Page 22 of Bound By Honor
Tirowen, Ulster, Ireland, spring 1291
“’TIS A SON, MISTRESS!” Áine heard Nessa’s words through a fog as she sank back against the pillows, relieved the long and painful birthing was finally over.
The babe’s cry broke the air as the first rays of sunlight streamed in the window, illuminating the face of the swaddled bairn Nessa held out to her. “He has The O’Neill’s hair and your bow-shaped lips,” said her handmaiden, “and don’t they look fine on such a handsome lad?”
“God bless him,” said the midwife in the ancient tradition of the words that must follow such a compliment to preserve the babe’s safety.
Áine would not have called her newborn son handsome with his wizened face and reddish down hair on the top of his head, yet he was most beloved. She took him in her arms and cuddled him close, helping him find her breast, where he latched on with voracious hunger, making her laugh. “I was the one doing all the work but it is the lad who is hungry.”
“Just like the master,” said Nessa as she and the midwife scurried about changing linens and helping Áine to look presentable. “The O’Neill is always eating.”
“He is always practicing his skills with weapons,” said Áine in her husband’s defense. “Is Niall about?” At one point when the birthing went on longer than might have been hoped for, Niall had been dragged off by a few of his men for a drink but he would want to know she’d given birth to a son.
“Aye, and pacing like a lion downstairs.”
“Well, best let him in.”
The midwife opened the door and shouted down the stairs, “Lord Niall!” A moment later, Niall rushed in. “’Tis a lad,” said the midwife. “You’ve a fine son, my lord.”
“God be praised.” Niall turned toward the bed. “And my wife?”
Áine smiled, seeing the concern on his face. “I am well, my lord.”
Niall strode to the bed and dropped to her side, staring in wonder at his son. He touched the babe’s tiny hand, marveling at the splayed fingers. “Thank you, Áine,” he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “I could not have asked for more.”
“What shall we name him?” she inquired.
“What about Brian? ’Tis a proper name for a king in Ireland.”
“You do not wish to name him for one of our fathers?”
“No, I would rather my son be his own man.”
Given what Niall had been through, she well understood. “Then Brian O’Neill he will be.” She gazed at her young son who had opened his eyes and smiled. “Niall, he smiles at us!”
“And why not? He is the heir to Tirowen. The world lies before him.”
A month earlier, Richard de Burgh and his army had managed to drive off Niall’s cousin, Domnall, and restore Niall to the kingship but Áine still had an uneasy feeling about their return to Tirowen.
Dunaverty Castle, Kintyre Peninsula, summer 1291
ANGUS CRUMPLED THE parchment in his hand and pondered the voyage he must take north. “My father asks that I attend Alex’s wedding in his place, though it will take me to Dunstaffnage Castle, the seat of Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Lorne and Argyll.”
“I would not have you go alone,” said Angus’ cousin, Duncan, who had joined him at the battlements to gaze upon the sea. A clear blue sky above and the warm air around them spoke of high summer.
Angus leaned his forearms on the stone wall. “Surrounded by MacDougalls, your presence will be comforting.”
“Take heart. The wedding will soon be over and then we can sail to Glen Coe where I have business for my father with Dugall MacEanruig, the chief man of Glen Coe.”
“Aye,” said Angus, “’tis the least I can do for the favor of your accompanying me to enemy territory. But I would go first to Ardtornish to see my father. He will want a report on the wedding.”
“A visit to Ardtornish Castle would be most welcome. I have not seen my uncle in some time.”
Angus wondered if his father had chosen not to attend Alexander’s wedding because of the company he would be forced to keep, for he had made clear he disapproved of Alex’s choice, or whether it was due to their father’s ill health. Angus had received a message from his mother telling him the Lord of the Isles was not well, though she did not say what ailed him.
Early the next morning before Angus and Duncan set sail, Angus addressed his crew. “We go to my brother’s wedding where, following the vows, there will be the usual celebration with much food and drink. Eat, but drink little. Keep your wits about you, for we know not what treachery the MacDougall fools may be planning. I do not trust them once they are full of ale and wine.”
“Will we stay the night at Dunstaffnage?” asked his captain.
