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Chapter I

The rain persisted for three whole days. It was as though her grandfather’s death had left a cloud hanging over the borders. A mist hung in the air too, and there was a dank and dreary atmosphere about the place, such that it sent Evie into a deep depression. Her uncle had returned to the monastery at Lanercost, and her brothers returned to their work with her father, leaving Evie and her mother alone during the day.

She had not settled into life at Kirklinton and longed instead for the simpler life she had led at the castle across the heathers. There, she had been free to please herself and to go where she wished, when she wished to do so. Now, it seemed as though her life were regimented and ordered and there had already been any number of visitors to Kirklinton wishing to pay their respects to her father. It seemed she was no longer the free-spirited lass she once had been allowed to be. Now, her mother spoke of responsibility, and she had realized that life would now be very different. Not only for her but for them all.

“I am tired of the rain and bein’ confined to this place,” she said to her mother, as the two sat spinning wool on the third afternoon after her grandfather’s funeral.

“When I was a child, I was often confined here, yer grandfather always worried for my safety. Be grateful that ye had such freedoms as a child,” her mother replied, dexterously rolling the wool into balls, as Evie held it up for her.

“Aye, I know, but livin’ here feels so closed in. ‘Tis like we are always under scrutiny, always bein’ watched,” Evie replied.

“Aye, there is that. Yer father is nae enjoyin’ it either. He has never had any wish to be Laird. I remember him sayin’ as much when first we were married. He had nay desire for such a title, ye have to remember that he was a humble blacksmith until …” her mother said, and her words trailed off.

Evie knew the story well enough, but it still fascinated her. She had loved her grandfather dearly, but she still found it hard to think that he had kept that secret hidden for all those years. Never once revealing to anyone the true identity of his son nor wishing anything to do with him, it seemed so at odds with the man she knew, and in truth, she preferred not to think about it.

“This castle too, ‘tis nothin’ like home,” Evie said, and her mother sighed and nodded.

“Aye, Evie. It will become like home, and we shall still visit the old castle. It holds many memories for me too daenae forget,” her mother replied.

“What dae ye remember of it?” Evie asked, the wool running through her fingers, as her mother smiled.

“From my childhood? Oh, I remember a little. It was a lovely place back then, and I shall always be grateful to yer father for restorin’ it. When I was a child, my father, my blood father, would hold great feasts there, and I remember my mother singin’ to me as she bathed me. But I remember too the night we were forced to flee and lookin’ over my nurse maid’s shoulder at the castle burnin’ behind us. A dark day,” she said, shaking her head.

“And then ye came here?” Evie asked though she knew the answer well enough.

“Aye, that’s right. I came here, and I was happy here, as will ye be, though perhaps nae for long,” her mother replied.

“What dae ye mean? Are ye sendin’ me away?” Evie said, surprised by her mother’s words.

“Nay, of course, nae, Evie. Daenae be silly, but ye are twenty years old, soon ye shall have a husband and who knows where ye shall live then,” her mother replied.

Evie had not thought about it like that. The idea of a marriage or a husband had seemed remote and distant from her. Her two elder brothers were not yet married, though Rory was forever chasing women from the village, and it had not occurred to her that she would marry before them.

Evie was an attractive girl, possessed of long flowing red hair and deep green eyes. Her skin was soft and her complexion pretty, yet unassuming. She knew that men often looked at her with interest. But she had never felt ready to pursue such things, content instead to wait until her father and mother should decide the time was right.

“But I have nay thoughts of a husband yet, mother,” she replied, smiling and shaking her head.

“Aye, but in time ye might dae,” her mother replied, “and when ye dae ye shall live elsewhere, away from this castle, a different life to this.”

Evie had no desire for such a thing, she might not relish life at Kirklinton, but she certainly had no desire to leave her mother, father, and brothers behind. They were all she knew, and there was no desire in her heart for something different. She knew that marriage must one day come, but for now, she was content to help her mother with the spinning and to be a friend to her brothers. She had only one other friend, and that was Caitlin Macready, a girl of her own age who lived a few miles across the heathers with her mother in a croft on the moorlands.

They had been friends since they were children, and Evie had always confided in her and known her to be a loyal and close friend. She had not seen her since the day of her grandfather’s death, and the thought of her now put into Evie’s mind the desire to see her. Outside, the rain had grown lighter, a drizzle upon the moorlands rather than the deluge of the past few days, and far across the borderlands, the merest hint of sunlight was breaking through the clouds. Evie set aside the wool and crossed to the window, looking out across the heathers to where her father and brothers were working down on the track, which led to the village. They were building a dry-stone wall, in which to enclose the sheep which her father intended to keep for their wool and meat.

“I think I shall walk over to Caitlin’s croft and see her,” Evie said, turning to Isla, who smiled and nodded.

“Aye, it would dae ye good to see a friend, be back by nightfall though, Evie,” her mother said, and Evie nodded.

Her mother always said that, as though the arrival of the night brought with it untold danger and threat. In truth, Evie’s life had been peaceful, troubled only occasionally by an English raid or the rumors of robbers on the road east. She had never experienced that which her mother and father had lived through when the threat of an English attack was ever-present.

She took up a shawl and wrapped it around her and bidding her mother farewell, she clattered down the steps of the keep and out into the stable yard. Her horse was tethered up over by the stables, but she wished to walk, enjoying the fresh air and the coolness of the day. The rain had turned to mist by now, and she set off across the moorlands, passing her father and brothers as she went.

“And where are ye off to, Evie?” her father called out, as paused to watch them at work.

“To Caitlin’s, Father,” she replied, as Owen and Rory laid down their tools.

“Well, be back by nightfall, ye hear me,” he said, and she smiled, as both her brothers laughed.

“She is always back by nightfall, father,” Owen said, “if she were nae, then ye would have the whole clan out lookin’ for her.”

“I am only doin’ what any father would dae. When ye are a father, Owen then ye shall be just the same,” their father replied, and he returned to his work.

Rory walked across the heathers towards Evie and smiled.

“Will ye give my love to Caitlin?” he asked, blushing a little as he spoke.

“I always dae, Rory, but I am afraid the answer will always be the same,” she replied.

Her brother had always held a flame for Caitlin, ever since they were children. But she had always resisted, ever making this excuse and that for why she and Rory could not be together. Still, he was persistent, and every time that it was known that Evie was visiting her friend, he would send her with his love and a sprig of heather, which now he plucked from the ground below.

“And give her this if ye will,” he said, and she smiled and nodded.

“She will have a whole moor before long,” she replied, taking the sprig and tucking it into her tunic.

“I can only try,” he replied, for Evie knew that it pained him to suffer such rejection.

He had often confided in her, longing for just one chance to prove himself to Caitlin. But she was a beautiful girl and could have her pick of men on the borderlands. But like Evie, she had no interest in marriage just yet, at least that is how it seemed to Evie, the two girls knowing one another better than anyone else.

“I will tell her,” Evie replied, and with a nod to her brother and a wave to her father and Owen, she set off across the heathers.

It would take around an hour to reach Caitlin’s croft, which lay upon a hill about a mile from the castle in which Evie and her brothers had grown up. She would have to pass it to get there, and, as she came in sight of the familiar towers and the imposing keep, she sighed to herself and paused.

As for her mother, the castle held many happy memories. It was here that she had first come to realize the power of the family into which she had been born and the grave responsibility, which would one day rest upon her father. They had shared happy times and sad in this place, not least the news of her grandfather’s death, which had so altered life for them all. Above her, she could see the old croft where her great grandparents had once lived, up on the moors and where her parents first lived when they were married. The landscape held such memories for them all, and for a moment, she stood taking it all in, lost in thought.

The gates of the castle were open, for her father still kept servants there, and several of the clansmen still resided behind its walls. She could see soldiers on the battlements, and she waved to them, hurrying across the heathers towards the gate.

“Hail there, Evie,” the captain of the guards said, “we have missed yer bonnie face these past weeks.”

“And I have missed this place too,” she called back, standing to look up at the high walls above.

“How is life at Kirklinton? Are ye settlin’ in?” he called back, for all the soldiers had a soft heart for Evie.

“Tolerable,” she called back, “I am on my way to see the Macready’s. I have been confined to the castle these past days, and I couldnae bear it any longer.”

“Be careful on the heathers lass, keep yer wits about ye,” the old soldier called back, and he waved to her as she walked on.

Evie had no fear; she had known this landscape and its paths her whole life. Besides, she was the daughter of a Laird, and, like her mother, she was possessed of boldness and fearlessness such that no man would cross her.

The moorland path rose steeply upwards from the castle, which lay on the low heathers close to a gushing stream. The rains had caused it to swell, and she had to walk some way upstream before she could find a place to cross safely. The trees overhung the water’s edge at that point, and she looked up and down the torrent for bare rocks over which she could make her path.

I shall have to go higher, she thought to herself and continued to climb up through the trees, towards where she thought would be a safe crossing point. The path along the stream had almost disappeared, and she was now high above the castle, with still no place to cross. Growing frustrated, she decided to remove her shoes and hitch up her tunic to wade across. The water was not too deep there, and she would soon be on the other side. Caitlin’s mother always had a fire burning, and she could sit in front of that to dry herself off.

Evie paused, glancing up and down the stream for a final time, but there was no easy place to cross, and instead, she removed her shoes and stepped into the water. It was icy cold, and a shiver went through her body as she waded knee-deep into the gushing torrent. The current was stronger than she had imagined it to be, and she stretched out her hands to steady herself. It was not far to the other side, and she took another step further into the water.

Chapter II

I hope the fire is well stoked up, she thought to herself, wading on through the water. She pictured Caitlin’s snug croft and looked forward to the prospect of griddle scones, cooked in the embers of the fire, and a warm cup of something to raise her spirits.

