Dublin (67 page)

  "So when I want to come here, I tell them at the hospital that I need to go home; and when I get home, I say I've just come from the hospital.

  Nobody will ever be the wiser."

  Soon they were making passionate love every other day.

  And then Fionnuala suggested: "I could spend the night tomorrow."

  "Where would we meet?" he asked.

  "There's a storehouse down by the quay," she said.

  It turned out to be a delightful place.

  The storehouse stood at the end of the wood quay.

  It had a loft containing bales of wool. There was a large double door at one end of the loft that opened over the water, with a view eastwards down the river towards the sea. The summer night was short and warm; the bales of wool made a pleasant bed; and at dawn, they opened the doors and saw the sun rising over the estuary, flooding the Liffey with light, while they made love again.

  Later, after they had eaten the provisions they had brought with them, Fionnuala slipped away towards the western gate, where they would assume that she had just come through the town from her home. Peter waited awhile and then, just as the first people were stirring on the quay, he made his way back towards his lodgings.

  He had started up the Fish Shambles when he saw Gilpatrick.

  For a moment, he wondered if he could avoid him.

  But Gilpatrick had already seen him. He was coming towards him, smiling.

  "Good morning, Peter. You are up early."

  Gilpatrick was surveying him with some amusement.

  Peter realised that he probably looked a mess after last night. He put his hand up to his hair to smooth it. "You look as if you had a rough night," Gilpatrick said, with a twinkle in his eye. "You had better go to church and make a good confession." But behind the gentle teasing, Peter also sensed a hint of priestly reproof.

  "I couldn't sleep actually," he said. "Have you ever stood on the quay and watched the sun come up the estuary? It's beautiful."

  He could see that Gilpatrick didn't believe him.

  "I saw my sister just now," Gilpatrick said.

  Peter felt himself going pale. He fought it.

  "Your sister? How is she?"

  "Working hard at the hospital, I'm glad to say."

  Was the priest looking at him in a different way?

  Had he guessed? Peter yawned and shook his head to cover his confusion. What was Gilpatrick saying?

  "She and Una were coming in from the hospital. Do you know Una MacGowan? It's her house you're living in."

  "Ah, no. No, I don't."

  Fionnuala must have moved fast. Gratefully, he muttered that he had to go, and made his escape.

  But as he sat in his lodgings soon afterwards, Peter had some uncomfortable moments. His affair with Fionnuala had been so unexpected and so exciting that until now he hadn't thought much about the risks. The encounter with Gilpatrick had suddenly shaken him into a new awareness. The young priest had guessed he had spent the night with a woman. The people in the house knew it, too. He had seen them exchange glances as he came in. That meant that soon most of the English troops in Dublin would have heard. Within the army, of course, this would only enhance his reputation. But it was also dangerous. People would be asking who the girl was. They might try to find out.

  And if they did discover? A terrible, cold panic came over him at the thought of it. Consider who the girl was. The daughter of a churchman close to Lawrence O'Toole, and chief of an important local family. The sister of a priest involved in the negotiations with the High King. These were exactly the people that, if he was to take Diarmait's place in Leinster, Strongbow needed as his friends.

  No matter that it was the girl who had practically seduced him. By sleeping with her he had dishonoured her family. For he had no doubts about the behaviour required of the unmarried daughter of an important family like this. He had abused his friendship with Gilpatrick and the hospitality of his parents. They would never forgive him. They'd demand his head and Strongbow would sacrifice him without blinking an eye. He was finished.

  Was there any way out? What if he ended the affair now, and if nobody found out? The memory of the night he had just spent with her filled his thoughts: the scent of her, the warm, intense passion they had shared, the long, erotic passages of time as her pale body entwined with his, the things they had done.

  A man, he thought, would almost face death itself for such nights as these. Did he have to give this up?

  Perhaps not. For now another calculation came into his mind.

  Even if he got caught, the outcome needn't be so bad. What if he were to brazen it out? Treat the whole business like a military engagement? That, he felt sure, was what a man like Strongbow would do.

  If Fionnuala were discovered, if word got out that she had been dishonoured, her chances of marriage to an Irish prince wouldn't be too high. To keep her reputation, her family would have to consent, however unwillingly, to her marrying him. He considered her father's situation: the income from the Church properties, the great tract of land he owned down the coast, his many cattle. Fionnuala was bound to receive a handsome dowry, if only to preserve her family honour. As the husband of a girl from such a prominent Leinster family, wouldn't Strongbow, who was married to a Leinster princess himself, be likely to take an interest in him? If he kept a cool head, this business could turn out to be the best thing he ever did.

  Two days later, he spent the night with

  Fionnuala again.

  The siege of Dublin continued for weeks. Around the city, the besiegers had a pleasant time. The cattle and livestock, the gardens, orchards, fields, all the produce of the area were in their hands.

  In their camps, they could enjoy the warm summer and wait for the harvest to ripen.

  Inside the city, however, things were not so pleasant.

  Although the watercourse from the south was cut off, there was plenty of water; there were fresh fish from the Liffey, though not enough. There were still the city's grain stores; there were vegetable patches and some pigs. But by the time six weeks had passed, it was clear to Strongbow that, even keeping his troops on short rations, he could only hold out another three or four weeks at most. After that, they would have to start killing the horses.

  It was not a surprise to Gilpatrick, therefore, in the sixth week of the siege, to be summoned by Archbishop O'Toole to join him on a mission to the High King's camp. On this occasion, it seemed, he was to be the only person accompanying the great man. They set out at noon, riding across the long wooden bridge to Liffey's northern side and then westwards a little way along the stream, to a point where the king had said he would meet them.

