Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [212]
“Ostmanby they call it, because so many of the Norse families went over there when we arrived. They had to build shelters beside the existing houses. Some of the poorer craftsmen and labourers are struggling to feed their families, so their wives and daughters come over here … I had a delicious one last week.”
Peter had soon come to the conclusion that most of his companion’s exploits were invented. Certainly the women he had seen on his brief visit across the bridge to Ostmanby hadn’t offered themselves to him, and the few loose women he had seen in the streets hadn’t looked very appetising. He’d decided he’d sooner do without.
The morning was spent sitting by the brazier playing dice with the men. He had expected the summer sun to burn off the mist, but though by late morning there was a faint brightness overhead, he couldn’t see thirty paces down the lane. As for the girl, her image was still there, floating vaguely like a spirit in his mind. And partly in the hope that this vaguely unsettling presence would float away and get lost in the mist, he decided at noon to go for a walk.
As he left the Fish Shambles, he intended only to go a short distance, keeping careful note of how he went, so that he could find his way back again; but he soon realised that he had failed to do so. He was fairly sure he was going westwards and after a while he supposed he might be getting close to the market by the western gate. The hospital where Fionnuala had been working lay outside that gate, he remembered. He might take a look at it. He’d probably get a sense of the place, even in the mist.
But after a while, he still hadn’t found the market. From time to time, figures appeared in the mist and if he’d been sensible he could have asked the way. But he hated asking directions. So he continued until at last he saw it. There were a couple of men-at-arms on sentry duty.
The mist outside the gate was so thick that he decided that, in order to see anything of the hospital, he’d have to go inside it. He almost turned back, but the sentries were watching him, so sooner than admit his mistake he continued past them casually, remarking: “I think I’ll see if the mist is lifting across the river.” And he made his way down the track towards the river.
It was silent on the bridge. He was alone. He could hear his own footfalls sounding dully on the timbers over the water. On his right, the ships by the wood quay appeared in the shrouds of mist like insects caught in a dewy spider’s web. He could see a hundred yards down the river, but as he went over he realised that the mist was finally starting to lift. Halfway across, he saw a patch of blue sky. Then he could see the mudflats on the Liffey’s northern side, and the scattered thatched roofs of the suburb beyond. To the left of the bridge end he caught sight of green, grassy banks in the sunlight. There was a sprinkling of yellow flowers. Then he saw …
Horsemen. All along the bank, coming out of the mist. Scores of them. Then footmen, carrying spears and axes. Hundreds. God knows how many. And in a few moments, they would be on the bridge.
It could mean only one thing. The High King had come. And he was about to take Dublin by surprise.
He turned. He started to run. He ran faster than he had ever run before, back across the misty bridge. He heard his own footfalls and he thought he heard his heart. Did he also hear the drumming of hoofbeats on the timbers, too? He didn’t think so but he didn’t dare look back. He reached the end of the bridge, raced up the track, came to the gate, and saw the two sentries staring at him in surprise. Only when he was through the gate did he turn, glance back at the empty path behind him, and order the sentries, “Close the gate. Quick.” And he told them what he’d seen. Then he set to work.
In the next few minutes, Peter FitzDavid acted quickly and decisively. Gathering some men-at-arms, he sent them flying to their tasks. One he despatched