Author: julianawight

2 months earlier…

James sank into the leather armchair with a sigh as weary as his bones. He let his eyes slip shut, the details of the room turning fuzzy at first and then disappearing behind his closed eyelids. Nothing but the dull glow of the morning sun remained, streaming in through the window, pale in comparison to the bright flames that blazed in the fireplace.

His father’s study had never been his favorite place in the castle. People came and went at all times of the day—maids, guards, council members, all of them either requesting something from his father or reporting to him. Even as a child, James had never enjoyed being in that room, where he could never get any peace.

Now, there was no one there but him and his brother, and the room was plunged in a blessed silence. Still, James knew it wouldn’t last long.

His body ached from the battle and the wounds he had sustained. One night’s sleep was nowhere near enough to allow him and Edward to recover from the effects of the fight, and though the war was, for all intents and purposes, over, there were still negotiations to be made. Clan MacGregor may have come out of it victorious, but the work was not yet done.

Just as he had expected, the door soon opened with a creak and his father walked inside. He and Edward sat up straighter, making to stand before their father motioned to them to stay where they were. He was getting older, James noticed; his dark hair was rapidly graying and his face was etched by time. Across from him, Edward looked the spitting image of him—only thirty years younger.

“Ye did well, both of ye,” their father said as a maid who followed him through the open door to his study walked in with a silver tray, carrying a pitcher of wine and three cups. Silently, she poured wine for them all and then remained by the laird’s side until she was dismissed, scurrying out of the room. “Very few casualties this time. Ye saved many lives, lads.”

James was relieved to hear that. He hadn’t had the chance to tally up the men himself, exhausted and wounded as he had been. Even now, he was supposed to be resting, but his father had requested both him and Edward to be present, claiming he had something important to say.

What could be more important than sleep?

James hadn’t even managed to take a bath and was still covered in grime and blood, save for the skin around his wounds, where the healer had cleaned him up. Surely, whatever his father wanted to tell them could wait just a little longer.

“Yer work has kept our clan safe… fer now,” his father continued, pinning James with his gaze. “Victory was ours but… it is time tae secure the future of the clan.”

“The future of the clan?” Edward asked with a small chuckle, tilting his head to the side in confusion. “Are we nae the future of the clan?”

“The long-term future,” said their father. “Were something to happen tae the two of ye, there is nae one else to take over once I’m gone. And with so many conflicts lately, it is better tae be cautious. It is better to anticipate things afore they happen.”

Lovely… we just survived a battle and we must think about our own deaths!

“James,” his father continued, and James jumped a little in his seat, surprised to be addressed in his half-asleep state. “It is time fer ye tae have an heir.”

James couldn’t help but snort at that, the sound sudden and inelegant. But under his father’s scathing gaze, he straightened up a little once more, schooling his expression into a serious one.

“I believe there are a few steps that must be taken afore I can have an heir,” he pointed out. “Most notably, finding a wife.”

“That will be arranged,” his father said with a dismissive wave of his hand, as though the matter of his future wife was the least of anyone’s concerns. James couldn’t help but frown. Did he already have someone in mind? Had he already arranged for him to meet a few noble women and have his pick?

Would James be able to do it when the time came?

It seemed cruel to him, lining them up like cattle for him to choose the best one. Perhaps it would be better if he were the one to visit the women instead of having them all visit him.

“Alright,” said James, a little doubtfully. He had always known this day would come, and even he had to admit that it was about time. He had reached his twenty-eighth year. He had lived a noble bachelor’s life with all the comforts and pleasures such a life brought with it. Even though he hadn’t given the matter of his marriage much thought, the idea didn’t trouble him very much. “How much time dae I have?”

“Ye’ll need tae complete yer pilgrimage first,” said his father, and James drew in a deep sigh.

Of course—there was always the pilgrimage. Every man in the MacGregor family had to take it before getting married, and now it was time for James to do the same. He would have to sail to the Isle of Rum and seek his blessing from St. Cuthbert’s relic—the saint’s finger bone, which had been kept on the island ever since his death.

It was an honor to be part of this tradition, to join the long line of MacGregors who had undertaken the very same journey in order to get the blessing. It was yet another milestone in his life, one he revered more than any other.

He would much rather not go alone, but he had no choice. He couldn’t take anyone with him, not even Edward.

“Of course, Faither,” James said. “I’ll make sure to prepare the proper arrangements fer me travels.”

“Good,” said his father with a nod. “Good… I would think that two or three months should be sufficient fer us tae arrange everything. The journey itself shouldnae take ye more than two weeks and then once ye return, we shall find ye a proper wife.”

“Make sure she’s bonnie,” Edward teased and their father cracked a small smile.

“Aye, aye… I ken how ye lads think,” he said. “Ye think I havenae seen how ye act with the maids?”

To his credit, Edward didn’t try to deny it, though his cheeks turned a bright red. James couldn’t help but laugh at him. Though Edward was now a man, only four years younger than James, he would never stop being his baby brother.

“Ach, Faither,” both James and Edward said at the same time. James couldn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes at his father. For years, he had been saying the same thing, claiming he didn’t have long—that the next winter would take him, that the next battle would kill him. And yet, he was still there, alive and well, with no signs of slowing down.

It’s the battles… he cannae fight anymore, so he thinks his life is over.

But just because he couldn’t fight like he used to didn’t mean he was weak. Every time the healer took a look at him, she always assured them all he was perfectly healthy.

