Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [235]
If only she had not spoken to Fionnuala. If only she had kept Ruairi’s confidence to herself, as indeed she should have done. She could never forgive herself, afterwards, for her foolishness. But so it was. For while they were working together, didn’t she like an idiot have to tell Fionnuala that young Ruairi was thinking of going to the Holy Land, and that she was worried about him.
Yet even then, she asked herself, what could have possessed the stupid girl to blurt out to him that very evening: “So it’s to Jerusalem you are going, is it Ruairi? And will there be plenty of drinking along the way?” Then she had laughed, and Ruairi had said nothing to Fionnuala, but he’d given Una a look of reproach that almost broke her heart. The next morning, he was gone.
And as if all this wasn’t bad enough, who could ever have supposed the reaction of Fionnuala when Una rightly rebuked her for treating poor Ruairi so shamefully. She laughed in Una’s face.
“You’re in love with him, Una,” she cried. “Don’t you know?”
“You’re a liar! Are you mad?”
“No more than you, Una, for falling in love with such a poor useless fellow.”
“He is not. I am not!” Una was so flustered and angry that she could hardly speak. And Fionnuala was still laughing, which made Una hate her even more. Then the foolish girl ran off and Una could only wonder, in her fury, how it was possible for people so completely to misunderstand.
She did not see Ruairi again until December. It was the day after Father Gilpatrick had gone down to Cashel for the big council there. Many of the royal camp had also left and Dublin was quieter than it had been recently. The Palmer’s wife had gone into the market. Just before Fionnuala was due to return home, she and Una were surprised to see the Palmer’s wife returning with a young man. It was Ruairi.
“I met him in the market,” she explained. “I wasn’t going to let this good young man leave us without coming to see our two girls here.”
If Ruairi had not particularly wanted to come, he had the good grace not to show it. He went to greet one or two of the inmates, which gave them pleasure; and he explained that he had been with his family recently. Una wanted to ask him about his plans for going on pilgrimage, but she didn’t like to. It was Fionnuala, after a few moments’ awkward pause, who made the conversation.
“Have you seen your cousin Brendan?” she asked. “He’s not been here this last few weeks.”
“I have.” Did he look a little uncomfortable? Una thought he did; and when she glanced at Fionnuala it seemed that she had thought so, too.
“He’s keeping well, then, is he?” Fionnuala pursued.
“Oh. Ah, he is, indeed. Always well is Brendan.”
“Is he getting married yet?” Fionnuala continued boldly. And now it was clear that Ruairi was truly embarrassed.
“There is talk of it, I believe. One of the O’Tooles. But I couldn’t say if the thing is definite. No doubt,” he added wryly, “I’ll be one of the last to know.”
No, Una thought, it’s Fionnuala who’ll be the last to know; and she looked at her friend with compassion. But Fionnuala was putting a brave face on it.
“Well he’s a fine man to be sure,” she said. “His wife may not have cause to laugh very often; but so long as she’s of a serious disposition she’ll be happy I’m sure.” She smiled brightly. “Are you going back into Dublin, Ruairi?”
“I was.”
“Then you can walk with me, as I’m on my way home.”
Fionnuala never mentioned Brendan after that. As for Ruairi, Una didn’t see him again. She heard once or twice that he’d been in Dublin and asked Fionnuala if she’d seen or heard of him; but Fionnuala said that she hadn’t.
The rock of Cashel. It was seventy years since an O’Brien king had