“Do we really have to go?” Edna raised her head as her mother’s musical voice reached her ears. She knew her mother wasn’t talking to her, and she knew it was impolite to listen in on someone else’s conversation, but she couldn’t stop herself. She tiptoed silently towards the open door of her parents’ bedchamber; her ten-year-old frame small enough to avoid casting shadows, thus helping her remain hidden.
“Ye ken that we have to. Not going isnae even an option, Freya,” her father replied, exhaustion evident in his tone. Edna did not know what was wrong but she knew that she wanted to go. She had been looking forward to the Celtic Festival of Beltane all year, and she had no desire to miss it for any reason.
“I ken. I just hope we dinnae regret it.” Edna sighed in relief as she heard her mother finally agree. She had no idea what they were talking about, or what her parents would regret by attending the festival. All she knew was even though her father was a firm man, Edna was confident that her mother could persuade him not to go. So hearing they would be indeed not forced to spend this auspicious day indoors was a great relief.
Edna returned to her perch in front of her castle’s largest window. The night was crisp with something unnameable, as if the sensation was so foreign that it could not be described. Regardless, the air around her felt alive. Edna felt as if the power of the gods was descending and entering her. She often wondered if magic existed and if the gods truly possessed powers. Tonight, she knew the answer to both of those questions was yes; she couldn’t wait to see the powers, magic, and mythical creatures come to life tonight.
“Edna, are ye ready my bairn?” She turned around as her mother walked out of her bedchamber and smiled at her. She knew something was wrong when she looked at her beautiful mother, who had been told by everyone in the clan that her beauty was a gift from God. It’s not as if she didn’t look lovely tonight; she did. Her beauty was just hidden behind a mask of worry, or perhaps fear — rendering Edna slightly afraid. Her mother was her rock, the one person she looked to for motivation, and seeing her troubled pained her.
“I am ready, mama,” Edna replied with a smile as she walked away from the window and went to stand before her.
“My beautiful girl,” her mother picked her up in her arms, and Edna laughed loudly.
Her mother and father both loved picking her up. Her father’s more masculine and larger arms made her feel safer, but her mother made her feel loved. Edna knew she couldn’t live without either of them.
Just then, her father emerged from the bedchamber, handsomely dressed in the clan’s colors; his plaid expertly tied and hung just above his knees. Edna leaped towards him, arms extended, as if she wanted to be in his arms, and sighed into his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent. There was no one she loved more than her parents.
“Shall we go then?” Edna fervently nodded in response to her father’s question, already concerned about the fact that they would be late. Her father grinned at her enthusiasm and they descended the stairs quickly before exiting the castle. Edna exhaled a sigh of relief, knowing that they’d soon be with everyone else and having the time of their lives.
“Edna, are you excited, my bairn?” Her father asked as they walked along the paved path among the trees.
“I am,” Edna said quickly, squinting to see as far as she could. She could hear the festival sounds in the distance and knew everyone was laughing and dancing. The joy in the air was audibly reverberating through the atmosphere.
“Do you remember what I told you about Beltane?” her father asked, and Edna smiled. She remembered every single word, which could explain why this was her favorite festival of the year.
“Certainly, papa. Beltane is a fire festival,” Edna replied, her eyes twinkling. She was always drawn to fire, and one of the Beltane rituals was to build a bonfire high enough to reach the heavens. Her mother began to laugh at her response, and Edna looked at her with puzzled eyebrows, not understanding what was so amusing.
“It’s so much more than just a fire festival, Edna,” her mother said, lovingly stroking her dark hair.
“Yer mama is right. Beltane is a summer solstice celebration. We Scots have such a hard time during the cold months that when summer comes, we have to thank the gods in the heavens,” her father explained. Edna nodded, knowing it all, but despite the more appropriate significance, it was fire that drew her in.
“We can still go back home, Duncan,” her mother said, her voice almost a whisper.
“No.”
Edna couldn’t understand why her mother insisted on them returning home. Every year, they attended the festival, which brought joy to the entire clan. How could her mother possibly miss such an important day? Edna had no idea what was going on, but she was content. Her parents were accompanying her, and she knew they would have a good time — at the end of the day, this was all that mattered.
They continued walking for a few minutes longer, and Edna noticed that more and more people were appearing. Every single person was out enjoying the night to the best of their abilities. Her eyes sparkled as they approached the riverbank where the festival was taking place. The bonfire was already alight and glowing as brightly as the morning sun, exactly as she had imagined. Her father lowered her but kept her hand in his.
“Stay beside me, Edna,” her father said loudly enough to be heard above the din. She smiled as she tightened her grip on his hand and moved forward. Everyone who saw them nodded respectfully to her parents, and her father did the same. The ladies also stroked her hair and patted her shoulder.
“Yer finally here. I thought ye weren’t even coming,” a young lady said to her father. Edna stared at him for a few seconds longer, trying to put a name to the familiar face, but she couldn’t.
“I wouldnae miss the Beltane for the world,” her father exclaimed, and a passing server handed him a large wooden mug; he took a swig before proceeding to meet with some other men.
“Freya, yer here,” a woman greeted her mother warmly with a quick hug.
“Duncan didnae listen to me,” her mother said quietly, so that only the woman and Edna could hear her; the woman gave her father a quick glance before nodding in agreement.
“Edna, darlin’,” the woman said as she extended her hand, who took it. “Freya, I believe your daughter will be more beautiful than you when she grows up.”
“I ken. She is already perfect. The gods have blessed her with more looks than I could ever have,” her mother replied, picking up Edna in her arms. Edna had always heard people compliment her appearance and say she looked like her mother.
“Yer right,” the woman replied before waving goodbye and disappearing into the crowd. Her mother returned her father’s gaze, the string of tension between them drawn taut. Their earlier argument had caused a minor squabble, and Edna could sense it.
“Can I go play?” she asked her mother, who placed her on the ground but did not let go of her hand.
“No, Edna. Ye’ll be staying with us tonight.” Edna turned to look at her father with puzzled eye — he smiled as he looked down at her innocent expression.
“Listen to your mama. She just wants the best for ye,” her father agreed, and Edna’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She couldn’t let this minor annoyance crush her spirits or make her feel bad. It was still a night of celebrations, and she planned to take advantage of it in whatever way she could. She stood between her mother and father, watching the people at the festival mingling. Everyone was dressed in clan colors and looked as radiant as ever. Beltane was a time of great joy and fertility celebration. Edna noticed her mother twitch beside her and wondered how she could be anxious in such a vibrant place. She took her mother’s hand in hers and smiled up at her, hoping to calm her down. She had no idea what was bothering her at this time, but she wished for all of her problems to go away.
“It’s time to start the fire,” a young man shouted from afar, and everyone around them roared. They had all been anticipating this moment; the sky turning a bright, fiery orange. Edna took a deep breath and smiled broadly, as this was her favorite part of the evening.
“Are you ready, Edna?” her father questioned, extending his hand towards her.
“Yes, papa,” Edna assured him, already overjoyed. She put her hand in his as he picked her up and placed her on his shoulders. She squealed with delight when she realized she was taller than everyone else.
“I pray that this summer will be more joyful and prosperous than the last,” her father exclaimed, turning to face everyone, his voice echoing through the mountains. Everyone raised their hands in the air and wished those around them prosperity and happiness.
The cheering grew louder around them, and Edna joined in as the night sky alighted from the ever-rising flames. That moment was everything she had ever desired. Her parents, clan, and the world around her filled with joyful sounds. Nothing could have tainted the purity of those few minutes, she reasoned.
“Duncan.” A loud voice from behind them called out her father’s name. She looked at the man in front of her father, his gaze fixed on his face. A hush fell over the crowd as everyone waited in anticipation. Edna had no idea what was going on, but she knew something was wrong.
Her father assisted her in sliding down from his shoulders, and her mother quickly arrived to stand beside her. She took Edna’s hand in her own and yanked her away from her father, but the girl refused to move.
Before anyone could say anything or move, the strange man lunged at her father, who was unable to block the attack due to its suddenness. The crowd let out a loud gasp as it took a few seconds for everyone to realize what was going on. Edna’s eyes widened as the man charged ahead at breakneck speed, a dagger drawn in his right hand.
He was able to close the gap in a matter of seconds. He stabbed her father in the chest with the golden dagger in his hands. Edna’s entire body went limp as she watched her father painfully move both of his hands to his chest. Blood began to ooze from the wound, turning both of his hands bright red. Darkness gradually obscured her vision, and the last thing she heard was a loud, startling scream before collapsing to the ground, surrendered to her unconscious. Those few moments had brought her life to a standstill — they had submerged it into an unfathomable abyss — and she was unable to open her eyes again.
Chapter One
10 years later
Every man, woman, and child in the McKenzie clan was looking forward to Ronin’s arrival. Happiness had long vanished from the people’s faces, but now they had a reason to celebrate and rejoice. Mara, the clan’s lady, widow of the laird, and the mother of the boy who was finally returning home to take his father’s place. No one wanted to offend her or get in her way. She was a force to be reckoned with, a woman whose blood was so cold that the clan was convinced she lacked any heart at all.
They were aware that she had not always been this way. She, too, was once a young, lively girl who knew the pleasures of life. Her husband’s death had forced her to transform into this feared woman. She had no choice but to adapt to the circumstances — a position that rendered her unapproachable. But even she appeared cheerful today; all because of her son.
“Is there anything else ye want me to do?” Lachlan asked as he stood beside her, inspecting the decorations.
“Do ye think he’ll like all this, Lachlan?” she asked, her voice uncertain. Lachlan was aware that Mara had no idea what to expect. Her son had been sent to France for studies eight years before. They had no idea who he had become, and they were both a little scared to find out. Though Lachlan was confident that Ronin would remain the young boy he remembered, the young boy who had played with him when they were kids.
“He will. Have faith in me,” Lachlan assured her and by doing so, trying to assure himself as well.
Lachlan was relieved to see the way things were to unfold; Mara had been carrying far too much responsibility for far too long, and it was time to share the load. Ronin was finally returning home to help ease her burden and take the position that had been waiting for him; to become the new laird of the clan.
“I believe in an hour or so, he will be here,” Lachlan said, watching the woman’s eagerness spread across her face.
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Mara said absently before returning to the palace. Lachlan stepped forward and mounted his horse, watching her walk away. He, too, was ecstatic to see his childhood best friend. It had been eight years since the boys had parted ways, and Lachlan knew he would meet a young man who had spent far too much time in the civilized lands of France. As Lachlan waited outside the castle walls for Ronin, all he could think about was whether his friend was prepared to shoulder the responsibility that awaited him.
He sat atop his horse and stood along the path that would bring his friend home. A few minutes later, the sound of horse hooves reached his ears, just as he had predicted. It was immediately followed by the sight of his best friend riding towards him at full gallop atop a beautiful chestnut horse. His blonde hair reached just above his shoulders and blew in the breeze, trailing silkily behind him. Lachlan noticed Ronin’s blue eyes shone brightly, giving him the appearance of being both young and energetic. Handsome too.
Lachlan grinned. The two men stood in front of each other, serious expressions on their faces. Each of them evaluated the changes that had transpired in the last eight years. How much he’d grown; a young boy no longer. Every lass in Scotland would lose their minds over him.
“Ronin McKenzie is finally home,” Lachlan said, a smile on his face. Ronin returned the smile as he dismounted his horse. The two friends united in an embrace.
“Why do I feel like these eight years have been but a few days?” Ronin questioned after they finally separated.
“Because yer love for this land has reduced the time ye’ve spent apart to an infinitesimal fraction. Ye will always be a Scotsman, Ronin, no matter where ye live,” Lachlan replied.
“You are right. Let’s go home; I can’t wait to see mama,” Ronin said, getting on top of his horse once again as Lachlan followed after him.
“She is waiting for ye anxiously.”
The two men rode dangerously fast across the narrow valleys and steep pathways, just as they had done as young boys. They were chastised back then for attempting to appear heroic, but today, people just stared as they rode by. Ronin knew his clan’s members were relieved to see him return, and he was just as happy to be home. He’d been away from where he belonged for far too long, and returning home filled him with joy. France had been lovely, and his education had been beneficial, but there was no place like the one where your heart resides.
He’d missed the rivers, valleys, and mountains, as well as the cold after the rain, and the beginning of summer. He had missed his mother, his clan, and the land where he had been born. When the two of them arrived at the castle, Ronin was overjoyed to see how far his mother had gone to welcome him. The entire castle was decked out. He dismounted his horse and walked through the large gates to meet his mother who was standing on the stairs, her eyes glistening with worry.
Ronin took a deep breath as his gaze fell on her. She was still the same woman, but a lot older. He was well aware that this was the result of shouldering the clan’s responsibility all by herself after his father’s death. She had absorbed it all over her body, and the effects were severe. But he was there now — she would never have to face those burdens alone, ever again.
“Mother,” he said, taking her hands in his and kissing them briefly. She drew him in into a warm embrace.
“Oh, Ronin, how I have missed you,” his mother said, a single tear trailing from her eye, which she quickly brushed away.
“I missed you too, mama,” Ronin assured her with a smile, and she nodded enthusiastically.
“Ye have grown to be more handsome than when I last saw ye. The same blue eyes and blonde hair but so much more bonny,” his mother complimented as he laughed.
“You just need a reason to praise me,” Ronin shrugged, always uncomfortable with compliments. They entered the castle, relieved to see that it hadn’t changed much since he had left. It still looked like home, and felt instantly at ease simply being there.
“Ronin, ye must be tired after yer long journey. Lachlan will lead you to your room. Rest,” his mother said affectionately. He was tired indeed but not in the mood to sleep. He just wanted to rest for a while before venturing out to explore the land he called home. It had to have changed in the last eight years, and Ronin wished to see it all with fresh eyes.
“Yer right. I will take my leave,” Ronin replied, walking towards his bedchamber, Lachlan close behind.
“Where do ye think you’re going?” Lachlan asked, stopping his friend.
“To my bedroom?” Ronin responded, his tone doubtful. He suddenly felt strange in his own castle, but he supposed that is what happens when someone returns after a long absence.
“Yer bedchamber, my future laird, is no longer there. Yer mama thought her son ought to have a bigger one.”
“Why?”
“Because ye have just returned from France, the land of the rich,” Lachlan replied, his tone tinged with humor.
“The land of the rich you say? I lived in a dormitory and had to share a bedchamber with another lad. I am not used to riches,” Ronin admitted candidly.
“Ye’ll get used to it, ye’ll see.”
“Never.”
Lachlan turned around and led Ronin to the opposite side of the castle. As they walked, he became aware of the subtle changes around him and realized how much time had passed. They ascended the stairs, and the final door on the floor led into his new quarters. When the two young men entered, Ronin smiled as he noticed that all of his childhood possessions were still kept there. It was as if he’d never left. He took a deep breath in the familiar surroundings and went straight to the large bed in the center of the room.
“What do ye think ye are doing?” Lachlan asked as he saw Ronin walk towards the bed.
“Resting.”
“France has softened you, Ronin. Who even gets tired from traveling? Get up and change yer clothes. We must celebrate yer return,” Lachlan said, but Ronin made no attempt to rise. He instead closed his eyes and shifted to a more comfortable position on the bed. Lachlan rolled his eyes as he approached the bed and sat down beside his friend.
“How was yer time in France? What did ye even study there?”
“France is a lovely country, my friend. We studied many things, but the one thing I will miss the most is poetry,” Ronin sighed. He had thoroughly enjoyed studying the love poems — he could lose himself in the art of writing for as long as eternity itself. Lachlan scoffed loudly before raising his head from the bed and turned to face Ronin.
“Poetry meaning poems?”
“Precisely.”
“What kind of poems?”
“Love poems?”
“So ye must ken a lot of love poems?”
“Several,” Ronin replied proudly, overjoyed that his friend was taking an interest. But then, Lachlan’s loud laughter proved him wrong. “Whatever is so amusing?”
“Have they taught ye anything useful?” his friend asked after suppressing his laughter.
“Poems are useful.”
“Maybe in France, old friend, but not in Scotland,” Lachlan replied before standing up and reaching out a hand to Ronin. “Let’s get ye to the pub and show ye what ye’ve been missing all these years.”
He knew Lachlan would never let him have a few hours alone, so he got up and changed as soon as he could before heading out with his friend. He had never been into excessive drinking or dancing, but he knew his friend wanted to celebrate, and he was content to oblige. When they arrived at the pub, he felt he was in for an adventurous night. Oh, how lovely to be back home.
***
“Edna, ye cannae possibly think that we will let ye stay home on yer birthday. That is preposterous,” Jana said, the horror she felt emanated clearly through her tone. Edna rolled her eyes at her friend, knowing these were just tactics to convince her.
“Jana, we go tae the pub almost every week. Is it truly necessary for us tae go today as well? I would rather just sit home and enjoy my birthday with ye all,” Edna replied softly, roaming her eyes around the room to look at her friends. Three pairs of stony eyes met her gaze, and she knew that no one was going to listen to her for even one second.
She had a small group of friends and mostly preferred staying within a select few people. Jana, Laura, and Kathy were her closest ones in the world, and she had no desire to disappoint them. She knew they just wanted her to have fun and enjoy her birthday, and she did not blame them. She would have wanted the same for any of them as well.
“We are still going tae the pub,” Laura said firmly and walked towards Edna; extending a hand. She took hold of her friend’s outstretched fingers and stood up from the bed. She approached the looking glass on one side of her bedchamber and examined her reflection in the mirror. She ran her fingers through her long, black hair, which flowed like silk behind her back and down to her waist. Her features were frail, and her face was innocent. She smiled.
“Ye look beautiful like ye always do, Edna. Stop fussing,” Kathy said as she walked towards the door, smiling. Edna rolled her eyes and followed the girls out of the bedchamber. The house was almost empty, but that was the case most of the time — her mother must be sleeping or gazing out the window, lost in her own world. Having grown accustomed to such a situation, she merely exited the keep with her friends and made their way to the pub, determined to have a good time.
Edna was lost in her own thoughts as she walked ahead of everyone else. She had turned twenty today and couldn’t believe how quickly time was passing. She thought her world had ended for her ten years ago, but she soon discovered that time stops for no one. It just keeps flowing and unfolding without any regard to anything or anyone.
