Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [117]
“Perhaps you would not,” he replied.
“Tell me, Osgar,” she seemed curious, “do you desire to save your soul?”
“Yes,” he confessed. “I do.”
“And would you say that I have a chance of getting to Heaven?”
“I …” He hesitated. “I do not know.” He had never thought about it.
“Because I don’t think I’ll become a nun.”
“That is not necessary,” he assured her. And he started to explain to her how good Christians may reach the heavenly seat by following their proper calling. But he was not sure she was really paying attention. “I shall always think of you,” he added. “I shall remember you in my prayers.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Shall I walk you home?” he suggested.
Why had the interview seemed unsatisfactory, he wondered as they walked back together. What had he expected? Tears? Confessions of love? He didn’t quite know. It was as if her mind was drifting elsewhere, away from him, though into what region he could not tell. When they came to the gateway to her house, she paused.
“I’m sorry,” she said a little sadly, “that you prefer Glendalough to me.” She smiled kindly. “I shall miss you Osgar. You’ll come and see us sometimes?”
“I will.”
She nodded, looked down for a moment, and then to his great surprise suddenly looked up with what, if the occasion had not been so solemn, might almost have seemed like her old mischievous humour.
“Do you ever feel the lusts of the flesh, Osgar?”
He was so surprised that for a moment he did not know what to say.
“The devil tries us all, Caoilinn,” he replied a little awkwardly; and then, kissing her chastely, for the last time, upon the cheek, he departed.
It was another week before Osgar departed for Glendalough. His uncle was not best pleased, but suggested that in due course, he might still return from the mountain monastery to take his place and maintain the family rule. Caoilinn’s father took the trouble to come out and, putting the best face on it, wished him happiness, even declaring that he would be there to see him off; and Osgar was touched by this magnanimous kindness. Caoilinn he did not see, but as they had said goodbye there was no need.
The morning he left, he decided to follow the lower route instead of crossing the mountain gap, and so, with a satchel of provisions on his back, a letter from his uncle to the abbot promising a handsome payment to the monastery on his account, and the blessings of friends and neighbours, he set out southwards across the fields from Dyflin. His uncle had offered him a horse to take him there, which could be delivered back in due course, but Osgar had thought it more appropriate to walk.
The day was fine. In the clear morning air, the great crescent of the Wicklow Mountains to the south seemed so close that you could touch them. Osgar made his way towards the slopes on the seaward side with a cheerful, swinging stride. On his left, marshy ground gave way to scattered woodland. On his right, fields and clumps of trees. He passed an orchard and was just approaching a ford across a stream named the Dodder, when to his great surprise, by a tree beside the path he saw Caoilinn. She was leaning against the tree and had wrapped herself in a long cloak. He supposed she must have been waiting some time if she was cold. She smiled.
“I came to say goodbye,” she said. “I thought you might like to see me before you go.”
“Your father was back there.”
“I know.”
“It’s very kind of you, Caoilinn,” he said.
“You’re right,” she said. “It is.”
“Have you been here long?” he asked. “You must be cold.”
“It’s been a while.” She was looking at him thoughtfully, as if she was considering something about him. “Did you keep the ring?”
“I did. Of course.”
She nodded. She seemed pleased.
“And you’re on your way to be a monk in the mountains?”
“I am indeed.” He smiled.
“And you haven’t been tempted by any lusts of the flesh, have you, Osgar?”
“I have not. Not recently anyway,” he said kindly.
“That’s good. Because you have to overcome them, you know.”
And he was just thinking of something to say when, to his