd sooner do without.

  The morning was spent sitting by the brazier playing dice with the men. He had expected the summer sun to burn off the mist, but though by late morning there was a faint brightness overhead, he couldn't see thirty paces down the lane. As for the girl, her image was still there, floating vaguely like a spirit in his mind. And partly in the hope that this vaguely unsettling presence would float away and get lost in the mist, he decided at noon to go for a walk.

  As he left the Fish Shambles, he intended only to go a short distance, keeping careful note of how he went, so that he could find his way back again; but he soon realised that he had failed to do so. He was fairly sure he was going westwards and after a while he supposed he might be getting close to the market by the western gate. The hospital where Fionnuala had been working lay outside that gate, he remembered. He might take a look at it. He'd probably get a sense of the place, even in the mist.

  But after a while, he still hadn't found the market. From time to time, figures appeared in the mist and if he'd been sensible he could have asked the way. But he hated asking directions. So he continued until at last he saw it. There were a couple of men-at-arms on sentry duty.

  The mist outside the gate was so thick that he decided that, in order to see anything of the hospital, he'd have to go inside it. He almost turned back, but the sentries were watching him, so sooner than admit his mistake he continued past them casually, remarking: "I think I'll see if the mist is lifting across the river." And he made his way down the track towards the river.

  It was silent on the bridge. He was alone. He could hear his own footfalls sounding dully on the timbers over the water. On his right, the ships by the wood quay appeared in the shrouds of mist like insects caught in a dewy spider's web. He could see a hundred yards down the river, but as he went over he realised that the mist was finally starting to lift. Halfway across, he saw a patch of blue sky. Then he could see the mudflats on the Liffey's northern side, and the scattered thatched roofs of the suburb beyond. To the left of the bridge end he caught sight of green, grassy banks in the sunlight. There was a sprinkling of yellow flowers. Then he saw…

  Horsemen. All along the bank, coming out of the mist.

  Scores of them. Then footmen, carrying spears and axes. Hundreds. God knows how many. And in a few moments, they would be on the bridge.

  It could mean only one thing. The High King had come.

  And he was about to take Dublin by surprise.

  He turned. He started to run. He ran faster than he had ever run before, back across the misty bridge. He heard his own footfalls and he thought he heard his heart. Did he also hear the drumming of hoofbeats on the timbers, too? He didn't think so but he didn't dare look back.

  He reached the end of the bridge, raced up the track, came to the gate, and saw the two sentries staring at him in surprise. Only when he was through the gate did he turn, glance back at the empty path behind him, and order the sentries,

  "Close the gate. Quick." And he told them what he'd seen. Then he set to work.

  In the next few minutes, Peter FitzDavid acted quickly and decisively. Gathering some men-at-arms, he sent them flying to their tasks. One he despatched immediately to Strongbow. "Go straight to him. Don't stop." Two more went to alert the riverside defences and the eastern gate. Taking one more as a guide, he set off for the southern gate himself. If the High King's men used the ford as well as the bridge, it would be the big western gate they made for. When he arrived, no troops had yet come in sight. He got the gate closed and barred and, stirring up the garrison there, he hurried along the street towards Christ Church and the royal hall.

  When he reached the old hall where Strongbow had taken up residence, he found the magnate, accompanied by a dozen knights, about to mount his horse to find out what was going on. He was looking angrily round, demanding answers and receiving none.

  "Who started this alarm?" he had just demanded of a nervous- looking commander.

  "I did," Peter called out as he came towards him.

  A pair of cold blue eyes fixed upon him.

  "And who the devil are you?"

  It was his moment.

  "Peter FitzDavid," he said boldly. Quickly and succinctly he told Strongbow what he'd seen.

  "I've closed the bridge and western gate and sent men to all the others."

  "Good." The great man's eyes narrowed. "You were with Diarmait, weren't you?" He gave Peter a nod to let him know he was remembered. Then he turned to his knights. "You know what to do. Raise the garrison. Go!"

  By midafternoon the weather was clear and bright. The people of Dublin looked over their walls to see the forces of the High King on every side. As well as the clans under his direct control, there were those of the great chiefs who acknowledged his authority. The ancient Ulaid of Ulster were camped out at Clontarf. The O'Brien, descendants of Brian Boru, had their forces on the city's western boundary. King Diarmait's brother, who had decided not to support Strongbow like Diarmait's sons, had brought his forces and was camped across Dublin's southern coastal approaches. Every supply route to the city by land or sea was blocked. The High King's army was camped in a great ring round the walls with forward posts to watch each gate for any sign of an English attempt to break out.

  Late in the afternoon, from a vantage point above the wood quay, Peter saw Archbishop O'Toole ride across the bridge with a party of priests to begin the negotiations. He noticed that Gilpatrick was one of them.

  The next morning the city was shrouded in mist again.

  Strongbow had every wall manned. Peter was sent out on foot with a scouting party to look for any sign of the besiegers mounting a surprise attack. When he'd asked Strongbow if he meant to mount a surprise breakout himself, however, the magnate had shaken his head.

  "No point," he said. "I can't direct an army if I can't see it."

  Peter returned from his patrol without finding any sign of enemy movement. It was eerie walking about in the city afterwards. Though the sentries on the wall were silent, every time a figure loomed out of the mist in the street, he half expected it to be an enemy.

  News came that once the mist cleared, the archbishop would go out to negotiate again. Peter went back to his lodgings and found them empty. He sat down by the brazier, and waited.

  Time passed. The mist did not seem to be lifting at all. In the quietness, everything felt slightly unreal. As he looked across the yard to the gate, Peter could see only the whiteness beyond, as if the little yard had been transported, by some strange magic, into a separate world that was hidden in a cloud.

  When the shape appeared outside the gateway, he assumed it was the knight. When it hovered there like a ghost instead of coming in, he wondered if it might be a thief, and glancing across to the bench where his sword was lying, he prepared to spring. Sitting where he was, he realised that he was not easily visible from the gate, so he kept still, making no sound. The figure continued to hover, obviously looking into the yard. Finally, it glided in. It had a hood over its head. It came towards the brazier. Only when he could almost reach out to touch it did he recognise the figure.

  The girl. Fionnuala. She gave a little start as she saw him, but nothing more. He admired her control. She smiled.

  "I thought I'd see if you were here." She was amused, it seemed, by his astonishment.

  "Gilpatrick told me where you were lodging. It was my friend's house, until this year."

  "But how did you get into the city?" He thought of the guards on the city gate.

  "I came in by the door." There was usually a small door in the big gates, through which single people could pass.