Dublin (76 page)

  If only his brother could have been as wise, thought Gilpatrick. But was it, he asked himself, partly his fault? Had he been too busy with Church affairs to realise the danger his brother was in?

  When King Henry had taken the ancient lands of the Ui Fergusa, he had split them into two great manors, north and south. The northern manor was still held by Baggot; the southern had remained in his brother's hands. To his brother's way of thinking, therefore, he was still the chief. And the fact that he had never fully understood his new status, Gilpatrick considered, was partly because of wishful thinking, but also because, as an Irishman, he could not comprehend one important feature of European feudal life: the absentee landlord.

  It was a commonplace in England or France. The king gave his great lords scattered territories to hold; they in turn had tenants. The lord of the manor might be resident there; or he might be away; or he might hold several manors and be represented by a steward to whom the various people on the estate, from the tenants of the larger farms to the humblest serf, would answer.

  In the case of the Ui Fergusa lands, the lord of the manor was the king himself, represented by the Justiciar. A steward handled the daily business.

  For convenience, so far, Gilpatrick's brother had been left as the sole tenant farmer of the place; during the first few years, the rents demanded by the steward had been modest and Gilpatrick's brother had rationalised these as the customary tribute due from an Irish chief to his king. With the arrival of Prince John's new administrators, however, the situation had changed, and the trouble had begun. When the steward had demanded payments for the knight service due from the estate, Gilpatrick's brother had failed to pay. Summoned to the lord of the manor's court, he had failed to turn up. When the steward, a patient man, had come to see him, he had treated the royal servant with contempt.

  "We have been chiefs here since before your king's family was ever heard of," he told the steward with perfect truth. "A chief does not answer to a servant. When the king is in Ireland again," he had conceded, "I will come into his house." The steward had said no more, but had gone away.

  Yet was it, perhaps, his own fault, Gilpatrick now asked himself, that his brother had behaved so stupidly? If he hadn't been busy with Church affairs, could he not have made sure that his own family's position was secure and in proper order?

  It had been three weeks ago that his brother had arrived at his house. And the moment he had asked his question, Gilpatrick's heart had sunk.

  "Explain to me, Gilpatrick," he had demanded,

  "what is a tenant-at-will?"

  There were various kinds of men on any manorial estate. The lowest were the serfs, tied to the land, and little better than slaves. Above these came various classes, some of them specialist workers with clearly defined rights and duties. At the top of the hierarchy were the free tenants, holding a farm or two on formally contracted rents. These might be free farmers of substance, or even another feudal lord or a religious foundation with a cross-holding or part share in a manor. But below the free tenant lay a precarious class. The tenant-at-will was normally a freeman, able to come and go as he pleased, but he held his land in the manor on no fixed contract.

  The lord had the right to terminate his tenancy at any time.

  When King Henry had taken the Ui Fergusa land, no one had ever bothered to obtain a proper charter.

  Because they had been left in place,

  Gilpatrick's family had assumed they had security of tenure. After all, they'd been there a thousand years. Didn't that make their position plain enough? Of course it didn't, Gilpatrick thought, and he of all people should have known it.

  The steward had struck a double blow. He had reminded the Justiciar that the next time the king needed to reward one of his men, the southern Ui Fergusa manor was still available. And now that the manor had just been granted, the steward had informed the new lord that he had a troublesome tenant. "However," he had explained, "as there has never been any formal agreement, we can consider him as a tenant-at-will."

  Last week the steward had gone down to see Gilpatrick's brother and calmly informed him,

  "The new lord will be coming here shortly. He wants you out before he arrives. So pack up and leave."

  "And where am I to go?" Gilpatrick's brother had furiously demanded. "Up into the Wicklow Mountains?"

  "As far as I'm concerned," the steward coolly answered, "you are free to go to hell."

  So now it was up to Father Gilpatrick to try to save the situation.

  The realisation that the ancestral lands would probably be lost to the family, even in the female line, for the rest of time was a bitter one.

  Mercifully, most of his brother's daughters were safely married by now; but there were two still to be provided for. At least, Gilpatrick thought, I may be able to buy him a few more years. For, as his brother had quite rightly pointed out, if anyone had a hope of persuading the new lord of the manor to relent, it must be himself. After all, he knew him.

  So he did his best to smile as the once familiar figure reached him and gazed down at him from his horse.

  "It has been a long time," Gilpatrick said,

  "since last we met, Peter FitzDavid."

  It had been a long time. Peter FitzDavid would not have denied it. A quarter century since he had first set out; twenty years and more that he had been hoping for his reward. Some of those years had been spent outside Ireland; but he had found himself back there often enough. He had fought in the west, in Limerick; he had organised garrisons, commanded under the Justiciar. He had become well known and well respected amongst the armed men on the island.

  Peter the Welshman, the Irish called him; and the English- speaking troops and lesser settlers similarly referred to him as Peter Welsh or, as it often sounded to the ear, Walsh.

  Peter FitzDavid, better known as Walsh, had been kept hard at work down the years because he was trusted. He had learned to be patient and watchful.

  But at the right time, he had let it be known that a reward should be forthcoming; and now, when it had finally come, it was better than he had dared to hope. A fine estate, not on the borderlands where the angry Irish were always likely to raid in revenge for what had been stolen from them, but here in the rich, safe, coastal farmland of Leinster, close by the garrison of Dublin itself.

  It was time to settle down. Time, late though it was, to marry and produce an heir. Years of service followed by a late marriage- it was not an uncommon career for a knight. He had already found a bride-a younger daughter of Baggot, the knight whose estate marched with his. He had every intention of enjoying the good fortune he had earned.

