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Prologue

Kimelford, November 1715, Former Clan MacVarish Lands

The smell of woodsmoke was in the air as Edmund MacVarish looked up into the blue sky. An eagle cried and soared across the expanse of blue, putting hope into Edmund’s breast as he felt the hilt of his sword at his side. Battle was coming; The weight of his sword gave him strength and courage, reminding him of his duty.

Around him, the men were quiet, every muscle tensed and ready as the Crann Tara burned in his father’s hand. There were hundreds of them, five hundred at least, pulled from his clan and a nearby smaller one. It gave him some courage that so many young Highlanders were about him, all skilled with a blade. And yet, they did not know what numbers the English ranks held.

His father held the cross aloft, the flames licking higher and higher into the air. The cross reminded them to call their allies to arms. It was small, yet its image was clear—the cross of St. Andrew reminding everyone to fight to their utmost.

MacVarish banners blew in the wind as they stood on the enemy’s borders. Clan Rose would be there, wouldn’t they? The clans neighbored each other’s lands, lands the English had attempted to take from them through violence and bloodshed. This invasion was not to be borne—this ruination of a way of life.

“Keep yer heart, lad,” his father whispered to him, still lifting the cross. The smoke billowed and grew. “They will ken the sign and come tae fight for what is right. It is our way. Nae Highlander, worth his salt, would leave another clan tae death and destruction. Nae clan wants the English here.”

Edmund nodded, his bright blue eyes moving to his older brother Robert, who did not keep his attention on their father, the laird. They were all clearly kin, with matching black beards and hair blowing in the breeze. But Robert was more rotund and had a keener sense of leadership. Edmund envied him that, even at that moment. He wanted to be a hero, but Robert would do that for him. For them all.

Robert gazed into the distance at the approaching English, their stark red coats looking strange against the green pines and the blue November sky. Their muskets glinted under the sunlight, but Edmund held his ground. He was the younger son, but he would not falter that day.

“They are nae coming, Father,” Robert said. “We must march and fight. Forget Clan Rose.”

Edmund looked at the men behind them, kilted in MacVarish colors, long hair waving in the breeze, broadswords in their hands. Some gripped muskets, but they were far outnumbered by the English, who only drew nearer.

“Wait a moment,” his father said, and they waited. Edmund pulled his sword from his scabbard, the feel of it cold in his hand. Despite the time of year, it was a warm day, but an eerie, icy breeze blew over the land.

This could be the end of all things. We will either be victorious, or we will die.

He straightened up, trying to suppress his fear, as the English lifted their muskets.

“Father,” Edmund began, but his father held a hand. The only sounds were the bird cries, the trees rustling, the stretch of leather, and boots crunching over grass.
But then a shot fired, piercing the air with its harsh eruption. It zipped through the Highland army, piercing someone. A groan of pain echoed.

“They have nae come,” his father said, pulling his sword out and throwing the Crann Tara. “We must fight on our own merits. Me sons, ye are with me. Clan MacVarish! We fight for justice!” He held his sword out, made a battle cry, and rushed forward, his men behind him.

All was chaos and wildness. Edmund rushed forward to the mass of English soldiers.

Shots fired back and forth, but he swung his sword until it met flesh. A frenzy of panic and shouts fell over as they fought. Sweat covered his skin as the fatigue settled into his bones. The fight seemed endless.

His men, friends, and comrades fought alongside him, butut many fell, having received a blow from an English redcoat. Blood rang in his ears, blocking out all the other sounds of the battlefield. Time slowed, and everything blurred. As if he fought in a dream, he tried to understand the horror before him.

There are too many. Too many, his mind repeated like a constant drum.

But he kept fighting, kept going. He would do anything for Clan MacVarish, for the sake of his father and brother. It was his land and home, and they would have a new king whether England wanted it.

The field was strewn with men, and Edmund stood tall, catching his breath, as he saw his father and brother fighting soldiers. English soldiers swarmed them, knowing that they were the laird and the laird’s heir. Edmund jumped into action, racing to help, but he was too late. An Englishman plunged a sword into his father’s stomach, and Laird MacVarish fell to his knees with a groan.

“Nae!” Edmund cried aloud, the sound ripping from his throat. His father was the best warrior he knew. He had taught him everything since he took his first steps. Edmund was almost there. So close. Fury took over. He swung at his father’s killer and cut him down.

Others still fought against Robert, now coated in sweat and tiring.

“I am coming, brother!” Edmund called through gritted teeth, hitting his way through to his brother’s opponents. He cut down one, then another, but Fate turned cruel that day. Robert fell to his knees, an English blade impaling his chest.

Robert fell back, his lifeless eyes facing upward to the sky. Enraged, Edmund fought against the rest of them, only able to fell two. There was nothing but pain in his heart. The last English raised his sword and cut Robert’s head from his body.

Frozen in shock, his stomach writhed, and he collapsed. His brother’s murderer rushed toward him. But like a trapped, wild animal, Edmund drove a dagger into the English dog’s chest. The soldier crumpled. Red blood like his coat deepened with crimson blood.

“The battle is won! The laird is dead. No more need to waste time,” An English Captain shouted. “Put down your weapons. Take the rest as prisoners. We need something to show the general and tell the king.” Even though sweat and blood dripped into Edmund’s eyes, he saw the sneer on the man’s lips.

An acrid taste filled his mouth as the English gathered the remaining Scottish fighters. He had only a little time. Though Robert was dead, he needed to find his father. He crawled across the field, moving out of the way of English and Scottish bodies. If his father drew breath, he needed to be there. The laird should not die alone, not surrounded by English. Edmund was not yet ready to be without him. He was young, too green to lead their people.

He found his father still breathing, his hand clutching his stomach. With relief and tears, Edmund moved to him. “Father, ye are still here. Ye must forgive me. We failed. They are taking us away.”

“Nae, me lad. Ye have done well this day.”

Their men continued to rail against the English despite the commander’s words. They did not give up. Edmund’s eyes remained on his father. Nothing else mattered now that he would lose the ones he loved.

He reached for his father but was stopped.

“Nae,” the laird whispered, “I donnae have time, Edmund. Ye must live tae fight for us, tae fight back against the traitors who didnae come for us. Clan Rose must pay for what they have done. If they were here, we wouldnae have lost.” His father grimaced as he spoke. It was too much effort as he began to fade.

Hot tears brimmed in Edmund’s eyes; his father slipped away, his face paling from the blood loss. “I swear it, Father. I willnae rest until me vengeance is taken upon Clan Rose.”

“Good. Good. I leave Clan MacVarish tae ye…I ken yer brother is nae with us any longer…I shall go tae meet him in Heaven.”

“Nae, Father. Donnae leave me like this.”

“Go, lad. Be strong. And remember yer vow. Tell yer mother I think of her at the last-”

As his father took his last breath, hard hands gripped Edmund’s arms, lifting him to his feet and dragging him away. With grief and pain in his heart, Edmund threw his head back and screamed to the Heavens for what God had wrought that day.

Chapter 1

July 1717, Fort William

“Dear God, I cannae believe it is real. I can see the sky, can feel the breeze.”
Edmund’s friend and former man-at-arms, Gleason, looked at the sky. They walked through Fort William’s gates, out to a group of horses, saddled and ready.

“We have seen the sky, Gleason. These two years. We have felt the breeze.”

He didn’t want to think about happiness, even though the English had pardoned the rest of the living Jacobite rebels, and they were sending them home.

Gleason shook his head. “We havenae seen the sky but through bars, and we havenae felt the breeze unless it was mixed with the stench of death, piss, and blood. Donnae say that ye arenae happy tae breathe this air.”

Edmund narrowed his eyes at his old friend. They had shared a prison cell within the fort’s walls for the past two years. Gleason had long red hair, a thick beard, pale and gaunt features from lack of food and confinement. Together, they had been beaten, starved, and forced to listen to their friends being tortured. They had been imprisoned with others guilty of the same crime. The other rebels were executed over the years, but for some reason, Edmund and a few of his clansmen were spared. He had his suspicions as to why; he often wondered if their captors intended to ransom them at some point, but to this day, he did not know the whole truth.

Still, they endured tortures of their own, and Edmund bore numerous scars, but the cries of pain and suffering of others hurt more. Others who had fought for the same cause and failed as he had done. Each day only brought the painful memory that his brother and father were dead. And now he was to return home if there was still a home to return to as Laird MacVarish.

“The air is cleaner. I will give ye that.” He jumped astride the horse given to him, and his body remembered the motion. However, he was not as strong as he had been once.

“As soon as we are returned home,” Gleason said, “I will drink as much ale as I can fit intae me belly.”

“Aye, there will be a feast if there is a home, tae return tae.”

His small group only numbered five. From five hundred to five, all slain. Only five of the MacVarish men survived that fateful battle when the English had squashed the rebellion.

No soldiers came up to them. Only the guards to the fort watched them from afar, lingering suspicions. The general of the fort had let them go, telling them that they’d been lucky.

With the soldiers’ eyes on him, Edmund spat on the ground.

“Come, then, lads, let us leave this cursed place. In all me life, I never wish tae see another Englishman again.” He felt light with the lack of weapon at his side as they turned to leave, but that was also down to the English.

Disarming the Highlanders to keep them docile had been the intent and was now written into law, but Edmund swore to himself that he would hold a weapon in his hands again.

He would hold and wield it against his enemies for one final time to get his revenge.

His horse’s hooves rumbled underneath him as they headed south to Kimelford. He would once again see the sea, and as soon as he was home again with his mother and countrymen, he would make his plans for vengeance.

They rode for hours. He wouldn’t have noticed his need for food or drink until one of his men waved to him, pointing to a river ahead. He nodded and slowed the gait of his horse, feeling the ache in his arms at last from holding tight to the reins. When he jumped down, he led his horse to the water, and he sat down next to it, dipping his hands into the cool water.

He washed his face and then drank, letting the water quench his thirst.

“Ye are quiet, my Laird,” one of his men, Angus, said.

Edmund swung around, anger in his eyes. “Donnae call me that,” he snapped, wiping his wet hands on his dirtied kilt. “At least nae yet. There may be nae land tae go tae.

Nae castle tae return tae and nae place tae lay down our heads.” His voice was softer this time. Angus nodded and turned away.

Edmund chastised himself for his curtness. It was just happening all too fast, and he felt powerless against the wave of one change to the next. Prison had broken him, and he would return home a changed man. Gone was the innocence he had before battle when he’d still felt young and green, even at twenty-five. At twenty-seven, he was ancient.

Each scar on his skin told a story, reminding him why happiness wasn’t possible. There was only vengeance on his mind. That was his plan. If he could take his revenge upon Clan Rose, he could finally die a happy man. Or at least a satisfied and vindicated one.

Gleason approached him, holding out a hunk of bread. “Those English bastards gave us bread for the journey.” He gave him a great smile.

Edmund ripped off a piece. “Ye mean ye stole it?”

“Of course. They have freed us, but they would have wanted us tae starve along the way. I’m surprised they even let us keep the clothes on our backs.”

“For what good they’re doing.” Edmund looked down at his tattered appearance. The clothes he wore were the very ones he’d on that day in battle, and they were barely holding on. “We will bathe at Castle MacVarish.” He had hope for the first time in a long while.

“Aye, bath and ale and food. For as far as the eye can see. That is me greatest wish,” Gleason said, chewing on his piece of bread.

Mumbled ayes moved around the other men as they sat and ate what little they had between them. Edmund looked at the gaunt faces around him, the hollow expressions, the thick beards, and the long hair. Even if he didn’t want the title of laird to his name, it was his now. He would have to lead, even if the only things left to him were these men.

“We can get there by dark if we ride hard. There is nae point tae resting overnight unless the horses need it. But it is only twenty or thirty more miles from here. We can make it.”

The men nodded but said nothing. He would have their allegiance; he was sure of that.

But he was unsure if he had the strength to lead, knowing what had come before him.

After they rested, they rode on, only stopping once more before their tired horses rode into MacVarish land. His heart leaped with joy and relief when he saw the MacVarish castle was still standing.

He slowed as he approached, watching the torchlights flicker on the castle walls.

There were men about, but not as many as in his father’s day. Thinking of his mother, he hoped and prayed that she still lived and that grief had not taken her. As they got closer, he saw that people had gathered outside the castle gates.

Edmund’s heart was in his throat as he turned to Gleason, his friend’s pale face illuminated in the torchlight. “Here we are, old friend. It is a new beginning,” he said, feeling tears prickle at his eyes.

He stopped the horse and jumped down. Spying his mother, Freya, just ahead, he rushed forward as fast as his tired legs could carry him. His mother cried out as she ran to him, and they embraced tightly, his mother’s tears of joy wetting his shoulder as she gripped him tightly and wouldn’t let him go.

“I thought ye would never come home, Edmund,” she said. “God has brought ye tae me.”

Finally, when she pulled away, she held his face in her hands. She cried harder. “Ye are much changed,” she said, “but ye are whole.” Her hands traveled down his arms as if feeling him to make sure.

“Aye, Mother, I am whole in body.”

Nae in spirit.

“Edmund,” a deep voice said, coming from his mother’s side. He turned to see Murdoch, an old, wizened warrior, looking at him with a happy expression. “Welcome home, lad.”

He opened his arms. They embraced, and when they stepped back, Murdoch said, “Thank God yer back, Laird MacVarish. We have been waiting a long time for ye. Come, eat, and rest. All of ye. Ye are at last at home.”

***

The following day, Doreen Rose was packing furiously. Her heart pattered away in her chest as she tried to take stock of everything. Finally, she was leaving, and she didn’t want to forget anything. Pushing her red hair out of her face, she pulled a few books off the bookshelf and put them in the trunk. She wiped a tear away, angry with herself that she was crying.

Was she not happy to leave? Of course, she was, but at the same time, she wasn’t sure what reception she’d receive at home. Nor did she know if she’d have a place there any longer. Guilt and sorrow filled her breast, and she sat down, feeling like the tears would choke her.

A few deep breaths later, she closed her eyes, remembering the past. Her husband, Lord Henry Johnson, had been a terrible man, full of hatred and violence towards others. At least he had not hurt her, but he’d been despicable to anyone who got in his way. He was a drunkard, gleeful about the suffering and pain of others, and she’d been overjoyed when his death came to pass. It had almost seemed too good to be true because she feared that her life’s plan was set forever, living in England with this beast of a man.

But ye did it tae save yer clan.

Doreen sniffed and stood again, busying herself with more packing. Sometimes, she felt guilty for bemoaning her fate. She had saved her clan from ruin and execution, and she was given wealth and comfort as she’d never experienced before. But there was one thing she didn’t have: her family, and she hadn’t seen them since her marriage two years earlier. She had no idea what might have befallen them, and now that she was free to leave, she had to see them again to ensure that they were safe.

So many of her own kin had died at his hand, so she’d married him. To keep it from continuing. But while her clan was safe, they were seen as traitors to the Highlanders. While she could understand that name of traitor that had been put upon their good name, she wondered what other option she would have had. Would death for her clan and all her people have been preferable?

Doreen was so lost in her thoughts as she packed up the things that she didn’t hear the soft knock at the door. When she turned around, she jumped when she saw a man in the doorway.

“Och, it is ye, Oliver.”

“Forgive me, Doreen,” he said with a handsome smile, shutting the door behind him as he came into the room. “I did not mean to startle you.” He looked around the room. “I only meant to come and see if you needed anything. I cannot believe that you are leaving.”