“Edna, walk slowly,” Jana called out from behind her, and she stopped, allowing her friends to catch up. Just as they reached her, the girls linked hands with one another and walked ahead together. A few minutes later, they arrived at the pub who was full of people like always.
She only ever went to the pub with her friends. She enjoyed dancing and drinking, but not excessively or on a weekly basis. She found true happiness in solitude, especially on a day like her birthday. The dimly lit building was alive with the sounds of music, moving feet, and the endless chatter and laughter of the patrons who had already been there for a while. She could feel a headache coming on, but she owed it to her friends to try to enjoy herself.
“Drinks?” Jana yelled above the din, and all three of them raised their hands. They made their way to the bar. Kathy drew the attention of the young man working, and he approached them with a charming smile on his face.
“Tonight is our friend’s birthday. We wish something strong,” Laura said, a flirtatious grin on her lips.
“Who is the birthday girl?” he asked, staring at everyone. Jana directed her finger at Edna, who noticed his gaze lingering on her face for a few seconds longer. He smiled at her, and she raised an eyebrow, signaling that she was not interested. He quickly poured four shots of whisky and four mugs of ale for the girls and set them in front of them.
“Enjoy,” he said before moving on to the next customer.
“Okay, girls. One, two, three, dram!” Jana shouted, and they all grabbed their glasses and downed them in one go. Edna felt the scalding liquid slide down her throat, scorching everything in its path. She could already feel herself losing her inhibitions, and she knew she couldn’t drink any longer. She had no desire to be so drunk that she forgot her own birthday.
“Let’s go dance,” Laura said as she took her hand in hers and led her to the large space in the room where people were dancing to the sounds of bagpipes, accordions, and fiddles. Edna trailed behind her but quickly lost interest. The other dancers were shoving her around, and the heat inside the pub was making the whole thing unpleasant. She knew she needed some fresh air.
“I am going outside for a bit of fresh air,” she whispered in Jana’s ear. Jana nodded, and Edna made her way through the crowd and out into the evening. She sighed in relief as she felt the cold wind on her body; standing near the pub’s back wall and gazing up at the starry night sky. It was stunning.
Her birthday was always a sad occasion for her, and she couldn’t be happy about it no matter how hard she tried. She couldn’t help but think about her father. She remembered how he was always there for her during on that day, making her feel like the most important little girl in the world. She imagined how different things would have been if he hadn’t been taken from her.
Edna took a deep breath in, trying to keep the tears at bay. She knew she couldn’t cry, but she desperately wanted to. Her father was somewhere among the stars, and he was still alive in her heart. He wasn’t far away, but inside her. She smiled despite her sadness, knowing that he loved her no matter where he was. A chill ran through her body, causing her to shiver slightly. She had no idea why until she looked around. Someone was staring at her very closely.
His brother would win—he had to—yet still, Arran stood on his toes watching, his heart drumming against his chest like a giant fist against a door. Beneath the window where he was hiding, twelve feet below, swords crashed together as soldiers shouted and scattered. Arran’s eyes were wet with fear, but he could not raise his gaze from Bruce. He watched as his sixteen-year-old brother, a boy who was far too tall for his age and covered in silvery cloth, breastplate clasped over his chest, slash through the MacKenzie soldiers.
Arran’s breath hitched as a soldier lunged toward Bruce, his pommel striking against the back of Bruce’s neck. Bruce squealed and swiveled around, his elbow connecting with his attacker’s jaw. The red-haired soldier staggered for a moment, then regained his stance. He charged toward Bruce again, his long blade swinging. Bruce dropped to his knees, raising his own sword above his head. The clang of metal thundered against the air as their swords met. Swiftly, Bruce raised himself into a standing position and, with one slash, he tore into his attacker’s chest.
Blood sprayed about as the red-haired man fell to the ground with one last cry. Bruce turned around, edging forward.
“Bruce!” Arran gasped upon spotting another attacker making toward his brother. He jumped to his feet and ran toward the door, only for his mother to bar his passage.
“Come here!” She pulled him toward her, then cupped his face. She was dressed in a white linen gown, with silver earrings that dangled to her chin.
“We have tae help them, Ma,” Arran whined. He shivered in his mother’s embrace. She smelled of fresh flowers and rose water, of comfort and solace, but it did little to ease Arran’s worry. He felt the heave of her chest as she sighed. “We must help them! We must do something,” repeated Arran.
“Nae we,” she replied. “And nae ye either! Yer a mere lad, Arran. Yer too young tae understand these things. Now go tae yer chambers as yer father ordered ye tae do.”
He withdrew from his mother, chided and feeling useless. He hated feeling useless. He wanted to burst onto the battlefield and fight beside his brother and father. Instead, he was left to watch the battle unfold from high up, helplessly.
He had to do something.
“Yer chambers, Arran,” his mother repeated sternly, and it rang strangely. Ma had a soft spot for all three of her sons, and she had never scolded them as hard as Arran had seen other mothers scold their boys. Arran knew Ma was only trying to play her part, too, and keep him from harm’s way.
“Yes Mother,” Arran said as obediently as he could and made for his chambers.
The guards in the hall stood to attention as he squeezed past, then navigated the passageways and corridors leading to his chambers. He nudged open the door and poised himself by the nearest window to catch sight of his brother once more.
He held his breath as he watched Bruce swivel around, dancing away from a gray-haired soldier and stabbing through another. The defeated man toppled forward, blood sputtering from his mouth before he fell back, his head landing hard against Bruce’s feet.
“Yeah!” Arran cried with a hop, unable to contain his pride. The men around his brother cheered, growled, and bled as the ground beneath them darkened with sweat and blood.
Suddenly, an elbow in Bruce’s rib made him lose his footing, and he stumbled back. He looked up in surprise as MacKenzie soldiers gathered around him, their brutal intentions clear on their faces even from Arran’s perch.
Bruce sought an exit, his eyebrows set low in determination. When he found no purchase, he stuck his chest out and raised his sword, ready for anything, ready to defeat them all by himself.
Many feet behind his brother, Pa slashed through enemies of his own. Arran willed his father to look back, he prayed he would come charging to Bruce’s rescue.
Arran’s knuckles were white as he gripped the windowsill. He felt hot and pale, choked with helplessness. Bruce was outnumbered. Even worse, here Arran was, standing and watching from an open window, unable to do anything about it.
Then, Arran remembered his stones and sling and dashed away to find them. Where had he put them last? Under his pillows, perhaps, or in a drawer. He fumbled around the room.
Even though he was no great shot, surely a stone or two were bound to hit a few heads and cause enough of a distraction for Bruce to escape. Arran patted around and found nothing. He held his face in his hands and worried he had left them in Bruce’s chambers. He could run out and fetch them, but would he get back in time to save his brother?
Arran returned to the window. He wanted to yell, “I’m coming, Bruce, wait for me! I’ll save ye, brother!” Instead, he could only watch as a red-haired man drove a sword straight through his brother’s chest.
Bruce was a giant of a sixteen-year-old boy, and he fell forth face down like a mountain. The castle stilled as the boy hit the earth head first, crashing into the dirt.
For a moment, wrenching silence filled the castle; silence in Arran’s chambers; silence below, in the once rowdy hell of a kitchen where Cook hummed and her servants bustled about; silence, even on the bloodied patch of land where the MacKenzies had orchestrated their battle. It was a silence so cruel and calm that Arran swore he could hear his brother’s last breaths against the wind.
Silence came first, then chaos. A scream pierced through the air, devastated and broken in its pitch. Arran shifted his gaze as his Pa cried out again. He watched his father, the great Laird MacLean, lunge toward his son, slashing through the MacKenzie soldiers in his path until he had Bruce in his arms. He cupped his son’s face, Bruce’s shoulders shaking as he spat up blood and shuddered with his final breaths.
Arran wiped his eyes. He hadn’t realized he had started crying until he saw a similar set of tears stream down Pa’s face, running through a layer of dust, sweat, and enemy’s blood.
The MacKenzie soldiers watched on, frozen in place as Arran’s father held his eldest son. All at once, Laird MacLean lowered his son’s lifeless body to the ground.
Arran could not muffle his cries. He screamed and shouted his brother’s name, clutching at his chest as Pa placed a hand over Bruce’s face, closing his eyelids.
Arran stepped away from the window. He was not strong enough, nor fast enough. He was useless and helpless. He hadn’t even been able to find a damned pouch of stones.
He slammed his chamber door behind him, storming past the guards as they pulled away from their lookouts, straightening their spears and regaining their standing positions in the corridor. He stormed past anxious servants and Pa’s counselor, Ian, who shouted his name and called after him.
Arran ran until he was out in the open field, where the sun-scorched earth burned against the soles of his feet.
He dashed to his father’s side, past the MacKenzie soldiers, his steps charged with wild frenzy as he drew closer to his brother’s dead body.
Arran wished it all away.
He wanted so badly to reach Bruce’s side and find that his eyes were wide open. He had never wanted anything more, but as Arran reached his brother’s body, a scream burst from his throat, and he fell to his feet.
Pa’s voice bellowed beside him. “Arran! Get away from here!” Arran knew that his father was mere feet from him, but in the hailstorm of his grief, they may as well have been countries apart.
Arran refused to step away from his brother. He could not abandon Bruce in death, but his head spun around in his skull. Warm tears blurred his vision, and he couldn’t even make out his brother’s face as men took back up their fight around him, yelling at one another, chanting war cries as their swords met.
He tried to blink away his tears, but he couldn’t, and they blinded him. Arran knew he would never forget the sight of Bruce’s body as it grew cold and pale, dried blood lining his torn, purple lips, the sun-drenched beneath them both.
“Arran!”
Arran felt a strong hand on his elbow yanking him up. When he looked back, it had been Sir Ian. Droplets of spit flew in Arran’s face as the old man shouted furiously, trying to draw the boy away.
Arran struggled against Sir Ian’s grasp, but it was no use. The man was older, taller, and bigger than him.
“Bruce!” he cried as Sir Ian dragged him away, choking on his brother’s name—his dead brother’s name.
Arran felt a chill run down his spine, too cold for words, that only subsided once they reached the inside of the keep. Finally, Sir Ian released Arran from his hold and shut the door of the boy’s chambers behind them.
“What do ye think yer doing, lad?” Sir Ian roared, his voice shaking with fury. His long, gray beard was shaking too.
“He’s dead!” Arran cried. “They killed him…”
“Oh lad,” came Sir Ian’s voice. He planted a series of hesitant yet gentle pats on Arran’s back, though it did not make Arran feel better. If anything, it only made him angry, as if he might burst out of his body. He clenched his fists, sizzling with hatred for the MacKenzies, for the clan that had claimed his brother’s life.
“They killed him,” he repeated helplessly, shrugging off Sir Ian’s hand. “I could have stopped them, Sir Ian. I could have stopped them!”
Sir Ian shook his head. “Ye couldn’t have, Arran. This is nae on you.”
“I could have!” Arran cried. “I was too slow. I looked for my stones, I did, but I couldn’t find where I put them.”
Sir Jan drew in a deep sigh. “Arran, lad. Tis not yer fault. A mere lad ye are. Now remain here, aye? I must return. I must…” The old man took pause. “I must find yer maither.”
Arran turned away from Sir Ian, and he did not look back as his Pa’s counselor shut the door.
Sir Ian was wrong. It was his fault. He wasn’t a mere lad. He was a boy, and he would soon grow into a man, and he could have found those stones, but he did not.
He had failed his brother, and it had cost him his life.
Arran returned to the windowsill. He wiped his eyes and watched as Pa raised his sword arm high, swinging through a fleet of charging MacKenzie soldiers. Arran bunched his fists tight. Aye, that’s right, he thought. Make them pay for their crime. Kill them all! Avenge my brother’s death!
However, almost as quickly as Pa had thrust his sword forth, he lowered it in a show of weakness. Arran gasped as Pa flung the blade away. Its hilt glinted in the sun, then rolled and clattered away until it finally came to a stop against the dirt.
Arran could not believe what was unfolding below. His father turned his face to the sun, tears glinting in his eyes, and cried at the top of his lungs, “The MacKenzies have triumphed! Surrender!” He repeated: “The MacKenzies have won! We surrender! Surrender!”
“Nae, nae, nae!” Arran shook his head, mad in his disbelief.
His father fell to his knees, tearing off his helmet and his hauberk, devastated by grief. Arran watched his Pa hunch over his brother’s cold body, cradling Bruce’s head as he continued to shout his surrender, urging his clan to do the same.
One by one MacLean soldiers yanked off their helmets and flung their words to the ground.
It was then that Laird MacKenzie rose from the smoke and dust of the battleground, his helmet tucked in his underarm. He was a large man with a large head, and the ground seemed to thunder beneath his feet as he approached Arran’s father. Arran thought his Pa looked so small in comparison, whittled away by grief next to his brother’s killer.
Pa rose to his feet, despondent as he parleyed with Laird MacKenzie.
Arran lost sight of the men as they stepped away, for he was too short to see. He edged away from the window and reached for his sturdy toy trunk. He pushed it to the window, then climbed atop it, steadying himself with arms. One poor maneuver and he suddenly lost his footing.
The boy yelled as he toppled backward and landed with a cruel thud on the floor of his chambers, the chest of his belongings spilling open with wooden and ivory toys. To his dismay, hidden among the junk was the purse of stones he had searched for.
Arran swept the stones up and let out a devastating whimper. It wasn’t long before another wail came to join his own as an ear-splitting cry rang through the castle walls.
He ran to the window to find that the MacKenzie soldiers had departed. All that was left in their wake was a wretched battleground dotted with patches of ripped armor, surrendered swords and helmets, and Bruce’s body. The servants heaved him off the ground and arranged him onto a cart, their movements heavy and solemn.
The screams had come from his mother. She was clutching at her chest, calling for her son as they wheeled his lifeless body away. Pa stood before her, his head lowered in sorrow, trying to take his wife in his embrace. Their words were clear against the quiet of the courtyard.
“Nae, ye could nae have!” Ma was wailing. She pushed against Pa. “How could ye?”
“Ava, I beg of ye, please,” said Pa, urging her to lower her voice.
“I cannae have it. Nae!” She shook her head hard and cried more desperately.
“He’s vowed it, Ava. He’s vowed it,” said Pa.
“An’ ye are tae take their word for it, are ye now? We are tae believe it? My own lad! The first o’ my loins. An’ now they want another!” She staggered backward, holding herself in her own embrace. Pa’s arms reached out to steady her, but she shrugged him off.
“He’s vowed it on his sword; he did.”
“I will hear nae more ’o this. Nae, I refuse this,” she declared.
“We dinnae have a choice, Ava. Ye ken what happens,” he said more quietly. “We have lost, an’ Laird MacLean has vowed tae take care o’ our clan.”
“Yer a man, Lamont. Yer a soldier,” she spat. “Ye above all others know that words hold no weight without a pact.”
His father took pause. His shoulders sank as he let out a heavy gust of breath. “I know, Ava. Tis why I asked fo’ something concrete to secure the peace between us.”
Arran watched Ma’s head jerk up, her eyes shooting daggers at her husband. “What did ye ask for? What did ye ask for, Lamont?”
“I asked for his lass’s hand in marriage… to our Arran.”
Arran jolted backward. Impossible, he thought. Nae, he must have misheard. He dashed out of his chamber and followed the sound of his mother’s voice until he was standing across the yard from his parents, panting and struggling for breath.
“What are ye saying, Lamont?” Ma asked before catching sight of Arran.
“I’m saying as o’ today, our Arran is betrothed to Laird MacKenzie’s eldest lass.”
“Nae!” Arran cried.
Arran’s mother came to settle before him. She drew her arms around him, and he cried into her embrace, her linen gown wet with both of their tears, her shoulders shaking as Arran felt her trying to suppress her mountain of grief. “Ma boy,” she hummed.
He untangled from his mother’s hold. “Maybe,” he started but stopped short as another wicked tremor swept through his body. “Maybe he’ll change his mind, Ma? Maybe it was a mistake, and tomorrow he’ll change his mind.”
His mother nodded, her eyes filled with empty encouragement. Without another word, she looped lightly over his shoulder and led him to his chambers like a specter, stopping only once they reached his door; Arran watched his mother sway on her feet as she pushed the door open and wept. “It’s my fault, Ma,” he began.
She wiped her cheeks, snapping out of her daze. “What do ye mean?”
“I…I wanted tae help him,” he whimpered. “Tae help Bruce. The soldiers surrounded him, and he was all alone, and I searched everywhere for my stones. So that I could catapult them and distract them while he escaped.” He buried his face in his hands.
“But too slow, I was. Too late.”
“Oh, my dear Arran.” His mother reached for him, but Arran shrugged her off. He refused to be comforted any longer.
“It’s not yer fault, Arran,” she said fiercely. “Ye bear no blame in this, no part! Do ye hear me?”
Maybe I didnae bear a part in his death, Arran thought then, But I will bear a part in avenging my brother’s death. I shall find a way tae honor Bruce if it’s the last thing I do.
His mother’s lips were soft against his cheeks as she kissed him. “Rest,” she said. Tears pooled again in her eyes as she shook her head and backed away.
Arran watched his mother, a beautiful, proud woman, as she went, sobbing down the hallway.
CHAPTER ONE
The trick was to take a deep breath before releasing his grip. Bruce had taught him as much all those years ago: “Shut your eyes. Deep breath. Open. Then, release.” Arran did exactly that, and his arrow swirled through the air, past drooping tree branches and falling brown leaves before landing on its target. His arrow etched itself deeply and perfectly into the bark of the tree.
Arran had been practicing archery all morning. He shrugged off thoughts of Bruce as he pulled out another arrow from his bag, set it across his bow, and aimed true.
It was his birthday today. He was twenty-four; Bruce would have been twenty-eight. A dark feeling of grief spread over Arran’s chest like a hot, foul liquid as he released his grip on his bow.
Every year on the morning of his birthday before Bruce’s death, his brother woke him up by creeping into his chamber while he was still asleep and scaring him witless.
Then, with his green eyes singing victorious glee, his blond curls waving down his forehead, he would clamber over Arran, lower his mouth to his ear, and wish him well as loudly and savagely as possible: “La Breithe shona dhuit! A happy birthday tae ye!”
Bruce always had a way of making even the mundane things seem like magic. Of course, Bruce couldn’t make magic anymore. He couldn’t do anything. He was dead. He had been dead for twelve years now.
