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Chapter I

“How’s she doin’?” Fin asked.

Fin watched Col, his cousin, best friend, and the current Baron of Westmarch Hall, pace the chamber, running his hands through his hair, both fear and rage etched upon his features at the same time. He finally stopped before the large hearth and stared silently into the flames for a long moment. Fin could feel the emotions radiating off his cousin and oldest friend like the heat from the fire. He was scared for Gillian as well. And he was just as angry as Col that somebody had tried to kill her.

Finally, Col turned. “The physician’s seein’ some improvement. He thinks she’ll recover in time.”

“That’s good news,” Fin said, feeling the first spark of hope he’d felt in days.

“Aye,” Col nodded. “Tis good news.”

“Then why dae ye look so grim?”

A wry smile touched Col’s lips. “I suppose I daenae want tae jinx it b’fore she’s back on ‘er feet again.”

Fin nodded. “Aye. I s’pose I can understand that.”

Col dropped down into one of the chairs at the large table near the hearth and poured out a couple glasses of mead for them then motioned for Fin to sit down. Fin walked over and took the seat across from him and raised his mug. They both took a long swallow in silence, the only sound in the room was the crackling and popping of the fire, and the air was thick with tension.

Fin could see the myriad of emotions swirling across his cousin’s face but could only imagine how hard they were hitting him. He set his mug down hard, the hard thump echoing around the hall.

“This is my fault,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.

“Bollocks,” Fin said. “Tis nae yer fault. Tis nae Gillian’s fault. Tis the fault of the bast’rd who done this.”

“Twas my wine she drank,” Col pressed. “And by God, I’d rather twas me layin’ in that bed right now.”

“She drank from yer mug,” Fin told him. “That daenae make it yer fault.”

Col runs a hand over his face. “I ken,” he said. “But it feels like it.”

“Aye. I get it. But tis not.”

They drained the last of their mugs, and Col refilled them immediately.

“The Captain of yer personal guard shouldnae be drinkin’ on duty,” Fin said.

“Then ye watch me drink,” Col said.

“Fair ‘nough.”

They sat at the table mostly in silence as Fin watched his cousin drink, a faraway look of anger and pain etched deeply into his features.

“Ye should get some sleep, Cousin,” Fin said. “When’s the last time ye got some rest?”

“We need tae find who did this,” Col said. “I cannae sleep until we ‘ave that bast’rd’s ‘ead on a pike.”

Fin nodded. “We’ll get ‘im, Col. But ye arenae goin’ tae dae anybody any good if ye’re dead on yer feet.”

Col swallowed down the last of his ale and reached for the pitcher but seemed to think better of it and withdrew his hand. Instead, Col turned and looked at him, pursing his lips.

“I need ye tae look intae it, Fin,” he said.

Fin sat back in his seat. He was good in a fight and could always be counted on to wade into a battle. That’s what made him the perfect bodyguard for Col – he was practically fearless. But when it came to something like Col was asking him to do, Fin felt horribly out of his depth. He did not feel capable of doing what he wanted. He was a man of action, not a man of critical thought. And perhaps that was a flaw in his character, but he was always more comfortable with a sword in his hand.

He knew that, of the two of them, Col was the smarter one. Col was the one who came up with all of their plans and did the thinking. Fin was the one who, when the action started, was always the first one to charge in. As a result, he felt woefully ill-equipped to be the one leading an investigation into who poisoned Gillian – into who had been trying to poison Col.

“Cousin, I daenae ken I’m the right man for that job,” Fin said.

Col cocked his head. “Why nae?”

Fin finally reached for the pitcher and poured himself half a mug of ale. He swallowed it down, quenching his suddenly parched throat. He did not talk about his feelings well, and he certainly did not like admitting to his shortcomings. Not even to his cousin and most trusted friend. But if he could not speak to Col about these things, who could he speak to about them?

Fin cleared his throat. “B’cause I’m nae smart ‘enough tae dae it, Col. I ken we both ken that.”

Col sat back in his seat and looked at him long and hard. He ran a hand over his face, and an expression of sorrow crossed his features. He raised his head and looked at Fin again.

“Is that th’ way I’ve made ye feel all these years?” he asked.

Fin shook his head. “Ye never made me feel that way. Tis not like ye were doin’ nothin’ tae make me feel dumb.”

“Well, ye arenae dumb, Fin,” he said. “And yer a bleedin’ idiot if ye think so.”

The irony of the statement sunk in, and they looked at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter. It was short-lived, though, and the laughter faded, leaving them sitting there staring at one another.

“There isnae anyone I trust more,” Col said, finally breaking the silence between them. “I need tae ken who did this. And I need tae kill ‘em.”

“Aye. Ye need their ‘eads on pikes,” Fin replied. “I ‘ave nae problem with that.”

Col held his gaze for a long moment. “I need you tae find ‘em, Fin. There is nobody I’d trust more tae dae the job and dae it right.”

Fin sighed. “And who’ll watch yer back while I’m runnin’ all over tryin’ tae find a needle in the bleedin’ haystack?

“What ‘bout Hollis?”

“If I’m gonna dae this, I’d prefer tae take Hollis with me.”

Col nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Then I’ll ‘ave Alastair–”

“Alastair?” Fin cut him off. “He’s a whelp.”

“A whelp ye’ve been trainin’,” Col said. “I’ve seen ‘im ‘andle a blade’n he’s good.”

Fin nodded. It was true. He had taken Alastair under his wing and had been training him. He was a good kid and was definitely capable. But he was still green. Raw. He had a long way to go before Fin would be ready to allow Alastair to shadow Col and charge him with keeping his cousin safe.

“Aye. He’s good,” Fin agreed. “But he’s nae ready.”

Col sighed. “I’m not gonna be leavin’ the keep until Gillian is on ‘er feet again,” he argued. “I’ll be safe ‘nough with Alastair at me back.”

Fin leveled his gaze at him. “If that were true, you wouldnae be sendin’ me out tae find the man who tried tae kill ye.”

Col chuckled. “Fair point, ye bleedin’ arse,” he said. “But Alastair’s a good lad’n good with a blade. I’m comfortable ‘nough with him watchin’ me back.”

The way he said it told Fin the matter had been settled, and he was officially tasked with finding the would-be assassin while Alastair watched his cousin’s back. Fin wasn’t comfortable with the arrangement. There was still a lot Fin needed to teach Alastair before he’d be ready for the assignment he was being given.

But Fin knew Col well enough to know that when his mind was made up, there was little he could do to change it. His cousin was more stubborn than a mule when he got his mind set on something.

“All right then,” Fin said. “I s’pose ye’ve got yer mind made up.”

“I dae,” Col said. “Like I told ye, there’s nobody I trust more.”

The doors to the chamber burst open, and one of the household pages came rushing in, his cheeks flushed and out of breath, carrying a sealed letter in his hand.

“My Laird,” the page said. “A message ‘as arrived from York.”

“Thank you,” Col said as he took the letter and broke the seal on the envelope.

York. Gillian’s father was the Duke of York, and there was a time when Col and Fin were on the opposite side of a great divide with the Duke. Fin and his cousin had raided the Duke’s supply carts for more than a year some time back and had eventually gone to war with his brother and son.

Having saved James’ dukedom, he had built this castle for them out on the Western March, halfway between York and their clan lands in Scotland. It was meant to serve as a symbolic bridge between the two lands and their two people. It was not without its detractors, though. Not without its share of controversy. And Col had ended up with enemies on both sides of the border.

But time — and of course, his marriage to Gillian and the children they’d had — had managed to heal the wounds between the Duke and Col. And for that, Fin was grateful. After years of fighting, war, and surviving on the scraps of their criminal endeavors, it was nice to have some stability. Security. It had been nice getting used to a life without war.

“What is it?” Fin asked.

Col’s face darkened. “The Duke was poisoned,” he said, his voice grim.

Ice water flowed through Fin’s veins. That was the last thing he had been expecting to hear. The implications of it were even direr than Fin had thought.

“Is he–”

Col shook his head. “Nay. The Duke lives.”

“Thank God in ‘eaven.”

“Aye,” Col said, his voice tight. “But ye need tae get tae York. Ye need tae look in on the Duke’n see if ye can find who did this.”

Fin sighed but nodded his head. “Aye. On me way.”

Chapter II

“How is he doin’?”

“He is alive,” the Duke’s physician Walter told Fin. “His condition is still grave, but there are signs of improvement.”

Because he was usually Col’s shadow whenever he came to York, the people had gotten used to seeing Fin around the castle. Though some of the English were still unsettled by the sight of Scotsmen wandering the halls, because they were part of the Duke’s family now, they did not give him any trouble.

“Tis good news,” Fin replied. “Tis very good news.”

“So long as he continues to improve, it is good news,” Walter said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to see the Duke.”

Walter walked out of the chamber, leaving Fin alone with Hollis, his second in command. Hollis came from the same village as Fin, and they’d known each other since they were boys. Aside from Col, there was nobody he trusted more than Hollis. When Col had raised him up to Captain of his household guard, Fin had brought Hollis along as well. The man had become his right arm, and Fin didn’t know how he functioned without him.

Fin took a seat at the table in the chamber and poured them both a glass of wine as Hollis took the chair across from him. Hollis picked up his glass and sniffed at it.

“The least they could dae is ‘ave a proper glass of ale,” he said.

Fin chuckled. “The Ainglish arenae known for their strong constitutions,” he said. “Ale might be tae much for ‘em.”

They shared a laugh and sipped at their wine for a moment. Fin was glad to hear the Duke was recovering and knew both Gillian and Col would be too. He scratched at his beard, his mind whirling as he tried to come up with a list of suspects.

“Who’d want tae ‘urt both Gillian and ‘er fither?” Hollis wondered aloud.

“Twas not Gillian they tried tae murder,” Fin said. “Twas Col, they were tryin’ tae poison.”

“Well, the assassin wasnae a very good one,” he replied. “He didnae manage tae kill either target.”

“Thanks be tae God,” Fin said. “I daenae know what would’ve ‘appened if they’d succeeded.”

Hollis nodded and drained the last of his wine and immediately refilled his glass. Fin was not well versed enough in the line of succession to know what would have happened had the assassin succeeded in killing both Col and the Duke. The land would have been leaderless and thrown into chaos. Fin could only imagine that nobles from both sides of the border, Scottish and English, would have fought for the land and titles that went with it. He’d seen it enough in Scotland to know what could happen.

“So, where dae we start?” Hollis asked.

Fin shook his head. “I daenae ken,” he said. “But we ‘ave tae start somewhere.”

“Aye,” Hollis said. “Ye lead the way.”

They drained the last of their wine and got to their feet. As Fin looked down at his wineglass, an idea occurred to him. He set his glass down and looked up.

“We need t’ go t’ thae kitchens,” he said.

“Right b’hind ye.”

 

* * * * *

Fin walked into the kitchen and felt his stomach rumble, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in a while. He and Hollis snuck a couple of the roasted chicken legs from a platter, earning them dirty glares from the kitchen staff.

“Where’s the Head Steward?” Fin asked one of the passing scullery maids.

“In the larder,” she replied.

“And ‘is name, lass?”

“Mr. White,” she replied. “Mr. Daniel White.”

Hollis leaned back against one of the counters and munched on his chicken leg, a grin on his face.

“Ye comin’ with me?” Fin asked.

“I ken ye can ‘andle this on yer own,” he replied. “I’m goin’ tae make sure there’s no assassins lurkin’ in here.”

Fin chuckled but could not blame him for wanting to hang out in the kitchens. Not only did it smell wonderful, but the cooks were also pumping out platter after platter of delicious food. If Fin had his way, he’d stay here and eat his fill too. But he had to content himself with the chicken legs in his hand, which he finished and tossed into a bucket.

