Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [186]
Peter smiled at this complex web of relationships.
“Does this mean your family is princely, too?” he enquired.
“We are an old Church family,” Gilpatrick said, and seeing Peter look a little puzzled, he explained. “The custom in Ireland is somewhat different to that of other countries. There are ancient ecclesiastical families, greatly honoured, with ties to monasteries and churches; often those families are the kinsmen of kings and chiefs whose histories go back into the mists of time.”
“Your family is linked to a particular church?”
“We endowed our monastery, as you would say, at Dublin.”
“And your family history goes back into the mists of time?”
“The tradition,” Gilpatrick said impressively, “is that our ancestor Fergus was baptised at Dublin by Saint Patrick himself.”
It was the mention of the saint that had prompted Peter to ask another question.
“Your name is Gilla Patraic. That means ‘the Servant of Patrick,’ doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“I wondered why your father didn’t give you the saint’s name without any addition. Why not just ‘Patrick’? My name is a single Peter, after all.”
“Ah.” The priest nodded. “That is something you should know if you are going to spend time in Ireland. No good Irishman would ever be called Patrick.”
“They wouldn’t?”
“Only Gilla Patraic. Never Patrick.”
So it had been for centuries. No Irishman in the Middle Ages would dare to take the name of the great Saint Patrick for himself. It was always Gilpatrick: the Servant of Patrick. And so it would remain for centuries more.
He was a slim, dark, handsome young fellow. His grey eyes were unusual for they were curiously flecked with green.
It would have been hard not to like the priest, with his kindness, his not quite hidden pride in his family, and his obvious affection for them. Peter learned a little about his brothers, his pretty sister, and his parents. He did not quite understand what sort of senior churchman the priest’s father could be if he were married, nor what he meant by “our” monastery, but when he began to raise this subject, Father Gilpatrick hurried on to another subject and Peter had not pressed the matter further. It seemed clear not only that the friendly priest liked him personally but that he by no means disapproved of the presence of these Plantagenet vassals on his native soil. Peter was not sure why.
But it was one night on the ship that Peter saw something more, a deeper side to the Irishman. It turned out that Gilpatrick was a fine harpist, and that he could sing. He proved to be versatile. He knew some popular English ballads. He even gave them a saucy song of the troubadours from the south of France. But finally, as the night had grown deeper, he had turned to the traditional music of Ireland, and another kind of quiet had fallen over his listeners, Flemish though many of them were, as the soft, mournful melodies had come from the strings and floated out to haunt the waters of the sea. Afterwards, he had remarked to the priest, “It seemed to me that I was listening to your soul.”
His friend had given a quiet smile and responded, “They are traditional tunes. It’s the soul of Ireland you were hearing.”
And now the young priest was walking rapidly away. Peter watched him until he was out of sight, then remained on the shore observing the horses, glancing up from time to time at the hills that rose in the distance, and thinking to himself that the place was really not so unlike his native Wales. Perhaps, he considered, I might be happy if I settled here. When the opportunity arose, he would certainly pay a visit to the priest and his family in Dublin.
So he was most surprised, half an hour later, to see his friend returning.
Father Gilpatrick was smiling broadly. Beside him, on a small but sturdy horse, rode a splendid and rustic