Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [107]
“Row, lads,” he called out to the two men already in the boat; and as Harold and Morann watched from the side of the quay, the boat raced swiftly out into the waters. From the dark man there came a contemptuous laugh, and then, from the reddening waters, as the black shape of the boat slipped away downstream, his voice came calling again. “I’ll try to come to your wedding.”
For some time the two men stood there.
“What was that about?” Morann finally asked.
“An old family quarrel.”
“Does he really mean to kill you?”
“Probably. But I’ll kill him.” Harold turned. “So are we going to your house for supper?”
“We are. Of course we are.” Morann forced a smile.
But as they made their way up Fish Shambles in the lengthening shadows he wondered what to tell his wife. And the girl. If the black-haired fellow comes to the wedding, he thought, I’d better kill him myself.
It was early the following morning that Osgar received a visit from Caoilinn’s father. It had been made to seem like a casual encounter, but Osgar suspected that the craftsman had been waiting near the monastery wall for some time before he happened to walk by. Though his kinsman from Dyflin had similar aquiline features, he was shorter and more thickset than Osgar and, unusual for the family, he was balding. As he stood there before the aristocratic young man, it seemed to Osgar that he detected a trace of awkwardness in his manner.
But he was not the only one, thought Osgar, who is feeling awkward. There was nothing to be done, however. He must wait for the man to speak. They went through a few of the usual pleasantries which must precede any important matter. Then, as he knew it must, it came.
“We shall be thinking of finding a husband for Caoilinn soon.”
It had begun. He knew it couldn’t be avoided. He gazed at the older man, wondering what to say.
“She’ll have a good dowry,” his kinsman went on. It was more than two centuries since any father on the island had been able to secure the ancient bride price. Fathers had to find dowries for their daughters now, which was often a heavy burden—though an important son-in-law could always be a valuable asset.
Osgar certainly represented a good catch. There was no doubt about that. Twenty-one years old, he was a strikingly handsome young man. Sparely built but athletic, with his finely drawn face and natural elegance, Osgar also had a quiet dignity, almost a reserve, that impressed people. Many thought he would be the future chief of the Ui Fergusa. Not only to the family but to the monks at the monastery as well, he had become a figure to respect.
Osgar loved the family’s little monastery. He was almost as proud of it as his uncle. “Let us never forget,” his uncle would say, “that Saint Patrick came here.”
It was remarkable how, in the last few centuries, the legend of Saint Patrick had grown. Largely because the diocese in the north where he had been based—Armagh—wanted to be considered the oldest and most important bishopric in Ireland, a great medieval propaganda campaign had been launched, through the chronicles and other documents and records, to prove Armagh’s point. Earlier bishops and their communities were practically written out of the story; bishops from Patrick’s own time were turned into his disciples; the northern mission was now said to have covered the whole island. Even the snakes, who were never there, were supposed to have been banished by the saint. At Dubh Linn, one of the three ancient wells had been named after him and a chapel built at the site. “And let us not forget, either,” Osgar’s uncle would remind them, “that our ancestor Fergus received baptism from Saint Patrick himself.”
“He was dead at the time,” his eldest son had rudely remarked upon one occasion.
“Raised from the dead,” the abbot had roared. “The greater the miracle. And remember also,” he would admonish, “that there have been no better Christians and no finer scholars than those of this island. For it was we who kept the flame of the faith alive when all the rest of Christendom was in darkness, we who converted the