Epilogue

Four months later

"I shall miss him." Dry-eyed, Brynhild stood beside a weeping Fiona at the graveside. "He was as a father to me, also."

Mairead flanked Fiona on the other side and between them they offered their friend and sister such comfort as might be had.

On the opposite side of the still open grave Taranc, Ulfric, and Gunnar stood in silence, each contemplating their own recollections of a man who had profoundly touched their lives.

Lord Dughall of Penglass had passed away three days earlier, having fallen victim to a brief but virulent fever. In the end his death was peaceful and Brynhild fancied he met his Maker with a smile on his face. She did not share the Christian faith that prevailed in this land, though she understood enough of it to appreciate the hope that by offering prayers to the saints and Blessed Virgin to intercede, the old man's soul would not be delayed overlong in Purgatory. She would contribute a sacrifice of her own, naturally, since it could do no harm. She had already selected the calf.

The priest summoned from Balseach to perform the burial rites ceased his intonations and shuffled back from the head of the grave that would be Dughall's final resting place on earth in the plot of consecrated ground on the edge of their village. The new coffin had been placed on top of that which held the remains of Adair, and Brynhild liked to think that the pair might be reunited. Certainly, Fiona and Mairead believed this to be so, once their prayers were answered by the Almighty and his host of blessed saints and Dughall was ushered to his eternal reward.

No one was more deserving, she thought.

Taranc moved around to take the spot where the priest had stood. He cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him.

"I knew Lord Dughall of Pennglas my entire life. He was ever a fine and just lord…" A chorus of murmured assent echoed from the villagers gathered about them, Celts clustered here to bid their farewells to the man who had been their overlord for more years than most could recall. Vikings, too, swelled the ranks to mark their respect for the fine leader they had come to know.

Taranc gazed about him, seemed to take a few moments to collect his thoughts, then continued. Her husband had been named as Dughall's heir, though it was generally assumed that Ulfric and Fiona's baby son, named for the old man, would eventually succeed his grandfather. She had never felt more proud of her husband of just three months than she did at this moment. Taranc stiffened his spine and resumed speaking.

"I have been acquainted with Dughall my entire life, but I believe I only really came to know him in this last year or so. In recent months I have witnessed him deal with profound grief, sadness, heartache, as have we all. He led our people in our darkest hours, comforted us in our anguish even as he suffered the agony of loss himself." He spared a glance at the two Viking chieftains who each had the grace to bow their heads, then hurried on. They had discussed the words he would say and Brynhild knew that it was not Taranc's intent to rake over the ashes of the past. It would not have been Dughall's wish either. "He was an example, a mentor, a man admired by all who knew him."

More murmurings of agreement.

"But I believe he was a greater man than even he knew. Dughall of Pennglas was a man of compassion, of mercy, and of forgiveness. A pragmatist, yet a man of deep principle. A visionary, a man able to learn from his past, and look to the future with hope and an unshakable belief in the goodness of people and the power of kinship to heal even the deepest wounds. He welcomed into his home those who had wronged him, those who had been his enemies, and he made friends and allies of all. He put the needs of those he loved before his own grief, set aside his own anger for the greater good. That cost him dear, but he did it because he cared for those who relied upon him and would never fail to do his duty. I hope I can be a worthy successor. I shall endeavour to hold his legacy safe, and to pass it on in time to those who will follow all of us here."

Taranc moved back to stand between the two Viking chiefs, nodded to each in turn, then at the priest who stepped forth to resume his stance at the head of the grave.

"Let us offer up a mass for the soul of our brother," intoned the cleric, his arms aloft.

Vikings and Celts alike joined him in prayer.

The End