Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [124]
On the floor at his side were two bags. One contained a small, workmanlike text of the Gospels, another of the Pentateuch. The Psalms, of course, he knew by heart. There were also two little devotional books that he liked always to have with him. The other bag, into which he now dipped his hand, contained his writing materials and one other item. And it was upon this object that his fingers fastened.
His secret sin. Nobody knew about it. He had never even mentioned it in the confessional. Oh, he had confessed the sin of lust itself, a hundred times. He was rather proud of it—the pride was a sin, too, of course. And yet, wasn’t his concealment of the secret in a way even worse for having been repeated so many times? Was there anything else, his confessor would ask? No. A lie. A hundred lies. Yet he had no intention of confessing his secret, for the good reason that if he did, he would be told he must part with it. And that he could not do. His talisman. Caoilinn’s ring.
He had always kept it. There wasn’t a day when he didn’t take it out and look at it. Each time, he would give a little smile and then, with a sweet sadness, put the ring away again.
What did she mean to him now? She was the dark-haired child he had planned to marry; the girl who had shown him her nakedness.
He wasn’t shocked anymore. If, for a little while, he had thought of her as a crude woman, a vessel of sin, her marriage soon afterwards had obliterated the idea. She was a respectably married woman, a Christian matron. Her body would have thickened now, he supposed. Did she sometimes think of him? He felt sure she did. How could she not, when he thought of her every day? The love he had given up.
The ring was not just a sentimental mascot though. In a way it helped to regulate his life. If at times he thought of leaving the monastery, he had only to look at the ring to remind himself that, since Caoilinn was married to another, there was hardly any point. If, as had happened once or twice, he found himself attracted to a woman, the ring reminded him that his heart was given to another. And if perhaps some monk—like the young novice who had first shown him round Glendalough—if such a one seemed to be drawing too close, and if he, out of kindness, was drawn to return a gentle look or a touch, he had only to take out Caoilinn’s little memento to relive the feelings he had experienced for her all those years ago, and to know that he would not be going down that other road which some of his fellow monks were travelling. So if he had first denied her by entering the monastery, and she had then made herself unavailable through marriage, it seemed to him that in this impossible relationship he had been granted a protection against greater evils; and he even dared to wonder whether, in his present small disobedience and sentimental lust, he might perceive the hand of providence itself gently helping him, poor sinner that he was, along his sometimes lonely way.
There was still an hour before the bell for prayers. The other monks were shuffling towards the door, but he did not follow them. For he knew exactly how to employ the time. In the corner, on a lectern, lay a large volume. It was kept in the sacristy of the big stone church normally, but it had been brought into the scriptorium for the time being. It was encased in a silver cover which was set with gems. Taking up a candle from a table now, he advanced towards it.
As he did so, he noticed with pleasure that one of the gems caught a glow from the candle’s flame.
The greatest treasure in the monastery of Kells: the Gospel book. It was the chance to spend time with the magnificent illuminated text that had brought him to Kells two months ago. His skill in calligraphy had advanced so rapidly at Glendalough that he had branched into illustration, at which he had shown talent also. In return for two months