But just as she was close to the other side, where trees hung down low over the bank, a surge of water caused her to unbalance. With a cry, Evie slipped into the cold water and was caught up in the torrent. It sent her down the stream with such force that she went under several times, flailing in the murky depths, as she gasped and struggled to catch her breath.

She screamed, trying desperately to swim against the current, but to no avail. The water was gushing around her, carrying her downstream, and despite striking out with all her might, she found herself unable to swim or catch her footing. The water was far more treacherous than she had imagined, freezing cold too, and she was helpless against the force pulling her along. With a final effort, she cried out again as a fresh surge of water overwhelmed her, and she went hurtling down the stream. There were falls further down, and if she could not get to the bank, then she would be swept over and dashed upon the rocks. Desperately she tried to swim, but the water was unforgiving, sweeping her along in its torrent. She could hardly breathe, gasping for breath, as the water hurled her up and out of the current, before pulling her back down. The rain lashed at her face, and the water swirled about her as she felt herself drifting out of consciousness.

“Help me,” she cried out as her head went beneath the water again.

It seemed there was no hope, and with a final gasp, she tried to swim again, her hand reaching out when all of sudden another hand took hold of hers. With great strength, she was pulled through the waters, her head emerging from the depths, as she gasped for breath.

‘I have ye, daenae worry,” came a voice, “ye will be all right, here we go,” and with another heave, she was dragged up onto the side of the bank.

Evie was coughing and spluttering, her whole body shaking with the chill of the water, and for a moment, she had no idea what had just occurred. It had all happened so fast, and she was almost delirious as she began to babble senselessly.

“I … oh … please …” she cried, but the stranger pulled her further up the bank until she lay panting and breathless on the heathers above the water.

“All right, ye are safe now. But I daenae advise ye to cross the waters like that again. The stream is treacherous after the rains, and ye clearly have nay skill at swimming,” he said, laughing a little.

Evie coughed and spluttered, her mouth and nose filled with water as she struggled to draw breath.

“I cannae …” she began.

“All right, easy now, ye have had a shock,” the stranger replied, and Evie rubbed her eyes, shivering with cold as she lay bedraggled upon the bank.

As she recovered a little more, she looked her rescuer in the face. He was a man whom she had never seen before, not a member of her father’s clan or an ally, nor a peasant from Lochrutton, the village which lay below her father’s castle. He was tall and well built, dressed in a red tunic, which was itself now soaked through. His face, which was clean-shaven and handsome, bore a smile. But she flinched back in terror as he reached out his hand, for he was a stranger, and she knew not of his intentions.

“I … I …” she gasped, coughing and spluttering with the water that filled her mouth and nose.

“I am nae goin’ to hurt ye. My name is Hamish, Hamish … MacBryde,” he said, a name which caused a wave of horror to run through her.

The name of MacBryde had long been feared by her family. The MacBrydes had long ago sided with the English against their own countrymen across the border. Her father called them traitors and would shake his head in anger at the name. They were allies of the Musgraves, and she knew that it was a Musgrave who had imprisoned her mother and held her grandmother as a slave for years before her father had rescued them both. She had never encountered a MacBryde before, and she was terrified as to what he might do. She had heard so many stories of their atrocities over the years, and she knew that they could not be trusted.

“What … what are ye doin’ here?” she asked, finally recovering enough to speak, her hands now blue with cold and her body beginning to numb.

She felt vulnerable and at his mercies, knowing that the chill running through her would prevent her from running away.

“I often come here, I like to sit up here and look across the borders and the moorlands. Ye are the first person I have ever encountered,” he said, taking off his cloak, “now, ye are shiverin’, place this around ye, it will help to warm ye up. If I had not seen ye thrashing about in the water, then ye would surely have drowned. What is yer name?”

“Ev … Evie, Evie … Elliott,” she mumbled as he placed the cloak around her shoulders, and she wrapped it close to her.

“An Elliott,” he said, as though recalling some past memory, “yer father is …”

“The Laird,” she replied, hoping perhaps that the name might scare him off and watching him cautiously.

She was frightened, for, despite his kindness, she knew not to trust a MacBryde, and she was suspicious as to why a man such as this should be here in the heart of her father’s territory, alone and watching. Was he a spy? What were his intentions? She was beginning to recover herself a little, and she edged away from him, watching him all the time. But he simply smiled and nodded.

“The daughter of the Laird, goodness me. I am honored. And what are ye doin’ crossin’ over the stream here and wanderin’ through the heathers all alone?” he asked, looking her up and down with curiosity.

“My father’s land, and I shall walk where I choose. And … and why are ye here?” she replied, trying to sound braver than she felt.

She wished that one of her brothers was there, or her father or one of the soldiers. They would soon chase this curious MacBryde away and see her safely home. But out here she was alone, and she knew she must make her escape as soon as possible. But the chill was setting in, and Evie continued to sit shivering as Hamish watched her.

“I walk this way at times. ‘Tis an escape from the castle, though I know it to be a dangerous one. If yer father knew …” he began.

“My father will know. Ye are a MacBryde and are nae to be trusted,” she replied, but he simply laughed once more and shook his head.

“A fine way to repay a man who has just saved yer life. I would hate to know how ye treat yer enemies,” he replied, laughing and moving closer towards her.

Evie felt disarmed by his comment. But she looked at him defiantly, trying to stand up and failing, the chill running through her bones.

“I … I will be all right, thank ye,” she replied.

She wanted him to leave her alone, though she knew she owed this man her life. But to trust a MacBryde? Evie knew what her father would say if he knew she was talking to a man of the clan who he and her family had sworn as enemies. No MacBryde was to be trusted, not even one who had rescued her from the torrent of the stream.

“And where is it that ye are goin’ to now, lass?” Hamish asked, “ye cannae walk soaked to the skin in the rain. Let me help ye.”

“Nay, I daenae need yer help. I have friends nearby, ye should go. If my father catches ye here then …” Evie said, but Hamish just smiled.

“Yer father has never caught me before. I have watched him and the other clansmen on the hunt, I fancy I have even seen ye at times, lass. When I pulled ye from the water, I recognized yer face. Ye have brothers too, daenae ye?” he said.

“Aye, and if they knew a MacBryde was here, then they would …” Evie began, struggling to her feet.

She was shaking with cold, and she knew she could not remain outside much longer, lest the chill would go to her bones. Hamish stood up too, looking around him at that lonely spot, as the rain continued to fall.

“Come now, lass. Can we nae be friends ye and I? These old quarrels are between our parents. Why must we be caught up in them?” he asked, holding out his hands.

“My quarrel is with anyone who would betray their fellow countrymen,” Evie said.

The MacBrydes had long had a pact with the English, selling their loyalty across the border. No MacBryde could be trusted. They were friends of the enemy, and it was rumored that an attack by their combined forces was imminent. Evie knew too the stories of the past and of how her poor grandmother was subjected to years of harsh treatment at the hands of the Musgraves. She had no intention of offering the hand of friendship, however kind this man might have been to her, and she watched him warily as he stood between her and the moorland path above.

“I daenae have time for such quarrels, I am nay enemy of yours,” Hamish replied.

“Then ye shall seek peace with my father? Are ye to be Laird upon the death of yer father?” Evie asked, and Hamish nodded.

“I am. And when I am, I shall forget the past and pursue peace,” he replied, an air of confidence about him.

Evie was not convinced. She had heard such tales before when the Elliotts and the MacBrydes had been at peace. It was promises such as this that had led to betrayal, and she could hear her mother’s words ringing in her ears.

“Never a trust a MacBryde, for they shall stab ye in the back,” she used to say.

“Well, Laird to be, I thank ye for helpin’ me, and now I must be on my way,” Evie said, pulling his cloak tightly around her.

“And I presume ye shall take my cloak with ye too?” he asked, smiling at her and laughing.

“I … nay, of course not. Here,” she said, handing him back the cloak, as an icy wind whipped along the course of the stream.

“Ye need it more than I, lass. Go on, be away with ye. It seems I cannae persuade ye to sit awhile with me and talk. Besides, ye are cold and need the warmth of a hearth to warm ye. I should be on my way too, I wouldnae wish to run into yer brothers or yer father as I make my way home,” Hamish replied.

“Ye risk a lot by comin’ here,” Evie said.

“What is life if nae without a little risk?” he replied, and she nodded, stepping past him and glancing back.

“I … thank ye …” she said and hurried off up the path leading to the heathers above.

“Will I see ye again?” he called back, but Evie made no reply.

On the brow above, she turned and saw him still watching her. How lucky it had been to encounter him, but Evie had no desire to forge a friendship with the enemy. Hamish MacBryde had been kind, but she knew not to trust him. She was her father’s daughter, the daughter of Lairds and warriors. This man was the enemy, and even to speak with him felt like a betrayal. But despite that fact, she could not help but feel grateful. After all, he had saved her life, when she too was an enemy to him. Were his words really sincere?

Evie watched him for a moment, before turning back to look across the heathers. The clouds were clearing now, the merest hint of blue sky against the dark clouds. A rainbow hung in the distance, and the sun had caught the purple of the heathers over on the hills beyond. When she glanced back, he was gone, disappearing as readily as he had appeared. A stranger on the heathers, an enemy at large. She pulled his cloak around her more tightly, glancing back again as she hurried over the heathers. It had certainly been an eventful day, and Evie would be glad of a fire and a friendly face.

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Chapter I

Late April 1752

“It will be your birthday soon. Is that not enough?” Ruth repeated her sister’s words as she sat upon the hill, pen and drawing paper in hand. William Fraser, her new brother-in-law had gifted her with some drawing materials as an early birthday gift, and she could not have been more pleased. She loved her new brother, and he understood her in a way that her sister did not. She and her sister had always been different, but the difference was becoming even more apparent as Ruth became more and more irritated at her growing sense of isolation.

