Christopher Stasheff: The Warlock Enraged

But Rod had caught the sly glance between Magnus and Geoffrey. Under the circumstances, though, he deemed it wiser not to say anything about it.

“Now, mine husband.” Gwen clasped his hands. “In this last battle, I did hear thy thoughts at all times. Thine anger was there, aye, but thou didst contain it. Hast thou, then, so much ta’en this goodman’s advice to thine heart?” She nodded at Simon.

“I have,” Rod confirmed. “It worked this time, at least.”

“Dost thou mean thou wilt not become angry again, Papa?” Cordelia cried, and the other children looked up in delight.

“I can’t promise that,” Rod hedged, “but I think I’ll have better luck controlling it. Why—what were you planning to do?”

Whatever they would have answered was forestalled by the cooks, stumbling in with dinner. They set down the platters on the table, and the children leaped in with joyful cries. Magnus got there first, wrenched off a drumstick, and thrust it at his father. “Here, Papa! Tis thy place of right!”

“Why, thank you,” Rod said, amused. “Nice to know I have some rank around here.”

“I shall have the other.” Cordelia reached for the other drumstick.

“Nay; thou hast never favored the legs of the fowl!” Geoffrey’s hand darted out, and grabbed the bone before hers.

“Loose that!” Cordelia cried. “Twas my claim was first!”

“As ‘twas my hand!”

“Yet I came to the bird before either of thee!” Magnus laid a hand on the bone of contention. “My remembrance of our father, doth not bar me from this choice!”

“Uh, children,” Rod said mildly, “quiet down, please.”

“ ‘Tis mine!”

“Nay! ‘Tis mine!”

“I am eldest! My claim is first!”

“Children!” Rod hiked his volume a bit. “Cut it out!”

Gwen laid a restraining hand on his arm. That did it; his temper leaped.

Cordelia turned on her brothers. “Now, beshrew me an thou art not the most arrogant, ungentlemanly boys the world hath ever…”

“Wherefore beshrew thee? Thou art a shrew already!”

And the discussion disintegrated into wild shouts of accusation and counter-accusation.

Rod stood rigid, trying to contain his soaring anger. Then Simon caught his eye. Rod stared at the older man’s calm, level gaze, and felt a measure of strength that he hadn’t known he had. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that their bickering might make them look childish (as it should), but not him—if he didn’t start shouting with them. The thought checked his anger and held it. He was himself, Rod Gallowglass—and he wasn’t any the less himself, nor any less important, nor any less in any way, just because his children didn’t heed him.

But he did know how to get their attention. He reached out, grasped the last drumstick, and twisted it loose.

The children whirled, appalled. “Papa!”

“Nay! Thou hast no need!”

“Thou already hast one, Papa!”

“ ‘Tis not justice,” little Gregory piped, chin tucked in truculently over folded arms.

“But it does settle the argument,” Rod pointed out. He turned to Gwen, presenting the drumstick with a flourish and a bow. “My dear, you saved the day. Your glory is as great as mine.”

“But, Papa!” Cordelia jammed her fists on her hips, glowering up at him. “Thou’rt supposed to be a nice daddy now!”

“Why,” Rod murmured, “wherever did you get an idea like that?”