"Where would you go?"

"It's a pilgrimage I'm thinking of," he confessed. "To Compostela maybe, or the Holy Land."

"By all the saints!" she exclaimed. "That's a long and perilous way to go walking the world." She looked at him carefully to see if he was serious.

"Would you really go, like the Palmer, all the way to Jerusalem?"' "It would be better," he muttered, "than going back there." And once again he indicated the direction in which his family lived.

She couldn't help feeling sorry for him and wondered why he should be so unwilling to be with his family.

"You should stay here a few days," she counselled.

"This is a quiet place in which to rest your mind as well as your body. Have you prayed about it?" she asked, and when he seemed uncertain, she begged him: "Pray and your prayers will surely be answered."

Secretly she already intended to pray for him herself.

So he stayed another day. When she told the Palmer about poor Ruairi's troubles and his plans, he only gave her a wry glance, and remarked, "You can waste a lot of time with a young man like that."

She was surprised that so good a man, and a pilgrim himself, would say such a thing, and she could only conclude that he didn't understand. She bridled also, a little, at his tone which she thought was patronising. The Palmer, seeing her annoyance, quietly added, "He reminds me of a boy I used to know."

"And perhaps," she said testily, "you didn't know that boy so well either." She had never spoken to the Palmer in such a tone before and she wondered if she had gone too far. But to her surprise, he gave no sign of anger.

"Perhaps," he said, with a sudden sadness for which she could find no explanation.

The next morning, Fionnuala was back. She greeted Ruairi politely, but she did not seem particularly interested in talking to him. When Una remarked on this Fionnuala gave her a look and said quietly, "It's Brendan I'm interested in, Una." So they discussed the matter no further.

But in the afternoon, while Fionnuala was speaking to one of the inmates, Una came upon Ruairi sitting gloomily in the yard. It had occurred to her since their conversation that it must be different being part of a princely family like the O'Byrnes, especially when you had to measure yourself against the reputation of a man like Brendan. A pilgrimage to the Holy Land would certainly have the effect of making Ruairi a notable figure. But was it, she wondered, what he truly wanted to do?

"They torment me! They despise me!" he suddenly broke out. Then he relapsed into gloom.

"Ruairi's a poor thing! That's what they say.

'Brendan's the man." He is. It's true.

And what have I ever been doing all my life?"

"You must have patience, Ruairi," she urged.

"God has a plan for you as he does for us all.

If you would pray and listen, Ruairi, you'll discover what it is. I'm sure you have it in you to do great things. Is that what you desire?" she asked, and he confessed that it was.

She felt honoured as well as touched that he should have shared such intimate thoughts with her. At that moment, with his long body stooped and his handsome young face sunk in sadness, he seemed to her so noble and so fine that her heart within her swelled at the thought of what he could become. If only he can find himself, she thought, he will do greater things than people imagine. Hardly thinking what she did, she took his hand in hers for a moment. Then she heard Fionnuala calling her, and had to go.

If only she had not spoken to Fionnuala. If only she had kept Ruairi's confidence to herself, as indeed she should have done. She could never forgive herself, afterwards, for her foolishness. But so it was. For while they were working together, didn't she like an idiot have to tell Fionnuala that young Ruairi was thinking of going to the Holy Land, and that she was worried about him.

Yet even then, she asked herself, what could have possessed the stupid girl to blurt out to him that very evening: "So it's to Jerusalem you are going, is it Ruairi? And will there be plenty of drinking along the way?" Then she had laughed, and Ruairi had said nothing to Fionnuala, but he'd given Una a look of reproach that almost broke her heart. The next morning, he was gone.

And as if all this wasn't bad enough, who could ever have supposed the reaction of Fionnuala when Una rightly rebuked her for treating poor Ruairi so shamefully. She laughed in Una's face.

"You're in love with him, Una," she cried.

"Don't you know?"

"You're a liar! Are you mad?"

"No more than you, Una, for falling in love with such a poor useless fellow."

"He is not. I am not!" Una was so flustered and angry that she could hardly speak. And Fionnuala was still laughing, which made Una hate her even more.

Then the foolish girl ran off and Una could only wonder, in her fury, how it was possible for people so completely to misunderstand.

She did not see Ruairi again until December.

It was the day after Father Gilpatrick had gone down to Cashel for the big council there. Many of the royal camp had also left and Dublin was quieter than it had been recently. The Palmer's wife had gone into the market. Just before Fionnuala was due to return home, she and Una were surprised to see the Palmer's wife returning with a young man. It was Ruairi.

"I met him in the market," she explained. "I wasn't going to let this good young man leave us without coming to see our two girls here."

If Ruairi had not particularly wanted to come, he had the good grace not to show it. He went to greet one or two of the inmates, which gave them pleasure; and he explained that he had been with his family recently. Una wanted to ask him about his plans for going on pilgrimage, but she didn't like to. It was Fionnuala, after a few moments' awkward pause, who made the conversation.

"Have you seen your cousin Brendan?" she asked.

"He's not been here this last few weeks."

"I have." Did he look a little uncomfortable?

Una thought he did; and when she glanced at Fionnuala it seemed that she had thought so, too.

