Page 92 of Bound By Honor
As it turned out, the Macduffie chief was already at Iona but his servants came to the beach to welcome them, bringing ale, bread, dried fish and fruit for the crew lounging on the sand.
Angus led Áine to a deserted patch of beach sheltered by vegetation and bid her sit on a rock. “There is something I have been remiss in telling you, and I must do so before we are wed.”
Anxious at his words, Áine looked into his earnest blue eyes. His reddish-gold hair blew back from his face revealing his chiseled features, a warrior’s bold face. “What is it?”
A sigh escaped his lips. “I have a natural son in Glen Coe. He is about Brian’s age.”
Questions flooded her mind. “The child of your mistress?”
“Nay. There have been no mistresses. The lad was the product of an encounter of only one night, but the lass believes the child is mine and I have never said otherwise.”
Mindful that he might soon be Lord of the Isles, she asked, “If he is your firstborn, is he your heir?”
“Nay. No illegitimate son may be the heir. Not since the meeting at Turnberry Castle some thirteen years ago when my father made clear Alex was his lawful, that is to say, legitimate born heir. Still, I have provided for my natural son, arranging for him to foster with a friendly clan in Lochaber. It is there, north of Ardnamurchan, where he will be tutored. And, when he is grown, I will bestow lands upon him.”
She waited to see if he would say more. When he did not, she said, “I do not fault you for a young man’s indiscretion but I am glad the boy will not take the place of a son God may give you and me.”
“Aye.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “My heir will be the child of our love.”
ANGUS WAS GLAD Áine had accepted the boy whose mother still lived in Glen Coe, unmarried as far as Angus was aware. The lad, who went by the name Iain Macdonald, was, according to all reports, a fine boy.
Hearing his name shouted down the beach, Angus turned to see his captain gesturing to him. He offered his hand to assist Áine in rising but she declined. “I would sit for a while, if I may.”
“Of course,” he said. “You have your cloak to keep you from the wind and the flowers around you for cheerful company.”
“And more besides,” she said, looking out to sea.
When he reached his captain, Angus glanced back to see Áine surrounded by shore birds as if holding court. Higher up on the rocks, shags were keeping watch, their dark plumage silhouetted against the stone. It seemed word had gone forth that their patroness had arrived in the Isles. Amused, he turned back to his captain.
“The Macduffies have invited us to stay, my lord, but we can cover the eighteen miles to Iona by the evening meal if that be your decision.”
“Since the days are long, let us thank the Macduffies and continue on. I want to see my brother’s body in the custody of the monks, the sooner for them to begin their prayers and chanting.”
As they sailed to Iona, Angus stood in the stern, his gaze reaching over the body draped with oilcloth to where Áine stood with Juliana in the bow. Without turning, he said to his brother and cousin, “When we get to Iona, find a chief’s wife who is caring—a widow might be best—and ask her to take Juliana under her wing. Lady Áine is doing her best to be a comfort, but she and Dermot will be experiencing the burial ritual for the first time and may be distracted with questions for you.”
“I will keep watch over Juliana and find a widow to comfort her, as you suggest,” said Duncan. “With the recent attacks in the north, I believe there are new widows among the women.”
“We need to find one who will not judge Juliana for her father’s evil deed.”
Turning to his brother, he said, “Can you make sure the crew delivers the wine and cheese we have brought from Islay to the monks?”
“Aye, Brother,” said John. “I will see to it.” More often than not, Angus reflected, it was John who now stood at his right hand, always eager to help. Duncan had his own business to attend to at Saddell.
Angus thanked them, glad he had their support at so critical a time. Staring at the sea, whipped to white peaks by the wind, he recalled Lord Cumee’s words telling him his hand was on the tiller. If it were true, Angus was sailing into rough seas. He could not dwell on his sorrow for Alex’s loss or his desire for revenge. He must rise to take his place as the Council would dictate. Though the decision had yet to be made, he was the natural choice, the one they would see as the next chief. Already he could feel the weight of the impending responsibility descending upon his shoulders. Had not Alexander felt the same when their father died?
The Isle of Iona, May 1299
THE WHITE SAND beach of Iona, coming into view fascinated Áine. In Ulster, the beaches were golden and the water dark blue. Iona’s beach was pristine white and the waters close to shore a pale blue-green, sparkling like a gemstone.
On the shore, a magnificent abbey and church, hewn out of red stone, loomed before them, a great edifice for so small an isle. Angus had told her it was the spiritual center of the lordship. But she knew from her father that before it was a part of the Kingdom of the Isles, Iona was Irish, for it was the place where Columba brought his monks and created the Book of Kells, the beautifully illuminated manuscript of the four Gospels in Latin. It seemed fitting that she and Angus were to be married here.
As a young girl, she had learned about the Irish prince who had left Ireland in self-exile to go north and settle a community of monks. Columba’s attachment to Iona was strong, and his prophecy of the isle’s future reflected that tie.
In Iona of my heart, Iona of my love,
Instead of monks’ voices shall be lowing of cattle,
But ere the world come to an end,
