Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [213]
When he reached the old hall where Strongbow had taken up residence, he found the magnate, accompanied by a dozen knights, about to mount his horse to find out what was going on. He was looking angrily round, demanding answers and receiving none.
“Who started this alarm?” he had just demanded of a nervous-looking commander.
“I did,” Peter called out as he came towards him.
A pair of cold blue eyes fixed upon him.
“And who the devil are you?”
It was his moment.
“Peter FitzDavid,” he said boldly. Quickly and succinctly he told Strongbow what he’d seen. “I’ve closed the bridge and western gate and sent men to all the others.”
“Good.” The great man’s eyes narrowed. “You were with Diarmait, weren’t you?” He gave Peter a nod to let him know he was remembered. Then he turned to his knights. “You know what to do. Raise the garrison. Go!”
By midafternoon the weather was clear and bright. The people of Dublin looked over their walls to see the forces of the High King on every side. As well as the clans under his direct control, there were those of the great chiefs who acknowledged his authority. The ancient Ulaid of Ulster were camped out at Clontarf. The O’Brien, descendants of Brian Boru, had their forces on the city’s western boundary. King Diarmait’s brother, who had decided not to support Strongbow like Diarmait’s sons, had brought his forces and was camped across Dublin’s southern coastal approaches. Every supply route to the city by land or sea was blocked. The High King’s army was camped in a great ring round the walls with forward posts to watch each gate for any sign of an English attempt to break out.
Late in the afternoon, from a vantage point above the wood quay, Peter saw Archbishop O’Toole ride across the bridge with a party of priests to begin the negotiations. He noticed that Gilpatrick was one of them.
The next morning the city was shrouded in mist again. Strongbow had every wall manned. Peter was sent out on foot with a scouting party to look for any sign of the besiegers mounting a surprise attack. When he’d asked Strongbow if he meant to mount a surprise breakout himself, however, the magnate had shaken his head.
“No point,” he said. “I can’t direct an army if I can’t see it.”
Peter returned from his patrol without finding any sign of enemy movement. It was eerie walking about in the city afterwards. Though the sentries on the wall were silent, every time a figure loomed out of the mist in the street, he half expected it to be an enemy. News came that once the mist cleared, the archbishop would go out to negotiate again. Peter went back to his lodgings and found them empty. He sat down by the brazier, and waited.
Time passed. The mist did not seem to be lifting at all. In the quietness, everything felt slightly unreal. As he looked across the yard to the gate, Peter could see only the whiteness beyond, as if the little yard had been transported, by some strange magic, into a separate world that was hidden in a cloud.
When the shape appeared outside the gateway, he assumed it was the knight. When it hovered there like a ghost instead of coming in, he wondered if it might be a thief, and glancing across to the bench where his sword was lying, he prepared to spring. Sitting where he was, he realised that he was not easily visible from the gate, so he kept still, making no sound. The figure continued to hover, obviously looking into the yard. Finally, it glided in. It had a hood over its head. It came towards the brazier. Only when he could almost reach out to touch it did he recognise the figure.
The girl. Fionnuala.