Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [118]
Her skin was creamy pale; her breasts young and firm, but a little larger than he had supposed, a rich darkness at the nipples making him involuntarily gasp. She was entirely naked. He found himself staring at her stomach, her thighs, at everything.
“Will you remember me now, Osgar?” she asked, and then closed the cloak again.
With a cry, he ran past her. A moment later, he was splashing across the ford. At the other side he looked back, half afraid she might be following him. But there was no sign of her. He crossed himself. Dear God, why would she do such a thing?
As he walked on, he realised he was trembling as if he had seen a ghost; he could hardly believe it had actually happened. Had he imagined it all? No. She had been real enough. What had possessed her? Was this Caoilinn the child, indulging in a last wild and foolish joke? Or was it a young woman, smarting from a rejection, trying to shock and humiliate him? Perhaps both. And was he shocked? Yes. Not by the sight of her body, but by her crudity. He shook his head. She shouldn’t have done it.
Only as he hurried farther along the path did it occur to him that there was also another, profounder explanation. The temptations of the flesh. The devil and his snares again. The abbot had warned him. This was what really lay behind the encounter. Was he tempted? Surely not. Yet, as he went on, to his horror, the vision of her body kept rising before his mind. Scarcely knowing whether he was afflicted by lust or by fear, he tried to shut the vision out; but it only returned, each time more vivid than before. Worse yet, after a little while, he saw that she was starting to do lewd things—things he did not think she even knew about—and the more he tried to dismiss them from his mind, the worse they got. He even tried to return to the simple, pure nakedness with which he had begun, but it was no use. The more he struggled, the worse she got, as he found himself watching, half fascinated, now, and half repelled.
This was not Caoilinn. She had not done these things. It was he, not she, who was imagining them: he, not she, who was in the devil’s grip. A hot sensation of guilt swept over him, then cold panic. He stopped.
The devil had prepared a challenge for him on his way to Glendalough. How should he meet it? A short way ahead, he saw that beside the path there was a bank on which bushes were growing, and beneath it a dark green patch. As he hastened forward he saw that it was just as he had supposed: the dark green vegetation had been placed there by God who, in His wisdom and kindness, had foreseen everything. Stinging nettles.
For what had Saint Kevin of Glendalough done when he was tempted by a woman? Driven the girl away and mortified his flesh. With nettles. It must be a sign.
He looked around. There was nobody in sight. Quickly he stripped off his clothes and, hurling himself into the nettles, rolled in them over and over, again and again, wincing with the pain.
The wedding of Harold and Astrid took place that winter. It was a happy occasion for several reasons.
In the first place, and most important of all, it was clear that the young couple were well suited to each other. Secondly, they were obviously in love.
If there had been a spark between them the first evening they met, at the house of Morann and his wife, his future bride had realised that it would take time and effort to break down his resistance. So she had set about it patiently. She had asked to see over the ship, and when he had taken her round she had asked to see his own handiwork, after which she had remarked appreciatively, “You’re good at what you do, aren’t you?” A week later, Astrid had met him and offered him some sweetmeats wrapped in a napkin. “I think they are the kind you like,” she had said hopefully. And when he had replied, with some astonishment, that indeed they were his favourite kind, she had explained, “You said so when we were at Morann’s.” He had forgotten. “I wanted you to have them,” she