She put her hands on her hips, trying to stop the trembling in her hands.

“I ken. It is a strange thing, after all this time.” She smiled. It was easy to smile around Oliver, Lord Henry’s younger brother. He was good-looking, with pulled-back long blond hair and kind blue eyes. He had always been gentle with Doreen, listening to her woes and speaking from the heart. He was the opposite of his elder brother, and they had become friends.

“Are you sure about this, Doreen? You do not have to leave. This is your home. You are Lady Johnson. As the widow, you can stay here, and I will take care of you.”

“No, Oliver. I thank ye, but that cannae be. I need tae go home and see me, family.
Yer brother has kept me from them long enough and has starved me of news of them. I have tae see how they fare. What was all this if nae for them?”

Oliver sat down on one of the wooden chairs in Doreen’s bedroom. He folded his hands on his lap, wearing a serious expression.

“But as you have told me before, your family will be considered traitors for marrying into an English family. What kind of homecoming can you expect?”

Doreen bit the inside of her cheek, not wanting to cry. While Oliver had been kind to her, Doreen still didn’t want to show weakness in front of men. Weakness fed them, especially men as vile as her husband had been.

“I ken it, Oliver,” she said sharply. She knew Oliver meant well, but she was tired of being restrained and confined. “It is nae from me own clan that I will feel the hatred. They are grateful that our lives and well-being were saved. That me people were allowed tae remain upon their land. But it is from other clans. We will nae longer have welcome amongst other people, and other villages. Especially nae Clan MacVarish.”

“Will you at least write to me? To tell me that you have arrived and that you are safe?”

Doreen smiled. Even if her family had not been around, Oliver had cared for her well enough.

“Aye, so I will. Donnae worry. I will write tae ye as often as I can.”

“How long will ye go?”

“I donnae ken. But donnae wait for me tae return, lad. I need tae find me own path and future now. I need tae heal from the past. Me family and I all do.”

He nodded. Looking saddened, he stood, digging at something in his coat. He pulled out a letter and handed it to her. It was thick. Doreen’s breath caught as she stared down at it. Slowly, her fingers took it up, pressing on what was inside.

Oliver shrugged.“I hope this will help you in your new future. You will be greatly missed, Doreen. By everyone. The servants and the other household members were happy to have you so near.”

“And I’m sure that they will soon have a new lady of the house tae assist them. Ye may marry and have a happy, new life.”

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “What woman does not want a rogue like myself?”

“Exactly.” She put the pile of money down on the bed and embraced him. She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Ye are a good man, Oliver. I thank ye for everything that ye have done. And I thank ye for this.”

“You are most welcome. Now,” he said, looking around, “are you ready? The carriage is waiting for you. Say the word, and I will send the men to your room to help you carry things down.”

“Aye, ye may go and send for them. I will remain here just to think for a little. In case I have missed something.”

“Of course.” He kissed her hand and left. In the silence, Doreen turned around, searching the chamber that had been her haven during her marriage.

“It is time,” she said to the room, and with another look back, she left, ready to face the path ahead.

Chapter 2

A nearby forest of trees hid a shadow that day, and Doreen was entirely unaware of its presence as she left her dead husband’s home for good. While her thoughts were toward the future and for her family home that she hadn’t seen in years, there were others whose eyes and thoughts were firmly focused on her as she rode away.

A hooded man in black held the reins of his dark horse tight as he watched Doreen Rose departing in a carriage from Lord Johnson’s large home. He was tall and looming, and even though it was the afternoon, darkness hung around him, heavy and thick. A large bevy of soldiers on horseback trailed behind Doreen’s carriage. He counted their number casually, making plans. The hooded man pulled back under the nearby trees, his two riders behind him doing the same to keep it secret and safe. His beady eyes kept a close watch, and he made a low sound in his throat. They all looked on as the carriage left the road attached to the house, turning north towards Scotland, and he grunted again.

Cold, hard eyes watched the path of the black carriage, anger settling in his breast.

His shoulders and wrists flexed as he held the reins even tighter. The black horse stomped its foot, eager to move on. As the carriage drove further away, he barely turned his head and said, “It is time,” a low, deep voice filled with menace. He turned to the riders behind him and nodded, “Let them know.”

The two riders turned and rode off without a word, their black cloaks and black horses melding into one as they disappeared through the trees.

***

Edmund felt his mother’s hand wrap around his arm as they stared at the graves of his father, brother, and the men who had fallen that day on the outskirts of his land. “I have come every day since, foolishly hoping tae find yer father alive and well, waiting for me with a smile.” She sniffed, and Edmund’s eyes filled with tears as he looked at the graves built for his father and brother.

“I am glad they are buried close by,” he said stiffly, “nae taken by the Englishmen.” He shuddered, remembering how the one English soldier had cut off his brother’s head, a smug look of satisfaction on his face as he did it.

“They left everything that day,” she said. “Murdoch and the young guards at the castle took the bodies and gave them a proper burial. We have prayed for their souls each day for the good work they have done. It is good tae see that many survived. More than I expected or heard.”

Edmund gritted his teeth. He wasn’t sure what good work they’d done, for it had failed because of Clan Rose. “Clan Rose will pay for this, Mother. They are why Father and Robert are buried in the ground and nae here with us.”

“But ye are here, me son,” she said, leaning her head against him. “God has shown some mercy tae us at long last.”

Edmund had given up thoughts of God long ago, but he said nothing. His mother’s heart had been broken too many times already. He would not be the one to break it again with his words of blasphemy.

“Murdoch has done well in yer place, but I ken that it has worn on him. He doesnae feel worthy.”

“Neither do I. The position was never meant tae pass tae me. Robert was always the better one. Better suited for battle, for lairdship.” Tears were falling silently down his cheeks. He made no sound, just fixed his eyes forward, unable to look at his mother.

“Donnae say such things, Edmund. Ye are loved, and ye have everything ye need tae be the laird yer father was, and yer brother would have been. They are looking tae ye now, tae take their place and lead with all the strength and courage already within ye.” She patted his hand. “I ken it.”

Edmund couldn’t agree with his mother, but her words were well-meant. She pulled away from him. “I will leave ye with them, me son,” she said softly, her eyes flicking over the graves. “It is important tae grieve properly. Or else it will lay heavily in yer breast forever. I donnae want that for ye.” With one last lingering touch of her hand on his, she was gone, and he could hear her footsteps on the dirt path leading back to the castle. They faded into the distance, and he sank to his knees, giving vent to his grief in full, the sobs coming hard and fast.

Tears fell onto the ground that held his family. He placed his hands on the ground, wishing that he could bring them back to life by mere touch. It would make his guilt go away at long last, the guilt of not being able to help them that had rotted away in his breast ever since that fateful day.

“I am sorry,” he said as he let his tears run, and his mind turned to revenge. He could not bring his father and brother back, but he could do this for them. “I swear it again, Father, Robert, I willnae rest until vengeance is taken upon Clan Rose for their cowardice and refusal tae help. It is me life’s goal. Yer deaths will be avenged, and ye may rest in peace.”

His oath floated away on the breeze, and after a bit, he left for the castle, no turning back. Inside the castle, he checked on his men, and then he walked to his father’s study. It was the one place in the castle solely the laird’s. When he entered, he held his breath as he had done when he was a young boy, coming to ask his father about something foolish.

When he shut the door behind him, he felt the weight of his new responsibility on his shoulders. The room was exactly the way that he remembered. The desk was in the center of the room, with a window behind it, facing out towards the loch and the sea beyond.

Shelves of books and other things flanked the desk, and there was a large hearth on the right side of the room. A table with whiskey and glasses stood nearby, along with chairs made of leather and fur rugs on the floor.

His fists clenched and unclenched as he began to walk around, looking at the shelves, the papers on the desk, the decanters of whiskey. He closed his eyes and breathed in.

It even smelled the same as it always had. Even though he was frightened, with fear and unease in his heart, the smell gave him courage. It made him think of his father’s words, “Being afraid means nothing, lad. It is what ye do when ye feel the fear that matters.”

He filled a glass of whiskey and then slowly sat down in the chair behind the desk, imagining his father sitting there years before. He had to push beyond the fear, as he had been taught to do in battle, and he had to be the laird that his father would have wanted. After drinking the whiskey in one gulp, he slid his hands over the desk’s wood, his mind still catching up with him and his new place in the world.

He had to think of a way to get his revenge. It was his first order of business as the new Laird MacVarish. Leaning back in his chair, he remembered what Murdoch had told him the day before at a well-deserved dinner for him and his newly arrived men. Edmund had mentioned Clan Rose, and Murdoch said they were keen to add to their number of warriors.

It sounded odd to him at the time because no one knew why they were sending out for more. Clan Rose was one of the more well-known clans for their skills in battle. And that was why his father had called upon them to join in the fight against the encroaching English. But the clan had not reduced in number because they hadn’t come to his family’s aid when called for. So why seek new warriors?

“Perhaps I will be a soldier, coming tae their aid, since they are in such need of them.” He spoke aloud to himself, steepling his fingers together, then chewed on the inside of his cheek as he thought. It had been years since he’d been imprisoned, so he was not likely to be recognized by anyone in the clan. Besides, even though his mother had begged him yesterday after dinner, he refused to shave and cut his hair.

That morning, he had only allowed the servant to trim his beard back a bit, and he would tie the long, black hair back when needed. But he preferred his appearance this way, rough and scarred, carrying the memories, reminding him of what his future needed to be. A soft knock at the door roused him from his plans.

“Aye?” he said, leaning forward to push a few papers aside. He folded his hands on the desk.

Slowly, his mother peeked her head around the door, and she smiled when she saw him behind the desk. However, it was a slightly sad smile, as if something didn’t meet with her approval.

“Is it too strange for me tae be in the room, Mother? I could ask for another study tae be prepared if ye would prefer.”

“Nae, nae at all,” she said, sitting across from him, her eyes still assessing him. “I think ye look very fine there. It suits ye.”

Even as she spoke, tears filled her eyes, and his heart ached at the sight. She lifted a hand when he tried to speak again.

“Edmund, I need tae ken something. I ken that ye didnae tell me, and I shouldnae ask further about it, perhaps, but I need tae ken. Murdoch gave me the impression that ye might seek revenge upon Clan Rose for what they did.”

Edmund lifted a brow. While he hadn’t said that outright to the old man, he supposed it had been evident in the angry way he spoke about Clan Rose.

“Aye, that is me plan.” He nearly asked if she had a problem with it, but he refrained, not wishing to be rude to the last remaining member of his family. He would treasure still having his mother for as long as he lived.

“Thank you for being honest. I appreciate that.” Quickly, she wiped a fallen tear with the back of her hand and turned her intelligent green eyes on him. Even after all she’d been through, his mother still looked impossibly young and bright. There was an aura of general sadness about her, but it didn’t take away from her beauty. “Must you?” she asked in a much quieter voice. He could see the muscles tighten in her neck as if it took all her energy to ask him.

“I can see nae other possible way for me tae move on from what happened, Mother. I must avenge their deaths. It is the way of a warrior. Ye werenae there. Ye didnae see….” He stopped himself before he hurt his mother any longer with a description of the battlefield and the violent loss of her husband and son.

“I understand. It makes sense for you tae want tae do something. I cannae imagine what ye have suffered, me dear boy.” She wiped another tear and stood. “But I hope that ye willnae do anything too dangerous and that ye will be soon home.”

“I plan tae send meself as a warrior tae Clan Rose. Murdoch told me they are in need, and I will go. It is suspicious, as if they are planning some sort of attack. It will be the best way tae infiltrate them. Perhaps even stop whatever they are planning.”

She nodded again, looking more solemn. He hated to hurt her, but there was no other way around it. He needed to take his vengeance and help his father and brother rest in peace at long last.

To help assuage the guilt he felt at making her worry about him, he said, “Mother, I havenae been able tae give ye this message for two years. But I was with Father when he died.” He could feel his throat thickening at the memory, but he had to get the words out. His mother deserved to know. “He wanted me tae tell ye that he thought of ye at the last breath.”

He watched as a pained, yet happy expression crossed his mother’s face.

“Thank ye, Edmund. I will treasure that forever. I will see ye at dinner.”

Edmund looked at the door for a little while after she left, then took a pencil and scribbled on one of the papers on his desk. He would leave as soon as possible for Clan Rose, and then maybe, just maybe, he could find that sweet release from the guilt that hung on him. He might yet find freedom.

 

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Prologue

Scottish Highlands, Spring, 1530

“Come, Luthais, my lad, there is nay time,” the man said, whispering to the baby boy, who he now lifted into his arms.

He could hear the sounds of the battle outside, shouts and cries, the splintering of the gates, and the thud of a battering ram. Through the turret room window, he could see flames leaping into the night sky, a red glow enveloping the castle. The attack had come entirely by surprise, just as the bells had tolled the midnight hour.

Alastaire Martin had rushed to the north tower to rescue the child sleeping peacefully in his cradle.

“The laird is dead,” a shout from the passageway came, and Alastaire gave a cry of anguish, cursing the enemy for their wickedness.

“Barbarians, cursed barbarians,” he exclaimed as the child in his arms began to cry.
“Ye must hurry, Alastaire, get Luthais to safety. Ye can escape through the side gate, tis’ the courtyard they have breached. But hurry, there is nay time to lose,” a woman’s voice from the passageway called out.

Alastaire had little time to think. He snatched up a few of the child’s clothes, searching for them by the flickering light of a candle that burned in a sconce on the wall. There was the shawl the baby’s mother had made when she was with child – full of hope and expectation for the future – and his bonnet, a gift from the Laird himself on the occasion of Luthais’ christening. The baby was wrapped in a blanket, crying and squirming at being disturbed from his sleep. Alastaire held him close, hushing him, as the woman, a maid named Esme Donnegan, entered the room.

“But where are we to go? The castle is our home. What are we to dae?” he exclaimed.
“Get as far away from here as possible. Tis’ for Luthais’ sake ye flee, and for the clan. Ye must go now, Alastaire. Find a quiet place where ye shall be hidden and speak of this to nay one until the time is right,” she said, her eyes filled with tears as she gazed down at the child in Alastaire’s arms.

“And what of ye? What will ye dae? Come with us?” Alastaire implored her, for she had been as good as a mother to Luthais since the tragic day his birth had claimed the life of his mother, Freya.

“I cannae – I have my father to think of. I cannae leave him at the mercy of these beasts. But quickly… please, hurry – for the sake of the child,” she implored him, taking him by the arm, as the shouts of battle raged from the courtyard below.

The castle was in uproar, servants, and clansmen dashing back and forth, and the sounds of the enemy, the Clan Campbell, bitter enemies of Clan Martin, coming from all around. They hurried down one of the back staircases, which wound its way into the cellars below the great hall, the way lit by flaming torches in brackets on the walls.

“Go and see to yer father. Perhaps the two of ye can escape. We can wait for ye in the forest or by the ford over the stream,” Alastaire said, clutching Luthais to him, his heart beating fast, desperation entering his voice at the thought of Esme’s cruel fate at the hands of their sworn enemy.

“Perhaps we shall meet again, Alastaire – but if nae, then… I am glad we have known one another, and ye, too, Luthais,” she said, placing her hand gently on the baby’s head.

Alastaire fought back his emotions, even as Esme urged him to leave. He reached out his hand to her, the two paused for a moment in the sorrow of their parting. Their entire world was now slipping away, the permanence of the past replaced by the uncertainty of the future.

