Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [147]
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.