Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [182]
And as he was sitting there, gazing across the river to the distant shore, it had struck Peter with a terrible force, that when he crossed the River Severn, he would be leaving everything he knew behind. For whatever his family’s troubles, Wales was his home. He had never lived anywhere else. He loved the green valleys, the coastline with its rocky outcrops and sandy coves. Though he spoke French to his parents, the tongue of his childhood was the Celtic Welsh of the local people with whom he had grown up. Once across the Severn, however, the people would speak English, of which he knew not a word. And after he got to Bristol and encountered the English, would he stay in that country or go farther away, across the seas, never perhaps to see his native land again? For a while he felt so sad he almost turned to go home again.
But he couldn’t go home. They loved him, but they didn’t want him. And late that afternoon, with a heavy heart, he had led his charger and his packhorse onto the big raft that would take them across the river.
Entering Bristol the following evening came as a revelation. He had seen some impressive stone castles in Wales and several great monasteries, but never before had he encountered a city. After London, Bristol was England’s greatest port.
He walked through its busy streets for a while before he found the house he was looking for and entered it with some trepidation, for the place had its own stone gateway, a cobbled court surrounded by timbered, gabled buildings, and a handsome hall with a high roof. His father’s friend, he saw at once, must be a man of great wealth.
And it was still more disconcerting when, on being ushered into the hall by a servant, it was immediately clear to him that the merchant was not entirely sure who he was. Some anxious moments passed while the merchant asked him not once but twice to repeat his father’s name. At last, while Peter felt himself blushing, the man seemed to recall who his father was, if not with great interest, and asked him how he could be of help.
The next two days were interesting, but not enjoyable. The merchant was a swarthy man. His father had been an Ostman, a Dane who had come from Ireland. With him he brought a Celtic name Dubh Gall—“the dark stranger”—which in Bristol they pronounced as Doyle. Though born in Bristol, the merchant had been given neither an English nor a Norman name, but instead had been christened Sigurd. No one used his first name, though. All Bristol referred to him as Doyle.
The dark stranger: he was certainly that. Dark and silent. He was hospitable enough: Peter even had an entire chamber to himself beside the hall. To Peter, as he would to any nobleman or substantial merchant, he spoke in the courteous tongue of Norman French. But he spoke little, and smiled not at all. Perhaps it was because he was a widower, Peter thought. Perhaps when his married daughters visited, or his sons returned home from their business in London, he would show a better humour. But for the two days that Peter was there, conversation was minimal. And since the numerous servants, grooms, and underlings spoke only English, he felt rather lonely.
The first morning, Doyle took him round the port. They visited his countinghouse, his warehouse, two of his ships down by the slave pens on the waterfront. Doyle was certainly still in full possession of his vigour; his dark eyes seemed to be everywhere; he spoke very quietly, but men watched him apprehensively and jumped to obey his orders when he gave them. By the end of the day, Peter had learned a good deal about the business of the port, the organisation of the town with its courts and aldermen, and its trade with other ports from Ireland to the Mediterranean. But he had also decided that Doyle was rather frightening.
This feeling was reinforced by a small incident that evening. He and the merchant had just sat down in the big hall and the servants were about to bring the food, when a young man of about his own age entered and, after bowing respectfully