Decision of Change, Pt. 5

Ireland wasn’t quite what he had expected. John was rather disappointed, actually. England was filled with commoners as well, but they still held a certain dignity—well most of them, anyway. In this country, a land that seemed to hold nothing but commoners, he hadn’t seen one well-dressed person. Not one man or woman who at least hinted at Irish royalty.

The one thing his father hadn’t told him—something he hoped he had known—was the environment and the culture of the Irish. Entirely unexpected.

The deep ruts in the road from wagons, putting along the dusty trail. Mounds alongside the road acted as fences, initially made from blocks of stone, but had been gradually formed round by dirt and the decay of time.

And the rolling hills. Sloping pastures covered in lush grass went out into the horizon, stretching out as far as he could see. The few lone trees that dared to show their presence on the Irish’ precious pastures stretched up and out, spreading an ample shade for cattle.

And then there was the smell; that ever present stench of cow that hung in their air. Those noisy animals that left such wreckage behind them. And the bulls—they were the worst part of Ireland in his opinion.

It was all the peasants could do to keep them from attacking John while he rode up to the castle. His soldiers chuckled behind his back and whispered that the bulls had a good judgment of character.

His first impulse was to turn around and exchange biting words with the soldier who voiced that opinion. To tell him that he was the one who was a poor judge of character. Perhaps he would punish him as well, to make him regret the jest.

But he bit his tongue and remained silent. After all, what would it really do? His soldiers already despised him as it was. Anything more might make them doubt their loyalties.

What was he, really?

He was a prince of England. One among many. If he was at home, where the power of England lay, his men would have more reason to follow him without question. But here in Ireland, so far from home, the fear of punishment—the fear of execution—seemed very distant.

He even felt that way. Separated from his homeland, detached from everything he had ever known. The feeling that he would fail seemed less in the forefront of his mind, since his father wasn’t watching his every movement, as if waiting for him to fail.

He hated being taught—as if he was a small child—things he already knew. Having old lessons reiterated each day. At least in Ireland, he was far away from that. Away from his father’s sharp gaze. His critiquing voice.

The weather began to turn sour and the wind whipped through him, blowing his cloak about. He hugged it closer to him. Confound everything! Even the wind seemed to show its dislike.

He could see the Irish chiefs awaiting him at the end of the causeway. They looked nervous—pulling at their long, silly beards and adjusting their old-fashioned cloaks unceasingly. But who wouldn’t be?

How did they know what John was like? What his character was like? No doubt they were expecting a strong Norman overlord, someone who would protect them from invaders and govern them fairly… Well, he would try his hardest to govern them well, but he was human… And more than that, he was John.

There were a few complications.

Something inside told him that there would be complications. That he would fail yet again. That he did everything wrong, this would be no different. That he was a terrible leader, and wouldn’t know what to do.

He wanted to push those feelings aside. To convince himself that John can do things right. But he couldn’t shake them.

The castle doors opened and the Irish went inside, alongside a few English that stood alongside them. But the door remained open. Was that their way of welcoming him? To say, the door’s open. Make yourself at home.

What hospitality.