Epilogue
Several days later, Donaldina returned to the altar for a second time.
The vast hall of Dun Ard still showed signs of that day, with one pillar blackened by smoke even after cleaning.
New rushes covered the worst stains on the floor, and the repaired service door revealed pale new timber contrasting with the aged oak.
No one attempted to disguise those scars entirely, and she was glad of it.
The hall had survived. So had they.
The ceremony was smaller now. The visiting envoys had departed, carrying their accounts of Cormac’s attack into the glens. Only MacIver and MacNicol kin remained, gathered beneath the two banners that still hung together above the high table.
There were fewer flowers and no musicians waiting to announce her entrance. The winter heather had been gathered from the cliffs that morning, its purple bells damp with mist and bound simply with green thread.
Mairi fastened Donaldina’s mother’s silver clasp at her shoulder.
“There,” she said, stepping back. “Properly prepared this time.”
Donaldina looked toward the closed doors. “Was I improperly prepared before?”
“Ye allowed armed traitors intae the ceremony.”
“A serious failure of hospitality.”
Mairi gave a soft laugh, though tears already brightened her eyes.
Donaldina’s own reflection watched her from the polished metal looking glass. She wore the same green gown, carefully cleaned and repaired where Cormac’s hand had torn the sleeve. A faint line of new stitching crossed the shoulder. The seamstress offered to conceal it beneath embroidery.
Donaldina refused. She did not wish to forget what the cloth had endured, nor what she had chosen despite it.
Mairi settled Lachlan’s plaid over Donaldina’s arm. The familiar wool was heavy and warm, carrying the faint scent of cedar from the chest in which it had been stored.
“He should have stood beside me,” Donaldina whispered.
Mairi’s hand closed around hers. “Aye.”
Grief no longer struck with the same sharpness it once had. It changed into something quieter and more permanent, a room within Donaldina that would never again be filled, but whose door she could now open without fearing she would become lost inside it.
She touched the edge of the plaid. Lachlan had signed the accord that brought Roy to Dun Ard. He could not have known what would follow: the suspicion, the bloodshed or the long road by which duty became choice.
Yet Donaldina thought he would have understood the end of it. Perhaps he would even have approved. Loudly, inconveniently and only after arguing over every arrangement.
The doors opened, and the hall rose. Donaldina stepped between Mairi and Malcolm, who insisted that, as the senior MacNicol warrior present, the honor of escorting her fell to him.
His formal coat pulled badly across one shoulder, and he appeared more frightened by the ceremony than he had beneath Cormac’s blades.
At the front of the hall stood Roy. His injured shoulder remained bound beneath his dark coat.
The healer had forbidden him armor, sword practice, and unnecessary movement.
Roy obeyed none of those instructions except the prohibition against armor, and only because Donaldina threatened to remove it herself before the entire clan.
He watched her approach. There was no alarm today, no smoke darkened the windows, and no unfamiliar faces waited among the benches. There was only Roy, beneath the joined banners, looking at her as though the rest of the hall had ceased to exist.
Donaldina felt the last of her tension ease. The first ceremony had been arranged for clans, councils and the Crown. This one belonged to them.
When she reached him, Malcolm placed her hand in Roy’s, his fingers closing carefully around hers.
“Any fires?” she whispered.
“Nae.”
“Armed intruders?”
“Hamish searched beneath the benches.”
Donaldina glanced toward the general. Hamish stood beside the altar with an expression of absolute innocence.
Father Maol cleared his throat.
“Perhaps,” the priest said, “we might complete the vows before either of ye invites another disaster.”
A quiet ripple of laughter moved through the hall.
Donaldina looked around. MacIver and MacNicol warriors stood in close proximity.
Formerly vigilant of each other with hands near their swords, they now bore similar smoke stains on their formal clothing.
An elderly MacNicol woman sat beside a MacIver captain, whose arm stayed bandaged from the attack.
Malcolm and Hamish stood on opposite sides of the altar, yet their mutual impatience made them look more alike than either would admit.
The alliance had not been created by the King’s paper. It had been formed through work, danger and the choice to stand together when division would have been easier.
