“Ye show the courage of a much older lad.”
“Courage is measured by action not age.”
The lad spoke as if he’d heard that many times before, the words far too old for his young age. Colbán smiled. “Wise words. Ye truly are yerfather’sson.”
Tears, big and fat, slipped down the boy’s round face, but he kept his hand tucked to his small chest, focusing his eyes past Colbán. He couldn’t help but wonder if the lad had any memories of his actual father, Branan. Probably not. And by the looks of him, he was not being trained as his father would have wanted him to be.
Not a demonstrative man, Colbán surprised himself by hunkering down in front of the boy. He needed to speak the truth to him, and he preferred they be on the same level. The boy was proud. Mayhap too proud. But setting him straight about the lie he’d been fed would not go over well.
“Yer da was a brave man.” Colbán spoke from the heart, surprised by the tears flooding his throat. “My most loyal friend.”
The young face turned suspicious. “I do not know ye.”
Scoffing, Colbán said, “And mayhap ye dinna know yer true father.”
Colbán would never have admitted how uncomfortable the intensity of the boy’s piercing green eyes made him, but he dared not look away. He was too young to remember his real father, and that made Colbán’s heart heavy.
Colbán pulled out a large pendant from inside his mantle. It immediately caught the boy’s interest. Made of silver, the oval medallion was masterfully engraved with a hog pierced by a well-placed arrow. The symbol of Branan’s clan. Colbán ran a hand lightly over the top, the grooves of the imprint smooth against his fingertips, then raised his gaze to the boy’s expectant expression.
“This belonged to yer father.” He placed the cord around the boy’s neck. The lad studied the drawing, holding the medal closer to his face.
“How can it be that I have not seen this before?”
“Mayhap ye’ve not seen yer true father, not since ye were learning to walk.”
The boy’s face puckered with confusion, his eyes dark with skepticism, but he remained silent.
“Son ofBranan,” Colbán spoke the name with great reverence. “By what name will ye be known?”
The tears coursed freely down his cheeks now, and he allowed the pendant to drop. It hung past his small chest to land at his belly.
With a strong voice, he answered, “I am called Lachlann.”
Chapter 1
Twenty years later
“Amen,” the dark-robed priest intoned.
In the windowless chapel of Clan MacDonell, the people were gathered for their long-awaited mass, prayerfully seated with their eyes closed as Father Michael spoke over them. Three nuns lined the side wall, hands steepled and heads lowered in petition. A single candle glowed brightly at the altar between a simple chalice of specially prepared wine and a small plate of unleavened bread, both covered by a linen cloth.
“Is that ye?”
Lachlann paused in crossing himself long enough to question if his ears deceived him. No. He rolled his eyes. That raspy whisper had indeed come from the man seated beside him on the hard bench.
Aldred.
Unlike other men, Lachlann wasn’t the least bit intimidated by the dark, accusing Norseman’s scowl, even if it did make the tiny scar above his brow throb. He recognized it for what it was. An act.
A stomach growled loud enough to wake the dead. It came from the direction of the priest. Aldred faced front, the blond hair clubbed at his neck swinging with the motion. His stoic mask broken only by the occasional twitching lips that threatened to erupt into an outright guffaw at any moment.
Lachlann shook his head. He would be the mature one who did not lower himself to such childish behavior. Besides, the priest could very well be fasting. A worthy sacrifice. Jesus himself fasted for forty days in the desert.
Bodily functions were not something that should even be mentioned. And in the chapel? During Mass? Not the place for that type of behavior. Unless, of course, you were named Aldred.
The only problem was that Lachlann had known Aldred since they were young. Aldred knew how to set him off or get him to act against his better judgement, and it worked every time. Even now Lachlann’s breath caught as he struggled to keep from responding to his friend’s outrageous behavior. He clamped his teeth tight, holding in his laughter, and laughter was so much worse knowing you were about to be reprimanded. It wasn’t right that a man full grown should cower in fear of getting caught by the priest for bad behavior, but the dread worming its way through Lachlann’s gut did not agree.
Father Michael was a devout priest in his own way… though unable to pronounce Latin to save his life. The small amount of leeway he’d given Lachlann as a child had left its mark. He kept his emotions tightly reined. But even after three years of disciplined study at the Abbey of Mar Moutier, Lachlann’s discipline evaporated like smoke on a windy day once Aldred started in. And this in spite of knowing the priest would lay the blame for any disruption firmly at Lachlann’s feet.