“No, ‘tis not enough,” she breathed, remembering her sister’s disappointed expression. Ruth swooped her pen across the page and looked up at the surrounding hilltops. Scotland was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. To be fair, it was the only place she had ever seen, besides her previous home in London, of course, but at the time of moving only a few months ago, it had taken her breath away. Even now, she loved the green of the grass, the swish of the heather on the moors, and the gray of the sea more than anything. They inspired her, and she would run to them whenever she could, but they were not enough for her. She longed to move, to run, to have adventures, and to see as many places as she could before she laid her head to rest in her grave. And then the nightmares had come to haunt her mind every night. Nightmares of her father returning and placing her back in her restrictive life once again.

Her drawing was her other solace. She would draw maps or landscapes, and there was plenty to offer her in the surrounding wilds of William’s family home. Today, she wanted to capture the hills of Brechin in the beautiful light that came when it was about to rain. Marianne, her sister, had given up warning Ruth of the dangers of wandering in the rain, but Ruth knew she still waited nervously for her younger sister’s safe arrival home. Especially now that Marianne was pregnant with William’s child, she had become even more anxious. It was becoming almost unbearable for ‘wild Ruth’, for that is what William and Jamie, the laird of the clan in the area, had come to call her.

Whenever she would gallop faster than their horses or proclaim her desire for an expedition across the sea, William and Jamie would say “Och, Wild Ruth is at it again. One day, she may just up and leave us.”

Ruth kept drawing, but in her heart and mind, she whispered, “Yes, yes, I will.” She sighed. She hadn’t told her sister that, yet. She knew it would only send her into worrying about her more than she already did. She did not tell her of her nightmares either. There didn’t seem to be a point. Marianne had fallen in love with William, and, along with Ruth, had fled their father’s house in London. Lord Browne had arranged for Marianne to marry one of his friends, but they left him and London, so that Marianne could live a life of happiness and freedom. Ruth was grateful to her sister for rescuing her. She really was. But, now that Marianne was happy in her new life with her new family, for that was what she wanted, a true home; whereas Ruth didn’t want to do what was conventional or normal. Ruth desired freedom more than anything else, and Scotland had given her that, but in this small isolated place, she still had to “fit in” as a woman and do what women do.

“We are out of our father’s clutches forever! You may do as you please!” Marianne had begged Ruth to feel happy in her fate.

“I know, Marianne. It is wonderful, but why can’t you understand? I want a new life. I want to go and to do things.”

“But why must you? Can you not be happy in your family here? Have I become not enough for you?”

Ruth sat down and shook her head. Tears brimmed at her eyes. She whispered, “Marianne, I wish I could make you understand. This desire gnaws and aches in my every fiber. I want so much more for my life.”

Marianne sat down next to Ruth and placed a soft hand on her back. “Help me to understand, Ruth.”

But Ruth left the room, nearly in tears, hating herself for what she was doing to her sister, but also for having this feeling that she could not, would not, give up. She would run away. One day.

But, those plans were not for now. Other things filled her mind on this glorious day. There was the May Day festival, which Marianne and Amelia, Jamie’s wife, had asked her to take part in. Ruth loved parties and would love to mix with her friends in the village, but she was not happy to have been relegated to such womanly tasks as party preparations. It was to be held in a few weeks, and Marianne had suggested her aid to help get her out of the funk that had pervaded her mind of late. The nightmares had begun only a month or so before, and her desire to leave also grew at the same time.

And, on top of that, the beautiful, intriguing, irritatingly evasive Troy Ferguson seemed to be everywhere and nowhere. He and the Laird and Lady were friends, and so she would see him up at the clan parties or family gatherings quite often. He was also the parish minister, and so she would see him every Sunday at the pulpit, doling out advice about duty and kindness and love. That was all well and good, but why would he not speak to her?

Ever since their discussion about traveling after the birth of Amelia’s son, James, when Troy had deigned to tell her a few small tidbits of his mysterious life, he had seemingly avoided all contact. He’d even gone so far as to turn a shoulder to her at social gatherings! He was polite for the most part, engaging in small pleasantries if he was forced into conversation with her, but he could not look at her face, and Ruth was annoyed by it.

What was so repellent about her? She had plenty of friends in the village and plenty of suitors as well, if she was being honest. She got along with everyone except for her sister at the moment, so why should the minister practically shun her?

It was a question she’d been mulling over for months, and she wished she could just let it go and turn up her nose at him in response. She tried, but it still ate away at her. And ever since she’d first glimpsed his large form behind the bridal couple at Marianne’s wedding, she had been fascinated by him. He was like an exotic figure from a foreign land with his unique Scottish accent and mysterious expressions. And he was far too handsome for a minister. She’d seen many more young women in the church pews glance up at him from underneath their eyelashes, hopeful for an approving glance from him.

But to her relief, he was not flirtatious, and they would usually leave the service disappointed. William liked him, and that, she knew, was a good thing. Ruth sighed again, her focus not quite on her drawing but on the thoughts that swirled inside of her. How can I get him to notice me?

Amidst her own thoughts, Ruth did not notice the change in the breeze or the darkening of the clouds overhead. She was not afraid of rain, but it was rather unpleasant to get caught in, especially when one had their drawing materials with them.

Soon enough, a raindrop fell onto her page, smudging the freshly laid ink. Ruth made an annoyed sound and looked up into the sky with a slight gasp. She noticed the whipping of the wind and the silence that had come over the area. She clasped onto the reigns of her horse, Emerald, and untied her from the tree that stood close by. “Come, Emerald, we must fly like the wind!”

She patted Emerald on her white nose, and, after gathering her materials, climbed astride her. She was unendingly grateful to Amelia who “outlawed” side saddles at her stables, and so she could ride freely like a true adventurer. The rain began to come down harder now, but Ruth trusted Emeralds sure-footedness. She had been a gift from the laird’s stables, and so she knew the Brechin hillsides by heart.

Ruth clicked her tongue, and Emerald was on her way, rushing down the hill towards William’s home far in the distance. Rain began to drip into her eyes and mouth, so she decided to lean down against the horse to protect her face. She closed her eyes and simply trusted that Emerald knew the way.

She smiled to herself. If she could not yet have her big adventure, these small adventures were enough to fill her yawning appetite in the meantime. She breathed in the comforting smell of Emerald’s hide intermixed with the fresh rain and held on tighter. But suddenly, Emerald reared up at something in the path that had scared her, and her hooves slid along the muddy stream that had appeared in the heavy rainfall. In her surprise, Ruth cried out and fell back off the horse, down and down she went, and suddenly, there was a flash of pain and everything went dark.

***

Marianne Fraser, three months pregnant, wandered in front of the fire, awaiting Ruth’s arrival. She had not yet returned, and the rain was falling fast and hard. Marianne tried to calm the fluttering of her heart. She had become more nervous of late, with the onset of her pregnancy and Ruth’s discontent with her situation. How could she help her sister be more comfortable and happier? Were they not free from their Father’s control? Did they not achieve that?

Ruth had been happy when they’d first arrived in Scotland, the free life just opening up before them like the horizon. But something had changed. Now Ruth had taken to the hills nearly every day since the beginning of this malaise or unease about their way of life. She would argue with Marianne about nearly everything, especially if it had to do with “women’s work” or marriage or anything conventional. William was the only one that could talk any sense into her, and she raged at that thought. She was her own sister, after all. What had happened to make her change so much? Did Ruth no longer love her?

And then there was Troy Ferguson. Without having heard from Ruth herself, she could tell Ruth was intrigued by him. He was a handsome man to be sure, and very funny, and very intelligent, but he did not seem at all interested in Ruth, and she wanted to make sure Ruth did not suffer overmuch from disappointment at unrequited love. Marianne thought perhaps that was what had brought upon her low mood.

She feared for her sister’s heart more than anything, and William needed to often remind her that Ruth was to soon turn 22 and must be allowed to be a free woman and live her own life in the way she thinks is best. Marianne would agree if it was any other woman, but Ruth, so innocent and naive about the ways of the world, wanted things she had no business wanting. At least not until she knew everything about those things. She was afraid Ruth would be hurt in more ways than one if she loosened her ties on her at all. She couldn’t just give up caring about her sister’s well-being.

Suddenly, a harsh knock sounded at the door, and with a spark of hope, Marianne rushed to answer it, heaving the heavy oak door open to greet the roaring wind and the rain. A tall figure with a brown three-cornered hat emerged into the firelight. It was a very wet Troy, and he was carrying a very wet, unconscious Ruth in his arms.

Chapter II

Marianne gasped, and simply pointed to the long couch that stood by the fire before she could find her words. She found her voice eventually as she shut the storm out behind them. “Troy! What has happened?”

Troy laid Ruth softly down upon the couch and stood up next to Marianne, taking off his sodden hat. Marianne knelt down next to her sister as best she could in her condition. Troy began breathlessly, “‘Tis my fault, Marianne. I was out walking in the rain, and I came upon her horse, scaring it tae high Heaven. It bumped her from its back, and she fell, hitting her head. We need tae see if she’s broken any bones. I can take a look, but we should call the doctor.”

“Of course!” Marianne rushed off to ask a servant to take the horse for the doctor before Troy could object to a pregnant woman rushing off to do anything.

After Marianne left the room, Troy knelt beside a sleeping Ruth. His boots squeaked with the movement, and he dripped water onto the rug. Ruth’s loose, reddish-brown hair was matted around her face, and he pushed it out of the way lightly with his fingertips. Her lovely pink mouth was slightly open, and Troy remarked how peaceful she looked as she lay on the sofa in her sodden, brown riding habit that clung a little too tightly to her chest and waist. He tried not to notice, but it was impossible.

Troy had never met someone as enticing as Ruth. Certainly, he had met with and bedded many an intriguing and beautiful woman, but Ruth was different. She struck him to the heart, her beauty fraught with layers and layers of something else he couldn’t quite identify.