Arran tried again to shake the memory of Bruce from his head. He channeled his buried memories and emotions into his arm and leveled another, more vicious shot.
“Good one,” Adam said beside him before releasing an arrow of his own. Adam was the son of one of his father’s counselors, and he had been friends with Arran and his younger brother, Douglas, since they had been pups.
Arran was not a man of many words, and neither was Adam. He suspected that was why they enjoyed each other’s company. They rode their horses in silence; they practiced their archery and hunted game in silence, save for the occasional talk about the weather or lauding of an exceptionally fine shot.
“Thank ye,” said Arran. “Fine shot yersel.” The tip of Adam’s arrow lodged itself perfectly between two pieces of large bark on the tree.
Adam grinned and clapped Arran on the back. “Big day today, aye?” he jested, to which Arran shrugged.
Arran did not much care for his birthday, but he tried to summon some level of excitement to appease those around him. He cared for his family and his clan, and he knew the castle and its people needed a reason to smile and celebrate, if only for a day.
As was expected, Arran worked up a smile before gently shrugging Adam’s hand off his shoulder. “Aye, I suppose,” he answered.
“An’ I can smell the kitchens all the way from here, I tell ya,” Adam said. He sauntered off deeper into the woods, patting his stomach playfully as his figure faded in between the trees.
Arran forced a smile as long as Adam was in view. When the trees and their many branches had finally swallowed his friend, he finally relaxed into a scowl. He drew more arrows from his quiver and loosed more than he cared to count.
High above him, the sun was setting red and sinking low to the horizon. Yards away in the castle, he could hear bells ringing. If he stepped a plot or two forward, he knew he would smell Cook’s special soup, roast chicken, and cream cake. Arran patted his growling stomach at the thought of all the food they were busy preparing for his birthday banquet.
He kicked off the caking of wet dirt that clung to the heel of his boots, then sheathed his bow and collected his arrows. He pulled his coat tightly over his trunk, then waded through brambles and short, thorny shrubs as he made for the stables first.
Arran entered the stable. It smelled wet and cold, of dirt, fresh leaves, and horse mess. With a sigh, he took off his hunting bag. The horses neighed and ate in silence.
Arran went to find Black Sebastian, Bruce’s favorite horse, and patted him gently. He was a sturdy horse, dark as midnight and proud and brave as his owner had been. Arran tended to the horse despite the stable boy’s mild protests, claiming that the future laird needs “not concern himself with such lowly tasks”, especially on his birthday.
“It’s alright, Jonah. I can handle this,” he said to the boy.
He gave Sebastian one last gentle smack on the mane, then picked up his bag and bow and made for the castle. Arran trudged through melting snow as he drew closer to home. With each step, he felt heavier, as if some invisible hand had draped a blanket over him, urging him to stay in the forest, where it was safer, where people didn’t ask so much of him. He felt more dispirited than before he had set off for the stables. Perhaps he shouldn’t have paid Sebastian a visit after all.
The great dining hall would be awash with festive preparations for their future laird. Despite Arran’s reservations, he wouldn’t be late for a gathering that was being held in his name. When he reached the courtyard, he was met by a bustle like no other: Cook was yelling at a servant; two guards were huddled in a corner speaking in impassioned tones; and Douglas, his younger brother, was standing with his arms crossed over his big chest, his hairy eyebrows set in hard determination.
“Who’s stolen yer biscuits now?” said Arran in jest. Douglas could be so grave sometimes—most of the time, in fact.
As Arran had expected, Douglas’s scowl did not budge. Instead, and perhaps absentmindedly, he rested his hand limply atop his broad sword belt. It had been clasped tightly around his waist, which was thicker and more muscled than any of the boys his age. He barked at a scurrying servant who’d nearly tripped over before him, then fell in line beside Arran.
“We need tae talk.”
“Oh, aye! Ambush me right before me birthday banquet, why don’t you” said Arran. “What more could a brother ask for?”
Shoulder to shoulder, they made their way through the castle, which hummed with the chatter of servants preparing for an upcoming feast. A group of guards parted for them as they strutted past, up flight after flight of stairs.
“Laird MacKenzie sent a messenger,” Douglas revealed at last.
He kept a steady pace beside Arran, his breathing leveled and even as if the stairs were no object to his might. Arran had trouble catching his breath. Douglas was younger than Arran, but he was taller and twice his size. His brother looked like three boys rolled and flattened into one.
Arran could not find it in himself to answer until they were in his chamber. He unstrapped his bow, then undid the buttons of his shirt.
In the middle of his chamber sat a large bowl of fruits, no doubt left there by Cook.
It had been a small tradition of theirs. A red apple caught the last of the fading sunlight and glowed red in the dim light of the chamber. It brought a smile to Arran’s face. He reached for the fruit and took a generous bite. Then, he turned to his brother. “From whom have ye learned this?”
Douglas shrugged. “That’s nae the important bit, Arran. Faither will ask ye to fulfill that ghastly promise they made all those years ago. Now’s our chance!” Douglas reached for the fruit bowl and bit into an apple of his own. Despite his brooding and permanent grave expression, even he could not resist such a fine-looking selection of treats.
“I hear ye,” Arran said as he unbuttoned his shirt.
Douglas did not look convinced. “Remember? We made a promise o’ to-”
“I don’t need ye, Douglas, to remind me o’ the things that keep me up at night and plague my dreams and get me up in the morning.” He hadn’t meant to sound offish, but he couldn’t help it.
Douglas leveled him a hard glance, but Arran did not blink.
Finally, his brother’s shoulders sagged in resignation. “Alright,” he conceded.
“Everyone’s waiting for ye,” he added, turning on his heels. Without warning, as if to test his older brother’s fortitude, he picked up a fruit and threw it at Arran. Arran lifted his hand swiftly, catching the plum mid-air. He smirked at Douglas.
Bruce would be proud, he thought.
Both brothers grinned at each other.
“Happy birthday, ye old gommy,” said Douglas before pulling the door shut behind him.
Arran rolled his eyes, then stuffed himself with as many apples and strawberries as his belly would allow. He took off the rest of his clothing and allowed himself a long bath. He had the right of it, he thought: he was tired, in spirit and in his bones, from hunting and from his time in the stables, and from the collection of half-slumbers his nights allowed him, plagued with nightmares forever.
The previous night of rest had been no different.
Arran fell into a light sleep, his arms splayed widely over the edge of the tub, his body lathered with soap, his head leaning at a terrible angle.
In his dream, Bruce was nothing more than a blurry figure against the dark, standing so far away, that Arran couldn’t make out his face. Still, Arran knew it was him. He could never forget the way his brother looked. He journeyed toward Bruce, but the more steps he took, the further Bruce drifted away. Arran trudged through swampy forests, then skittered on ice, but it was not enough to close the distance between them.
When Arran finally woke from his sleep, it was to the sound of knocking on his door. Beyond the rich burgundy drapes, night held a blanket of darkness over the MacLean keep. Arran shook his head. He had drifted off on the evening of his birthday, plagued by another nightmare, no less.
He was a man of unrest.
He would always be a man of unrest until he had avenged his brother.
“I’m coming!” he yelled to whoever was behind the door to his chamber. The knocking ceased. Arran washed his body in the cold water of his bath and dressed for the banquet.
He knew what had to be done.
The great dining hall was ablaze with lights as the guard announced Arran’s entrance.
The hall delighted in chatter and good-hearted laughter. The tables were flooded with fine food, and wine overflowed from large glasses.
He excused himself to the noblemen and women for having kept them waiting, then settled beside his brother and father.
“Ah, here we are! He graces us with his esteemed presence, at long last,” came a voice. Arran turned on his heels and was not surprised to find that it was Esme who had spoken. She was the daughter of Sir Ian and had been an only child since her brother had passed in the battle that had also claimed Bruce’s life those twelve years ago.
Their shared loss of a sibling was the only thing Arran had in common with Esme. She was a belligerent young lady with eagle-like eyes who always had a bad word to offer about anyone, at any time. She cared only for the most expensive silk and the most subservient of servants. Arran could hardly believe there had been a time before Bruce’s death when they all played in his mother’s pleasure garden when they had wreaked havoc in the kitchen and had enjoyed hours of hiding and seek in the cellar.
She had somehow grown from a thoughtful, lighthearted young girl into a beautiful but insufferable woman.
Arran knew he would not survive her conversation if it weren’t offset by the company of others. He would have preferred to ignore her altogether, but social gatherings called for manners.
Arran simply nodded in her direction. “Esme,” he stated cooly. “Lovely indeed that ye could make it.”
Esme leveled him a look that made it clear she did not believe him and that she would not play his games, either.
As if by divine intervention, his mother came to the rescue, as was most in her nature. “Happy birthday, my dear boy,” she said, taking his hand lightly in hers.
Arran shot one last hard glance at Esme before returning Ma’s smile. To anyone else, the smile would have been inconsequential, but to Arran, who had shared her loss, who had grieved alongside her, that smile meant more than words ever could. It was a smile that told a tale of lost love and family.
“Thank ye, Maither,” Arran said.
“Ye look handsome,” replied Ma. “Just like Bruce.”
Ma and Pa had hardly spoken of Bruce since his passing as if mentioning his name would be like reliving his death all over again. As such, Arran was surprised to hear his brother’s name slip from between his mother’s lips. Her eyes had turned up in surprise too, as if she were also taken aback.
The dining hall fell into a grave silence, then, that stretched from the noblewomen in their jeweled earrings and the beaded pearls that clasped elegantly at their necks to the noblemen who had been happily talking trade, commerce, and England mere moments before his mother’s words.
Pa broke the silence, and Arran thanked the Heavens. His father raised a glass. “A toast,” he said, “to our guest of honor, to my boy, and to you, future Laird!”
Wine spilled about as the attendees lifted their glasses in Arran’s name and drank gladly. “To Arran, our future laird!” they echoed.
Arran returned Pa’s smile. It was a real smile, one that widened his cheeks and spread up to his sad eyes.
However, it did not last. Soon enough, his father had slipped back into his shell, eating and sipping at his drink in frail silence, nodding along to whatever Sir Ian or a tipsy nobleman was rambling about, and occasionally chipping in an “oh,” or, “ah, yes.”
Over a decade had passed since the battle. The MacKenzies had kept their side of the bargain, and had taken care of the MacLeans and their clan. Peace had reigned, but Pa had not remained the same.
Time and the loss of his firstborn son had beaten him into a fidgety old man. He folded into himself and wore aloofness like a second skin. He demanded silence wordlessly in whatever room he entered, and he spoke little, even when pressed to part his lips and address a gathering.
Arran was not surprised, then, but he was ashamed. He knew he would never forget how quickly Pa had surrendered to the MacKenzie clan after Bruce was killed, how he allowed the MacKenzies to attack them in the first place and claim Bruce’s life, to trample over him and his will like a spineless dog.
Twelve years of peace, for what? For muteness and for cowardice.
Arran ate and drank in silence. After a short moment, and to his surprise, Pa cleared his throat beside him and leaned in close. “Ye’ve entered into a new year, my son,” he said. “And the time has come for you to honor our commitment to the MacKenzies.”
Arran gulped down his drink. He pushed his glass away.
He had known for years that this day would come. Even though Douglas had spoken of it earlier, in his chamber, nothing could have prepared him for his father’s concession.
Arran felt anger rise within him like hot bile. He was enraged at his father’s suggestion, enraged at the idea of marrying the daughter of the man who had claimed his brother’s life.
There would be no escaping it, of course. He had known he could not outrun his fate nor his father’s pact, yet nothing had prepared him for the sick feeling in his gut when finally presented with the reality of his destiny.
Arran tugged at his shirt. He felt choked for air. From the corner of his eye, he could tell Esme was watching in that sly way of hers. She tipped the rim of her glass toward him, then flicked the glass edge with her tongue and took a sip. Douglas and Ma were also watching, Douglas seated to his left, his mother to his right. She had stiffened beside him, and Douglas’s face was overcast in dark shadow.
Arran cleared his throat, awfully aware that he was ill-prepared for this news. The last thing he wanted was to make a scene at his own birthday feast. He turned to Pa with a tight smile. “What might ye be speaking o’, Faither?”
Of course, he knew exactly what his father was speaking of. The truth was staring him right in the face, even though he wished it ardently away, much like he had wished Bruce’s death away even as he held his pale, cold hand all those years ago.
“Yer betrothal, Arran,” his father confirmed as if Arran could have forgotten. “‘Tis time tae marry the MacKenzie lass.” Pa cleared his throat and downed a glass of water. Beside him, Arran could almost feel the unconstrained fury buzzing through his younger brother’s veins.
“I’m old, and ye’ve come o’ age, Arran,” said Pa. “The time for waiting is over. Ye ought to invite the lass to our keep by the end of the week. Our clans await a marriage, and we’ll give one tae them.”
“A marriage tae the woman whose faither murdered my brother,” said Arran through gritted teeth. He knew it was unseemly behavior to talk back to his father, especially in the midst of guests, but for once he couldn’t help himself.
Pa sighed. “A marriage tae cement peace and unity between two clans,” said Pa. “A bargain is a bargain.” He clasped his hand gently over Arran’s shoulder and said as convincing and fatherly a voice as he could muster, “This is yer part to play, son. Husband tae the MacKenzie lass, and future laird o’ our united clans.”
Albeit not overtly rudely, Arran shrugged off his father’s hand. He regarded his mother, who had a pleading look on her face. He hated to see Ma look so distressed. Her eyes begged him not to make a scene, begged him to listen to his father, to accept that which he could not change, to marry the MacKenzie lass.
Arran turned away from Ma. He couldn’t stand it any longer. His eyes locked on Douglas’ face, whose bushy eyebrows were knitted together, his face flush and ablaze with righteous fury, and something else as well, something that Arran recognized all too well. It was the same glint of desire that he caught in his own eyes when he looked in the mirror: vengeance.
He could almost hear his younger brother’s voice in his head: Remember our promise. Now is our chance.
Arran wrapped his hands over the nearest cup and downed it in a single gulp. His mind was a mess, swirling with a hundred thoughts and emotions, but the memory of his dream, of Bruce, drifting away with each step Arran took closer to him, burned at the back of his eyes. His promise echoed like church bells in his head. He caught a sly look on Esme’s face as he reached for Ma’s hand and squeezed it gently. Then, he leaned into Pa and said evenly, “I’m sorry, Pa. Yer right. I shall send for my future wife first thing tomorrow.”
The table erupted in light applause. The gatherers had been listening between their whispered discussions and clumsy silences.
“Oh, Arran, will ye now?” said Ma, gushing as she squeezed his hand back. “I’m so relieved tae hear it, son, so relieved.”
“Of course, Ma. I have my duties tae uphold, after all.” Duties of revenge, he thought, Duties to liberate his clan from subjugation.
“Indeed,” Sir Ian offered as he lifted his glass and raised another toast. “Tae the future laid!” A delicate pause took precedence, and then: “And his bride!”
“Tae the future laird and his bride!” The people in the hall chorused after him.
Arran returned his mother’s smile. Douglas was grinning too, Arran noticed, but he knew it was not for the same reason as all the others seated around the table.
His younger brother was not only toasting to his future laird. He was toasting to the death of the lass whose father had murdered their brother on a battlefield. He was toasting to the death of Arran’s future wife.
He was toasting to vengeance.
Arran raised his own glass and cheered. Their plan had been set in motion, and there was no going back now.
He would marry the MacKenzie lass.
He would kill her.
And finally, he would bring honor to his brother’s name.
CHAPTER TWO
Mother clapped her hands together as if fending off an enemy attack. “Nae, nae, certainly nae that!” she protested.
Lorna sighed and lifted her arms so that Mary Lou, her lady’s maid, could shrug the gown off of her body. It was the fifth gown she had tried on, good heavens, and the fifth gown of twenty her mother had laid out.
Lorna wanted to roll her eyes, but she resisted the urge. Patience had never been her strongest virtue, but she took in deep breaths and calmed herself. Then, when she thought Ma was no longer looking, she gestured to Mary Lou to sneak her bow and arrows into her travel trunk, as they had planned.
However, Ma, wise old Ma, turned around at the last moment. Her jaw almost fell to the ground in shock. “Certainly nae that, either! Heaven forbid!”
Lorna sighed again. She knew her mother would never agree to let her take her plaything, but she had wanted to try anyway.
She was never one to give up without a fight.
“Alright,” Lorna conceded, finally allowing herself to roll the eyes that had been begging to be rolled all morning. She motioned to Mary Lou to take her favorite weapon out of the box.
Mary Lou’s lips were pressed together as if to keep from smiling. “Her ladyship would rather walk on hot coals than let ye take them with ye,” she had said to Lorna moments before Ma had swirled through the door and joined them in her packing for their journey to the MacLean’s keep, which was set to be her new home. Mary had been right, of course. The only thing Ma disapproved of more than a woman with a bow and arrow, or any weapon really, was a drunk woman.
Across from Lorna, curled elegantly atop a heap of pillows, her sister Fenella was droning on about something that Lorna had since lost track of. She had begun by talking about her last journey through the highlands with the Duke of Emberton. Then, she had spoken of scarfed bandits and a miserable carriage ride. Or had it been a storm?
Whatever it was, Lorna had stopped listening by the time she had changed out of her third gown. She was too busy being exhausted and devising a way to take her bow and arrow without Ma’s knowledge.
Fenella huffed and clapped her hands together as if the draw her sister’s attention. “Yer nae listening to me, are ye?”
“Of course, I am,” Lorna lied. Then, she turned to Mary Lou, who had busied herself with packing her bags for their travel. “All the dresses except that violet,” she said to her maid.
That seemed to pique Ma’s interest. She raised her eyebrows in bewilderment. “Why ever not? The violet is lovely,” Lady MacKenzie stated.
Lorna exchanged a quick glance with Mary Lou, who was smoothing the crumpled lines of a wool coat and trying hard to stifle a smile. She shoved the bag further onto Lorna’s bed to keep it from falling from the edge.
Lorna had always secretly detested the violet dress with its too wide arms and too frilly hems, but she wore it because Pa liked it, and Pa liked it because Pa liked whatever Ma liked, even though she had hardly seen much of Pa in recent years.
