Dublin (69 page)

  "They do?"

  "With all the great chiefs. They haven't a care in the world."

  Peter gasped. His face was just about to register his delight but he checked himself, looked glum, and murmured, "We haven't a chance then. It's as good as over." He paused. "You'd better not tell anyone I said that, Fionnuala. If Strongbow ever heard it… they'd doubt my loyalty."

  "Don't worry," she said.

  But already his mind was working fast.

  The following afternoon, the sentries at the Irish forward posts saw Fionnuala leave the hospital and walk back as usual to the city's western gate.

  Since they could not see the southern gate they never knew how long she spent in Dublin before returning to her home, and so they had no idea that she had proceeded to Peter's lodgings and remained there until it was nearly dusk, at which time the lookout post near her father's house observed her leave the southern gate and walk home.

  It was almost dark when the sentries on the west side observed Fionnuala, with her saffron shawl wrapped over her head, returning to the hospital. It was unusual for her to leave and return the same day, but they saw her go through into the hospital yard and thought no more about it. They were puzzled therefore the following evening, when they saw her going to the hospital yet again. "Did you see her go back into Dublin today?" one of the sentries asked his companion. Then he shrugged. "Must have missed her." At dawn the next morning, she flitted back from the hospital to the western gate. But then, an hour later, she made the same journey again. This was clearly impossible.

  The sentries concluded that there was something odd. They decided to maintain a closer watch.

  When Peter had reached the hospital the first evening, he had passed through the gateway and then sunk down with his back to the fence. Nobody could see him. The inmates were all inside at this hour. He unwrapped the shawl from his head and waited. The darkness fell slowly. At this time in the summer, there would be only about three hours of real darkness. The sky was full of passing clouds but there was a sliver of moon. That was good. He needed a little light but not too much. He waited until well after midnight before he made his move.

  Outside the hospital ran the broad track of the ancient road, the Slige Mhor that led towards the west. There was a large contingent of men less than a mile along the road, blockading it. He intended to avoid the Slige Mhor entirely. He knew that on the river side of the hospital enclosure there was a small gate. Stealing round to this, he went out.

  In front of him lay open ground, dotted with bushes, leading to the marshy banks of the river. With luck, in the darkness, he might be able to slip through there.

  It took him an hour, working his way carefully, moving only when clouds covered the moon, to get past the Irish camp that straddled the road. After that he was able to move more quickly, but always with caution, following the line of the river until he came opposite the place where he guessed the High King's encampment might be. Then, finding concealment in some bushes on a slope I which made a little vantage point, he prepared to wait the rest of the night.

  It turned out that he had been nearly right. The next morning he could see the High King's camp, only about half a mile farther upstream. Early in the morning he saw the patrols go out. A few hours later they returned. And soon afterwards, he saw at least a hundred men come down into the water.

  They remained there quite a long time. They seemed to be throwing a ball between them in some sort of game. Then they all went up the bank again. He could see the sun glinting on their wet and naked bodies.

  He spent the rest of the morning in his place of concealment. He had brought half a loaf of precious bread with him and a small leather flask of water. He also took good care to note the terrain around. That would be essential if he was to carry out the rest of his plan. In the early afternoon he realised that there was one more thing he would have to do that day, which was dangerous. An hour later he left his hiding place and very cautiously worked his way across some meadows to a patch of wooded higher ground. He did not return to his hiding place until evening; but by the time he did so, he was satisfied that his plan could work. Not until it was dark did he make his way back to the hospital again. It was strange waiting at the hospital gate because he knew that Fionnuala was working there that night, only yards away from him; but he remained there until dawn and then, wrapped in his shawl, returning past the Irish forward post at dawn where he was taken for Fionnuala by the sentries. By midmorning he had seen Strongbow.

  He told Strongbow everything, how he had gone out scouting and discovered the High King bathing, with one small difference: he omitted all reference to Fionnuala. If Strongbow guessed the truth, he said nothing. When he had finished, Strongbow was thoughtful. "To get the best advantage from this information," the magnate said, "we need to catch them when they're bathing and their guard is down. But how can we know?"

  "I have thought of that," said Peter. And he told Strongbow the rest of his plan.

  "You can get out, past the sentries again?" Strongbow asked, and Peter nodded. "How?"

  "Do not ask me," Peter replied. "It will be low tide tomorrow morning," he added, "so you could use the ford as well as the bridge to send the men across."

  "And where should we station the man to receive your signal?"

  "Ah." Peter smiled. "On the roof of Christ Church Cathedral."

  "So," Strongbow summarised, "the plan is by no means without risk." He ran over the details, step by step. "But if it works, you will have done well. It is, however, contingent upon one other thing.

  A clear and sunny morning."

  "That is true," Peter admitted.

  "Well," Strongbow concluded, "it's worth a chance."

  It was sunset that day when the sentries at the forward post saw a figure leave from the western gate and start walking towards the hospital. They had already stopped both Una that morning and Fionnuala an hour ago to make certain who they were. Once again, they decided to check, and one of them rode quickly forward. The figure was dressed as a priest, but the sentry was suspicious. It could be a disguise. The fellow wore a hood over his head.

  "Who are you and where are you going?" The sentry addressed him in Irish.

  "Father Peter is my name, my son." The answer was delivered in a comfortable Irish also. "On my way to visit a poor soul in the hospital there." He pulled back his hood, to reveal a tonsured head and gave the sentry a pleasant smile. "I am expected, I believe."

  At this moment, the gate of the hospital opened and Fionnuala appeared. She gave a sign of recognition to the priest and waited respectfully by the entrance.

