And of nothing was this more true than the fourth of the full-page illuminations. He knew what he wanted. He wanted, somehow, to echo that strange spiral which the old monk had copied from the stone and shown him up in Kells. He had only seen it once, but the strange image had haunted him ever since. Of course he had seen trefoils and spirals in many books; but this particular image was haunting precisely because it was subtly different. Yet how could you capture those swirling lines when their mysterious power came from the very fact that they were wandering, indeterminate, belonging to some unknown but profoundly necessary chaos? Every sketch he made was a failure, and common sense, especially when he was labouring under such lack of time, should have told him to give it up. Something conventional would do. But he couldn’t. Each day he puzzled over it, while he continued with the rest.
Fortunately, when the prince’s messenger was shown the partly completed book, it was already clear that it would be handsome.
“I will tell the prince it is in hand,” the messenger said, “but he won’t be pleased it isn’t finished.”
“You will have to work faster, Brother Osgar,” said the abbot.
The siege of Dyflin was raised at Christmas. Brian and his army retired southwards to Munster. No attack upon the ramparts had been made by the besiegers and no one had come out to fight them. When the men of Dyflin saw the Munster king depart, they congratulated themselves.
In early January, after Brian had departed, Morann decided to leave the O’Neill King of Tara for a while and pay a visit to Dyflin. He was not surprised to receive a summons to attend the Dyflin king and his council in the royal hall. They welcomed him cheerfully. “We all know you were under oath to Brian,” the king reassured him. They had numerous questions about the Munster king and the disposition of his forces, which Morann answered. But the craftsman was surprised by the air of truculence he detected in some of the younger council members.
“You might as well have stayed with us, Morann,” said one. “Brian came to punish us, but he’s had to give up.”
“He never gives up,” Morann replied. “He’ll be back. And you had better prepare yourselves.”
“What a gloomy fellow he is,” the king answered with a smile, and the others had laughed. But when Morann had happened to meet him in the street the next day, the king had taken his arm and told him quietly, “You’re right about Brian, of course. But when he comes back, we’ll have a different reception ready for him.” He gave Morann a friendly nod. “Be warned.”
It was two days after this conversation that Morann went out to Fingal to visit his friend Harold. It was four months since he had seen him.
He was pleased, on his arrival at Harold’s farmstead, to find the Norseman looking fit and cheerful. They spent a pleasant hour looking over the farmstead, which was in excellent order, in the company of his children. Only when they were alone did Morann broach the subject of Caoilinn.
“I hear that Rathmines was left with more than half its livestock.”
“I heard it, too. And that other farmsteads there were stripped. I am grateful to you, Morann.”
“You have not been over there?”
“I have not.” It was said firmly, and grimly.
“Have you received any word of thanks? I told her son, at the time it happened, that it was you who should be thanked.”
“I have heard nothing. But I do not expect to. The thing was done. That is all.” It was clear to Morann that his friend had no further wish to discuss the subject, and he did not bring it up again during his stay that day. When he left the following morning, however, he had come to a private decision. It was time he went to see Caoilinn himself.
She was not alone, the next day, when he arrived at Rathmines. Her son was with her. Was it for that reason, he wondered, that she was guarded?
It was certainly clear that she had no wish to see him. When, sitting in the big hall, he politely mentioned that he was glad to hear her livestock had survived the trouble at Dyflin, her son gave a nod of acknowledgement and murmured, “Thanks to you.” But Caoilinn stared straight ahead, as though she had not heard him.
“I was out in Fingal recently,” he said. His words fell like a stone on the ground. There was silence. He thought that she was about to move away, and he was ready to follow her if she did; but then an interesting thing happened. Her son abruptly got up and went outside, so that he was left alone in the hall with Caoilinn. Without breaking all the rules of hospitality, she could not very well do the same and desert him. He saw her frown with vexation. He didn’t care.
“I was at Harold’s farmstead,” he said calmly. Then he waited, practically forcing her to respond.