“All right then,” Fin said. “I’ll be back. Daenae do anythin’ stupid.”

“Me?”

“Aye. Ye.”

Hollis chuckled as Fin turned and headed for the larder. He moved aside as a pair of liveried servants came bustling out, their arms loaded with burlap sacks of foodstuff bound for the kitchen. Fin stepped in to find a tall man with thinning gray hair in the Duke’s livery counting items on the shelves and making notations on a piece of parchment attached to a writing board. When Fin walked in, the man gave him a once over.

“Who’re you?” he snapped.

“Me name’s Fin, Mr. White,” he introduced himself. “I’m ‘ere on the Duke’s bus’ness.”

The man sighed and set his writing board down, his face pale and drawn as a look of sorrow crept into his eyes.

“And a nasty business,  that is,” he said. “The Duke’s a good man. Don’t deserve to have this happen to him.”

“The physician says he should recover,” Fin informed him.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Thanks be to God.”

“Aye. Me tae,” Fin replied.

“What can I do for you?”

“I need tae know who handled the Duke’s wine b’fore he drank it.”

The man sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Could’ve been anybody in the kitchens, to be honest,” he replied.

“Coulda been but I daenae ken so,” Fin said. “But I want tae start with yer wine stewards and cupbearers.”

The man shook his head. “All of them have been with us for years,” he said. “They’re good lads. Loyal to the Duke. All of them.”

“Ye’ve nae ‘ad any new lads come tae work for ye?”

The steward screwed up his face for a moment as if thinking and then turned to Fin.

“Now that you mention it, we did take on a new cupbearer a few weeks back,” he said. “He is the son of one the household smithies.”

“What’s ‘is name?”

“Marcus,” he replied. “Marcus Long.”

“And where can I find Marcus Long?” Fin pressed.

“He is in the grand hall. I have him polishing the formal goblets,” he said. “You don’t really believe he could have something to do with this, do you?”

“I daenae,” Fin said. “But I’ve some questions I need tae ask ‘im.”

“He is a good lad,” he argued. “I can’t see–”

“I’m nae sayin’ he’s involved,” Fin cut him off. “Nae yet. But I need tae ask ‘im some questions.”

White seemed genuinely stricken by the idea that one of his charges could have been involved with the Duke’s poisoning. Though he seemed like he could be a harsh man to Fin, he seemed to genuinely care about the men who worked under him.

“Tell me, what dae ye know about monkshood?” Fin asked.

“Other than to say, I know it isn’t a plant that can be used in cooking, not much I fear. My expertise is in baking and running an organized, disciplined kitchen,” he replied. “But there is an apothecary in the village outside the castle walls you can speak with. She will know far more than I.”

Fin nodded. “I’ll dae that.”

He studied Mr. White for a moment longer. He seemed an honest and forthright man. But did that mean he was not a man capable of slipping a dose of poison into the Duke’s wine? Or ordering somebody else to do it? Fin wasn’t sure, and though he did not detect any sort of deception, Mr. White would bear further scrutiny. But he wanted to question the cupbearer next as this Marcus had the most direct line to the Duke’s wine.

“Thank ye,” Fin said. “I’ll go’n find Marcus now.”

As Fin marched through the kitchen, Hollis fell into step beside him, munching on what looked like a sweet cake. Crumbs were stuck in the man’s beard, and Fin just shook his head.

“Get yer fill did ye?” he asked.

Hollis shrugged. “Nay. Ye werenae gone long ‘nough for that,” he said. “But it’ll tide me over for now.”

The doors groaned, and the hinges squealed as they pushed through the doors and stepped into the grand hall. A young man of about eighteen or nineteen years was standing at the far end of the table and looked up as they approached, a nervous tremor passing across his face.

Marcus was older than Fin had expected but still had a youthful air about him. He was tall and thin with narrow shoulders, long arms, and long, spindly fingers. He had dark eyes, a mop of shaggy, dark hair, and pale skin. He was antsy and shifted from foot to foot, doing his best to avoid looking at Fin, which put him on edge immediately.

Fin stopped in front of Marcus and looked up him up and down, sizing him up. Hollis stood behind Fin, his arms folded over his chest, a fearsome look on his face, doing his best to silently intimidate the cupbearer.

“Are ye Marcus Long?” Fin asked.

“Y – yes, sir,” he replied.

Fin narrowed his eyes and glared at him and took a step back. He looked nervous as if he was going to bolt from the hall.

“Little old tae be a cupbearer, are yet not?” Fin asked.

Marcus shrugged. “I used to work in the smithy with my father, sir,” he said. “But I am not cut out for that sort of work. I’m not strong enough, I fear.”

Fin looked him up and down for a moment and nodded. He could see that. Smiths were big, brawny men, and Marcus was definitely not that. He probably was better suited to working in the household.

“And how long’ve ye been workin’ in the Duke’s house?”

“I’ve been a cupbearer for several months now, sir,” he replied.

Better suited to be working in the house than the smithy or not, it seemed to Fin that it was a mighty big coincidence that shortly after Marcus started to work as a cupbearer, the Duke winds up poisoned. Fin had never been big on believing in coincidences. He didn’t think there was much that could not be explained by a more rational reason.

He looked at Marcus closely and could see how twitchy the younger man was. He looked like a rabbit staring up at a hungry hawk that was circling above him. Fin thought the best approach would be straight forward and blunt. He thought he could rattle Marcus enough that he would trip over a lie and unintentionally reveal something to him…

“What dae ye know ‘bout what ‘appened tae the Duke?” Fin asked.

“I – I do not know anything, sir,” he replied.

The young man looked ready to cry or run. Sweat beaded on his brow, and Fin thought he looked more nervous than he should have if he had nothing to do with the Duke’s poisoning.

“Are ya sure ‘bout that?” Fin asked.

“Y – yes, sir,” he stammered. “Very sure.”

Fin wasn’t so sure about it, though. He knew he could be imposing and intimidating. He had scared more than a few lads in his day with nothing more than a hard gaze. But there was something about the kid’s behavior that wasn’t ringing true to him. He was too nervous, and it made Fin think he was hiding something.

“Did ye dae it?” Fin asked. “Did ye poison the Duke?”

“No, sir,” Marcus said. “I told you, I had nothing–”

“Aye. I ken that’s what ye told me,” Fin cut him off. “But I ken ye know somethin’ ‘bout it. I can see it in yer eyes, boy.”

Marcus looked around, his eyes sweeping the hall as if he was looking for the nearest exit. He seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to make a run for it while weighing the odds of whether or not he could get to the door before being brought down by Fin or Hollis.

“What is it yer nae tellin’ me?” Fin pressed.

He shook his head and would not meet Fin’s eyes. “There is nothing for me to tell you, sir. I swear it.”

“I ken there is,” Fin pressed.

Marcus paled before Fin’s eyes, and the fear on his face was palpable. There was something he was not telling Fin, and he got the idea that there was more happening than he was aware of. Marcus was afraid of something, but he knew it was not him. Oh, Fin thought he scared the boy plenty, but something else was going on, and Marcus knew what it was. Fin could practically smell it on him.

“Did somebody make ye do it?”

“I did nothing, sir.”

His voice was trembling, and he swallowed hard again, which made Fin look at him harder. He was certain the boy wasn’t truthful. He had no proof of it, and it was nothing more than his instincts whispering to him. But his instincts had never led him astray before, and he had learned to rely on them. And, at the moment, Fin’s instincts were telling him that whoever it was that had put him up to slipping the poison to the Duke scared the boy more than he did.

Fin stepped closer until he loomed over the boy. “I ken ye’re lyin’, lad,” he said. “Ye can either tell me who put ye up tae it or ye’re goin’ tae find yerself swingin’ at the end of a rope.”

The boy licked his lips nervously and still refused to meet Fin’s eyes. “I – I don’t know anything, sir. Please, I don’t know anything.”

“Enough!” Fin roared.

Fin slammed his fist down on the table, making the goblets he’d been polishing tumble over. They rolled off the table and hit the ground with a resounding clatter that echoed around the hall.

“Ye’re lyin’. I can see it in yer eyes,” Fin growled. “I’ll give ye this one last chance tae tell me the truth.”

He shook his head, “Sir I–”

“That’s it.”

He reached out and grabbed Marcus by the back of the neck and stared down into his eyes, letting the full weight of his looming presence sink in. The cupbearer just stared back at him, wide-eyed, lips quavering, his entire body trembling. Disgusted, Fin pushed the young man over to Hollis, who snatched him up by the back of the neck as Fin had.

“Take ‘im out of ‘ere,” Fin growled. “Put ‘em in the keep’s dark cells ‘til we can figure out whether we want tae ‘ang ‘im or cut ‘is bleedin’ ‘ead off.”

The boy squeaked as Hollis heled him fast, but said nothing. Fin called out for a pair of the Duke’s personal guards to come in and take the boy to the cells. As they waited, Fin glared hard at him, and Marcus turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. The guards took him by the arms and started to escort him away.

“Last chance tae save yer life, Marcus,” Fin called after them. “Who put ye up tae poisonin’ the Duke?

He shook his head and remained silent. Not even the threat of death was enough to make the boy speak. That told Fin whoever had threatened him had threatened to take more than just his life – perhaps the lives of his loved ones. And the boy knew whoever had put him up to it well enough to know that he could make good on his threat too.

“Ye’re nae actually goin’ tae have the lad executed are ye?” Hollis asked.

Fin chuckled. “Nay. But it’ll be good for ‘im tae think so for a while,” he replied. “Maybe a night in the dark cells’ll loosen the lad’s tongue.”

“I don’t know about that one,” Hollis observed. “He’s terrified of somethin’, and it ain’t us. Or at least, there’s somethin’ that terrifies ‘im more than us.”

Fin nodded. “Aye. Had the same thought.”

There was definitely something going on. Some bigger plan in motion, and it involved somebody that was truly frightening. At least to Marcus. It was intriguing and a good start. But nowhere near good enough. At least he had a direction to begin running in, though. He thought it was better than nothing.

 

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Chapter I

Northern Highlands, March 1756

Sean and Rose Wilson stood staring at Eamon Wilson with suspicious eyes after he told them his plans. He had arrived almost half an hour ago after traveling days to find them. He had left his men in a nearby tavern to wait for his instruction. He feared to give away his brother’s location to anyone.

If there was any lesson that he had learned over these past few years, it was to give out one’s trust sparingly, perhaps even better if one trusted no one. “Brother, I know that ye have cause tae distrust me, but I do this for ye. And the wealth of course, which we can split taegether. Ye need it if ye are going tae help yer family. Ye will nae be able tae do so if ye find yerself killed by Lord Cutler’s sword.”

Sean nodded and eventually sat down. A pregnant Rose followed suit. Sean continued. “Aye, I have agreed tae yer plan, brother, but it is nae just my distrust of ye that makes me hesitant. I dinnae ken how we will muster the strength tae fight back. I have men here, but they are content with their new and peaceful lives. We havenae practiced our swords for many a month. And ye are only yerself.”

“Is there a way we can keep Cutler’s men from finding this place? I dinnae think the battle should be done here,” Rose said.

Eamon sighed, what he was about to say weighing heavily on his chest. “I am sorry tae say, lass, that they know this place already, despite its remote nature. My spy has told me that Cutler will arrive in the next few days. Since my journey here, he also has already begun his own. I would expect him in two days’ time. So, we must set to planning. Sean and I can ride tae meet him upon the road tae prevent his seeing the village, but he still knows where it lies.”

Rose’s face screwed up with anger, and her skin flushed red. She slapped a hand against the table. “Then ye must kill all who ride with him. But who is this spy ye speak of? Can they be trusted?”