He had avoided her eyes and her person for months on end, ever since he’d let himself slip and open up to her, asking her about her dreams for the future. She had looked positively gleeful, but he couldn’t let her in. He couldn’t stray from his goal and his life purpose.

But right now, he felt safe in her unconscious presence, for when she would open her eyes, it was as if he would be pinned to the wall, her seeing everything about him and making him feel things he did not want to feel, things which he refused to feel if he wanted to keep himself on the right path. He sighed and said quietly, “Och, lass,” the longing building in his chest.

Ruth’s eyes slowly flickered open and pierced into Troy’s, their soft brown depths gazing up at him. A lazy smile spread across Ruth’s face as she took in Troy. His fingertips were still on the side of her face, and he didn’t remove them right away. She saw his rough beard and his beautiful green eyes that seemed to stand out even more with the closeness of his person.  She could see tiny droplets of water that dripped from his wet, brown hair, down his cheeks, and onto his shoulders, his very broad, firm shoulders. She took in his whole form. The man was pure muscle. She thought maybe she was having a dream. It felt like a deep, delicious dream because Troy did not remove his eyes from hers as he had so often in the past.

A cleared throat from behind them surprised Troy into standing up. He turned to see William Fraser with his arms crossed. “And what are ye doing, lad?” He said with a smirk and one eyebrow raised.

Troy, slightly embarrassed, motioned to Ruth on the couch. William rushed over. “What’s happened, ye wild girl? Are ye all right?”

Ruth smiled and attempted to sit up, but then lay back again, laying a hand on her arm, a grimace on her face. “Ah, everything seems to hurt, I see. I fell off Emerald in the rain, and then, I don’t remember what happened.” She turned to Troy, her voice softening. “Why are you here?”

William laughed as he noted his sister’s demure expression, reserved only for Troy. “Och, sister, ye have a way with words. From what I gather, Troy is the one who rescued ye from yer dangerous adventure and brought ye back tae us. Is that right, Troy?”

Troy coughed. “Aye.” He looked at Ruth again, and she felt an enjoyable tingle at his repeated gaze. “I must apologize, Ruth, for I was walking in the rain, and my presence must have surprised Emerald.”

She waved a hand in response as if to say it was no matter. “All is well, Mr. Ferguson. I must thank you for rescuing me. I must look to be quite the damsel in distress, not the preferred role I’d like to play, but I have you to blame for that.” She smiled, and Troy smiled back.

Marianne had just returned and heard the end of her sentence. “Ruth! Can we not be kind to the minister?”

Troy chuckled. “I believe she is making a joke at my expense. That will teach me not to walk in the rain anymore.”

William stood to place a warm arm around Marianne. Marianne said, “The doctor has been fetched.”

Troy stepped forward again. “If ye both don’t mind, I’ve a bit of medical experience meself. I could take a look at the bone and can try tae set it. We dinnae want the swelling tae become too much.”

William smirked, and Marianne smiled. They glanced at each other briefly. “Of course, Troy. If you feel you have the expertise.”

Troy knelt down beside Ruth once again, and Ruth’s heart gave a little flutter. Troy was about to touch her. Again. She was afraid he would hear her heart pounding in her chest, and she did not want the embarrassment, but his voice and expression soothed her.

“Dinnae worry. I have done this many times before.” He turned to Ruth whose eyes were already on him. He reached out his hands. “May I, lass?” He said softly and tenderly, and Ruth had to will herself not to melt. This man had ignored her for months and suddenly he was being so kind, loving, and dare she say it, sensual?

“Of course,” she seemed to whisper back, and he grinned before taking her arm in his hands. He felt the bone of her lower arm and watched her face as she winced.

“I’m sorry tae hurt ye, but I’m tryin’ tae find the break.”

Ruth willed herself to not feel pain. She would not look womanly and weak in front of this man! She gritted her teeth and used her words instead of her expression to convey her pain. “There! That is where it hurts the most.”

He nodded. “Well, ye are a lucky one, no thanks tae me. The bone has not come loose from its path, but there may a slight crack in it. We will just need tae wrap it, and ye’ll need tae rest as ye’ve hurt yer head as well. How can I ever make amends?”

You could kiss me. The thought came to her unbidden, and her eyes opened wide at her own salaciousness. Troy drew back, surprised. “Have I said something wrong?”

She shook her head, “No, no.” She coughed. “Thank you.”

Marianne perked up. “I have an idea. Not that you need to make amends, Troy, but Ruth will be needing a little assistance now that she is injured. She is planning the May Day festival. Would you be interested in helping her out? I know you have your own part to play in it, but everyone else is busy.”

He stood up and moved his hand through his wet, brown hair. He paused for a moment. That would mean he’d need to spend more time with Ruth, and he was not sure he wanted to do that. Well, he wanted to, but he wasn’t sure he should.

“Aye…I could do that.”

Ruth’s eager face dimmed slightly at his hesitation, but she was grateful to Marianne for her brilliant idea. She knew that Marianne would not stand in the way of love! She would have to thank her later.

Ruth smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Ferguson. I would be most grateful for your assistance. Party planning is not quite my forte, as it were.”

He nodded, and then changed the subject. “Well, I will take my leave of ye all. Even though there is no break, I think ‘twould be best for the doctor tae examine her properly as well. I am no physician.”

He needed to go. He had now tied himself to working with this woman for the next few weeks, so he would need to think of a new plan of keeping his ideas and forbidden thoughts at bay while they worked closely together. Her smile and eager expression only strengthened his resolve to leave quickly. She was so endearing and sweet. He had never heard a woman speak as she did. Ever since the first night when she’d told him of her dream to travel, Troy had felt the desire to bring her into his arms; but that could not be. First of all, that was no way for a minister to act with a member of his congregation. And secondly, he couldn’t afford such behavior. That life was behind him now and everything that came with it: the bawdy women, the reckless behavior, the fighting, the overindulgence. He wasn’t that man anymore. He had to make up for his past, and so he edged towards the door, hopeful the family would let him leave without too much argument.

Marianne replied, “Oh, will ye not stay for tea? Or some wine? It is a long journey back in the rain and the cold! ‘Twould not be right of me to release you into the wilds.”

He chuckled nervously and brushed through his wet hair again before donning his wet cap. “Please dinnae worry about me, Marianne. I am a seasoned rain-walker, and I shall find my way well enough.”

Ruth sat up quickly and then winced again in pain. “Oh, and Emerald? Where is she? Is she all right?”

“Aye, she is well, lass. She rests in her stable, dry now. She hadn’t gone far. Poor thing, I think she felt a bit of guilt for kicking ye off her back.”

“Ahh, well I will go and see her as soon as I feel ready to, to let her know that everything is fine. But she’ll have to do her best to stay clear of you in future though.”

Troy smiled at her grin and felt a tinge of something. Was it desire? He didn’t want to explore that idea. This woman was trouble.

“And before you go, may I ask what makes a man wander about in the dark and the rain?” Ruth’s right eyebrow raised in question.

William joined in. “Aye, I’m curious as well. Ye’ve not said such a thing before tae us, lad.”

Troy searched around for a reason. Because I’ve spent many years aboard a pirate ship? No, that would not do. He centered upon an idea. “Och, I thought ‘twas the Scottish way. We’ve no respite from the rain for most of the year, so I took it upon meself to fight back against it.” He shrugged and pulled his wet coat back over his shoulders.

The family laughed at his answer, but Ruth had seen his hesitation and the concern in his eyes as he searched for an acceptable response.

“Goodnight tae ye all.” He nodded, grinning with that beautiful smile of his. “And I will hear about yer progress from William, I hope.” He looked at Ruth briefly.

“Aye,” William replied gruffly and turned back to see Ruth.

Marianne said, “Thank you again, Troy!”

“Yes, thank you…Troy. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” Ruth stared at Troy across the room, willing him to stay and stop being so ridiculous, but he only bowed his head, and before giving her one last glance, slipped out into the night, shutting the heavy door behind him.

Ruth leaned back against the sofa, letting out a sigh. What was this man hiding? Well, she had all of the weeks preparing for the May Day festival to find out.

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Chapter I

Scottish Border 1545

Isla Armstrong was looking across the borders from her chambers at the top of the castle at Kirklinton, where she had lived since that fateful day all those years ago when her parents had been so cruelly cut down. It was a wild day; the rain having battered the borderlands these past three days, storm clouds sitting thick and foreboding above.

Across the valley, the trees were swaying in the wind, and she could see the waterfall of the Beck, which cascaded into Lochrutton some miles across the marshes. It was a wild and lonely scene, and she shivered a little, turning back into the room and warming herself by the fire, which burned merrily in the grate — a contrast to the blackening skies outside.

She had been looking for her father, who had ridden to one of the outlying crofts, where trouble had recently been reported. Isla was used to that word; it was one she often heard, the trouble with the English, the trouble with other clans. Trouble meant danger, and her life had been fraught with danger since its beginning.

There was no sign of her father for the rest of the day, but he returned after nightfall, demanding food and a place by the fire. Isla sat in the hall of the castle, a large room with a heavy door and wide hearth, where many a tale had been told, victories celebrated, and defeats commiserated. It was there that she was often told to stay, while trouble brewed outside, or her father rode off to deal with yet another incursion or threat. Such was their way of life, and, as Alistair Elliott entered the room, he had a grave expression on his face.

“Were ye successful, father?” Isla asked, as Alistair slumped before the fire, fondling the heads of the two dogs, who had run to him as he entered the room.

“Successful?” he replied, shaking his head, “too late more like. Those English fiends did what they always dae: cross the border like cowards and set fire to the croft. Before we can retaliate, they are gone, ‘tis the same every time.”

“Was anyone harmed? Did they make off with anythin’?” Isla replied, shaking her head at the sad tale her father was recounting.

