Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [226]
There was no one about. If Una was watching from somewhere, she had made herself scarce. They entered the room, in which Fionnuala had already lit two candles and placed a little food. She reached up and stroked his tonsured head. “Now I shall think,” she said slyly, “that it’s a priest I have for a lover.” She gazed at him, puzzled. “How will you explain your bald head in the next few days?”
“I’ll cover it,” he said.
“And you did all this for me?”
“I did,” he lied. “And I’d do it again.”
They talked for a while. Before they made love, Peter removed his priest’s robe. Fionnuala noticed that he also took off a stiff pad that was strapped round his lower back. “Backache,” he explained sheepishly. “I’ll massage it,” she said.
It was nearly dawn when she awoke to find that he had gone.
Peter had moved carefully, but swiftly. After letting himself out of the hospital’s northern gate, he had followed the same route as before. By dawn, he was approaching the little wooded rise he had marked out the day before. His vantage point was already chosen: a tall tree with a commanding view. In the early light of the day, he climbed up to the branch he had selected. From there, parting the leaves, he could see the opposite riverbank, down which the Irish king’s men would come; he also had a clear view eastwards towards Dublin. In the distance, he could see the southern headland of the bay. The city’s low ridge was mostly obscured by the intervening woods. But it was possible to make out, quite clearly, the roof of Christ Church Cathedral. Slowly now, he loosened the straps round his waist and pulled the pad from his back. Taking his time, he unwrapped the cloth covering and extracted the thin, hard object from its centre. He inspected it carefully. Not a mark or a blemish.
It was a metal plate of polished steel. Strongbow had given it to him. It was so highly polished that you could see every pore of skin on your face in its reflection. The magnate used it as a mirror. Peter held it, keeping its polished surface towards him. He did not want to risk giving his position away. He looked eastwards and smiled. The sky was clear. Time passed. The eastern sky grew lighter, then red, then gold: it began to shimmer. And then, over the distant bay, he saw the fiery orb of the rising sun.
Everything was ready. There was a risk, of course, that when he sent the signal he would give himself away. If the Irish besiegers caught him, they would surely kill him. He’d have done the same in their place. But that was a small risk compared to the favours he could expect from Strongbow if the operation succeeded. He was excited, but he waited patiently. It grew warmer. The sun was rising over the bay.
The High King’s patrols would be out now. He had seen some of them leaving the royal camp. Midmorning passed and there was no sign of activity. The patrols were out later than yesterday. Perhaps they would not bathe after all. He cursed under his breath. Another hour went by; it was nearly noon. Then, at last, he saw that something was happening at the camp. Above the riverbank, he saw a group of men appear, bearing a large object; but he couldn’t decide what it was. They set their burden down at the top of the slope. Now more men were coming. It looked as if they were carrying buckets. They kept coming and going, swarming round the big object. And now he understood what they were doing. It was a huge tub they were filling. He knew