“I will nae forget ye,” Alastaire said, and she smiled at him.

“And I shall be pleased nae to be forgotten. Now go, tis’ for all our sakes ye flee with the child,” she said, and Alastaire nodded, turning on his heels and hurrying along the passageway which led to a door opening onto the servant’s yard.

Luthais had stopped crying now, but Alastaire knew how easily he could give them both away. He paused, waiting in the shadows, listening to the sounds of the battle raging in the courtyard over the stable wall. Flames now engulfed much of the keep, and Alastaire could see the clansmen fighting in a last desperate bid to keep the enemy at bay on the battlements.

“One day, Luthais – one day ye shall return, and what was destroyed shall be rebuilt, what was once noble will be reclaimed, what is ours will be ours again,” he whispered, pulling his traveling cloak tightly around him, the baby clutched in his arms like a precious treasure.

He glanced to left and right before making a dash across the servant’s yard in the direction of the side gate. Through here, merchants would ride their horses and carts into the castle, cattle would be driven for slaughter, or the servants would ride out to fetch supplies from the village. It led to a narrow track through the forest above a ravine which swept down to the river impossible for an army to approach by, and it was through this gate which Alastaire planned to make his escape.

“But where to go? What to dae?” he asked himself, despairing at the prospect of the future.

He had with him only the clothes he wore, a little money, and food which Esme had hastily packed into a bundle for him before he left. But Alastaire had no choice but to flee. Luthais had to be kept safe at all costs – their future depended on him. He was the only hope of the now ruined clan. It was a heavy burden to bear – the responsibility of duty, the weight of so many hopes resting on the shoulders of a tiny baby wrapped in a blanket.

“Stop!” a voice called out, and Alastaire wheeled around to find a soldier pointing his sword at him.

He had just leaped down from the battlements, and to his horror, Alastaire saw an enemy swarm had broken through the courtyard and was scaling the roofs of the stables. They would surround him in a few moments. The soldier advanced towards him, but he stopped short at the sight of the baby in Alastaire’s arms, his eyes growing wide with astonishment. Alastaire used his surprise to an advantage, and he darted back into the shadows, drawing a dagger from his belt as the enemy clansmen charged forward with a roar.

“Stop there, stop,” he cried, but Alastaire now wheeled around and struck the soldier in the neck with his dagger.

He gave an ear-splitting scream and fell to the ground. Alastaire was now at the gate, and he pulled back the bolts, the hinges creaking as he struggled to open the great oak doors. The enemy was swarming into the servant’s yard, but with a final effort, he slipped through the gate and ran as fast as he could into the trees beyond the castle walls. He did not stop until sheer exhaustion caused his feet to give way beneath him, and he sank to his knees, gasping for breath.

“Ye are all right, Luthais, my lad,” he whispered, kissing the baby’s forehead.

The forest was dark, the moonlight hardly penetrating through the canopy above.

Alastaire listened for any sign of pursuit, peering through the trees and back towards the red glow of the burning castle. He could hear far off shouts, screams, and agonies, his heartbroken by the thought of what he had left behind. But no one had pursued him, and he rose to his feet, cradling Luthais beneath his cloak, a grim realization now coming over him.

“We are all that is left, my lad – ye are a destiny,” he whispered, knowing the future was nothing as it had intended and hurrying off into the forest with hope in short supply.

Chapter One

Twenty-Eight Years Later, Scottish Highlands, Summer, 1558

“As I cam’ in by Dunidier, Andoun by Netherha, There was fifty thousand Hielanmen A-marching to Harlaw. As I cam’ on, an farther on, an down and by Balquhain, Oh there I met Sir James the Rose, Wi’ him Sir John the Gryme…” Luthais Martin sang, swinging up his axe and bringing it down on a piece of wood with a deft split.

“And if ye knew the other verses, perhaps we might enjoy it, Luthais. But ye sing the same words about Harlaw every day. What other ballads will ye sing for us?” his friend Marie Donelly asked, smiling at him as Luthais laughed.

It was a hot day, and he had removed his shirt, standing only in his breeches by the stream, which rushed past the stables and croft where he and his father had lived ever since Luthais was a child. He had been chopping wood all morning, kept company by Marie and her sister, Lucile, whose parents were the village bakers and who lived in a cottage across the way. Luthais mopped his brow and came to sit down next to them, smiling at them as he pulled on his shirt.

“Tis’ hot work,” he said, leaning down to cup water from the stream which he splashed on his face.

Despite the day’s heat, the water was icy cold and flowed down from the mountains that towered above the glen. Even in the height of summer, they remained capped with snow, and Luthais often gazed up at them, wondering what adventures were to be had amongst their lofty peaks.

“And ye have a good pile there – it will keep the fires goin’ for the bakin’ these few weeks to come,” Marie said, pointing to the large pile of wood which Luthais had cut.
He looked at her and grinned, even as both sisters blushed under his gaze.

“We should go and help our mother, come along, Lucile,” Marie said, rising to her feet and smiling at Luthais, who nodded.

“Is yer mother makin’ any more of those griddle scones? My father enjoyed them very much – as did I,” Luthais said, and Marie shrugged her shoulders.

“I daenae know, but I will see – I am sure a batch of our mother’s griddle scones might be worth the shoddin’ of a shoe for Bellamy. The poor horse was limpin’ yesterday when I rode out. Would ye take a look at him?” she asked, and Luthais smiled and nodded.

“I daenae need a bribe to dae so. Bring him over to the stables later on. I had better see to my other jobs now. My father will be wonderin’ why it has taken me so long to cut the wood,” he said, reaching down into the stream.

He cupped his hands into the water and made a sudden movement, splashing Marie and Lucile so that they squealed.

“Wicked lad!” Marie exclaimed though she could not prevent herself from laughing.

They parted company, and Luthais searched for his father, finding him in the blacksmith’s workshop at the anvil.

“Dae ye need more wood for the fire, father?” he said, and his father looked up and shook his head.

“Nay thank ye, lad, tis’ hot enough,” he replied, smiling at Luthais, who nodded, peering with fascination at the glowing flames of the fire, where molten iron became anything his father desired it to be.

“Or somethin’ fetchin’ from outside? I can run for whatever ye need,” Luthais said, but his father shook his head again and beckoned him towards him.

“Nay, lad, tis’ hot enough. Come and sit a moment; we might talk awhile,” he said, laying down a glowing poker and a pair of tongs.

He had just plunged a freshly worked horseshoe into the water trough, where it hissed and steamed ferociously, and Luthais watched as he drew it out and laid it out to cool. Luthais’ father was old, with a long white beard and weather-beaten face. He had always seemed old to Luthais, who had never known his mother, the two of them living and working together in the stables in the small village of Achmelich, which lay in the shadows of the eastern Grampian Mountains. It was the only life Luthais had ever known, simple but happy, even as he knew his father had lived a very different life before the one he had as a farrier, far away on the Isle of Mull. But despite his age, his eyes twinkled and sparkled with life, drawing the two of them close.

“Is somethin’ troublin’ ye, father?” Luthais asked, tearing a piece of bread from a loaf on the table and chewing it ponderously.

His father sat down and sighed, holding out his hands in front of him and shaking his head.

“I have more winters behind me than before me, lad,” he said, and Luthais smiled.

“Why speak of winter in the summer, father?” he asked. Alastaire pointed to the horse in the stable across the workshop.

Here, they kept the horses whose shoes they were making or whose injuries they were tending. The old nag gazing from the stable door looked in a sorry way, and Luthais glanced curiously at his father, who sighed before he spoke.

“That horse would have another five years in her if old McGrath treated her with a little decency. He has driven her lame, and he does nae feed her,” Luthais said, rising to his feet and going over to pat the horse on her nose.

She whinnied and feebly stomped her hoof.

“She should be turned loose, allowed to live out her days in the wild. She is of nay use to him now – but he shall have her re-shod and ridin’ out within a day – whatever ye or I say,” Luthais’ father said, sighing and shaking his head.

“But we have seen many a lame horse, many an animal ill-treated by its master. Tis’ a terrible and wicked shame, but we can dae nothin’ save our best. We shall feed her, make her comfortable, and show her the kindness her master lacks,” Luthais said, as now the horse nuzzled her nose into his face.

“Aye… but… tis’ nae that. Tis’ the thought of what is to come. There is nothin’ else, nothin’ more than this,” his father replied, and Luthais turned to him in surprise, for it was rare to hear his father speak in such way.

“What ails ye, father? What has brought this ill-humor on ye? Are ye comparin’ yerself to the horse?” he asked, concerned as to why his father would speak like this.

“I am growin’ old, Luthais, and like this poor old nag. I just want to rest. But there is somethin’ I need to dae – a place I need to return to. I want to go back to Mull and to see my old home one last time,” he said.

Luthais nodded. His father meant the Isle of Mull. It was where he had been raised and where Luthais had been born, even as he knew precious little else of his origins. His father rarely spoke of those days, only occasionally on long winter nights when they would sit huddled around the fire in the forge and share stories both mythical and true. Luthais knew his father had been a soldier, a clansman, but that war and tragic circumstance had forced him to flee. Other than that, Luthais knew little of his family, who he was, or who he was meant to be. He was just the son of a blacksmith, that was all, and yet there was a past he knew nothing of, one he would dearly have liked to know more about. Now he looked at his father and smiled, knowing that once his father had an idea in his head, he would not easily be dissuaded from it.

“Tis’ a long journey, father – many miles from here. It would take weeks to get there. We would need to remain there sometime,” Luthais said, and his father nodded.

“I know that, and I cannae expect ye to come with me. But to see the Isle of Mull one final time, to relive those memories I left behind,” he said, his tone sounding wistful.

“I wouldnae let ye go alone, father,” Luthais said, and his father smiled.

“Ye are a good lad, Luthais – but I cannae ask that of ye. Yer place is here with the stables and the horses. Ye have such a gift for healin’ – folk come to ye from miles around with their animals. Ye are to inherit the place when I am gone,” he said, but Luthais interrupted him.

His father talked as though he was dying or expected to do so very soon. Luthais had given no thought to inheriting the stables, nor did he want to do so, given that to inherit would mean bearing the sorrow of his father’s death.

“All this talk of leavin’ and inheritin’ and death… I daenae like it, father,” he said, but the older man only shook his head and smiled.

“Things don’t always stay the same, Luthais. Tis’ the way of the world. I must dae this whilst I still have the strength in me to dae it. The journey will be long and arduous, and I daenae know what I will find when I arrive there,” he said, placing his hand on Luthais’ shoulder as he left the anvil and came over to pat the horse.

“Ye have never really spoken of it, father. I know I was born there, but Mull is… a foreign country to me. Tis’ a mystery, one I would like to see for myself,” he replied.

His father sighed, taking his hand from Luthais’ shoulder, his expression seeming torn between truth and pain. What was it that had happened all those years ago to drive his father away from the land he loved, Luthais wondered?

“And ye shall – we shall make the journey together. These good folk can shoe their own horses for a few weeks. I know ye have many questions about the past, Luthais, and I want to answer them. I want ye to know the truth, but nae just yet. Let us go to Mull, and ye shall see it for yerself,” he said.

After he had gone to bed that night, lying awake and listening to the sounds of the stream gushing past the croft, Luthais allowed his mind to wander, imagining what might have been if he and his father had remained on the Isle of Mull.

“I could be anyone,” he mused, smiling to himself at the thought of what Marie would say when he announced they were leaving.

He would miss her, of that he was sure, but the promise of adventure was too great an opportunity to pass by, and with his mind filled with possibility, Luthais fell asleep, dreaming of all that was to come.

Chapter Two

“Bullseye! Dae ye see that, from fifty yards, a perfect shot,” Valora Campbell exclaimed, tossing aside her bow and clapping her hands in delight.

Her friend, Ella McGill, sighed and shook her head, threading an arrow to her bow and aiming at the target they had attached to a tree across the clearing in which they were practicing.

“I have missed every other one of my shots,” she said, as now she let loose her arrow, and it whistled off into the trees, this time entirely missing the target, despite the concentration of her aim.

“Ye will get better – it takes practice, Ella,” Valora said, but Ella only groaned.

“I have been practicing as long as ye. Why is it ye can hit the target perfectly every time and hardly a single one of my arrows have hit home?” she asked.

Valora shrugged her shoulders and laughed.

“I daenae know – perhaps an ancestor of mine was skilled in such a way,” she replied as Ella sat down on the mossy ground and folded her arms sulkily.

They had slipped out of Valora’s father’s castle early that morning, taking a hidden passageway carved into the rock – built as an escape in times of war – which led out into the forest. They had often slipped away like this, even if Valora’s father had strictly forbidden it. Neither Valora nor Ella paid much heed to what they were and were not allowed to do, and they were often in trouble for disobeying the Laird’s rules.

“If an ancestor of mine were, they would be ashamed of me,” Ella replied, sighing and lying back on the grass to gaze up into the sky above.

It was a bright, sunny day, a gentle breeze playing through the trees and the sweet scent of the forest in the air. Valora took up her bow once more and aimed a perfect shot at the target, letting out a cry of delight as she did so.

“Our enemies will soon be vanquished,” she said, and Ella laughed.

“And dae ye think yer father will allow ye to ride out and fight? Nae, Valora – ye and I both know what our lot is to be,” she said, and Valora’s face fell.

“Aye, all too well,” she said, knowing her friend’s words were true.

She had often dreamed of fighting alongside her fellow clan members, of riding to victory at the head of her father’s army. For that reason, she had practiced long and hard with sword and bow. But her father would never allow such a thing. He would claim that a woman was fit only to bear children and be a faithful wife, that the very idea of one such as she or Ella wielding a sword or aiming with the bow was a folly of the worst kind.

“Women daenae fight, they raise children and remain obedient,” he would say – she could hear his voice even now.

“And what have ye done about it?” Ella asked, sitting up and looking at Valora with her head on one side.

“Done about it? Nothin’ is what I have done, and nothin’ is what I intend to dae. But ye know my father will nae rest until he has me married off for some political gain. I am a pawn, Ella, and tis’ as a pawn I will remain,” Valora replied.

But in the back of her mind, the matter weighed heavily on her. Her father was growing increasingly insistent on her finding a husband, not only to take her off his hands and make her someone else’s responsibility but for the good of the clan, too. These were dangerous times, and a well-placed marriage would have ramifications far beyond the bedchamber.

“Yer father will nae wait much longer – he will force ye to marry his own choice if ye daenae make yer own,” Ella said.

“And since when was I to make my own choice, anyway?” Valora retorted.

She knew precisely what her father intended. He already had a match in mind, and all those she had been introduced to had been of his design, too. Her father, the laird, would never allow a match born out of love or affection. This was a political matter, and if it happened to correspond with Valora’s own feelings, that would be a happy chance. Her fate was decided, and it was a fate she felt burdened by. But out here, in the clearings of the forest, with Ella at her side, Valora could at least pretend to be master of her own destiny, and in her mind, that destiny was the path of the warrior.

“I only pray that the next one he chooses is better than the last,” Ella said, rolling her eyes, a smile coming over her face.

Valora laughed – her father’s last choice had been a man Valora had taken an immediate disliking to him. Her father had insisted on the match, but after Valora had taken her suitor riding in the forest and left him humiliated in the chasing of a stag, the betrothal had been hastily called off.

“Perhaps ye will fall in love,” Ella said, but Valora shook her head.

“What man could tame this wayward lass?” she asked, fitting an arrow to her bow and aiming it at the target.

