The Princes of Ireland

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Cormac had died at midwinter. It had been a relief. Whatever painful memories she had, her conscience was clear. She had done her best. Their children were healthy. And thanks to her good stewardship—for in fact, if not in name, she had been running his estate for years—she and the children were now almost as rich as they had been before the battle of Glen Mama. By spring, the wound of her sadness had begun to heal. By early summer, she felt quite cheerful. By June, people were telling her that she was looking younger than she had for years. And after a careful private inspection of her own body, she concluded that some confidence was justified. As the long, warm days of August saw the harvest ripen, she began to feel that perhaps one day she might think of marrying again. And as the harvest was gathered in, she began, in a calm and cheerful way, to look about.

  Osgar hardly knew what he felt, that October, as he approached the family monastery at Dyflin. Samhain was approaching, an appropriate time he supposed for his uncle to have departed for the world beyond. The old abbot had taken his leave very peacefully; there was no need to feel pain on that account. As he had descended the path from the mountains on that clear autumn day, Osgar had felt only a gentle melancholy as he thought affectionately of the old man. But as he came to the monastery gates, there was another thought on his mind. For he knew very well what they were going to ask of him. And the question, which he had not yet answered in his own mind, was what he was going to do?

  They were all there. His uncle’s sons, friends, and family he had not seen for years. Morann Mac Goibnenn was there. And Caoilinn, too. The wake was just ending when he arrived, but they asked him to conduct the final ceremonies as they placed the old man in his grave. It was kind of Caoilinn, afterwards, to have invited him to visit her at Rathmines the following day.

  He arrived at midday. He had asked for only the simplest meal to be provided. “Remember I am only a poor monk,” he had told her. He was rather glad to find that she had arranged for the two of them to eat alone. Looking at the handsome, dark-haired woman opposite him he realised with a slight shock that he had not sat alone with a woman for twenty-five years. It wasn’t long before she came to the main issue on everybody’s mind.

  “Well, Osgar, are you coming back?”

  That was what they all wanted. Now that his uncle had gone, it was obviously Osgar who should come and take his place. His uncle’s sons wanted it, since neither of them had any real desire to take on the role. The monks wanted it. He would probably be the most distinguished abbot the little place had had in generations. Wasn’t it his duty? Probably. Was he tempted? He wasn’t sure.

  He didn’t answer her question just yet.

  “It is strange to be back,” he remarked. “I suppose,” he went on after a thoughtful pause, “that if I had remained here, I might be sitting in the monastery now with a brood of children and my wife opposite me. And I suppose,” he added with a smile, “that the wife in question might have been you.” He glanced at her. “But then, perhaps you would not have married me.”

  Now it was her turn to smile.

  “Oh,” she said, reflectively, “I would have married you.”

  She looked at the man before her. His hair was grey. His face was thinner, and rather severe. She studied the way the lines on his face ran: ascetic, intellectual, but not unpleasing.

  She remembered how close they had been when she was a little girl. He’d been her childhood playmate. She remembered how he’d saved her from drowning. She remembered how she had admired his fine, aristocratic ways and his intelligence. Yes, she had always supposed he would marry her. And how shocked she had been, she remembered, how hurt and furious when he had turned away from her. And for what? For a monastery in the mountains when he already had one at home. She couldn’t understand it. That day when she had met him on the path, she had wanted to shock him, attack his choice of life, show her power over him was greater even than the religious vocation that was so humiliatingly stealing him away. I’d have been happy at that time, she realised with wry amusement, if I’d seduced him into denying God Himself. She shook her head at the memory. What a devil I was, she thought.

  She almost asked him if he regretted his decision now, but decided she had better not.

  After their meal, they went for a short walk. They talked of other things. She told him about the improvements she had made to the estate and about her children. It was only as they were returning to the house that she pointed to a place and casually remarked, “That’s where I was nearly killed. Or worse.”

  Osgar stared at the spot.

  “You know about that, I expect?” she asked. “It was Morann who saved my life. He was wonderful. Brave as a lion. Dressed in your habit, too, I might say!” And she laughed.

  But Osgar did not laugh.

  How could he even smile? It had been a while before he had heard all the details of the events of that fateful day. It was his uncle who had sent him a long and glowing letter on the subject of Morann Mac Goibnenn’s valiant rescue of his cousin and how she and her wounded husband had been brought to the little monastery. And it was thanks to Osgar’s concern and foresight, his uncle had been careful to add, that Morann had gone to Rathmines at all. But for that, he pointed out, Caoilinn would have been raped and probably butchered. They were all very grateful, he assured his nephew.

  Such praise. Such a role he’d played. It had been like a knife through his heart. Caoilinn had been saved. But by Morann, not him. His own monk’s habit, even, had attended her rescue, but it was Morann who had been wearing it. Morann, who was a better man than he.

