EPILOGUE
The waves lapped the side of the ship. Amice clung to it, laughing, as the sea slapped at wooden boards eight feet below where she stood.
“Ahoy!” Henry shouted from where he stood on the front of the deck, calling up to the sailors in the rigging. “Trim the sail, lads! Look lively! Land ahead!”
Amice smiled. She watched him covertly as he worked, full of admiration for him and the way he cheerfully commanded the ship. The men all seemed to respect him to the point that they would die for him if he required it.
There was no thought of dying this day. This day, the wind smelled of summer and they were heading to Scotland.
“I can see the harbor,” Amice said. She hadn't thought Henry had heard, but he came to join her a moment later, once the ship was brought round, heading in toward the coast.
“I know,” he said, kissing her. “It's good to be back.”
“It is,” Amice agreed. She watched as the green hills approached more closely. The wind was stiff and they moved fast under sail.
At the wharf, the usual crowd had gathered – men to help with hauling in, men to unload cargo, and the inevitable tax officials, waiting to check their imports. As it happened, they had nothing to declare. They had sailed from Dover to Calais, and now they were coming up to Queensferry, their business all concluded. This was a trip for pleasure. They were going home.
Amice snuggled up to Henry and he put his arm around her shoulder.
“Almost there,” he said. He kissed her face.
As they alighted, he held out a hand for her, steadying her as she jumped down from the gangway to the jetty. She laughed.
“Oh, Henry. I'm not Venetian glass.”
“No,” he agreed. “You're much more precious.”
“Henry Quinn,” she protested, laughing and kissing his cheek. “We don't have to be so careful for months yet.”
“I don't take any chances, dear.”
“Oh?” she looked at him, grinning. “You don't, do you?”
He roared with laughter and they went across the harbor to talk to the customs men.
The journey from Queensferry to her home castle was one that was full of recollections. They stopped at the same inns and Amice found herself blinking tears more than once as she sat in familiar places, the memory of when they had traveled this way together before fresh in her thoughts.
“Henry,” she whispered. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
At Dunkeld, they were received with open arms. Henry had managed to learn some of her language in the year away, and he delighted everyone with his attempts. They all ended up laughing together.
Alina looked searchingly at Amice. Amice smiled back up at her.
“You will travel far, and the man you wed will have something different about him,” Alina said, quoting almost word-for-word the prophecy she'd revealed.
Amice cleared her throat, sensing it tighten with feelings. “Oh, aunt,” she said gently. “You were right. I did. He does have something different about him.”
“Well, yes,” Alina said dryly. “I should say being English is the least of it, but then I would be being unfairly critical.”
Amice roared with mirth and they both shared a special smile. Henry looked at them fondly and they sat down at the table together.
Later, Alina confided her news in her aunt and her mother. She was carrying a child.
“You must stay here, of course,” her mother insisted. “And have the child in Dunkeld.”
“That's what we wish.” Amice agreed. “I would not want any other midwife but you, aunt.”
Alina smiled. “Well, then. It seems you have your wish.”
They both laughed.
They stayed the summer at Dunkeld and, by the time the corn was ready for bringing in to the storehouse, Amice was in labor.
The labor lasted five hours, but it was easy and straightforward and, at the end of it, Alina laid a small wrapped bundle in her arms.
“Here is your daughter.”
Amice looked down at the tiny, red face and felt her heart fill with love. “She's so beautiful, aunt. So beautiful.”
“Congratulations, my dear.” Joanna smiled down at them both. She had assisted with the birth.
“Thank you,” Amice whispered. “Could I...can Henry come in now?”
Alina chuckled. “I've had such pains keeping him out. Let him in, Joanna.”
Joanna grinned and opened the door. Then Henry was there, his face all worried frowns. Henry, who was pale as death and who looked wild with worry. When he saw her, his face softened.
“Amice!” he said. “My darling! I was so afraid!”
Amice laughed. “Oh, Henry. You're not scared of anything.”
“I am,” he said gently “Of losing you.”
Amice swallowed hard. “My dear.” She paused. He was looking at the bundle in her arms with such an expression that she thought her heart might break with the love she felt for him in that moment.
“That...that...”
“Meet our daughter, Henry.”
“Our daughter.” He laughed. “Our daughter! My dear Amice! My dearest. I am....” he swallowed. His throat worked. “I am so happy.”
Amice chuckled. “I am too, dearest.”
Later, in their bedchamber, their arms wrapped round each other, their daughter sleeping in the cot beside their bed, warm in the changing firelight, they discussed possible names for her.
“Amice,” Henry suggested. Amice laughed. He frowned. “What?”
“I can't name her for myself.”
His face fell. “Well, I like the name. What then?”
“I don't know,” Amice said, frowning. “I had thought of Amabel, but it's like Alf's wife's name too, and we cannot have too many Ambeals, or Amabels.”
“Well, then,” Henry said. He frowned. “How about something completely different?”
“Something English?” Amice asked.
He blinked. “Would you consider it?”
“I'm not sure,” Amice said softly. “We could think about it.”
“I know,” he said. “How about something French.”
“Yes!” Amabel smiled. “That's perfect. How about Amelia?”
“I like it.”
They both went to the crib.
“Amelia?” Amabel said gently. The baby shifted, opened her eyes.
They both nodded.
“Well, then.”
They smiled at each other and slid back into bed. Under the cover, Henry wrapped his arm around Amice and she snuggled close. They kissed and then they slept. As she drifted off to sleep, Amice knew she was impossibly, wonderfully happy.
At the end of her long journey, she had finally arrived home, to love. For love is always just on the horizon, waiting until we reach out to touch it.