"He's keeping well, then, is he?"

Fionnuala pursued.

"Oh. Ah, he is, indeed. Always well is Brendan."

"Is he getting married yet?" Fionnuala continued boldly. And now it was clear that Ruairi was truly embarrassed.

"There is talk of it, I believe. One of the O'Tooles. But I couldn't say if the thing is definite. No doubt," he added wryly, "I'll be one of the last to know."

No, Una thought, it's Fionnuala who'll be the last to know; and she looked at her friend with compassion. But Fionnuala was putting a brave face on it.

"Well he's a fine man to be sure," she said.

"His wife may not have cause to laugh very often; but so long as she's of a serious disposition she'll be happy I'm sure." She smiled brightly. "Are you going back into Dublin, Ruairi?" 1 was.

"Then you can walk with me, as I'm on my way home."

Fionnuala never mentioned Brendan after that. As for Ruairi, Una didn't see him again. She heard once or twice that he'd been in Dublin and asked Fionnuala if she'd seen or heard of him; but Fionnuala said that she hadn't.

The rock of Cashel. It was seventy years since an O'Brien king had granted the ancient Munster stronghold, with its dominating views over the countryside, to the Church for the use of an archbishop.

It was certainly a magnificent place to hold such a council, and appropriate, too, thought Gilpatrick: for a number of the Munster churchmen he knew were as keen reformers as he was. It was to be a great gathering. Most of the bishops, many abbots, and a papal legate were to be there. Yet even so, as he approached its grey stone eminence, he had felt a sense of unease.

It had been interesting to watch King Henry.

For the most part, though he had convened the council, he had asked the papal legate to take the chair, outwardly deferring to him in everything and sitting quietly to one side of the great hall where they met. Most days he dressed without ceremony in the simple green hunting tunic he favoured. His hair, which he cut short, had a faint reddish tinge, reminding one of his Viking Norman ancestors. But his face was sharp, devious, watchful; and Gilpatrick couldn't help thinking that he was like a fox watching so many ecclesiastical chickens.

As well as the legate, there were several distinguished English churchmen present, and it was one of these, on the first day of the proceedings, who gave Gilpatrick and Lawrence O'Toole some interesting information.

"You have to understand," he told them quietly, during a break in the proceedings, "that King Henry is very anxious to make a good impression. This business with Becketa" Here he dropped his voice. "There are bishops in England, you know, who think Becket just as much to blame as Henry. And I can tell you, for reasons of statecraft if nothing else, it is inconceivable that Henry would have ordered the murder.

Howsoever that may be," he continued, "the king is anxious to display his piety-which I assure you is genuine," he added hastily, "and he is most determined that the Pope should see him making every effort to aid the Irish Church in the reforms we know you both wish to make. Of course," he went on with a faint smile, "not all Irish churchmen are as dedicated to purifying the Church as you."

The legate desired them first to compile a report on any present shortcomings of the Irish Church.

As in previous councils of this kind, the bishops were generally keener to bring Irish practice closer to that of the rest of western Christendom, where power resided in bishoprics and parishes rather than in the monasteries. The hereditary abbots, not unreasonably, argued that the old monastic and tribal arrangements were still better suited to the country as it was. Gilpatrick was fascinated to hear Archbishop O'Toole, an abbot as well as a priest, and a prince like many of them, give the abbots a qualified support. "There is still room, I think, for both systems, depending on the territory." As for the demand that there should be no more hereditary churchmen, he again was kindly. "The real issue surely," he pointed out, "is whether a churchman is qualified for his post. If he is unsuited, then he must give it up; but the fact it has been passed down his family should not be a disqualification. In ancient Israel, all priests were hereditary. The spirit comes from God, not from the making of arbitrary rules." He pressed them further on other matters, however: on reform within their houses; the ordering of parish priests, who were often lax; the extension of parishes; and the collection of tithes. It was wonderful to see how amongst these men, many of whom came from families as noble as his own, this saintly and unworldly man could command such respect through his spiritual authority alone. In due course they produced a report which, it was generally felt, would suit the case.

It was the English priest who took the archbishop and Gilpatrick aside.

"The report is promising," he said, "but incomplete. It lacks," he searched for a word, "conviction." He looked seriously at the archbishop. "You, of course, Archbishop, are a reformer. But some of your colleaguesa The report as it stands could be used by the legate, or even by King Henry were he so minded-and I do not say I.

he is-to claim that the Irish Church is not serious about reform. In Rome they might even say, perhaps, that other bishops are needed, from outside Ireland."

"I think not," said O'Toole.

"What is in your mind?" Gilpatrick enquired.

"This question of hereditary churchmen," the English priest said to O'Toole, "will be a problem. And married priests," here he glanced at Gilpatrick, "were stopped in England a century ago. The Pope won't stand for it." Gilpatrick thought of his father and blushed. "But the most important thing is the care of our flock. Can we really turn our eyes away from the laxities that have been permitted in so many parts of the island? Why, even in Dublin, we are told, marriages are contracted openly that are clearly outside canon law. A man marrying his brother's wife, for instance? Intolerable." He shook his head while Gilpatrick went even redder. "Yet not a word of it in this report."

