Page 85 of The Daughters of Avalon
A severed head, barely recognizable with death-glazed eyes peers back at me.Daw.Well played, I think. Well played, my Lord Aldergh. And Elspeth, too, well played.
“My father will be furious,” worries Eustace.
“Perhaps,” I say, with a shrug, and now I rise, knowing full well that, for the time being, we are done. The battle is lost. The war is not.
And yet… and yet… a mother’s pride wars with rage, because I had no idea my eldest bore such unbridled power. And what must this say for Rhiannon? So, now, I must ponder the answer to this question, even as I prepare for the next encounter, because this is not over.
It is far from over.
Chapter
Thirty-One
As evening fell on Aldergh’s parklands, one by one new tents arose on the horizon, replacing the king’s red with bright gold, white and blue. From the midst of these new tents came a modest cavalcade, sporting familiar colors, banners and cloaks flying at their backs.
“Open the gates!” shouted Malcom. “Now! Open the gates!”
He was downstairs even before the portcullis’s first groan. The heavy metal rose, and Malcom himself pushed open the gates, ordering a path to be cleared. Kicking ash and bone out of the way, their men swept aside the debris, leaving the way clear.
Elspeth rushed over to join him, and together they watched from the bailey as his father’s older, wiser face came into view, followed by Angus, Dougal and Kerwyn—all faces he recognized from his youth.
Angus, the auld sot, was still alive and wielding a sword, old as he was. Dougal looked worse for wear.
Riding tall and proud before them all, Ian MacKinnon rode straight into his bailey for the first time in eleven years. Malcom awaited him with a little boy’s glee, telltale tears stinging his eyes, but he told himself it was the sting of the wind.
His father took his measure for a long moment, then dismounted without a word. But whatever he didn’t say with words, he said with his eyes as he came to embrace Malcom, clapping him hard on the back.
At fifty-four and thirty, father and son’s embrace was equally as emotional as it was during their reunion two score and four years ago. And though some might deny it, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house for anyone who understood the momentousness of the occasion.
Father and son, reunited. At last.
His jaw taut and chest straining with emotion, it occurred to Malcom that he was now precisely the age his father had been that day when they’d stood together embracing outside Aldergh’s gates when Malcom was but six. But though his father hadn’t changed much over the past ten years, his hair was as silver as his sword and his golden eyes were bracketed by crow’s feet. Once again, he clapped Malcom on the back, and Malcom gulped back the lump in his throat.
“Aren’t ye too auld to be wielding a sword, Da?” he teased.
The MacKinnon’s amber eyes were glassy with emotion. “God’s truth. I’d face the devil himself tae see ye, son, and naught but death could keep me from ye.”
True to his words, he seemed unable to unhand Malcom, and Malcom endured the embrace with honest tears stinging his eyes. Finally, the elder man released him, stepping back once more to appraise him. “’Tis guid tae see ye,” Malcom said, and his father nodded, pulling him back again for one more hug. This time, Malcom complained, his words muffled by his father’s leather tunic. “If ye dinna unhand me, ye’ll have my men teasing me like a stripling.”
His father laughed hoarsely, releasing him at long last, and then wiped his face on the sleeve of his tunic.
It took him yet another moment to compose himself before he could speak, but then he said, “Where’s your manners, boy? Ere ye going to let an auld mon freeze to death standing in this drafty palace, or will ye take me somewhere tae warm my bones and fill my belly?”
Malcom laughed at the complaint. It wasn’t the least bit cold outside, but he well understood: His father needed a reason to mask his quivering face and hands. He smiled fondly, and said, falling easily into his Scots brogue. “What’s the matter, Da? Yer auld bones getting saft in yer auld age?”
His old man laughed. “Betimes,” he confessed. “Betimes.” And he nodded and patted Malcom’s shoulder, just a wee bit less enthusiastically as he said, “Your mother sends love, my son, bids ye come meet your brother and see your sister. Ye’d nae even recognize Liana. She’s bonny as her ma. And you’re brother, Alex is anxious to know ye.”
Malcom’s eyes crinkled with joy. In truth, he’d love to take Elspeth home to Chreagach Mhor. And remembering suddenly that she was here with him in the bailey, he turned to give his wife a smile and wave her forward, eager to introduce his father to the woman he loved.
Elspeth stared,knowing intuitively who it was.
No two men had ever looked more alike—barring the silver in the elder’s hair, and the subtle difference in the color of their eyes. She hesitated when Malcom called her, loathe to intrude on their heartfelt moment, but he insisted, and she rushed forward, only to be enveloped into a bear hug by his father.
She choked back laughter, pinned between his arms.
“My wife,” Malcom said, only after his father presumed as much.
“Ach, my boy, ye think I dinna ken? I see the way ye look at her.”