“Aye, they took cattle, but none of the folks were harmed, just left scared and confused. Too long has it been like this, there are times I think we have the upper hand, and others when I fear we shall nae even hold this place, let alone protect our folks,” he said, spitting into the fire.

Isla was silent for a moment; she had grown up listening to tales of English brutality, and she had seen enough violence in her short life to last a lifetime. Her father had done his best to shield her from the worst, determined to see no harm come to her, the memory of her family’s demise all too fresh. But Isla Armstrong was the daughter of lairds, brave and determined, and she had a desire to fight for her clan, and to see her parents avenged. She had often asked to accompany her father on his rides out, but the answer had always been no. She must remain at the castle, safe from the wicked English, who would show no mercy to a Scottish lass on the battlefield.

They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling in the hearth, the dogs lying sleepily before it. Outside, the storm was now blowing up again, raging across the borderlands and causing the wind to whistle around the castle.

“Dae ye think another attack will come soon, father?” Isla eventually asked. Alistair Elliott raised his sad face to her and shook his head.

“Sooner rather than later, lass. The English are regrouping, and that Percy Musgrave will stop at nothin’ until every Scot along the border is cut down, ye mark my words. Especially now that his son is of age,” he replied.

It was with a heavy heart that Isla ate her supper that night, knowing that all around them, danger lurked, waiting to pounce. How she longed to join her father on the battlefield and face the enemy in war. She had heard many tales of bravery and valor and watched from afar as her fellow clansmen sacrificed themselves for her safety. She was determined to have revenge, whether her father allowed her to fight or not, and she knew that soon the time would come when a lass would prove herself just as much a warrior as any lad of the clan.

Chapter II

The blacksmith’s workshop at Lochrutton was home to two brothers, Fraser and Duncan MacGinn. Their parents had died suddenly in the winter of the previous year, succumbing to a fever that had swept the village. Fraser was twenty years old and now found himself an orphan, though as the inheritor of the blacksmith’s workshop, he at least had the means to support himself and his younger brother. Duncan was a bright lad, though he possessed none of the skill with a forge that their father had imparted to his elder son. He spent much of his time with the local priest, harboring dreams of entering the priory at Lanercost and following the religious life

It was a bleak morning, the mist hanging low in the valley and across the loch. Fraser was at his work, hammering tools into shape and making horseshoes for one of the local crofters. He was a simple lad, handsome and straight-talking, though shy, and more at home in the workshop than the company of others. His life thus far had been predictable and uneventful. At times, they would hear tales of far off battles or victories won over the English, but such things were of little concern when there was bread to put on the table.

3

“Ye cannae dae it like that, Duncan,” Fraser said, as he watched his brother trying to hammer out a horseshoe on the anvil.

“What dae ye mean? I am doin’ it just like ye showed me,” his younger brother replied.

“Nae, ye are nae. If ye were doin’ it as I showed ye, then ye wouldnae have got it crooked like that. Come here, let me show ye. Honestly, Duncan, ‘tis quicker if I see to this work myself than have ye helpin’ me,” Fraser said, wiping his hands on his tunic and going over to the anvil, as Duncan stood back.

He hammered the shoe back into shape expertly and placed it, hissing and steaming, into a pail of water at the side. Fraser worked hard, shodding horses and mending broken tools. He sold his wares to local crofters and forged swords and other weapons for the clansmen of the local lairds. The two brothers lived in their parents’ home, a simple cottage attached to the workshop. It was a simple life, and Fraser liked that, despite the hardships he and his brother faced. The two had forged what any outsider might call a happy life.

“Ye see, now ‘tis properly done. Now, make yerself useful and go to Cora Macleod’s for a loaf of bread. She bakes today, and we shall need some supper if we are nae to starve,” Fraser said, handing his brother a few silver pennies.

Duncan nodded, but as he turned to leave, he let out a cry and pointed towards the ridge above the village. There, outlined along its top, was a line of clansmen on horseback. It appeared they were riding out to fight, and Fraser came to join his brother as they watched the soldiers above. The village lay in a dip between two ridges, surrounded by thick woodland, which led down to the shores of the loch. Nestled there, they rarely saw travelers passing by, and the sight of the soldiers was unusual.

“Where dae ye think they go, brother?” Duncan said, peering curiously up at the ridge as the soldiers disappeared.

“I dinnae know, and I dinnae care, so long as they dinnae bother us. Except perhaps with the shoes they will nae doubt kick from the poor animals’ feet as they ride out. Then they may come to be shod,” Fraser replied, returning to his work.

But Duncan remained watching, and as he did so, he once again let out an exclamation, calling Fraser over to his side.

“What now, Duncan, can ye nae see we have work to dae,” Fraser said, laying aside his hammer again, and coming irritably to the door of the workshop.

“Is that a lass up there?” Duncan said, pointing up to the ridge.

Fraser put his hand to his eyes and squinted towards the solitary figure who had now appeared riding slowly along the ridge. Whoever it was had a far shorter stature than those that had just passed by and was riding upon a white horse, but without banner at their side. Fraser shook his head.

“I cannae see, but nae lass would be riding out to raid, or wherever it is those men were going to. It looks almost like a child, very odd indeed,” he said, a puzzled look upon his face.

“It is a lass; I can see her long hair,” Duncan said, turning to his brother.

“Enough now, Duncan, away to Cora Macleod’s, and be sure to get a decent-sized loaf. Otherwise, it shall be baking ye must learn, as well as the work of a blacksmith. Does Father Dunbar teach ye nothin’ but yer prayers?” Fraser replied, watching and smiling as his brother ran off into the village.

Once again, he looked to the ridge; he could just see the solitary figure about to ride into the forests above. Duncan was right; it was a lass, and now, Fraser could make out her long red hair flowing down her back. How strange to see a lass riding out in such a way on the trail of soldiers. Fraser shook his head and returned to his work. These were strange times and make no mistake.

Chapter III

 Isla had grown used to her father’s ways over the years, and it was something of a running joke between them. He would go on a raid or skirmish across the border, and she would ask if she could accompany him. The answer was always the same: no.

The reasons he would give were always the same: it was too dangerous, or the threat was too great. What if something happened to him? Who would look after the good folks of the clan? No, Isla must remain at home, safe and secure in the castle. Though the castle was far from safe, it was a refuge, at least, and a place that Isla had grown weary of over the years.

Three times during her short life, they had come under attack in what was meant to be their home. And not only from Sir Percy Musgrave and his English allies, but also from other clans, hungry for conquest and wealth. On these occasions, she had taken refuge in the hall of the castle, barricaded behind the doors as her father had ridden out to fight. She had watched helplessly as he had charged down the enemy, knowing that at any moment, he could be killed.

How she had longed to follow him into battle and win victory for her clan and for her father. She knew that today would be no different. Her father planned to march out and confront the Musgraves. He and his fellow clansmen had planned a daring raid on their southern neighbors. It was all just tit for tat; neither side ever gained the upper hand, but each enjoyed the chance for the boast and bravado any minor victory might bring.

The Musgraves burned a farm on which Elliott men and women tilled the land, and in revenge, the Elliotts would cross the border and wreak havoc with the Musgrave cattle or lay waste an English farm. That was the order of things, and that was how it always had been, with neither side ever gaining the advantage.

Alistair Elliott was sharpening his sword, the sound of the metal against stone echoing around the hall. Isla was watching her father from beside the fire, and knowing his response, she cleared her throat, causing him to look up, pausing from his work.

“Aye, lass, ye have somethin’ ye wish to say?” he said, running his finger gingerly along the sword’s edge.

“Ye are riding out today, father? Where is it ye are going?” she asked.

“South, past the village of Lochrutton and on toward the Musgrave lands. We shall cross the border and burn the farm belongin’ to the Howard family, allies of Sir Percy and folks who would happily see us all burn in our beds,” her father replied.

“And ye wouldnae allow me to accompany ye, I suppose? If only to watch from a distance?” she said, not meeting her father’s eye as he let out a laugh and shook his head.

“Nae lass, I wouldnae. Ye know the reason why. I have often repeated it to ye: ‘tis too dangerous for ye, and if anythin’ happened to ye, I would never forgive myself. Nae, ye are to stay here, ye understand,” Alistair said, raising up his sword, the edge of which had been sharpened to a fine point.

Isla made no reply, disappointed by her father’s words, though they were precisely the ones she expected. It was always the same, but despite her disappointment in the predictable response, she had determined that today would be different. She had been mulling over it for some time and had determined that the time was right. Today, she would follow her father out to ride, watching from afar.

Isla was tired of being left at home, and despite her father’s warning of danger, she knew she was ready. As the daughter of a laird, a border laird at that, Isla knew well how to handle a sword. She had done so ever since she was a child and knew just how to comport herself in battle. Even though she had never experienced such things firsthand, she could ride, shoot an arrow straight, and defeat even her father’s best men at arms in a sword fight.

Her plan was simple. She would wait until her father and his men had ridden out for the raid and follow on horseback. No one would stop her; she would simply tell anyone who asked that she was riding out for an afternoon on the moorland. No one would question her. After all, she was the Laird’s daughter.

“Ye will be careful, won’t ye, Father?” she said, as Alistair sheathed his sword and made ready to depart.

“Aye, lass, dinnae fash yerself, ‘tis a simple enough task. We shall be home before nightfall, I promise ye,” Alistair said, and nodding to her, he left the hall behind.

Isla waited a moment before crossing to the window and watching as her father made ready to depart below. His faithful dogs were whining for their master, and they came and placed their paws on the sill, barking at the sight of Alistair with the clansmen below.

Ten men were accompanying the Laird that day, and they had all mounted their horses, Alistair, on a black steed named Storm. Isla watched him rally the men, and she could hear their cries echoing from below as they rode away from the castle. Now, she wasted no time. Telling the dogs to sit, she clattered down the stairs from the hall toward the stables.