Lorna wanted to groan in her disagreement. Instead, she gestured in Mary’s direction, signaling her to include the violet dress too. Ma, along with Fenella and her father, would be by her side for the trip, both journeying through the highlands with her and staying a while in her new home after the wedding. She knew she would be grateful for their company when the time came for holding her hands and encouraging her. Ma almost always knew how to make her feel less overwhelmed and less alone, being the good mother that she was. The least Lorna could do was take the violet dress that Ma wanted along with her, no matter how reluctantly.
All of Lorna’s life seemed to boil down to this moment: her becoming the bride of Arran MacLean, future laird of their both clans. Her whole life was about to change.
As if sensing the shift in her mood, Ma placed a light touch on her shoulder. “What’s wrong, my love?”
“Naething, Maither.” She shook her head. “Just thinking.”
“What about?” said Lady MacKenzie, and Fenella and Lorna exchanged meaningful glances.
Lorna deeply appreciated her connection with Fenella. They often spoke with their eyes without needing to part their lips.
“Alright, that’s our cue,” Fenella said then, ushering Mary Lou and herself out of Lorna’s chamber. She shut the door behind them.
When they were gone, Ma gathered up the silk hem of her dress and joined Lorna on the bed. Lorna was seated on edge, hands clasped together atop her knee. Ma scooped her shoulder in a lighthearted side hug. “Are ye scared, my dear?”
“Terrified,” Lorna confessed.
Ma tossed her head back in laughter. “So was I, on the eve o’ me wedding.”
Lorna let out a disbelieving scoff. “It’s nae the same, Ma.”
“O’ course it is.”
“Pa adores ye. Yer are both perfect together.”
Ma beamed, and Lorna rolled her eyes. There were very few things Ma enjoyed more than a compliment that rang with the truth.
“Yes,” she agreed, “But yer perfect too, and yer husband will adore ye.”
“Come now, Maither. It’s nae the same.”
“However could ye mean?”
“Ye and Pa! Ye knew each other yer whole lives, and ye certainly were in love before yer betrothal.”
“Aye, Lorna,” her mother conceded, “but it dinnae mean I was nae scared out o’ me brains because I was.” She stroked Lorna’s cheek. “My dear, ye’ve prepared all yer life for this. There is nae one in the country, and beyond more empowered tae bring peace and unity tae our clans than ye.”
Lorna nodded, but her mother’s words did not make her less terrified. If anything, they made her more terrified, knowing that she was alone in her destiny, that she was so unique, that she alone could marry the MacLean heir and bring lasting peace to both of their clans.
Anguish stabbed at Lorna’s chest like a blade. She did not know if she could do this.
Even if she had the strength to, she feared she wasn’t ready. She voiced out her inhibitions before she could stop herself. Ever since childhood, Lorna had always been one to speak her mind, despite being a girl. “What if I’m nae ready, Ma?” she said.
“Ye are, Lorna, more than ye even know. Trust in yer ma.” Her mother squeezed her hand encouragingly, but it did not stop Lorna from dwelling on everything that could go awry.
What if Arran MacLean took one look at her and hated the sight of her? What if she took one look at him and hated the sight of him? What if their intellects did not match? What if their spirits did not meet on the same plane? What then? Would she be expected to live out a life of dissatisfaction and misery in the name of bringing peace to her clan? in the name of fulfilling her life purpose?
Would giving up her life, her home, and her freedom be worth it?
Lorna wanted the best for herself and for her clan, but still, she could not help but worry.
Ma let go of her hand, then. She was smiling that motherly smile of hers, one that dazzled like a hundred candles and comforted Lorna all at once. “Lorna, yer more ready than ye could possibly imagine. Yer a MacKenzie, my dear. Fear not, for there is nothing we cannot do when we set our hearts tae it.”
“I hear ye, Ma,” Lorna replied. She allowed her shoulders to relax and released the tension from her back and jaw. She felt strengthened by her mother’s encouragement.
Still, a small part of her hummed with hesitation and uncertainty.
Lorna rose to her feet and continued packing where Mary Lou had left off.
“So long as yer a good wife,” Ma continued, smoothing down the beaded pearls sewn into the plate of fabric at her cleavage. Mother liked pretty and shiny things.
Lorna liked pretty things too, like her bow and arrows. She and her mother simply had differing definitions of what pretty meant, and sometimes she wished Ma simply accepted it.
“And he be a good husband,” countered Lorna.
“Lorna,” said her mother with a warning.
“What?” Lorna feigned innocence.
It was Ma’s turn to roll her eyes. “Lorna, I know that strong mind o’ yours, and it’s nae always a bad thing but ye must remember—”
“Nae always, eh?” Lorna retorted, but she was smiling.
Her mother waved a dismissive hand and said, “Ye know what I mean. Not everyone is as tolerating o’ an outspoken woman as we’ve been in this house, and ye know ye only get away with it because yer father is laird. I’m only saying, it will nae always be that way elsewhere.”
“I hear ye, Ma,” said Lorna, but Ma no longer had her gaze fixed on her. Ma was standing by the window, looking over the gardener who was hunched on his knees in the flower garden, digging holes and watering plants with his gloved hands and cap.
Lorna took in a slow, steady breath. Ma wasn’t looking. It was now or never.
As soundlessly as she could manage, she took out the violet dress and shoved it under her bed. Done! Ma’s head was still turned to the gardens, her eyes lost in the flowerbeds ten feet below her.
Next, Lorna reached for the bag containing her bow and arrows. Of course, Ma chose that moment to turn around. Lorna bit her tongue to keep from cursing. She released her grip on her bow and quickly shoved it aside before Ma’s eyes came to rest upon it.
Ma cocked her head and leveled Lorna a suspicious look. “Lorna—“ she began, but Fenella cut her short as she shoved the door open and swooped back in.
“Pa demands yer presence,” said Fenella.
Ma’s eyes turned up in surprise upon hearing Fenella’s words, and so did Lorna’s. Their reactions were not uncalled for, as over the years, Pa had morphed into a man of strict solitude, withered and tucked away in his chambers. He hadn’t demanded anyone’s presence in too long a while.
“Do ye mean that, Fenella?” Lorna asked, feeling dubious. It wasn’t beyond her younger sister to play a prank on her.
“Yes, golly,” said Fenella. “He sent a servant. I stopped him by the door and took a message for ye.” She crossed her legs and started to fan herself as a sly smile stole the corners of her lips. “I dinnae want him intruding on yer sacred marriage-bride talk,” she added, and Lorna made a face at her.
Fenella made a face right back. “So? What did ye two splendid ladies speak o’ in mine absence? What husbands disapprove o’ and from where babies come?”
“Fenella!” cried Ma, a hot flush of red spreading over her face. Lorna bit the inside corners of her cheeks to keep from laughing.
Fenella was a sweet, innocent girl at heart, but every so often, she took to scandalizing Ma for the fun of it.
Lorna did not scandalize Ma, or draw on her disapproval for the fun of it. If anything, she preferred to always get along with Ma, and she liked that they shared the same views on womanliness and being free-spirited, on husbands and marriages. It was rather quite unfortunate that Lorna had inherited Ma’s beauty and Pa’s too-strong mind.
Beside her, Ma fanned her face with her hand. Mary Lou was also stifling a grin at Fenella’s outburst.
Lorna smacked Fenella lightly on her thigh. “Ow!” Fenella yelled in lighthearted protest. “Yer going tae make babies someday,” she called after her. “Somehow.”
“Fenella!” cried Mother.
This time, Lorna couldn’t help it. Her shoulders shook as she laughed. “I’ll see tae Pa at once,” she said as she excused herself. She crossed out of the room, but not before whispering to Mary Lou, “Do try tae keep them from devouring each other before I’m back.”
Then, she stepped out of her chambers and shut the door behind her.
A servant was kneeling beside Pa as Lorna entered his chamber. The short lass pulled the sheets over Pa’s neck and shakily raised a glass of water to his lips. Pa gulped the water, then pushed the cup away.
“Excuse us,” he said in his deep rasping voice to the lass, who bowed and scurried out the door.
Lorna was left alone with her father. She smoothed her damp hands on the sides of her dress. She took the stool beside him. “How do you feel, Pa?”
Her father groaned something vaguely to himself, but he was smiling at her. He’d been down with a fever for a few days now, but even when Pa wasn’t sick, he remained tucked away, alone in the confines of his chamber or his study. His meals were brought up to him, and Lorna could count on her fingertips how many times a year she laid eyes on her father in private settings.
It was she had gotten away with pursuing boyish hobbies like throwing stones, carving her own catapults, and playing with her uncle’s swords: Pa had been too busy dwelling in his solitude to shun her misguided inclinations, too busy to stop her from sneaking out into the woods with her friends and practicing her self-carved bow and arrow.
Pa had not always been this way, she had heard, shrunken up and pale. He had once been a sweeping storm of a man, bright-eyed and strong-footed, commanding presence from even the most strong-headed of men. He conquered enemy villages. He defeated clans who rose up against them. Nobody knew why he had suddenly folded into a shadow of himself, but Lorna knew when it happened.
Things had soured roughly after his return from the battle with the MacLeans, twelve years ago or so, after her betrothal to the son of the MacLean laird. Twelve years ago, when her life’s purpose was decided for her: to be the bride of the future laird of their clans, to serve him and bear his children. The entire trajectory of her life had been altered in a single day, with a single decision.
Her life had never been the same since that day, but neither had Pa’s.
Now, Pa peeled the sheets from his chest and sat up straight. He reached for Lorna’s hand and squeezed with all the strength his bones could muster, which wasn’t much. “I feel strong as a mountain, dear lass,” he answered her at last, “finer than I was yesterday.”
It was his usual answer, what Pa always said when she or Fenella or Ma asked how he was feeling. Strong as a mountain, my love. Finer than I was yesterday. He would be saying it even in his grave, Ma had joked. Lorna smiled a little at her father’s resilience. It was one thing they had in common.
“Ye asked tae see me,” she said.
Pa cupped a hand over his mouth as a rack of coughs stole the words from him. Lorna filled an empty glass on his bedside table with water and lifted it to his mouth. Her grip was firm and steady. Pa’s sips were slow. After a moment, he gestured that he had had his fill, and Lorna put the glass away.
“How are yer preparations coming along?”
Despite feeling like a bundle of nerves about her upcoming journey, Lorna beamed. “Tis going well, Pa. We’re done packing, and the carriages are ready tae my knowledge.”
Laird MacKenzie nodded. “How do ye feel?”
Lorna’s chest heaved as she let out a heavy sigh. “More terrified than I’ve felt about anything else in my life.”
Lorna’s father lightly clasped his hand over hers. “There is naething tae fear, my dear.”
Lorna almost scoffed at that. “Except my soon marriage tae a man I’ve never met, that is.”
Father smiled at that. “Aye,” he agreed. “But fear is good too.”
“And how so, Faither?”
He had a faraway look in his eyes as he answered, “It helps us think deeply before we act.”
Lorna watched her father, the droop of his shoulders, the distant look on his face. “What do ye mean, Pa?”
Laird MacKenzie did not answer, only shook his head. He rubbed his chest, a trick he did to prevent more coughs from overcoming him. “Ye’ll be journeying with yer Ma and sister,” he finally said.
“Ma and Fenella and ye,” said Lorna. She did not mean to sound insistent, but there was a strange look on Pa’s face, and she feared what he might be saying, what he had yet to say.
“Ye will nae need me,” said laird MacKenzie.
Lorna clutched her father’s hand tighter than she meant to, then she let go. He was a frail old man, she did not want to compound his pain. “Pa, no.”
“I cannot journey with ye, Lorna. Not in this state. I’d slow ye down, and I dinnae want that for ye.” He patted her shoulder. “I trust ye and yer sister. I trust yer Ma to offer ye guidance and counseling when you need it the most.” He reached for her hands and clasped both of them in his. “But I know ye. I trust that ye will let wisdom, patience, and understanding lead the way. Unlike,” he said, then coughed lightly, “unlike me.”
“What do ye mean, Faither?” she said, but he only shook his head. “Whatever you do, do not let your emotions lead yer way, Lorna. Not hurt, not anger. Especially not anger.”
Lorna stayed awhile, offering Pa water when he coughed, listening to his words of advice. She was sometimes confused, but she let her father say all that he wanted to say without interruption.
Later, she would chew on his words. She would try to make better sense of them and deduct her own meaning, but for now, her father counseled her, and she listened. He wrapped her in a brief but not unaffectionate hug when he had said all that he had wished to say.
He cupped her face in his palms. “The destiny o’ our entire clan rests on yer shoulders now,” he said.
They were great words from a great man, and while they terrified Lorna, they also made her feel empowered and determined to live up to expectations.
Lorna would do right by her people and fulfill her purpose. She would come together in marriage with Arran of the MacLean clan in a union of peace and mutual respect.
So long, of course, as her future husband did not make this difficult for her.
Kimelford, November 1715, Former Clan MacVarish Lands
The smell of woodsmoke was in the air as Edmund MacVarish looked up into the blue sky. An eagle cried and soared across the expanse of blue, putting hope into Edmund’s breast as he felt the hilt of his sword at his side. Battle was coming; The weight of his sword gave him strength and courage, reminding him of his duty.
Around him, the men were quiet, every muscle tensed and ready as the Crann Tara burned in his father’s hand. There were hundreds of them, five hundred at least, pulled from his clan and a nearby smaller one. It gave him some courage that so many young Highlanders were about him, all skilled with a blade. And yet, they did not know what numbers the English ranks held.
His father held the cross aloft, the flames licking higher and higher into the air. The cross reminded them to call their allies to arms. It was small, yet its image was clear—the cross of St. Andrew reminding everyone to fight to their utmost.
MacVarish banners blew in the wind as they stood on the enemy’s borders. Clan Rose would be there, wouldn’t they? The clans neighbored each other’s lands, lands the English had attempted to take from them through violence and bloodshed. This invasion was not to be borne—this ruination of a way of life.
“Keep yer heart, lad,” his father whispered to him, still lifting the cross. The smoke billowed and grew. “They will ken the sign and come tae fight for what is right. It is our way. Nae Highlander, worth his salt, would leave another clan tae death and destruction. Nae clan wants the English here.”
Edmund nodded, his bright blue eyes moving to his older brother Robert, who did not keep his attention on their father, the laird. They were all clearly kin, with matching black beards and hair blowing in the breeze. But Robert was more rotund and had a keener sense of leadership. Edmund envied him that, even at that moment. He wanted to be a hero, but Robert would do that for him. For them all.
Robert gazed into the distance at the approaching English, their stark red coats looking strange against the green pines and the blue November sky. Their muskets glinted under the sunlight, but Edmund held his ground. He was the younger son, but he would not falter that day.
“They are nae coming, Father,” Robert said. “We must march and fight. Forget Clan Rose.”
Edmund looked at the men behind them, kilted in MacVarish colors, long hair waving in the breeze, broadswords in their hands. Some gripped muskets, but they were far outnumbered by the English, who only drew nearer.
“Wait a moment,” his father said, and they waited. Edmund pulled his sword from his scabbard, the feel of it cold in his hand. Despite the time of year, it was a warm day, but an eerie, icy breeze blew over the land.
This could be the end of all things. We will either be victorious, or we will die.
He straightened up, trying to suppress his fear, as the English lifted their muskets.
“Father,” Edmund began, but his father held a hand. The only sounds were the bird cries, the trees rustling, the stretch of leather, and boots crunching over grass.
But then a shot fired, piercing the air with its harsh eruption. It zipped through the Highland army, piercing someone. A groan of pain echoed.
“They have nae come,” his father said, pulling his sword out and throwing the Crann Tara. “We must fight on our own merits. Me sons, ye are with me. Clan MacVarish! We fight for justice!” He held his sword out, made a battle cry, and rushed forward, his men behind him.
All was chaos and wildness. Edmund rushed forward to the mass of English soldiers.
Shots fired back and forth, but he swung his sword until it met flesh. A frenzy of panic and shouts fell over as they fought. Sweat covered his skin as the fatigue settled into his bones. The fight seemed endless.
His men, friends, and comrades fought alongside him, butut many fell, having received a blow from an English redcoat. Blood rang in his ears, blocking out all the other sounds of the battlefield. Time slowed, and everything blurred. As if he fought in a dream, he tried to understand the horror before him.
There are too many. Too many, his mind repeated like a constant drum.
But he kept fighting, kept going. He would do anything for Clan MacVarish, for the sake of his father and brother. It was his land and home, and they would have a new king whether England wanted it.
The field was strewn with men, and Edmund stood tall, catching his breath, as he saw his father and brother fighting soldiers. English soldiers swarmed them, knowing that they were the laird and the laird’s heir. Edmund jumped into action, racing to help, but he was too late. An Englishman plunged a sword into his father’s stomach, and Laird MacVarish fell to his knees with a groan.
“Nae!” Edmund cried aloud, the sound ripping from his throat. His father was the best warrior he knew. He had taught him everything since he took his first steps. Edmund was almost there. So close. Fury took over. He swung at his father’s killer and cut him down.
Others still fought against Robert, now coated in sweat and tiring.
“I am coming, brother!” Edmund called through gritted teeth, hitting his way through to his brother’s opponents. He cut down one, then another, but Fate turned cruel that day. Robert fell to his knees, an English blade impaling his chest.
Robert fell back, his lifeless eyes facing upward to the sky. Enraged, Edmund fought against the rest of them, only able to fell two. There was nothing but pain in his heart. The last English raised his sword and cut Robert’s head from his body.
Frozen in shock, his stomach writhed, and he collapsed. His brother’s murderer rushed toward him. But like a trapped, wild animal, Edmund drove a dagger into the English dog’s chest. The soldier crumpled. Red blood like his coat deepened with crimson blood.
“The battle is won! The laird is dead. No more need to waste time,” An English Captain shouted. “Put down your weapons. Take the rest as prisoners. We need something to show the general and tell the king.” Even though sweat and blood dripped into Edmund’s eyes, he saw the sneer on the man’s lips.
An acrid taste filled his mouth as the English gathered the remaining Scottish fighters. He had only a little time. Though Robert was dead, he needed to find his father. He crawled across the field, moving out of the way of English and Scottish bodies. If his father drew breath, he needed to be there. The laird should not die alone, not surrounded by English. Edmund was not yet ready to be without him. He was young, too green to lead their people.
He found his father still breathing, his hand clutching his stomach. With relief and tears, Edmund moved to him. “Father, ye are still here. Ye must forgive me. We failed. They are taking us away.”
