Epilogue
MANY MONTHS LATER, after a harsh winter had passed and spring was just beginning to kiss the land, a great gathering of the Hebridean clans came to MacKinnons’ Isle to rejoice in the restoration of Clan Fingon’s good fortune and, for those who believed in suchlike, the swinging of an ancient curse into a blessing.
A joyous blessing.
And a goodly number of them.
So on this day of inimitable beauty and importance, no few of the clansmen, friends, and allies crowding the isle’s crescent-shaped boat strand knew quite which blessing to lend their most rapt attention.
Those whose hearts beat most rapidly for warring campaigns and great deeds of heroism admired the two score of new MacKinnon galleys heaving on the long westerly swells, great square sails flapping in the wind, slantwise spars and tall carved prows upthrusting and proud, their imposing outlines against the cloudless sky boldly declaring their sovereignty of the seas.
The Grant banner flew from one of the vessels, that one a gift from the MacKinnons to Colin Grant, and it was to this galley in particular that many Islesfolk stared.
For although the grand festivities had been called to hail the launching of the new fleet, the recent wedding of Colin and his Janet and their imminent departure for their own dominions stirred the blood and had many an eye misting.
Already the sweeps had been lowered and the helmsman’s baton kept a rhythmic, clanging beat on the gong, each steady stroke echoing from the enclosing dunes and hillsides.
From the shore, it was clear to see that the oarsmen were in their places, their deep-voiced chanting rising on the wind, in perfect timing with the beating gong.
Soon that one galley would shoot forth, distancing itself from the others in a burst of speed and sea spray to carry those onboard to distant shores.
“You were great-hearted not to reveal her part in the treachery.” A diminutive figure in black laid a gnarled hand on Amicia’s sleeve.
“Aye, it was good of you and I would have expected no less,” Devorgilla added, her shrewd gaze fixed on the Grant galley.
“Inside, the lass has a shining heart and e’er did. ”
Amicia started, stopped feeding broken bits of honeyed oatcakes to Boiny, and gave her old friend a narrow-eyed stare. “And just how did you know about that? I have ne’er spoken of it to anyone—not even my husband.”
The cailleach hooted, turned her own gaze on Magnus’s galley as it skimmed across the waves, keeping fast pace with Colin’s. A friendly farewell and salute he’d pursue until the Grant vessel moved out of MacKinnon waters.
“And no purpose would have been in telling him, either. That one would ne’er have believed you, for he sees only the good in those he holds dear,” Devorgilla said, helping herself to one of the oatcakes piled high in the little basket Amicia held balanced against her swelling belly.
“And you, lass, ought eat more of these yourself rather than feeding the whole of them to that dog.”
“Do not skip around my question, Devorgilla.” Amicia demonstratively gave Boiny the largest oatcake she could find in the basket. “How did you know what transpired that . . . that day?”
She shuddered, even now, not comfortable remem-bering.
“Tsk, lass, the same way I know . . . many things.” Devorgilla hedged. “But knowing ’em or nay, a prudent heart ne’er discusses them. Some things just are and ought be accepted as such.”
“I am sorry about the cloak,” Amicia said, keenly aware of its loss now that its creator stood beside her. “It kept me warm.”
The crone clucked her tongue. “Keeping you warm was ne’er its purpose. Just be glad it served you so well.”
Amicia nodded, snuggled deeper into her new cloak, a much lighter one, and also crafted by Devorgilla’s own true hand, if not so fine and splendorous.
“Even so, I regret the loss of the other,” she said after a while. “The ermine lining was dear.”
And it must’ve pleased the grizzle-headed crone to present her with such a magnificent gift.
That was what troubled her.
“Think you I care aught about fancy furs, lassie?” Devorgilla quipped, angling her head to peer up at Amicia. “Think you I dinna ken such frippery means scarce little to you?”
Amicia blinked, confused. “Then why bother sewing such a priceless lining into the cloak?”
“Hech, hech, it was what was inside the cloak that mattered, as I suspect you discovered, but I had good reason for choosing such a noble fur for you, never you doubt it,” she said, a familiar twinkle entering her eyes.
A mischievous twinkle well-known throughout the Isles.
Well-known and respected, even feared by some.
“I suppose that reason, too, must remain a secret?” Amicia probed, her expression pure MacLean challenge.
Unimpressed, the crone planted her hands against her bony hips and breathed deeply of the fine spring air. Hebridean air, and as wise souls would say, the best in the land. “Och, nay, lassie, that I will tell you,” she said at last, her wizened face splitting into an impish grin.
“’Twas for him that the ermine lining was meant, not you. A wee precautionary measure—should suchlike be needed.”
“I do not understand.” Amicia blinked at her, wholly confused. “For Magnus? But why?”
Devorgilla cackled with glee. “That wee bairn you carry is mushing your wits, lassie, if you still dinna know.”
Scrunching up her eyes, the crone peered hard at Amicia.
“’Twas this second cloak I always meant you to have, see you?
I kent its good craftsmanship and durability would please you more than ells of silky fur and glittery gew-gaws for claspings.
But you needed such a mantle so that when it left your possession, yon braw laddie would see how little you mourned its loss. ”
“Oh!” That came out on a sudden, gusty breath.
Now she understood.
“You wanted him to have tangible evidence that such finery is not what I hold most dear?”
The crone nodded, looked pleased. “Aye, that was about the way of it.”
“And do you think he knows that? Do you think he knows how much I love him?”
To that, the cailleach threw back her cowled head and laughed—her jollity answer enough.
And full aware she’d get no more out of her, Amicia turned aside and stared out to her husband’s galley, pleased when she caught a glint of sunlight on his handsome auburn head as he stood beside the helmsman.
Just that quick glimpse warmed and delighted her, minding her of how she’d slid her fingers through his silky, bronze-gleaming hair that very morning as they’d lain abed, savoring its cocooning warmth until the very last moment, their bodies and hearts intimately entwined.
So reluctant to leave each other’s arms.
Even for such a joyous and triumphant day.
“You needn’t wallow in such fierce longing, you know.” Devorgilla slid her a shrewd glance, clucked her tongue again. “A love with the depth of yours will last the few hours until you are in his arms again.”
Amicia glanced sharply at her, instinctively slipped a loving hand down to cradle the bulge at her middle, something in the crone’s tone lifting the fine hairs on the back of her neck.
But Devorgilla was no longer looking at her—nor at the silver-bright sea and the many galleys racing to and fro across the waves.
“Aye, lass,” the cailleach said, her voice distant, almost as if she’d turned her attention inward or backward in time, “those who love so truly have each other for always—even beyond time and oceans. Such deep love burns ever bright and can ne’er be extinguished.”
And as if they’d heard and agreed with her, two silent observers standing in shadow at the base of Reginald’s tower smiled deeply into each other’s eyes and nodded.
Then, in the pleasing knowledge that their blessing had finally been recognized and accepted, they joined hands and, turning, faded back into the tower’s stones.
Warm stones, beautiful and shimmering.
Stones that would ne’er know cold again.