“If it be a horse ye are wantin’, lass, then the best of them have already gone,” the stable hand said.

“Who has taken Bolt?” she said, annoyed that her father had allowed another to ride the horse that had been hers since it had been a foal.

“One of the clansmen, lass. Yer father told me to saddle the best horses, and that is what I did. If it be a ride ye are seekin’, then ye best take this young un’ here,” the stable hand said, pointing to one of the younger horses, an excitable creature named Thunder.

“Aye, he will dae,” Isla said, patting the horse’s mane and shushing him as he whinnied with excitement.

“And where is it ye be wantin’ to ride to?” the stable hand said, eyeing Isla with suspicion, for he knew of her excitable temperament and disregard for the rules.

“Oh, just over the moor. I hear there are mushrooms growin’ in the woods at Dunbier, and I want to pick some,” she replied, the lie flowing smoothly off her tongue.

The stable hand shook his head and led the horse into the stable yard, Isla following behind. She had collected armor and a helmet before leaving the keep, and these were stowed in a bag by the door to the castle. There was a strong breeze, and the horse neighed once more, as though eager to get going in pursuit of its fellows. Isla picked up the sack of armor and slung herself on the horse. Isla turned the horse towards the track south, and not heeding the stable hand’s gentle reminder that Dunbier was to the north, she set off in pursuit of her father.

Chapter IV

 Isla knew where her father was going. She had walked that track many a time, even though she was forbidden to go further than the village at Lochrutton. Some days she would go as far as the border, being careful not to show herself, watching the English from afar.

They terrified yet fascinated her in equal measures, and she found herself often daring herself to go closer. Once, she had hidden in a thicket, close to where an English archer was conversing with a foot soldier. She was so close that she could hear their conversation as they breathed murderous threats against their northern neighbors

It had terrified her, and as soon as they had gone on their way, she had hurried home. But today was different. Today, Isla had resolved to follow her father to battle and prove to the clan that she was ready to be a leader of men and not just the daughter of the Laird.

She paused some way down the track, clambering down from the horse’s back and taking out the armor and helmet from her bag. The armor was heavy and ill-fitting, but somehow, she managed to get it on, placing the helmet squarely upon her head and climbing back on the horse, which stamped its hoof as if eager to follow its friends.

“Aye, lad, I hear ye,” Isla said, urging the horse on down the track, her armor clinking as she rode.

The track soon rose up from the moorland, passing through scrubby trees and the remnants of what had once been a much larger forest. Isla knew her father had gone that way; the path was freshly churned up with mud, and horses’ hoof prints could clearly be seen, heading onto the ridge above.

Now, she proceeded with more caution, not wishing to be seen by her father and the other clansmen if they had paused to rest above. The path was overhung by trees, the perfect place for an ambush, and despite her bravado, Isla looked around nervously for enemies. She had no desire to fight that day, only to prove to her father that she was more than capable of riding alongside him.

The tree line soon gave way to the ridge above, and Isla was glad that the trees no longer hemmed her in on either side. She looked on the village below, nestled in the glen and surrounded by the forest. It was a strange little community, one she had few dealings with, despite the proximity of Lochrutton to the castle.

The people there kept to themselves, and they had little contact with outsiders. She glanced down and could see little figures below, going this way and that about their business. She wondered if they knew or cared that her father was risking his life at this moment for their protection. It did not matter though; all that mattered was avenging her birth father and seeing Sir Percy Musgrave pay for the crimes he had committed in the past.

On she rode, across the ridge, looking ahead to where she fancied she would see her father and the clansmen paused at the border. Isla reined in the horse, dismounting and stepping behind a rocky outcrop on the ridge to hide herself. It was her father that she could see, flanked by several of his clansmen. They were also hiding next to some trees that Isla knew marked the border between England and Scotland, though one was never sure precisely where that border lay.

It was a wild country, and Isla knew she must keep her wits about her if this first foray after her father was not to end in disaster. She glanced along the track toward the village, but there was no sign of pursuit. Just the whistling of the wind and the ever-darkening skies above. Rain was imminent, and even as she pulled her cloak over the ill-fitting armor, the first drops began to fall.

Her father and his men were making ready to march onward now. Isla steadied her nerves and reminded herself that she was the daughter of a laird, a brave lass who could fight as well as any man. But despite having often walked this path in secret, today felt different. Today, she knew that she would be facing those loyal to Sir Percy Musgrave, Englishmen who had been responsible for her father’s death and for the numerous deaths of those she held dear.

“For them,” she whispered, and as her father and the clansmen disappeared over the hill down toward the English border, she rode after them in trepidation.

***

There was little to distinguish the frontier of England and Scotland from any of the surrounding countryside. Only a thin line of trees, which stretched down from the hill toward an isolated farm below. It was the last friendly house in England or the first hostile house across the border, depending upon your perspective.

The farm was well-fortified, built of stone, with a watchtower jutting above it. It was built in much the same way as the castle at Kirklinton, though to Isla, it was a foreboding place, and she shuddered as she looked down from the hill.

Her father and the other clansmen were nowhere to be seen. Presumably, they had ensured their approach was well-hidden so that they could take the enemy by surprise. The raid was not designed for conquest, only to cause havoc to the English, and Isla knew that her father would strike quickly, causing as much damage as possible before retreating across the border.

She watched from the same vantage point that her father and the clansmen had done just a while ago. The English flag was flying above the farmhouse, and she could see several peasants milling about. She steadied the horse, which had begun to stamp its hoof, stroking its mane and watching for any sign of movement.

Isla was not sure why she had followed her father in this way; perhaps it was a foolish thing to do. Her whole body felt tense, and her mind was racing through everything her father had said. Within her, there was a grim determination to seek out vengeance for the Armstrongs, but today would not be such a day. Sir Percy Musgrave would be safely behind his castle walls and would only discover the raid had taken place later on. She was hardly going to save her father from his sword or perform some great deed of valor as she had always dreamed of.

Instead, she watched for any signs of her father’s charge toward the enemy, waiting for her chance to join them. She would ride over the border as fearlessly as her present disposition allowed. It would be enough for her father to see her, to see that she was brave enough even to defy his strict orders, brave enough to follow him into the heart of enemy territory and, if necessary, defend herself.

Her mind was racing with such thoughts when suddenly there sprung forth a charge of her father’s men from either side of the trees on the hillside below. They had taken shelter just above the farm and now took the peasants by surprise, charging toward the farmhouse, their swords drawn. Isla knew that her time had come, and mounting her horse, she galloped after them across the border.

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If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter 1

Hoy Sound,

Off the south coast of Orkney

February 1773

Sunlight skipped across the white-tipped waves. Gulls wheeled, and a bracing wind whipped the salt spray up from where the narrow prow of the Caithness Seal cut through the water like a well-honed blade. Anne Gow leaned out across the churning water, the wind mussing her short black hair the way an affectionate father might do. Not that she had a father, of course. Nor even much affection to speak of. She pushed that thought aside and scanned the view.

Orkney. It was a sweeping, rocky, green prospect; black rocks stretching up from the deep grey water then giving way abruptly to a rolling green land under a vast, ever-changing sky. On a dry day like this, it was beautiful, and the sound of Hoy was good for sailing. On a stormy day, it would have been deadly.

“Sail!” came the shout from high above in the rigging. Anne glanced up at the boy who hung there above the billowing sail. She looked where he was pointing. Sure enough, at the entrance to the bay in which they were approaching, a little single-sailed fishing vessel was turning away from the open water and making its way back into the bay. As she looked over the deck of the ship, she saw that all the crew had seen it too. The village would be warned.

Feelings warred within her; while one part of her seethed with irritation that their planning had come to nought, another part of her felt relief that the little village would not be entirely unprepared for her uncle’s wrath. Then, with a roar, he came, storming through the centre of the crowd of his men. Her paternal uncle, her father’s brother, Neil Gow-Sinclair, with his bristly, patchy black beard sticking out in his fury and his face – horribly twisted by the thick mass of scarring down one side – red with his anger. The stump of his wooden leg thumped on the deck as he moved among his men, yelling orders which his first mate leapt to confirm. Sails up, put on speed, damn the landsmen, they would pay. The usual song.

Then his single, blood-shot eye found Anne.

“You,” he hollered, and there was no question about who he meant, “get back up tae the stern and watch out behind for pursuit. And ready yerself tae fight unless ye desire a whipping! I’ll have no idle hands upon my deck!”

Anne bobbed her head and hurried to obey. There was nothing, she knew, to be gained from disobeying her uncle, and she also knew that even in her case, his threats of physical violence were not idle ones.

The quarter-deck comprised a raised platform at the back of the ship, broad and well-appointed with gun loops, water casks, and a bolted-down table and chairs for the captain and the first mate to sit at in fine weather. There she found a seaman at the wheel of the ship. He gave her a curt nod of acknowledgment but kept his eyes on his task, holding the great wheel steady as the wind billowed into the sails, driving them forward. Anne clambered, monkey-like, up the thin ladder and onto the stern-deck, the highest point on the ship save the rigging. It was a narrow platform with two small quarter-pounder cannons facing back and was heavily reinforced to handle the recoil of the guns. It was also a prime spot to look out over the water behind them and scan for any pursuit. Anne followed her uncle’s orders, gazing out over the water as she took the sword-belt from her small sea-chest and strapped it on.

She was wearing clothes of heavy, dark leather, tight britches, jerkin, and high boots. Standing, she took gloves of leather from her gear chest and pulled them on, and then slipped her leather helmet down over her wild short hair, fixing the strap under her small, strong chin. There was a hide-bound wooden shield leaning against the side of the chest, and she hefted this onto her back then drew her long, light blade, making sure that none of her gear hindered the draw.

