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Day Two
Godfrid
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Godfrid had intended to make inquiries with Gareth this morning, or at least get to eat breakfast with his beloved future wife, but instead he found himself caught up in another matter entirely—or at least he thought it was another matter when the King of Leinster began talking. “I must speak to you all of Donnell and Rory O’Connor.”
The four men—Diarmait, Brodar, Hywel, and Godfrid—had come together alone in Brodar’s receiving room. Godfrid could hear the general hum of conversation in the main hall, which he could see through the doorway. The door had been left open so the servants could have easy access to the room with their serving dishes. Two of Brodar’s personal guard stood on either side of the doorway, charged with preventing anyone who shouldn’t overhear from entering. Hywel’s Dragons, barring Cadoc, who’d gone off with Godfrid’s man Jon, ate at the nearest table.
“What is the issue, exactly?” As the newcomer to the group, Hywel could get away with asking the obvious question. Godfrid was glad of it. He supposed he should know already, but with the wedding, he’d been very distracted of late and didn’t want to guess if the issue was old or new.
“It is clear now that they continue, in their separate ways, to undermine Brodar’s rule of Dublin and its relationship with Leinster,” Diarmait said. “Just because Donnell’s forces were defeated at the Liffey doesn’t mean he has given up his efforts.”
“And Rory?” Godfrid said.
“He has decided to come to your wedding,” Diarmait sad flatly. “I confess, it is a development I had not anticipated.”
Hywel tipped his head. “Isn’t a willingness to attend an indication of a desire for improved relations?”
Diarmait, Brodar, and Godfrid all spoke the same words in reply. “Not when it’s an O’Connor.”
Hywel laughed. “I take your point.”
Brodar leaned forward, his attention on Diarmait. “We lost many men in the battle, my lord. It will take time to recruit more to fill out our ranks. If Connaught or Meath attacks the city itself, I am unsure if we have the men to defend it.”
“I have worried about that too. Enough men of Meath died that they can’t be wanting another go any time soon, but—” Diarmait eyed Dublin’s king, “—I’m not sure we want to take the chance they won’t.”
“Or that someone else won’t see an opportunity,” Godfrid added.
“I could leave a garrison of my men in the city,” Diarmait said.
It was as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over Godfrid’s head, and he knew without even looking into Brodar’s face that he felt it too. Long experience with hiding what they were really feeling allowed both men to keep their expressions impassive, and Brodar said, “It would not be my preference.”
Diarmait snorted, not remotely fooled. “You are a proud people. I understand. But I have my interests to protect, and while I am giving you Cait, Leinster itself is not the bride to Dublin’s groom.”
There were many ways Brodar could have answered Diarmait. Over the last decades, the situation had been reversed, with Dublin the bride, subject to the whims of her husband, Leinster. But neither Brodar nor Godfrid wanted to antagonize Cait’s uncle only a few days before Godfrid’s wedding.
So Godfrid stepped in, “If O’Connor’s men cross the river again, we won’t be caught unawares. We will not be giving up Dublin to them, no matter who fights. No matter the cost.”
Brodar cleared his throat. “You should know, my lord, that I have already heard from Donnell.”
Godfrid shot his brother a sharp look. When Donnell’s overture had arrived two weeks ago, they’d discussed how and when to tell King Diarmait about it. Truth be told, Brodar was reluctant to admit any weakness, but he’d spoken the truth about Dublin’s lack of fighting men, and if Diarmait knew about that, he had to know about this.
“When?” Diarmait sat up straighter. “What did he say?”
“He offered me the same deal he wanted to give Ottar: more independence for Dublin if we forswore our allegiance and alliance with Leinster in favor of Connaught—specifically him.”
“And help him murder his brother, probably, though that wasn’t spelled out,” Godfrid added.
Hywel scoffed. “Did he refer to the original deal with Ottar, Brodar, which included your murder?”
Diarmait’s eyes were focused on Brodar’s face. “When was this?”
“A fortnight ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I’m telling you now,” Brodar said. “It wasn’t something to be put into writing or to come from the mouth of a messenger.”