Sean chimed in. “Aye, how do we even ken what the spy says is true?”

Eamon twisted his mouth in thought as he planned his words. He leaned forward again. “Ye will find this bit of news quite interesting. I asked the spy myself about why they would help a band of Highlanders attempting to protect themselves, and ye know what the boy told me? He said he did it for The Scots.”

Eamon waited as the words sank into his companion’s minds. Rose and Sean both wore a similar expression. Confusion, then surprise, then disbelief. Sean said, “Truly? But that doesn’t make any sense.”

Rose added, “Aye, all members of The Scots are now settled in these lands. They are working on nae mission. They have nae plans of rebellion at this time.”

Eamon shrugged. “He did not say that he was a member of The Scots. My spy is an English boy.”

Again, Rose and Sean showed expressions of surprise. Eamon nodded. “Aye, I ken. It doesnae make sense, but I am under the impression he doesnae get treated well by his master. Perhaps that is why he rebels against him?”

“And leads him tae his potential death,” Rose said to herself.

“Aye. There have been papers nailed up in the surrounding areas calling for a rebellion against the English. Could this be the work of the boy?”

He unfolded a page and displayed it for Rose and Sean to see. “I took one on the journey here so I could show ye. I thought it might be The Scots, but I suppose nae, after ye said they are at Peace now.”

Rose nodded. “How very strange. I mean, ‘tis nae strange that men want tae rebel against the English, but that these would spread around just as this Lord Cutler comes tae take his revenge.”

Eamon sighed. “Well, whether it be strange or nae, this is our chance tae get the man before he comes for ye. Leave the riches tae me if ye dinnae want them. I know, Sean, ye wish tae live a different life. But then there is nae other option than tae fight back and kill the man, and his men, afore he takes the life of yer family once more!” Once Eamon said the words, he knew that he should have put it more delicately. He had spent years punishing himself for leaving his brother to fight against a Highland enemy, where they lost their father, and Sean lost both his wife and child. Eamon would not be the orchestrator of his brother’s ruin once more.

“Forgive me, brother,” he continued, “But I cannae see this happen tae ye again.” He watched as Rose placed a hand softly upon Sean’s arm. The intimate movement touched him, and for the first time in a long time, Eamon desired that someone would be there for him to comfort and to love, just as he was. But he pushed that desire out of his mind. It would serve him no good when revenge and wealth needed to be at the center of his thoughts.

Sean nodded solemnly. “Aye, ye are right, brother. We will prepare. But we must begin by practicing our swords.”

Eamon grinned, filled with energy that the plans would begin. “That we must. I hope ye will find my skills have improved over the years. All the men will remember what they must do once they lay their hands once again upon their swords. It will not be too late. And do not worry. It is not just me. I have a group of men waiting for my word at a tavern in the town below. They will come when we need them.”

The two men stood, and Rose looked up at them with longing. “I apologize that I cannae join ye in the practice.” Rose looked down at her stomach briefly. Eamon raised an eyebrow, and Sean chuckled, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“Aye, brother, ye should see my wife in a battle of swords. She is nae one tae trifle with as leader of The Scots.”

Eamon paused for a moment, and his eyes widened. “Is this Scots land as well? I’m impressed, Rose. I found out about The Wanderer, and everyone’s heard of The Scots. But I did not imagine there tae be a connection such as marriage between my brother and the infamous band of thieves. Well, then, it is doubly good that I came tae warn ye.”

Rose sat up and lifted an eyebrow. “Ye are impressed because I’m a woman and women cannae do such things, is that it? Think a woman cannae handle the job? After the loss of my clan, I was all they had!”

Eamon paused, knowing that he was in dangerous territory once he spotted the dark look in Rose’s eyes. He held up his hands in defense. “Forgive me, sister, I didnae mean tae offend. ‘Tis nae that a woman cannae do it, of course, but ye must admit ‘tis highly unusual. That is why it impresses me so.” Rose seemed to calm at that, and the taut muscles in her face relaxed. Sean’s hand remained on her shoulder. “Come, I do hope that one day, ye and I can have a battle of swords taegether. I wish tae see yer skill.”

Sean smiled, and so did Rose. “Aye, lad,” Sean said. “A woman has the advantage of being lighter of foot and quicker. They are the experts of the hidden dagger thrust intae the belly just when ye least expect it.”

Eamon looked impressed. “That I could definitely see. Now, come, shall we speak tae the men?”

Sean nodded. “Aye. I shall call Donovan. He’s our second-in-command, and we shall discuss with him first. Goodbye, Rose. Please try to rest a little, my dear.”

Sean and Eamon wandered outside of the cabin and into the bright sunshine. The blue sky with white clouds scudding across it brightened their spirits, even though the ominous arrival of Lord Cutler loomed in their minds. Eamon watched as his brother motioned for Donovan to come to meet him. He was happy for him.

His big brother had made such a change in life. He wanted to hear all about it. Deep down, he was grateful for the danger that Lord Cutler brought, for it had forced him to come and seek Sean out, the infamous Wanderer, a hired sword. Now that Sean had settled, it had been much easier to find him, climbing his way through the rocky and hilly Highlands, speaking to clans along the way, hearing whispers of a remote area, hidden away from clan and town, close to Loch Ness, but nestled in a foreboding forest.

It gave Eamon a purpose once again. Since he fled his father’s lands, he had worked hard labor for a time, until he met with a man who gave him everything he was missing in his life: the skills with a blade and a sense of belonging. They had wandered all over the North of Scotland, seeking, fighting, and plundering. But he missed the warm bosom of his family, and he’d heard rumors about what had occurred.

His heart broke when he found out about Sean’s wife and child. He was afraid that Sean would never want to see him again. So once he found out that there was a price upon his brother’s head, he wasted no time in coming to find him. He just hoped that his brother would trust him once more.

Eamon had mixed feelings as he approached his brother’s land on horseback. He was surprised at how well his older brother looked after all this time and hardship. One could tell they were definitely kin, but while they were both dark-haired, Sean’s was the lighter of the two, while Eamon looked the swarthier. Seeing Sean’s look of wariness had made his whole body tense with each pounding of hooves. He will wonder why I have come after such a long time. He might even kill me on the spot.

But Eamon had been lucky. Sean had done nothing of the sort and gave him a listening ear. Now they were on the verge of moving together once more as if the past had not occurred.

“Donovan! Come. There is much to discuss.” Sean yelled over to Donovan, his right-hand man. He was young with reddish hair and stood tall and proud.

“Aye, Sean?” Donovan walked towards them, skepticism in his eye as he took in Eamon’s figure. He was the one who had noticed Eamon’s approach when he was still far away. Eamon was used to being eyed thus, as he knew that his rough appearance often made others think he was a dangerous rogue.

Sean said, “Donovan, this is my brother, Eamon. He comes with bad news, I’m afraid.” Sean explained the approach of Lord Cutler. “We need to prepare the men tae meet him out in battle before he and his men find the village.”

“And there is wealth to be had,” Eamon added.

“We dinnae wish tae rob anyone anymore, like I said,” Sean said sharply.

“Even if they are our sworn enemies?” Eamon asked, skeptical.

“Aye, even so. Ye may take the money if ye so wish. But that could bring the King once again upon our heads if he knows it was The Scots that both killed and robbed his men.”

Donovan replied, “Is the information certain, Sean? Could it nae be that someone wishes tae lure us away from our homes so that they can attack when there are nae people tae defend it?”

Sean paused for a moment. He glanced at Eamon, and Eamon knew he was trying to search for the lie in his eyes. He hoped Sean knew him well enough that he would know Eamon wouldn’t do such a thing. Eamon was not a liar. He might have been fearful, but he was an honest man. And despite the draw of Lord Cutler’s wealth, Eamon would have ridden in search of Sean anyway, to warn him that he was in danger.

Sean shook his head, and Eamon wanted to sigh with relief. Sean looked back at Donovan, who continued to eye Eamon with doubt. “Donovan, that wouldnae make sense. Most of the villagers here are swordsmen and women, but perhaps they dinnae know that. Besides, Lord Cutler wishes tae kill Rose and me for what happened tae his nephew and Lord Marcus. It wouldnae behoove him tae remove us and then come back tae an empty village, would it?”

Donovan colored a little, and Sean hesitated slightly before continuing, trying to ignore Donovan’s discomfort. “The plan is for the men tae practice their sword skills. We need tae leave in a day’s time tae meet him. We must start right away. Then, we can prepare for our journey: horses, food, weapons, and the like. How many men come with Cutler?”

Eamon answered, “My spy tells me that he could come with at least a dozen men, but he plans to pick up more soldiers at Fort Augustus as he travels northward. We may have the advantage in numbers, but I assume they will be well-armed and well-skilled, for each of them will be carrying a small percentage of wealth upon their person.”

“Aye. Donovan, do ye nae think we will have the advantage over a dozen men?”

Donovan looked surprised for his opinion to be requested. Eamon could tell Sean was pleased. “Aye, I think so, but if it becomes twice that, we may struggle. We just need tae remember our swords. But I think we ought tae hide in the hills and forests and take as many down as we can with arrows first.”

Eamon’s eyes widened with excitement. “Have ye bows and arrows?” At the two men’s nods of assent, he grinned. “Then, we shall be saved. They will nae be able tae fight with their muskets when arrows fall from the sky down upon them.”

Sean nodded. “Donovan. Gather the men. Tell them tae leave any of the building tasks they were completing and meet in the large clearing in the woods.” Sean pointed. Donovan left quickly, off to send the message out.

Sean turned to Eamon. “The village is not large, but it will take time for the men to drop whatever they’re doing. I hope they will come as soon as they’re able. We’re in the middle of building homes, outhouses, storage spaces, everything we need for a full, thriving village. You must understand my disappointment that a vengeance-hungry Englishman is the cause of our delay.”

Eamon smiled, happy his brother was willing to share such information. “Aye, ye have built a good life, brother. But ye would rather take pause, I am certain than have everything ye’ve worked for be burned tae the ground.”

Sean grunted in assent.

They walked towards the forest in silence. Both clutched their swords in hand, and Eamon said softly, “Remember, brother, when we would fight each other with sticks, in the trees near our home? Father would try tae teach us, but we wouldnae listen tae instruction.” Sean chuckled softly. Eamon’s heart warmed. He enjoyed being in the presence of family again, but he was not ready to tell Sean so.

“Aye, I remember. It feels as though it was a lifetime ago.” Sean squinted his eyes up at the sun. “The world has become a cold and cruel place since then.”

Eamon replied solemnly, “That it has.”Eamon felt a familiar guilt hang over him, for he knew that Sean referred to his betrayal. But there was also so much more. Despite the sunlight glinting off the green leaves in the trees, Eamon could feel a foreboding in his heart, and he only wished his deepest fears would not come to pass.

Chapter II

On the road from Fort William, towards Inverness

“Stop! I wish to rest here.” Lord Cutler raised a gloved hand in the air, and he could hear the slowing of hooves as he and his men approached the stone tavern. It was adjacent to a grassy hill, and a curl of smoke lifted into the air as the evening settled in.

He dismounted, and the jangle of bridles and the stretch of leather echoed into the air. “Let’s see if these Scotsmen can prove their hospitality.” He grinned, and his lead man, Martin Dorset, grinned back.

“Yes, milord, but I’m certain it will not be the same as what you’d receive in England. They  are country folk, unused to serving nobility.”

Lord Cutler nodded his head curtly, satisfied. He was a tall man, broad of the shoulder with dark hair and dark eyes that narrowed into slits whenever he spoke. It unnerved many a person, but Martin was used to the lord’s manners and quirks. Lord Cutler motioned to the back of him. “Tell the men to get their horses to the stables. Bring Isabelle here to me. I wish to eat with my daughter. Her lady’s maid can eat with the men once they sort out the horses.”