But whatever response he might have expected, it was not the one he got. For after a prolonged silence, in a voice that was quiet with anger, she remarked, “I am surprised that, in the circumstances, you would mention his name in this house.”
“In the circumstances?” He stared in disbelief. “Didn’t he save you from ruin? Have you no word of thanks for his kindness?”
“Kindness?” She looked at him with scorn and also, it seemed, incomprehension. “His vengeance, you mean.” Though Morann’s face still registered bewilderment, she did not appear to see it. Indeed, she seemed to be talking to herself rather than to him as she went on. “To have Brian Boru, the filthy devil, living in my own husband’s house. Eating his cattle. Waited upon by his own children. Wasn’t that a fine revenge for my calling him a cripple?” She shook her head slowly.
And for the first time, Morann realised the extent of her pain and sadness.
“It was not Harold,” he said simply. “He never had any dealings with Brian. He is under the protection of the O’Neill king, you know. But he asked me to persuade Brian not to destroy your husband’s estate. So it was I that caused Brian to come here.” He shrugged. “It was the only way.” He saw Caoilinn make a gesture of impatience. “You must understand,” he went on more urgently, even taking her by the arm, “that he only tried to save you and your family from ruin. He admired what you had done. He told me so. You do him an injustice.”
She was very pale. She said not a word. He couldn’t tell whether he had got through to her or not.
“You owe him,” he quietly suggested, “at least some thanks, and an apology.”
“Apology?” Her voice was rising sharply.
He decided to go on the offensive.
“Dear God, woman, are you so blinded by your hatred of Brian that you cannot see the generosity of spirit of the man from Fingal? He ignores your insults and tries to save your children from ruin, and still you cannot see anything but a malice that is of your own imagining entirely. It’s a fool you are,” he burst out. “You could have had the man for a husband.” He paused. Then in a lower voice and, apparently with satisfaction, he added, “Well, you are too late for that, anyway, now that there are others.”
“Others?”
“Of course.” He shrugged. “What would you expect?” Then, suddenly and unceremoniously, he left.
It was February when the news began to arrive at the port. Remembering the King of Dyflin’s warning, Morann had been expecting it.
The Vikings were coming. From the Isle of Man, just over the horizon, its Viking ruler was bringing a war fleet. From the faraway Orkney Islands in the north, another great sailing was coming. Warrior chiefs, merchant adventurers, Nordic pirates—they were all making ready. It would be another great Viking adventure. Who knew, if they defeated old Brian Boru, there might even be a chance to take over the whole island, just as Canute and his Danes were doing in England. At the least, there would be valuable pickings.
In Dyflin, by the middle of the month there were all kinds of rumour.
It was said that the King of Leinster’s sister, the turbulent former wife of Brian, had even offered to marry again if it would help the cause. “They say she’s been promised to the Isle of Man king and to the Orkney king as well,” a chief close to the family told Mor
ann.
“She can hardly marry them both,” Morann remarked.
“Don’t count on it,” answered the other.
As yet, there was no word from King Brian in Munster. Was the old warrior aware of the preparations in the northern seas? Undoubtedly. Would he hesitate to return against such odds, as some in Dyflin still supposed? Morann did not think so. He had no doubt that the cautious conqueror would, as usual, take his own time. At the end of February, a ship arrived from the Orkneys with definite news.
“The fleet will be here before Easter.”
It had been in early January, as he had been despairing of ever finishing his work in time, that Osgar had received news of a very different kind, from Caoilinn. She apologised for failing to send a message before, but explained that she had been trapped in Dyflin throughout the siege. A little guiltily perhaps, she sent him tender expressions of affection. And she let him know that, for reasons she did not explain, she would not be marrying again, after all. “But come to see me, Osgar,” she added. “Come to see me soon.”
What could he feel, at such a message? He hardly knew. At first he received it calmly enough. He realised that it had been some time since he had even given her a thought. During that day, he had gone quietly about his business as usual; only at the end of the afternoon, as he put his pens away and his fingers encountered the little wedding ring that still resided in the bag, did he suddenly experience a sharp stab of recollected emotion at the thought of her.