“Nae, me lad. Ye have done well this day.”
Their men continued to rail against the English despite the commander’s words. They did not give up. Edmund’s eyes remained on his father. Nothing else mattered now that he would lose the ones he loved.
He reached for his father but was stopped.
“Nae,” the laird whispered, “I donnae have time, Edmund. Ye must live tae fight for us, tae fight back against the traitors who didnae come for us. Clan Rose must pay for what they have done. If they were here, we wouldnae have lost.” His father grimaced as he spoke. It was too much effort as he began to fade.
Hot tears brimmed in Edmund’s eyes; his father slipped away, his face paling from the blood loss. “I swear it, Father. I willnae rest until me vengeance is taken upon Clan Rose.”
“Good. Good. I leave Clan MacVarish tae ye…I ken yer brother is nae with us any longer…I shall go tae meet him in Heaven.”
“Nae, Father. Donnae leave me like this.”
“Go, lad. Be strong. And remember yer vow. Tell yer mother I think of her at the last-”
As his father took his last breath, hard hands gripped Edmund’s arms, lifting him to his feet and dragging him away. With grief and pain in his heart, Edmund threw his head back and screamed to the Heavens for what God had wrought that day.
Chapter 1
July 1717, Fort William
“Dear God, I cannae believe it is real. I can see the sky, can feel the breeze.”
Edmund’s friend and former man-at-arms, Gleason, looked at the sky. They walked through Fort William’s gates, out to a group of horses, saddled and ready.
“We have seen the sky, Gleason. These two years. We have felt the breeze.”
He didn’t want to think about happiness, even though the English had pardoned the rest of the living Jacobite rebels, and they were sending them home.
Gleason shook his head. “We havenae seen the sky but through bars, and we havenae felt the breeze unless it was mixed with the stench of death, piss, and blood. Donnae say that ye arenae happy tae breathe this air.”
Edmund narrowed his eyes at his old friend. They had shared a prison cell within the fort’s walls for the past two years. Gleason had long red hair, a thick beard, pale and gaunt features from lack of food and confinement. Together, they had been beaten, starved, and forced to listen to their friends being tortured. They had been imprisoned with others guilty of the same crime. The other rebels were executed over the years, but for some reason, Edmund and a few of his clansmen were spared. He had his suspicions as to why; he often wondered if their captors intended to ransom them at some point, but to this day, he did not know the whole truth.
Still, they endured tortures of their own, and Edmund bore numerous scars, but the cries of pain and suffering of others hurt more. Others who had fought for the same cause and failed as he had done. Each day only brought the painful memory that his brother and father were dead. And now he was to return home if there was still a home to return to as Laird MacVarish.
“The air is cleaner. I will give ye that.” He jumped astride the horse given to him, and his body remembered the motion. However, he was not as strong as he had been once.
“As soon as we are returned home,” Gleason said, “I will drink as much ale as I can fit intae me belly.”
“Aye, there will be a feast if there is a home, tae return tae.”
His small group only numbered five. From five hundred to five, all slain. Only five of the MacVarish men survived that fateful battle when the English had squashed the rebellion.
No soldiers came up to them. Only the guards to the fort watched them from afar, lingering suspicions. The general of the fort had let them go, telling them that they’d been lucky.
With the soldiers’ eyes on him, Edmund spat on the ground.
“Come, then, lads, let us leave this cursed place. In all me life, I never wish tae see another Englishman again.” He felt light with the lack of weapon at his side as they turned to leave, but that was also down to the English.
Disarming the Highlanders to keep them docile had been the intent and was now written into law, but Edmund swore to himself that he would hold a weapon in his hands again.
He would hold and wield it against his enemies for one final time to get his revenge.
His horse’s hooves rumbled underneath him as they headed south to Kimelford. He would once again see the sea, and as soon as he was home again with his mother and countrymen, he would make his plans for vengeance.
They rode for hours. He wouldn’t have noticed his need for food or drink until one of his men waved to him, pointing to a river ahead. He nodded and slowed the gait of his horse, feeling the ache in his arms at last from holding tight to the reins. When he jumped down, he led his horse to the water, and he sat down next to it, dipping his hands into the cool water.
He washed his face and then drank, letting the water quench his thirst.
“Ye are quiet, my Laird,” one of his men, Angus, said.
Edmund swung around, anger in his eyes. “Donnae call me that,” he snapped, wiping his wet hands on his dirtied kilt. “At least nae yet. There may be nae land tae go tae.
Nae castle tae return tae and nae place tae lay down our heads.” His voice was softer this time. Angus nodded and turned away.
Edmund chastised himself for his curtness. It was just happening all too fast, and he felt powerless against the wave of one change to the next. Prison had broken him, and he would return home a changed man. Gone was the innocence he had before battle when he’d still felt young and green, even at twenty-five. At twenty-seven, he was ancient.
Each scar on his skin told a story, reminding him why happiness wasn’t possible. There was only vengeance on his mind. That was his plan. If he could take his revenge upon Clan Rose, he could finally die a happy man. Or at least a satisfied and vindicated one.
Gleason approached him, holding out a hunk of bread. “Those English bastards gave us bread for the journey.” He gave him a great smile.
Edmund ripped off a piece. “Ye mean ye stole it?”
“Of course. They have freed us, but they would have wanted us tae starve along the way. I’m surprised they even let us keep the clothes on our backs.”
“For what good they’re doing.” Edmund looked down at his tattered appearance. The clothes he wore were the very ones he’d on that day in battle, and they were barely holding on. “We will bathe at Castle MacVarish.” He had hope for the first time in a long while.
“Aye, bath and ale and food. For as far as the eye can see. That is me greatest wish,” Gleason said, chewing on his piece of bread.
Mumbled ayes moved around the other men as they sat and ate what little they had between them. Edmund looked at the gaunt faces around him, the hollow expressions, the thick beards, and the long hair. Even if he didn’t want the title of laird to his name, it was his now. He would have to lead, even if the only things left to him were these men.
“We can get there by dark if we ride hard. There is nae point tae resting overnight unless the horses need it. But it is only twenty or thirty more miles from here. We can make it.”
The men nodded but said nothing. He would have their allegiance; he was sure of that.
But he was unsure if he had the strength to lead, knowing what had come before him.
After they rested, they rode on, only stopping once more before their tired horses rode into MacVarish land. His heart leaped with joy and relief when he saw the MacVarish castle was still standing.
He slowed as he approached, watching the torchlights flicker on the castle walls.
There were men about, but not as many as in his father’s day. Thinking of his mother, he hoped and prayed that she still lived and that grief had not taken her. As they got closer, he saw that people had gathered outside the castle gates.
Edmund’s heart was in his throat as he turned to Gleason, his friend’s pale face illuminated in the torchlight. “Here we are, old friend. It is a new beginning,” he said, feeling tears prickle at his eyes.
He stopped the horse and jumped down. Spying his mother, Freya, just ahead, he rushed forward as fast as his tired legs could carry him. His mother cried out as she ran to him, and they embraced tightly, his mother’s tears of joy wetting his shoulder as she gripped him tightly and wouldn’t let him go.
“I thought ye would never come home, Edmund,” she said. “God has brought ye tae me.”
Finally, when she pulled away, she held his face in her hands. She cried harder. “Ye are much changed,” she said, “but ye are whole.” Her hands traveled down his arms as if feeling him to make sure.
“Aye, Mother, I am whole in body.”
Nae in spirit.
“Edmund,” a deep voice said, coming from his mother’s side. He turned to see Murdoch, an old, wizened warrior, looking at him with a happy expression. “Welcome home, lad.”
He opened his arms. They embraced, and when they stepped back, Murdoch said, “Thank God yer back, Laird MacVarish. We have been waiting a long time for ye. Come, eat, and rest. All of ye. Ye are at last at home.”
***
The following day, Doreen Rose was packing furiously. Her heart pattered away in her chest as she tried to take stock of everything. Finally, she was leaving, and she didn’t want to forget anything. Pushing her red hair out of her face, she pulled a few books off the bookshelf and put them in the trunk. She wiped a tear away, angry with herself that she was crying.
Was she not happy to leave? Of course, she was, but at the same time, she wasn’t sure what reception she’d receive at home. Nor did she know if she’d have a place there any longer. Guilt and sorrow filled her breast, and she sat down, feeling like the tears would choke her.
A few deep breaths later, she closed her eyes, remembering the past. Her husband, Lord Henry Johnson, had been a terrible man, full of hatred and violence towards others. At least he had not hurt her, but he’d been despicable to anyone who got in his way. He was a drunkard, gleeful about the suffering and pain of others, and she’d been overjoyed when his death came to pass. It had almost seemed too good to be true because she feared that her life’s plan was set forever, living in England with this beast of a man.
But ye did it tae save yer clan.
Doreen sniffed and stood again, busying herself with more packing. Sometimes, she felt guilty for bemoaning her fate. She had saved her clan from ruin and execution, and she was given wealth and comfort as she’d never experienced before. But there was one thing she didn’t have: her family, and she hadn’t seen them since her marriage two years earlier. She had no idea what might have befallen them, and now that she was free to leave, she had to see them again to ensure that they were safe.
So many of her own kin had died at his hand, so she’d married him. To keep it from continuing. But while her clan was safe, they were seen as traitors to the Highlanders. While she could understand that name of traitor that had been put upon their good name, she wondered what other option she would have had. Would death for her clan and all her people have been preferable?
Doreen was so lost in her thoughts as she packed up the things that she didn’t hear the soft knock at the door. When she turned around, she jumped when she saw a man in the doorway.
“Och, it is ye, Oliver.”
“Forgive me, Doreen,” he said with a handsome smile, shutting the door behind him as he came into the room. “I did not mean to startle you.” He looked around the room. “I only meant to come and see if you needed anything. I cannot believe that you are leaving.”
She put her hands on her hips, trying to stop the trembling in her hands.
“I ken. It is a strange thing, after all this time.” She smiled. It was easy to smile around Oliver, Lord Henry’s younger brother. He was good-looking, with pulled-back long blond hair and kind blue eyes. He had always been gentle with Doreen, listening to her woes and speaking from the heart. He was the opposite of his elder brother, and they had become friends.
“Are you sure about this, Doreen? You do not have to leave. This is your home. You are Lady Johnson. As the widow, you can stay here, and I will take care of you.”
“No, Oliver. I thank ye, but that cannae be. I need tae go home and see me, family.
Yer brother has kept me from them long enough and has starved me of news of them. I have tae see how they fare. What was all this if nae for them?”
Oliver sat down on one of the wooden chairs in Doreen’s bedroom. He folded his hands on his lap, wearing a serious expression.
“But as you have told me before, your family will be considered traitors for marrying into an English family. What kind of homecoming can you expect?”
Doreen bit the inside of her cheek, not wanting to cry. While Oliver had been kind to her, Doreen still didn’t want to show weakness in front of men. Weakness fed them, especially men as vile as her husband had been.
“I ken it, Oliver,” she said sharply. She knew Oliver meant well, but she was tired of being restrained and confined. “It is nae from me own clan that I will feel the hatred. They are grateful that our lives and well-being were saved. That me people were allowed tae remain upon their land. But it is from other clans. We will nae longer have welcome amongst other people, and other villages. Especially nae Clan MacVarish.”
“Will you at least write to me? To tell me that you have arrived and that you are safe?”
Doreen smiled. Even if her family had not been around, Oliver had cared for her well enough.
“Aye, so I will. Donnae worry. I will write tae ye as often as I can.”
“How long will ye go?”
“I donnae ken. But donnae wait for me tae return, lad. I need tae find me own path and future now. I need tae heal from the past. Me family and I all do.”
He nodded. Looking saddened, he stood, digging at something in his coat. He pulled out a letter and handed it to her. It was thick. Doreen’s breath caught as she stared down at it. Slowly, her fingers took it up, pressing on what was inside.
Oliver shrugged.“I hope this will help you in your new future. You will be greatly missed, Doreen. By everyone. The servants and the other household members were happy to have you so near.”
“And I’m sure that they will soon have a new lady of the house tae assist them. Ye may marry and have a happy, new life.”
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “What woman does not want a rogue like myself?”
“Exactly.” She put the pile of money down on the bed and embraced him. She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Ye are a good man, Oliver. I thank ye for everything that ye have done. And I thank ye for this.”
“You are most welcome. Now,” he said, looking around, “are you ready? The carriage is waiting for you. Say the word, and I will send the men to your room to help you carry things down.”
“Aye, ye may go and send for them. I will remain here just to think for a little. In case I have missed something.”
“Of course.” He kissed her hand and left. In the silence, Doreen turned around, searching the chamber that had been her haven during her marriage.
“It is time,” she said to the room, and with another look back, she left, ready to face the path ahead.
Chapter 2
A nearby forest of trees hid a shadow that day, and Doreen was entirely unaware of its presence as she left her dead husband’s home for good. While her thoughts were toward the future and for her family home that she hadn’t seen in years, there were others whose eyes and thoughts were firmly focused on her as she rode away.
A hooded man in black held the reins of his dark horse tight as he watched Doreen Rose departing in a carriage from Lord Johnson’s large home. He was tall and looming, and even though it was the afternoon, darkness hung around him, heavy and thick. A large bevy of soldiers on horseback trailed behind Doreen’s carriage. He counted their number casually, making plans. The hooded man pulled back under the nearby trees, his two riders behind him doing the same to keep it secret and safe. His beady eyes kept a close watch, and he made a low sound in his throat. They all looked on as the carriage left the road attached to the house, turning north towards Scotland, and he grunted again.
Cold, hard eyes watched the path of the black carriage, anger settling in his breast.
His shoulders and wrists flexed as he held the reins even tighter. The black horse stomped its foot, eager to move on. As the carriage drove further away, he barely turned his head and said, “It is time,” a low, deep voice filled with menace. He turned to the riders behind him and nodded, “Let them know.”
The two riders turned and rode off without a word, their black cloaks and black horses melding into one as they disappeared through the trees.
***
Edmund felt his mother’s hand wrap around his arm as they stared at the graves of his father, brother, and the men who had fallen that day on the outskirts of his land. “I have come every day since, foolishly hoping tae find yer father alive and well, waiting for me with a smile.” She sniffed, and Edmund’s eyes filled with tears as he looked at the graves built for his father and brother.
“I am glad they are buried close by,” he said stiffly, “nae taken by the Englishmen.” He shuddered, remembering how the one English soldier had cut off his brother’s head, a smug look of satisfaction on his face as he did it.
“They left everything that day,” she said. “Murdoch and the young guards at the castle took the bodies and gave them a proper burial. We have prayed for their souls each day for the good work they have done. It is good tae see that many survived. More than I expected or heard.”
Edmund gritted his teeth. He wasn’t sure what good work they’d done, for it had failed because of Clan Rose. “Clan Rose will pay for this, Mother. They are why Father and Robert are buried in the ground and nae here with us.”
“But ye are here, me son,” she said, leaning her head against him. “God has shown some mercy tae us at long last.”
Edmund had given up thoughts of God long ago, but he said nothing. His mother’s heart had been broken too many times already. He would not be the one to break it again with his words of blasphemy.
“Murdoch has done well in yer place, but I ken that it has worn on him. He doesnae feel worthy.”
“Neither do I. The position was never meant tae pass tae me. Robert was always the better one. Better suited for battle, for lairdship.” Tears were falling silently down his cheeks. He made no sound, just fixed his eyes forward, unable to look at his mother.
“Donnae say such things, Edmund. Ye are loved, and ye have everything ye need tae be the laird yer father was, and yer brother would have been. They are looking tae ye now, tae take their place and lead with all the strength and courage already within ye.” She patted his hand. “I ken it.”
Edmund couldn’t agree with his mother, but her words were well-meant. She pulled away from him. “I will leave ye with them, me son,” she said softly, her eyes flicking over the graves. “It is important tae grieve properly. Or else it will lay heavily in yer breast forever. I donnae want that for ye.” With one last lingering touch of her hand on his, she was gone, and he could hear her footsteps on the dirt path leading back to the castle. They faded into the distance, and he sank to his knees, giving vent to his grief in full, the sobs coming hard and fast.
Tears fell onto the ground that held his family. He placed his hands on the ground, wishing that he could bring them back to life by mere touch. It would make his guilt go away at long last, the guilt of not being able to help them that had rotted away in his breast ever since that fateful day.
“I am sorry,” he said as he let his tears run, and his mind turned to revenge. He could not bring his father and brother back, but he could do this for them. “I swear it again, Father, Robert, I willnae rest until vengeance is taken upon Clan Rose for their cowardice and refusal tae help. It is me life’s goal. Yer deaths will be avenged, and ye may rest in peace.”
His oath floated away on the breeze, and after a bit, he left for the castle, no turning back. Inside the castle, he checked on his men, and then he walked to his father’s study. It was the one place in the castle solely the laird’s. When he entered, he held his breath as he had done when he was a young boy, coming to ask his father about something foolish.
When he shut the door behind him, he felt the weight of his new responsibility on his shoulders. The room was exactly the way that he remembered. The desk was in the center of the room, with a window behind it, facing out towards the loch and the sea beyond.
Shelves of books and other things flanked the desk, and there was a large hearth on the right side of the room. A table with whiskey and glasses stood nearby, along with chairs made of leather and fur rugs on the floor.
His fists clenched and unclenched as he began to walk around, looking at the shelves, the papers on the desk, the decanters of whiskey. He closed his eyes and breathed in.
It even smelled the same as it always had. Even though he was frightened, with fear and unease in his heart, the smell gave him courage. It made him think of his father’s words, “Being afraid means nothing, lad. It is what ye do when ye feel the fear that matters.”
He filled a glass of whiskey and then slowly sat down in the chair behind the desk, imagining his father sitting there years before. He had to push beyond the fear, as he had been taught to do in battle, and he had to be the laird that his father would have wanted. After drinking the whiskey in one gulp, he slid his hands over the desk’s wood, his mind still catching up with him and his new place in the world.
He had to think of a way to get his revenge. It was his first order of business as the new Laird MacVarish. Leaning back in his chair, he remembered what Murdoch had told him the day before at a well-deserved dinner for him and his newly arrived men. Edmund had mentioned Clan Rose, and Murdoch said they were keen to add to their number of warriors.
