by Seonaid
“I should think so,” Angus snorted, “as we expect you to take on the mother as well. We are prepared to have you married this night.”
Padraig laughed, disbelief mixed with delight. “Do you hear that, Seonaid. They see us as married, even if you don’t.” He skewered the friar with his gaze. “And are you willing to keep her from marrying Christ?”
“Oh, aye,” Father Kenneth nodded. “The convent would be a fine place for her to rest, find God’s will for her. A temporary respite. She has the heart for God, but not the temperament for convent life. Aye, if it’s what she wants, I would be happy to marry you.”
But Seonaid was shaking her head. “It can’t be.”
“It can,” Lady Alissa told her. “The friar worried about banns, being from England and all, but we informed him that, here in the highlands, a person’s word is enough”
Angus stepped in. “Alissa, it’s time we stopped playing with riddles and started clearing this up. How it can be so?”
“And just how is that so?” Seonaid asked.
Lady Alissa gestured for Seonaid to sit where Angus had been, then sat herself on the settle opposite. Deian moved to his mother’s knee, leaned against her, Brut hovering over them both. Padraig stood behind Seonaid, his hands on the back of the chair, as the friar sat beside Lady Alissa, and Angus leaned against the bed posts.
Everyone in their places, Lady Alissa began. “We,” she gestured to herself, the friar and Angus, “are the only people in Eriboll who know who you and Eban truly are. That knowledge will not leave this room. However,” she raised a hand, warning any who might interrupt, “our mutual Laird, the Laird MacKay and his wife, have sent out messengers requesting any and all information about the three of you.” She told Seonaid, “We have prepared an announcement stating that you and Eban, in the process of saving captives, were murdered by the heathens who now live in our dungeon.”
“Oh.” Seonaid clasped Deian’s hand, reached up to take Padraig’s, linking them all. Death, no matter how fictitious, rang of finality.
“We stated that Padraig was looking for you at Eriboll. In the end, he told us whose bodies we found.” Lady Alissa drew in a deep breath, as though to cleanse herself of the lie. “We have also prepared another missive, for the eyes of the Laird only, explaining what else we are to do this night. As your Laird, he has the right to the truth.”
Angus pulled a number of documents from within his vest, and waggled them for Seonaid to see. “If you do not agree with this fine Lady’s plan, these will go in the fire. If you do agree…” He adjusted his hold, so she would see the triple seal. “…they will be sent by courier, first thing in the morning.”
“So here is my plan,” Lady Alissa leaned forward, her eyes now sparkling with delight.
Seonaid couldn’t help but pull back, rigid against the chair seat. These people knew too much about her woes, and Lady Alissa was having fun because of them. Fun. This was no joyful matter.
“Stop it, Alissa,” Angus warned, and said to Seonaid, “she loves the drama of a thing, you know.”
Alissa snorted. “Pah!” She brushed his comment aside. “I’ve a brilliant plan, you’ve said so yourself. And the friar agrees, don’t you Father Kenneth?” she asked, without giving a moment for an answer. “The friar says he can christen you with a new name. He says he can do it, and we’ve found a name.”
“I did!” Deian bounced in place. “I found the name.” More earnestly, he told his mama, “It’s not so hard, having a different name. You get used to it right quick.”
She’d done that to him so easily, given him a change of name. She hadn’t realized how truly difficult it was; like who you were, are, was held in your name. By changing it, you changed the very essence of your being.
But they were right, she couldn’t go on as Seonaid. She had to be brave, just as her wee lad had been.
“What name have you chosen?” she asked him, knowing it would help. No one would follow. She’d still have to leave the highlands. Chances were great she’d meet someone who had been to Glen Toric, seen her, remembered her. A name change couldn’t erase that.
“Well, you know how you were named for Seonaidh, the water spirit from the Isle of Lewis?” Deian asked.
“Aye, I do know that story.” Had told it to Deian more times than could be counted.
“Well,” Deian burst out proudly. “I heard a story about a lass called Irvette. She was a friend of the sea!”
