Page 75 of Highlanders for the Holidays
If somehow Matilda managed to take her rightful place, Page would intervene, petitioning for the baronetcy on her son’s behalf.
In either case, David would support Malcom’s claim, for Scotia’s King meant to strengthen his hold over Northumbria and Malcom would provide him another means to do so—whether or not he’d slain its lord—some also claimed the bastard son. But Page and Malcom knew the truth. Her own brother had been prepared to kill her, and her father stood ready to protect her. Malcom accidentally took his life.
Up on the ramparts she could see the watch signaling for the portcullis to be raised.
“Youaremy son,” she told Malcom when he sat unmoving upon his mount.
Even as young as he was, she had every faith he was ready to embrace this destiny.
God willing, her husband would have many years remaining, and if she bore Iain no other sons, Malcom would inherit Aldergh along withChreagach Mhor.In the meantime, he was no longer fated to build his legacy in his father’s shadow.
Page studied him, seated upon his warhorse—his deep golden hair ruffling in the morning breeze.
“Are you ready, Mal?” his father asked.
Behind them, an army provided by David of Scotia stood ready to defend his claim.
Peering down at the sigil ring, Malcom slid the golden two-headed falcon upon his finger, and gave Page one final glance. He nodded firmly, spurring his mount forward, once and for all taking the lead—a boy now become a man.
Page and Iain shared a proud glance, and then fell into pace behind their son, moving swiftly toward the open gates. Dressed in her father’s cloak, and wearing his sigil ring, MalcomCeann Ràs—hot head—as they’d begun to hail him, rode in before them, looking like a king in his own right. He carried with him all the fury of the north.
Cantering along behind him, Page rode through Aldergh’s gates, first the anterior, and then through the barbican, across the moat and into the familiar bailey.
“Welcome home, Lady Aldergh,” someone shouted up at her.
And then another, “Welcome home!”
One after another, her father’s kinsmen hailed her as she passed, familiar faces welcoming her home.
Page sat a little straighter in the saddle. No more was she that nameless child, for whom nobody had cared. In truth, she didn’t need her father’s legacy to feel esteemed, and yet, one by one, they gave her obeisance, falling to their knees. Tears swam in her eyes.
Welcome home.
She heard the last greeting whispered at her ear as the wind blew the curls of her hair. Her father’s voice—perhaps but a memory, but she felt him in her heart.
Welcome home,he said.
Welcome home.
