Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [231]
“The man’s very clever,” Gilpatrick muttered. “He’s playing our own game even better than we do.”
Then there was the question of Dublin city. It was being given to the merchant community of Bristol, apparently, but no one was quite sure what that would mean. The Bristol men would have the same trading rights in Dublin as they had at home. The mighty city of Bristol had ancient privileges, huge fairs, and was one of the great gateways to the English market. Its merchants were rich. Did this mean that the port of Dublin would enjoy a similar status? The word was that the king also wanted the merchants and craftsmen who had left to return.
“It’s very hard to know at this stage,” the Palmer had remarked to him the day before, “but if the Bristol men bring in extra money and trade, this could actually turn out to be good for Dublin.”
What had really surprised Gilpatrick, however, was the news that he had learned that morning. And now, as they gazed at the huge royal camp, he imparted it to his father.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I had it from Archbishop O’Toole this morning.”
“The man murders an archbishop and then summons the bishops to a council? To discuss Church reform?” His father looked at him in stupefaction. “What does O’Toole say?”
“He’s going. He’s taking me with him. It’s not certain, you know, that King Henry was at fault.”
The question of whether King Henry had ordered the killing of Thomas Becket the previous Christmas was still being eagerly discussed all over Europe. The general feeling was that even though he probably hadn’t actually ordered the killing, he was still responsible for the fact that it happened, and therefore culpable. The Pope had not ruled on the matter yet.
“And where and when is this council to be?” asked his father.
“This winter. Down in Munster, I believe. At Cashel.”
During the autumn months, Una watched Fionnuala with interest and with concern. Ruairi O’Byrne had gone to Chester, but in the weeks before the arrival of King Henry, Brendan made two visits to Dublin. On each occasion he went to see Fionnuala before departing, but his intentions remained unclear. Fionnuala continued to spend time helping her at the hospital, perhaps to keep her mind off the situation. Una couldn’t tell. She could quite imagine that Brendan had other things on his mind than marriage at such a time.
It was soon after King Henry’s arrival that Brendan’s cousin reappeared in Dublin. They did not see him at first, but they heard that he had been spotted in the town. Whether he was just there for a few days before leaving again or whether he had some other plans, she did not know.
“I saw him down at the quay,” the Palmer’s wife told her one morning.
“What was he doing there?” she asked.
“Wasn’t he just playing at dice with the English soldiers?” she answered. “As if he’d known them all his life?”
Una met him the next day. Though the gates were open and the market was busier than ever, with all the English troops in the vicinity, Una did not feel inclined to go into the city usually; and when she did, she made a point of avoiding the lane where her own house was because it brought back memories that were too painful. But for some reason, as she came down from the Fish Shambles in the darkening afternoon, she decided to turn across that way for a quick look. And she had just glanced in through the gateway and observed her father’s little brazier, when she noticed, in the lane just in front of her, a figure sitting on the ground with his back to the fence. He was staring thoughtfully at the ground in front of him, but as she was about to go past, something about the hang of his head and the smell of ale told Una that he was drunk. She wasn’t in the least afraid, but as she skirted him so as not to step on him, she glanced down at his face and saw with astonishment that it was Ruairi.
Had he seen her? She didn’t think so. Should she speak to