Anne Gow hated this, but at the same time, she was fiercely proud of her ability to do it and do it well. She was a fighter, and a damned good one at that, her prowess tempered in the fire of the crowd of hard fighting men who had been her family growing up. Having never known her mother, and with little memory of her father who had disappeared, her uncle was all that was left. What possessed Neil Gow-Sinclair to take her in and care for her she could not guess; it was not the impulse of a tender heart, of that she was sure. A less tender-hearted man would be hard to imagine, but for all that, there was sometimes a look of hard pride in the old sinner’s eyes when he saw her fight. And, of course, he had not always been as cruel and as heartless as today.

There was still no sign of pursuit, but she stuck to her post. Adrenaline thrummed through her, making her heart race, and behind her on the deck of the Caithness Seal men darted back and forth, making preparations for the fight to come, setting the deck in readiness. The rigging was crawling with figures, and as she watched, the three high masts bloomed into sail, strange flowers all opening at once. The captain, her uncle Neil, roared forth an order, and the sails billowed and caught the wind, driving the great ship forward with more speed than anybody would have thought possible.

And then, sudden as a diving gull, they rounded the headland and saw it snuggled small and homely-looking in the green, protecting arms of the small anchorage. A little village. Their prey. Her uncle roared out an animal cry of wicked satisfaction. Anne gritted her teeth and tried to prepare her mind for what must come.

***

“It’s a ship, Katheryn,” cried Thorvald to his sister. Katheryn pushed her long dark hair back from her face and shielded her eyes against the glare as she peered out over the bay. The day was clear, and warm for February, but a haze lay across the sea which made the boats on the water dance and vanish and return like mirages in a desert. Below them, the little village they called home snuggled between the twin arms of the bay. Peat smoke hazed the air above it and drifted back to their noses, a homely scent.

They had hurried back over from the clam beds where they had been that morning to harvest. Their father – they both called him ‘father’, though Thorvald was an orphan – had come around the bay to the clam beds in his little fishing boat and shouted to them to hurry home straight away. Now they stood, rough home-spun clothing flapping in the endless sea-breeze, barefoot, their youthful faces weathered by their long days living on the land by the water. For all that, they were a handsome pair, she, at twenty-one, a little older, and he, approaching the end of his twentieth year, a little taller. Both of them were too old to be running barefoot like children in the Orkney clam beds.

Katheryn nodded slowly and looked down into the village.

“Aye, it’s a ship, but she’s a big one, and I can’t make out the flag. Whatever can such a vessel want at Skylness? They’re coming in hard.”

“There, look there,” she grabbed his arm, and he looked where she pointed.

The woman they called ‘Mother’ stood up a little way behind the village. She had been scanning the land, looking for them. There was something of fear in her stance, leaning forward, peering through the haze up toward them. Now she began to wave, gesturing them to come down. Glancing back over her shoulder chilled Thorvald to the bone. On the water beyond, the big ship was lowering two smaller boats from the side. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked as if the boats were packed with men.

They ran the rest of the way to their mother.

“Oh, God,” she called as they ran towards her, “we do not know who it is, but ye must come down to yer father and the village folk. Yer father is sure that they have come tae plunder, as that has not happened for many a long year.”

Her pale face was streaked where tears ran tracks through the dust of her simple morning’s work. Thorvald tried to hug her, but she shook him off.

“Go, go, and find yer father and tell him ye have not forgotten how to fight! Katheryn, come with me, we will gather with the other women at the house o’ Francis Harcus, as it’s the biggest and the strongest in the village. Come on now.”

Katheryn met her foster brother’s eyes. The child who had picked the clams from their beds to eat was gone, and she saw instead in his dark eyes, the man he would become. She nodded once to him.

“Go, brother,” and without another word, he turned and jogged down through the village.

“Ah,” his father called, “praise God ye have come. Here, ye have a little time. They are still pulling in their boats tae the shore. The tide hinders them. Come!”

Thorvald took in the scene. Fishermen and craftsmen, peat-cutters, mackerel-smokers, the village blacksmith and the village bard. Even his father was a simple fisherman, with the nimble fingers which came from mending nets by the light of a peat fire in the evening, and the strong shoulders and powerful back of a man who rowed and hauled nets for his living. A healthy man, even a strong man, but without the build of a swordsman. And yet, for all that the men of his village seemed to Thorvald to be the least warlike imaginable, here they were, armed and armoured, grim faces turned toward the sea, their fists clenched around the shafts of long axes and the hilts of swords.

“Come on, lad,” said his father, “get ready. Ye remember what ye were taught, now?”

“Aye, father,” Thorvald added, a little shakily.

“Good lad.” His father gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder, then helped him into chainmail, which sat heavy across the young man’s shoulders, and a helmet of the old Norse style pointed at the crown with a figured nose-guard. Greaves for his shins, gauntlets for his wrists and forearms. He was also given an axe, a big two-hander, the curved blade glinting wickedly in the morning sun.

“No guns?” asked Thorvald. His father turned from where he had been tightening a strap on his own gear.

“No guns,” he confirmed wryly. “No powder, ye see. And few enough men who could shoot them straight even if we had them. No, lad, we will have tae rely on the old way today.”

All around them, the men of the village were forming up. There could not have been more than thirty-five all told, Thorvald thought as he fell into line beside his father. He stared past the nose guard toward the small boats, which were hauling toward the shore, the men they carried shouting with every pull of the oars. He made them fifty, at least, maybe more. And almost certainly more back on the ship. Why? The thought flickered through his mind as his little party took up their positions at the front of their village. Why? There was nothing here worth a raider’s time. Oh, there was dry peat, and smoked fish aplenty, and perhaps some odd valuables gathered out of sentiment by the local inhabitants, but none of that was worth the time of a heavily-armed raiding party, which this seemed to be. Another thought crossed his mind, and he nudged his father.

“Has a messenger ridden to Kirkwall?”

His father did not look at him but spoke low in reply. “Damned bad luck. The only horse in the village took lame the day before yesterday. Francis Harcus could not send anyone to ride the beast on three legs. He has sent his son Harold off in his wee boat toward Stromness, and he will get a horse there. He has sent the blacksmith’s son, young John, overland. On foot.”

There seemed nothing to say to this. Neither Harold Harcus in his boat nor young John on foot would be getting help for the village soon. The men of the village were on their own.

“Seems like they would have been of more use here,” someone commented. “Young John is handy with that hammer o’ his, and Harold Harcus is no fool either.” Despite the tension, there was a general laugh.

As the men of the village prepared for battle, Thorvald thought back, remembering the training which the simple village folk had undergone. Battle-hardened warriors had been sent from Kirkwall, the biggest settlement in Orkney, to train the men of the village in the art of sword, shield, axe and bow. They had drilled the men in simple melee formation and tactics, and put Francis Harcus, the leading man in the village, in charge of the little squad they had created. The women had been trained how to shoot bolts with an arsenal of old Venetian crossbows that had been brought from God-knows-where. Francis Harcus made sure everyone practised at least once a week, and every six weeks or so, the whole community was rousted out, fully equipped, and induced to fight mock battles on the seafront. Perhaps twice a year, men would come again from Kirkwall to inspect the supplies of weaponry, to talk at length with Francis, and sometimes to watch a demonstration of the village’s basic fighting skills.

At the time, none of this had seemed unusual to Thorvald. He had accepted it with equanimity, just as he had always accepted that fact that he was an orphan, Tom and Freida Fisher were the people he knew as parents. Now, as he faced for the first time the prospect of actually using his fighting skills in earnest, a fleeting thought passed through his mind: it was good they had been trained for this, but it was also just a little odd…

On the beach below them, the first of the Caithness Seal’s transport boats reached the sandbar. Men leapt into the churning surf to drag the boats up above the waterline. Sun glittered on the cold metal of their drawn swords as they turned their faces toward the village.

Chapter 2

“Form up!” came the order. Anne was among the raiders, no different from anybody else, her womanhood unidentifiable beneath her leather armour. Slightly smaller than the rest, perhaps somewhat less stocky, but these Caithness pirates and gutter swine from the Americas were not large men. The captain had stayed on board, leaving the command of the raiding party to his first mate, Juarez, a dark-eyed, curly-haired Spaniard who had been sailing with Neil Gow-Sinclair for as long as he could remember. His accent belied his looks, harsh northern Scots through and through, retaining no trace of the warmer climates where his ancestors had grown up.

“Remember,” called the mate, “we are here for the boy. He will be fighting as one of the men, but he will be younger and taller than most. His gear may be finer than the rest of them. They will protect him; watch for the man who they cleave tae. We will take multiple prisoners if we have tae, but let’s just try tae get the boy and get out. I don’t want any mistakes and no burning of homes except what’s necessary for the distraction. March!”

Anne’s heart pounded, and sweat dampened her brow under her leather helm as she moved forward with the others. They were a big group, outnumbering the men who stood awaiting them at the edge of the village by nearly two to one. All around her, the raiders took up their battle cries, but she kept quiet, knowing that her higher-pitched voice would stick out from the rest and draw attention. Instead, she focussed on scanning the defenders, looking for likely candidates for the boy who they had come to capture. There, she thought, in the middle of the group and slightly to the left, there was a figure who stood taller than most, and his gear looked, even at this distance, to be somewhat finer than the rest of the men around him. Juarez let out a shout, and the raiders broke into a run, clanking and rattling in their mismatched armour, ungainly as they closed the distance.

Then they got a shock. From the houses behind the line of defending men, there came a whistling rain of projectiles; around her, men cried out in pain and alarm as the short, stubby crossbow bolts found their marks. Juarez was quick to respond.

