Page 94 of Bound By Honor
“It heartens me to know you stand with us,” said Angus. They would expect him to seek justice for his brother and he would not shrink from the task.
“As well,” continued Malise, “we would see you take your proper role as the next Lord of the Isles. None, save you, can carry the Macdonald torch.”
Angus thanked Malise for his confidence and he and John strode ahead to rejoin Duncan and Dermot.
On the way, John said, “I would be to you what you were to Alex. I would fight by your side.”
Angus laid his arm over the shoulder of his younger brother. “You are ever a strong right arm to me.”
They rejoined their companions and walked to the abbey where they were met by the gaunt, black-robed Abbot Fionnlagh. He was much as Angus remembered him except for the lines in his face that spoke of the years that had passed and the silver strands that were threaded through his brown-tonsured hair.
Angus inclined his head to the abbot. “My guard has carried Alexander’s body to the chapel.”
“The monks and I have already commenced praying for Alexander’s soul and for you, Lord Angus. I will make sure they go now to stand vigil for Alexander.”
Angus introduced Dermot. The abbot already knew Angus’ brother and cousin.
“An O’Cahan from Ulster?” the abbot asked Dermot.
“Yes, here with my sister, Áine.”
Angus shifted his gaze to the abbot. “There is a matter about which I would speak to you, if you have a moment.”
“Of course,” said the abbot and motioned Angus to one side as the others entered the abbey to be welcomed by the chiefs and their families.
“The sister of Dermot O’Cahan is my betrothed,” said Angus. “If you agree, when Alexander has been properly laid to rest, we would have you wed us in the abbey church.”
“Of course,” said the abbot. “I am glad to hear of your decision to marry. ’Tis more important now than ever.” Angus understood the abbot spoke of the lordship’s succession and the need for an heir.
“I would invite all the chiefs and their families to join with us in what may be one of the few causes for celebration for some time.”
The abbot nodded. “It would be good to have your marriage blessed with the chiefs of the lordship present to observe the day. The Bishop of the Isles is here for the burial and may decide to stay for the wedding since he will go on to Islay for the installation of the new chief.”
“There is also the matter of Alexander’s grave slab,” said Angus. “With your permission, I will order it from one of Iona’s stonemasons.”
“I have already advised our finest craftsman to expect you.”
“I trust they can manage two rings?”
With an amused look, the abbot said, “They are very good at working in gold as you well know.”
Angus thanked the abbot and entered the abbey. Several chiefs came to meet him, including Malcolm Macduffie of Colonsay and his son, Gilchrist, both warriors as well as known scholars.
Angus reacquainted the red-haired Macduffies with his brother and cousin and then introduced Dermot O’Cahan. “The brother of Lady Áine O’Cahan, who travels with him. We stopped on Colonsay on our way here and your servants were most gracious.”
“Ah,” said Malcolm, “that is good. I hastened here not knowing if Lord Alexander’s body had yet arrived. ’Tis a horrible deed the MacDougall has done. Only treachery could have felled our Alexander.”
“Aye,” said Angus, his eyes downcast. “’Twas an ambush—murder—not battle,” he said, recalling the words of the wounded guard who had brought him the news. “Thanks be to God, my brother has left six sons to carry on his name.”
Malcolm Macduffie placed a hand on Angus’ shoulder. “I and the other chiefs stand with you and your family, my son. We are ready to see justice done.”
By the time Angus and his companions had made the rounds of the chiefs and changed their clothing, it was time to go to the chapel to pay his respects to his brother. Outside the abbey, the setting sun cast its golden light over the tall carved crosses and stone slabs that marked the graves in the ancientReilig Odhrain.
In the small chapel, black-robed monks stood like sentinels on either side of the body chanting, their voices echoing off the stone walls that were covered in whitewashed plaster with paintings of the saints.
Alex’s body, wrapped in white winding cloth at Dunluce, had been draped with an ivory silk pall on which was appliquéd a long-shafted Celtic ringed cross in golden fabric much like that which covered the body of Angus Mor.
Candles flickered on the wooden frame suspended above the body and on the linen-draped altar, the flames drawing the air upward. Angus had seen it all before with his father’s burial, the ritual preserved as if years had not passed between the two deaths. Seeing all again, the reality of Alex’s death overcame him, causing the hole in his heart to grow larger as he thought of life without his brother. He had not expected Alex to die so young. In truth, he had not expected Alex to die at all.
