Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [210]
“You haven’t changed at all,” he cried.
That wasn’t true either. And now, as they made their way up to his parents’ house, he glanced at Peter FitzDavid and thought that, though he could see the same boyish face and innocent hope, there was something else in his friend now. A hint of anxiety. For the fact was that, although Peter had been on active service for three years, no one had rewarded him with so much as a single cow.
“You must get yourself some land, Peter,” he remarked kindly. It was strange, he realised, that he, an Irishman, should be saying such a thing to a foreign mercenary. In traditional Ireland, of course, a warrior would be rewarded with livestock which he could pasture on the open lands of his clan; but at least since Brian Boru, Irish kings like Diarmait of Leinster had been known to reward their followers by granting them estates which lay on what would formerly have been considered to be tribal lands. Yet if you failed to obtain material rewards, he reflected, the traditional system was kinder. A brave warrior returned to his clan with honour. A feudal knight, though he might have a loving family, had no clan system to support him. Until he got an estate, though he might be a man of honour, he had no substance. The Irish priest felt a little sorry for his foreign friend.
If Gilpatrick had also been a little uncertain what sort of reception FitzDavid would receive from his father, he needn’t have worried. His father welcomed Peter with stately dignity. And for his part, Peter observed that the priest’s stone house was well furnished and comfortable enough, even if he did notice with wry amusement that the churchman kept a gold-rimmed drinking skull in the corner.
No mention was made of Becket. His parents asked the visitor about his family and his experiences with King Diarmait in the south. And when at last his father couldn’t resist remarking that, as a priest, he felt a little nervous of the English king, “seeing what he does to archbishops,” Peter passed this off by laughing. “We’re afraid of him, too.”
If any proof of his father’s friendliness were needed, it came when he remarked to his son, “I would not really say your friend was English.”
“My family was Flemish, in fact,” Peter said.
“But you were born in Wales? And your father before you?”
“That is true,” Peter agreed.
“You speak Irish almost like one of us, I would say. That would be because you speak Welsh?”
“All my life.”
“Then I think,” said the Irish chief, “that you are Welsh.” He turned to his wife.
“He is Welsh.” She smiled.
“You’re Welsh.” Gilpatrick grinned.
“I am Welsh,” Peter wisely agreed.
And it was just as this fact about his identity had been established that a new figure appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, Welshman,” said the chief, his voice suddenly lowering, “this is my daughter, Fionnuala.”
It seemed to Peter FitzDavid, as she stepped through the doorway, that Fionnuala was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. With her dark hair, her pale skin, her red mouth: wasn’t she the perfect object of any man’s desire? If her brother Gilpatrick’s eyes were curiously flecked with green, Fionnuala’s were an astounding pure emerald. Yet what struck him most, after only the briefest acquaintance, was her modesty.
How demure she was. Most of the time her eyes were downcast. She spoke to her parents and her brother with a respectfulness that was charming.