  The archbishop looked tired. His ascetic, finely drawn face was showing lines of stress around the eyes; and Gilpatrick knew this was not only because he felt the weight of his responsibilities but because his sensitive, poetic nature suffered almost a physical pain when he contemplated the suffering of others. When the King of Dublin had been killed after his unsuccessful attack the previous year, the saintly bishop had been visibly distressed. He was clearly concerned now, since the offers made by the High King to Strong- bow had still not been accepted, and he saw only suffering and bloodshed ahead. "He blames himself," Gilpatrick told his father. "It isn't his fault, of course; but that's his nature."

  When they reached the meeting place, they found that a handsome reception had been prepared for them. A big thatched hall had been set up with a wicker wall on the north side and the other sides left open.

  Inside this were benches covered with woollen cushions and cloths, and tables piled with a splendid feast. The High King, accompanied by some of his greatest chiefs, gave them a warm and respectful greeting and invited them to eat, which Gilpatrick, at least, was glad to do. Nor, for all its genuine kindness, was the significance of the feast lost upon him. The High King was letting them know that he had ample supplies, while the sight of GilPatrick's face had told the king what he had suspected, that food was getting short in the city.

  The O'Connor king was a tall, powerful man, with a broad face and a mass of curly black hair that fell with an almost oily thickness to his shoulders.

  His dark eyes had a soft glow that, Gilpatrick had heard, was fascinating to women.

  "I've been here for six weeks," he told them. "But as you can see, we are out of sight in the city, so please don't tell them where we are.

  I can go down and bathe in the Liffey every morning." He smiled. "If Strongbow likes I'd be happy to stay here a year or two."

  Gilpatrick ate heartily. Even the ascetic archbishop consented to take a glass or two of wine. And to Gilpatrick's delight they were entertained by a skilful harpist; and better yet, a bard recited for them one of the old Irish tales, of Cuchulainn the warrior and how he got his name. It was in a mellow mood that the little group of men got round to discussing the problem of the English.

  "I have a new offer," the archbishop began, "and it will surprise you. Strongbow still wants Leinster. But," he paused, "he is prepared to hold it from you in the proper Irish manner. He'll swear an oath to you, give hostages. In English terms, you would be his overlord." He looked at the High King carefully. "I know you believed he was intending to conquer the whole island, but it isn't so. He's ready to accept Leinster from your hands, and give you the respect that is your due. I think this has to be taken seriously."

  "He would hold it as Diarmait did?"

  "He would."

  The High King sighed, then he stretched his long arms. "But isn't that just the problem, Lorcan?" They were speaking in Irish and he used the archbishop's Irish name. "You wouldn't have trusted Diarmait. The man was ready to sacrifice his own son to break his oath. Are you saying that Strongbow's any better?"

  "I don't like the man," O'Toole answered frankly, "but he is a man of honour."

  "If that is so, Lorcan, then will you tell me this: how is it that this man of honour can be ready to swear an oath to me as his overlord when he has already sworn one to King Henry of England? Is there not a contradiction in that?"

  The archbishop looked flummoxed. He glanced at Gilpatrick.

  "I think," Gilpatrick said, "that I can explain that. You see, technically, I don't believe Strongbow has actually given homage to King Henry for his Irish lands. So you would be his overlord for Leinster, and Henry for his lands in England." And seeing the other two men look blank, he explained: "Over there, every yard of land has a lord, and so you may do homage to a different lord for each piece of land you hold." He smiled. "Many of the great lords, like Strongbow, for instance, do homage to Henry for their lands in England, and to the King of France for their lands in France."

  "So where does their loyalty lie?" demanded the High King.

  "It depends on where they are."

  "Dear God, what sort of people are these English?

  No wonder Diarmait liked them."

  "An oath is not so much a personal matter with them," Gilpatrick said. "It's more a legal form." He searched for a characterisation that would convey the spirit of Plantagenet feudalism. "You might say, I suppose, that they are more interested in land than in people."

  "God forgive them," murmured the archbishop as he and the O'Connor king exchanged looks of horror.

  "Do you think that if he had Leinster and the ability to reward all his armed men, and any others he might import, that Strongbow could be trusted not to attack the other provinces of Ireland?" the O'Connor king asked. And before the saintly archbishop could even formulate a reply, he continued: "We have him safely walled up in Dublin, Lorcan. There's nothing he can do. Let him stay there until he accepts our offer to keep the ports. It's either that or starvation. We've no need to bargain with him or to accept these English oaths that are not made with the heart."

  For Fionnuala, the heady weeks of summer had been a revelation. She had never realised how boring her life had been before.

  She had known she was bored, of course: bored by her parents, bored by her brothers-not that she saw so much of them, thank God-bored by her life in Dublin and at the hospital. Bored by the kindly Palmer and his wife. She was even bored with Una, who meant well but was always trying to restrain her. In Una's company, she felt like a horse, bred to race, that is being forced into pulling a sturdy little cart.

  What was it she wanted? She hardly knew. Something else: a bigger sky, a brighter light.

  What did a girl do when she was bored? Stealing apples wasn't much fun. There were the local boys to flirt with. She knew it would annoy her parents.

  But the truth was, the local boys bored her. And those old men in the hospital had just been a joke.

  More recently there had been the English soldiers to think about. The men mostly seemed coarse; she was more afraid of being raped than seduced. Some of the knights were quite handsome, but they seemed too old and she was a little afraid of them.

  But when Gilpatrick's friend, the knight from Wales, had appeared in their house, she thought he was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen in her life. And she knew at once that it was he who could be the one to open the gates to life's next great adventure. The result had been beyond her wildest dreams.