Dublin (68 page)

  "Welshman," she called him as her father had done.

  "My Welshman." She knew every curl of his hair, every inch of his proud young body. She was almost lost in wonder, sometimes, that she could be in possession of such a thing.

  Was she in love? Not exactly. She was too excited, too pleased with herself even to be in love.

  The sexual awakening, of course, was wonderful, quite the best thing, she told herself, that had ever happened to her. But the adventure, the game was the greatest thrill. It was knowing that she was deceiving them all that aroused her excitement as she made her way towards her assignations. It was knowing she had just come from his bed while Una went about her serious business that made the mornings in the hospital seem full of light and life. It was knowing that what she did was dangerous and forbidden that made her tremble with anticipation as her young lover came to her and which brought the fire and climax to her passion.

  There was the other risk, too, beyond being discovered.

  Even in medieval times women knew of barriers to conception, but they were imperfect, permeable, uncertain. She knew the risk, yet tried not to know. She would not give it up. And so the affair continued. It was love, it was passion-it was something to do.

  It was three days after her brother's unsuccessful mission to the High King that Fionnuala, standing by the hospital entrance, saw Una hurrying from the city's western gateway. It was nearly noon.

  Fionnuala had spent the night before with Peter by the quay, arriving as usual at the hospital in the early morning. An hour ago, Una had gone on an errand into the town. Her friend was scurrying back now, Fionnuala thought, as if she'd been stung by a bee. It didn't take long to find out why.

  "I was after visiting the cathedral to say a prayer for my poor family-and for you, too, Fionnuala-when who is it sees me but your father." She had dragged Fionnuala to the corner of the building where they couldn't be overheard. "And he says to me, "It's a fine thing that Fionnuala's spending so much time at the hospital. But as she was with you last night, I couldn't tell her to be sure to be back at the house before this evening. We have visitors. Will you tell her that?"' And there's myself, standing there like an idiot and saying, "Yes, Father, I will." And it was almost out of my mouth to say you weren't at the hospital at all." She was staring at Fionnuala now in wide-eyed reproach. "So if you weren't here and you weren't there, then in the name of God where were you?"

  "I was somewhere else." Fionnuala looked at her friend enigmatically. She was enjoying this.

  "What do you mean you were somewhere else?"

  "Well, if I wasn't here, and I wasn't there …"

  "Don't play games with me, Fionnuala."

  Una flushed with anger now. She looked at her friend searchingly. "You don't mean… Oh God, Fionnuala, was it with some man you were?"

  "I may have been." be be :"

I I

  "Are you out of your wits? In the name of Heaven, who?"

  "I'm not telling."

  The slap that struck her face took Fionnuala by surprise and almost sent her reeling. She struck back, but Una was ready for her and caught her hand.

  "You childish fool!" Una cried.

  "You're jealous."

  "Isn't it like you to think so? Have you no thought for what will become of you? Not a care for your reputation and your family?"

  Fionnuala flushed. She felt herself starting to get angry now.

  "If you shout any more," she said crossly, "the whole of Dublin's going to know anyway."

  "You must stop it, Fionnuala," Una dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "You've got to stop it at once. Before it's too late."

  "Maybe I will. Maybe I won't."

  "I'll tell your father. He'll stop you."

  "I thought you were my friend."

  "I am. That's why I'll tell him. To save you from yourself, you stupid child."

  Fionnuala was silent. In particular she resented her friend's patronising tone. How dare she order her about like this?

  "If you tell, Una," she spoke slowly, "I'll kill you." It was said so quietly, and with such force, that Una, despite herself, blanched. Fionnuala looked at her steadily.

  Did she mean it? She hardly knew herself. Was she in the act of destroying their friendship? Anyway, she realised, it wouldn't do any good to threaten Una.

  "I'm sorry, Fionnuala. I have to."

  Fionnuala paused. Then she looked down. Then she sighed. Then she stared longingly towards the west gate. Then she looked down and did not move for a minute or so. Then she groaned. "Oh it's so hard, Una."

  "I know."

  "You really think I have to?"

  "I know you must."

  "I'll stop seeing him, Una. I will."

  "Now? You'll promise?"

  Fionnuala gave her an ironic smile.

  "You'll tell my father if I don't.

  Remember?"

  "I'd have to."

  "I know." She sighed again. "I promise, Una.

  I'll give him up. I promise."

  Then they hugged each other and Una cried and Fionnuala cried, too; and Una murmured, "I know, I know," and Fionnuala thought, you know nothing at all you little prig, and so the matter was settled.

  "But you mustn't tell on me now, Una,"

  Fionnuala said. "Because even if I never set eyes on the man again in my life, you know what my father would do. He'd whip me till I couldn't stand and then he'd put me in the convent over at Hoggen Green. He already threatened me with it before, you know.

  Will you promise Una?" She looked at her pleadingly. "Will you promise?"

  "I will," said Una.

  Fionnuala was in a thoughtful mood that evening when she went home. If she was to continue the affair without interference from Una, then she'd have to take some fresh precautions. Perhaps she should come to the hospital with her father or her brother one morning, to show that she'd been at home. She'd have to meet Peter in the afternoon a few times. Once she'd allayed Una's suspicions, then no doubt the affair could resume its previous pattern. She was so busy thinking about these arrangements that she almost forgot the reason that she had to be home in good time.

  She came to the gateway to the house, which stood just beside the little church. She noticed the two horses there and remembered the visitors, but without curiosity. She had the good sense, however, to straighten her clothes and brush her hand over her hair before she walked through the gateway. As it was summer, they had set out benches and trestles upon the grass. Her father and mother were both there and they were smiling. So was her brother Gilpatrick.