Diarmait eased back in his seat. “No, I can see that. As Ottar learned last spring, we must always be careful about what we put in writing.”
Hywel folded his hands and settled back in his chair too. “Why not recruit men from the countryside or the other Danish cities? They owe you allegiance, even if they are reluctant to admit it.”
“It would show weakness,” Godfrid said flatly. “If we can manage this ourselves, we would prefer to do so.”
“They weren’t attacked,” Hywel pointed out. “And you are all one people.”
“Tell that to the men of Waterford!” Brodar managed a laugh.
Hywel now turned to Diarmait. “I have spent less than a day in Dublin, my lord, and I am pleased to see that the populace appears accepting of Cait, but I would hate to see that goodwill vanish in an instant if they knew you were garrisoning men in the city.” He shook his head. “That is a quick path to unrest.”
“Which I can ill-afford? We are being honest now, aren’t we?” Diarmait touched a cloth to his lips and then threw it down beside the wooden bowl that had held his porridge. He claimed that in his old age, his digestion required it. For his part, Godfrid hoped it would never come to that for him. “I hear you are half-Irish, lad. Did your mother’s family teach you nothing?”
Hywel’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he otherwise kept his expression bland. “They taught me that a single slight can start a war. They taught me to tread carefully when a man’s pride is at stake. They taught me that a man can have both Irish and Danish blood, as I do, but be entirely Welsh in his heart.”
Diarmait studied Gwynedd’s prince for a moment, and then he let out a bark of laughter that appeared genuine. Godfrid hadn’t realized he was holding his breath, but now he let it out too, and he didn’t think he was the only one who felt the tension drain out of the room.
“You think it would be a mistake to test their loyalties, eh?” Diarmait waved a hand. “I am well aware I am viewed as a necessary evil.”
“I wouldn’t say evil—” Brodar began.
But Diarmait waved his hand again. “You are a prideful people, as are we. So no garrison for now.” Then he looked hard at Godfrid. “I may need my ambassador back, however. Now that the city isn’t torn apart by rival claimants to the throne, his skills are wasted here.”
Godfrid spread his hands wide. “I am not the one keeping him in Dublin.”
“But you agree he has been champing at the bit, wanting a new challenge.”
“I do.” Godfrid sighed. “Reluctantly, I do.”
“After the wedding, then.” Diarmait raised his goblet to the other men. “Something must be done about the O’Connors.”
Brodar lifted his cup. “As we are being honest, I should say out loud what everyone here knows, even if we don’t speak of it: Dublin would prefer to be independent of Leinster. But we also know we are surrounded by enemies. Dublin remains wealthy, but it doesn’t have the men to resist all the kingdoms of Ireland.” He looked at Diarmait. “You have our thanks for our recent victory. You have our respect. And we have your back. While I am king, we will not defect to Connaught.”
The four men touched goblets, but as Godfrid drained his drink and set it on the table, his eyes found first his brother’s face and then Prince Hywel’s. Both wore almost identical thoughtful expressions. Godfrid believed he could read his brother like an open book, and he’d told King Diarmait the truth. Hywel, however, had looked away rather than hold Godfrid’s eyes, and while Godfrid could content himself with not challenging his brother with questions until after the wedding, he wanted to hear what Hywel had to say.
Thus, after the four men dispersed, Godfrid sought out Hywel on the wall-walk, where’s he’d gone to look west, over the countryside. At one time, it had been Danish as far as the eye could see. These days, Godfrid wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t Irish right up to the wall.
At Godfrid’s approach, the Welsh prince lifted one hand and dropped it. “I was wondering if you would find me.”
“You were not pleased with that conversation at breakfast. Why? You have no stake in Leinster’s relationship with Dublin.”
Hywel turned to look at him directly. “Don’t I?”
“Do you?”
Hywel tipped his head. “I can say to you what I couldn’t say in the hall. Diarmait is a dangerous man, far more dangerous than I think you realize. Brodar spoke pretty words, but do you really think you can trust him?”
“It isn’t a matter of trust. He is our overlord.”
“Yes, he is, and as your overlord, as Leinster goes, so goes Dublin.”