Martin nodded and scurried off to do his bidding, and Lord Cutler pushed open the door of the tavern to a surprised innkeeper. A few guests lingered at tables around the establishment, and all of them looked towards the door, their eyes wide.

“Aye, Sir? Can I help ye?” The innkeeper asked, and Lord Cutler pinned with him a dark glare as he walked up to him.

“I have many men here to feed. Our horses need to be fed, watered, and brushed. I want a hot meal and your finest ale. We shall pay you handsomely. And we need a bit of information, but I will ask later, once my belly is full.” Lord Cutler opened his gloved hand to show a gold coin lying in the center. But then he closed his hand again once the innkeeper got a look at it.

He enjoyed taunting the workmen he came into contact with. They had never seen so much wealth in their lives, and if he wanted them to do their duty properly, then he had to prove to them that he could pay. Not that he always did.

The innkeeper put down the tankard he was drying, and he nodded. “Aye, Sir. Right away.” The innkeeper scuttled off, and Lord Cutler sat down close to the hearth and set his feet up on the chair next to him. A mug of ale was brought to him soon after, and without glancing up at the person who brought it, he grabbed onto the mug and took a deep long sip. He began to grumble.

Where is Isabelle? That girl will give me no end of trouble. She is probably giving money to the beggars lingering outside. I had hoped to instill a harder heart in her, for a soft one will do her no service in this world, but alas. 

A woman with long dark hair braided down her back entered the tavern, wonder in her eyes. She looked around the low-ceilinged room and smiled. She was diminutive but womanly, and anyone could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was born of noble blood.

Lord Cutler waved at her from across the room, and she colored before finding her way to him. “Father. Isn’t this wonderful? I thank you again for bringing me on this journey, for I had such a yearning to see how the Scottish people in the countryside live. Such industry and hardness to it. I’m amazed!”

Lord Cutler wiped his ale from his mouth with the back of his hand. Plates of steaming hot ham and bread were set before them. “Isabelle, you mustn’t be in awe of such things. Lurking just below the surface, these people are bloodthirsty and have no education nor morality. They would as soon cut your throat as look at you. You must keep a wary eye on them all. We are here on a mission of revenge for our King. Do not forget that!”

He pointed to her before beginning to eat. The excitement left her face a little, and she began to eat as well, chewing slowly and quietly. “How much further will it be, Father?”

He grunted. “I am not entirely certain. Martin thought he knew the way, but he is confused by the hills here. We will have to ask the innkeeper if there is anything that they can tell us, though I hate to depend on their generosity.”

“But you will pay them, of course, won’t you, Father?”

He nodded but did not look at her. Isabelle gave him the oddest feeling from time to time that she was rebuking him. Now that her mother was long gone, he often feared that she had taken his wife’s place and endeavored to try and change him. He spotted the innkeeper once more, returning from where he had disappeared to. He saw his men begin to wander in and take their places amongst the empty tables, moving those out of the way whose place they wanted.

He smiled to himself. His men were patiently selected by none other than himself. They were the most skilled, the most brutish, and the most intelligent of all the soldiers of his Majesty. They would find the man who killed the King’s nephew and his Majesty’s second proxy. Lord Cutler would not fail, not when these men were on his side, and wealth and status would be his forever.

He hailed the innkeeper who paled a little at the sight of it. The rather stout man approached the table with hesitation. “Aye, Sir?”

“I need that information,” Lord Cutler said, before taking another deep drink from his tankard.

The innkeeper nodded, and Lord Cutler wished he could slap the fat man’s face, for his cheeks were pink with fear. So like a woman. 

 “The Scots, the band of thieves. Surely, you’ve heard of them in these parts? I search for them and wish to know their whereabouts. My leader has gone astray, and we cannot find the way.”

The innkeeper swallowed, and Lord Cutler noticed his hesitation. The man glanced at Isabelle, who was merely staring back at him. “Do not look to my daughter for pity or to stall your words.” He held tightly to a dagger at his side. He could fillet the man alive if he hid something. He could tell he was trying to by the tightness of his shoulders, the sweat on his forehead, and the nervous clasping of his hands. “I can see you falter. What is it?”

The innkeeper shook his head and began to stutter. “No, Sir, ‘tis just that they are a fearsome lot. I dinnae wish for any trouble. I wish only for peace.”

Bloody idiot.  “Peace will not be your reward if you do not give me what I seek. Where are they?” He was growing impatient now, and he could feel that familiar cold rage moving over him, holding him in its grasp. He was taut like the string of a bow, and he knew just what would happen if he were to snap.

The innkeeper swallowed again. “They were roaming about these parts for years, plundering and the like. But now, they have moved far intae the mountains with the one who is called The Wanderer. Tae the Northeast. Ye must take the road toward Inverness, but then there is a large cluster of trees along the path, dark and menacing. There ye must turn, afore ye cross the Loch. Ye will find them.”

Lord Cutler grinned. The Scots and The Wanderer all in one? Excellent. The King will be pleased. Cutler had not been certain of this fact, despite Martin’s assurances, but now he was convinced. He placed the gold coin down on the table with a slap. “There, that was not as difficult as you imagined.” The innkeeper’s eyes widened, and he took the coin gingerly.

“Best of luck with yer journey, Sir.”

He moved away, and Lord Cutler stared back at his daughter. “Finish your meal, daughter. We shall be on the road soon enough. Revenge moves in my belly.”

***

Lady Isabelle Cutler ate as quickly as she could. She always tried to be grateful for what she had been given, but it was difficult sometimes, when she had a father such as Lord Cutler, always bellowing, always following the dark path. He had not always been this way, but in the past few years, once her mother had passed on, her father had hardened, continually seeking out violence and revenge.

He became the King’s righthand man once the King’s former one, Marcus Donovan, had been killed only a few months before. He had been vying for that position for a long time, and Isabelle had felt a sense of deep dread, once she realized her father had earned the position. Now he was on a journey towards revenge, for he had plans to kill The Wanderer and The Scots in their entirety, no matter the times she’d tried to convince him not to, for many reasons, one of them being that The Scots was a mixture of men and women and their children.

The King wished her father to banish these people from the Earth, and her father did not need much urging or encouragement. He had gathered up his most bloodthirsty and sword-skilled of men and set off, picking up new soldiers along the way. Now, their caravan was over 30 strong. It would be a slaughter. Isabelle had begged and pleaded with him to allow her to go on the journey, and he was surprised at her interest. He allowed her to come, but she knew it was only because he wanted her to become hard, just as he was. Perhaps she could be of use to him one day, he would tell her.

She begged him to let her join because she thought she might try to convince him to sway his course or at least find a way to stop the brutal attack from happening. She was grateful that Martin had gotten lost. That at least gave her more time to think. When her father was not looking, Isabelle grabbed a piece of warm bread from her plate and hid it in the pocket of her cloak. The beggars outside would be grateful, but she would have to figure out how to get it to them without her father seeing. Arya, her lady’s maid would have to help her, as she had persuaded her to do over the last few years.

“Father, I am finished now,” Isabelle said cheerfully and looked up at her father.

He grunted and turned back to her. “Let’s go. We are not far. It is only perhaps another day’s journey to the site of The Scots. We will make camp on the edge of the Loch tonight, and then the men can clean themselves, and we can rest before our surprise attack.”

Isabelle nodded solemnly and followed her father out of the door. She saw him eye a few of his men who sat at different tables around the room, eating and watching the other occupants with their beady eyes. She shuddered at their dark looks. They had often turned their sinister eyes to her over the course of the journey, watching her movements, whenever she and Arya were on their own, but she knew that her father would cut the hand off of any man who touched her. So, for that, she had to be grateful. Not every woman was so lucky.

Lord Cutler raised a hand in the air, and made a swirling motion with his finger, as he walked out the door. Isabelle watched in horror as the seated men stood, and a tin of oil was passed around as they doused the tavern. She cried out, “No, Father!” as she saw the other customers’ eyes widen with fear. But Lord Cutler grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her outside.

“I have told you, Isabelle, do not subvert me in front of my men!” His voice was low and menacing, and she knew the familiar look in his eye.

She whispered back, “Father, think of the innkeeper. It is his livelihood! And the people inside? You will not trap them, will you?”

He watched her for a moment and then laughed. “No, daughter. They will be freed. If they can find their way out from behind the flames.” Isabelle wanted to scream and run back for them, but her father knew her too well. He kept her wrist in his hand and passed her to Martin Dorset, who watched her calmly as if nothing unusual was happening. “Take her, Dorset. Put her and Arya into the carriage. Lock the door and be sure they do not escape.”

Martin bowed his head. “Yes, Sir.” He did not look Isabelle in the eye as he took her in his arms and prodded her towards the carriage. She had known Martin as a boy, and to see him now in this role was more than she could bear. As they moved away from her father, Isabelle could smell woodsmoke as the tavern burned, and she heard the footsteps of her father’s men leave the tavern, shutting the door behind them. Cries and screams filled the air as people moved around inside, jumping out of windows, and rushing through other doors to escape the growing flames.

She whispered to Martin through gritted teeth. “You are a fool, Martin. You used to be such a kind boy, so generous and thoughtful. Look at you now.” She struggled against his grip as they walked along. For such a short and rather a plump man, Martin was surprisingly strong.

He kept his voice even and measured as he always did when he replied, “Dear, beautiful, Isabelle, one day, you will see that what your father does he does out of necessity. And he does it for King and country. You should be honored by your connection with him. If he was not cruel and bloodthirsty, then these brutish Highlanders would never learn to respect their King. Your father is their judge and the teacher of lessons.”

Isabelle thought about spitting at the ground to show him her disgust, but it would only cause her father further displeasure. The very sound of his words made her want to shudder. Her father had totally brainwashed this man and forced him into his way of thinking, making him feel like what he was doing was proud and noble. She said nothing else, and Martin opened the carriage door and shoved her inside. “This is for your own good, Isabelle. You will see.”

Once he shut the door behind her, Isabelle banged her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes. She growled in rage and slapped a hand against the wall. “How could he do this? These people have nothing!” She felt the shape of the roll in her pocket and wanted to burst into tears at her own helplessness, but she knew that would accomplish nothing. One day she would be able to fight back and not just in secret. Her father would see her for what she truly was.

A few moments later, the door was opened again, and Arya entered, watching Isabelle warily. “You have seen, Mistress.”

“Yes, I’ve seen, Arya, and what a waste it is. I can only hope that no one will be killed in the flames.”

She looked outside and tried to ignore the sound of the fire as it rose higher and higher. Smoke began to fill the yard in front of the tavern, but once it began curling towards their carriage, the horses were led onward, and the whole company was on the move. The carriage turned to the side to continue their path, and both Arya and Isabelle could get a full view of the burning tavern, now wholly encapsulated by flames.

Isabelle watched angrily as the innkeeper rushed out the front and fell to his knees, yelling into the open air. She understood his pain, but she feared that her father’s men might fill his chest with musket balls if he continued. “Arya, my father says that revenge moves in his belly, but now, at the sight of this, my own desire for it grows as well.”

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Chapter I

Gale looked up at the sun. The last time she checked to see how much light she had left in the day, it seemed as if she would have more time to find somewhere to sleep for the night. Now, as the sun melted behind the mountain tops, there were still hours before full nightfall, but she’d failed to account for the mountains. Dusk flooded the valley, threatening to blind her with darkness within an hour.

A stray wind whipped down and pulled at Gale’s cloak. She pulled it close to her body, shivering against the sudden temperature drop. Her heart pounded as she looked around. Hours had passed since the last time she saw a house or a human at all. The road wound across the valley. In the distance, she could see the dark sponging of a forest, well out of her way. Yet for miles ahead, the land was open and vulnerable, save the occasional outcropping of rocks piercing through wildflowers and moss.

