Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [211]
Gilpatrick’s parents indicated after a while that they wished to have some words with their son alone, so it was suggested that Fionnuala should show their guest round the little church. He duly admired it. Then Fionnuala took him across to Saint Patrick’s Well, and pointing to the dark pool and to the Thingmount in the distance, she told him the story of her ancestor and Saint Patrick and explained how old Fergus was buried there. Listening respectfully, Peter now understood what Gilpatrick had meant about his family’s ancient status. Looking at the girl, observing her beauty, her gentle seriousness, and her piety, he wondered if she might be contemplating the religious life—and hoped that she was not. It seemed a waste that she should not be married. He was sorry when it was time to return.
It had been agreed that this was to be only a short visit, but Gilpatrick’s parents were warm in their invitation that they should both return to be feasted and entertained in the Irish manner in the near future. Gilpatrick’s mother pressed a gift of sweetmeats upon him. As he escorted them to the gateway, Gilpatrick’s father gazed out over the estuary and remarked, “Take care tomorrow, Welshman, there’ll be a mist.” As the sky was entirely clear, Peter thought this unlikely, but he was too polite to say so.
As he and Gilpatrick walked away, Peter could not help bringing up the subject of Fionnuala.
“I see what you mean about your sister.”
“Oh?”
“She is altogether remarkable. A pious soul.”
She is?
“And very beautiful. Is she to be married soon?” he added, a little wistfully.
“Probably. My parents were telling me they have someone in mind.” He sounded rather vague.
“A lucky man. A prince, no doubt.”
“Something like that.”
Peter secretly wished he were in a position to ask for her himself.
When he opened his eyes the next morning, Peter glanced towards the open doorway and frowned. Had he woken too early? It seemed still to be dark.
There were six people in the place where he lodged. He and another knight occupied the house. Three men-at-arms and a slave slept in the yard outside. He’d heard that the place had belonged to a silversmith called MacGowan who had left the city when it was first taken. Nobody seemed to be stirring. Beyond the doorway there was a strange, pale greyness in the yard. He got up and went out.
Mist. Cool, damp, white mist. He couldn’t even see the gate a few yards away. The men were awake and sitting huddled under their blankets in the little shelter where the silversmith had presumably worked. They had stoked up the brazier. The slave was preparing some food. Peter found the gate. If there was anyone about in the lane, he could neither see nor hear them. The mist clung to his face, kissing him wetly. He supposed the sun would burn the mist away later; there’d be nothing much to do until then. Gilpatrick’s father had been right. He shouldn’t have doubted him. He returned to the yard. The slave had some oatcakes by the oven. He took one and munched thoughtfully. The oatcake smelled and tasted good. He thought of the girl. Though he had no recollection of dreaming during the night, it seemed to him that she had been in his thoughts while he slept. He shrugged. What was the point of thinking about a girl who was unattainable? He’d better put her out of his head.
There hadn’t been many women in Peter’s life. There was a girl with whom he’d spent some happy nights in a Wexford barn. In Waterford, he had experienced some weeks of vigorous lovemaking with a merchant’s wife while her husband was away on a voyage. But in Dublin the prospects did not look good. The place was full of soldiers and half the inhabitants had