“Shields up!” he shouted, and the raiders formed a ragged protective formation while trying to keep up their pace. Anne peered up beneath her shield and saw what she had missed a moment ago – a group of people among the shadows of the low houses. They were unarmoured – the women of the village, she realised – and even as she watched, they raised up crossbows again and loosed a second volley. This time two raiders fell and did not get back up again. Anne felt heavy thuds as two bolts struck her shield and lodged there.

“On, on!” cried Juarez, and the men obeyed. Anne could see the tall youth better now – the sun shone on his high helm, and the figuring on his nose-guard seemed more elaborate than the others. Foolish, that. If you want to hide someone, you should not pick them out by giving them better gear than everyone else. Foolish. He was younger than the rest of them too, for sure. A handsome face, she thought; strong jaw, a long, straight nose, high cheekbones. She hoped they could take him quickly. For a moment, something strange happened. She could have sworn that he met her eyes. It was the most fleeting impression, but there it was. He saw her. Their eyes met. Then the defenders roared and charged down the slope toward the raiders, and the glimpse was gone.

They met with a mighty clash and roar, and almost immediately, Anne was aware of the shock within her party at the sheer ferocity of the defence. Nobody had expected this. The village of Skylness should have been populated with fearful fishermen who would run or drop to their knees begging for mercy at the sight of Neil Gow-Sinclair’s ferocious raiding party. Instead, they met steel with steel, and with volley after volley of crossbow fire. Men tumbled and crumpled in the sand, and the raiders fell back, their first charge repulsed. The defenders roared in fierce victory, and sure enough, Anne saw them gather around the handsome youth with the figured armour. Their leader was a big, brawny man armed with a huge, old-fashioned axe which he wielded single-handed, his round shield in the other. He raised both axe and shield up and roared out an order which she didn’t hear.

Juarez shouted “hold, hold! Remember the target!” and then another volley of crossbow bolts hit them, dropping more men. The raiders reformed around their leader, but the defenders did the same, and they had the advantage of high ground. Anne pushed forward with the rest of her group, flinging her small weight against the back of the man in front as their line braced to bear the brunt of the defenders’ counter-attack. Then, as they met and clashed once again, she squeezed backwards, away from the shoving, shouting press that was the front of the battle. The women with the crossbows were holding their fire, afraid to shoot into the melee. Anne moved to the edge of the group, glanced around, and found her target.

He looked like he was itching to get into the fray but could not. As she had done, he was pushing toward the edge of his group, trying to get to a place where he would have room to swing his axe. One of the men seemed to be shouting to him, trying to get his attention, but he was paying no heed. His eyes were fixed on Juarez, who was trying to keep order. The push of the last charge had run them back down the beach toward the boats – it was not far. As she watched, the handsome youth broke free of his group and ran toward the side of the raiding party. His axe was raised, and the raider he met fell with surprise in his eyes, his sword useless at his side.

The handsome youth roared out his victory and raised his axe to strike again, but Anne hit him a ringing blow on his helmet with the flat of her sword. His axe faltered, as he swayed, trying to turn, but she leapt full upon his back, dropping her shield, her fingers seeking the front of the fancy helmet that had given him away. She found the edge and hauled upward, wrenching it loose as he ineffectually batted her with his fists. Twisting around, he grabbed at her helmet, pulling it free and giving her a solid punch to her jaw. Dropping her sword, she hit him in on the side of the head with his own helmet, using every ounce of adrenaline-fuelled strength she could muster. He went down like a felled tree.

“Prisoner!” she yelled, “Prisoner!” Around her, her compatriots realised that their goal had been achieved. Three men leapt to her aid, and together they dragged the unconscious young man down the beach, his heels leaving a long trail in the wet sand.

“Fall back!” Juarez roared, as the defenders looked on in amazement. “They got him! They got Thorvald!” came the shout. Now was the critical moment. They would try to regain the prisoner. With the others, Anne put her strength into dragging the mail-clad youth over the lip of the boat. Retreating raiders piled in around them, the last few pushing the boat out, and then they were off, the sudden surf catching the fat-bottomed boat and hefting it upward as men fell to at their oars.

On the beach, she saw the last of the raiders fleeing full-tilt toward the other boat. The defenders were giving chase, but the invaders had what they wanted, and they were not going to hang about to argue. As the other boat beat off from the shore and got underway, Anne looked down at the unconscious young man who lay pinned in the bottom of the boat. She was still holding his fancy helmet, but she had lost her own, her shield and sword, too. The left-hand side of his head where she had hit him was swelling, and his left eye was puffy and swollen shut, but his right eye opened. It roved for a moment, then found her and held her in its gaze.

Anne realised that she was smiling.

***

“Grapples!” shouted the crew in warning from the deck of the Caithness Seal.

Ropes with grappling hooks fell splashing into the choppy water, eager hands reaching out from the small transport boats to grab them and hook them into the anchor points at either end.

“Grapples on!” went up the shout and “Haul up!” came the reply. Strong, practised shoulders were set to the winch wheels high above, the ropes snapped tautly, and the little boats began to rise, seawater sluicing from their shallow hulls as the sea gave them up. Thorvald lay on his belly in the bottom of the boat, glowering, as two men pinned his arms and another sat on his legs. The sides of the raiding vessel soared up like the sides of a cliff, dwarfing the smaller boat. The sailors cried aloud a rhythmic sea-song as they hauled the winch wheels in unison.

Thorvald struggled into a sitting position. His guards, two ugly men on each side, helped by hauling him painfully upward with their hands on his wrists and shoulders. Unwilling to show them his fear, he tried a smile through his swollen face.

“Well, lads,” he mumbled, “looks like ye’ve got me fair and square. I just wish I knew what this is all about, and why ye have taken me so!”

“Hah, he’s got pluck, this one!” guffawed one of his guards, a big, red-haired Scot with a face disfigured by old pox-scars.

“Kind of ye tae say so!”  Thorvald replied gallantly, “though it would have been even kinder tae leave me at home. If ye’ve kidnapped me for ransom, I’m sorry tae disappoint ye; I’m just the poor son of a fisherman, and in the whole village there’s barely enough coin tae pay a ransom.”

The transport boat bumped against the side of the Caithness Seal as it creaked up toward the deck, and without really intending to, Thorvald had caught the interest of the rough men with his banter.

“What does the Captain want with him, then?” called one sitting at the end of the boat. “Anne, he’ll whip the hide off ye if it turns out ye’ve taken the wrong man!”

Anne. Thorvald had a strange feeling when he heard the name. Anne? He glanced about and saw her. She was sitting in the boat a little way away, looking at him levelly. She hauled the leather helmet from her head, and the sweat and heat made her short hair stick up crazily around her pale face. She had dark eyes, a small, delicate nose, and red lips cracked with the sea salt in the air and long exposure to the sun. She was breathing deeply and looking straight at him.

What did he see in that gaze? Interest. Excitement. Perhaps a little weariness, sitting in the boat with her back bent and her elbows on her knees, her leather helmet dangling from her long fingers. What on earth, he wondered, was she – a woman clearly a few years younger than him – fighting with this gang of thieves and cutthroats. The surprise and shock must have shown on his face because one of his handlers leaned down and spoke near to his ear.

“Aye, that’s right,” he said. “Ye were captured by a girl!” The men all around him roared with laughter, and a smile flickered around the corners of Anne’s mouth.

Before he could reply, the boat bumped hard against the side as it reached the gunwale, then rocked as the men began leaping in twos and threes onto the deck of the Caithness Seal.  Thorvald watched Anne as she clambered competently from the transport to the deck. She was strong, he saw, lean and well-trained, economical in her movements, but still feminine despite her evident toughness. Strong, he thought again, wincing at the memory of the stinging blow she had dealt him with his own helmet. Where was the helmet now? Did she still have it?

She preoccupied his thoughts as his guards manhandled him onto the ship.

“Easy, lads,” he cried jovially, though his tone belied the tension he felt. He caught a flash of pale sunlight on metal. She did still have his helmet. He saw her slip it into a hessian sack as she disappeared toward the back of the ship. Anne, he thought. Her name is Anne. My captor.

“There’s the scum!” came a loud voice, harsh as a crow. Thorvald had to work hard not to recoil as he saw the sneering anticipation on the disfigured face of the man who clumped across the deck toward him. The man was ugly beyond the scarring on his face. He was ugly in a more profound way than just the physical. An ugly soul thought Thorvald.

“That him, Captain?” said one of the men holding Thorvald.

“Aye, that’s him alright,” sneered the captain. “Just as described. He give ye any trouble?”

“No, sir.”

“Ahh, I thought not. Just as well for him. Looks like a weak, whimpering boy to me.”

Thorvald drew himself up to his full height, and Neil’s face darkened, realising he would have to look up into his prisoner’s face. He drew back his knotty fist as if to hit Thorvald in his midsection, then registered the chainmail and changed his mind. Taking a step back, he surveyed the young man. All around them, men were moving about, sailors hauling the transport boats back over the side, and soldiers clapping each other on the back, pulling off gear and moving aft toward their quarters, where they could be out of the way of the crew on duty.

Neil spat on the deck at Thorvald’s feet, then gave one of the men holding him the smallest nod. The man kicked Thorvald’s legs out from under him, driving him to his knees, and Neil looked down on him with cold satisfaction.

“Strip the mail from him but leave him his clothes and boots for now. Lash him tae the mainmast. I want him where we can see him. Juarez, set sail for home and then come with me tae the quarter-deck tae report.”

He turned on his heel and stalked away, muttering.

Neil’s orders were ruthlessly carried out; his chainmail and an undercoat of good leather were removed, and he was lashed to the main mast with a great coil of rope, his hands bound separately at his sides, and even his ankles immobilised. As Neil had ordered, Thorvald’s elegant boots were left upon his feet – for now. Not knowing what else to do, the lad tried to keep up a merry stream of banter with his captors, but the sight of Anne watching quietly from the bow of the ship unsettled him. He could not read her eyes.

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