What have I done? Gale thought. She’d not accounted for the mountains stealing so much day, and now the thought of making camp in the open frightened her.

The other nights were hard, but she’d lucked out, and the days stretched on longer. Gale stared at the dark tree line, now only a shadow. The roughhewn road reflected some light, a pallid snake curling through the dusk. Her mind filled with horrible thoughts—bandits, travelers drunk and cold and aggressive—and of course, wild animals hunting for a meal.

There was no way she could sleep out in the open. Her fire would beckon one and all nearby, and at this point in her journey, strangers terrified her. She remembered the cruelty she’d met from the first villagers she solicited for help. With the respects of her title stripped from her, she was a common girl, now filthy and hungry from traveling in the same clothes for weeks.

I should have never sold the horse Gale chastised herself as she walked faster. It had been necessary, though. The horse would have given her company and helped her, but she would have starved or frozen. Each night was colder than the previous as she made it further north. She had a blanket and a dwindling supply of food. The cheat robbed me.

Gale tried to push the memory from her mind. She didn’t know anything’s price. She knew her horse was worth more than she received, but it was her first time haggling. Her fear of the darkness and what danger might come with it fueled a million terrible thoughts in her mind. Anger coursed through her as she remembered the farmer’s stoic face while she begged him for an honest trade—a feat in itself that injured her pride. If not for how hungry she was at that point, she would have waited, but she had never gone two days without food before. The man knew she was desperate and naïve.

A small rock tripped up her foot. “God’s teeth!” Her heart dropped into her stomach as she stumbled forward. The palms of her hands tore against the packed earth and small pebbles.

Tears gripped at her. She sniffed them back, remembering how much harder they made it for her to think and make good time. Gale tipped her matted blonde head up to the heavens and let out a sigh. The clouds were too thick. Even when the stars peeked out, it was unlikely for her to receive much light. Her hands trembled as she wiped her nose on the edge of her cloak.

Calm down. She forced herself to take a deep breath and step forward. Just get to the trees. The thought of her bed, so warm and comfortable with fire blazing in the hearth, came to mind. Gale squeezed her eyes shut hard enough for specks of light to spark against her dark eyelids. She couldn’t think about home. She knew what memories would come next. There was no use in thinking about how nice it would be to eat a full meal and sleep in a real bed. It was not going to happen. She could never go back home.

Gale took one more breath, and as she exhaled, she focused her full attention on the forest. I can make a bed of pine and leaves. What about animals? It felt as if some small creature crept from the nape of her neck to her spine. She shook the thought of bugs and creeping things from her mind. Out here is worse.

The hours passed. One foot at a time, one small step at a time, she drew closer. Darkness enveloped her until even her pale hands were hardly visible in front of her. When the forest was near enough to tower above her, she started to run. She ran as if all her fears were right behind her. It was if, at any moment, the hand of a strange man or a bloodthirsty thief would snatch the collar of her cloak and rip her to the ground.

Her feet slipped on the moisture slicked grass. She let out a soft cry, catching herself and carrying on. Just a little further. Her hands reached out. The rough bark gripped at her fingertips. She let the momentum of her sprint wrap her around the tree as she caught her breath. The forest was instantly darker than the road. She groaned as she looked into the blackness before her, hoping for her eyes to adjust.

Gale looked back and forth between the open stretch of land behind her and the darkness of the forest. The black branches spread out like claws. The rustling of small animals piqued her ears and stirred dark imaginings in her mind. She heaved her rucksack onto her shoulder, cringing as the rope cut into her tender flesh.

The young woman mustered up the courage to take a few steps into the trees. She didn’t want to lay in the open, easy for a passerby to accost, her few items too valuable to lose. The darkness was worst, though. She stopped when she could no longer see the road, hoping it was good enough to keep her safe.

Gale pulled the foliage into a pile and wrapped herself tightly in the wool blanket. The cold air bit at her nose, and her body ached from walking and carrying all that she owned. She pulled the blanket over her head, creating a cocoon for her breath to warm. The nights were always the hardest. She was tired and frightened and overwhelmed. Without the landscape and focus of her journey to keep her mind occupied, the past haunted her.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, Gale tried to tell herself as she felt the lump swell in her throat. She promised herself she would not cry anymore. It was of no use, no matter how much she felt she had mourned enough, the nights always broke her. The image of her father’s face—distorted, swollen, and blue came to her as clear as if she had found him the night before. She pulled her blanket closer and wiggled deeper into the dried leaves and bits of brush.

Visions of her home swirled up. She could not remember her father’s laugh or the sound of his voice. Guilt coursed through her as she struggled to recall the only person who’d made her feel loved. She remembered how she saw her mother the night of his death. Even though there was nothing she could have done, she should have known something was terribly wrong.

Heavy sobs wracked her body. She let them come, crashing over her like waves. Gale choked on her cries, wailing soft into the silent privacy of the night. When her throat dried and she choked, coughing until she was forced to breathe and calm down, a nervous sleep overcame her.

Since leaving home, she hadn’t slept soundly. It was easy to recount all the ways she took her plush life for granted. There was constant fear on the road, and it came into her dreams.

A branch snapped in the distance. Gale’s eyes flew open, and her body stiffened. She clung tight to the wool cloth, afraid to move, straining her ears for another sound. Another broken branch—barely audible—cracked.

With trembling fingers, Gale pulled the blanket down just enough to peek at the woods around her. She dared not to move more than necessary. Within a few yards, big yellow eyes stared at her. They floated in the darkness like hungry spirits and froze the blood in her veins with their ravenous gaze. The rustle of foliage whispered behind her. She dared not look, but she knew she was surrounded. She could feel the tension hanging in the air. The smell of dank fur carried on the breeze sending the hair on her arms and neck prickling up at attention.

Up above, the wide branches of a mighty oak stretched out. It was her only hope. Gale curled her fingers around the edge of the blanket, knowing the second she moved, they would attack. She closed her eyes for a moment to calm her heart and imagine what she needed to do.

Gale tore the blanket from her body and jumped as fast as she could to the nearest branch. Her fingers threatened to slip as she hugged the wide bough curving outwards above her makeshift bed. The trees exploded with movement. She struggled to pull herself up. There was no thinking or lapse in time as she jumped to the next branch, hoping it was strong enough to hold her. Jaws snapped in the darkness below. She squealed as claws scraped the bark just beneath her, unable to see anything except their eyes in the dark woods.

The young woman thought she was dead. She muttered prayers under her breath. “Ach! Please, God, please no.”

The bark roughed up her small palms and cut at her knees as she scrambled up the tree. Gale did not look down. She jumped in her skin, almost losing balance as one of them leaped, jowls snapping close enough for her to feel its hot breath. Gale’s hand reached up for the next branch. It snapped in her hand. She screamed out and clung to the trunk. Holding herself there, too scared to move.

Never in her life had she climbed a tree—not like this. In her youth, the farthest she dared to clamber up was the occasional low branch swooping towards the mossy floors—even that was a private, naughty endeavor for a lady. To think, that filled her with adrenaline and a sense of adventurous mischief—and now, she was high enough to kill herself, and surrounded by wolves.

Her heartbeat calmed enough for her to look down. She could make out the faint movement below her. The darkness slithered back and forth, circling the trunk. Occasionally those eyes would flash up at her, bright and vexed at missing their meal. The pack started to howl.

“Go away!” More tears choked her in her panic. Her voice was weak and unconvincing. She tried to calm it’s nervous shake, “Get out o’ here!” she screamed.

It was no use. Gale stood there, clinging to the trunk until their howls calmed down, and her arms ached enough to shake. She looked around her. There was a branch adjacent, wide enough for her to sit. Her fingers stretched out, barely grazing the limb. She would have to jump. Her eyes looked down. They were tearing through her things. She stayed clinging to the trunk as long as she could, knowing if she didn’t leap to the other branch, she was sure to have her muscles give out beneath her and land amongst the hungry, waiting wolves.

With a deep breath, Gale took the leap of faith. Her chest slammed hard against the bough. She gasped for air and clung for dear life, her legs kicking beneath her. Tears squeezed from her eyes as her feet flailed below. She could hear the wolves’ excitement, whimpering, and growling. She tried to pull herself up, but her muscles ached. Teeth snapped, clipping her boot. Gale screamed. Terror and primal instinct ripped through her. She pulled with all of her might and wiggled her chest above the branch. With newfound courage and focus, fueled by fear, Gale managed to swing her feet up.

She laid there panting, terrified of moving, hugging the tree for security. She opened her eyes to see the wolves leaping at her, taking turns. Each one startled her, and she cried out anew, afraid that the next jump would be the one to reach her. The wolf’s leap fell short by a couple of feet.

“Please, jus’ leave me alone,” she begged.

The wolves ignored her pleas.

Hopelessness clasped her heart. She was too scared to sit up despite the branch being wide enough to hold her. Gale was terrified of moving at all, and despite how exhausted she was, she knew to fall asleep likely meant her death.

There goes the last of the meat, she thought after her heart stilled a bit. The sounds of the wolves tearing through her belongings dragged her heart down. The most she could hope for was that the blanket was not torn to shreds, and her waterskin remained intact.

To comfort herself, Gale imagined what her destination might look like. She imagined Rosalie’s new home to be extravagant now that she was married to the McGregor’s clan chief. The thought of tender meat and a warm bed kept her from giving up and letting her muscles to relax. The problem was, it was hard to find comfort when she didn’t know how far she had come. It felt as if she’d spent months walking from her keep on the Scottish border. There was no telling how long she still had to go until she reached Loch Awe in the highlands.

In her mind, she tried to replay the journey. Years passed since the last time her father and mother traveled together to Loch Awe. The memory was painful—not only because of the deep longing in her chest for her beloved father but for all of the dramatic madness which ensued on that journey. They traveled in a cart then. What she would do for a chance to be holed up in a cart right then, an experience she’d loathed and complained about in the past.

Confused and overwhelmed, exhaustion made her eyelids heavy. She struggled to keep them open. The wolves refused to leave. Despite her struggles, sleep arrested her. She snapped wide awake as one of her toes slipped from the branch, reawakening the fear inside of her. Down below, the wolves howled, waiting for her to lose her grip and fall so they could feast.

Chapter II

The night crawled past, threatening to never end. Gale was vaguely aware of the wolves giving up, chasing after some unfortunate creature in the darkness. Still, she was too scared to climb down. It was too dark to see anything, and she imagined them waiting for her just within reach. Anytime she fell asleep, she would jolt awake, her fright too real and encompassing to let her body risk falling.

Gale stared out through the leaves and branches until the first fingers of dawn washed the world with gray. Birds sang and chirped with cheerful delight. It annoyed Gale to see the world move on around her misfortune. She did not gather the courage to climb down until the warmth of the sun was full on her face. Down below, she could see her small items scattered about. Oats were sprinkled over the dried leaves in all directions, left from the wolves’ tearing through her small parcel to get to the dried meat. The last of her food was all gone.

The young woman’s muscles trembled as she tried to climb down. She was past the point of exhaustion. On the last branch, her slender arms failed her. Her feet slipped on the trunk, and she fell flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. Gale lay there, staring up at the sun filtering down between wide oak and birch leaves. When her breath returned to normal, she let the earth cradle her, grateful to be back on solid ground. Her mind was numb, too tired to think of anything except for the pain screaming from her stomach.

It took her a long time to pull herself into a sitting position. Everything was hazy and surreal, and it was impossible to tell if she had dozed for a moment while she lay there. She knew she needed to keep moving. With no food and no telling when she would see civilization again, she knew she must continue—no matter how much she just wanted to sleep at the base of the oak that saved her life.