She let it fly with a whoosh, the arrow meeting its target perfectly, and she smiled, fitting another arrow to her bow, just as the crunch of a twig caused both women to look up.

“Daenae shoot, I am unarmed,” Callum Campbell said, appearing through the trees with a smile on his face.

He was one of her father’s most loyal and trusted soldiers, charged with protecting Valora – a task she did not make easy.

“How did ye know we would be here?” Valora asked, lowering her bow as Callum stepped into the clearing.

He was a tall man, handsome and rugged, with a neatly trimmed black beard and bright blue eyes. He smiled at her and glanced at the target, where the arrows stood out as a proud testament to her skill.

“Ye were neither of ye in yer chambers. I knew ye would be here; ye always are. Yer father was angry, I knew ye would disobey him… I knew ye would be here,” he said as Valora smiled.

“Have we been missed?” Ella asked, but Callum shook his head.

“Only by me, and I was lookin’ for ye – but yer father will dae so soon. He has somethin’ he wishes to say to ye. We should return to the castle. We can take the way ye slipped out through, the way that is forbidden ye,” Callum replied, raising his eyebrows.

Valora laughed. There was not much which escaped Callum’s notice. He knew of her desire to fight in her father’s army, and he knew well enough of her disobedience, has often taken the blame for her waywardness. She was fond of Callum – a dependable, loyal, and courageous soldier, trusted and respected by all.

“Then we should return inside. I wouldnae want ye to get in trouble for nae watchin’ us, Callum,” Valora said, smiling at the soldier as she gathered her things.

Ella did the same, and the three of them walked together through the trees and towards the rocky outcrop on top of which lay her father’s castle. An impregnable stone wall appeared, craggy and with trees growing precariously from crevices in the rock. But Valora now led the way to what appeared to be an enormous clump of brambles spreading out along one side of the crag. Stooping down, she scrambled through a small opening and emerged into the hollowed-out center of the clump, where the rock was smooth and appeared as a dead end.

“I left it open,” Callum said, and Valora now put her hand behind a small rock at the base of the wall and lifted it to reveal an opening down into a passageway below.

The secret passage was well hidden, its existence was known to only a few. Whilst its purpose was an escape in times of war, it had more than proved its usefulness for an exodus of a different kind.

“Let me help ye, Ella,” Valora said, scrambling down through the opening and holding her hand up to Ella, who now jumped down next to her.

The passageway floor was sandy, and while it was pitch black, once the stone was pulled back, Valora knew her way without the need of a candle or lantern. She took Ella by the hand, the two of them leading as Callum followed behind.

“I left a candle on the ledge there,” he said, but Valora only laughed.

“Ye daenae need a candle, Callum. Tis’ a straight passage and then the steps. Follow me,” she said, and she led the way forward, counting her paces – knowing it was fifty steps to the staircase.

“How often have ye used this passage?” Callum asked, as now they began to climb up inside the rock.

“Dozens of times, and I would use it more often if I could get away with it. But I know ye would only be cross with me,” she replied.

She pictured the blush coming over Callum’s face. She ran rings around him, but still, he remained her friend. She liked to tease him, and it was all done in good humor. He was a loyal friend and proved that loyalty on many occasions.

“I only wish I knew what ye were up to at times – ye are a law unto yerself,” he said, stumbling on one of the steps as he spoke.

“And one day, I shall be under the law of a husband, and then I shall have nay freedom at all,” she replied, sighing with a heavy heart.

The day was coming, and she knew it was inevitable. Her father would marry her off to the son of a laird, or worse, one of his elderly friends. Her duty would be to bear an heir, perhaps two or three. She might be happy, but happiness came second to duty.

“Tis’ for the clan, Valora,” her father would say, as though those words gave reason for imposing his will on her as he saw fit.

“If ye say so, though tis’ a brave man who can tame ye, Valora,” Callum replied.

They had reached the top of the staircase – there were one hundred and four steps in total. Valora had counted them often. The passageway opened out into the castle library. It was an ingenious mechanism attached to one of the bookcases, which swung open like a door and could be locked from the inside. She felt around for the handle, which gave way with a click, and cautiously opened the door into the library.

There was no one there, and the three of them stepped out, blinking in the sunlight which streamed through the upper windows, the dust dancing in its streams. Valora liked the smell of the library, that of ancient volumes and woodsmoke from the fire – the smell of learning and scholarly pursuits.

It was a large, high-ceilinged room, vaulted, with a gallery running around three sides, books lining every wall. There was no fire in the hearth, for the day was warm, and Valora slumped down in one of the chairs by the hearth, sighing at the thought of her freedom hanging in the balance.

“Daenae get too comfortable. I told ye, yer father is lookin’ for ye,” Callum said, and Valora raised her eyebrows.

“Then perhaps I should run away,” she replied.

The thought had often crossed her mind. It would be simple enough to do, even if the exact details of a plan remained hazy. She could slip out of the castle in the dead of night and make her way towards Edinburgh or south towards the English border. The idea was growing more attractive by the day. With her father now set on imposing his will on her, Valora’s thoughts had turned to her freedom more than ever. Most women wanted to marry – she knew that – but in Valora’s mind, she had always imagined marrying for love rather than duty. Often, she had dreamed of being a simple peasant, able to marry whom she chose, unencumbered by the thought of duty to her clan. She was loyal, but that loyalty could not extend to the breaking of her heart for the sake of what others desire.

“And leave me here alone?” Ella exclaimed, looking at Valora with an indignant expression on her face.

“And who would get the blame for that?” Callum said, raising his eyebrows.

It was a foolhardy thing to say, and Valora knew it. But she was feeling like a prisoner in her own home, a sorry fate hanging over her. Her future appeared bleak. To remain at her father’s castle meant certain misery, and to flee would mean inevitable misery, too, even of a different kind. She sighed and brought her fist down hard on the arm of the chair, a plume of dust flying up into the air and causing her to sneeze.

“I know tis’ a sorry fate, ye…” Callum began, but at that moment, the door to the library flew open, and Valora’s father appeared before them.

Despite his advancing years, the laird was still a formidable figure to behold, and despite him being her father, Valora had always been somewhat in awe of him. He was over six feet tall, with a long, white beard and weather-beaten face. Valora inherited his hazel brown eyes, bright and now glaring angrily at her.

He was dressed in a green tunic, a sword slung at his belt, and a red cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His boots and leggings were covered in mud, and it appeared he had just returned from riding with the hunt. He jerked his head at Callum and Ella as a sign for them to leave.

“Ye found her then – sneakin’ around through that passageway. I should have it sealed up. Away with ye both,” he said, and Callum and Ella hurried out of the room.

“Must we talk now?” Valora said, rising to her feet and making to follow the other two out of the library, but it seemed her father was in no mood for games.

“Aye, Valora, we must. Now sit down, I have somethin’ to say to ye,” he said, blocking her path as he did so.

 

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Chapter One: When Fate Draws Nigh

Camden Haggan felt a dark stirring in his bones, though the summer air was sweet as wine.

Standing on the stone balcony of his chambers, he stared down at the slumbering castle below, greeted only by dark windows and an inescapable silence that echoed down the stone walls of Strome Castle.

Five years ago to the day, Camden watched helplessly from this very spot as his eldest brother was rushed in through the main gate at sunset. Dougal had suffered a broken back after a disastrous fall from atop his horse.

Young, strong, honorable Dougal, struck down at twenty-four, only five years after he was raised to the title of Laird Haggan. Back then, he was full of fire and courage, determined to shake off the ghosts of their family’s past and outlast the grim odds.

Camden could still remember how pale Dougal’s face was on the night he died, propped up on his silk-lined bedding, unable to feel any part of his body past his hips.

“My laird.”

The sound of his maid’s voice stirred Camden from his thoughts. She stood in the doorway, her young face pale as milk. Hours ago, she had left Camden’s chambers, and he had promised to get some sleep, but sleep evaded him. Above them, Evan lay in the same bed where Dougal spent his last mortal moments as Laird of Strome Castle and Clan Haggan.

“Sorcha, what is it?”

Camden had known Sorcha since her birth, and never had he seen her look so frightened. It was as if she was afraid even to speak.

Sorcha looked like she had seen a ghost on her way to his chambers. She stammered in response to his question but did not speak. The brass candle holder in her grasp shook as she trembled. She blinked once, twice, three times without speaking. Camden felt frustration well up inside of him.

“Speak up, lass. What is it?” he said, immediately feeling a surge of guilt as frustration filled his voice.

“Yer brother requests an audience, sir,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper – even so, her words struck cold fear into Camden’s heart.

Evan had gone to bed shortly after dinner, announcing he would sleep like a babe and wake the following day fully rested. The entire hall had laughed, but once he was gone, Camden heard many restless murmurs follow his retreat.

“What is it? What does he require at this hour?”

Though he was trying his best, Camden could hear the trepidation in his words as he held Sorcha’s gaze. She shook her head, her eyes darting from Camden’s face to the night sky outside. She shrugged her shoulders. Sorcha had grown up alongside them, and her father had served as the castle gardener since he was a boy. She was not one to mince words, never had been. Camden was sure she was hiding something from him.

“Laird Haggan said I cannae tell ye more, sir. Ye must come at once.”

Camden’s stomach dropped. It was not like Evan to be secretive or coy. Camden reached for a velvet-lined robe and threw it on over his nightclothes. He struggled to pull boots over his woolen stockings and ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it as best he could.

He did not know what would face him in Evan’s chambers, but something dark stirred inside him, his soul preparing for some horror to come. Camden shook his head, he had to stop indulging in such mad thoughts, or he would surely succumb to insanity.

He brushed past Sorcha, moving into the hall. The stone walls were lined with torches, and two guards were stationed at the end of the corridor, as they always were. Camden turned right and hurried towards the staircase that led up to Evan’s chambers. Since he was a boy, he had taken these stairs when his father was Laird of Strome Castle.

Now Evan was laird. Unlike their father, Dougal and Evan had never married nor sired children. As such, Camden was next in line for the Lairdship, but he wanted nothing more than for Evan to live a long life and have many sons to take his place.

As he neared Evan’s chamber door, Camden felt a fissure of dread spread through him. His hand hesitated on the doorknob, and he was trembling almost as badly as Sorcha had been.

Camden took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Surely there was a reasonable explanation for all of this. Whatever shadows flitted through his mind, he could not let them control his thoughts. Camden shook all the grim musings from his mind and entered his brother’s rooms, smiling broadly as he did so.

“It is late, brother. What would ye have of me?”

The scene that greeted Camden made his heart sink with woe. The brother who had left the dining hall earlier tonight was long gone. Lying in his place was a sickly man, pale and wan, his eyes sunken and his gaze one of fevered hysteria. Camden let out a sharp breath as shock washed over him. Standing over Evan’s bed was his physician, the castle priest, and a robed man that Camden recognized. He was an apothecary from Ardaneaskan to the west.

“Camden…”

Evan’s voice was even quieter than Sorcha’s, and the desperation in it drove Camden to his brother’s bedside. He shook as he reached for Evan, a man of twenty-six years who had always been the healthiest of them all. It seemed that in a matter of hours, Camden’s strong, able-bodied brother had worn away to a ghost of his former self. Confusion and fear swelled inside him. He whipped his head from side to side, arms upturned, watching the faces that loomed above Evan’s prostate body.

The man who had long looked after his brother’s health stared helplessly at Camden, his own eyes welling with tears. Evan’s physician had been trained in Padua and Edinburgh, but it seemed that all his teaching had come to naught, here in the Highlands where Evan Haggan lay dying before them.

“What has happened to him? What is wrong with him?” Camden demanded of the healer, his voice angry. “What is to be done?”

“I dinnae ken, my laird.”

He wanted to scream. The physician seemed to recognize Camden’s fury and his face turned red as hot coals. If Evan died, Camden would indeed be named the new Laird of Strome Castle, but he would not die, could not.

“Has he been poisoned? What could have done this to him so quickly?

Beside Evan’s physician, Father Manus was murmuring, his hands steeped as he swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet. Latin poured from his lips, but he did not respond to Camden’s questions. The village apothecary shrugged; he did not weep nor look shocked like the other two. Camden wanted to throttle him, but he clutched at Evan’s bedding instead.

“It could be poison, but he does not bleed nor void his bowels, nor vomit, nor struggle to breathe.” The apothecary threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “A poison so fast-acting would have killed him by now….”

The old man’s voice trailed off. He did not know what had rendered Camden’s otherwise healthy brother so forlorn and helpless. Though he was sweating, his skin was cold and dry. All the color seemed to have drained from his skin, and even his eyes seemed to have faded from blue to grey. His breath came in wheezing gasps, and his hands were clenched tightly at his sides.

“Are ye in pain, Evan?” Camden clutched one of his older brother’s hands. “Can ye hear me?”

Evan nodded, but it looked as if the gesture took every ounce of strength he had.

“Camden, my brother,” Evan said, his voice was hollow, so quiet that Camden had to lean down to hear him. “The ring.”

Camden shook his head back and forth violently, but Evan reached for his face. Evan stroked Camden’s face and then closed his eyes. A single tear rolled down the laird’s cheek. After a moment, Evan let out a brittle laugh, shaking his head from side to side.

“Camden, ye must. Ye ken that ye must.”

Camden found himself looking down at his brother’s outstretched hand on the finger where the Laird’s ring was placed. It was a silver band, studded all along with gold, and in the center rested a giant opal. As a boy, Camden’s father had often told them the tale of that fated ring, which the first Laird Haggan had pried from the cold, dead hand of a Viking raider.

Ever since tradition held that the Laird of clan Haggan must possess the ring and pass it on to his successor upon death. Anyone might challenge the reigning Laird for his ring and the right to rule, but there had been no challengers for the Lairdship for years.

“I cannae Evan. Ye must live. What ails ye? What can be done to save ye?”

Evan sighed and leaned back on his pillow, closing his eyes for a moment. As his chest struggled to rise and fall, Camden was surprised to see a weary smile cross his features.

Only hours ago, Camden had watched his brother retire for a good night’s rest. Now he watched as the life drained from him. Camden held back a scream of frustration.

“It is the curse,” Evan said with a breathless voice.

The curse. Camden wanted to laugh at his brother’s response because he could think of nothing to say in return. The curse of clan Haggan, the curse of the Viking’s ring, the never-ending sorrow that their family could not seem to escape.

“Don’t ye begin to spout that nonsense now after all these years?”

Evan had always brushed away any talk of a curse as nothing more than silly gossip. He had never held with ideas of any curse, even when they were small boys, and Camden had quaked in fear at the thought of some dark stain on their bloodline.

In decades past, vicious Viking warriors savaged their lands, and though their ancestors drove them back into the sea, the pagan savages had plenty of time to sow the seeds of their dark faith throughout the land.

A younger Camden had often pondered what kind of dark magics they might have used to grant them power in battle and how those dark magics could have infected the roots and branches of the Haggan family tree.

“Look at me, Camden.” Evan’s eyes beseeched his, full of mournful sorrow. “I will die tonight, as Dougal died five years ago to make me Laird.”

Evan sighed and struggled to sit up, but he could not muster the strength.

“No, Evan, ye cannae say such things. Ye must rest.”

“How else can ye explain it, brother?” it seemed to take all his strength to speak. “When Dougal died, I told myself that death would not find me, that my reign would be different. But I cannae escape my destiny Camden, and neither can ye.”

