Dublin (71 page)

  He hadn't wasted any time. Twenty-five days after he had landed at Waterford, he had settled all the affairs in southern Leinster and arrived at Dublin. Now he was holding court there in perfect safety, surrounded by an army of thousands. Even Gilpatrick's father was awestruck.

  "I didn't know," he quietly confessed, "there were so many soldiers in the world."

  And the kings and chiefs of Ireland had all been coming to submit to him, ever since he arrived on the island.

  The High King and the great men of Connacht and the west held aloof, but from every other province, willingly or unwillingly, the chiefs of the great Irish clans were seeking him out.

  Gilpatrick's father was contemptuous, but fatalistic.

  "They'll come into his house now, even quicker than they did to Brian Boru, because he has an army to compel them. But once he's gone, they'll forget their pledges quick enough."

  Gilpatrick, however, had noticed a subtler process at work. Henry, he realised, was a canny statesman. As soon as he arrived in Ireland, he had announced that he personally would take over Dublin and all its territories, Wexford, and Waterford. Strongbow was allowed to hold the rest of Leinster as his feudal tenant; but another great English magnate, the lord de Lacy, whom Henry had brought with him, was to remain in charge of Dublin as Henry's personal representative or viceroy. So on the face of it, any Irish chief looking to the eastern part of the island would see a traditional Irish arrangement: a king of Leinster, a king of Dublin, and some partly foreign ports. Behind them, however, would be a rival High King- far more powerful even than Brian Boru-a High King across the water. And if they wanted protection against the O'Connor High King in Connacht, as they might, or if Strongbow, or even de Lacy, started to behave as they themselves had always done and tried to encroach upon their territory, then wouldn't it be wise to come into the house of King Henry and have him as a protector against their neighbours, Irish or English? That was how things had always been done on the island. You paid tribute in cattle; you got protection. He's using his own lords to keep an eye on each other and to frighten the other chiefs into his camp as well, he thought.

  "The man's very clever," Gilpatrick muttered.

  "He's playing our own game even better than we do."

  Then there was the question of Dublin city. It was being given to the merchant community of Bristol, apparently, but no one was quite sure what that would mean. The Bristol men would have the same trading rights in Dublin as they had at home. The mighty city of Bristol had ancient privileges, huge fairs, and was one of the great gateways to the English market. Its merchants were rich. Did this mean that the port of Dublin would enjoy a similar status? The word was that the king also wanted the merchants and craftsmen who had left to return.

  "It's very hard to know at this stage," the Palmer had remarked to him the day before, "but if the Bristol men bring in extra money and trade, this could actually turn out to be good for Dublin."

  What had really surprised Gilpatrick, however, was the news that he had learned that morning. And now, as they gazed at the huge royal camp, he imparted it to his father.

  "You cannot be serious."

  "I had it from Archbishop O'Toole this morning."

  "The man murders an archbishop and then summons the bishops to a council? To discuss Church reform?"

  His father looked at him in stupefaction. "What does O'Toole say?"

  "He's going. He's taking me with him. It's not certain, you know, that King Henry was at fault."

  The question of whether King Henry had ordered the killing of Thomas Becket the previous Christmas was still being eagerly discussed all over Europe. The general feeling was that even though he probably hadn't actually ordered the killing, he was still responsible for the fact that it happened, and therefore culpable. The Pope had not ruled on the matter yet.

  "And where and when is this council to be?" asked his father.

  "This winter. Down in Munster, I believe. At Cashel."

  During the autumn months, Una watched Fionnuala with interest and with concern. Ruairi O'Byrne had gone to Chester, but in the weeks before the arrival of King Henry, Brendan made two visits to Dublin. On each occasion he went to see Fionnuala before departing, but his intentions remained unclear. Fionnuala continued to spend time helping her at the hospital, perhaps to keep her mind off the situation. Una couldn't tell. She could quite imagine that Brendan had other things on his mind than marriage at such a time.

  It was soon after King Henry's arrival that Brendan's cousin reappeared in Dublin. They did not see him at first, but they heard that he had been spotted in the town. Whether he was just there for a few days before leaving again or whether he had some other plans, she did not know.

  "I saw him down at the quay," the Palmer's wife told her one morning.

  "What was he doing there?" she asked.

  "Wasn't he just playing at dice with the English soldiers?" she answered. "As if he'd known them all his life?"

  Una met him the next day. Though the gates were open and the market was busier than ever, with all the English troops in the vicinity, Una did not feel inclined to go into the city usually; and when she did, she made a point of avoiding the lane where her own house was because it brought back memories that were too painful. But for some reason, as she came down from the Fish Shambles in the darkening afternoon, she decided to turn across that way for a quick look. And she had just glanced in through the gateway and observed her father's little brazier, when she noticed, in the lane just in front of her, a figure sitting on the ground with his back to the fence. He was staring thoughtfully at the ground in front of him, but as she was about to go past, something about the hang of his head and the smell of ale told Una that he was drunk. She wasn't in the least afraid, but as she skirted him so as not to step on him, she glanced down at his face and saw with astonishment that it was Ruairi.

  Had he seen her? She didn't think so. Should she speak to him? Perhaps not. She wasn't shocked. Most young men got drunk once in a while. She walked on a little way and then realised that she was going in the wrong direction, and so she'd have to retrace her steps anyway. With the November darkness drawing in, it was getting cold, and she thought she could feel a biting wind beginning. As she drew close to Ruairi she saw that now his eyes were closed. What if he stayed there in the darkness and nobody saw him or took any notice of him during the night? He'd freeze to death. She stopped and spoke his name.