  "Proceed, Father," said the sentry, a little embarrassed.

  "Thank you. I do not expect to be returning until tomorrow. God be with you, my son." Pulling his hood on again, the priest continued on his way and the sentry saw Fionnuala usher him through the gate, which closed behind them.

  "A priest," the sentry reported. "He'll be going back tomorrow." And no one thought any more about it.

  Inside the hospital, meanwhile, Fionnuala was leading Peter to the room they were to use-a separate compartment, entered by an outside door, at the end of the men's dormitory, where kind, gullible Una had promised her they would not be disturbed.

  As they got inside and Peter pulled back his hood again, Fionnuala could hardly restrain her laughter.

  "You've got a tonsure," she whispered, "just like Gilpatrick."

  "It's as well, or I might have been in trouble with that sentry."

  So far, Peter congratulated himself, everything had worked out perfectly. His quick thinking and foresight two days ago had made everything possible. He was sorry that it had meant that he must deceive Fionnuala, as he was doing now, and make use of her; but he told himself that it was for a greater cause.

  His calculations had been precise. Discovering that she was due to be in the hospital the next two evenings, he had decided it would be unwise to attempt the female disguise twice. On the assumption that, after his return from his scouting expedition, he would want to go straight back out again, he had hit upon this new device.

  "The day after tomorrow, we'll spend the night together," he'd said.

  "By the wharf?" She'd looked uncertain.

  "No, in the hospital."

  "The hospital? You're mad!" she had cried.

  "Is there a quiet place there, somewhere?" he asked. She had thought and said there might be.

  "Listen, then." He had grinned. "This is what we're going to do."

  And now, as Fionnuala looked at him in wonderment, she decided this was the most daring thing she had ever done. Amazingly enough, it hadn't even been very difficult. Once she had told Una that she felt the need for spiritual counselling, her friend had been sympathetic.

  "I want to make my confession to a priest, Una," she told her. "And then I need to have a long talk with him." She smiled apologetically.

  "It's those O'Byrne boys. I don't know what to do." When Una asked how she could help, Fionnuala explained: "I don't want to be seen going to a priest's house. It always feels as if people are watching me in Dublin. So I asked the priest to come here." The Palmer and his wife always went to sleep early. The priest could visit, see her alone, and leave as late as necessary. To her relief, Una had agreed that this was a good idea.

  It was Una who had suggested the room at the end of the men's dormitory. She had even offered: "If anyone asks, I'll say the priest came to see me." She had taken Fionnuala by the arm and murmured, "I do understand, Fionnuala." And Fionnuala had thought: it's as well you don't.

  There was no one about. If Una was watching from somewhere, she had made herself scarce. They entered the room, in which Fionnuala had already lit two candles and placed a little food. She reached up and stroked his tonsured head. "Now I shall think," she said slyly, "that it's a priest I have for a lover." She gazed at him, puzzled. "How will you explain your bald head in the next few days?"

  "I'll cover it," he said.

  "And you did all this for me?"

  "I did," he lied. "And I'd do it again."

  They talked for a while. Before they made love, Peter removed his priest's robe. Fionnuala noticed that he also took off a stiff pad that was strapped round his lower back. "Backache," he explained sheepishly. "I'll massage it," she said.

  It was nearly dawn when she awoke to find that he had gone.

  Peter had moved carefully, but swiftly. After letting himself out of the hospital's northern gate, he had followed the same route as before. By dawn, he was approaching the little wooded rise he had marked out the day before. His vantage point was already chosen: a tall tree with a commanding view. In the early light of the day, he climbed up to the branch he had selected. From there, parting the leaves, he could see the opposite riverbank, down which the Irish king's men would come; he also had a clear view eastwards towards Dublin. In the distance, he could see the southern headland of the bay. The city's low ridge was mostly obscured by the intervening woods. But it was possible to make out, quite clearly, the roof of Christ Church Cathedral. Slowly now, he loosened the straps round his waist and pulled the pad from his back. Taking his time, he unwrapped the cloth covering and extracted the thin, hard object from its centre. He inspected it carefully. Not a mark or a blemish.

  It was a metal plate of polished steel.

  Strongbow had given it to him. It was so highly polished that you could see every pore of skin on your face in its reflection. The magnate used it as a mirror. Peter held it, keeping its polished surface towards him. He did not want to risk giving his position away. He looked eastwards and smiled. The sky was clear. Time passed. The eastern sky grew lighter, then red, then gold: it began to shimmer. And then, over the distant bay, he saw the fiery orb of the rising sun.

  Everything was ready. There was a risk, of course, that when he sent the signal he would give himself away.

  If the Irish besiegers caught him, they would surely kill him. He'd have done the same in their place. But that was a small risk compared to the favours he could expect from Strongbow if the operation succeeded. He was excited, but he waited patiently. It grew warmer. The sun was rising over the bay.

  The High King's patrols would be out now. He had seen some of them leaving the royal camp. Midmorning passed and there was no sign of activity. The patrols were out later than yesterday. Perhaps they would not bathe after all. He cursed under his breath.

  Another hour went by; it was nearly noon. Then, at last, he saw that something was happening at the camp. Above the riverbank, he saw a group of men appear, bearing a large object; but he couldn't decide what it was. They set their burden down at the top of the slope. Now more men were coming. It looked as if they were carrying buckets. They kept coming and going, swarming round the big object. And now he understood what they were doing. It was a huge tub they were filling. He knew that the Irish liked to have a bath in a tub whose water had been heated with hot stones.

  The setting up of this great tub, therefore, could only mean one thing.