“Irvette?” Seonaid asked, noticing the others merely shook their heads. “Do you think that’s too obvious?”
“No,” Deian argued.
Father Kenneth reached over and patted his head. “It’s a good name, Deian, but you keep telling me about your mama’s bravery, which reminds me of a lady who went into battle.”
He shifted, thinking. “She wasn’t Scottish, mind you, but Welsh.” He lifted his head, acknowledged all eyes were on him. “She spent considerable time in Wales, The Healers lived near there.” He patted his knees. “And many told the story of Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd. A heroic woman, this Gwenllian, known as the warrior princess. To this day, a Welsh warrior will call out her name when riding out to battle. A woman worth being named for.”
“What became of her?” Seonaid asked.
“Oh, well, most unfortunate.” The friar fidgeted. “She was caught in battle and beheaded.”
Seonaid sat taller, Padraig smiled broadly. “A fine woman, then. Strong and courageous.”
“The name is unusual,” Seonaid fretted.
“Gwenllian,” Padraig tried the name, shook his head. “But Welsh? We aren’t friends with the Welsh.”
“So who would think it, that she would take such a name?” the Friar asked.
Padraig mulled that over, asking, “Would you be called Gwen, then?”
“I like Irvette,” Deian groused.
It was all happening too fast for her to think. “I could have two names,” Seonaid offered Deian, “Gwenllian Irvette. Would you like that? It would be helpful to have a Welsh name, if we are going there.”
“Or if you don’t,” Lady Alissa amended.
Seonaid’s gaze snapped to her. “I have to go away. I can’t stay in the highlands.”
“We will go away,” Padraig told her. “Don’t fear that.”
Father Kenneth slapped his knees and rose. “There’s time to speak of destinations. Let’s get on with the blessing.” He walked back to the alcove, signalled for everyone to follow. “Lady Alissa, would you be so kind as to pour me a cup of water.”
“Of course, Father.” There was a silver pitcher and jeweled goblet by the bedside. She did as he asked, handing it to him. “Deian, get a pillow, so your mother may kneel.”
Seonaid took the pillow, knelt upon it, clasped her hands at her waist to stop their trembling. She bowed her head, as fear ransacked her innards, a thousand hungry minnows swirling in her stomach. Greater than any fear in battle for, with this, she would die. For better or worse, part of her would be gone forever.
Father Kenneth blessed the goblet, dipped his hands in and sprinkled the holy water on Seonaid’s head before placing his hand upon her forehead. “You, dear child, bore the weight of another’s sin. You lived your life with courage and integrity. You have followed your quest, traversed the breadth of Scotland, to the heart of your soul. You triumphed over adversity, challenged danger, and offered your life to free others. Tireless and selfless, you prevailed. Seonaid is now a legend, gone to mere mortals, but a tale to be told to inspire strength and power. You are no longer the woman you were, Seonaid MacKay, but a new woman. A woman of light and courage. I bless you.” As he spoke, he made the sign of the cross on her forehead. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. I christen you, in the name of all that is Holy, Gwenllian Irvette, descendant of the Macleods.”
Seonaid gasped, as he poured water over her head, as if the startling texture of the water shook her old self out of her. The woman she had been was no more. She
was dead, buried. And yet, she still was, for he had not changed her line of descent, just acknowledged it through the line of her mother, rather than her father. A tradition of old.
Everyone waited for her to rise, but she was not capable. She needed the time for his words to sink into the depths of her.
“Gwenllian,” she whispered. “I am Gwenllian, to be called Gwen,” she repeated, rolling the name through her head. Freedom, freshness, welled within, as if the friar’s words poured water on thirsty seeds.
Padraig took her arm, to help her stand. “I am the same,” she told him in awe, “and yet I am different.”
Father Kenneth patted her arm. “Exactly,” he told her, as if such things happened daily. “And now for you, lad.” He took Deian’s arm. “Now that your mother is not kneeling, you kneel.”
“Why?”