  He had thought of Gilpatrick, of course, when he learned he was to be given the Ui Fergusa estate; but he wasn't embarrassed to meet him. He had reached the point of middle age where he had no more time or emotion to waste. The land was his now. That was that. The fortunes of war. The business about Gilpatrick's younger brother, however, was another matter. He knew perfectly well that this must be the reason the priest had asked to see him and he knew that, out of courtesy, he must listen to what Gilpatrick had to say. But perhaps there was an element of calculation in the fact that, on reaching his former friend, he did not dismount. Nor when Gilpatrick suggested they should walk a little did he do so, but allowed the priest to walk beside him.

  Their route took them a short way eastwards, to the open common from which the stream ran down towards the old Viking stone at the estuary's edge. Recently a second hospital, a small one for lepers, had been set up there and dedicated to Saint Stephen.

  It was past this little foundation beside the marshland that the two figures went, one still mounted, the other on foot; and Peter listened to the woes of poor Gilpatrick's brother. And as he listened, he felt…

  Nothing. He listened to the family story, the extenuating circumstances, the fact-the priest felt sure, he said, that Peter would understand-that his brother had not fully appreciated the new situation.

  Gilpatrick recalled to him his old father, and their friendship in the past. And still, almost to his own surprise, Peter still felt nothing. Or rather, after a while, he did begin to feel something. But that was contempt.

  He despised Gilpatrick's brother. He despised him because he had not fought, and yet had lost.

  He despised him for being as arrogant as he was weak. He despised him for being wilfully ill in formed, for being unbusinesslike, and for being stupid.

  Hadn't he himself had to fight, and to endure hardship, and to learn wisdom and patience? Success despises failure. Peter stayed on his horse.

  And at last, as they gazed down towards the Thingmount and the Viking stone he said: "Gilpatrick, I can do nothing." And he continued to gaze straight ahead.

  "You have grown hard with the years, I see," the priest said sorrowfully.

  Peter turned his horse's head and slowly wheeled round. The interview was over. He'd had enough. He wanted to kick his horse into a trot and leave his former friend standing. And rude though this would have been, he might have done it if, just then, he hadn't seen a woman coming across the green towards them. For now, instead of moving off, he stared.

  Fionnuala. There was no mistaking her.

  It was nearly twenty years since they had parted, but even in the distance he'd have known her at a glance. As she came up, she gave Gilpatrick a brief nod.

  "They told me you'd be here."

  "I did not know you were in Dublin," the priest began. He seemed a little put out. "Do you remember my sister, Fionnuala?" He turned to Peter.

  "He remembers," she cut in quietly.

  "I was explaining to Peter that our brother…"

  "Has been a fool." She looked straight at Peter. "Nearly as great a fool as his sister once was." She said it simply, without any malice. "They told me you were meeting him," she said to Gilpatrick. "So I thought I'd come up to Dublin, too."

  "Unfortunately-was Gilpatrick began again.

  "He's turned you down." She transferred her gaze back to Peter. "Haven't you, Welshman?"

  The years had been more than kind to Fionnuala.

  If as a girl she had been lovely, thought Peter, there was only one way to describe her now.

  She was magnificent. A brood of children had left her body lithe, but fuller. Her hair was still raven black, her head held proudly, her eyes the same astounding, emerald green. At ease with herself and all the world, she looked exactly the Irish princess that she was. And this is the woman, thought Peter, that in different circumstances I might have married.

  "I'm afraid that I have," he admitted with a trace of awkwardness.

  "He's been dispossessed," she suddenly cried out.

  "We have all been robbed of the land we have loved for a thousand years. Do you not see that, Welshman? Can you not imagine his rage? We were not even conquered. We were deceived." She stopped, and then in a lower voice continued, "You do not care. You owe him nothing."

  He did not reply.

  "It is to me that you owe something," she said quietly.

  The two of them gazed at each other, while Gilpatrick looked puzzled. He couldn't imagine why the knight should owe his sister anything.

  "You are enjoying good fortune now, Welshman," she went on bitterly. "But it was not always so."

  "It is usual to be rewarded for twenty years of service," he pointed out.

  "Your English king has rewarded you. But it was I, like a fool, who caused you to be noticed when I gave you Dublin."

  "It was yourself you gave to me. Not Dublin."

  "You betrayed me." She said it sadly. "You hurt me, Welshman."

  He nodded slowly. Every word of it was true. He noticed Gilpatrick looking mystified.

  "What is it you want, Fionnuala?" he asked at last.

  "My brother still has two daughters to find husbands for. Leave him on his farm at least until they're wed."

  "That is all?"

  "What else could there be?"

  Did she, he fleetingly wondered, wish that she had married him? Or could she only hate him now? He would never know.

  "He must pay his rents," he said.

  "He will."

  He pursed his lips. He could imagine the future trouble his tenant would probably cause him. There would be years of sullen looks and anger. How could it be otherwise? Perhaps Fionnuala would be able to keep her brother in order, perhaps not. One day, no doubt, it would end with his kicking her brother off his ancestral land. That was just the way of things. But he supposed he could live with the fellow until these last two daughters had gone to their husbands with suitable dowries.

  "You ask nothing for yourself," he remarked. "Will your own daughters not be looking for good husbands? English knights perhaps?" For if they look like you, he thought to himself, that might not be impossible.

  She answered with a laugh. "My children? I've seven of them, Welshman, running free with the O'Byrnes in the hills. They won't be marrying English knights. But take care," she added, looking straight into his eyes, "for they may come down from the hills one day, to take their land back again."