Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [178]
The track to the entrance was of short, green turf. In his growing excitement, he felt a new spring in his step.
He was approaching the gateway when he saw her. She was standing in the open space in front of Harold’s hall. Her children were waiting by the horses. She was looking around. Apparently nobody was there. Her dark hair had fallen to her shoulders, just as he had pictured it a thousand times. His heart leaped. As a widow, now, she was even more beautiful, more alluring than he had remembered. He hurried forward.
She did not see him. She seemed still to be looking for someone. She came towards the gateway to look outside. And then he saw her staring towards him. He waved. She stared blankly.
He frowned, then smiled. Of course, a bedraggled figure in a monk’s habit, carrying an axe: he must look a strange sight. She probably hadn’t recognised him. He called out.
“Caoilinn. It is Osgar.”
Still she stared. She looked puzzled. Had she understood? Then she pointed at him. He waved again. She shook her head, pointing once more, urgently, to something behind him; so he stopped and turned.
The horse was only ten yards away. It had stopped when he did. It must have been walking behind him, but in his excitement at seeing Caoilinn, he had not heard its hoofs on the grassy track. Sigurd was riding it.
“Well, Monk, we meet again.” The pirate gazed at Osgar, apparently considering what to do with him.
Instinctively, clutching the axe, Osgar started to back away. Sigurd moved his horse slowly forward, keeping pace with him. How far was he from the gateway to the farmstead? Osgar tried to remember. He dared not look behind him. Could he make a run for it? Perhaps Caoilinn was closing the gate, trapping him outside with Sigurd. Suddenly he realised that the pirate was talking to him.
“Run away, Monk. It isn’t you I’m interested in.” Sigurd grinned. “The person I want is in that farmstead.” He waved him away. “Go on, Monk. Run.”
But Osgar did not run. For Caoilinn was there. The memory of that miserable day when he had let Morann go into Dyflin alone to save her flashed into his mind with bitterness. He had failed to strike a blow then. He had chosen his monk’s vocation over her, just as he had been doing for most of his life. And now this devil, this monster was going to take her. Rape her? Kill her? Probably both. The time had come. He must kill. He must kill this Viking or die in the attempt. Terrified of Sigurd though he was, the fighting spirit of his ancestors stirred within him, and calling loudly to Caoilinn behind him, “Close the gate,” he took a step back and raising the axe over his head, barred the way.
Slowly and carefully, Sigurd got down from his horse. He did not trouble to cram the helmet back on his head, but he drew out his double-edged sword. He was not going to argue with the monk, but Osgar was in the way. Would the fool really strike? The monk did not know it, but his stance was all wrong. His weight was so distributed that one of two things might happen. Sigurd would make a feint, Osgar would swing down and, meeting only thin air, probably cut off his own leg. If he didn’t swing then, Sigurd would take one nimble step to the right and plunge his sword straight into the monk’s side. It would be all over before the axe was halfway down. Osgar was about to die, but didn’t know it. If he tried to fight, that is.
But would he? Sigurd took his time. He slowly raised the blade of his sword, showing it to Osgar as he had done before. The monk was trembling like a leaf. Sigurd stood two paces away from him. Suddenly he let out a roar. Osgar quivered. He almost dropped the axe. Sigurd took one more step forward. The poor fool of a monk was so frightened that he had closed his eyes. In the gateway behind, Sigurd could see a dark-haired woman with a pale face. Handsome, whoever she was. He measured the distance. No need even to make a feint. He gripped his sword for the thrust.
And just at that moment,