Alex took her hand and slipped the silver ring on her finger.
“Oh, Alex, it’s lovely!” she said. “Are those two herons carved on it?”
“Aye,” he said. “Herons mate for life, and that’s what I want.”
She looked up at him with wet eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust ye. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
“Don’t ever leave me,” he said, gathering her in his arms, “because I love ye go síoraí.” Forever. It was still hard for him to say it, though it had been true for a long time.
When he released her, she held out her hand and smiled as she examined the ring again.
“I suspect Ilysa and Teàrlag put all sorts of magical charms on it,” he said.
“Ye don’t need magic charms to keep me.” Glynis took his hands and looked straight at him with her dead-serious gray eyes. “Ye know how stubborn I am. Ye couldn’t be rid of me now if ye tried.”
Alex felt himself relax. Glynis was the most determined woman he’d ever known, and she’d decided to keep him.
Her expression softened, and she said, “We’ll make a home for our children that’s filled with love, mo shíorghrá.” My eternal love.
Alex took his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her long and slow.
EPILOGUE
Saint Brigid’s Day (Là Fhèill Brìghde)
February 1, 1516
I missed ye,” Alex said, kissing his wife’s cheek again as she walked up with him from the beach. He had just returned from a meeting with Connor and the others at Dunscaith.
“Ye shouldn’t have sailed across the Minch to Skye this time of year,” she scolded.
“I have Saint Michael to protect me,” he said, placing his hand on his chest where the medallion rested. “Besides, it’s been a mild winter.”
He wrapped his plaid more tightly around Glynis’s shoulders. Judging from the sharp wind coming off the water, they were in for a change in weather.
“There’s a wee bit of commotion in the hall,” Glynis warned him. “So tell me the news now, before we go in.”
“Angus and Torquil are dead,” Alex said. “The Clanranald chieftain had Angus tied in a sack and dropped at sea, straight off, since he was the one who offended their clanswoman.”
“What about Torquil?”
“He was kept prisoner for a time, but then he bragged about how fast he could run. When they let him run on the beach to prove it, he tried to flee. He was shot in the leg with an arrow.”
“He died from that?”
“Well…,” Alex said, “they decided the wound was incurable and put him to death.”
“Hmmph. And how is Connor?”
“Hugh has vowed to take bloody vengeance for his brothers’ deaths,” Alex said. “And if that is no enough, there’s a rumor floating about that the MacLeods and the Macleans have secretly advised the Crown that they are willing to switch sides in the rebellion—for a price.”
“For a price?”
“Aye, and the price is usually someone else’s lands,” Alex said. “And then, Connor’s heard that his sister Moira is being treated poorly by her husband.”
“Ach, that’s terrible,” Glynis said. “What will he do?”
“He’s sent Duncan to Ireland to find out if it’s true,” Alex said, giving her a sideways glance.
“That’s a lot to ask of Duncan,” Glynis said.
“I haven’t told ye the most startling news,” Alex said, still not believing it himself. “My parents are living together—and they’re acting like a pair of lovebirds.”
Glynis laughed and squeezed his arm as they climbed the steps to the keep.
“They still think of no one but themselves, but they’re more pleasant to be around.”
“I’m glad ye made it home in time to celebrate Saint Brigid’s Day,” Glynis said, as he opened the door for her.
Alex had no idea it was Saint Brigid’s Day.
When they entered the hall, he saw Sorcha with the group of women and children at the long table. They had made the traditional figurine of the saint from sheaves of grain and were in the midst of decorating it with ribbons and shells.
“Da!” Sorcha ran to greet him and tugged at his hand. “Come see Saint Bridget.”
Alex dutifully admired the doll in all her finery.
“Come, children,” his wife said, “and I’ll tell ye about Saint Bridget’s Day.”
As the children gathered around her by the glowing hearth, Glynis rested her hand on her swollen belly and smiled at him. They were both so happy about this baby.
“Saint Bridget’s Day comes at a time when the sheep get their milk in preparation for the birthing of new lambs,” she told the children. “Although winter is not over, we see the first glimmer of spring. We celebrate new life, the reawakening of the land, and our hope for good fishing after the stormy season. No spinning or other work involving a wheel is permitted because the wheel of time is turning between the seasons.”
Alex chuckled to himself. Like most Highland feast days, this was a pagan celebration wrapped in the guise of a Christian saint.
“The fishermen gathered seaweed for fertilizing, while we women spent the day cleaning,” Glynis continued. “And then we placed live limpets outside the four corners of our clean houses to foster good fishing.”
Glynis met his eyes over the children’s heads and gave him another warm smile. “Saint Bridget’s Day is the day we celebrate home, hearth, and family.”
This was the kind of home that Alex had dreamed of when he was a child. He sighed with contentment as he glanced at the faces of the folk who had gathered in the old keep that Glynis had made into a home. He nodded at Tormond, who—if he wasn’t mistaken—had his hand on Bessie’s leg beneath the table.
Glynis sent Sorcha to the door to call out, “Brigid, come in.”
“Welcome, Brigid,” the other women chanted. “Your bed is ready.”
Glynis took the doll from the table, and everyone gathered around as she laid it in a bed of rushes by the hearth.
“This is called Brigid’s wand,” she explained, as she tucked a smooth, straight birch stick in with the doll. “The saint uses the wand to bring earth back to life.”
“I think I know what the stick is supposed to represent,” Alex whispered in her ear.
She gave him a mock-severe look and then handed Ùna a bowl of water and a bowl of salt. “Set them outside for the saint to bless. We’ll use them all year in medicines, for Saint Brigid’s Day is also a time of healing.”
Alex knew she chose Ùna for the task because the lass had a special need for healing.
“These will bring healing and protection to each of us in the months ahead,” Glynis said, as she cut a strip of cloth for every member of the household to leave outside the door for Saint Brigid to bless.
Alex took his to please her, though Glynis had already healed his wounds.
The last ritual of the night, after the feast, was for the head of the household to smother the fire and rake the ashes smooth. In the morning, they would look for signs of the saint’s visit in the ashes. Alex made quick work of the task, for it was the last thing between him and taking his wife upstairs to bed.
Later that night as he lay with her in his arms, Alex thought of his blessings and the many changes wrought in his life over the past months. As Teàrlag predicted, Glynis had fulfilled his deepest desires.
“Ye gave me everything I longed for but didn’t believe I deserved,” he told her. “And ye made me a far better man than I thought I could be.”
“I look forward to every day with ye,” she said, as she rested her palm over his heart. “Ye make me so happy.”
He did make her happy. But then, Glynis had surprised him from the start.
HISTORICAL NOTE
One of the joys of doing research for a historical novel is discovering real-life characters and events that no one would believe if you made them up. Happily, sixteenth-century Scotland is a treasure trove of such finds, and I included a number of them in this book. After five hundred years, many details are unavailable or disputed, and the line between historical fact and legend blurs. This, of course, gives a fiction writer room for imagination.