She came to him that night in his dreams and again when he awoke in the dark January dawn, bringing with her a strange sense of warmth, a tingling of excitement—he hardly remembered when he had last felt this way. Nor did the sensation depart, but remained with him throughout the day.
What did it mean? That evening Osgar reflected carefully. When he had returned to Glendalough after his uncle’s death, he had suffered from melancholy moods for some time. His inability to go back to Dyflin and his abiding sense of failure over Caoilinn had been hard to bear. With the news of her forthcoming marriage, however, a door in his mind seemed to have closed. She was departing once again into the arms of another. He was still married to Glendalough. He told himself to think of her no more, and was at peace. But now, with the knowledge that she was not, after all, to marry, it was as if, in some strange and unexpected way, she belonged to him again. They could renew their friendship. She could come to Glendalough to see him. He could visit Dyflin. He would be free to indulge in a relationship as passionate as it was safe. In this way, whether through the agency of good or evil powers, the sorrow of Brother Osgar was converted to a new kind of joy.
He noticed a difference the very next morning. Was there more sun in the scriptorium that day, or had the world grown brighter? When he sat down at his desk, the vellum before him seemed to have acquired a new and magical significance. Instead of the usual, painful struggle with an intricate pattern, the shapes and colours under his pen burst into life like the bright new plants of spring. And more extraordinary still, as the day progressed, these sensations grew stronger, more urgent, more intense; so utterly absorbed was he that by the late afternoon he did not even notice that the light outside was fading as he worked, with a growing fever of excitement, immersed in the rich and radiant world he had entered. It was only when he felt a persistent tap on his shoulder that he at last broke off with a start, like a man awoken from a dream, to find that they had already lit three candles round his desk and that he had completed not one but five new illustrations. They almost had to drag him from the page.
And so it had continued day after day as, lost in his art, in such a fever that he often forgot to eat, pale, absentminded, outwardly melancholy yet inwardly ecstatic, the middle-aged monk—inspired by Caoilinn if not by God—now in the abstract patterns, verdant plants, in all the brightly coloured richness of sensual creation, for the first time discovered and expressed in his work the true meaning of passion.
Late in February, he began to trace the great, triple spiral of the last full page, and stretching it out and bending it to his will, found to his astonishment that he had formed it into a magnificent, dynamic Chi-Rho, unlike any that he had seen before, that echoed on the page like a solid fragment of eternity itself.
Two weeks before Easter, his little masterpiece was completed.
She was not expecting him; and that was what he intended. Harold was counting on an element of surprise. Though the real question was, should he be going there at all?
“Stay away. She’s more trouble than she’s worth.” That had been Morann’s advice. Twice since he had gone to see Caoilinn, the craftsman had let her son know that Harold would be visiting him on a particular day in Dyflin. It would have been easy enough for Caoilinn to come in from Rathmines and encounter the Norseman, seemingly by chance, on the quay or in the marketplace. Indeed, her son, who was quite ready for his mother to move out of the house, was anxious to help. But she had neither come, nor sent any word at all to Harold. And though, originally, Morann had hoped to see a reconciliation of the lovers, he had now changed his mind. “Find another wife, Harold,” he counselled. “You can do better.”
So why was he going? In the months since her rejection of him, the Norseman had often reflected upon the subject of Caoilinn. She had hurt him, of course. Indeed there had been times when, thinking about her contemptuous treatment of him, he had clenched his strong hands in rage and sworn to himself that he would never set eyes on her again. But in his generous way, he had still tried to understand what might have caused her to behave in such a manner; and after learning more of the details about her husband from other people familiar with the household, he had formed a shrewd idea of what might be in Caoilinn’s mind. He made allowances; he was ready to forgive. But he was also mindful of the inner contempt for his own feelings that her behaviour had shown. Morann had let him know of his visit to Rathmines. As he thought about the matter in the early months of that year, Harold had agreed with his friend that he should wait for her to make a move, but she never did.
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.”