  He could have been there to rescue her himself, of course, if he hadn’t shown what the craftsman took to be panic. Perhaps Morann had been right and that was all his hesitation had been—mere cowardice. He could have been there if he had refused when Morann sent him back, if he’d insisted on accompanying him whether the craftsman liked it or not. If he’d been a stronger man. If he’d been a man at all. For weeks after receiving the letter he had felt a sense of shame and self-disgust. Humiliated, he had gone about his daily tasks at Glendalough like a person with a guilty secret he cannot share. And in the end, he had decided that there was nothing more to do except admit to himself that his love for Caoilinn, the little ring he kept, and all his thoughts about her were nothing but a sham.

  When it came to the one time that he should have gone to her, he had failed, shamefully, to do so. Involuntarily, he shook his head.

  He had not even realised that she had been speaking. She was talking now of something else. He tried to pay attention. She was speaking of her marriage.

  “I was very angry at the time,” she was confessing, “but as the years passed, I came to see that you were right. We are all happy enough now, I dare say. You did what you had to. You made your choice.”

  Yes, he thought, that was it. He had had his chances down the years and each time, he had made his choice. His choice to leave. His choice to desert her in her hour of need. His choice. And once such choices were made, you could not go back. You could never go back.

  “I shan’t be returning to Dyflin,” he said. “I can’t go back.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shall miss you.”

  Not long afterwards, he took his leave. As he did so, he enquired, “Do you think you’ll marry again?”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a smile. “I hope so.”

  “Have you someone in mind?”

  “Not yet.” She smiled again, confidently. “I shall please myself.”

  It was years since Harold had thought about Sigurd the Dane. It was not as if, even back at the time of Glen Mama, the man had actually appeared; and the embarrassment that his delusion had caused on that occasion made Harold even less willing to trouble himself by thinking about the fellow again. He assumed that, as the years had passed, the Dane had probably forgotten about him anyway.

  And the years had been good to Harold. Dyflin and Fingal had been at peace. Brian Boru had succeeded in all h
is ambitions. Two years after the submission of Dyflin, the head of the proud O’Neill had acknowledged him as High King of the whole island, though, as the head of the mighty O’Neill, he was still usually referred to as the King of Tara. The northern chiefs in Connacht and Ulster had been grudging about the business, but Brian had gone up and made them submit. Cleverly, he had also made a pilgrimage to the great church of Saint Patrick at Armagh and secured the blessing of the priests there with a huge present of gold. Meanwhile, in the peace of Fingal and the busy port of Dyflin, Harold had enjoyed an ever-increasing prosperity.

  It was not until after a decade that Harold’s happiness had been marred by a loss: in 1011 Astrid, his wife of more than twenty years, had died. The blow had been great. Though, for the sake of his children, he had forced himself to go about his business as usual, the heart was gone out of him. He had continued almost like a sleepwalker all through that year, and it was only thanks to the affection of his children that he had not fallen into a worse state than he did. Not until the next spring did his spirits begin to rise again. Late in April, he went into Dyflin to stay with his friend Morann.

  Caoilinn first caught sight of him one April afternoon. She was visiting her family in Dyflin. Her father having died some years before, her brother and his family occupied her old home now. She and her brother’s wife had gone for a walk to the Thingmount, and they had just started across Hoggen Green when they caught sight of two figures riding towards them from the direction of the Long Stone out on the mudflats. One she recognised as Morann Mac Goibnenn. The other was a tall figure, splendidly mounted. She asked her sister-in-law who he was.

  “That’s Harold the Norwegian. He has a big farmstead in Fingal.”

  “He’s handsome,” Caoilinn remarked. She remembered hearing about the Norseman in the past. Though he was middle-aged, she saw that his hair was still red, with only a few streaks of grey, and that he had a pleasant air of vigour and health about him.

  “He has a limp. A childhood accident, they say,” her kinswoman remarked.

  “That’s nothing,” said Caoilinn. And as he came up, she smiled at him.

  The four of them had a pleasant conversation. When Morann glanced at his friend, the handsome Norwegian seemed to be in no hurry to move on. Before they had finished, he had suggested that Caoilinn might like to ride over to the farmstead with him the following week, and she had accepted. The following Tuesday, they did so.

  By the month of June, the progress of their courtship had become a subject of some amusement to their families. Their children also welcomed it. Caoilinn’s eldest son, Art, was more than ready to take his father’s place and would not be entirely sorry if her energetic presence were removed from the management of the family’s affairs. And for all the children, the prospect of having the kindly Norwegian as a new father was, if truth were told, an improvement on the gloomy memory of Cormac. As for Harold’s children, they loved their father, found Caoilinn agreeable enough, and were glad if she brought him happiness. So it was made clear to both parents that they should conduct their courtship as they pleased.

  It had begun easily enough, the day they rode out to Fingal, when Caoilinn asked him about his crippled leg. The question was casual and friendly, but they both understood: she’d spent years looking after one sick man and she didn’t want another. He told her the story and explained how, after his life had been threatened, he had worked so hard to prepare himself for a fight. “My lame leg’s probably even stronger than the other.”

