Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [146]
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 his 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