Evan reached for his hand, grasping for his ring with a weak grip, the grip of an old man. Though he resisted with every part of himself, Camden reached down to aid him, sliding the ring from his brother’s finger. He put it in Evan’s palm and watched as the Laird of clan Haggan clutched it tightly.

“I have not taken a wife, nor sired a child.” a tear spilled down Evan’s cheek. “I think a part of me knew that I would leave them bereft one day. Ye mustn’t follow my example, brother.”

Though his hands trembled violently, Evan reached for Camden’s, using all his strength to slide the ring onto his finger. Camden flinched, but when it was done, Evan fell back against his pillow again, as if he had no strength left, even though the action was small.

“Promise me,” he wheezed, as if he could not get enough air into his lungs. “Promise me that ye’ll wed and produce an heir. Ye can waste no time. When I am gone, yer days will be numbered.”

The words made Camden’s heartbeat wildly in his chest. This was the thought he could not run from, the fragment of madness that could cut him to ribbons if he held it close. If the curse was real, if this dark cloud over their line existed, that meant his own time would come too, five years from this night.

“If ye dinnae have a son before ye die, think of what will happen to our clan, to our people. Ye cannae shirk yer duty as I did, as Dougal did. Wed, and bear children. Promise me, Camden!”

“I promise!”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, but he wanted nothing more than to deny Evan’s request. How could he think of duty at this time? To admit this curse held them fast, to know that his children might suffer the same grim fates. What honor was there in this vow? What sanity or sense? He could see none.

“Evan, please, ye must recover. Save yer strength. Yer my only family, yer all that I have left.”

Evan smiled again and stroked his younger brother’s face.

“I am so sorry, Camden. I always meant to be a good brother to ye.”

Camden let out a strangled cry of grief.

“No, Evan, ye have been the best of brothers to me. I love ye dearly.”

He leaned down to embrace his brother and laird, the last of his family left in the world.

“Forgive me, Camden. Forgive me.”

Evan began to struggle for breath, and Father Manus rushed forward to perform the last rites, pushing Camden gently to the side. Camden stumbled back, unable to believe what he saw.

He watched as Evan drew his last breath. He watched as the priest traced the sign of the cross over his forehead, closing his eyes to the world. The Laird of Strome Castle was dead.

“My laird.”

Camden felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Evan’s general, Rory Frazer, standing before him, his eyes searching the face of his new chief and laird. Camden stared down in shock at the ring around his finger. He was Laird Haggan now and would be until the day he died. Would that day come in exactly five years? His brother’s warning repeated over and over inside his head: his days were now numbered.

Camden thought of the promise he made to Evan before he drew his last breath – to wed and to sire an heir. There had been witnesses to this promise. They knew the duty he had sworn to fulfill. Still, what kind of heartless man would he be to find a woman, wed her, and get her with child, knowing that in five years, he too would fade from this earth one way or another? Another tragic victim of the Haggan curse, a curse he would then pass on to their children.

All these thoughts pressed down on him as the room began to fill with more of their clan. Within the hour, the entire castle would know the news that there was a new laird and Evan was dead. They would surely whisper of the curse, the ring he wore, and what it would cost him.

Camden felt as if the walls were closing in on him, and all the voices began to meld into one around him, morphing into a high-pitched whine. His vision began to blur, and suddenly he felt as if his skin was on fire. Without thinking, he bolted, running from the room unaware of the shocked gasps and whispers as he retreated from his brother’s chambers.

Tears streamed down his face as he ran, and he brushed them violently away. He had to get out of there, though he could barely see as he rushed down pitch-black corridors. He could find his way around it even if he went blind. When he emerged into the summer night, he took a deep breath of the warm air and let out a shaking sob. Evan was gone. Evan was dead. He was cursed, and he was alone.

Camden rushed towards the stables, unsure of where he would go, only knowing he must get away. When they were young, Evan and Camden had often snuck off for late-night horse rides, racing each other by moonlight, their childlike laughter filling the night air. Now they would never ride together again. He would never again hear Evan’s joyful laughter nor watch him pull ahead and race into the darkness like some fanciful specter.

Camden went straight for his horse in despair, saddling him by the dim torchlight and leading him through the doors. Evan’s horse neighed in response when they retreated as if he was angry at being left behind.

Fresh grief welled up inside Camden, and he mounted his steed as soon as he was in the courtyard, heading straight for the gates.

“Sir, what are ye doing on horseback this late?” one of the guards called down. “Can I help ye with something?”

Camden wondered if they had heard the news yet. The guard had not named him laird, so he suspected they did not. They would learn the truth soon enough.

“Let me pass! I command it!”

The guard did not respond, but seconds later, Camden heard him calling his fellow guardsmen, and a moment later the gates began to creak open.

Camden wasted no time, spurring his horse on as soon as there was room for him to pass, riding fast into the darkness, unsure of his destination, desperate to leave his cursed life behind him, if only for a night.

Chapter Two: Fleeing the Face of Death

Bonnie had been up since well before dawn, and though she was bone-tired, she had stayed long past sundown at her stall in the town square.

She wanted nothing more than to hurry home and fall into her bed, but she was trying her best to scrounge up some more customers before packing up and going home for the night.

A breeze blew by as she was finally closing, and Bonnie looked up to see the Apothecary’s wooden sign blowing in the wind. Though she and her grandmother Muira had never made a fortune from their trade, in the past three years Bonnie had watched helplessly as their customers began to go into the shop rather than stop at her stall.

From what Bonnie knew, he was from Inverness, and had all sorts of fancy glass bottles full of potions and medicines for sale in there, though she’d never gone in to see for herself. According to Muira, he made more money on the side, plying his trade at Strome castle for the Haggan clan.

Bonnie wanted to grab a rock and throw it right through the small glass panel in the middle of the door. She looked down at the ground to search for one but thought better of it.

Apparently, it mattered little that Muira had acted as an apothecary, a midwife, and a surgeon to the villagers here since she was a young woman; the indignity of it burned Bonnie up with anger and frustration.

For years Muira had fed and clothed the two of them from her trade, and in turn, she taught Bonnie how to recognize, harvest, and make her own remedies. Muira was too old to make the money now and Bonnie was trying her best to fill her shoes.

The apothecary’s arrival hadn’t helped in the slightest. Then to add insult to injury, Muira had grown gravely ill last winter. Though the elderly woman did eventually recover, she had never regained her full strength and vitality.

Bonnie took a deep breath of the warm night air and thought of how Muira was still sickly, suffering off and on from fevers, coughs, and painful, weeping sores.

“Bonnie?”

The familiar voice of Eara, another elderly woman who lived in the village, startled her out of her reverie. As a young woman, she was well known for her awe-inspiring tapestries, but Eara had given up her loom in exchange for sewing needles in her old age.

Now she sold dresses, tunics, bedclothes, and christening gowns in her own stall, and did well enough to live comfortably. From time to time, Eara took on mending for the village’s unmarried men and widowers, those who had no womenfolk to darn their socks or fix the tears in their breeches.

“Good evening to ye Eara. Tis late. What are ye doing out here?”

“I could ask ye the same thing, lass. The sun has long set, and ye have a much longer walk home than I.”

Eara lived just beyond the town smithy, only a bit up the lane. Muira and Bonnie lived in a small cottage towards the edge of the village, near the tree line of Reraig forest.

“I thought to see if I could make a few more coins today. Alas.”

She tried to smile, but Bonnie was crushed that she had not sold so much as one extra herbal remedy today. They ran low on food and firewood, and Muira needed plenty of both to help her heal. Bonnie hated seeing her in such pain while her strength faded away. She wanted nothing more than to take her to the barber and find some comfort for the woman who had long been her guardian and her only family.

“Ah, poor child. How fares Muira?”

Muira and Eara had long been friends, though Eara was considered a respectable member of the community while Muira had been a target for scorn since she was a young woman. That never stopped Eara from showing her loyalty and admiration for Muira, no matter what the denizens of Ardaneaskan thought of her.

“She fares better and better every day.”

That was a lie, but Bonnie wanted it to be true more than anything in the world. She had never known a life without Muira, and if she did not get better, then the lass did not know what she would do. Though she often thought wistfully of the parents, she didn’t remember. Bonnie knew the grief of losing Muira would not be some distant hurt. It would shake her to the core. She let out a silent plea to God that her words would prove true, that some miracle would come and save them both from their current plight.

“Praise the Virgin.” Eara looked genuinely pleased. “I wish I could offer ye some coin dear, but I have fared only a bit better than ye today.”

While Muira and Bonnie were destitute, there were not many people in Ardaneaskan who could be considered well off or prosperous. Their small village made most of its money from fishing, and though the village of Lochcarron was about five miles north of them, they had none of the wealth or affluence of their noble neighbors.

Some of Ardaneaskan’s villagers made a living by working at Strome Castle in service of Laird Evan or by providing the clan with whatever goods and services they needed. Bonnie knew little about clan Haggan, other than the wild tales about a dark curse upon their bloodline. She wrote it off as nothing more than superstitious talk, though once she had seen Muira spit when someone mentioned the Haggan curse. The old woman never spoke very much about it, but Bonnie wondered if she didn’t believe the rumors.

As far as Bonnie was concerned, the Laird of Strome castle might as well have been the King of Scotland, for she would never meet him. She had too much to fret over for her to be concerned about his affairs or which curses his family might be afflicted with.

“Thank ye, Eara, but I’ll be just fine. Sleep well. I shall see ye on the morrow.”

She waved and watched as Eara turned and headed home, disappearing into the shadows as she passed under a burning torch and left the square. Bonnie sighed and pulled her satchel over her shoulder, turning and heading home.

When the clouds parted, the moon and stars shone brightly above. So brightly that Bonnie could still see her way as she walked from the center of town towards home. She saw the trees waving in the night breeze beyond, and heard owls calling to each other in the darkness.

Loch Carron was too far off, but she could hear the familiar sound of waves lapping the shore in the distance. Though many a lass might have been frightened to make the trip alone at night, Bonnie found it peaceful. For the most part, Ardaneaskan was a tranquil village. Though the town had encountered problems with outlaws and brigands roaming the forest in the past, those incidents were few and far between. She didn’t like to think of them, for she refused to live her life in fear. Besides, Muira’s reputation as an enchantress kept many people from their doorstep, and Bonnie liked it better that way.

Bonnie looked up to see a shadow passing one of the windows when she finally reached the front gate of her house. She smiled and made her way to the door, opening it to find Muira by the hearth, stirring a pot over the fire though her hands were shaking.

“Muira, what are ye doing?”

Bonnie rushed forward and pushed a wooden chair forward for Muira to rest on. The old woman fell into it, letting out a long sigh of fatigue. Bonnie took a deep whiff and was surprised at how delicious their small home smelled. Was that rabbit stew?

“How did ye get yer hands on a rabbit? Muira, I told ye that ye needed to rest-”

Muira held up her hands and let out a laugh. But soon her laugh turned into a cough, clutching a square of linen to her mouth as she struggled to breathe. Bonnie jumped up and made way for the jug of mulled wine on the table. It was spiced with honey, clove, and dandelion.

“Dinnae scold me, lass. Morrigan brought the rabbit to our table. Ye must thank her.”

As if she was summoned, Muira’s little black cat let out a little squeak and dashed past Bonnie’s feet. Bonnie laughed aloud. That little monster was famous for bringing birds and small game to their doorstep once in a while. The villagers liked to whisper that she was Muira’s familiar.

“Well.” Bonnie smiled and sat down in the other chair, pouring them both a cup. “Thank ye for yer kind offering, ye little demon.”

Muira smiled and drank the wine. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the fire as the stew bubbled over the flame. Suddenly Bonnie was ravenous. While she was thankful for Morrigan’s offering, she couldn’t help but feel useless when a cat could do more for Muira than she could.

“Do ye ken what tonight is?”

Muira’s smile was gone, and Bonnie was surprised to see a dark expression on her wrinkled face. Her eyes were clouded over as if she remembered something horrible. Bonnie sipped her cup and set it down, leaning forward.

“No, Muira, what is tonight?”

The older woman shook her head and sighed.

“Tonight, clan Haggan will witness the face of death yet again.”

Bonnie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she shivered, though the night air was warm. Hadn’t she just been musing on clan Haggan earlier tonight, on their fabled curse? She shook her head and let out a hollow laugh.

“Ah yes, all those tales of bad luck and misfortune.” Bonnie shrugged. “Just silly stories if ye ask me.”

Smiling, Muira set her cup down on the table, before she sighed as if the feat had taken all her energy to complete.

Bonnie pulled down a pewter bowl and began spooking hot soup into it. When it cooled, she could feed it to Muira if need be, then she would get her to bed.

“That family is marked by fate, by an evil fate. Ye cannae deny their continued suffering.”

Bonnie could and did deny it. Surely their clan had merely faced many tragedies, and this “cursed” history woven by Ardaneaskan townsfolk was simply a twist of the collective imagination. Muira was a brilliant woman, but she had her fair share of superstitious traditions that Bonnie found laughable.

“Well, God bless them. Lord knows we have enough woe of our own here in Ardaneaskan. Maybe they could shoulder some of ours instead?”

Muira clucked, her eyes boring into the side of Bonnie’s face.

“This is not something to jest about, lest the curse falls upon ye for mocking it.”

Muira flinched and picked up a pinch of rosemary. She threw it over her shoulder to ward off such a possibility.

“Ye must eat Muira. We must both go to bed. I have to be up early again in the morning.”

Muira did not protest. She could barely make it through dinner without her eyes beginning to droop, and by the time Bonnie tucked her into bed, she was already snoring loudly.

Bonnie kissed the old woman’s forehead, took the cast iron pot from the hearth, and walked it outside to the barrel full of rainwater near their door. She dunked it inside and cleaned the pot with her hand. Once it was clean, she tipped the barrel over into their potato patch and set it upright to collect the next downpour.

When she stood back up and went to retrieve the pot, Bonnie heard the distinct sound of a man cry out not far in the distance. She immediately darted into the shadows, startled by the closeness of the sound and worried about who it was, and why he made such an inhuman sound.

She peeked around the corner of the house to see what she could uncover about the unexplained noises. She saw a man running down the road, his face full of desperation, his clothes ripped and dirty – he looked as if he was lost.

Bonnie spotted three riders behind him in pursuit, all of them riding like the wind, trying to run down this lone stranger. They were closing in fast, and the man on foot panicked.

Bonnie gasped as she watched him duck behind their home, headed right her way. He did not see her in the shadows, but she could see him closely now. His eyes were wide with fear, and his body was tense like he was prey being stalked by a predator.

Though fear coursed through her whole body like some shadowy current, at that moment, Bonnie made a snap decision. In any other instance, she would never involve herself in this situation. She didn’t know what was going on, but from what it seemed, the strange man had gotten himself into terrible trouble.

For a moment, Bonnie thought about slipping back into the house unseen. She had no place getting tangled up in this man’s trials and tribulations. But the fear in his eyes gave her pause. What would happen to him if Bonnie ignored his plight and left him to his own devices?

Though a voice in her head was screaming at her not to do it, Bonnie felt a sudden intuition that she must do something to help the man before it was too late. She took a deep breath and prepared herself, half-convinced that this was a decision she would live to regret.

Before she could change her mind, Bonnie reached out and grabbed the stranger by his tunic, pulling him close to her. He was startled and almost cried out, but he stopped himself from yelling when he saw her face.