It sounded odd to him at the time because no one knew why they were sending out for more. Clan Rose was one of the more well-known clans for their skills in battle. And that was why his father had called upon them to join in the fight against the encroaching English. But the clan had not reduced in number because they hadn’t come to his family’s aid when called for. So why seek new warriors?
“Perhaps I will be a soldier, coming tae their aid, since they are in such need of them.” He spoke aloud to himself, steepling his fingers together, then chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought. It had been years since he’d been imprisoned, so he was not likely to be recognized by anyone in the clan. Besides, even though his mother had begged him yesterday after dinner, he refused to shave and cut his hair.
That morning, he had only allowed the servant to trim his beard back a bit, and he would tie the long, black hair back when needed. But he preferred his appearance this way, rough and scarred, carrying the memories, reminding him of what his future needed to be. A soft knock at the door roused him from his plans.
“Aye?” he said, leaning forward to push a few papers aside. He folded his hands on the desk.
Slowly, his mother peeked her head around the door, and she smiled when she saw him behind the desk. However, it was a slightly sad smile, as if something didn’t meet with her approval.
“Is it too strange for me tae be in the room, Mother? I could ask for another study tae be prepared if ye would prefer.”
“Nae, nae at all,” she said, sitting across from him, her eyes still assessing him. “I think ye look very fine there. It suits ye.”
Even as she spoke, tears filled her eyes, and his heart ached at the sight. She lifted a hand when he tried to speak again.
“Edmund, I need tae ken something. I ken that ye didnae tell me, and I shouldnae ask further about it, perhaps, but I need tae ken. Murdoch gave me the impression that ye might seek revenge upon Clan Rose for what they did.”
Edmund lifted a brow. While he hadn’t said that outright to the old man, he supposed it had been evident in the angry way he spoke about Clan Rose.
“Aye, that is me plan.” He nearly asked if she had a problem with it, but he refrained, not wishing to be rude to the last remaining member of his family. He would treasure still having his mother for as long as he lived.
“Thank you for being honest. I appreciate that.” Quickly, she wiped a fallen tear with the back of her hand and turned her intelligent green eyes on him. Even after all she’d been through, his mother still looked impossibly young and bright. There was an aura of general sadness about her, but it didn’t take away from her beauty. “Must you?” she asked in a much quieter voice. He could see the muscles tighten in her neck as if it took all her energy to ask him.
“I can see nae other possible way for me tae move on from what happened, Mother. I must avenge their deaths. It is the way of a warrior. Ye werenae there. Ye didnae see….” He stopped himself before he hurt his mother any longer with a description of the battlefield and the violent loss of her husband and son.
“I understand. It makes sense for you tae want tae do something. I cannae imagine what ye have suffered, me dear boy.” She wiped another tear and stood. “But I hope that ye willnae do anything too dangerous and that ye will be soon home.”
“I plan tae send meself as a warrior tae Clan Rose. Murdoch told me they are in need, and I will go. It is suspicious, as if they are planning some sort of attack. It will be the best way tae infiltrate them. Perhaps even stop whatever they are planning.”
She nodded again, looking more solemn. He hated to hurt her, but there was no other way around it. He needed to take his vengeance and help his father and brother rest in peace at long last.
To help assuage the guilt he felt at making her worry about him, he said, “Mother, I havenae been able tae give ye this message for two years. But I was with Father when he died.” He could feel his throat thickening at the memory, but he had to get the words out. His mother deserved to know. “He wanted me tae tell ye that he thought of ye at the last breath.”
He watched as a pained, yet happy expression crossed his mother’s face.
“Thank ye, Edmund. I will treasure that forever. I will see ye at dinner.”
Edmund looked at the door for a little while after she left, then took a pencil and scribbled on one of the papers on his desk. He would leave as soon as possible for Clan Rose, and then maybe, just maybe, he could find that sweet release from the guilt that hung on him. He might yet find freedom.
“Come, Luthais, my lad, there is nay time,” the man said, whispering to the baby boy, who he now lifted into his arms.
He could hear the sounds of the battle outside, shouts and cries, the splintering of the gates, and the thud of a battering ram. Through the turret room window, he could see flames leaping into the night sky, a red glow enveloping the castle. The attack had come entirely by surprise, just as the bells had tolled the midnight hour.
Alastaire Martin had rushed to the north tower to rescue the child sleeping peacefully in his cradle.
“The laird is dead,” a shout from the passageway came, and Alastaire gave a cry of anguish, cursing the enemy for their wickedness.
“Barbarians, cursed barbarians,” he exclaimed as the child in his arms began to cry.
“Ye must hurry, Alastaire, get Luthais to safety. Ye can escape through the side gate, tis’ the courtyard they have breached. But hurry, there is nay time to lose,” a woman’s voice from the passageway called out.
Alastaire had little time to think. He snatched up a few of the child’s clothes, searching for them by the flickering light of a candle that burned in a sconce on the wall. There was the shawl the baby’s mother had made when she was with child – full of hope and expectation for the future – and his bonnet, a gift from the Laird himself on the occasion of Luthais’ christening. The baby was wrapped in a blanket, crying and squirming at being disturbed from his sleep. Alastaire held him close, hushing him, as the woman, a maid named Esme Donnegan, entered the room.
“But where are we to go? The castle is our home. What are we to dae?” he exclaimed.
“Get as far away from here as possible. Tis’ for Luthais’ sake ye flee, and for the clan. Ye must go now, Alastaire. Find a quiet place where ye shall be hidden and speak of this to nay one until the time is right,” she said, her eyes filled with tears as she gazed down at the child in Alastaire’s arms.
“And what of ye? What will ye dae? Come with us?” Alastaire implored her, for she had been as good as a mother to Luthais since the tragic day his birth had claimed the life of his mother, Freya.
“I cannae – I have my father to think of. I cannae leave him at the mercy of these beasts. But quickly… please, hurry – for the sake of the child,” she implored him, taking him by the arm, as the shouts of battle raged from the courtyard below.
The castle was in uproar, servants, and clansmen dashing back and forth, and the sounds of the enemy, the Clan Campbell, bitter enemies of Clan Martin, coming from all around. They hurried down one of the back staircases, which wound its way into the cellars below the great hall, the way lit by flaming torches in brackets on the walls.
“Go and see to yer father. Perhaps the two of ye can escape. We can wait for ye in the forest or by the ford over the stream,” Alastaire said, clutching Luthais to him, his heart beating fast, desperation entering his voice at the thought of Esme’s cruel fate at the hands of their sworn enemy.
“Perhaps we shall meet again, Alastaire – but if nae, then… I am glad we have known one another, and ye, too, Luthais,” she said, placing her hand gently on the baby’s head.
Alastaire fought back his emotions, even as Esme urged him to leave. He reached out his hand to her, the two paused for a moment in the sorrow of their parting. Their entire world was now slipping away, the permanence of the past replaced by the uncertainty of the future.
“I will nae forget ye,” Alastaire said, and she smiled at him.
“And I shall be pleased nae to be forgotten. Now go, tis’ for all our sakes ye flee with the child,” she said, and Alastaire nodded, turning on his heels and hurrying along the passageway which led to a door opening onto the servant’s yard.
Luthais had stopped crying now, but Alastaire knew how easily he could give them both away. He paused, waiting in the shadows, listening to the sounds of the battle raging in the courtyard over the stable wall. Flames now engulfed much of the keep, and Alastaire could see the clansmen fighting in a last desperate bid to keep the enemy at bay on the battlements.
“One day, Luthais – one day ye shall return, and what was destroyed shall be rebuilt, what was once noble will be reclaimed, what is ours will be ours again,” he whispered, pulling his traveling cloak tightly around him, the baby clutched in his arms like a precious treasure.
He glanced to left and right before making a dash across the servant’s yard in the direction of the side gate. Through here, merchants would ride their horses and carts into the castle, cattle would be driven for slaughter, or the servants would ride out to fetch supplies from the village. It led to a narrow track through the forest above a ravine which swept down to the river impossible for an army to approach by, and it was through this gate which Alastaire planned to make his escape.
“But where to go? What to dae?” he asked himself, despairing at the prospect of the future.
He had with him only the clothes he wore, a little money, and food which Esme had hastily packed into a bundle for him before he left. But Alastaire had no choice but to flee. Luthais had to be kept safe at all costs – their future depended on him. He was the only hope of the now ruined clan. It was a heavy burden to bear – the responsibility of duty, the weight of so many hopes resting on the shoulders of a tiny baby wrapped in a blanket.
“Stop!” a voice called out, and Alastaire wheeled around to find a soldier pointing his sword at him.
He had just leaped down from the battlements, and to his horror, Alastaire saw an enemy swarm had broken through the courtyard and was scaling the roofs of the stables. They would surround him in a few moments. The soldier advanced towards him, but he stopped short at the sight of the baby in Alastaire’s arms, his eyes growing wide with astonishment. Alastaire used his surprise to an advantage, and he darted back into the shadows, drawing a dagger from his belt as the enemy clansmen charged forward with a roar.
“Stop there, stop,” he cried, but Alastaire now wheeled around and struck the soldier in the neck with his dagger.
He gave an ear-splitting scream and fell to the ground. Alastaire was now at the gate, and he pulled back the bolts, the hinges creaking as he struggled to open the great oak doors. The enemy was swarming into the servant’s yard, but with a final effort, he slipped through the gate and ran as fast as he could into the trees beyond the castle walls. He did not stop until sheer exhaustion caused his feet to give way beneath him, and he sank to his knees, gasping for breath.
“Ye are all right, Luthais, my lad,” he whispered, kissing the baby’s forehead.
The forest was dark, the moonlight hardly penetrating through the canopy above.
Alastaire listened for any sign of pursuit, peering through the trees and back towards the red glow of the burning castle. He could hear far off shouts, screams, and agonies, his heartbroken by the thought of what he had left behind. But no one had pursued him, and he rose to his feet, cradling Luthais beneath his cloak, a grim realization now coming over him.
“We are all that is left, my lad – ye are a destiny,” he whispered, knowing the future was nothing as it had intended and hurrying off into the forest with hope in short supply.
Chapter One
Twenty-Eight Years Later, Scottish Highlands, Summer, 1558
“As I cam’ in by Dunidier, Andoun by Netherha, There was fifty thousand Hielanmen A-marching to Harlaw. As I cam’ on, an farther on, an down and by Balquhain, Oh there I met Sir James the Rose, Wi’ him Sir John the Gryme…” Luthais Martin sang, swinging up his axe and bringing it down on a piece of wood with a deft split.
“And if ye knew the other verses, perhaps we might enjoy it, Luthais. But ye sing the same words about Harlaw every day. What other ballads will ye sing for us?” his friend Marie Donelly asked, smiling at him as Luthais laughed.
It was a hot day, and he had removed his shirt, standing only in his breeches by the stream, which rushed past the stables and croft where he and his father had lived ever since Luthais was a child. He had been chopping wood all morning, kept company by Marie and her sister, Lucile, whose parents were the village bakers and who lived in a cottage across the way. Luthais mopped his brow and came to sit down next to them, smiling at them as he pulled on his shirt.
“Tis’ hot work,” he said, leaning down to cup water from the stream which he splashed on his face.
Despite the day’s heat, the water was icy cold and flowed down from the mountains that towered above the glen. Even in the height of summer, they remained capped with snow, and Luthais often gazed up at them, wondering what adventures were to be had amongst their lofty peaks.
“And ye have a good pile there – it will keep the fires goin’ for the bakin’ these few weeks to come,” Marie said, pointing to the large pile of wood which Luthais had cut.
He looked at her and grinned, even as both sisters blushed under his gaze.
“We should go and help our mother, come along, Lucile,” Marie said, rising to her feet and smiling at Luthais, who nodded.
“Is yer mother makin’ any more of those griddle scones? My father enjoyed them very much – as did I,” Luthais said, and Marie shrugged her shoulders.
“I daenae know, but I will see – I am sure a batch of our mother’s griddle scones might be worth the shoddin’ of a shoe for Bellamy. The poor horse was limpin’ yesterday when I rode out. Would ye take a look at him?” she asked, and Luthais smiled and nodded.
“I daenae need a bribe to dae so. Bring him over to the stables later on. I had better see to my other jobs now. My father will be wonderin’ why it has taken me so long to cut the wood,” he said, reaching down into the stream.
He cupped his hands into the water and made a sudden movement, splashing Marie and Lucile so that they squealed.
“Wicked lad!” Marie exclaimed though she could not prevent herself from laughing.
They parted company, and Luthais searched for his father, finding him in the blacksmith’s workshop at the anvil.
“Dae ye need more wood for the fire, father?” he said, and his father looked up and shook his head.
“Nay thank ye, lad, tis’ hot enough,” he replied, smiling at Luthais, who nodded, peering with fascination at the glowing flames of the fire, where molten iron became anything his father desired it to be.
“Or somethin’ fetchin’ from outside? I can run for whatever ye need,” Luthais said, but his father shook his head again and beckoned him towards him.
“Nay, lad, tis’ hot enough. Come and sit a moment; we might talk awhile,” he said, laying down a glowing poker and a pair of tongs.
He had just plunged a freshly worked horseshoe into the water trough, where it hissed and steamed ferociously, and Luthais watched as he drew it out and laid it out to cool. Luthais’ father was old, with a long white beard and weather-beaten face. He had always seemed old to Luthais, who had never known his mother, the two of them living and working together in the stables in the small village of Achmelich, which lay in the shadows of the eastern Grampian Mountains. It was the only life Luthais had ever known, simple but happy, even as he knew his father had lived a very different life before the one he had as a farrier, far away on the Isle of Mull. But despite his age, his eyes twinkled and sparkled with life, drawing the two of them close.
“Is somethin’ troublin’ ye, father?” Luthais asked, tearing a piece of bread from a loaf on the table and chewing it ponderously.
His father sat down and sighed, holding out his hands in front of him and shaking his head.
“I have more winters behind me than before me, lad,” he said, and Luthais smiled.
“Why speak of winter in the summer, father?” he asked. Alastaire pointed to the horse in the stable across the workshop.
Here, they kept the horses whose shoes they were making or whose injuries they were tending. The old nag gazing from the stable door looked in a sorry way, and Luthais glanced curiously at his father, who sighed before he spoke.
“That horse would have another five years in her if old McGrath treated her with a little decency. He has driven her lame, and he does nae feed her,” Luthais said, rising to his feet and going over to pat the horse on her nose.
She whinnied and feebly stomped her hoof.
“She should be turned loose, allowed to live out her days in the wild. She is of nay use to him now – but he shall have her re-shod and ridin’ out within a day – whatever ye or I say,” Luthais’ father said, sighing and shaking his head.
“But we have seen many a lame horse, many an animal ill-treated by its master. Tis’ a terrible and wicked shame, but we can dae nothin’ save our best. We shall feed her, make her comfortable, and show her the kindness her master lacks,” Luthais said, as now the horse nuzzled her nose into his face.
“Aye… but… tis’ nae that. Tis’ the thought of what is to come. There is nothin’ else, nothin’ more than this,” his father replied, and Luthais turned to him in surprise, for it was rare to hear his father speak in such way.
“What ails ye, father? What has brought this ill-humor on ye? Are ye comparin’ yerself to the horse?” he asked, concerned as to why his father would speak like this.
“I am growin’ old, Luthais, and like this poor old nag. I just want to rest. But there is somethin’ I need to dae – a place I need to return to. I want to go back to Mull and to see my old home one last time,” he said.
Luthais nodded. His father meant the Isle of Mull. It was where he had been raised and where Luthais had been born, even as he knew precious little else of his origins. His father rarely spoke of those days, only occasionally on long winter nights when they would sit huddled around the fire in the forge and share stories both mythical and true. Luthais knew his father had been a soldier, a clansman, but that war and tragic circumstance had forced him to flee. Other than that, Luthais knew little of his family, who he was, or who he was meant to be. He was just the son of a blacksmith, that was all, and yet there was a past he knew nothing of, one he would dearly have liked to know more about. Now he looked at his father and smiled, knowing that once his father had an idea in his head, he would not easily be dissuaded from it.
“Tis’ a long journey, father – many miles from here. It would take weeks to get there. We would need to remain there sometime,” Luthais said, and his father nodded.
“I know that, and I cannae expect ye to come with me. But to see the Isle of Mull one final time, to relive those memories I left behind,” he said, his tone sounding wistful.
“I wouldnae let ye go alone, father,” Luthais said, and his father smiled.
“Ye are a good lad, Luthais – but I cannae ask that of ye. Yer place is here with the stables and the horses. Ye have such a gift for healin’ – folk come to ye from miles around with their animals. Ye are to inherit the place when I am gone,” he said, but Luthais interrupted him.
His father talked as though he was dying or expected to do so very soon. Luthais had given no thought to inheriting the stables, nor did he want to do so, given that to inherit would mean bearing the sorrow of his father’s death.
“All this talk of leavin’ and inheritin’ and death… I daenae like it, father,” he said, but the older man only shook his head and smiled.
“Things don’t always stay the same, Luthais. Tis’ the way of the world. I must dae this whilst I still have the strength in me to dae it. The journey will be long and arduous, and I daenae know what I will find when I arrive there,” he said, placing his hand on Luthais’ shoulder as he left the anvil and came over to pat the horse.
“Ye have never really spoken of it, father. I know I was born there, but Mull is… a foreign country to me. Tis’ a mystery, one I would like to see for myself,” he replied.
His father sighed, taking his hand from Luthais’ shoulder, his expression seeming torn between truth and pain. What was it that had happened all those years ago to drive his father away from the land he loved, Luthais wondered?
“And ye shall – we shall make the journey together. These good folk can shoe their own horses for a few weeks. I know ye have many questions about the past, Luthais, and I want to answer them. I want ye to know the truth, but nae just yet. Let us go to Mull, and ye shall see it for yerself,” he said.
After he had gone to bed that night, lying awake and listening to the sounds of the stream gushing past the croft, Luthais allowed his mind to wander, imagining what might have been if he and his father had remained on the Isle of Mull.
“I could be anyone,” he mused, smiling to himself at the thought of what Marie would say when he announced they were leaving.
He would miss her, of that he was sure, but the promise of adventure was too great an opportunity to pass by, and with his mind filled with possibility, Luthais fell asleep, dreaming of all that was to come.
Chapter Two
“Bullseye! Dae ye see that, from fifty yards, a perfect shot,” Valora Campbell exclaimed, tossing aside her bow and clapping her hands in delight.