  He blinked and looked up. In the darkness, she supposed he could not clearly see her face. His eyes were blank.

  "It is Una. From the hospital. Do you not remember me?"

  "Agh." Was it the beginning of a smile? "Una."

  Then he keeled over sideways and lay entirely motionless.

  She stood there several minutes to see if he came round. He didn't. Then a man came along the lane, pulling a handcart from the Fish Shambles. It was time to take action. "I am from the hospital," she told him. "This is one of our inmates. Could you help me get him home?"

  "We'll have him home in no time at all. Open your eyes, me darlin'," he shouted into Ruairi's ear. But when this had no effect he bundled him, not without a few jarring bumps, into the cart and started off behind Una, who led the way.

  Father Gilpatrick was rather surprised, late in November, to find Brendan O'Byrne at his door. He wondered for a moment whether, for some reason, Brendan wanted to discuss his sister with him and tried to think what he could say in her favour that would not be at variance with the truth.

  But it seemed that Brendan had more important business to discuss. Explaining that he had felt in need of advice, Brendan let him know further that he had come to him in particular because of his discretion and his knowledge of England after his residence there.

  "You will know," he continued, "that the O'Byrnes, like the O'Tooles, with their territories to the south and west of Dublin, have always had to take careful note of events both in Dublin and in Leinster. Now it seems we are to have English kings in both. The O'Byrnes are wondering what to do."

  Gilpatrick liked Brendan O'Byrne. With his quiet precision, he had the brain of a scholar. As far as Gilpatrick knew, the chief of the O'Byrnes had not yet come down to King Henry in his wicker palace. He told Brendan, therefore, exactly the game he thought Henry was playing in tempting the Irish kings into giving him homage by threatening them with Strongbow. "And note the man's cleverness," he added, "for as well as de Lacy in Dublin as a counterweight, Henry has Strongbow's other lands in England and Normandy which he can threaten any time Strongbow gives him any trouble."

  O'Byrne listened carefully. Gilpatrick could see that he had immediately appreciated all the finer points of the assessment. But his next question was even more impressive.

  "I am wondering, Father Gilpatrick, to what it is exactly that our Irish chiefs are swearing.

  When an Irish king comes into the house of a greater king, it means protection and tribute. But across the sea in England, it may mean something different. Can you tell me what that is?"

  "Ah. That is a good question that you have asked."

  Gilpatrick looked at him with admiration. Here was a man who looked for deeper causes.

  Wasn't this exactly the conversation he had started with the O'Connor High King andwiththe archbishop, neither of whom, he realised, had really understood what he was trying to tell them. Carefully he outlined to Brendan how the feudal system operated in England and in France.

  "A vassal of King Henry swears loyalty to him and promises to provide military service each year. If a knight cannot appear fully equipped and armed himself, he pays for a mercenary instead. So you might think that this is similar to the cattle tribute an Irish king would receive. A vassal also goes to his lord for justice, just as we do. But there the similarity ends. Ireland since time out of mind has been divided into tribal territories. When a chief swears an oath, he does so for himself, his ruling clan, his tribe. But over there, the tribes have long ago disappeared. The land is organised into villages of small farmers and the serfs, who are almost like slaves or chattels. They go with the land. And when a vassal there does homage, he isn't offering loyalty in return for protection, he's confirming his right to occupy that land, and the payments made will depend on its value."

  "Such arrangements are not unknown in

  Ireland," Brendan remarked.

  "That is true," Gilpatrick agreed. "At least since the time of Brian Boru, we have seen Irish kings grant estates to their followers on what would formerly have been thought of as tribal lands.

  But these are exceptions; whereas across the sea, everybody has to hold their land that way. Nor is that all. "When a vassal dies, his heir must pay the king a large sum in order to inherit-it's called the relief fine. There are numerous other obligations as well.

  "And in England in particular, an even harsher system operates. For when William the Norman took England from the Saxons, he claimed that all of it belonged to him personally by right of conquest. He had every square yard of England assessed for what it could yield and had it all written down in a great book. His vassals there only occupy their land on sufferance. If anyone gives trouble, he doesn't just come to punish them and take tribute. He takes the land away and gives it to anyone else he chooses. These are powers far beyond anything any High King in Ireland has ever dreamed of."

  "These English are harsh people."

  "The Normans are, to be precise. For some of them treat the Saxon English like dogs. An Irishman is a free man, within his tribe. The Saxon peasant is not. It has generally seemed to me," Gilpatrick confessed, "that these Normans care more for property than they do for people. Here in Ireland, we dispute, we fight, we sometimes kill, but unless we are truly angry, there is a human kindness and consideration among us." He sighed.

  "Perhaps it is just a question of conquest. After all, we ourselves are content to own English slaves."

  "Do you think any of our Irish princes imagine they could be making these English commitments when they come into Henry's house?" asked Brendan.

  "I don't suppose so."

  "Has Henry told them?"

  "Surely not."

  "Then I think I see," Brendan said thoughtfully,

  "how it will go. At a later date, the English-not Henry, who is clearly very devious-but the English lords will genuinely believe the Irish have sworn to one thing, and the Irish will think they have sworn to another, and both sides will mistrust the other." He sighed.

  "This Plantagenet king comes from the devil."

  "It has been said of all his family. What will you do?" "I do not know. But I thank you, Father, for your counsel. By the way," he said smiling,

  "I have not had the chance to see your family and your sister. Will you give them my greetings.

  Fionnuala especially, of course."

  "I will," Gilpatrick said as Brendan left.

  And a fine thing for this family it would be, he thought, if you married her. But you're far too good for her, Brendan O'Byrne. Far too good.