Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [247]
In the case of the Ui Fergusa lands, the lord of the manor was the king himself, represented by the Justiciar. A steward handled the daily business. For convenience, so far, Gilpatrick’s brother had been left as the sole tenant farmer of the place; during the first few years, the rents demanded by the steward had been modest and Gilpatrick’s brother had rationalised these as the customary tribute due from an Irish chief to his king. With the arrival of Prince John’s new administrators, however, the situation had changed, and the trouble had begun. When the steward had demanded payments for the knight service due from the estate, Gilpatrick’s brother had failed to pay. Summoned to the lord of the manor’s court, he had failed to turn up. When the steward, a patient man, had come to see him, he had treated the royal servant with contempt.
“We have been chiefs here since before your king’s family was ever heard of,” he told the steward with perfect truth. “A chief does not answer to a servant. When the king is in Ireland again,” he had conceded, “I will come into his house.” The steward had said no more, but had gone away.
Yet was it, perhaps, his own fault, Gilpatrick now asked himself, that his brother had behaved so stupidly? If he hadn’t been busy with Church affairs, could he not have made sure that his own family’s position was secure and in proper order? It had been three weeks ago that his brother had arrived at his house. And the moment he had asked his question, Gilpatrick’s heart had sunk.
“Explain to me, Gilpatrick,” he had demanded, “what is a tenant-at-will?”
There were various kinds of men on any manorial estate. The lowest were the serfs, tied to the land, and little better than slaves. Above these came various classes, some of them specialist workers with clearly defined rights and duties. At the top of the hierarchy were the free tenants, holding a farm or two on formally contracted rents. These might be free farmers of substance, or even another feudal lord or a religious foundation with a cross-holding or part share in a manor. But below the free tenant lay a precarious class. The tenant-at-will was normally a freeman, able to come and go as he pleased, but he held his land in the manor on no fixed contract. The lord had the right to terminate his tenancy at any time.
When King Henry had taken the Ui Fergusa land, no one had ever bothered to obtain a proper charter. Because they had been left in place, Gilpatrick’s family had assumed they had security of tenure. After all, they’d been there a thousand years. Didn’t that make their position plain enough? Of course it didn’t, Gilpatrick thought, and he of all people should have known it.
The steward had struck a double blow. He had reminded the Justiciar that the next time the king needed to reward one of his men, the southern Ui Fergusa manor was still available. And now that the manor had just been granted, the steward had informed the new lord that he had a troublesome tenant. “However,” he had explained, “as there has never been any formal agreement, we can consider him as a tenant-at-will.” Last week the steward had gone down to see Gilpatrick’s brother and calmly informed him, “The new lord will be coming here shortly. He wants you out before he arrives. So pack up and leave.”
“And where am I to go?” Gilpatrick’s brother had furiously demanded. “Up into the Wicklow Mountains?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” the steward coolly answered, “you are free to go to hell.”
So now it was up to Father Gilpatrick to try to save the situation.
The realisation that the ancestral lands would probably be lost to the family, even in the female line, for the rest of time was a bitter one. Mercifully,