“Because you are to have a father.”
Bewildered, Deian watched, as Padraig stood before him, a dagger in his hand.
The lad stiffened, but did not move. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” he stated as fact, though his steely look admitted he thought Padraig just might.
Padraig laughed. “No more than I would hurt myself,” he said, then placed the blunt side of his dagger on Deian’s shoulder. “I adopt you, Deian, to be my son. You shall be called Eban MacKay.” He moved the dagger to Deian’s other shoulder. “Your blood shall mingle with my blood.” Then he placed the dagger on Deian’s head. “An equal and legal heir with any children borne of me.”
Padraig got down on his knees, in front of the lad Deian, now named Eban. “Give me your hand. The right one.”
Eban hesitated before opening his palm. Padraig took the brooch, passed it to the newly-named Gwen. “You will have to be brave,” he explained, as he took Eban’s thumb and sliced just deep enough for blood to well. He then did the same with his right hand, pressed his wound to Eban’s. Angus wrapped a strip of plaid around their thumbs.
“Padraig’s blood now flows in Eban’s body and Eban’s blood flows in Padraig’s. In the name of our clan, with all who witness this act this night, I decree they are now father and son.” He unbound their hands, as Padriag pulled Eban’s head to his chest, tears pooling in his eyes.
Gwen fell to her knees, wrapped her arms around father and son.
Angus cleared his throat. “We aren’t done yet.”
Seonaid—no, she was no longer Seonaid—Gwen looked up. “But we have done everything.”
“Not quite, and I would like to see an end to this and take to my bed,” Angus groused.
“Oh.” All three of the new family stood. “What else is there?” she asked, despite Padraig’s smirk. “What?”
He reached out with his right hand, blood still seeping from the cut. She took it, thinking to clean it, but he stopped her. “Not that hand, Gwenllian. Your right hand.” And she suddenly knew what was happening, what they’d yet to do.
Still dazed by the whole of the night, she lifted her right hand for him. He shifted her left to his left, took her right in his right. Held her in the age-old symbol of handfast. Angus used the same plaid he had for father and son, to wrap around the clasped hands of the couple being wed.
Father Kenneth stepped forward.
Padraig smiled at him. “You don’t need to say a thing, Father. I’ve been practicing these words for years.”
“Aye,” the friar stopped him, “but I will add my words at the end. This is no handfasting, for a year-and-a-day. This will be a marriage, sound and true, from this day forward.”
“That it will be, Father. Have no fear I mean different,” Padraig confirmed, before he turned to Gwen, eyes narrowed with determination.
Did he expect her to stop him, to say no? He was daft if he did. He meant the world to her, she’d not let him go, now that she was free of the past. She met his gaze, her own serious, and listened to the words he’d memorized without her even knowing.
“I vow you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine, from this day only your name shall I cry out in the night and into your eyes shall I smile each morning; I shall be a shield for your back, as you are for mine, not a grievous word be spoken about us, for our marriage is sacred between us and no stranger shall hear my grievance. Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honor you through this life and into the next.”
He turned from her, looked about the room, panicked. She’d never seen Padraig panic. “I’ve no ring,” he admitted. “No ring!”
Angus gestured at his brooch. “Give her that,” he suggested.
Padraig looked at his bride. “Do you mind? I will have a ring made for you, an unbroken circle. I promise, but this is all I have.” He gestured with his chin, as his hands were in hers. Lady Alissa hurried forward, unclasped it and then handed it to the friar, who blessed it with quiet solemnity.
He held it then, above their heads, a silver brooch shaped like a sword. A circle decorated to its hilt, with knotted designs of old and the words Manu Forti, for the MacKay motto ‘with a strong hand’, framing an upright sword held in a fist.
Padraig’s voice rang clear. “With this brooch I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” And as he said the last words, the friar moved the brooch in the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Seonaid, now known as Gwendllian or, as Padraig deemed to call her, Gwen, of the Macleods, once a MacKay soon to be a MacKay again, asked her son, their son, “Bring our brooch here, Eban. I’ve placed it on the table by the bed.” She looked at Padraig. “For it’s time I said my vows to this great man.”
