Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [268]
In the end, however, fatigue overcame even his fear, and Tom Tidy wearily went back inside and got into bed. But before he did so, he did something which he had never done before: he barred the door.
The next morning Tom went straight to MacGowan and told him he was leaving for Dublin.
“You’ve no need to worry at all,” MacGowan told him. “I’ll be round at your house every day. I’ll keep an eye on the place.” He’d bring Tom’s remaining horses to his own house, he promised. “You’re doing the right thing, Tom,” he assured him. Tom could see that his friend was quite relieved. Back at his house, he harnessed his two best horses to the big cart and took one more horse on a lead rein behind. Then he set out to Dublin.
He couldn’t help feeling a welcome sense of relief as he came down the long, straight line of Saint Francis’s Street, where the high-gabled houses pressed close together and came out onto the open crossroads where he turned right to enter the city. A hundred yards behind him stood Ailred the Palmer’s old hospital; on his right, the green where the big summer fairs were held; and in front of him, the great western gate—more splendid than ever since it had been rebuilt with its two bulky towers and a little gaol. Through the western gate he went, therefore, with a shade more confidence than he had felt before, and was soon at MacGowan’s brother’s house.
“How long will you be staying?” MacGowan’s brother asked. “Michael told me you might be coming,” he added, without further comment. No doubt he was glad to see his brother’s friend, if not overjoyed.
“Perhaps a week or two,” Tom said, suddenly feeling that he was imposing on the other’s good nature too much.
The craftsman’s house was quite spacious, with a big backyard. His wife and children looked a little surprised to see Tom, but made him welcome and insisted that he sleep in the house beside the kitchen rather than in the loft over the stable as he had offered. A good Irishman would have known how to sink comfortably down on a bench and pass the time of day for a few hours without worrying himself; but although he had lived in Ireland all his life, Tom Tidy’s English nature would not allow him to rest so easy. True, he did sit for an hour, and it was all as friendly as could be; but somehow after that, he felt he was in the way, and making an excuse he went out for a walk.
The house was only a short step from the fine old church of Saint Audoen, which lay just within the former riverside wall. Below the wall, the ground descended a short, steep slope, past some cookhouses and bakeries, to the level area of the land reclaimed from the river. There were views of the Liffey from the old wall by the church, and with the pleasant smell of the bakeries below it should have been considered a pleasant place. But to Tom Tidy in his present mood, its grey stones were gloomy, and even the tall shape of Saint Audoen’s seemed oppressive. After walking about there for a while, he felt no more at ease and, not wishing to return to the house yet, he wandered off in the direction of the crown of the city’s ridge and the precincts of Christ Church.
Perhaps it was sunnier up there than on the lower part of the ridge, but as he entered the precincts, Tom felt better. The thickset mass of Christ Church seemed solid and comforting. He went inside.
There was no doubt that Christ Church was the Christian heart of Dublin. Saint Patrick’s, with its soaring Gothic vaults, was high and magnificent and seemed to have every intention of staring down old Christ Church or any other church that dared to raise its head. For a long time, indeed, the canons of Saint Patrick’s and the monks of Christ Church had been frequently at loggerheads with each other. But that rivalry had finally worn itself out, and the two cathedrals were friendly enough now.
But it was in the quietness of Christ Church that one felt the presence of the ancient Celtic tradition of Patrick and Colum Cille. Its