Her friend, Ella McGill, sighed and shook her head, threading an arrow to her bow and aiming at the target they had attached to a tree across the clearing in which they were practicing.
“I have missed every other one of my shots,” she said, as now she let loose her arrow, and it whistled off into the trees, this time entirely missing the target, despite the concentration of her aim.
“Ye will get better – it takes practice, Ella,” Valora said, but Ella only groaned.
“I have been practicing as long as ye. Why is it ye can hit the target perfectly every time and hardly a single one of my arrows have hit home?” she asked.
Valora shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
“I daenae know – perhaps an ancestor of mine was skilled in such a way,” she replied as Ella sat down on the mossy ground and folded her arms sulkily.
They had slipped out of Valora’s father’s castle early that morning, taking a hidden passageway carved into the rock – built as an escape in times of war – which led out into the forest. They had often slipped away like this, even if Valora’s father had strictly forbidden it. Neither Valora nor Ella paid much heed to what they were and were not allowed to do, and they were often in trouble for disobeying the Laird’s rules.
“If an ancestor of mine were, they would be ashamed of me,” Ella replied, sighing and lying back on the grass to gaze up into the sky above.
It was a bright, sunny day, a gentle breeze playing through the trees and the sweet scent of the forest in the air. Valora took up her bow once more and aimed a perfect shot at the target, letting out a cry of delight as she did so.
“Our enemies will soon be vanquished,” she said, and Ella laughed.
“And dae ye think yer father will allow ye to ride out and fight? Nae, Valora – ye and I both know what our lot is to be,” she said, and Valora’s face fell.
“Aye, all too well,” she said, knowing her friend’s words were true.
She had often dreamed of fighting alongside her fellow clan members, of riding to victory at the head of her father’s army. For that reason, she had practiced long and hard with sword and bow. But her father would never allow such a thing. He would claim that a woman was fit only to bear children and be a faithful wife, that the very idea of one such as she or Ella wielding a sword or aiming with the bow was a folly of the worst kind.
“Women daenae fight, they raise children and remain obedient,” he would say – she could hear his voice even now.
“And what have ye done about it?” Ella asked, sitting up and looking at Valora with her head on one side.
“Done about it? Nothin’ is what I have done, and nothin’ is what I intend to dae. But ye know my father will nae rest until he has me married off for some political gain. I am a pawn, Ella, and tis’ as a pawn I will remain,” Valora replied.
But in the back of her mind, the matter weighed heavily on her. Her father was growing increasingly insistent on her finding a husband, not only to take her off his hands and make her someone else’s responsibility but for the good of the clan, too. These were dangerous times, and a well-placed marriage would have ramifications far beyond the bedchamber.
“Yer father will nae wait much longer – he will force ye to marry his own choice if ye daenae make yer own,” Ella said.
“And since when was I to make my own choice, anyway?” Valora retorted.
She knew precisely what her father intended. He already had a match in mind, and all those she had been introduced to had been of his design, too. Her father, the laird, would never allow a match born out of love or affection. This was a political matter, and if it happened to correspond with Valora’s own feelings, that would be a happy chance. Her fate was decided, and it was a fate she felt burdened by. But out here, in the clearings of the forest, with Ella at her side, Valora could at least pretend to be master of her own destiny, and in her mind, that destiny was the path of the warrior.
“I only pray that the next one he chooses is better than the last,” Ella said, rolling her eyes, a smile coming over her face.
Valora laughed – her father’s last choice had been a man Valora had taken an immediate disliking to him. Her father had insisted on the match, but after Valora had taken her suitor riding in the forest and left him humiliated in the chasing of a stag, the betrothal had been hastily called off.
“Perhaps ye will fall in love,” Ella said, but Valora shook her head.
“What man could tame this wayward lass?” she asked, fitting an arrow to her bow and aiming it at the target.
She let it fly with a whoosh, the arrow meeting its target perfectly, and she smiled, fitting another arrow to her bow, just as the crunch of a twig caused both women to look up.
“Daenae shoot, I am unarmed,” Callum Campbell said, appearing through the trees with a smile on his face.
He was one of her father’s most loyal and trusted soldiers, charged with protecting Valora – a task she did not make easy.
“How did ye know we would be here?” Valora asked, lowering her bow as Callum stepped into the clearing.
He was a tall man, handsome and rugged, with a neatly trimmed black beard and bright blue eyes. He smiled at her and glanced at the target, where the arrows stood out as a proud testament to her skill.
“Ye were neither of ye in yer chambers. I knew ye would be here; ye always are. Yer father was angry, I knew ye would disobey him… I knew ye would be here,” he said as Valora smiled.
“Have we been missed?” Ella asked, but Callum shook his head.
“Only by me, and I was lookin’ for ye – but yer father will dae so soon. He has somethin’ he wishes to say to ye. We should return to the castle. We can take the way ye slipped out through, the way that is forbidden ye,” Callum replied, raising his eyebrows.
Valora laughed. There was not much which escaped Callum’s notice. He knew of her desire to fight in her father’s army, and he knew well enough of her disobedience, has often taken the blame for her waywardness. She was fond of Callum – a dependable, loyal, and courageous soldier, trusted and respected by all.
“Then we should return inside. I wouldnae want ye to get in trouble for nae watchin’ us, Callum,” Valora said, smiling at the soldier as she gathered her things.
Ella did the same, and the three of them walked together through the trees and towards the rocky outcrop on top of which lay her father’s castle. An impregnable stone wall appeared, craggy and with trees growing precariously from crevices in the rock. But Valora now led the way to what appeared to be an enormous clump of brambles spreading out along one side of the crag. Stooping down, she scrambled through a small opening and emerged into the hollowed-out center of the clump, where the rock was smooth and appeared as a dead end.
“I left it open,” Callum said, and Valora now put her hand behind a small rock at the base of the wall and lifted it to reveal an opening down into a passageway below.
The secret passage was well hidden, its existence was known to only a few. Whilst its purpose was an escape in times of war, it had more than proved its usefulness for an exodus of a different kind.
“Let me help ye, Ella,” Valora said, scrambling down through the opening and holding her hand up to Ella, who now jumped down next to her.
The passageway floor was sandy, and while it was pitch black, once the stone was pulled back, Valora knew her way without the need of a candle or lantern. She took Ella by the hand, the two of them leading as Callum followed behind.
“I left a candle on the ledge there,” he said, but Valora only laughed.
“Ye daenae need a candle, Callum. Tis’ a straight passage and then the steps. Follow me,” she said, and she led the way forward, counting her paces – knowing it was fifty steps to the staircase.
“How often have ye used this passage?” Callum asked, as now they began to climb up inside the rock.
“Dozens of times, and I would use it more often if I could get away with it. But I know ye would only be cross with me,” she replied.
She pictured the blush coming over Callum’s face. She ran rings around him, but still, he remained her friend. She liked to tease him, and it was all done in good humor. He was a loyal friend and proved that loyalty on many occasions.
“I only wish I knew what ye were up to at times – ye are a law unto yerself,” he said, stumbling on one of the steps as he spoke.
“And one day, I shall be under the law of a husband, and then I shall have nay freedom at all,” she replied, sighing with a heavy heart.
The day was coming, and she knew it was inevitable. Her father would marry her off to the son of a laird, or worse, one of his elderly friends. Her duty would be to bear an heir, perhaps two or three. She might be happy, but happiness came second to duty.
“Tis’ for the clan, Valora,” her father would say, as though those words gave reason for imposing his will on her as he saw fit.
“If ye say so, though tis’ a brave man who can tame ye, Valora,” Callum replied.
They had reached the top of the staircase – there were one hundred and four steps in total. Valora had counted them often. The passageway opened out into the castle library. It was an ingenious mechanism attached to one of the bookcases, which swung open like a door and could be locked from the inside. She felt around for the handle, which gave way with a click, and cautiously opened the door into the library.
There was no one there, and the three of them stepped out, blinking in the sunlight which streamed through the upper windows, the dust dancing in its streams. Valora liked the smell of the library, that of ancient volumes and woodsmoke from the fire – the smell of learning and scholarly pursuits.
It was a large, high-ceilinged room, vaulted, with a gallery running around three sides, books lining every wall. There was no fire in the hearth, for the day was warm, and Valora slumped down in one of the chairs by the hearth, sighing at the thought of her freedom hanging in the balance.
“Daenae get too comfortable. I told ye, yer father is lookin’ for ye,” Callum said, and Valora raised her eyebrows.
“Then perhaps I should run away,” she replied.
The thought had often crossed her mind. It would be simple enough to do, even if the exact details of a plan remained hazy. She could slip out of the castle in the dead of night and make her way towards Edinburgh or south towards the English border. The idea was growing more attractive by the day. With her father now set on imposing his will on her, Valora’s thoughts had turned to her freedom more than ever. Most women wanted to marry – she knew that – but in Valora’s mind, she had always imagined marrying for love rather than duty. Often, she had dreamed of being a simple peasant, able to marry whom she chose, unencumbered by the thought of duty to her clan. She was loyal, but that loyalty could not extend to the breaking of her heart for the sake of what others desire.
“And leave me here alone?” Ella exclaimed, looking at Valora with an indignant expression on her face.
“And who would get the blame for that?” Callum said, raising his eyebrows.
It was a foolhardy thing to say, and Valora knew it. But she was feeling like a prisoner in her own home, a sorry fate hanging over her. Her future appeared bleak. To remain at her father’s castle meant certain misery, and to flee would mean inevitable misery, too, even of a different kind. She sighed and brought her fist down hard on the arm of the chair, a plume of dust flying up into the air and causing her to sneeze.
“I know tis’ a sorry fate, ye…” Callum began, but at that moment, the door to the library flew open, and Valora’s father appeared before them.
Despite his advancing years, the laird was still a formidable figure to behold, and despite him being her father, Valora had always been somewhat in awe of him. He was over six feet tall, with a long, white beard and weather-beaten face. Valora inherited his hazel brown eyes, bright and now glaring angrily at her.
He was dressed in a green tunic, a sword slung at his belt, and a red cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His boots and leggings were covered in mud, and it appeared he had just returned from riding with the hunt. He jerked his head at Callum and Ella as a sign for them to leave.
“Ye found her then – sneakin’ around through that passageway. I should have it sealed up. Away with ye both,” he said, and Callum and Ella hurried out of the room.
“Must we talk now?” Valora said, rising to her feet and making to follow the other two out of the library, but it seemed her father was in no mood for games.
“Aye, Valora, we must. Now sit down, I have somethin’ to say to ye,” he said, blocking her path as he did so.
Camden Haggan felt a dark stirring in his bones, though the summer air was sweet as wine.
Standing on the stone balcony of his chambers, he stared down at the slumbering castle below, greeted only by dark windows and an inescapable silence that echoed down the stone walls of Strome Castle.
Five years ago to the day, Camden watched helplessly from this very spot as his eldest brother was rushed in through the main gate at sunset. Dougal had suffered a broken back after a disastrous fall from atop his horse.
Young, strong, honorable Dougal, struck down at twenty-four, only five years after he was raised to the title of Laird Haggan. Back then, he was full of fire and courage, determined to shake off the ghosts of their family’s past and outlast the grim odds.
Camden could still remember how pale Dougal’s face was on the night he died, propped up on his silk-lined bedding, unable to feel any part of his body past his hips.
“My laird.”
The sound of his maid’s voice stirred Camden from his thoughts. She stood in the doorway, her young face pale as milk. Hours ago, she had left Camden’s chambers, and he had promised to get some sleep, but sleep evaded him. Above them, Evan lay in the same bed where Dougal spent his last mortal moments as Laird of Strome Castle and Clan Haggan.
“Sorcha, what is it?”
Camden had known Sorcha since her birth, and never had he seen her look so frightened. It was as if she was afraid even to speak.
Sorcha looked like she had seen a ghost on her way to his chambers. She stammered in response to his question but did not speak. The brass candle holder in her grasp shook as she trembled. She blinked once, twice, three times without speaking. Camden felt frustration well up inside of him.
“Speak up, lass. What is it?” he said, immediately feeling a surge of guilt as frustration filled his voice.
“Yer brother requests an audience, sir,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper – even so, her words struck cold fear into Camden’s heart.
Evan had gone to bed shortly after dinner, announcing he would sleep like a babe and wake the following day fully rested. The entire hall had laughed, but once he was gone, Camden heard many restless murmurs follow his retreat.
“What is it? What does he require at this hour?”
Though he was trying his best, Camden could hear the trepidation in his words as he held Sorcha’s gaze. She shook her head, her eyes darting from Camden’s face to the night sky outside. She shrugged her shoulders. Sorcha had grown up alongside them, and her father had served as the castle gardener since he was a boy. She was not one to mince words, never had been. Camden was sure she was hiding something from him.
“Laird Haggan said I cannae tell ye more, sir. Ye must come at once.”
Camden’s stomach dropped. It was not like Evan to be secretive or coy. Camden reached for a velvet-lined robe and threw it on over his nightclothes. He struggled to pull boots over his woolen stockings and ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it as best he could.
He did not know what would face him in Evan’s chambers, but something dark stirred inside him, his soul preparing for some horror to come. Camden shook his head, he had to stop indulging in such mad thoughts, or he would surely succumb to insanity.
He brushed past Sorcha, moving into the hall. The stone walls were lined with torches, and two guards were stationed at the end of the corridor, as they always were. Camden turned right and hurried towards the staircase that led up to Evan’s chambers. Since he was a boy, he had taken these stairs when his father was Laird of Strome Castle.
Now Evan was laird. Unlike their father, Dougal and Evan had never married nor sired children. As such, Camden was next in line for the Lairdship, but he wanted nothing more than for Evan to live a long life and have many sons to take his place.
As he neared Evan’s chamber door, Camden felt a fissure of dread spread through him. His hand hesitated on the doorknob, and he was trembling almost as badly as Sorcha had been.
Camden took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Surely there was a reasonable explanation for all of this. Whatever shadows flitted through his mind, he could not let them control his thoughts. Camden shook all the grim musings from his mind and entered his brother’s rooms, smiling broadly as he did so.
“It is late, brother. What would ye have of me?”
The scene that greeted Camden made his heart sink with woe. The brother who had left the dining hall earlier tonight was long gone. Lying in his place was a sickly man, pale and wan, his eyes sunken and his gaze one of fevered hysteria. Camden let out a sharp breath as shock washed over him. Standing over Evan’s bed was his physician, the castle priest, and a robed man that Camden recognized. He was an apothecary from Ardaneaskan to the west.
“Camden…”
Evan’s voice was even quieter than Sorcha’s, and the desperation in it drove Camden to his brother’s bedside. He shook as he reached for Evan, a man of twenty-six years who had always been the healthiest of them all. It seemed that in a matter of hours, Camden’s strong, able-bodied brother had worn away to a ghost of his former self. Confusion and fear swelled inside him. He whipped his head from side to side, arms upturned, watching the faces that loomed above Evan’s prostate body.
The man who had long looked after his brother’s health stared helplessly at Camden, his own eyes welling with tears. Evan’s physician had been trained in Padua and Edinburgh, but it seemed that all his teaching had come to naught, here in the Highlands where Evan Haggan lay dying before them.
“What has happened to him? What is wrong with him?” Camden demanded of the healer, his voice angry. “What is to be done?”
“I dinnae ken, my laird.”
He wanted to scream. The physician seemed to recognize Camden’s fury and his face turned red as hot coals. If Evan died, Camden would indeed be named the new Laird of Strome Castle, but he would not die, could not.
“Has he been poisoned? What could have done this to him so quickly?
Beside Evan’s physician, Father Manus was murmuring, his hands steeped as he swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet. Latin poured from his lips, but he did not respond to Camden’s questions. The village apothecary shrugged; he did not weep nor look shocked like the other two. Camden wanted to throttle him, but he clutched at Evan’s bedding instead.
“It could be poison, but he does not bleed nor void his bowels, nor vomit, nor struggle to breathe.” The apothecary threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “A poison so fast-acting would have killed him by now….”
The old man’s voice trailed off. He did not know what had rendered Camden’s otherwise healthy brother so forlorn and helpless. Though he was sweating, his skin was cold and dry. All the color seemed to have drained from his skin, and even his eyes seemed to have faded from blue to grey. His breath came in wheezing gasps, and his hands were clenched tightly at his sides.
“Are ye in pain, Evan?” Camden clutched one of his older brother’s hands. “Can ye hear me?”
Evan nodded, but it looked as if the gesture took every ounce of strength he had.
“Camden, my brother,” Evan said, his voice was hollow, so quiet that Camden had to lean down to hear him. “The ring.”
Camden shook his head back and forth violently, but Evan reached for his face. Evan stroked Camden’s face and then closed his eyes. A single tear rolled down the laird’s cheek. After a moment, Evan let out a brittle laugh, shaking his head from side to side.
“Camden, ye must. Ye ken that ye must.”
Camden found himself looking down at his brother’s outstretched hand on the finger where the Laird’s ring was placed. It was a silver band, studded all along with gold, and in the center rested a giant opal. As a boy, Camden’s father had often told them the tale of that fated ring, which the first Laird Haggan had pried from the cold, dead hand of a Viking raider.
Ever since tradition held that the Laird of clan Haggan must possess the ring and pass it on to his successor upon death. Anyone might challenge the reigning Laird for his ring and the right to rule, but there had been no challengers for the Lairdship for years.
“I cannae Evan. Ye must live. What ails ye? What can be done to save ye?”
Evan sighed and leaned back on his pillow, closing his eyes for a moment. As his chest struggled to rise and fall, Camden was surprised to see a weary smile cross his features.
Only hours ago, Camden had watched his brother retire for a good night’s rest. Now he watched as the life drained from him. Camden held back a scream of frustration.
“It is the curse,” Evan said with a breathless voice.
The curse. Camden wanted to laugh at his brother’s response because he could think of nothing to say in return. The curse of clan Haggan, the curse of the Viking’s ring, the never-ending sorrow that their family could not seem to escape.
“Don’t ye begin to spout that nonsense now after all these years?”
Evan had always brushed away any talk of a curse as nothing more than silly gossip. He had never held with ideas of any curse, even when they were small boys, and Camden had quaked in fear at the thought of some dark stain on their bloodline.