CHAPTER 23 ~ A FAMILY
“I wish you’d stop crying.” Padraig looked over his shoulder at Gwen, as they rode to their little place upon the hillside. “If it weren’t for that wild smile on your face, I’d think you were unhappy with how things have turned out.”
“No.” She shook her head against his back. “No’ unhappy. No’ unhappy at all, it’s just such a turnabout. I can be like any other lass with her husband and lad. We are a family now.”
“Aye, so much so we almost had Deian…”
“Eban!” she corrected.
“Aye, Eban, joining us for our wedding night.”
Eban hadn’t understood the idea of being apart, now that they were securely united. Had tried to leave with them until Lady Alissa cried foul. “Who is going to watch over me?” she asked him. “Me, who came up with this tangled web to bring you together. Is that all the thanks I get?”
Angus hadn’t helped by saying he would stay with Lady Alissa. Fortunately, Gwen herself nudged Eban back into the room. “You stay with Lady Alissa. She’s been good to us, she needs a protector.”
“What about when we leave?” Eban asked, taking his responsibility seriously.
“By then, Brut will be better trained,” Padraig offered, looking at the well-behaved wolfhound. “But he needs to learn by your example.”
Eban gave this serious consideration. “Then I should teach him to sleep in the bed,” he announced.
“No,” Lady Alissa shook her head. “No, I donna’ think that would be necessary.”
“I don’t know.” Angus shook his head. “But I’ll tell you what, lad. If Brut canna’ manage the job from the hearth, then I’ll take your place.”
Eban scowled at him, but nodded, appeased, and stayed with Lady Alissa.
Gwen’s hands tightened around Padraig’s waist. “Do you mind all this, Padraig?”
Was she daft?
“I mean, going to the Isle of Lewis? Do you mind? Does it break your heart to leave Glen Toric, the seat of the MacKays? We are MacKays, after all.”
“Aye, but the Macleods need us.”
“That they do.” Gwen sighed in contentment. She would not have to go to England. They would not have to leave the highlands. Their clan, aye, she could never be on the mainland. Too great a risk of meeting someone who would know who she was. But the Isle of Lewis
, well, that was a different beast.
And they were needed.
“Angus explained what the Macleods are about. There will probably be battles, with the Norwegians, but we are fit for that. Especially if there are more highlanders there. We’ll outnumber them.”
“Did you know of this before?”
“That an appeal had gone out to warriors and their families to settle there? Aye, The Bold had mentioned it. No one took the call to settle. Not from Glen Toric. Though they vow to fight, if, when, it comes to that.”
She wondered about it. “So there are both Scots and Norsemen up there?”
“Aye, though it’s no’ even in Scottish hands. The Norwegians claim it as their own, but the plan is to take it back. The king’s working to that end. He’s written agreements for them to sign, but it may come to battle. That’s why he wants more of us living there.”
“And when warriors come for the battle?” Gwen argued. “They’ll recognize me.”
“No,” Padraig explained. “You and Eban will have to go somewhere safe.”
“Och no!” she argued. “I’d want to fight.”
“Not with wee bairns, you won’t.” Padraig countered. “They’ll be needing their mama, teaching them to be strong.”
She stilled, pulled away. “I hadna’ thought,” she fretted.
“I know.” She felt him smile; even with his face the other way, she felt it in the ripple of muscle, he was smiling huge. “And you haven’t thought about your own bleeding.”
She swatted his arm.
“Och, aye, Gwen.” Her name was a long, drawn-out breath, “’for I’ve thought of that, too, and you haven’t bled but once on this whole journey and that was a while back.”
“And how would you be knowin’?” she snapped, embarrassed.
“Because I know everythin’ about you, and my guess is, we’re already expecting a wee little one.”
“No!”
“Aye, a wee little one,” he sighed, a kind of contentment she never thought she could offer him. That she’d have for herself.