"What do you think we should do?" asked Gilpatrick.

"I suggest," said the Englishman smoothly, "that a small committee of us see what we can do to strengthen those parts which need to be strengthened while leaving in place those parts which are excellent already." He turned to Archbishop O'Toole. "I wonder whether Father Gilpatrick, as your representative, might work with us in preparing a revised draft for your consideration?"

And so the thing was done. And a few days later a new report emerged which the legate himself recommended to the council. It took some days to persuade the Irish churchmen to agree to this, which was hardly surprising.

For the report was damning. Every vice, every malpractice, every Irish deviance from the accepted continental code was ruthlessly laid bare. When Gilpatrick and the English priest showed it to O'Toole, the archbishop was doubtful.

"This is harsh," he said.

"It is. I agree," said the English priest.

"But think of the zeal it shows." He smiled. "No one could accuse the Irish Church of any lack of conviction now."

"Should there not be some mention of the reforming work already done in Ireland, and of what we intend to do in the future?"

O'Toole queried.

"Absolutely. That is the key to the whole business. And that is what we must address in the second of our reports. The sooner we can get on to that," he added encouragingly, "the better."

So the damning report was approved, and the legate moved them on to consider what reforms had already been done, and how the good work could best be forwarded. This part of the council was by no means easy, but by the start of February the work was done and a second report produced. The legate thanked them, and King Henry, who had remained modestly watching, rose to congratulate them upon their great work. So ended the Council of Cashel.

Archbishop O'Toole was by no means happy with all the details; but Gilpatrick felt, on the whole, that they had done rather well.

The sailor arrived on a grey March morning.

Wet clouds were sweeping over the Liffey. The Palmer and his wife had gone to the king's camp, leaving Una and Fionnuala in charge of the hospital until they returned. There were raindrops in the sailor's hair. He was asking for Una.

"I have a message from your mother," he informed her.

"Your father has been very sick. But if he is able to walk again, he will return to Dublin, because he wants to see Ireland before he dies."

Una's eyes filled with tears. She had so longed to see her family, but not like this. Practical questions also crowded into her mind. How would they live? If her father died or was too sick to work, her brothers were still too young to be successful craftsmen. She and her mother would have to support them as best they could. And where would they lodge? If only, she thought, they could get their old house back upon whatever terms. If anything might help her father recover, she thought, it would be that. She wondered if perhaps the Palmer would do something for them, and decided to ask his advice as soon as he returned.

She discussed the problem with Fionnuala meanwhile.

Her friend had been a little subdued since the loss of Brendan in the winter. Sometimes she had been her lively self, but in the last two or three weeks she had seemed abstracted, as if something was secretly worrying her. To her credit though, she was sympathetic today, putting her arm round Una and telling her that everything would be all right.

When the Palmer and his wife returned soon after noon, however, it was clear that he was in no mood to talk; for as she went up to him he smiled sadly and saying, "Not now, my child," he went past her into his quarters, accompanied by his wife. Two hours passed and neither of them came out again. The girls could only wonder what was amiss.

Fionnuala was in the yard when she saw the figure coming through the gate. The sky had cleared somewhat, but the March breeze was making a cross, hissing sound in the thatch and caused the gate to bang as the figure entered. Una appeared from the women's dormitory at just that moment and Fionnuala was conscious of her eyes upon them both. She realised that Una probably didn't know who the figure was.

Fionnuala stared at him.

Peter FitzDavid looked at her. His face was grave. If he felt embarrassment under her stony gaze, he was being careful not to show it.

"Your brother Gilpatrick asked me to fetch you," he said quietly. "I'm to take you home. I met him at the king's camp," he added, to explain his presence.

Fionnuala felt a little stab of fear. Was one of her parents hurt? Una was at her side now.

"Why?" she asked.

"You have not heard? The Palmer has not told you?"

He looked surprised, then nodded slowly. "It's King Henry," he explained. "He's finished his business in Ireland. He's ready to leave. There are just the affairs of Dublin to put in order and that's what he's doing now. I'm afraid, Fionnuala," he paused a moment, "that this has not been good for your father; although he has been treated with special consideration," he added. "He keeps the southern part of his lands, down where your brother is.

Those, of course, he will hold directly from the king as his vassal. But all the northern part of his land, near Dublin, has been granted away to a man called Baggot. Your father is very upset." He stopped. "I'm afraid," he added, "these sort of grants and regrants are quite normal in the circumstances."

The two girls stared at him, stunned. It was Una who was the first to recover.

"Is that what has happened to the Palmer?"

"He has fared worse, you might say. The king has taken all his lands in Fingal for his knights.

He's left the Palmer with his land near Dublin, which is just enough to support himself and the hospital. The king is mindful, of course, that the Palmer hasn't any heirs. It's only the hospital he really cares about."

Una was silent. After such a blow as this, how could she trouble the Palmer with her own poor family's difficulties?

"There have been charters floating down upon the fortunate like leaves in autumn," said Peter. "For the houses inside the city, too."

"And what are you getting out of it?" Fionnuala asked coldly.