Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [362]
“They desecrate the shrines, Cecily,” Doyle quietly remarked, “but it’s the gold they want, you see.”
And white-faced Cecily for the first time had a new and more accurate insight into the true nature of King Henry VIII and his followers—not so much as heretics, however that might be, but as vulgar thieves.
“The king has come to rob Ireland,” she burst out at the clerk. But he only laughed.
“Not at all.” He grinned. “He’ll rob anyone.”
At just this moment, his friend had started to open another little silver box. This one had opened easily, since it contained a smaller, blackened box inside.
“What’s that?” asked Doyle.
“Finger of Saint Kevin. Of Glendalough,” said the clerk.
“Give it to me,” said Doyle, pointing to the black box.
“There’s a gemstone on it,” the second clerk objected, reaching for his chisel.
“Enough,” said Doyle in a voice of such authority that the clerk handed it to him quickly.
“I can’t do more for you, Alderman,” he said a little nervously.
Doyle held the little relic in his hand, gazing at it reverently.
“The Saint Kevin,” he remarked quietly. “They say it has great power, you know.”
“You’ll keep it safe?” Cecily asked anxiously.
Doyle paused before replying. His dark face seemed to be contemplating something strangely distant. Then, to her great astonishment, he turned and, gazing down at her, placed the little relic in her hands.
“No,” he said. “You will. I can’t think of anyone in Dublin who will look after it better. Go quickly, now,” he told her, “and hide it.”
Cecily had just crossed the street, and had paused to gaze one final time at the great fire, when she saw MacGowan arriving.
Doyle and Richard Walsh were greeting him. She saw MacGowan stare at the flames. Then he gestured towards the cathedral. She saw Doyle and Richard leaning towards him. MacGowan seemed to be saying something to them, urgently.
Just then, a soldier casually tossed a yellowed old skull, stripped of its gold rim, into the flames.
It was two hours later that the news began to spread through Dublin. At first, the thing was so shocking that people hardly believed it, but by evening there seemed to be no doubt.
The Bachall Iosa, one of the holiest, the most awesome relics in all Ireland—the great, gem-encrusted reliquary of the Staff of Saint Patrick himself—had gone.
Some said that it had been thrown on the fire in front of Christ Church. Others said that the ancient staff had been burned on another fire elsewhere. The archbishop, faced with a chorus of horror, denied that the sacred staff had been selected for destruction at all; but when people, English or Irish, inside or outside the Pale, considered the archbishop’s contempt for what was cherished, and the gold and gems with which the Bachall Iosa was furnished, there seemed not the slightest reason to believe him.
Nor, in all the years that followed, was the Staff of Saint Patrick ever seen again.
Some, it is true, hinted that along with other relics, it might have been spirited away to a place of safekeeping—and it is to be hoped that it was. But nobody seemed to know. None of the clergy ever admitted to it. None of the Dublin aldermen, not even John Doyle, had any idea. And if, which is most unlikely, MacGowan knew anything, he remained, as always, silent as the grave.
AFTERWORD
FAMILY NAMES
THE FAMILIES whose fortunes this novel follows down the centuries are fictional. MacGowan and Doyle are both common names, and their probable derivations are given in the narrative. The O’Byrnes, of whom there are many branches, were prominent in the region, and their activities are correctly reflected. But the individual O’Byrnes in the narrative and the O’Byrnes of Rathconan are invented. The Norse family of Harold was also prominent and the name is still found in the region. Ailred the Palmer and his wife are historical, and founded the Hospital of Saint John the Baptist at approximately