Father Maol lifted his hands. “We gather beneath God and before these clans tae witness the union of Roy MacIver and Donaldina MacNicol. They come before us nae under force, nor beneath threat, but by their own consent.”
Donaldina met Roy’s gaze.
“Roy MacIver,” the priest continued, “will ye take Donaldina MacNicol as yer wife, honoring her blood, her name and the authority she carries?”
Roy answered without hesitation. “I will.”
Father Maol turned to her. “Donaldina MacNicol, will ye take Roy MacIver as yer husband, honoring his blood, his name and the duty he carries?”
Once, the question would have felt like a door closing. Now it seemed to open before her.
“I will.”
Father Maol took the ceremonial cord from the altar. It was not the one that had fallen during the attack. Mairi had woven a new length from threads of MacIver red and MacNicol green.
The priest wound it around their joined hands. Roy’s thumb brushed once across Donaldina’s knuckles. It was the lightest touch. It steadied her more than any oath.
They spoke the traditional vows first, promising loyalty to God and clan, shelter in winter, aid in hardship, and honor to the houses that shaped them.
Then Father Maol stepped back. Donaldina asked that space be left for words of their own.
She looked at Roy. The hall waited.
“I was promised tae ye before I understood what promises cost,” she said. “I believed the accord meant me future had been decided by men who would never live it.”
Roy’s hand tightened around hers.
“But ye came tae Dun Ard and gave me what the agreement didnae.”
His eyes held hers.
“Choice.”
Donaldina drew a slow breath.
“I choose ye, Roy MacIver. Nae because a King commands it. Nae because the clans expect it. I choose ye because ye stand beside me without asking me tae become smaller.”
Something unguarded entered Roy’s face. He lowered his head slightly, as though the words had struck too deeply to meet without effort.
When he spoke, his voice was rougher than before. “I spent years believing anything I loved would be taken from me.”
Donaldina’s throat tightened. Roy looked at their bound hands.
“Ye taught me that protecting something doesnae mean keeping it behind walls. It means trusting it tae stand beside ye.”
His gaze returned to hers.
“I choose ye, Donaldina MacNicol. Wherever that choice leads.”
Father Maol placed one hand over theirs. “Then before God, clan and all gathered here, I declare ye husband and wife.”
For one heartbeat, the hall remained quiet, then both clans erupted. Cheers struck the rafters. Cups hammered against tables. Hamish shouted something indecently triumphant before an elder silenced him with a glare.
Roy released the ceremonial cord from their hands. Donaldina scarcely had time to draw breath before he touched her face. His palm was warm against her cheek, rough with old scars.
“May I?” he asked.
She smiled. “A little late for caution.”
Roy kissed her. The hall disappeared beneath the warmth of his mouth and the quiet certainty of his hand at her waist. Donaldina gripped the front of his coat, mindful of his injured shoulder but unwilling to allow distance between them.
When they parted, Roy rested his forehead against hers.
Around them, the clans celebrated. The feast began before Father Maol could restore order. Bread, salt and honey were carried to the high table. MacIver drums joined the MacNicol pipes, producing a melody that began as disagreement and somehow became music.
Donaldina sat beside Roy beneath the joined banners. Lachlan’s plaid rested over the back of her chair. Her mother’s clasp gleamed at her shoulder. Across the hall, warriors from both clans raised their cups together.
Outside, carpenters worked in the garden where the damaged hives waited to be rebuilt. The surviving bees had been moved into shelter, and the oldest frame rested safely within a new wooden box. Not everything lost could be restored, but some things could be carried forward.
Roy reached beneath the table and found Donaldina’s hand. She turned toward him.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Naething.”
“That answer remains unconvincing.”
His thumb moved over the ring upon her finger.
“Me wife,” he said quietly, as though testing the truth of it.
Warmth spread through her.
“Me husband,” she replied.
Roy’s expression softened into the rare smile she had once believed his face incapable of holding.
Donaldina looked across the hall, at MacIver red beside MacNicol green, at grief remembered without allowing it to govern and at a future no longer waiting to be decided for her.
She had not been given peace. She and Roy had chosen it.
Together.
Return to Dun Ard one year later, where love, legacy, and one precious secret are waiting among the restored beehives.