Page 58 of The Guardian's Bride
“The big one is Cheese and the little one is Bean.” Colban took her hand, looking very serious as he bowed again. Then he looked up at his father. “Does she have the Gaelic, Da?” He spoke in English.
“Just a little, but we forgive her because she knows the old ways.”
“Then I am glad she came to stay with us, and I will teach her the Gaelic.”
“Ah, but the lady must go home and I promised to take her there, so we can stay only a day or two. And you will travel soon too, with your Aunt Marjorie and Great-aunt Jennet. I will explain all,” he added to Marjorie.
“You had better,” Marjorie said. “Our lady aunt is eager to see you. Come.”
Aedan sat atdinner, pleased and satisfied. Family again. It meant all to him. All. And with Rowena here as well—he sucked in a breath to stop the thought before it could take him too far into the dreams he had set aside years ago, dreams that clamored now.
They gathered for an early supper in the great hall, a raftered room with whitewashed walls and planked floors. Cushioned chairs sat beneath tall, shuttered windows and the long table was flanked with benches. Swords and shields were hung on the walls between lengths of plaid in bright patterns, with plaid curtaining the windows and covering cushions too. At the center of the great room, a tall iron fire basket radiated heat. Altogether, the cozy atmosphere meant home to him, and hewould protect it however he could. Just now that meant moving his family away for a while.
Silent, he watched them fondly: Marjorie, his younger sister, widowed ten years, and her child lost too young. Yet she had an unmatched grace and lively spirit, and like Rowena, had carried on, despite tragedy, to find her work in life; Marjorie was a skilled weaver. He knew all too well the toll that losing a spouse took on the heart and spirit. Alisoun had been gone five full years, leaving him lonely. But his son was the treasure of his life, and he treasured Marjorie and Aunt Jennet for their steadfast, caring natures.
Seated beside him, Lady Jennet set her hand over his, affection crinkling her blue eyes. “Finally home. I am so relieved. We worry about you so when you are gone.”
“Here, but not for long. That is what I wanted to talk to you and Marjorie about.”
“Not yet. We just want to enjoy having you with us. Supper first, then a game with the lad, and later we will talk.”
“Aye,” he agreed. His uncle’s wife, Jennet Ogilvie, an older cousin to Erik and Andrew, was still a beauty as she aged, with elegant bones, pale hair peeking from under a white kerchief, and ice-blue eyes that had warmth even when she acted stern. She was not a widow in fact but in spirit, for her husband, his uncle Duff MacDuff, actual clan chief, had been an English captive for several years.
Jennet brooked no fools and was the pragmatic, efficient heart of the little family they had formed at Castle Black after Alisoun’s passing, when Aedan had an infant son and owed his knight duties to Edward. Jennet and her husband took Aedan, Colban, and widowed Marjorie in at Castle Black, and together they parented the little boy. Colban’s aunt and great-aunt had become a mothering presence for his son, and he was grateful.
“Da, watch me! Watch!” Colban said, and Aedan looked up to see him stand on the bench and walk, foot in front of foot, arms out for balance.
“Very good—” Aedan began.
“Colban, we sit during supper,” Marjorie said.
“Sitnow, Colban MacDuff, and stop that horseplay,” Jennet said.
He sat, but shifted to a crouch, curled his fingers, and growled. “I am a gargoyle!”
“Gargoyles are rain gutters,” Aedan pointed out.
“Do not say that, he will spit water next,” Marjorie said as Aedan chuckled.
“He reminds me of you at that age,” Jennet said. “Always acting the wee jester.”
Rowena, sitting across from him and beside Colban, laughed suddenly, sweetly.
“Ah, you know our Aedan, my lady,” Jennet said.
“A little,” she replied.
“A little is enough and sometimes too much,” Marjorie said, a twinkle in her eye.
“Erik Ogilvie called him abaobach,” Rowena said. The women burst out laughing.
To cover a smile, Aedan picked up the goblet of green Venetian glass that held watered wine, for his kinswomen knew his habit. Sipping, he savored the light taste and watched Colban with quiet delight, growling gargoyle, wee lad giving Marjorie a hug, hungry little boy spooning up stew. The last time he had been here, Colban was just beginning to learn letters and numbers from a local priest who taught some boys and girls in the parish. Already he seemed older.
Marjorie spoke with Rowena, admiring the dark blue gown borrowed from Lady Ellen, sliding the fabric between her fingers. Aedan leaned forward.
“Marjorie is a weaver,” he told Rowena. “Her plaids are very fine indeed.” He patted the tartan draped over his shoulder and tunic.
“I would love to see your work,” Rowena told her.