  “It doesn’t ache at all?” she asked solicitously.

  “No,” he said with a smile, “it doesn’t.”

  “And what about this Dane who wants to kill you?” she demanded.

  “I haven’t seen him for twenty years,” he said with a laugh.

  The farmstead was impressive. She didn’t need to count the cattle—though of course she did, and discovered that she only had a dozen more herself. She was too proud to marry far beneath her former station; and besides, her children might have been suspicious of a poor man. She did, however, notice some small improvements that could be made in the running of the farm. She would say nothing yet, of course, but it pleased her to think that she would be able to make her mark upon the Fingal estate and garner some admiration. Not that she would try to overshadow Harold. He was too much of a man for that, thank God. But it would be pleasant for him, she thought, to be able to say to his friends, “Look at what my clever wife has done.”

  For some weeks she made further observations and enquiries. And as she satisfied herself as to the Norseman’s suitability, she also took care to make herself desirable.

  When Harold looked at the handsome, green-eyed woman who was taking such an interest in him, he had to admit that he was flattered. Though he had been attracted to her from the moment they met by the Thingmount, it was a small incident the next week which had really caught his attention. They had just arrived at the farmstead, and he had reached up to lift her down from her horse. As he took her in his strong arms, he had hardly known what to expect. Unconsciously, he had braced his crippled leg to take her weight.

  And she had floated down, light as a feather. Before her feet touched the ground, she had half turned in his arms, smiling, to thank him, and as well as her lightness, he had become instantly conscious of her wiry strength. So strong, yet so light in hand: such a woman promised many sensual delights.

  As the weeks went by, her attraction grew. He soon discovered the strength of her intelligence: he respected that. She was proud: her pride did him honour. She was also cautious. It was not long before he noticed that if she offered to spend time in his company, it was partly so that she could observe him. Sometimes she would start seemingly innocent conversations. She might say, “I felt sad last night and the sadness would not leave me. Do you ever feel like that?” And only afterwards would he realise that she had been testing him to find out if he was subject to moods. When he visited her at Rathmines, she had the servants bring him wine repeatedly, to see if he would drink too much. He did not mind these little traps she set for him. If she was careful, so much the better. And it was gratifying that, beyond the cautious enquiries, she let him see that she was starting to care for him.

  He, of course, knew all about her. He hadn’t needed to make his own enquiries; his friend Morann had seen to that, and the silversmith’s investigations had led to only one conclusion.

  “You could hardly do better,” Morann told him. It would certainly look well to have such a wife at his side; and though Harold was too sensible to be much swayed by such things, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t cut a handsome figure in the world.

  In fact, there was only one obstacle to their marriage. It did not appear until halfway through June, when he proposed to her. For after the usual expressions, instead of answering at once, she told him that she must first ask him a single question.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Would you mind my asking, what religion it is you follow now?”

  The question was not strange. She had known that, at the time of his marriage, Harold had been a pagan, but it was harder than ever to know, nowadays, what religion people followed in Dyflin. Though some of the Vikings in Dyflin had remained faithful to Thor, Woden, and the other gods of the north, since her childhood the old Norse gods had been in steady decline. There had been too many marriages with Christians. The King of Dyflin was the son of a Christian Leinster princess. Besides, if the pagan gods protected their own, people might ask, then how was it that every time the men of Dyflin had challenged the High King, they had lost? And Brian Boru, the patron of monasteries, was their master now. The old wooden church had been rebuilt in stone, and the Viking King of Dyflin had openly worshipped there. So it was not surprising if the Ostmen nowadays were often vague about their religious beliefs. Harold, for instance, wore a talisman round his neck that might have been taken for a cross or a symbol of Thor; and certainly few of the varied folk who came into the busy por
t would have pressed him as to which it was.

  In truth, like most middle-aged men, Harold no longer had any strong feelings about the gods, and it would have mattered little to him whether he were Christian or not. But faced with her sudden question, he hesitated.

  “Why is it you ask?”

  “It would be hard for me to marry a man who was not a Christian.” She smiled. “It is easy to be baptised.”

  “I will think about what you say,” he replied.

  She waited for him to say more. He watched her instead. She flushed a little.

  “I hope you will do it,” she said.

  He waited to see if she would concede any more, but she did not.

  Soon afterwards, he returned home. A week passed before they met again.

  Harold considered the matter carefully during those days. The business of baptism, as such, was nothing. He didn’t mind that. But it was the way Caoilinn had brought it up that concerned him. Why, if it was so important to her, had she waited this long? It could only be because she thought that, once he had committed himself so far, he could be manipulated. True, the fact she’d waited also showed that she had been anxious not to put him off. She wanted to secure him. But look at it however you liked, she was raising her price. If he loved her, of course, he could pay the price and laugh it off. But if she was going to play a trick like that once, mightn’t she do it again? He was old enough to know that, however subtle the game, marriage was a balance of power; and he wasn’t sure he liked the way she played. By waiting a week, he was indicating his displeasure and giving her a chance to back down.