Lyall took a deep breath and bent down and took hold of it. He lifted it up and held it to him. The bairn squirmed, pale arms reaching, head lolling on its soft neck, bumping and jerking against his chest. It wasn’t repulsive, just pitiful.
How strange it smelled, like milk and oats, and something sweet which he could not name. He brought his nose down to its hair and breathed in the scent of it. Slowly, the cries died down to a gurgle and a sniff, as it clung to him with tiny, determined fingers. It was a pale, scrap of a thing.
Lyall looked down and it stared back up at him. The boy had blue eyes, a deep colour, like his mother’s. But they were not cold, they were huge and warm and bright with tears. What little hair he had was flaxen, not red and not gold, but somewhere in between. Lyall put his hand to it and it was incredibly soft, like goose down, and fine, so fine, in fact, that it was almost nothing under his hand.
He was about to put the boy back down into his cradle when the bairn’s mouth stretched into a smile, and suddenly, he was all dimpled cheeks, huge eyes and a mouth of pink, puckered gums. Lyall felt tears prick the back of his eyes, hot, unwanted. They started and would not stop, rolling down his cheeks, making his chest ache, and his hands shake.
He’d better sit down, he was so tired.
***
When Giselle walked into the hall, she saw Lyall, sitting before the fire with the bairn, motionless in his arms. For a moment she thought he had done something terrible. But then he looked up at her, with tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘The boy was greatly distressed and crying fit to wake the dead, so I took him up,’ he said. He calmed in my arms, and he’s alright now.’
As she took a step closer Lyall’s hand came up around her babe’s head with a strange possessiveness. It was as steady as a rock.
Giselle held her breath.
‘Everything is alright now,’ he said again.
‘I thought you could never…I thought…’
‘That I could never love him because he is Banan’s?’
Giselle swallowed hard, and her lip trembled. ‘Don’t say his name, please,’ she whispered.
‘His name no longer has the power to wound us, my love. I was lost, and now I have found my way. There is love in my heart for this child, but it has been buried under my anger. It seems I have no choice in this matter. I love you Giselle, so how can I not love your child?’ He looked down at the bairn clinging to him. ‘Our child,’ he said, and caught her eyes with his.
‘I can take him now, if you are tired from your journey, Lyall,’ she said, her throat thick with tears held back.
She went to take the babe away from him, but Lyall held him close.
‘No, he must know me and I, him. I would hold him a while longer if that is alright with you.’
She went over to him and knelt at his feet and placed her head on his knees. Lyall began to stroke her hair.
‘We must find a name for our son,’ he said softly.
‘Do you have anything in mind?’
‘I would name him for my father, Fearghas,’ he said.
Giselle squeezed her eyes shut to stop from sobbing with joy. She took a deep breath. ‘I like it. A good, strong name. It will suit him, I think.’
‘Then Fearghas he shall be.’
Giselle found his hand in her hair and held on to it, tight.
‘Thank you, Lyall,’ she said. ‘From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.’
***
A week later, Giselle stood on Corryvreckan’s battlements, staring out at the cold loch, crusted with frost at its edges. A flurry of birds on the water was a good sign. Soon, they would be nesting amongst the long grasses and bullrushes, and their young would thrive and grow fat, as did her son. Spring was finally on its way.
Lyall came to stand beside her. He looked tired.
‘Owen has come to see us,’ he said. ‘He arrived late last night, and we stayed up all night taking far too much ale.’