Page 9 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)
Ch apter Eight
Mourning
Branan’s worry over Catriona increased. Since the night de Courcy provoked her, she seemed to become more withdrawn. His gaze automatically searched for her. Within moments he spotted her. She stared at nothing, appearing as if she would dissolve into a storm of tears at any moment. Branan was not sure what to do.
“I see you share my concern over my sister,” Gavin said softly as he stepped next to Branan.
“Aye, brother,” Branan replied. “This behavior is most unlike her. I fear that terrible night weighs heavily on her.”
“Aye, Branan. That may be part of it, but not the root.” He paused, his gaze growing distant. “Always she had a fire in her soul I could not define, but I admired it, even though I teased her mercilessly in our youth.”
Branan felt a ghost of a smile play upon his lips. The two siblings had rankled each other constantly and Catriona always gave as good as she got. But underneath that rivalry was a bond of love and family so strong it would never be broken, even in death. That was why his foster family had been exactly what young Branan needed for those two short years. Abruptly, his head came up as understanding dawned.
“Gavin,” he said, gripping his foster-brother’s shoulder. “Mayhap I ken the cause of this…and ye both suffer it.”
“Both?”
“Aye, I ken because it happened to me. Yer parents…ye werena granted the ability to bury them…to mourn.”
Gavin’s face turned a terrible shade of gray and Branan knew he was right.
“Because of the urgency of our situation,” Branan continued, “ye havena acknowledged yer grief.”
“Aye,” Gavin replied, his voice cracking. “We dare not return to the manor house…besides…there is nothing left to bury.”
Branan winced, the pain of loss once again a hot barb through his heart. He loved the de Reignys as much as if they had been his own blood kin. “A memorial,” he whispered. “I will speak to Uncle Duguald and we shall plan a memorial.”
Gavin’s blue eyes misted, but he continued to stare at his sister. “Aye, Branan, ’tis a good plan.”
“Now go talk to yer sister. I’ll guard yer back and make sure de Courcy doesna accost ye.”
Later, Branan found Uncle Duguald and together they planned the memorial. Duguald offered to lead it, but Branan knew that duty needed to fall to him, although it would be one of the most difficult things he had ever done. He then announced the plan to all to hold the memorial in two days. There would be no work on the tower on that day, only on the meal planned for afterward. But for Branan, the work on the tower ceased immediately as he turned his woodworking skills to an item that would be essential.
****
The morning of the memorial dawned gray and cold, but at least it was not snowing. Branan awoke before the first stirrings in the camp. Fortunately, even though he’d had to work late into the evening, he had finished his project. Duguald had located a suitable clearing nearby with a small, gently moving stream next to it. This worked perfectly for Branan, as long as he could find the last element. He wrapped his plaid firmly around his shoulders and covered his work in a plain woolen blanket. Carrying it out of his workshop, he silently made his way to the clearing.
Duguald had set up a small table with a few short candles. Branan moved them aside and sat his creation in the center of the table, removing the blanket. He gazed critically at the wooden cross, intricately carved to the best of his ability. It was to be the centerpiece. He moved the candles to flank it, then stood back and examined his handiwork. If only he’d had more time, but this needed to be done quickly for Catriona and Gavin. He shook his head. It would have to do.
They did not have a priest at Thistlewood, and Branan resolved to rectify that as quickly as possible. But it was his responsibility as laird, and as the de Reigny’s fosterling, to lead the memorial. He hurried into the woods, praying he could find the last item he needed. It would be up to the forest to provide it, and thankfully, it did.
Branan quickly returned with two white winter flowers—Christmas Roses, they were called. He arranged them before the cross. He heard a soft gasp behind him and spun.
Catriona, with Gavin by her side, stared at the small display.
Branan’s heart twisted when he saw the tears in her eyes. “Forgive me,” he said softly ducking his head. “I ken this is a poor—”
“Nay,” Catriona said, hurrying forward and embracing him. “It’s beautiful, Branan.” She pulled away enough to gaze at the table. “You know Mother loved those flowers.”
“Aye,” he said with a sad smile. “I remember the manor hall being adorned with them at Christmastide.”
“The cross,” Gavin said, stepping next to them so they both flanked Catriona. “Did...did you make it, Branan?”