As Gale sat, feeling each muscle threaten to quit, she reaffirmed her conviction to survive. I will not cry today. She looked around at the woods, their calm beauty mocking Gale’s fear throughout the previous night. I will find food. I’ve come too far to quit now. She let out a soft moan as she stood to assess the damage.

The blanket was torn in a few places and smelled awful. Gale felt tears burn the corners of her eyes. She could smell herself, too. A deep breath rattled through her lips, sucking the tears back inside. She squealed as her hand touched slobber, dropping the blanket back to the ground. A fit overcame her. With no one to bear witness, Gale stomped her feet and screamed out, letting all her anger and fear scare the birds from the trees. She tore through the leaves, searching for her scattered belongings.

To Gale’s relief, other than the damage to the blanket and her missing food stores, everything else was unbroken. She shook her waterskin. It was half full. With a glance up at the sun’s position, Gale took a small sip, reminding herself to ration what remained. She couldn’t think about what would happen next. The thought of not knowing how much longer her journey would take crushed her willpower. She had to focus on moving forward and nothing more.

One foot in front of the other, Gale trudged through the woods. When she broke through the trees, her heart burst with excitement. For the first time in a long time, she recognized where she was. In fact, as exhausted as she felt, she knew if she kept on, she would make it to Rosalie’s home within the next two days.

Her stomach grumbled. She might not make it for two days.

As her hunger and eagerness to reach her destination peaked, Gale spotted a small homestead. There was no one around, and she could see a small animal shack with two horses grazing outside. If I had one of those horses, I could make it to Rosalie tonight. Gale stood there, staring at the horses for a long time. Whoever owned the property was out in their fields or busy in their home. There was no one around for miles.

Gale stepped onto the low wooden fence corralling the horses. If anyone comes, I’ll just play dumb. In her mind, her appearance still reflected the respectability of the prim and groomed noblewoman she had been for her entire life. If she had fully understood how dirty and ragged she looked, she might have thought twice about risking stealing a horse. She had never stolen anything before, but the thought of warming herself by Rosalie’s fire pushed all thoughts of morality from her mind.

With a quick look about her, Gale decided to sprint to the animal shack. Knowing the coast was clear, she ran as fast as she could, terrified the owner of the property would appear at any second. Her heart pounded as she stepped into the cover of the lean-to and caught her breath. To her relief, it was unoccupied by any workers.

Everything she needed was there. Gale’s heart pounded in her chest, and her hands shook. She moved as quick as she could, afraid at any point she would be caught red-handed. She peeked out at the horses, taking in a full glimpse of the land for anyone. There was no one in sight. With a hand stuffed with hay, she was able to lure the smaller of the two towards her. A rush of excitement coursed through her as the pretty dappled draft horse ate the bits of dried grass, then nuzzled its muzzle into her palm.

Gale wasted no time. She always loved horses, but it was the second time in her life she ever prepared one by herself. Even when she fled from her keep, one of the working hands helped her in her escape. He helped her up into the saddle. Now, she struggled, climbing onto one of the stalls to get up. A whistle sounded in the distance. Someone was coming. Gale’s heart dropped into her stomach. She wasted no more time, nearly falling from the back of the creature as she slipped into the saddle. Her feet kicked into its hinds, and within moments she was blazing across the open grounds and kicking the horse to leap a short gate.

“Hey!” Someone screamed behind her. “That’s ma horse! Stop! Stop!”

Gale dared to look back over her shoulder. An old man ran across his property, trying to stop her. A wild laugh overcame Gale as she leaned into the horse’s neck, urging it to go faster. With every glimpse back, energy coursed through Gale’s veins as she saw the man’s silhouette shrinking in the distance. She could not stop laughing. It was the first time she had laughed in months. Even before her father was murdered, there was little to laugh about, and now, the insanity of the situation made her giggle without control.

I just stole a horse. She was amazed. Never in her life would she have imagined herself taking anything. She would have turned her nose up in disdain at anyone would even think of such a thing. Her mind coursed with thoughts of a warm bed and hot food. She kept the horse running until it tuckered out.

Gale drank the last sips of her water as the sun reached the highest point in the sky. The horse plodded forward with heavy, sure feet. She was sweating and starving. Guilt started to edge in now that the novelty wore off, now that the excitement of having done something so adventurous and unlike her ebbed away. Exhaustion settled back into her bones.

Between the heat and the hunger and the shame of now being a thief, by the time she saw the first signs of Loch Awe’s community, a paranoia set into Gale’s mind. They’re going to know this is not my horse. She knew it was a crazy thought. There is no way that man had overtaken her and alerted anyone. She would have seen him. Still, she could not look at anyone as she steered the mare towards Rosalie’s new home.

The closer she came to her destination, the heavier her body and mind were. She was done. She was almost there. Thirst made her throat sore and raw. Her stomach roared. Her muscles ached. The sun touched her, and she felt her cheeks burn from exposure. In the distance, she could see it now. The pastures rolling out beneath the mountains. The long dirt path winding into the homestead seemed to stretch on forever. Gale’s head pounded, and the sun and lack of sleep made her slightly delirious. I’m going to faint. She tried to keep her eyes focused ahead, but her head swam and vision blurred.

“Gale?” Rosalie’s voice drew Gale’s attention towards her.

Gale looked up and felt as if she was trying to see through moving water. She opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and the words did not come. Her friend looked more beautiful now than ever, with the sun shining at her back and her belly swollen huge with child.

Rosalie reached out to grab the reigns. Gale could barely keep seated in the saddle. Her body ached, the strain of the previous night, finally setting into its full effect. She swallowed, trying to gather as much moisture in her mouth as she could.

“Rosalie,” was all Gale could say. It came out in a cracked, hoarse whisper. Gale barely recognized her own voice.

She tried to sit up straight, but a pain tore through her belly, and her head swooned as the blood rushed too fast to her brain. Rosalie’s hands reached up to her, touching her torso. Gale could not move. She was done, defeated. It was as if her body knew in every fiber that she had made it and could rest.

“Ye got tae help me, Gale.”

Gale let out a heavy sigh and slumped over, sliding her body down the horse. In her mind, she was graceful, but her body was not working like it normally did. Her muscles were past their breaking point, and her brain was fuzzy. Everything seemed to move like in a dream. It was as if her brain shut off for a moment, and the next thing she knew, she was falling instead of dismounting from the horse. Rosalie stumbled, trying to help her, but Gale fainted.

Her eyes fluttered open in confusion. The back of her neck and head throbbed. She didn’t know it was from thirst or if she’d hit her head. Rosalie screamed at something, but the words seemed to run together, Gale’s brain not working fast enough to keep up. She tried to stand up, but she stumbled. Rosalie’s strong hand grabbed her shoulder. She led her forward towards the small cottage, supporting most of Gale’s weight.

“Sit down,” Rosalie commanded.

Gale sat on the stone step. She looked up at Rosalie and felt humiliation spread over her. Rosalie’s face was filled with confusion and concern. Gale suddenly realized how terrible she must look, how horrible her state was, and with no warning or explanation. Gale remembered the last time she saw Rosalie, how her mad mother had whipped the woman and locked her up in the tower Gale came to know too well throughout her youth. There was an unspoken bond that formed between them then—but that was years ago. It suddenly occurred to Gale that Rosalie probably never wanted to see anyone from Gale’s family again—a reminder of the horrid period of her life.

“I’m sorry—” Gale’s voice cracked.

“Shh, not now.”

A little boy handed Gale a dipper filled with water. She drank greedy gulps, relishing the cold liquid through her searing throat. Streams of water rolled down her chin, and almost immediately, the fog started to ebb from her mind. She must think I am mad.

“I didn’t know where else to turn.”

Rosalie brushed her fingers over Gale’s hair, trying to calm her. The touch was more soothing than anything Gale had felt in her life. Such a simple gesture made her feel safe. She felt tears choking her again, and it made her feel pathetic and weak. The water and tender touch reawakened a manic fright within her. Gale’s eyes were wide, her body trembled. She tried to stand before Rosalie grabbed her wrist and pulled for her to sit back down.

“I want ye to sit fer a moment.”

A little girl poked her head out from the cottage. She hid behind the door. Gale caught the girl’s eye, looking her up and down. She felt self-conscious and foolish beneath the gaze of the bairn. Rosalie reached her hand out, and the girl handed her a hunk of bread before disappearing back into the cottage with a quick slam of the door.

Rosalie rolled her eyes at the display and turned to Gale. “Can ye eat?”

Gale nodded, “Aye, thank ye.” It took all over self-control not to snatch the bread and swallow it whole. She reminded herself to eat slowly after going so long without a real meal.

They sat in silence while Gale nibbled at the bread and recovered her strength. Rosalie would not let her speak until after she rested.

The next hour passed in a haze. The fire crackled inside, warming Gale and lulling her into a relaxed state. She obeyed Rosalie, letting the woman remove the ruined clothes and put her in something clean. Gale’s eyes fixed on the garment pulled from her body. It was worse than she thought, torn and stained. She shuddered, thinking about how Rosalie might perceive her and was grateful Rosalie was just a common woman and not someone of importance.

The two children, whom Rosalie introduced as Hamish and Thomasina, soon forgot their shyness and crowded around them. Gale cowered within her skin under their constant gazes. The cottage was not what she expected from a Highland Chief and his wife. Everything seemed to be in one room, although Gale noticed a couple doors indicating more space beyond. There was a single bed next to the fire, almost touching their table. Gale did not have the energy to judge or care as she would in normal circumstances. When Rosalie pulled back the covers for her, she climbed in and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

“Gale, Gale…”

Someone touched Gale. She forgot, having made it to Rosalie. Her eyes flew wide in a panic, afraid she was asleep in the forest, and someone was trying to hurt her. She kicked out.

Rosalie held her tight, keeping her from thrashing. “Shh, tis alright. You’re safe now.”

“What’s wrong with her, Mama?” Thomasina played with her skirts. Gale watched the fabric swish back and forth, feeling small and embarrassed for her intrusion and desperation.

“She’s had a long journey, is all.”

Gale looked up at Declan. Rosalie’s husband looked at her, a scowl furrowing over her brow. She could see it all in his face; he was not feeling as generous as his wife. Gale could not tell if he was angry or afraid, but it made her wonder if she’d made a mistake by coming. Maybe I should have just stayed in the woods—lived there forever and risked the wolves eating me. Humiliation and self-pity and loathing burned her cheeks. She shrank under Declan’s stern gaze.

“Drink this.”

Gale took the glass, her hands noticeably shaking. The taste was velvet smooth. The rich bone broth calmed her and awakened her wits.

“Declan’s here, Gale, an’ we need to know what’s happenin’?”

Gale refrained from rolling her eyes. I’m not an idiot. I can see him judging me just fine. She crumpled over the cup and started to cry. Her bright blue eyes shone out like icy gems, contrasting against the reds and pinks of her irritated face. She tried to calm herself with deep breaths, her hands shaking as she forced down more of the broth.

“Pa is dead.” The image of his face was like someone stabbing her in the heart, “An’,” she sniffed, trying to keep from crying yet again, “an’ Ma, I think she means to kill me.” Gale did not want to look up at them and see their reaction. She snatched Rosalie’s hand and forced herself to peek up. Her eyes filled with desperation. “Please, I didn’t know who else tae go to. You must help me, Rosalie. There’s no one else I know who can.”

Declan grabbed the sleeve of Rosalie’s dress gently to pull her into a private conversation. Rosalie shrugged him off, intent on hearing Gale through before making a decision. “Calm down, Gale. Start from the beginnin’ an’ tell us what happened.”

