Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [209]
They were a curious couple to look at: the priest, tall and rangy, his wife short and stout; but they were devoted to each other. Nor did Gilpatrick’s mother blame her husband for putting off this part of his duty for so long. She understood very well that he was afraid. Who wouldn’t be, when the problem was Fionnuala?
“If we don’t marry her soon, I don’t know what people will say. Or what she’ll do,” she added.
It should have been the easiest thing in the world. Wasn’t she good-looking? Wasn’t she the daughter of the chief of the Ui Fergusa? Couldn’t her father afford to give her a handsome dowry? It wasn’t as if she had a bad reputation. Yet.
But in her mother’s view it was only a matter of time. If when she first returned from the Palmer’s, her father remarked that Fionnuala seemed to have improved, her mother had watched her with more scepticism. She had tried not to quarrel with her daughter and she had kept her busy; but after a few weeks the signs of stress had begun to occur again. There had been tantrums and sulks. More than once Fionnuala had run out of the house and not come back all day. Her parents had suggested she should return to the Palmer’s, but she had refused; and on the occasions when they met Una in the town, it was clear that a coolness had developed between the two girls. “We’d better get her safely married,” her mother declared.
It wasn’t as if no thought had ever been given to the subject. Fionnuala was sixteen now. Her father had been talking about finding her a suitor for years. But if he’d been lazy when she was younger, she suspected he was nervous now. There was no knowing how Fionnuala would react to anyone they proposed. “She’ll certainly know how to put them off if she wants to,” her father remarked glumly. “God knows whom she’ll insult.” There was also the question of dowry. Negotiating with the future husband was always an anxious process. If word got out that Fionnuala was difficult, “twelvescore cattle won’t be enough,” her father said bitterly. The whole business seemed so likely to lead to costly embarrassment that the priest had to admit he had been secretly putting it off every month.
“Anyway,” his wife now said coaxingly, “I might have a candidate.”
“You might?”
“I was talking to my sister. There’s one of the O’Byrnes.”
“O’Byrne?” This was promising news indeed. His wife’s sister had done well when she married into that family. The O’Byrnes, like the O’Tooles, were one of the finest princely families in northern Leinster.
“It wouldn’t be Ruairi O’Byrne?”
“It would not.” Even the O’Byrne family, amongst its many members, had the occasional weak link. Ruairi, as it happened, belonged to the senior branch of the family; but young though he was, he had already acquired a dubious reputation. “I am speaking,” she continued, “of Brendan.”
This was quite another matter. Though only a junior member of the princely clan, the priest had always heard that Brendan was a sound fellow. For his daughter in her present state to marry any O’Byrne, apart from Ruairi, should be counted a blessing.
“Have they ever met?” he enquired.
“He saw her once in the market. It seems he asked my sister about her.”
“Let him come here,” said her husband, “as soon as he likes.” And he might have said more had not one of the slaves appeared to tell them that Gilpatrick was approaching.
Of course Gilpatrick had been glad to see his old friend when Peter had turned up at his door.
“You told me to come to see you if ever I came to Dublin,” FitzDavid said with a smile.
“I did. Aha. I did,” said Gilpatrick. “Once a friend, always a friend.”
It wasn’t quite true. You couldn’t ignore the fact that things had changed. Even amongst the churchmen with the closest English connections, the murder of Becket had soured their view of the English king. Gilpatrick’s father never missed the opportunity to remark to him, “Your English king is still a friend to the Church, I see.” And the disturbing new presence of Strongbow and his army had begun to worry many of the bishops. Gilpatrick