As they stood there, mere inches from each other, Bonnie felt something strange stir within her, and from the look in his eyes, it seemed as if he was distracted by the sight of her as well.

Though he looked disheveled, Bonnie could not help but notice the man was young and handsome, and while his clothes were ripped and torn, they were well made.

“What are ye doing?” the strange man asked.

Bonnie didn’t know how to answer. Surely this was the most foolish thing she’d ever done.

“Shh, they will hear us. Come, come inside.”

Bonnie took the strange man’s hand and pulled him along. They did their best to slip inside the door without making a sound. Once inside, Bonnie turned the bolt on the door and turned to the man, placing a finger over her mouth to indicate they should be silent. Bonnie could hear the hooves of the men on horseback outside.

“Who are they?” she whispered.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. Bonnie took a closer look at his bottom lip, torn and bleeding.

“I dinnae ken. They have followed me for miles. I nearly lost them in the village when I tied up my steed, but they found me and followed me here. I cannae say what they intended for me.”

Bonnie’s eyes grew wide. She didn’t know whether to believe the stranger’s explanation, but the fear in his eyes made her feel as if he was telling the truth. She sighed and thought for a moment.

“Come, ye must go to my room and hie, lest they come looking for ye within.”

He stared at her for a moment and then nodded. Bonnie led him towards her room. She lit no candle. Instead, she pointed towards the bed.

“Ye can hide under the-”

She was interrupted by the sound of heavy knocking at the door, as if whoever was outside intended to split the wood in two. Muira let out a startled cry, and Bonnie jumped. She had all but forgotten about the older woman’s presence, caught up as she was in the strange man who now stood inches from her.

Their eyes met again, and though they were both frightened, Bonnie felt that strange feeling return, as if she could not look away.

“Hide! Hide!”

He hesitated, looking into her eyes.

“I cannae leave ye to face them on yer own!”

Bonnie shook her head, breaking the spell for a moment.

“Ye must. Hurry now. If I dinnae answer, it sounds as if they will break down the door. Now hide, and dinnae make a sound. I’ll tend to these men.”

She wasn’t sure quite how she would do so, but at that moment, Bonnie knew beyond all rational thought that she had to. Whoever this man was, she felt a strange urge to protect him from whatever trouble he’d found beneath the shining stars that bore witness to that fateful summer’s night.

 

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Chapter One

Mull of Kilchurn, Spring, 1715

Peace so often follows a storm. The crashing waves, the devastating winds, the driving rain, and then… all was calm. Such was the scene that morning on the Mull of Kilchurn, where the seabirds arced above the cliffs, and on the wide, sandy shore, the remnants of a ship lay wrecked, smashed into a hundred pieces by the force of the sea, which had churned it up and dashed it on the rocks. It was a scene of devastation, but among it, one survivor remained.

He was lying on his back, barely conscious, the sea washing over him, the foam of the gentle waves dyed red by his blood, seeping from a wound at his side. Suddenly, he gave a start and sat up, dazed and confused. He let out a cry, which echoed across the deserted beach, and rolled onto his side, vomiting up seawater and coughing violently. He clutched at his side, staggering to his feet, before collapsing again onto the sand.

“Help me! Someone, please, help me,” he cried, but no answer came –he was all alone, and the cliffs merely echoed back his desperate cries, the birds arcing overhead, and the waves washing gently on the shore.

He looked around him in dazed confusion, unable to remember what had happened or where he was. The sun was shining, a blue sky above promising a peaceful day, the storm giving way to calm, as though nature had not made known her full and destructive force but a few hours before. The crew was gone, swept overboard by the force of the waves, and pulled down into the depths. The ship’s cargo–brandy and tea–was scattered across the sands, ruined, save for a few chests which had somehow survived the storm and now lay washed up on the beach.

“What is this place?” he gasped, his head throbbing with pain, the wound at his side smarting.

He looked desperately around him for some sign of familiarity, for something to cling to in the wake of the nightmare into which he had emerged. All was calm, placed, and peaceful, but in his mind, the storm still raged, a storm which prevented him from knowing even who he was or why he should find himself in such a strange and remarkable situation…

***

Murdina MacFadden knew every detail of the ceiling in her chambers above the great hall at Kilchurn Castle. She had spent hours staring up at it, lying on her bed, her eyes wide, gazing up to the ceiling, where a crack ran across the plaster from right to left. There was a cobweb in one corner and the remains of what had once been an ornate fleur-de-lis painted at the center. Murdina had gotten to know every detail of that ceiling in the past few months–when her own company had been preferable to that of anyone else’s. She would shut herself away in her chambers and stare up at the ceiling for hours on end, longing for the past to change, and for peace in her suffering.

Now, she sighed and rolled onto her side, a tear running down her cheek at the thought of her dear sister. It was always the same. She would shut herself away and think of Aoife, lamenting the loss of her dearest friend, a loss which could so easily have been prevented if it were not for the wiles of that wicked man. Her sister had taken her own life, heartbroken at the discovery of her betrothed’s affair with another woman–a woman to whom he was now married. Murdina would not mention his name, but the loss of her sister had left her in the depths of despair, despair from which she believed she would never recover.

A knock now came at the door, and Murdina brushed the tears from her eyes and sat up. She did not like to be disturbed, but she knew she would be missed having skipped the midday meal. Her younger sister, Ella, now called out to her, knocking again, so that Murdina had no choice but to get up and answer the door. She would have preferred to be alone with her thoughts, her grief for Aoife still as raw as it had been on the day when they had discovered her lifeless in her chambers, a moment which Murdina would never forget.

“Sister, why dae ye torture yerself, so?” Ella asked as Murdina opened the door to her.

“I just want to be alone, Ella,” Murdina replied, and Ella stepped forward and put her arms around her.

“Tis’ better if we are all of us together. Dae ye nae think? We are grievin’ too, we all are,” she said, but Murdina shook her head.

The pain of Aoife’s loss seemed unbearable to her, while her other two sisters seemed almost able to accept it. Her father, Andrew Macfadden, the laird, had emerged from mourning and was even now riding out on the hunt with the rest of the clan. Murdina felt she was the only one who still honored Aoife’s legacy, and she was determined not to let go of her sister’s memory.

“Ye and Freya were nae as close to her as I was. Ye daenae understand,” Murdina replied, shaking her head sadly.

Aoife had been her closest friend, the bond of sisterhood and friendship as one. She loved her more than anyone else in all the world, and in losing her, it had felt as though a part of her was lost, too.

“Dae ye think we daenae mourn her, too?” Ella asked, sounding hurt at the suggestion.

Murdina made no reply–she had not asked for Ella’s sympathy, content, as she was, to be alone with her thoughts.

“I was nae hungry,” she said, by way of a response to Ella’s visit, and her sister sighed and shook her head.

“We are worried about ye, Murdina–all of us. Father will come and see ye later. He told us so before he rode out this mornin’ on the hunt. Ye cannae hide yerself away like this forever. Life must go on,” she said, but Murdina looked at her angrily.

“For us, it can, aye, but nae for poor Aoife. What wickedness brought about her death–that man, he should pay for his crimes,” she exclaimed, turning back into the room as tears welled up again in her eyes.

“But ye cannae live yer life like this, Murdina. Tis’ nae what Aoife would have wanted,” Ella said.

“Leave me alone, Ella–ye daenae understand,” Murdina shouted back at her, and she slammed the door to her chambers in her sister’s face, throwing herself on the bed and weeping.

It was as though everyone had forgotten her sister–the period of mourning at an end and her memory confined to the occasional thought. But Murdina could not forget–she refused to forget–and in her anguish, her anger only increased against the man whom she blamed for taking her sister away from her, the man who had betrayed her beautiful soul, and in her eyes, was no better than a murderer.

***

It was clear to him that no help would come. His head was throbbing with pain, and he could remember nothing–not even his own name. It was as though everything was a blur–the world around him made sense as far as he could see, but he could find no reference to make sense of what was there–or of himself. He struggled to his feet, still clutching at his side, and staggered up the beach away from the shipwreck.

“I must have been on board,” he said to himself, though he could recall nothing of being so.

There were no bodies washed up on the shore, no sign of anyone among the wreckage. He was entirely alone, and the surrounding landscape appeared strange and unfamiliar. He was on a beach, with cliffs stretching up on either side to moorlands, where the purple heathers were dotted with straggly trees. He could remember nothing of where he had come from or where he was going, and he sat down on a rock and sighed, his whole body aching and the wound at his side smarting.

As he sat down, he felt something in his pocket, and reaching into his breeches, he pulled out a key on a chain. It was not like a normal key to a simple lock, but ornately made, gilded in silver, and with a chain–he looked at it curiously. There was a coin in his pocket, too. But again, this was no ordinary coin bearing the head of a Hanoverian king, but embossed with a phoenix, large and weighty–it seemed somehow familiar, but he could not remember why he had it and what it could mean.

He held the key, and the coin, in his open hands, looking down at them in confusion. It frustrated him to not remember, and he cursed himself for his stupidity. He felt a fool sitting there on the beach with no idea of who he was or where he came from. He tried desperately to remember, furrowing his brow in a vain attempt at recollection. But it was to no avail. He was sitting on a beach in a foreign land, soaked to the skin, wounded, and without a single memory, which would prove useful–the situation seemed hopeless.

Now, he searched his pockets more thoroughly and drew out a parchment, which had somehow survived the worst of the water. It was sealed with wax and had been hidden between the hem of his breeches–concealed, though, from what, he could not remember. There seemed little point in respecting the wax seal in such circumstances, and he unrolled the parchment and began to read. The crest at the top bore the arms of a noble family–a lion and an eagle guarding a shield, embossed in red and gold, below which was a Latin inscription–the words too water damaged to decipher.

Much of the letter, too, was unreadable, the ink having run with the damp seeping through his clothes. It provided no clue about his identity, only adding to the mystery of who he was and why he should be carrying such a strange assortment of items about his person. He began to shiver, and his stomach was rumbling so that he knew he had to do something to help himself since no one else was to come to his aid. For all he knew, he was alone on an island, and any hope of rescue was in vain.

He got up and went back down the beach to the shipwreck. Several chests were lying about among the wreckage, and he prized one of them open, revealing dry clothes and blankets to his great relief. Another chest held ship’s biscuits–crude oatcakes made for the longevity of a voyage–and a side of cheese so that he was soon dressed in fresh clothes and his hunger satisfied. He tore strips from a shirt and made a simple bandage with which he dressed his wound, and though he could still remember nothing about himself, he did, at least, feel a sense of relief at having raised himself from the worst of his situation.

Having eaten and drunk from a spring that flowed onto the beach at the far side, he now made a survey of his surroundings. A path led up to the top of the cliffs, and the sight of it cheered him enormously–a path meant people, or at the very least some kind of animal, and taking with him as much of the food as he could carry, he made his way up the path and onto the moorland above. From there, he gained a far better perspective over his situation and could see, in the far distance, mountains rising majestically into the clouds. He was certain this was no island, and there seemed to be signs of habitation–a path leading across the moorlands and the remnants of a fire by a small copse of trees.

The wound to his side was painful, and he knew he could not remain out of doors for the night. The day was bright and breezy, and from the sun’s position, he reasoned it was still the morning. His best hope would be to follow the path and see where it led to, and he set off across the moorlands, still trying desperately to remember even the smallest detail about himself and who he was. All he knew was that a shipwreck had brought him to this strange and unfamiliar land and that his best hope for survival would be to find its inhabitants–whoever they may be…

 

Chapter Two

 

“Why did ye let yer guard down, Cillian?” Murdina demanded as her opponent fell to the ground, and she pointed the tip of her sword to his neck.

“I… I am sorry, lass, ye are… ye are a match for any of yer clansmen,” the man replied.

Murdina had been sparring that morning with Cillian out in the castle courtyard. He was an excellent swordsman, and few could best him–but Murdina was one. Her father had despaired at having four daughters and no son to inherit his title. Even from an early age, Murdina had been treated not as a delicate woman but as a clansman and a warrior. She had learned to fight, ride, shoot, and do so better than any man.

“But ye were nae even tryin’ to beat me,” she replied, cursing under her breath and sheathing her sword.

“A few moments then, and we shall fight again,” Cillian replied, catching his breath, but Murdina only dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

In her skill with the sword, Murdina found a way to forget her sorrows for a while. She took out her anger and frustration on her opponents, and there was not a man in the castle whom she had not challenged to fight. There had been only one man who could ever stand a chance against her, and that was Arran Athol, the sword master who had taught her everything she had ever needed to know. In his hands, a sword was as much a work of art as a tool, and he had fought many a campaign against the English during the long, troubled period of the years gone by.

“Forget it, I shall find another opponent,” she said, shaking her head as Cillian bowed.

A small crowd of her father’s men had gathered to watch, and Murdina looked around at them now, challenging each of them to fight. But all of them shook their heads, turning away, as Murdina scowled. They were cowards, she told herself, and it was no wonder that the Jacobite cause was all but lost with such men as this to represent it. Murdina had grown up with the stories of English oppression. She hated the house of Hanover and its claims to the throne of Scotland. But the Stuart cause seemed all but gone, the few pockets of resistance against English rule gradually weakening in the face of overwhelming odds. Her father still clung to the hope of restoration, but with the protestant strangulation on their beloved land, such hopes seemed ever further from being realized.

“Murdina, I want to speak to ye,” her father’s voice came from across the courtyard, and Murdina looked up to see the laird beckoning to her from the top of the castle steps.

Despite his advancing years, Andrew was still a formidable figure, his long white beard flowing down his front and his height and build raising him above other men by some considerable amount. He commanded respect, and those around her now dispersed, leaving Murdina and her father alone.

“What is it ye wish to speak to speak to me about, Father?” she asked, coming to join him on the steps which led into the castle keep.

“Have ye thought more about what I said to ye the other day?” he replied, and Murdina shook her head.

“I told ye then, I daenae wish to marry anyone, Father,” she said, and Andrew looked at her angrily.

He had come to her in a fit of some agitation a week or so previously, demanding that she consider marriage for the sake of the clan and its future.

“If we are to advance the Jacobite cause, then ye must marry and bear children,” he had told her.

They were words he had repeated to both her sisters, too, and while Murdina remained angry with Ella and Freya for their apparent lack of feeling in the face of Aoife’s death, they could at least find common ground in objecting to their father’s demands. Since losing her sister, Murdina had found herself more and more distrustful of men. She blamed the man whom Aoife had loved for her death, and the thought of allowing her own heart to be broken in such a way was too awful to comprehend.

Murdina had no qualms in standing up to her father, whether or not he was her laird, too, nor of disobeying him–it would certainly not be the first time. He had suggested several possible matches to her, all of which had made Murdina’s blood run cold–she would not marry merely to satisfy her father’s ill-thought-out plans for a future glorious revolution. The Jacobite cause was dying, and her marrying a man she did not love would not save it.

“And I told ye that there is little choice in the matter, Murdina. Had yer mother given us an heir, then there would be nay need, though surely tis’ any woman’s wish to marry well,” he said, but Murdina only laughed.

“Tis’ a fond thing, vainly conceived, Father. I shall nae marry just because ye tell me to,” she said, and her father caught her by the arm and brought his face in close to hers, an angry look coming over his countenance.

“Ye shall dae what is necessary to ensure this clan has a future, Murdina,” he said, but she snatched her arm away and turned from him, the anger rising inside her.

“And perhaps if ye had shown more concern for the daughter ye once had, then ye would have that future,” she cried.