Gale took a deep breath. “Ma kept gettin’ worse after ye left. She’d go through these states…” Gale squeezed her eyes shut as she thought of the things her mother did in her periods of madness—beating her, yelling at her, seeing things that were not there, and acting out in violence. “…Where she didn’t even recognize us. Sometimes thought we were different people—that she were different. This man came one day, said he were a doctor—that he could help her. Ma seemed to get better, but these delusions,” she gestured to the air, rolling her eyes up, “It were as if somethin’ possessed her when she’d have ‘em.” Gale struggled not to start crying again, “Her an’ this doctor were close. They got to a point where they were inseparable. Pa was gettin’ uncomfortable with it, said he weren’t helpin’ her anymore, an’ when he finally asked the doctor to leave, that’s when, when—” Sobs wracked her body.

Rosalie rubbed her back. Gale calmed herself enough to continue, the pitch of her voice squeaking with emotion. “The doctor said it were his heart…” Gale shook her head, remembering the wine glass spilling from her father’s hand and the way his face was distorted as if he choked to death. “After, within the week,” she exclaimed, “Ma started actin’ like it were her keep an’ talkin’ to an’ about that doctor as if they were already married. One o’ the workers made a comment abou’ how she weren’t the heir, I was. Ma and the doctor were in an outrage, fightin’ all evening.

“That night, he came into my room…” Gale closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, trying to force the feel of his hands, grabbing her from her memory. Her words burst out like venom pulled from a wound. “He tried to lay with me. He tried to convince me to marry him, that it was I he loved, not my mother, an’ when I refused him, he—he—” She started crying again. She couldn’t say it out loud, not with Declan there just staring at her. “I managed to get away, an’ this was the only place I knew I’d be safe from ‘em.”

Declan paced around the room, looking out the small shutters for signs of danger. “Do ye ken if ye were followed?” Gale shook her head in negation. “Rosie, outside.”

Rosalie smiled at Gale. “Jus’ give us a moment.” She turned to her children. “Hamish, stoke the fire. Thomasina, keep our guest comfortable.”

“Aye, Ma.”

Gale could hear the occasional raised voice as Declan and Rosalie talked just outside. She wrung her hands. If they turned her away, there was nowhere to go. If they didn’t help her and hide her, it was over. She knew she could not endure anymore.

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Chapter I

Rory Elliott was restless. He gazed out of the window across the moorlands towards Lochrutton, sighing as he did so.

“Tis’ nay use,” he said out loud, “I am like a prisoner in my own home.”

He got up and made his way from his chambers and down into the great hall. His mother was there, and she looked and smiled at him, as he scowled back.

“Now then, Rory, what is it that ails ye?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“I am tired of bein’ here in the castle. Why does father insist that I remain here while he is away?” Rory said.

His father had been visiting the Laird of Klinross, a two-day journey to the north. In his absence, Rory had been left in charge of the castle and the clan. A fitting test for one who would one day be Laird.

“Because yer father has given ye a responsibility, Rory. He trusts ye, does that nae mean anything to ye?” his mother asked.

Rory nodded. It meant a great deal to him, but still, it frustrated him. His brother Owen was in the monastery at Lanercost, living out his religious vocation and his sister Evie was happily married and living with her husband Hamish and her children at the castle of the McBryde’s, some miles to the east. Only he, Rory Elliott, was living precisely the same life as he had always lived.

It was a life devoid of interest unless one counted the archery and swordsmanship, which his father made him practice almost daily. He would ride out at his father’s side or visit tenants and crofters on the high moorlands. But Rory was always his father’s second. This was the first time any responsibility had been given him, and far from being excited by the prospect, he still found himself as though tethered to the Laird’s apron strings.

“It does. But … if I am to be Laird, I must have more trust placed in me. By ye and by my father,” he said, eyeing his mother for her reaction.

She smiled, shaking her head and beginning to work once more on her spinning wheel.

“Ye are headstrong, Rory. Just like yer father. But he was less impatient than ye. He dreaded the day yer grandfather died. The thought of that responsibility filled him with terror. If truth be told, I think it still does,” she said.

Rory found that hard to believe. His father was every bit the noble warrior, a man feared and respected in equal measure. The Elliotts were a proud clan and used to fighting battles against overwhelming odds. Was it not his father who had led them to victory over the Musgraves and who kept the uneasy peace upon the borders? Fraser Elliott took his responsibility seriously, and he had long impressed upon Rory the need to do the same.

“Father is nae afraid of anythin’, and neither am I. I would face a thousand Musgraves right now, but instead I am sat here mindin’ the affairs of peasants, while father is away on the true duties of a Laird,” Rory replied.

“And takin’ care of yer dear mother too. The true duties of a Laird are many, and ye would dae well to know that, Rory,” Isla replied, somewhat pointedly.

Rory sighed. He wanted an adventure, something to lift him from the monotony of life at Kirklinton.

“And I dae that gladly, mother. But I am tired of bein’ here right now. Owen has his life, Evie has hers. What is there for me?” he asked.

“Think of it this way, son. Owen’s life is decided for him at Lanercost, his vows of poverty and obedience mean he cannae leave, and Evie will live out her days with Hamish at the castle of the McBryde’s. They are happy, of course, but ye still have the future to look forward to. Who knows what adventures ye might have?” his mother replied.

Rory nodded. His mother was right, of course. To wish his place as Laird fulfilled was also to wish the sad death of his father. Fraser Elliott had been in ill health lately, a recent illness almost having taken him before his time. But he had rallied, as strong as an ox, as his sister Evie might say.

Rory did not wish his father dead, not for a moment. But he longed for something more, some excitement in his life to break from the normal drab and daily grind of peasant’s work and oversight. He was no farmer, he was a warrior, and right now, he longed for adventure.

“I suppose so,” was all he could reply, and his mother laughed.

“Oh, Rory. Ye always were so headstrong. If ye cannae tolerate bein’ here a moment longer then why daenae ye walk to Lanercost with yer uncle. He is leavin’ Kirklinton shortly, and ye can take my love to yer brother and tell him to visit us soon,” she said.

“But father said …” Rory began, and his mother raised her hand.

“Yer father is nae here. Go, Rory, I will be quite all right here. There are soldiers aplenty, and I have old Sweeney for company. I am just glad that ye shall have time to think a little. Be on yer way,” she said.

Rory did not need telling twice, and he hurried off to find his uncle and prepare for the journey. It may not have been the grand adventure he dreamt of. But right now, anything was better than sitting in the castle, listening to the complaints of crofters, and collecting taxes for his father. Rory was ready to stretch his legs, and he made his way to the courtyard, where he found his uncle preparing to depart.

“Ah, well now, my nephew,” his uncle said, smiling at him, as Rory entered the stable.

“Mother has told me that I am to escort ye to Lanercost,” Rory said, not wishing to reveal the precise reason why he was taking to the path.

“Did yer father nae give ye instructions to remain here while he was away. Unless trouble flared up along the borders?” his uncle asked.

Rory’s uncle had a way of seeing beyond words to the truth, and it was clear he considered his nephew to be lying. Rory blushed and nodded.

“Aye, uncle. But my mother has said differently,” he replied.

Duncan shrugged his shoulders and smiled. He had an elderly look about him, though he was younger than Rory’s father by several years. It was his long white beard, which made him look thus and his enormous eyebrows, which seemed to grow bushier with every visit.

“I shall be glad of the company along the path. Ye can protect me from brigands and outlaws,” his uncle said, laughing and shaking his head.

The path to Lanercost was a safe one, thanks to Rory’s father. There had been peace along the borders these past years, and Rory had not had cause to lift a sword in anger for months. The last time had been a simple dispute between crofters, one easily resolved when the Laird had threatened to banish both parties from the clan if they did not desist in their argument.

“I am sure that nay one would attack a monk of Lanercost,” Rory said, though he tied his sword belt to his waist just in case.

“A monk is as much a target as a Laird. More so, since any would-be thief knows that I would turn the other cheek,” his uncle said, laughing once more and shaking his head.

“The truth is, I will be glad of the journey, and I should like to see Owen,” Rory said, as Duncan led him across the courtyard.

“Ye miss yer brother?” his uncle said, as the gates of the castle were swung open for them.

“I … well, I envy him at times,” Rory replied.

“Ye used to call him ‘little monk’ and mock him for his piety,” his uncle said, walking next to Rory through the gates.

“Aye … that was only a joke, Uncle Duncan. I daenae mean I envy his life. Though I can see it makes him happy. But I … I envy that he has found his way and …” Rory began.

“Ye are still searchin’ for yers? It will come, nephew. Give it time. While yer father lives, ye shall always be in his shadow. Think of Hamish McBryde. He lived in his father’s shadow for years, and it was only upon his death that life changed for him. Daenae wish too hard though, or ye may get yer wish. God listens to the thoughts of our hearts, and he can read yers as though they were written in a book,” his uncle replied, shaking his head.

They walked on in silence for a while, crossing over the moorland path which led towards Lochrutton. It was a pleasant day, the clouds high in the sky, and a gentle breeze blowing across the sweet-smelling heathers. Rory watched as a hawk circled above, diving like an arrow to catch its unseen prey below. How he admired its freedom and the way it seemed to soar so majestically above them, monarch of all that it surveyed.

“Is Owen happy?” Rory asked as they took to the path west towards Lanercost.

“Aye, yer brother is happy. He is a monk,” Rory’s uncle said, laughing, as was his habit for he always seemed to have such peace about him, a peace which Rory envied at times.

“I didnae mean that. Is he happy that he has found his way?” Rory said, and his uncle paused.

“What is it that troubles ye, Rory? Ye are askin’ about others happiness, what of yer own. Are ye nae happy?” his uncle said.

Rory paused for a moment, uncertain of how to reply. Once again, his uncle seemed to have a  way of seeing through his words to the truth, and he knew that a lie would never get past him.

“I … I daenae know. Sometimes I am, and sometimes I am nae,” he replied.

“Well, that is nay answer, lad. Ye may as well say that sometimes ye are hungry and sometimes ye are nay. It means nothin’ until tis’ one or the other,” his uncle replied.

Rory sighed. He wasn’t happy, not really. He had a burning desire inside him for something more than the everyday existence he was living. He longed for adventure or the chance to prove himself. Something to lift him from the drudgery of life and offer him the opportunity to show his father and others what he was made of. That, and he wanted a wife and not just any wife, the woman he had so long desired and who was forever out of his reach. He was restless and could only admit that he was not happy at all

“What have I achieved? I am nae the Laird, I have nay responsibility, and I have nay wife. Owen has found his vocation, and Evie is happy with Hamish and the children. What dae I have?” Rory said.

“Opportunity, lad,” his uncle replied, patting him on the shoulder.

“What?” Rory asked, surprised by his uncle’s words, which seemed almost meaningless.

“Why does everyone think they must have everything their heart desires in an instant? Tis’ nonsense, ye still have the chance to make somethin’ of yer life. Ye are twenty-five years old, Rory. Why dae ye want everythin’ now? Is life a journey or a destination? The destination for us all is heaven, so enjoy the journey and daenae worry about arrivin’ at somethin’ before ye are ready for it,” his uncle replied.

Rory nodded, his uncle was always so wise and knew just the thing to say. It made sense, of course, just like everything the monk said. He was the smartest person Rory knew, far more so than his headstrong father.

“Aye, uncle,” he replied as they set off together along the path west.

“I might nae know much of the ways of the world. I have been a monk these many years past, but I know about the soul, and I know that ye are restless, Rory. But have patience,” his uncle said.

“I know, tis’ hard, though, but …” Rory said, but he had no time to finish his words, as the sight of something ahead caused him to startle and turn to his uncle in alarm.

There, heading straight towards them, were three English soldiers, their swords drawn and angry looks upon their faces.

