Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [253]
It was a small incident at this time which had taught him what all this meant for his own identity.
The family had been installed at the castle only a few months when the officer from Dublin rode up. It was a fine morning and young John had just decided to ride over to see one of his Walsh cousins on a neighbouring farm. As usual when he went about in the locality, he was wearing only a shirt and tunic; his legs were bare and he was riding his little horse without a saddle. He might well have passed for one of the young O’Byrnes. The man riding up the lane from Dublin was as smartly dressed and turned out as any English knight, and John watched him, not without admiration. As the man drew up in front of the castle gate, he glanced at John and enquired curtly whether Walsh was within.
“Who shall I say is looking for him?” John asked.
The knight frowned, uncertain whether this young fellow before him belonged to the castle or not; and meaning only to be helpful, John had smiled and explained: “I’m John Walsh, his son.”
He hadn’t expected any particular response to this statement; so he was much taken aback by what happened next. For instead of merely nodding, the knight stared at him openmouthed.
“You are Walsh’s son? Walsh, the warden of this castle?” A look of disgust crossed his face. “And your father lets you ride about like that?”
John looked down at his legs and his bareback horse. It was already obvious to him that this young knight must be a newcomer, one of a company who had recently arrived from England to help the Justiciar in Dublin. All the same, under the contemptuous gaze of the nobleman, he felt a little shamefaced.
“I was only riding to another farm,” he said defensively.
“Dear God, man,” the knight cried out, “you don’t have to dress like a native.” And seeing the youth looking confused, he told him sharply, “Pull yourself together.” Then without another word to him, he rode in through the castle gate.
At first, John had intended to continue on his journey; but he had only gone fifty paces when he had stopped and turned back. The knight was rude—he obviously knew little about Ireland—but John did not like to be scorned by a man who was, after all, one of his own kind. A short while later, therefore, he was in his mother’s chamber, having his hair vigorously brushed and struggling into a clean white shirt and leather boots. By the time the knight was ready to ride out, he encountered in the yard a young man who might have been a handsome squire in any English castle.
“Better,” he remarked tersely as he strode past him; and having mounted, he signalled John to accompany him through the gateway. As they came outside, he pulled up his horse and pointed to the rich pastureland in front of them. “Tell me something, young Walsh,” he said in a voice that was more friendly. “Do you want to keep this land?”
“Yes, I do,” John replied.
“Then you had better realise that the only way you’ll do so is if you remember you’re an Englishman.” And with that brief advice, he rode away.
Standing on his castle wall today, twenty years later, Walsh would not have disagreed with the knight’s assessment. The King of England’s rule, in some shape or form, extended over parts of Ireland; but since the early days of colonial expansion in the time of Henry II and his son, there had been a gradual retreat. The island now was divided up between the native Irish and the colonists in a vast patchwork of territories, representing a series of accommodations or stalemates. The English rulers were on the defensive, not only against the Irish ruling clans but even against some of the settlers who, after five or six generations in the borderlands, were more like Irish chiefs themselves, and almost as hard to control. When the English administrators in Dublin looked out at the uncertain world around them, they could