Had Aoife not been promised to a man of such dubious reputation, then perhaps her life might have been saved. Andrew had grieved for his daughter, but it seemed he had now forgotten just what an arranged marriage had done to the one  he had always described as his “bright, shining star.”

“And what dae ye mean by that?” her father demanded, as Murdina turned to him angrily, fixing him with a scowl.

“That it was an arranged marriage that caused her such misery, Father. She would still be with us now if it were nae for that man,” Murdina exclaimed as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Enough–ye shall be married, ye and yer sisters, too. I want nay more of this talk, ye hear me? Aoife is gone, and we have mourned her. Nay amount of weepin’ will bring her back. Dae ye nae think I miss her every day? She haunts my dreams. I am her father, and I could dae nothin’ to prevent this tragedy. Nothin’ at all. But ye will marry, Murdina, even if I have to force it,” he said, and turning on his heels, he marched off back into the castle, barking out orders for the patrols to ride out along the mull.

Murdina watched him go, and she brushed the tears from her eyes just as her two sisters emerged from the gate leading into the castle gardens. Freya–her youngest sister–looked at her with concern.

“Are ye all right, Murdina?” she asked, and Murdina shook her head.

“Dae I look it, Freya? We are none of us, all right. Father wishes to marry us off. We are bargain’ tools, we three,” she replied, and her two sisters looked at one another fearfully.

“I am too young to marry,” Freya replied obstinately.

She had only just reached her eighteenth birthday, and Ella was but only a year older than she. Murdina was the eldest at twenty-one, and Aoife had been twenty when she was so cruelly taken from them. They were all of them in their prime, and now it seemed their father was determined to see them reduced to nothing but the wives of Jacobite supporters, destined to miserable lives at the hands of men who did not love them.

“But ye will nae be soon–mark my words, Freya, ye shall suffer the same fate as I. The both of ye shall,” Murdina replied and shaking her head, she marched off across the courtyard, eager to take her frustrations out with the sword and seeking a worthy opponent with which to do so.

***

He must have walked five miles–or so he reasoned. But in that time, there had been no recollection of serving as a reference point. For all he knew, the countryside surrounding him could be entirely familiar, his home even, but given he could not remember even his name, the hope of recalling further details was unlikely. He had met no one on the way, but he continued to see signs of life–the marks of horse’s hooves in the mud, the remnants of a fire, an abandoned croft, still with the marks of cultivation in the land roundabout. It was a wild and lonely country, or so it seemed, and he began to long for the sight of something–anything–which would offer hope.

The path wound up to the top of a hill, a steep climb, and one during which he paused several times to catch his breath. From the summit, he commanded a view back towards the coast, where the clouds gathering on the horizon brought with them the promise of further wind and rain to come. He had with him only the small amount of food he could carry and a blanket for warmth, along with the mysterious key and phoenix embossed coin. He took them both out now and examined them again, willing himself to remember–but to no avail.

But as he surveyed the land ahead, a sight brought cheer to his heart. Perhaps two miles further in land, a castle surrounded by a forest built on a promontory of jutting rock. It was no ruin, and from his vantage point, he could make out a banner fluttering on the battlements. With a sigh of relief, he strode forward, caring not if the inhabitants of the castle were friend or foe. The sight gave him hope, and he wondered if there he might even discover the truth as to who he was.

“I could be a noble laird or a knight of the realm,” he said to himself, the hint of a smile coming over his face as he strode forward with renewed vigor.

The path now wound across the heathers and emerged onto a well-used track, paved in parts and cobbled in others. It led all the way to the castle, and though there were no other dwellings visible for miles around, he reasoned that the castle inhabitants were master of all he could see. The land was wild, though fertile, and from his vantage point, it seemed he was walking along the spine of a mull, one of the great lengths of land which stretched down from the mainland, surrounded by the sea on both sides.

As he came in sight of the castle, he thought he recognized the banner fluttering from the battlements, but he could not remember its precise origins. There was something familiar about it, the stirring of a distant memory, but try as he might, he could not remember. The castle itself was formidable, a great stone edifice rising above the trees. A keep lay at its center, surrounded by a curtain wall with towers at equal intervals and a gatehouse from which stretched a bridge over a deep chasm that surrounded the castle on three sides, its back built into the rocks of the cliff towered above.

“A fine place, and make nay mistake,” he said, shaking his head.

By the clothes he had been wearing on the beach, he had reasoned to himself that he was of some good and noble birth. Had he been dressed in the clothes of a peasant, he would have wondered how such a man as he had come to possess those strange objects–the key and the coin–and be furnished with a letter, indecipherable as it was, bearing a noble crest. As it was, he could only assume himself to be a man of some standing, if not of the aristocracy, then perhaps of a family of merchants or well-to-do traders. His accent, too, betrayed him–he was Scottish, but that meant either he was for or against the crown, his memory offering nothing to confirm so either way.

He made his way along the track, which wound its way across an open plain and into the woods below the castle. He was surprised to find himself unchallenged as he walked, though he was certain his presence would have been noted by any watcher from the castle battlements. A stream flowed beneath a wooden bridge–the first sign of present habitation he had passed since his walk began, and he paused to look over into the waters below, where fish leaped in a clear, deep pool. The sight of them brought fresh hunger to his stomach, and he fumbled in his pocket for one of the oatcakes he had stowed there, when all of a sudden, there came a shout from the far side of the bridge, and he looked up to find a band of clansmen–soldiers–charging towards him.

“Ye there, who are ye?” one of them demanded, drawing his sword.

The sight of the men awoke in him an instinct of danger–he did not know if they were friend or foe–and he turned to run, just as another half dozen appeared at the opposite end of the bridge, blocking his retreat. They must have lain in wait for him, guarding the bridge lest any strangers pass that way. He cursed himself for falling into their trap, and as both sides advanced, he stole himself for the attack.

“I mean nay harm,” he said, glancing from one side of the bridge to the other.

“And what are ye doin’ on the laird’s lands? A spy, are ye?” another of them said.

With no weapon and outnumbered, there was little chance of escape. But he stood his ground, unafraid to fight. He was a strong man, powerfully built, and though his memory was gone, his reflexes remained–he knew what to do, and ducking forward, he lunged at the nearest clansman, knocking him to the ground. The others now charged forward, but despite being outnumbered, he put up a valiant fight, knocking several of them to the ground, and wrestling the sword from one man’s hands, so that he delivered several blows before he was subdued.

“Enough,” he cried, struggling in their grip.

“Eager for a fight, are ye?. What is yer name?” the lead man demanded, but he could only shake his head and shrug.

“I… I was washed up on the beach some miles yonder. I cannae remember anythin’–nae who I am or where I came from. Go to the beach if ye daenae believe me–ye will see the wreck,” he said, as the clansmen looked at him suspiciously.

The one who had spoken had fiery red hair, his beard neatly trimmed, and his eyes flashed angrily, a look of disbelief and contempt on his face. He shook his head and spat to the ground.

“Ye expect us to believe that?” he said, and the man shook his head.

It was an incredible story–the loss of memory, the speculation in his own mind, the strange circumstances in which he now found himself.

“Give me something to eat and a warm hearth–perhaps I shall remember something more then,” he said, but the clansmen only laughed.

“Did ye hear that, men?” the ginger-haired man exclaimed, “he seeks to deceive us and thinks we will offer him hospitality.. Aye, well, we shall see what the laird has to say about it, what dae ye say?” he said, and now they dragged him across the bridge and towards the castle, even as he continued to fight with them.

“Let me go,” he exclaimed, but it was to no avail, the clansmen jeering him and dragging him through the castle gates to whatever fate now lay before him…

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Chapter 1: When Death Came to Kindrochit Castle

The silence inside Kindrochit castle was deafening.

It was as if all the souls within were waiting with bated breath. Outside, the night air was cold and still in the autumn moonlight. Though it was well into the small hours of the morning, many a window of the castle blazed with light, from the Laird’s quarters to the servants’ chambers. As a shrill scream of raw agony rent the stillness of the night, more candles ignited until the whole castle seemed ablaze.

In the highest part of the Laird’s tower, Kadrick Macinroy paced back and forth outside the chamber he shared with his beloved wife, Annot. Sweet Annot, with her gold-spun curls and her sweet, trusting smile. The young Laird was in quite a state, crossing in front of the heavy wooden door repeatedly, his hands balled into fists, his stomach churning with hope and dread.

At twenty-two, Kadrick had only been a husband for two years but considered it the greatest achievement of his life. Though he was a warrior who had bathed himself in glory on the battlefield many a time since his youth, it was winning Annot’s heart that made him a man, that made him worthy. Not once had Kadrick faced such fear and worry so deep down in his soul, not even before a battle. His mother told him once as a boy, just before his younger sister Lorna was born, that childbirth was to a woman what war was to men, the ultimate battle they had to face.

Annot was strong in her own way. She was tender like a spring blossom, but she was sturdy and could weather any storm. The Laird watched in disbelief throughout her pregnancy as his wife began to grow in beauty and grace. She was already the most beautiful woman in Scotland, yet she was more lovely to him day by day.

Kadrick had lain beside her many a night, tracing his fingers over her bulging belly and feeling the stirrings of the children within. Annot was sure that she was carrying twins early on, as there were many twins in her own Clan. Soon enough, Kadrick’s physician admitted that she might be correct in her guess. Annot’s stomach was twice the size of any woman the doctor had examined, and there was plenty of movement within her womb from what seemed to be two infants. Though Annot was joyous when she heard the news, it had worried Kadrick though he’d hidden it. His mother’s words to him as a small boy always stuck with him, and as a man, he could not help but fear what the birth of two children might be like for his petite wife.

He froze suddenly as the creak of the door indicated someone was coming out. It was a chambermaid; her face was pale and sweaty, and her eyes were round as saucers. She hurried out and shut the door quickly so that Kadrick couldn’t see inside. The room was hot and smoky from the blazing hearth, and the vast supply of candles lit within. Just as the door closed, another scream of horrendous pain rang through the castle, penetrating the thick stone walls so even the stableboys could hear. The maid jumped at the sound and squeezed her eyes shut tight. She seemed ready to bolt. Kadrick turned to her, frantic, hands extended as if to shake her, though he did not touch her.

“Eubha! Tell me what news o’ my Lady! Dae ye ken how she fares?”

“Laird Macinroy! I-I”

She stammered and looked up at him like a doe in the sight of an archer. Kadrick stifled the urge to curse or frighten her more. She seemed plenty frightened enough that made a terror creep up his spine. A fear he’d never experienced even when he’d nearly been decapitated by a Sassenach Knight. Unlike his late father, Kadrick did not scream at serving girls and pummel his young grooms. Though it was Annot they loved best, he tried to do right by them as their Laird and Chief. Clan Macinroy had prospered under Kadrick’s father, even if they’d suffered under his thumb. Kadrick hoped to repay them all for the years they’d had to live in fear of their former master, and so he was careful never to be cruel or unkind. Even at this moment, when he wanted to bash his fists into the stone walls out of sheer frustration, Kadrick remained calm. Only a slight unsteadiness in his hands gave away the storm raging within.

“Never mind it now, lass. Can ye go within an’ fetch me out Lorna? Tell her that I must-”

“No, my Laird, I cannae!” Eubha gulped and shook her head. “Milady told me that I was tae tell ye she will not tarry a moment away from Lady Annot’s side.”

That sounded like his sister. He turned back towards the door. Without asking the serving girl where she was headed, Kadrick put a hand to the handle and turned it, stepping into the chamber. According to tradition, no man was to enter until the birthing room, and the woman giving birth was cleansed and blessed by a priest. Normally after the business was concluded, the father was allowed in as a lone exception. Though his wife’s battle was not finished, Kadrick could no longer leave her to do it without him, not after he’d seen the look of fright on Eubha’s young face. The girl was nineteen, and this was her first birth, but her eyes told a tale more complicated than the simple fear of a novice. They held a look he’d seen in battle many a time, the look of a soul that has just witnessed hell on earth.

“Shhh, shhh, now my bonnie one. Take a breath, aye, now there ye have it. An’ another. An’ another. Deep breaths Annot. Come nae, don’t be frightened.”

Lorna was nineteen, but their mother had often brought her into the birthing rooms of her fellow clanswoman since she was a child. Like their mother before her, Lorna was fascinated by the craft and practice of midwives and wise women, the old healing arts of the stillroom, and the women’s quarters. Their father had often mocked her as a fool and sometimes called her a witch in his foul tempers, but their late mother would have made a fine barber-surgeon if she’d been born a man. Lorna was no different, and she’d been beside Annot since her first suspicions that she might be with child. Kadrick watched in stupefied silence as his sister squatted between his wife’s legs, her forearms covered in blood and her furrowed brow slick with sweat. She looked up at him once and then twice, all the while cooing to Annot and calling out orders to the serving women attending her. The Midwife was crushing something in her mortar and pestle. Some of the maids were looking at him agog as if they were shocked, he would deign to enter this sacred, feminine world. Father Kerr’s eyes were squeezed shut as he fiddled with his rosary and mumbled what Kadrick believed to be the lord’s prayer. Kerr was an old man who had seen his fair share of death and sorrow, but it was well known that he was like a father to Annot, who was a devout and pious woman and a goodly Lady to all. Kadrick watched a tear fall down Father Kerr’s cheek, and it spurred him to action. He quickly made his way to Annot’s bedside, where she writhed in pain, her own eyes shut tight against the bright lights that blazed all around her.

Kadrick reached for her hand, and when he touched her, those eyes flew open, dark blue like the depths of a calm sea. For a brief instant, the pain and terror fled, and she smiled up at him, her hair damp and limp, clinging to her face. Though he was happy to see her smile, Kadrick could not help but look back at Lorna and the bright red blood that seemed to cover most of the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Kadrick-”

Her voice was weak, and before she could continue, her whole body contorted with pain, and her face screwed up again. She tried to stop it but couldn’t and let out a wail of utter misery and pain.

“Hush nae ma love.” He stroked his wife’s face, resting his palm against her left cheek. Annot instinctively nuzzled into the caress, as she’d done a thousand times before. “I’m here. And I’m so very proud of ye. Rest now, just rest. Breathe deep like Lorna told ye. Aye, aye, here’s a good lass.”

Just then, the midwife returned to Annot’s bedside. She was slathering some grey concoction on her fingertips.

“Shepheard’s purse.” Lorna stood and let the woman take her place. She motioned for Kadrick to join her at a washbasin near the hearth. “Twill help to stem tha bleedin’.”

Kadrick hurried over to her side, where she was washing blood from her hands and forearms before patting them dry with clean linen. She wiped her brow and dried it, closing her eyes and taking a few deep breaths.

“One o’ the twins is trying tae come feet first.” Lorna met his eyes after a moment of silence, and he could see she was afraid as well. “Breach births are dangerous enough with only one bairn, but two….”

Kadrick felt his heart drop. What was she telling him?

“Wha can ye do then?” He asked frantically. “How can ye help her?”

Lorna covered her face with the linen, and Kadrick was horrified to find that she was crying into it. He shook his head, taking a step back. Lorna didn’t stop him, didn’t speak, simply kept crying into the linen. Her body was wracked with sobs after a moment, and Kadrick had to leave her side. He couldn’t stand to see her crying as if Annot had no hope.