  They turned in a way that suggested they had all been waiting for her, talking about her.

  Her mother was coming towards her now, smiling still, but with a strange look in her eye.

  "Come Fionnuala," she said, "our guests have arrived already. Come and give a fitting welcome to Brendan and Ruairi O'Byrne."

  A week after Una's threat, Peter

  FitzDavid was still seeing Fionnuala.

  They had been careful, meeting in the afternoons or early evenings, not spending the night together. The arrival of the O'Byrne cousins had helped. Fionnuala had cleverly encouraged her father to bring them both to visit her while she was working at the hospital one day.

  They had seen her, demure and pious, working with Una and the Palmer's wife; and Una in turn had seen that Fionnuala now had a serious suitor in prospect. "She can't even imagine," Fionnuala had told Peter laughingly, "that I could look at another man when I've a chance to marry an O'Byrne."

  Peter did not treat the new arrivals so lightheartedly. From Gilpatrick he learned that Brendan O'Byrne was the one his parents wanted for their daughter; but whether he would like her, and whether the princely O'Byrnes might feel Brendan could do better, remained to be seen. His cousin Ruairi was another matter, and Gilpatrick's parents had not been best pleased to see him. "Brendan's a fine upstanding man, but Ruairi's the taller of the two." Gilpatrick gave Peter a wintry look. "I don't know why he's here," he muttered.

  Peter thought he could guess. Brendan had probably brought his cousin, whatever his reputation, for cover. If he'd come alone, it looked too obvious; if he decided not to make an offer for Fionnuala, it might disappoint or even give offence to the chief; but if the two cousins paid a friendly visit and then left again, nobody could say anything against him.

  Should he be jealous of this cautious young prince?

  Peter wondered? Probably. O'Byrne had all the wealth and position that he himself lacked. He was an excellent match for Fionnuala. If I've any decency at all, he thought, I ought to step aside and stop wasting this girl's time. You're nothing better, he angrily told himself, than a thief in the night. But then she had come to his lodgings again, and pressed up against him, and he had given way at once.

  Besides her body, Fionnuala also brought him food. For food was getting scarcer in the city all the time. Even Gilpatrick was going hungry.

  "My father's got plenty at the church," he explained. "And nobody stops me going to see him.

  But the difficulty is the archbishop. He says we must suffer with the people in the city. The trouble is, he never eats more than a crust of bread anyway." Peter could hardly tell him that Fionnuala was smuggling food to him from her father's house almost every day.

  He was coming in from his sentry duty on the walls one morning, having dismissed his men, and looking forward to the rendezvous he had with Fionnuala that afternoon, when passing Christ Church he saw Strongbow. The great lord was standing alone, staring down towards the river, apparently lost in thought; and Peter, supposing that Strongbow was unaware of him, was walking quietly past when he heard the magnate say his name. He turned.

  The magnate's face was impassive, but it seemed to Peter that Strongbow looked depressed. It was hardly surprising. Though the besiegers were comfortably camped well back from the walls, they were keeping a sharp eye on the gates. It had been impossible to send out patrols. Two days ago, Strongbow had sent a boat under cover of darkness to see whether any supplies could be sneaked in by water; but the enemy had caught it opposite Clontarf and sent it back, on fire, on the incoming tide. Amongst the remaining Dublin inhabitants, and the English soldiers as well, the word was the same: "The High King's got him." But Strongbow was a seasoned commander; Peter didn't think he'd give up on him yet. Strongbow's eyes were surveying him as if he were considering something.

  "Do you know what I need at the moment,

  Peter FitzDavid?" he asked quietly.

  "Another fog," Peter suggested. "Then at least we could sneak out."

  "Perhaps. But what I need more than that is information.

  I need to know where the High King is and the exact disposition of his forces."

  So, he's planning a breakout, Peter thought. There was no other option, really. But to have any hope of success, he'd need to take the besiegers by surprise.

  "Do you want me to go out tonight and scout?" he asked.

  If he came back successfully that would certainly put him in high favour.

  "Perhaps. I'm not sure you'd get through." His eyes fixed on Peter's, then lowered. "The archbishop and the young priest probably know. What's his name?. Father Gilpatrick. But I can't ask them, of course."

  "I know Gilpatrick, but he'd never tell me."

  "No. You might ask his sister, though."

  Strongbow's gaze moved back towards the river.

  "Next time you see her."

  He knew. Peter felt himself go pale. He and how many others? But worse than the fact that he knew about the illicit affair, was what he was asking him to do. To use Fionnuala as a spy, or at least dupe her into revealing information. She probably didn't even know anything, he thought; but that was hardly the point. If he wanted Strongbow's favour, he'd better discover something.

  Amazingly, his chance came that very afternoon, and it turned out to be easier than he could have imagined. They had made love in the house. They had an hour before she had to leave. They were talking casually about the O'Byrnes, who were due to come again the next day, and about her life at home. "I think," he had remarked, "that Strongbow will have to give in to the High King soon. I can't see this going on another month, and there's no chance of anyone coming to help us."

  He grinned. "I'll be glad when it's over. Then I can come and eat at your house as your father promised.

  If you haven't already married Brendan O'Byrne by then, that is," he added uncertainly.

  "Don't be silly." She laughed. "I shan't marry Brendan. And the siege is bound to end."

  It was his opportunity.

  "Really?" He seemed to be looking for reassurance. "Does Gilpatrick think so?"

  "Oh, he does. I overheard him telling my father only yesterday that the High King has a camp only a short way upstream. He knows so well the English haven't a chance that his men go bathing in the Liffey, every day."