In decades past, vicious Viking warriors savaged their lands, and though their ancestors drove them back into the sea, the pagan savages had plenty of time to sow the seeds of their dark faith throughout the land.
A younger Camden had often pondered what kind of dark magics they might have used to grant them power in battle and how those dark magics could have infected the roots and branches of the Haggan family tree.
“Look at me, Camden.” Evan’s eyes beseeched his, full of mournful sorrow. “I will die tonight, as Dougal died five years ago to make me Laird.”
Evan sighed and struggled to sit up, but he could not muster the strength.
“No, Evan, ye cannae say such things. Ye must rest.”
“How else can ye explain it, brother?” it seemed to take all his strength to speak. “When Dougal died, I told myself that death would not find me, that my reign would be different. But I cannae escape my destiny Camden, and neither can ye.”
Evan reached for his hand, grasping for his ring with a weak grip, the grip of an old man. Though he resisted with every part of himself, Camden reached down to aid him, sliding the ring from his brother’s finger. He put it in Evan’s palm and watched as the Laird of clan Haggan clutched it tightly.
“I have not taken a wife, nor sired a child.” a tear spilled down Evan’s cheek. “I think a part of me knew that I would leave them bereft one day. Ye mustn’t follow my example, brother.”
Though his hands trembled violently, Evan reached for Camden’s, using all his strength to slide the ring onto his finger. Camden flinched, but when it was done, Evan fell back against his pillow again, as if he had no strength left, even though the action was small.
“Promise me,” he wheezed, as if he could not get enough air into his lungs. “Promise me that ye’ll wed and produce an heir. Ye can waste no time. When I am gone, yer days will be numbered.”
The words made Camden’s heartbeat wildly in his chest. This was the thought he could not run from, the fragment of madness that could cut him to ribbons if he held it close. If the curse was real, if this dark cloud over their line existed, that meant his own time would come too, five years from this night.
“If ye dinnae have a son before ye die, think of what will happen to our clan, to our people. Ye cannae shirk yer duty as I did, as Dougal did. Wed, and bear children. Promise me, Camden!”
“I promise!”
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, but he wanted nothing more than to deny Evan’s request. How could he think of duty at this time? To admit this curse held them fast, to know that his children might suffer the same grim fates. What honor was there in this vow? What sanity or sense? He could see none.
“Evan, please, ye must recover. Save yer strength. Yer my only family, yer all that I have left.”
Evan smiled again and stroked his younger brother’s face.
“I am so sorry, Camden. I always meant to be a good brother to ye.”
Camden let out a strangled cry of grief.
“No, Evan, ye have been the best of brothers to me. I love ye dearly.”
He leaned down to embrace his brother and laird, the last of his family left in the world.
“Forgive me, Camden. Forgive me.”
Evan began to struggle for breath, and Father Manus rushed forward to perform the last rites, pushing Camden gently to the side. Camden stumbled back, unable to believe what he saw.
He watched as Evan drew his last breath. He watched as the priest traced the sign of the cross over his forehead, closing his eyes to the world. The Laird of Strome Castle was dead.
“My laird.”
Camden felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Evan’s general, Rory Frazer, standing before him, his eyes searching the face of his new chief and laird. Camden stared down in shock at the ring around his finger. He was Laird Haggan now and would be until the day he died. Would that day come in exactly five years? His brother’s warning repeated over and over inside his head: his days were now numbered.
Camden thought of the promise he made to Evan before he drew his last breath – to wed and to sire an heir. There had been witnesses to this promise. They knew the duty he had sworn to fulfill. Still, what kind of heartless man would he be to find a woman, wed her, and get her with child, knowing that in five years, he too would fade from this earth one way or another? Another tragic victim of the Haggan curse, a curse he would then pass on to their children.
All these thoughts pressed down on him as the room began to fill with more of their clan. Within the hour, the entire castle would know the news that there was a new laird and Evan was dead. They would surely whisper of the curse, the ring he wore, and what it would cost him.
Camden felt as if the walls were closing in on him, and all the voices began to meld into one around him, morphing into a high-pitched whine. His vision began to blur, and suddenly he felt as if his skin was on fire. Without thinking, he bolted, running from the room unaware of the shocked gasps and whispers as he retreated from his brother’s chambers.
Tears streamed down his face as he ran, and he brushed them violently away. He had to get out of there, though he could barely see as he rushed down pitch-black corridors. He could find his way around it even if he went blind. When he emerged into the summer night, he took a deep breath of the warm air and let out a shaking sob. Evan was gone. Evan was dead. He was cursed, and he was alone.
Camden rushed towards the stables, unsure of where he would go, only knowing he must get away. When they were young, Evan and Camden had often snuck off for late-night horse rides, racing each other by moonlight, their childlike laughter filling the night air. Now they would never ride together again. He would never again hear Evan’s joyful laughter nor watch him pull ahead and race into the darkness like some fanciful specter.
Camden went straight for his horse in despair, saddling him by the dim torchlight and leading him through the doors. Evan’s horse neighed in response when they retreated as if he was angry at being left behind.
Fresh grief welled up inside Camden, and he mounted his steed as soon as he was in the courtyard, heading straight for the gates.
“Sir, what are ye doing on horseback this late?” one of the guards called down. “Can I help ye with something?”
Camden wondered if they had heard the news yet. The guard had not named him laird, so he suspected they did not. They would learn the truth soon enough.
“Let me pass! I command it!”
The guard did not respond, but seconds later, Camden heard him calling his fellow guardsmen, and a moment later the gates began to creak open.
Camden wasted no time, spurring his horse on as soon as there was room for him to pass, riding fast into the darkness, unsure of his destination, desperate to leave his cursed life behind him, if only for a night.
Chapter Two: Fleeing the Face of Death
Bonnie had been up since well before dawn, and though she was bone-tired, she had stayed long past sundown at her stall in the town square.
She wanted nothing more than to hurry home and fall into her bed, but she was trying her best to scrounge up some more customers before packing up and going home for the night.
A breeze blew by as she was finally closing, and Bonnie looked up to see the Apothecary’s wooden sign blowing in the wind. Though she and her grandmother Muira had never made a fortune from their trade, in the past three years Bonnie had watched helplessly as their customers began to go into the shop rather than stop at her stall.
From what Bonnie knew, he was from Inverness, and had all sorts of fancy glass bottles full of potions and medicines for sale in there, though she’d never gone in to see for herself. According to Muira, he made more money on the side, plying his trade at Strome castle for the Haggan clan.
Bonnie wanted to grab a rock and throw it right through the small glass panel in the middle of the door. She looked down at the ground to search for one but thought better of it.
Apparently, it mattered little that Muira had acted as an apothecary, a midwife, and a surgeon to the villagers here since she was a young woman; the indignity of it burned Bonnie up with anger and frustration.
For years Muira had fed and clothed the two of them from her trade, and in turn, she taught Bonnie how to recognize, harvest, and make her own remedies. Muira was too old to make the money now and Bonnie was trying her best to fill her shoes.
The apothecary’s arrival hadn’t helped in the slightest. Then to add insult to injury, Muira had grown gravely ill last winter. Though the elderly woman did eventually recover, she had never regained her full strength and vitality.
Bonnie took a deep breath of the warm night air and thought of how Muira was still sickly, suffering off and on from fevers, coughs, and painful, weeping sores.
“Bonnie?”
The familiar voice of Eara, another elderly woman who lived in the village, startled her out of her reverie. As a young woman, she was well known for her awe-inspiring tapestries, but Eara had given up her loom in exchange for sewing needles in her old age.
Now she sold dresses, tunics, bedclothes, and christening gowns in her own stall, and did well enough to live comfortably. From time to time, Eara took on mending for the village’s unmarried men and widowers, those who had no womenfolk to darn their socks or fix the tears in their breeches.
“Good evening to ye Eara. Tis late. What are ye doing out here?”
“I could ask ye the same thing, lass. The sun has long set, and ye have a much longer walk home than I.”
Eara lived just beyond the town smithy, only a bit up the lane. Muira and Bonnie lived in a small cottage towards the edge of the village, near the tree line of Reraig forest.
“I thought to see if I could make a few more coins today. Alas.”
She tried to smile, but Bonnie was crushed that she had not sold so much as one extra herbal remedy today. They ran low on food and firewood, and Muira needed plenty of both to help her heal. Bonnie hated seeing her in such pain while her strength faded away. She wanted nothing more than to take her to the barber and find some comfort for the woman who had long been her guardian and her only family.
“Ah, poor child. How fares Muira?”
Muira and Eara had long been friends, though Eara was considered a respectable member of the community while Muira had been a target for scorn since she was a young woman. That never stopped Eara from showing her loyalty and admiration for Muira, no matter what the denizens of Ardaneaskan thought of her.
“She fares better and better every day.”
That was a lie, but Bonnie wanted it to be true more than anything in the world. She had never known a life without Muira, and if she did not get better, then the lass did not know what she would do. Though she often thought wistfully of the parents, she didn’t remember. Bonnie knew the grief of losing Muira would not be some distant hurt. It would shake her to the core. She let out a silent plea to God that her words would prove true, that some miracle would come and save them both from their current plight.
“Praise the Virgin.” Eara looked genuinely pleased. “I wish I could offer ye some coin dear, but I have fared only a bit better than ye today.”
While Muira and Bonnie were destitute, there were not many people in Ardaneaskan who could be considered well off or prosperous. Their small village made most of its money from fishing, and though the village of Lochcarron was about five miles north of them, they had none of the wealth or affluence of their noble neighbors.
Some of Ardaneaskan’s villagers made a living by working at Strome Castle in service of Laird Evan or by providing the clan with whatever goods and services they needed. Bonnie knew little about clan Haggan, other than the wild tales about a dark curse upon their bloodline. She wrote it off as nothing more than superstitious talk, though once she had seen Muira spit when someone mentioned the Haggan curse. The old woman never spoke very much about it, but Bonnie wondered if she didn’t believe the rumors.
As far as Bonnie was concerned, the Laird of Strome castle might as well have been the King of Scotland, for she would never meet him. She had too much to fret over for her to be concerned about his affairs or which curses his family might be afflicted with.
“Thank ye, Eara, but I’ll be just fine. Sleep well. I shall see ye on the morrow.”
She waved and watched as Eara turned and headed home, disappearing into the shadows as she passed under a burning torch and left the square. Bonnie sighed and pulled her satchel over her shoulder, turning and heading home.
When the clouds parted, the moon and stars shone brightly above. So brightly that Bonnie could still see her way as she walked from the center of town towards home. She saw the trees waving in the night breeze beyond, and heard owls calling to each other in the darkness.
Loch Carron was too far off, but she could hear the familiar sound of waves lapping the shore in the distance. Though many a lass might have been frightened to make the trip alone at night, Bonnie found it peaceful. For the most part, Ardaneaskan was a tranquil village. Though the town had encountered problems with outlaws and brigands roaming the forest in the past, those incidents were few and far between. She didn’t like to think of them, for she refused to live her life in fear. Besides, Muira’s reputation as an enchantress kept many people from their doorstep, and Bonnie liked it better that way.
Bonnie looked up to see a shadow passing one of the windows when she finally reached the front gate of her house. She smiled and made her way to the door, opening it to find Muira by the hearth, stirring a pot over the fire though her hands were shaking.
“Muira, what are ye doing?”
Bonnie rushed forward and pushed a wooden chair forward for Muira to rest on. The old woman fell into it, letting out a long sigh of fatigue. Bonnie took a deep whiff and was surprised at how delicious their small home smelled. Was that rabbit stew?
“How did ye get yer hands on a rabbit? Muira, I told ye that ye needed to rest-”
Muira held up her hands and let out a laugh. But soon her laugh turned into a cough, clutching a square of linen to her mouth as she struggled to breathe. Bonnie jumped up and made way for the jug of mulled wine on the table. It was spiced with honey, clove, and dandelion.
“Dinnae scold me, lass. Morrigan brought the rabbit to our table. Ye must thank her.”
As if she was summoned, Muira’s little black cat let out a little squeak and dashed past Bonnie’s feet. Bonnie laughed aloud. That little monster was famous for bringing birds and small game to their doorstep once in a while. The villagers liked to whisper that she was Muira’s familiar.
“Well.” Bonnie smiled and sat down in the other chair, pouring them both a cup. “Thank ye for yer kind offering, ye little demon.”
Muira smiled and drank the wine. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the fire as the stew bubbled over the flame. Suddenly Bonnie was ravenous. While she was thankful for Morrigan’s offering, she couldn’t help but feel useless when a cat could do more for Muira than she could.
“Do ye ken what tonight is?”
Muira’s smile was gone, and Bonnie was surprised to see a dark expression on her wrinkled face. Her eyes were clouded over as if she remembered something horrible. Bonnie sipped her cup and set it down, leaning forward.
“No, Muira, what is tonight?”
The older woman shook her head and sighed.
“Tonight, clan Haggan will witness the face of death yet again.”
Bonnie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she shivered, though the night air was warm. Hadn’t she just been musing on clan Haggan earlier tonight, on their fabled curse? She shook her head and let out a hollow laugh.
“Ah yes, all those tales of bad luck and misfortune.” Bonnie shrugged. “Just silly stories if ye ask me.”
Smiling, Muira set her cup down on the table, before she sighed as if the feat had taken all her energy to complete.
Bonnie pulled down a pewter bowl and began spooking hot soup into it. When it cooled, she could feed it to Muira if need be, then she would get her to bed.
“That family is marked by fate, by an evil fate. Ye cannae deny their continued suffering.”
Bonnie could and did deny it. Surely their clan had merely faced many tragedies, and this “cursed” history woven by Ardaneaskan townsfolk was simply a twist of the collective imagination. Muira was a brilliant woman, but she had her fair share of superstitious traditions that Bonnie found laughable.
“Well, God bless them. Lord knows we have enough woe of our own here in Ardaneaskan. Maybe they could shoulder some of ours instead?”
Muira clucked, her eyes boring into the side of Bonnie’s face.
“This is not something to jest about, lest the curse falls upon ye for mocking it.”
Muira flinched and picked up a pinch of rosemary. She threw it over her shoulder to ward off such a possibility.
“Ye must eat Muira. We must both go to bed. I have to be up early again in the morning.”
Muira did not protest. She could barely make it through dinner without her eyes beginning to droop, and by the time Bonnie tucked her into bed, she was already snoring loudly.
Bonnie kissed the old woman’s forehead, took the cast iron pot from the hearth, and walked it outside to the barrel full of rainwater near their door. She dunked it inside and cleaned the pot with her hand. Once it was clean, she tipped the barrel over into their potato patch and set it upright to collect the next downpour.
When she stood back up and went to retrieve the pot, Bonnie heard the distinct sound of a man cry out not far in the distance. She immediately darted into the shadows, startled by the closeness of the sound and worried about who it was, and why he made such an inhuman sound.
She peeked around the corner of the house to see what she could uncover about the unexplained noises. She saw a man running down the road, his face full of desperation, his clothes ripped and dirty – he looked as if he was lost.
Bonnie spotted three riders behind him in pursuit, all of them riding like the wind, trying to run down this lone stranger. They were closing in fast, and the man on foot panicked.
Bonnie gasped as she watched him duck behind their home, headed right her way. He did not see her in the shadows, but she could see him closely now. His eyes were wide with fear, and his body was tense like he was prey being stalked by a predator.
Though fear coursed through her whole body like some shadowy current, at that moment, Bonnie made a snap decision. In any other instance, she would never involve herself in this situation. She didn’t know what was going on, but from what it seemed, the strange man had gotten himself into terrible trouble.
For a moment, Bonnie thought about slipping back into the house unseen. She had no place getting tangled up in this man’s trials and tribulations. But the fear in his eyes gave her pause. What would happen to him if Bonnie ignored his plight and left him to his own devices?
Though a voice in her head was screaming at her not to do it, Bonnie felt a sudden intuition that she must do something to help the man before it was too late. She took a deep breath and prepared herself, half-convinced that this was a decision she would live to regret.
Before she could change her mind, Bonnie reached out and grabbed the stranger by his tunic, pulling him close to her. He was startled and almost cried out, but he stopped himself from yelling when he saw her face.
As they stood there, mere inches from each other, Bonnie felt something strange stir within her, and from the look in his eyes, it seemed as if he was distracted by the sight of her as well.
Though he looked disheveled, Bonnie could not help but notice the man was young and handsome, and while his clothes were ripped and torn, they were well made.
“What are ye doing?” the strange man asked.
Bonnie didn’t know how to answer. Surely this was the most foolish thing she’d ever done.
“Shh, they will hear us. Come, come inside.”
Bonnie took the strange man’s hand and pulled him along. They did their best to slip inside the door without making a sound. Once inside, Bonnie turned the bolt on the door and turned to the man, placing a finger over her mouth to indicate they should be silent. Bonnie could hear the hooves of the men on horseback outside.
“Who are they?” she whispered.
He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. Bonnie took a closer look at his bottom lip, torn and bleeding.
“I dinnae ken. They have followed me for miles. I nearly lost them in the village when I tied up my steed, but they found me and followed me here. I cannae say what they intended for me.”
Bonnie’s eyes grew wide. She didn’t know whether to believe the stranger’s explanation, but the fear in his eyes made her feel as if he was telling the truth. She sighed and thought for a moment.
“Come, ye must go to my room and hie, lest they come looking for ye within.”
He stared at her for a moment and then nodded. Bonnie led him towards her room. She lit no candle. Instead, she pointed towards the bed.
“Ye can hide under the-”
She was interrupted by the sound of heavy knocking at the door, as if whoever was outside intended to split the wood in two. Muira let out a startled cry, and Bonnie jumped. She had all but forgotten about the older woman’s presence, caught up as she was in the strange man who now stood inches from her.
Their eyes met again, and though they were both frightened, Bonnie felt that strange feeling return, as if she could not look away.
“Hide! Hide!”
He hesitated, looking into her eyes.
“I cannae leave ye to face them on yer own!”
Bonnie shook her head, breaking the spell for a moment.
“Ye must. Hurry now. If I dinnae answer, it sounds as if they will break down the door. Now hide, and dinnae make a sound. I’ll tend to these men.”
She wasn’t sure quite how she would do so, but at that moment, Bonnie knew beyond all rational thought that she had to. Whoever this man was, she felt a strange urge to protect him from whatever trouble he’d found beneath the shining stars that bore witness to that fateful summer’s night.
