Malcolm sees his proof

Malcolm had been taught not to run in the corridors, but that lesson was momentarily forgotten, and he ran as he seldom ran even outside. He only slowed after he reached the hall, and then only because his father was standing off to the right, and his twin brother off to the left, and he couldn’t decide which way to go first.

His brother solved the problem for him by reaching him before his father did, but his father solved the problem for everyone by throwing his arms around the two of them. “My sons!” he cried as she squeezed the breath out of them.

Sigefrith laughed, and Malcolm thought that even Cenwulf looked down on him in something like amused tolerance.

“I told you mine was bigger than yours!” Sigefrith said after he and his brother had been released and stood side by side.

“What have you been feeding him?” his father asked.

“Real food! Not that slop you serve in your country.”

“We only serve the slop to unwelcome guests such as you. We eat real food when you’re away.”

“I shall remember that next time and bring a cook with me.”

“So long as it isn’t Alred’s!”

“You remember her?” Sigefrith laughed.

“She has a face a man may never forget,” his father shuddered.

“I have a girl here with another face you will not have forgotten,” Sigefrith said fondly, “but for different reasons. Malcolm, is Eadgith coming?”

“She was herding up the children. Emmie wanted to change her dress, and Cubby needed his hair combed.” Malcolm tried to watch his father’s face as he said this last, but his father turned away in time to prevent it.

“I believe she was but a child herself when last I saw her,” his father teased. “I believe the wee thing was visiting her da the last time I came, and the time before…”

“Now, she will be sixteen in only a few days…”

His brother was chattering rapidly at him in Gaelic, but Malcolm was trying to follow the other conversation while keeping an eye on the door. He did not want to miss the look on his father’s face when young Colban came in.

Caedwulf was first to arrive, for he had never learned the lesson about running in the corridors. He got a hug from the big man he dared call Gog, and then came to stand by the two big boys, whom he adored.

Bold little Britamund was next, and greeted her father’s friend in handsome Gaelic, as Malcolm had taught her, but promptly confessed, “Now you must reply in English, for that’s all I know,” which drew a laugh from his father. What a handsome laugh he had!

“Bless her honest heart!” he cried.

His brother had stopped his chattering and stood eyeing him curiously. Malcolm laid an arm over his shoulder, but he didn’t dare look away from the door now.

Eadgith came in then, blushing, and with eyes only for the children she escorted into the hall: Emma on her right hand and Colban on her left.

Shy Emma engaged her usual trick of substituting sheer prettiness for self-​confidence, and she smiled and stared up through her lashes at the tall stranger after going to stand by her father.

But Colban, who was usually as frank and friendly as Britamund, hung back behind Eadgith and hid his face behind his drooping hair. Malcolm’s fond heart ached for him—the boy knew that when the big man went away, he was going away with him, and Malcolm well remembered how it felt to be taken away from one’s family and home. And Colban had so wanted not to disappoint his godfather, and had prepared a little speech in Gaelic, but it was plain to Malcolm that he had forgotten every word.

Then Malcolm looked up at his father, and his heart ached again. It was true, what he had long believed. He needed no further proof than those eyes.

“Come along, Cubby,” Sigefrith prompted gently. “And let’s get your forelock out of your eyes, for once, and look like a little boy. Why don’t you tell Gog what you want to be when you grow up?” he chuckled.

“A horse,” the boy said softly.

Malcolm heard his father take in a sharp breath and saw a shudder run over his broad shoulders. He began to panic—his father was about to cry. He let go of his brother and launched himself at him in time to muffle the first sob in the impact of his body against his father’s.

“My father knows how you will feel in a few weeks,” Malcolm explained to a startled Sigefrith, who nodded in understanding and pulled young Colban’s head against his hip.

His father shook, and stroked his hair, and repeated, “Malcolm, Malcolm,” softly.

Never had Malcolm been happier that he and his godfather shared the same name.