Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [162]
When Morann had warned Caoilinn that she had rivals, he was not entirely bluffing. There were two women who had made it clear to Harold that, if he showed an interest in them, that interest would be returned. One of these, Harold was sure, had a genuine affection for him; the other, though he thought her a little foolish, was certainly in love with him. Did Caoilinn love him? Not really. He had no delusions. Not yet, anyway. But he would make either of the other two women happy and his life with them would be pleasant and easy.
And perhaps, in the end, that was the trouble. Whatever their attractions, the two women offered a life that was just a little too easy. Caoilinn, for all her faults, was simply more interesting. Even in middle age, it seemed, Harold the Norwegian was still looking for the excitement of a challenge.
So having considered the whole business very carefully, on the last day of March, he rode out once again towards Rathmines. Had he decided exactly what to say? Depending on how he found her, yes. But just as he had in his encounter with her before, he knew he would rely on his instincts. And he was still half curious about what he would do as the gates of the rath came in sight.
If he had meant to surprise her, he succeeded. For as he rode through the gateway, she was in the act of milking a cow. As she turned and rose from the stool on which she had been sitting, her dark hair fell across her face; with a single gesture she swept it back; her two hands smoothed down her dress, and her large eyes stared at him as at an intruder. For a moment he thought she might be going to say something insulting, but instead she remarked, “Harold, son of Olaf. We did not know you were coming.” Then she remained dangerously silent.
“It’s a fine day. I thought I’d ride this way,” he replied blandly, gazing down from his horse.
Then, without dismounting but making casual remarks as if he might move on at any moment, he began to talk. He spoke quietly, about his farmstead, events in Dyflin, a cargo of wine that had just arrived at the port. He smiled now and then, in his friendly, easy way. And never once did he allude to the fact, by word or look, that she had insulted him or that she owed him an apology. Not a word. Nothing. He was magnificent. She could not deny it.
But what had really shaken her was something else entirely. It was the one thing, in the turbulent months since their separation, that she had forgotten. She had forgotten he was so attractive. The moment he had ridden through the gateway and she had turned to see him, it had hit her almost like a blow. The splendid horse with its gleaming harness; Harold’s figure, powerful, athletic, almost boyish; his red beard and his eyes, those bright blue eyes: for a moment, as she smoothed down her dress to deflect his attention, she had found she could hardly breathe; she had fought down a flush and stared at him with a furious coldness so that he should not know her heart was beating faster, far faster than she wished. Nor was she entirely able to subdue these sensations which, like little waves, continued to form and break all the time he was talking.
It was then that Harold, gazing at her calmly, made his move.
“There was talk last year,” he observed with perfect coolness, “that you and I would get married.”
Caoilinn looked down and said nothing.
“Time passes,” he remarked. “A man moves on.” He paused just long enough to let this message sink in. “But I thought I would come by.” He smiled charmingly. “I should not wish to lose you through carelessness. After all,” he added graciously, “I might do as well, but I could never do better.”
She had to acknowledge the compliment. What else could she do? She bowed her head.
“There were difficulties,” she managed to say. She did not apologise.
“Perhaps they can be overcome,” he suggested.
“Several difficulties.” For just a moment she nearly brought up the question of religion,