Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [167]
As she made her way to church, she wondered what to do. Was she making a terrible mistake? For a start, it was now clear that her move back to her brother’s in Dyflin had been premature, and probably pointless. King Brian would not be troubling Rathmines this time, because he was coming up the other side of the Liffey, far away. Her eldest son had already gone back to the rath to watch over the livestock that morning. But the real question was, why hadn’t she gone to Harold? Her son had been unequivocal.
“For God’s sake go,” he had told her. “You’ve no complaint against Harold. The man has nothing to do with Brian Boru. You’ve honoured my father’s memory longer than you need. Haven’t you done enough for Leinster?”
She didn’t even know for certain where Harold was now. Was he at his farmstead or with the O’Neill king, perhaps? His offer had been clear. She must come to him by Easter, but not afterwards. If the man was in any way reasonable, she thought, a few days or weeks wouldn’t matter, but there was something in the Norseman’s nature that indicated he would not budge. Irritating though it was, she rather admired him for it. If she came to him after Easter, his mind would have swung closed, like a heavy wooden gate. The offer would be gone. She knew it.
Even if she could accept what he had done before, even if she could accept that she was in the wrong, Caoilinn didn’t like being told what to do. By making the offer in the way he had, he was asserting his authority, and she couldn’t see how to get out of it. Her pride still made it difficult for her to let him win and she meant to put off the decision as long as possible until she could think of a way of getting even.
She was also a little nervous. So far, no one had troubled Harold about his equivocal position. People knew that Morann had secured protection for his friend, just as, in turn, Harold had mitigated the damage to her own estate. But now there was going to be a great battle; whoever won would suffer terrible casualties. If she were seen leaving Dyflin now to go across to a man under Brian’s protection, and the men of Dyflin were to succeed in smashing Brian, they might not take kindly to her desertion. There could be ugly reprisals. Alternatively, of course, if she stayed where she was and Brian won, she could be trapped in a burning Dyflin. But the worst aspect of the business lay in the bluntly cynical proposition her son had put to her just before he departed.
“As a family, you know, it would be best if we had a foot in each camp, so that we could help each other whatever the outcome. I’m in the Leinster camp, of course, but if you were with Harold …”
“You mean,” she said bitterly, “you’d want me in Brian Boru’s camp?”
“Well, not exactly. Only with Harold being Morann’s friend, and Morann …” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, Mother, since I know you won’t.”
Curse them all, she thought. Curse them. For once in her life, Caoilinn truly didn’t know what to do.
The church service for Palm Sunday had already started as the solitary figure made his way along the wood quay towards the boat. He walked with a slight stoop. He was alone. His companions in the longship were elsewhere. They were, in any case, only companions for this voyage; after this, he might see some of them again, or he might not. It was all the same to him. He had no use for friends.