Branan felt embarrassment heat his face. “Aye,” he said. “’Tis the best I could do in so little time.”
“Branan, it’s exquisite,” Gavin replied. “I wondered why you were working until the wee hours of the morning the past two nights.”
“It’s gorgeous, Branan,” Catriona said. “Thank you.”
“Anything for ye, Catriona.”
The others from the camp slowly gathered in the clearing, many murmuring praises over the small but beautiful arrangement. With the cold, Branan did not wish to take too long, less one of the youths catch a chill. He stood with Catriona and Gavin beside the table.
As the rest of Thistlewood gathered, Branan spied de Courcy hovering at the edge of the clearing. His expression remained dark and his gaze shot daggers at Branan. Biting back his anger, Branan stepped away from Catriona and Gavin, motioning to one of his Scotsmen, Simon.
“Keep an eye on de Courcy,” he said softly. “If he does anything to disrupt this memorial, hie his arse out of here. I willna have Catriona any more upset than she already is. Lock him in a shelter if ye must, but keep him away from her until the memorial is finished.”
“Aye, MacTavish.”
Branan returned to his place. He caught Duguald’s eye and nodded. Duguald called the people to order and said a short prayer.
Branan stepped up, clearing his throat, but it closed so tightly he feared he would not be able to speak at all.
“We gather to remember the lives of John and Isolde de Reigny. Ten years ago, a wounded lad discovered a warm and loving family within their house. They took me in and treated me as their own. I was lost, without a home, I didna know who I was. But they grounded me, set my feet upon the path and gave me the strength to walk. Without them,” he paused and looked at Catriona and Gavin. “Without ye, I dinna ken what would have happened to me.”
Catriona, tears streaming down her face, threw herself into his arms.
“Ye are my family,” he said, his voice growing thicker. Gavin stepped forward too and Branan hauled him into a rough embrace. He glanced at the cross. “Thank ye, John and Isolde, for giving me a gift far greater than lands or gold.” He closed his eyes, trying to gather himself. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he suddenly realized he could not.
With great effort, Branan released Catriona and Gavin. His throat tight and unshed tears burning his eyes, he handed one of the flowers to Catriona and then the second to Gavin. He escorted them toward the small stream and instructed them to gently place the flowers in the water. Catriona knelt, releasing her flower with a gentle push. Gavin did the same, and the second flower moved slowly with the first toward the current.
Branan stepped forward, placing one arm around Gavin’s shoulders and the other around Catriona’s. He drew a breath and spoke a Scottish prayer, his deep voice echoing through the snowy trees:
“Go forth upon your journey from this world,
In the Name of God the Father who created you;
In the Name of Jesus Christ who died for you;
In the Name of the Holy Spirit who shines through you;
In friendship with God’s saints;
Aided by the holy angels.
May you rest this day in the peace and love of your eternal home.”
The current caught the flowers and they floated downstream and out of sight. Catriona turned to Branan, sobbing against his chest. Gavin wrapped an arm around Branan and around his sister, tears streaming down his cheeks. Branan embraced his foster siblings tightly, his own tears escaping.
After a long moment, Branan finally found some semblance of control, and so did Gavin. Catriona, unfortunately, had a much more difficult time and the two of them knew exactly why.
“Come, Catriona,” Branan whispered into her hair. His arms still firmly around their shoulders, he escorted both Catriona and Gavin back to the tower. The clan followed silently, and he heard Jamie's fine tenor rise in a hymn as they walked. It was a bittersweet but beautiful memorial.
As they approached the tower, de Courcy abruptly appeared. Branan hissed a warning through his teeth. De Courcy’s expression was no longer one of anger, but of sadness. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I have been such a fool. Please...all of you...please accept my deepest condolences for your loss and my sincerest apologies for my behavior.”
Gavin looked at Branan, his eyes red-rimmed and misted. But it was Catriona who lifted her head. She reached out to de Courcy, her hand shaking, but her fingers tightly gripped his. “Thank you, Richard,” she said and then released him and turned back into Branan’s embrace.
“Join us for the meal,” Branan said tightly. He did not wish de Courcy anywhere near Catriona, but since she had accepted the man’s olive branch, he would support her.