When Kadrick turned back to his wife, he saw the midwife, with her hand inside Annot’s womb to twist the babe around. Annot began to scream so loudly that her voice began to break as if flaying the muscles within her throat. She cried out to God, to her mother, and to Kadrick. He rushed to her side, taking both her hands in his as unwanted tears slid down his cheeks and fell to the soaked neckline of her night shift.   The midwife finished her grim business, and Annot went limp for a moment. Kadrick wanted to pick her up off the bed and hold her close, but he dared not. She was so pale, looked so fragile.

“My love,” she looked so sad now, the sorrow in her eyes touching the core of his being. He would give anything to take this from her, to free her from this pain and sadness. “Come close tae me. Let me kiss yer lips once more.”

He was frightened when their lips met, for her kiss was cold as the grave. Kadrick’s hands began to tremble. He felt the strength nearly give way in his legs, but he held firm.

“Mine own Laird.” She was looking up at his face, smiling again, the sadness all but banished from her eyes. “Oh, how I loved thee for an endless age and shall a thousand more when mine hath passed.”

Kadrick couldn’t help but sputter now, tears flowing freely. Those words were from their wedding vows, the ones he’d spoken to her in the chapel of castle Kindrochit only two years ago. He held her face in his for a moment, shaking his head but unable to reply. When she screamed in pain again, he jumped back, his eyes searching frantically for Lorna.

His sister had returned, no longer sobbing into the linen but at the midwife’s side. Her eyes were wide, and she looked reinvigorated.

“Aye, Annot! One of the babes is coming! Push Annot! Push!”

Kadrick took her hands in his again, finally able to speak as hope came back to him. She opened her eyes and met his. He nodded at her, two sharp nods, eyes homing in on her frightened stare.

“Annot Macinroy, yer the Lady of Kindrochit, the wife of the Chief. Yer my heart and my soul woman, and I will not accept yer surrender! Now push!”

She did. God bless her heart. Kadrick watched as she recouped her strength, and with a gallant effort, Annot bore down, squeezing his hands with an explosive power that didn’t seem possible in her condition. Pride filled his spirit and more hope. Kadrick spotted Lorna and was glad to see that his sister no longer looked despondent but jubilant. Mayhap the worst was past, and soon Annot would be free of her travail, holding two bundles in her arms, all three of them healthy and hale.

“Aye me bonnie bride, our age won’t pass yet! Not until yer an old, gray crone prayin’ tae see yer man dead an’ in tha ground.”

The sound of her laughter made him want to kiss her, so he did, and her lips weren’t as cold as before, or so Kadrick wanted so badly to believe. He smoothed her hair back and felt her bear down again, so he found her hand and urged her on. In the distance, he heard Lorna proclaim both babes were born, but his attention was trained on Annot. Now that the ordeal was done, she fell back against the mattress, breathing a long sigh of relief. Her eyes met his, and all the hope he felt began to fade. She looked so tired as if all her strength had been expended in those last heroic moments. Her grip began to slip from his as if she could not go on. Kadrick was vaguely aware of the cries from behind him, cries of grief and horror. Suddenly he knew. He could not look, could not stand to watch his wife’s blood drain from her as he stood by helplessly. So, his eyes stayed on her beautiful face.

“Kadrick.” Her voice was nothing more than a whisper now. He leaned down to listen, so her words were audible over the growing din in the room. “Promise me you’ll take care of our bairns. Tha’ you’ll tell them stories of their mama, who loved them ever so. Ye must Kadrick, my poor, sweet man. I have loved thee for an endless age…”

Kadrick had seen a man’s eyes as the life fled his body but never imagined he would stare into Annot’s eyes as her soul departed from this life to the next. The Priest was beside him now, trying to administer the last rights of the dying, though it seemed to him that the time was now past. Annot was dead.

Though it felt as if someone had run him through with a dull blade, Kadrick knew he had to be strong now. Though it pained him greatly, the Laird of Kindrochit took a step back and let Father Kerr perform the rites. He murmured a prayer to the Virgin and wiped the tears from his eyes, though his whole body was shaking, and his legs felt weak. He turned to Lorna, trying to be brave like Annot, determined to begin right then to honor her last wishes. He would love his children, their children, with all the love he could no longer give to his wife, his dearest heart. His sister’s face was enough to turn his blood cold as he realized the chambers were not filled with squalls of tiny babes. Kadrick suddenly understood that even in the tumult, he’d heard no bairns crying out for succor. The notion was too terrible to fathom after losing Annot, too terrible to consider. Lorna stepped closer to him.

“Come Kadrick we-”

He snatched his hand away, looking around the room at the gathered women as they cried and covered their faces. The midwife wrapped up two bundles and placed them into the wooden cradles Kadrick had helped to craft.

“Where are the children!” he bellowed out, his deep, booming voice filled with pain and woe. “I want to see our children! I am yer Laird, and I will see my Annot’s bairns!”

Lorna’s eyes were filled with tears as she approached her brother again. This time Father Kerr was with her, whispering soothing words of God into his ear. Suddenly his vision began to darken, and he felt a tumult of rage and sorrow begin to churn within him. It felt like bloodlust, only there was no enemy to fight, no foe to vanquish, only his wife’s dead body and those of his two children lost to him forever. The mighty Laird fell to his knees. His tortured voice cut through the silent night until he collapsed upon the floor, spinning into a fitful sleep, full of nightmares and demons that grasped at the edges of his mortal soul.

Chapter 2: A Brother’s Betrayal

Davinia Macduthy had no time for her brother’s summons today.

Her morning had begun horribly, having to deal with the aftermath of an explosive row in the kitchens. Apparently, Cairnwell’s cook and washerwoman almost came to blows over some scullery maid and nearly killed each other. After that, Davinia found herself in the stables, where part of the structure had collapsed around dawn, injuring one of their best mules and a stableboy. When Thorkel sent word for her to come and sup with him around five, she was thoroughly exhausted and still had much yet to do before she could rest. That didn’t matter though, even the Laird of Cairnwell’s twin sister could not ignore a summons. No one in their clan would care to insult the Chief in such a manner. Though it was an annoyance, Davinia was hungry, and her brother having roast quail in a sweet herb sauce, which sounded divine.

They liked to indulge where they could, especially when it came to food. Davinia and Thorkel could remember sitting at their father’s feet, watching him gorge on all the best foods while he ordered them and the rest of the household to eat gruel and crusty bread. Though they were not in the best financial straits, Thorkel and Davinia tried to ensure plenty of tasty food for every soul within the castle, no matter who they were. As she made her way towards Thorkel’s study, she couldn’t help but smile as she heard him singing. Davinia opened the door and found him looking pleased as a lad on Christmas day, staring down at the little platter for two. There was a jug beside it, which she guessed was full of wine.

“Good day brother, I’m pleased to see yer enjoying yerself when I’ve been tending to this barbarian household and stitching up stableboys.”

Thorkel looked up from the roasted quails and gave her a serious glance.

“I heard about what happened in the stables. I’m to visit Colin this evening, but from what I’ve heard, the lad’s on tha mend?”

Davinia nodded and shrugged as she settled down into a chair across from him. She picked at one of the birds and popped a little of the meat into her mouth. She closed her eyes in pleasure at the tart, sweet sauce. The meat was gamey and rich, and the sauce was a perfect compliment. The cook had outdone himself.

“I’m surprised tha’ damn man was able tae get yer food cooked, given how he almost took a woman’s life today. The two of them hate each other Thorkel, by God’s eyes they-”

Thorkel shot her a look of disdain, and she had to fight not to roll her eyes. He was always going on about how she needed to mind her tongue and speak more like a lady. Lately, it was more, and more often, Thorkel fixed her with a troubled gaze. A look that belied his worry about how long she might be a spinster in his home. Long ago, he’d made a pledge to her that he would let her choose her own husband, as long as he was a suitable match. Still, given that Davinia had no intention of picking any man, she guessed that he was starting to regret their bargain. Luckily for her, Thorkel was a man of his word, and better than that as twins, they had a sacred code, one neither of them had ever broken in their lives. He would never marry her off without her consent, and Davinia planned to never marry, though she’d never told anyone that. No matter how kind, or rich, or handsome, Davinia could open herself to no man. Other than her twin brother Thorkel, but he was the only man in the world she knew would never betray her trust.

“Must ye always have such a rough tongue, sister?” He shook his head and passed her a sharp knife. “Can ye not tell me of their squabble without cursing and taking tha’ Laird’s name in vain?”

“Aye, I could, but yer study is boring enough a place to eat my supper in, so I thought I might bring a little cheer.”

She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back. In days past, when they were young, it was Davinia who’d stood up to their father on Thorkel’s behalf, mocking the violent and cruel man so that he wouldn’t hurt her brother. The Old Laird of Cairnwell Castle often tried to stamp his daughter’s wild tongue out of her head. Davinia believed that in Thorkel’s eyes, that sharp tongue was just a reminder of how much she loved him and wanted to protect him, even against insurmountable odds.

For Thorkel, insurmountable odds were old companions. Surely it must have been beneficial to have a shrewish sister standing loyally beside him. In this way, though she knew it troubled him, Davinia believed she was doing him a goodly service. In time he would come to appreciate her decision. She was convinced of it. She was Thorkel’s right hand, assisting him in everything he needed and keeping her freedom and safety intact. Long ago, they’d promised this world to each other, their own Kingdom of happiness and fulfillment. Where their lives were free and without the stain of fear.

His smile faded after a moment as he chewed his food in silence. Davinia watched him, wondering what he was preparing to say. She knew Thorkel better than anyone. Sometimes she was convinced she could feel the same emotions he did. Whatever stirred within him did so within her, and vice versa. Davinia felt now that he was anxious, concerned, but also determined. What could he be so worried to speak to her about? They could talk about anything. Her eyebrows knitted together, and Davinia leaned forward, setting down her fork before wiping her mouth with a bit of square of white linen.

“Wha ails ye brother?” She tilted her head slightly to the side. Thorkel looked up at her and pursed his lips.

“Nothing, save tha’ yer tae hate me once I’ve told me sorry tale.” Davinia froze, unsure of what he could possibly mean. “But I hope ye ken remember how I love ye more than anythin’ or anyone and not turn yer heart from me.”

Her stomach sank. There was only one thing in the world he could do which might make her turn her heart from him. Betrayal of his promise. A betrayal of the word he’d given to her when they were but children. He’d promised her freedom, and the only thing he could do to make Davinia hate him was to break that promise and put her fate into the hands of another, the hands of a man she did not know. Her heart began to hammer in her chest, but before she could protest, Thorkel held up a hand to stop her.

“Yer tae be wed.”

Davinia shot upright as soon as the words left his mouth. Her whole body felt as if struck by a bolt of lightning from above.

“Yer a liar! Ye would betray me like this, brother? Ye would go back on yer word?”

He could not burst up from his seat as she did, but much of the fire of anger died within her as Thorkel struggled to push himself up, grabbing his cane with one hand and the heavy desk with another. Shakily the Chief of Clan Macduthy, made it to a standing position and looked her in the eye. He was not angry but looked sad and older than his years. Shots of silver were starting to show in his raven black hair, the same shade as hers.

“Everythin’ changed after Berwick Davinia.” His words were thick with sorrow. “Ye ken the debts father left us, ye ken them, well as I. Angus Macinroy, uncle to Laird Macinroy, he wrote to me. He says it’s well past time the Laird remarries. He offered to let me keep half yer dowry if ye’d agree to marry Kadrick. It’s an offer I cannae refuse, sister.”

Davinia’s face grew red as she realized what he was saying. He would make her marry Kadrick Macinroy of Kindrochit, Laird, and Chief, and one of the most infamous brutes in western Scotland.

“Sister, please. Ye ken that I’m nae a whole man.” He gestured at his leg, and the pained look on his face toughed her angry heart. “The cares of a Lairdship are heavy enough. I cannae hope to shoulder them on me own. No matter how sharp or strong ye are, it changes nothing. I am a cripple, but I am still a Laird. I must do what is best for our people, Davinia, an’ ye must join me in this duty.”

She had to stop herself from screaming at him. Only moments before, she’d been naively dreaming of a life unfettered by hateful, evil, grasping men. Yet here she was, the victim of a man’s betrayal, the one man she believed she could trust. She wanted to curse him, but she saw how it taxed him to stand, so she shook her head and bit her sharp tongue.

“Sit. Ye need not keep this show going. There’s nothing to be done for it besides. I cannae refuse. If yer hell-bent on throwing me to the wolves, I must accept it in the eyes of God and the eyes of the law.”

Thorkel sighed and sat down again. Davinia remained standing. She wanted to run away, to never return to this place. She wanted to accuse him of being just like their father. She wanted to strangle him. She wanted to cry. Instead, she stood stock still, cold as ice, her eyes turned towards the window where she could see the sun shining on the snowy ground. Davinia couldn’t bring herself to look upon his face. The face of a traitor.

“Davinia, please, I would never wed ye to a-”

She held up a hand.

“No more promises Thorkel. It’s clear to me now that ye cannae keep them.”

Not only had he gone back on his promise, but his proposed bridegroom was the worst possible choice a loving brother could have made. The Macinroy’s were as wealthy as the Macduthy’s were poor, but their fathers had been every ounce as cruel and twisted. Laird Macinroy’s son and heir had proven to be just as terrible as his father. After losing his wife and children five years prior, the rumor was that Kadrick Macinroy had become a loathsome, violent, twisted man full of terrible whims and bloodred rage. He was terrible to his servants and spent most of his time cooped up in his tower, unshaven and manic, attacking people in the throes of his madness. Thorkel would make her leave home and live as that monster’s property, a man who had killed countless souls in battle. It was said that after his wife’s death, the only time Kadrick Macinroy smiled was when killing men on the battlefield, thirsty for violence, gore, and death. The thought of a man like that being her Laird and lawfully wedded husband filled Davinia with ice-cold fear. It was as if their father was even now standing in the room with them, ready to strike her down.

“Kadrick’s uncle assures me those rumors ye’ve heard are untrue. He says tha’ poor man is merely troubled. Heartbreak changed him, but he’s far from a monster, Davinia. I hear tell he was once considered the most handsome man for miles around, and he treated the late Lady Annot like a Queen. Ye’d be mistress of Kindrochit Castle Davinia. Tis more than I could ever hope to do for ye.”

She felt guilt stir within her again, and the sad look of loss in Thorkel’s eyes made her keep her acerbic responses to herself. Of course, the Laird’s uncle would say that, but the very fact that her twin was willing to risk it, to gamble her life and safety, it hurt her and mingled with the new fear of what truths she had to face. It seemed Thorkel would not be swayed. It seemed that she would be married. He was going to make her; she had no choice.

“As ye wish Laird Macduthy,” she said softly, eyes averted. She bobbed a quick curtsey and began to back her way out of the room.

“Davinia, stop. Don’t be like this, I beg ye.”

“I cannae be excused Laird?” she kept her eyes down, spoke timidly, as she used to do with their father. “I hope I have not displeased my good Laird.”

She heard his voice quiver.

“Davinia, this is cruel.”

She had to stifle a cold laugh. What room did he have to speak of cruelty? He was a heartless ghoul, like every other man born before or after him.

“I wish to go to my chambers, my Laird, to prepare for my wifely duties.”

He didn’t speak, she thought he might have been crying, but Davinia didn’t look up. He should cry. He should feel ashamed. Without leave, she backed out of the room and into the hall. Davinia made her way down a shadowy corridor towards her own chambers. Once within, she barred the door and sank to the floor. By herself, she began to sob. Her fate was sealed, and there was no escape. She was to wed Kadrick Macinroy.

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