Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [241]
“Will you be moving to Dublin yourself, to live?” he enquired.
“Not at present,” Doyle replied. “I’ve a young partner who’ll be looking after things for me here, for the time being. He’s very competent.”
“You’ve no family in Dublin, then?” the Palmer ventured.
“Waterford’s where we came from. I have a few relations there,” Doyle answered. Then, for the first time, he smiled. “The last of my family that was in Dublin left his body here. At the battle of Clontarf. A Norseman like yourself, but Danish. One of the old sea rovers.”
“There were many brave men died in that battle,” Ailred agreed. “I might have heard of him.”
“You might. To tell you the truth,” Doyle continued, “the family in Waterford never knew a great deal about him except that he was a tremendous fighter. He was one of those that attacked the camp of Brian Boru. He may have struck a blow at the king himself for all I know.”
It was evident that the swarthy Bristol merchant, dour though he was, felt pride in this ancestor.
“And what happened to him?” the Palmer asked.
“We never discovered. They say he went off in pursuit of the enemy and was never seen again. Killed by the guards of Brian Boru, I dare say.”
“And what was his name?”
“Sigurd,” the merchant said proudly. “The same as mine. Sigurd.”
“Ah,” said Ailred.
“You have heard of him?” Doyle was almost eager.
“I might have,” said Ailred. “I would have to think, but I might have.”
There seemed little doubt of it. This must be the Sigurd who had come out to his ancestor Harold’s farmstead and been killed by the priest. Who would know of him now, he wondered? Probably only himself, and the family of Fionnuala, no doubt. Evidently Doyle had no idea of his ancestor’s evil reputation. And here the Palmer was, his honest fortune lost, about to beg a favour from this descendant of a vicious murderer, who thought his ancestor a hero. For a moment, just for a moment, he was tempted to humiliate this man who had gained power over him; but then he thought of poor little Una, and his own good nature prevailed.
“I think I heard,” he said without lying, “that he was a devil of a man.”
“That would be him,” said Doyle, with satisfaction.
In the slight lull that followed, it seemed that the Bristol merchant might be about to introduce another topic of conversation, but seeing that the discussion about his ancestor had brought him so much pleasure, Ailred now seized the opportunity to raise the delicate subject of Una.
“I have,” he proceeded, “a small kindness to ask of you.” He saw Doyle’s eyes grow wary, but he pressed on and briefly explained the sad case of Una and her father. “You see my situation here,” Ailred continued. “I could give the family temporary shelter but … Could you see your way to helping them?”
Doyle looked at him steadily. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but somewhere in his dark eyes Ailred thought he saw a faint gleam of amusement. He didn’t know the reason, unless perhaps the Bristol man was reflecting on the irony of his own fall from prosperity and his having to beg like this. But those who ask favours cannot afford resentments, so he waited patiently for Doyle’s response.
“I was going to put my young partner in there,” Doyle remarked. “He mightn’t like to lose his lodgings. I am not in the habit,” he added quietly, “of doing favours for people I don’t know and to whom I owe nothing.”
If this was a warning to the Palmer not to presume too far, Ailred took it and said nothing in reply. But his wife, ever kindly, went on.
“We have always felt,” she said sweetly, “that we gained more happiness from the work we do in this hospital than we ever did from our former good fortune. I am sure,” she smiled at him gently, “that you have given and received kindnesses before in your life.”
Ailred had glanced at Doyle rather