“I was angry.”
“But ’tisnae the only thing that prodded ye and t’was an honest fury, one that had cause. Do ye think he would be as he is now if he didnae ken that? Ye couldnae treat him different from all the rest. That would have hurt him more than the lash. Ye have never deserted him. That is what has stayed in his heart. In all his follies, he kenned ye were there for him if the need arose. That is how ye raise a child.
“Love your son, Parlan. Let him ken it. Aye, he will falter and ye will have to punish him be it with strength or word. Teach him honor and right from wrong. ’Tis all any can do for a child. If he still turns out bad”—she shrugged—“’tis God’s will and no fault of yours. I have never seen a child who was loved and kenned it turn bad, however. Nay, not when ’tis a love tempered with guidance and strength.”
“Such wisdom from a lass who has but born her first child.”
She colored slightly with pleasure at his sincere words. “I may be wrong.”
“I think not. Such sensible advice could never be wrong. If followed, I cannae see how one could err. I dinnae believe in bad seeds either for I have seen good come from rot. Aye, and I ken that t’was because they found the guidance and love they needed elsewhere.”
“Ye raised Artair, Parlan, and, though he faltered some, he is a good man and tries to be better. Find strength in that.” She tried and failed to smother a yawn. “Ye dinnae think Rory is a bad seed? I cannae believe my father could befriend a man who could raise such a monster yet my father loved Rory’s father as a brother.”
“Rory isnae a child turned bad. He is ill. We ken naught of how he was raised. A man who is a good friend for another man neednae be a good father. Aye, and there is other kin to consider, others that could have turned Rory, even his mother. Even so, with a madness such as Rory’s, it could have been there at birth, a deformity no eye could see. Thank God men like Rory are the exception to the rule.”
Seeing her yawn again, he smiled and lightly kissed her. “Rest, dearling.”
“’Tis an order I shall have no trouble obeying,” she murmured even as her eyes drifted closed.
He sat for a long time, holding her hand and watching her sleep. The contentment he felt made him smile for it seemed to be fed by such simple things. A pretty wife and a son were fine things but not so difficult to gain. There was far more to it than that and he knew it. Soon he would have to give more careful thought to it all.
For the moment, however, there was little time for soul-searching. Aimil and his son were in danger. What was of the greatest importance at the moment was to find Rory Fergueson and kill him. Until that was done, whatever happiness and contentment he or Aimil could find would only be fleeting.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Even as the door to his chambers was still swinging open, Parlan was on his feet, his sword in his hand. A small part of him acknowledged that it was highly unlikely that any attacker could reach his chambers with no other warning sounded but weeks of fruitlessly searching for Rory had left him tense. H noted fleetingly that his wife slept peacefully on.
“Here now, Parlan, ’tis Artair. No need for that.”
Setting his sword aside, Parlan lit a candle. “Surprising a man can get ye killed. What is it? ’Tisnae yet dawn.”
“Weel, I didnae think ye would wish to wait for this news.”
He frowned at Aimil. “Shouldnae we go elsewhere to talk so that we dinnae wake her?”
“There is little that will wake her yet. The bairn was fretful most of the night, and she is exhausted. When Aimil is tired, she can sleep though a battle of thousands raged around her.
What news?”
“We may have found Rory.”
Parlan immediately began to get dressed. “Where?”
“But twa hours ride from here.”
“So close?”
“Aye, but, if this is the whoreson, ye neednae worry. He is dead. ’Tis a corpse we must go to view.”
Although keenly disappointed that he was not about to come to swordpoint with Rory, Parlan also felt hopeful. He ached to take revenge against the man but, more than that, he ached for an end to the constant watchfulness and fear. It would be a shame if Rory had died by any other than his hand but it would also be a cause for celebration.
“Tell me about it.”
“A fire it was, in a small house outside of a wee village. From what little the folk say about the twa men who were there it sounds like Rory and his faithful dog, Geordie. They have both died. Lagan and I feel certain ’tis them, but ye ought to have a look.”
“Aye, and Leith for he kens the man better. ’Tis why he lingered here after his father left. Rouse him and I will join ye in the hall.”
The sun was beginning to rise when they set out for the village. With each new detail Lagan and Artair supplied, Parlan’s hopes were raised yet he tried to rein them in. That Rory’s threat could be ended so conveniently seemed too good to be true. Parlan had expected it to cost him far more than an early-morning ride to view a corpse.
