Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [206]
Una had been so startled and frightened that she had forgotten even to scream.
“Help!” she shouted, as loud as she could. “Rape!” Nothing happened. She shouted again.
The soldier didn’t seem to be bothered. His jerkin was loose now. Una suddenly realised that, even if they cared, no one would be taking notice of her cries. The nearby houses were probably all taken by English troops, and they wouldn’t even understand her. She took a deep breath, to scream.
And then he made one mistake. Stripping off his jerkin, just for a moment, he let go of her arm. It was only a moment, but that was all she needed. She knew what she must do. She had never done such a thing before, but she wasn’t a fool. He saw her opening her mouth to scream, but he didn’t see her kick until it was too late.
She gave it everything she had. He felt a sudden, searing flash of pain in his groin. He doubled over, his hands clutching his stomach in agony.
She fled. Before he could even straighten up, she was through the gate. She started to run down the street, hardly knowing which way she went. She saw a group of soldiers in her path. It seemed they were parting to let her through. She heard his voice behind her.
“Thief! Stop her!”
Powerful arms were holding her. She tried to get free, but they lifted her off the ground. There was nothing she could do. The soldier was coming along the street now. He was limping and his face was contorted with fury. She didn’t know whether he was going to try to rape her again, but he obviously meant to get even. He had come up with them now. He was thrusting his face into hers.
“What is this?” Another voice. Peremptory. From behind her. The men were drawing apart.
“A thief.” Her accuser’s voice, shaken but surly. She saw a dark robe, looked up.
It was Father Gilpatrick.
“Rape.” It was all that she could say. She indicated the man with the unshaven face. “He tried … I’d gone into our house …” It was enough. The priest turned on them furiously.
“Villains!” he shouted. She did not understand all of what he said, because he was speaking in English. But she heard several things she recognised. Hospital of Saint John. Archbishop. King Diarmait. The men were looking confused. Her attacker, she saw, had gone very pale. Moments later, Father Gilpatrick was leading her away.
“I told them you’re under Church protection at the hospital. I shall complain to the archbishop. Are you hurt?” he gently enquired. She shook her head.
“I kicked him in the groin and got away,” she told him frankly.
“Quite right, my child,” he said. Then she told him about the missing strongbox and the coin in the soldiers hand. “Ah,” he said sadly. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done about that.”
He accompanied her all the way to the hospital, talking to her quietly as they went, so that by the time they got back, she was not only feeling better but even had the chance to observe, which had never struck her before, how uncommonly handsome the young priest was. When they arrived at the hospital, the Palmer’s wife put her straight to bed and brought her warm broth and comfort.
By the next morning, Una was over her fright and seemed to all the inmates at the hospital to be her usual self. But she wasn’t. Nor in the weeks and months that followed would she ever feel easy with herself again. It was not the near escape she had experienced that troubled her: that was soon enough forgotten. It was another thought, insidious as it was unfair, which would not leave her.
My father has lost everything he has. And it is all my fault.
III
1171
Peter FitzDavid smiled. A summer’s day. The soft, warm light seemed to be rolling down from the Wicklow Mountains and drifting in from the wide blue curve of the bay. Dublin at last.
He’d been waiting a long time to come to Dublin. Last autumn, when Strongbow and King Diarmait had come up here, he’d been left down south guarding the port of Waterford. Peter had performed his tasks well, but by the time Strongbow had retired to Waterford in the winter he seemed to have nearly forgotten