Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [197]
Gilpatrick knew that his father had a point. There had been many clashes of will between popes and monarchs, including the kings of France, England, and even the Holy Roman Emperor about whether the Church’s vast lands and its army of churchmen were subject to royal control. At this very time King Henry of England was locked in a furious dispute with Archbishop Thomas Becket of Canterbury over just this issue—and there were senior churchmen in England who thought that the king was in the right. It was the ancient tension between king and priest that was probably as old as human history.
“And I will ask you one thing more,” said his father. “Have you seen a copy of Pope Adrian’s letter in which he tells the king to come to Ireland?”
“I believe I have.” The letter had become widely known.
“What is the condition that the Pope makes, what thing must the King of England do to obtain a blessing for his conquest? It is mentioned not once, but twice,” he added nastily.
“Well, there is the question of the tax, of course …”
“A penny to be levied upon every household in the land, and sent to Rome each year. Peter’s Pence!” the older man cried. “It’s the money they want, Gilpatrick. The money.”
“It’s only right and proper, Father, that …”
“Peter’s Pence.” The older man raised his finger and stared so fiercely at his son that Gilpatrick could almost imagine that he was being admonished by a grey-bearded druid from ancient times. “Peter’s Pence.”
And then, suddenly, the older man turned away from his son in disgust. If Gilpatrick did not understand even now, then what could he say? It was not the money. It was the spirit of the thing which offended him. Could Gilpatrick really not see that? For seven centuries, the Irish Church had been an inspiration to all Christendom because of its spirit. The spirit of Saint Patrick, of Saint Colum Cille, Saint Kevin, and many others. Missionaries, hermits, princes of Ireland. It had always seemed to him that the Irish had been touched in some special way, like the chosen people in ancient times. Be that as it might, Christianity was a mystic communion, not a set of rules and regulations. It was not that he was ignorant of the ways of other countries. He had met priests from England and France in the port of Dublin. But he had always sensed in them a legalistic mentality, a love of logical games that repulsed him. Men like these did not belong in the beloved silences of Glendalough; they could never fashion the Book of Kells. They might be priests but they were not poets; and if they were scholars, then their scholarship was dry.
It was therefore with a sense of bitterness towards more than just his son that the old man now, standing in front of the Thingmount where Fergus himself lay buried, hotly declared, “You will come to Lorcan’s wedding, Gilpatrick, because he is your brother and he will be hurt if you do not. You will come also because I order you to do so. Are you understanding me?”
“Father, I cannot. Not if he marries his brother’s wife.”
“Then you needn’t trouble,” his father shouted, “to enter my house again.”
“Surely, Father …” Gilpatrick began. But his father had turned on his heel and walked away. And Gilpatrick knew, sadly, that it was useless to follow him. A week later, the wedding was announced. In June it took place, and Gilpatrick was not there. In July, seeing his father by the entrance of Christ Church, Gilpatrick started towards him; but his father, as he saw him coming, turned away, and Gilpatrick, after a moment’s hesitation, decided not to follow him. August passed and they did not speak. September came.
And then there were other,