“That’s what we agreed at the table,” Godfrid said. “I don’t much like the thought of being beholden to another master, however, if that’s what you were going to suggest. The O’Connors are no better.”
“And very likely worse, in fact,” Hywel agreed.
“My brother spoke the truth as well when he said that, while Dublin longs to be independent, we are too few in number these days with fewer fighting men than we should have.”
Hywel raised his eyebrows. “There are ways to remedy that.”
“It never used to be something we had to remedy. Becoming a fighting man was all every man wanted.” Godfrid pursed his lips. “But you’re right. As you Welsh train every boy in bow and spear from a young age, we need again to do the same in Dublin, especially since so many fathers and uncles never came home from the Liffey.”
“You might not mention such a program to Diarmait. Nobody wants to go back to a time when hordes of Danes descended upon our coasts every summer. The problem with creating fighting men is that, in order to keep them sharp, you have to go to war.”
“I suppose that will never be an issue for you with the Normans on your doorstep.”
“Sadly, no.” Hywel eyed him. “And now you are marrying Caitriona, the niece of the King of Leinster.”
Godfrid could understand his skepticism. “It isn’t just Cait, of course. Conall is a friend too.”
Hywel nodded. “Befriending one’s traditional enemies comes at a price.”
“As has become clear to me, we have turned into merchants, not warriors. We need warriors to throw off Leinster’s yoke.” Godfrid made a disgusted grunt. “In truth, it matters little. The reality of our current situation is such that Brodar’s and my aspirations for ruling over an independent Dublin once again are as ephemeral as the clouds.”
“And I imagine this wouldn’t be a friendly topic of conversation over the breakfast table in your household, would it?”
“Cait and I have talked about it.” Godfrid took in a breath. “It is true my bride is content with the current relationship with her uncle, but she understands why I am not, and why Brodar and I can never be.”
“She sides with you?”
“She says she chooses me, come what may.”
“I’m glad for you.” Hywel made a dismissive gesture. “That isn’t what concerns me the most, however.”
The comment put Godfrid completely at sea, and he supposed it showed on his face, because Hywel muttered something in Welsh under his breath and turned again to face outward. “I am far more concerned about the future—not tomorrow, but five or ten years from now. You must have noticed Diarmait is restless, always.”
“I have.”
“More power. More land.”
“It is the way of kings.”
Hywel blew out a puff of air. “My concern is what he might choose to do as part of that quest, and particularly with whom he might ally.”
Godfrid finally understood where this was going. “You’re afraid he’ll reach out to the Clares again.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Neither that he would nor that you are concerned surprises me. But what is your concern? Gilbert is dead, and Richard is a boy.”
“I wasn’t a boy at eighteen.”
Godfrid pressed his lips together. “I suppose you weren’t. I suppose I wasn’t either.”
Hywel shook his head, not to deny, but in what appeared to be a combination of disbelief and frustration. “You here in Ireland don’t know the Normans like we do in Wales. They have never seen a land they didn’t want to conquer.” He eyed Godfrid for a moment. “Your people used to be like that. It is my understanding that you and the Clares might even share blood, in fact.”
“As I’ve said, we’ve grown soft.”
“Men like Clare, no matter his age, have not. They have spent the last eighty years attempting to consolidate their hold on South Wales. Kings like Cadell of Deheubarth now must cater to them.”
Godfrid’s eyes narrowed. “As we do Leinster.”
“Like that, yes. Someday the conflict between Stephen and Maud will end, and then Norman eyes will turn to Ireland. If Diarmait seeks to keep O’Connor at bay—or overthrow him—he must not look to Clare or Prince Henry or any of these other Normans for help, not if he wants to keep his kingdom. It would be a huge mistake.”
“I don’t think he’ll listen to me. He might listen to Conall. Maybe.”
“Eighty years we’ve been fighting them.” Hywel was looking out at the countryside again, but Godfrid didn’t think he was seeing it. “There are too many, and they just keep coming. I don’t know how long we can keep them at bay.” Even though the sun was out, a shadow passed across the face of the Welsh prince.
Godfrid wasn’t superstitious. His people had left premonitions and portents behind when they’d converted to Christianity. But even so, he shivered.