Chapter II

It was too late to run away, and he was no match for the men alone. His uncle bore no arms, but Rory drew his sword anyway, as the three men advanced towards them along the track.

Each bore the insignia of the Musgraves, and Rory knew from the stories told him by his father and the times he’d encountered them before, that the Musgraves were more likely to attack than listen to reason.

“You there, boy,” one of them called out, “what business do you have wandering along this path?”

“Our business is our own,” Rory replied, stepping forward between his uncle and the men.

“A Scot and a monk. What clan are you?” the lead soldier asked, advancing ahead of the others and drawing his sword.

He had a nasty look to him, a scar running down his cheek, and his sword was bloodied and sharp.

Rory wondered whether to make up a story and tell a lie. The Musgraves would not take kindly to discovering that he was an Elliott, for the Musgraves were bitter enemies of his father, as they had been of his grandfather before. But it was his uncle who stepped forward, holding up his hands in a sign of peace.

“Come now, lads, can ye nae see that I am a monk of Lanercost? I bear nay arms, and this lad here is accompanyin’ me to the monastery where his brother is a novice. Let us be about our business, and we shall let ye be about yers. I will pray for ye,” Rory’s uncle said.

But the lead soldier only shook his head and laughed.

“An old monk and a boy with a dagger in his hand, what nonsense. You say his brother is a novice at Lanercost? Is not the Elliott Laird’s son a novice? And would you be the Laird’s brother? I have had dealings with the Elliotts these many years past. I know an Elliott when I see one. This boy must be Rory, am I right?” the soldier said, turning to the others and laughing.

Rory wanted to rush forward and clash swords with them. But what good would it do? He would only be outnumbered, and no doubted injured or worse. He replaced his sword in its hilt and turned away.

“We have nay business fightin’ with ye,” his uncle said, “come now… Andrew, let us be on our way.”

“Andrew?” the soldier said, “do you really expect us to believe that? You are Rory Elliott, and you, old man, are Duncan Elliott. We are not fools, and we know our enemy when we see him. Come now, boy, let us see what you are made of. Fight me,” the soldier said, stepping in front of Rory and pointing his sword at him.

“I have nay desire to fight ye,” Rory said, though every instinct he possessed was saying different.

“So, you do not deny that you are Rory Elliott?” the soldier said.

“Careful,” Rory’s uncle whispered to him as Rory raised his sword.

“I will nae fight ye,” Rory said, shaking his head.

“And what if I wish to fight you? What then? Will you deny the challenge?” the soldier asked.

“He is a coward,” one of the others said, “they all are. These Scots are no better than dogs. You have heard the stories of how his father begged for mercy on the battlefield and then ran the noble Howard Musgrave through when his back was turned.”

At these lies, Rory’s face flushed with anger, and he raised his once again, ready to strike the man for his insults.

“Peace,” his uncle called out, but Rory’s sword had already clashed with that of the soldier, who laughed as he took up the challenge.

“You see, he is who we say he is. The fool has revealed himself,” he cried.

“I am nay fool,” Rory said, lunging forward and causing the soldier to stumble backward.

Quickly, he regained his footing, bringing his sword clashing against Rory’s, as the other soldiers urged him on.

“Strike the runt, see him dead,” they cried out, as Rory’s uncle watched in horror.

“Nay, peace,” he cried out, but, as he did so, an astonishing thing happened.

The English soldier had just raised his sword to strike Rory a vicious blow when a dagger whistled through the air. It hit the English soldier in the back, and he fell down with a cry, as the other two spun around in disbelief. They drew their swords, but Rory had rushed forward, striking one hard as he let out an anguished cry. The other turned tail and fled, leaving his fellow soldiers lying dead by the trail, as Rory and Duncan looked around in astonishment.

“What?” Duncan said, “where?”

“Over there,” Rory said, pointing through the trees.

There, standing tall and proud, was a beautiful woman. The sight of her quite took Rory’s breath away, and he was amazed that they had been rescued, not by any man, but by a woman with long auburn hair and a proud look on her face. Now, she stepped out of the trees and approached them, and with every step, she appeared more beautiful.

As she came to stand before them, she looked down at the English soldiers and up at Rory, who shook his head in disbelief. He had never seen such a woman before, her piercing green eyes locked with his,  a look of satisfaction on her face.

“Who are ye?” his uncle asked, and she looked away, as though unwilling to reveal the truth.

“A friend it seems,” she said, in an English accent.

But, as she did so, she raised her hand to her forehead. She turned back to Rory, her cheeks suddenly growing pale before she sank to the ground with a sigh.

“Quickly, she is delirious,” Rory’s uncle said, rushing forward to catch her.

Rory stooped down, cradling the woman in his arms. She really was very beautiful, with pale soft skin and long hair trailing across her shoulders. She murmured something, but Rory could not understand what she was saying, and he looked up at his uncle in alarm.

“What is wrong with her, uncle?” he said, but Duncan shook his head.

“I daenae know, lad. But quickly, we must get her to Lanercost. We are too far from Kirklinton to turn back now. Besides, the apothecary will know better than we what to dae,” his uncle replied.

The woman was barely conscious, and it seemed that in the excitement of the fight, she had fainted, though she continued to mutter under her breath in words that Rory could not discern. He thought he heard the word “Musgrave” and perhaps ‘soldier,’ but that was all. Together, he and his uncle helped her stand and carried her between them along the path towards the monastery.

“What if more soldiers are on the road ahead?” Rory said, glancing warily around.

“I daenae think there will be. Those men had nay business on this path, though it worries me why they were here. The English are growin’ bolder of late, and we have heard reports of English soldiers as far north as Buccleuch, unheard of before,” his uncle replied.

Rory nodded. He felt nervous, but the need to get the woman to safety spurned him on. She had saved their lives, and they owed her that much, if not far more. He kept a close watch on the path either side, looking out for any further ambush. But it seemed the way was quiet, and they met no one until they came in sight of Lanercost.

The ancient monastery sat close to a river, surrounded by farmland and paddock. A motley collection of houses had grown up around it, inhabited by peasants who worked the land alongside the monks.

Rory was glad at the sight of the red sandstone walls, bathed in the late afternoon sun. He had always loved visiting his uncle at Lanercost, and he was looking forward to seeing Owen again too. But the presence of this mysterious woman was unsettling, and the sooner her identity was discovered, the better.

“What dae ye think can be done for her?” Rory asked as they came towards the monastery gates.

“We shall see, lad. I think she is simply in shock, there are herbs and remedies to help her. If only yer father were here, tis’ ailments like this that he was often called upon to assist with. His healin’ hands as they used to say,” Duncan replied.

“My father was well known for it, but of late he …” Rory began.

“Of late he has had other matters to attend to. Come now, let us get her inside,” Duncan said.

They helped the woman along the track, and, as they did so, several of the peasants peered curiously around their doors.

“Brother Duncan, what is this? Who is this woman? Is she hurt?” one of them asked, stepping forward.

“Tis’ all right, she will be fine. We came across her on our way here from Kirklinton. Tell the others to take refuge in the monastery walls this night. There are English soldiers on the path, and ye will be safer behind our gates,” Duncan replied.

The gates of the monastery were open, as they always were in the day, for the monks welcomed travelers and pilgrims. As they came to the threshold, an elderly monk stepped out from the gatehouse with a curious expression on his face, holding up his hands.

“Brother Duncan, the prior has been lookin’ for ye, but what is this?” he asked.

He was ancient, with a beard like Duncan’s almost down to his waist and with a keen eye and a look of wisdom about him.

“This lass saved our lives on the path. I would have been back far sooner, but we were set upon by three English soldiers, and if it were nae for her, we wouldnae have survived. My headstrong nephew here was ready to fight them, but this lass intervened, much to our benefit,” Duncan replied.

The monk appeared worried, glancing over Rory’s shoulder as though he expected to see an army of English soldiers charging up the track towards the monastery.

“We should sound the bells, call the peasants inside the walls,” he said, and Duncan nodded.

“I have already told the villagers to seek shelter here. Though I daenae think that even the English are bold enough to attack a place of peace and prayer,” Duncan said.

“Ye daenae know what the English are capable of, Duncan. They killed my parents long ago, and they will kill us all in our beds one day, ye mark my words,” the monk replied, shaking his head.

“Nay one will kill ye in yer bed, Seth. I promise ye that,” Duncan replied, “but now, we need to get this lass to the apothecary. Is there space in the infirmary for her?”

“Aye, the two who were sick have left us now. Take her there, and we shall pray for her recovery and the safety of us all,” the monk replied.

Rory and his uncle helped the woman through the gates and into the cloister. It was an ancient place and had stood for some five hundred years, its bell now tolling out from the great tower above. There was a sense of timelessness here, for it had been a place of constant prayer in good times and bad.

They made their way through the cloister’s arches towards a staircase that wound up to the monk’s refectory above, opposite, which was the infirmary. The woman was trying to say something, but still, her words were delirious and muddled.

“Tis all right,” Rory said, as they came to the great old oak door of the infirmary, “now ye shall have the help ye need.”

Duncan pushed open the door, revealing the infirmary beyond. It was a large hall, beamed in heavy oak, and with a row of neatly made beds along one side. The sun was streaming through the windows, and on the other wall were shelves lined with hundreds of dusty old bottles and books.

At the sound of the door opening, one of the monks looked up from his duties. He was young, no older than Rory, his hair tonsured in the same manner as Duncan’s, and was tending to a man lying in a bed at the far end.

“Brother Duncan, dae ye bring me another patient?” he asked, looking at the woman.

“Aye, Callum, we met this lass on the path between here and Kirklinton. She collapsed shortly after rescuin’ us from English soldiers who attacked us. She seems delirious, too,” Duncan replied.

“Then get her to bed, we shall to see to her,” he replied, hurrying over and calling out to another monk who sat at a table by the window writing in a large ledger book, “Brother Luke, bring lavender oil and we shall see if we might revive her.”

The other monk went to the shelves, pulling out a large bottle of purple liquid, as Rory and Duncan helped the woman onto one of the beds. Rory was pleased to see her settled there. It had been a long walk to Lanercost, and he was tired, as was his uncle, who sat down heavily on a chair at the side of the bed.

“What a thing, God bless the lass for helping us,” he said, mopping his brow.

Brother Callum poured some of the oil into a dish and held it carefully by the woman’s face. The scent of it seemed to revive her immediately, and she opened her eyes, blinking in the light, and trying to sit up.

“Tis’ all right,” Brother Callum said, “ye are amongst friends here.”

The woman looked nervously around her, but all of a sudden, she fell back onto the bed as the monks tried to catch her.

“Tis’ some illness of the mind,” Brother Luke said, “perhaps a stronger method of revival is needed?”

Brother Callum nodded, turning to the shelves and pondering the array of remedies before him.

“I think,” he said, turning back to Rory and Duncan, “that it would be best if ye left us to care for her. I will send for ye when she is revived. I daenae think she is permanently damaged. There is shock in her, and shock must be rested and allowed to subside. We will dae all we can for her in the meantime, I promise ye. It will soon be time for the evening office. Prayer is yer duty now.”

Duncan nodded and stood up wearily from his seat.

“Come now, Rory. We shall see yer brother after we have sung the evening office,” he said.

Rory nodded. He paused a moment, looking down at the woman laid peacefully on the bed before him. She really was very beautiful, despite her pale face. Her hair was thick, falling across the pillow on which she lay, and he could hardly take his eyes from her, her cheeks soft and supple, her eyes now closed as she breathed gently in the peace of sleep. He had never seen such a woman before, and she was surely no peasant. Who was she? Where had she come from? And why would an English woman attack English soldiers in defense of two Scots? It was a mystery and one he had every intention of solving.

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