“And even if I dae,” his father continued, unfazed, “I cannae sire more heirs. It’s yer duty now. Both of ye must wed soon.”

“Why should I wed?” Edward asked in indignation. “James should wed! He’s the firstborn.”

Their father’s gaze slid from James to Edward, entirely unimpressed. “That daesnae mean ye dinnae have a duty tae this clan as well,” he said. “Sooner or later, ye’ll have tae find a good lass and dae what’s right too. Ye cannae live yer whole life unwedded.”

Edward didn’t try to argue with their father, knowing it would get him nowhere. Besides, out of the two of them, Edward seemed to have the same strong sense of duty as James, instilled into him by their mother.

“Alright,” said James as he pushed himself off the chair with some difficulty. “Is that all, Faither? I would very much like tae sleep fer a few days now.”

“That is all,” his father said with an amused chuckle. “Go… go on, rest. Ye both deserve it.”

James and Edward made their way to the door, both relieved to finally be dismissed. Just as they were leaving, though, their father called after them, his voice echoing down the hallway.

“And stay away from the maids!”

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Chapter One

1578, Port Mallaig

Today was the day. The first of a new chapter in James MacGregor’s life, leaving home and traveling across the ocean. For most this would have been intimidating or even frightening. But James found that he was rather excited about the prospect. There was something thrilling for him about stepping off his familial lands and onto the deck of a boat to carry him on the same pilgrimage as all his ancestors before him.

Standing at eight and twenty, there was no doubt that James was a red-blooded male. Cold morning air bit into his skin, the waves in the distance pushing fresh salt into the air in enough abundance that he could feel it grimy in the lines of his face as he squinted over to the slowly rising sun in the distance. The whole port was washed in a bath of pale morning light, crewmates finishing up the final headcounts and supply onboarding around him. James held his rucksack up over his shoulder with one calloused hand.

He could get used to this, the brine and salt in the air, the rocking of the boat as they started to pull out of the harbor and into the water. The noise and constant chatter, somebody always moving, it felt so similar to the castle, it was hard not to feel at ease despite the unfamiliar faces around him.

James walked backward once more to the gangplank, his boot nearly catching on the wooden rungs. He bowed once, just an incline of his shoulders and head before the crew started to lift the gangplank and tied off the gap in the bow. A short journey all things considered, and then he would seek his blessing from Saint Cuthbert’s relic.

One of the crew clapped him on the shoulder, motioning with his head to follow him down below deck where his sleeping arrangements likely were. It was a much more difficult squeeze into the space for him than for the sailor in front of him. He had to angle himself sideways and shuffle down the stairs, his head bowed for quite some time before he could stand straight again.

The crewmate led him to his hammock, and he hurled his bag onto it without thinking. He supposed he could attempt to rest, but he was wired, wide awake. His focus, instead, shifted to the four men sitting around a circular table with tall edges to prevent anything from falling off and to the floor. But it was mainly empty, save for the cards in their hands.

“Dinnae stare like ye’re some bogle,” one of them said, speaking out of the side of his mouth, his cap pulled down low over one eye. “If ye’re goin’ tae sit, then sit.”

James decided that he liked him immediately. The other players around the table had to shuffle, squeezing closer together to accommodate for the space took up. He had always been a large lad.

“If ye think that sitting in me lap means that ye can cheat me cards, then ye’re sorely mistaken!” One of the others said, angling his torso away from the third man with an overly accusatory narrowed glance, cupping his hands around his cards and seemingly wholly unaware that by doing so, he was showing the whole hand to the man on the other side of him.

Just last night, he had been in the village, celebrating, in the local tavern. Edward and his other friends had argued similarly, over trivial things. Edward had gone on and on about how James was unlikely to have time for a proper buck’s night when he returned from his journey and he could choose his wife. Teased and pushed for him to lose himself in drink, to make merry.

The man with the hat pulled low plucked the cards right out of his crewmate’s hands, reshuffling the very weathered deck of cards. Quite a feat indeed considering that he seemed to be missing two fingers on his right hand, but he moved like he didn’t miss them in the slightest. In the dim room, it seemed to James that the ship was rocking precariously from side to side. Every crash of the waves on the side of the ship startled him, the sound loud and jarring, the force of them unexpected. When they had boarded the ship, the sea had been calm, or at least calm enough. Now he was just glad to be sitting, knowing that were he to stand, he, too, would be swaying precariously.

“So, what brings ye ontae our ship?” He asked, not making eye contact as he focused more on dealing the cards to them all. “Name’s Callum, by the way. That’s Angus and Rory over there.”

As he spoke, Callum pointed to the other two sailors sitting around the small table—Angus, an older man with dark hair that was graying at the temples, short and solid and broad-chested, and Rory, a man closer to James’ age, perhaps even younger, apple-cheeked and ruddy-faced like a cherub.

“James,” He answered, reaching for his hand. “Well, me faither wants tae find me a wife, ye ken? Every man in me family takes the trip tae the convent before marriage.”

“Ah, ye’re the laird’s boy?” Callum grinned, a slow expression.

James nodded. They already knew that, but he appreciated the teasing. His title and future titles likely meant nothing to them when they were out at sea.

“Is she a fine lass?” Angus asked off-hand. “I had me a wife once, all she did was nag me all day and night. Drove me tae the sea she did.”

“Mm, the nagging is what drove ye tae the sea? Nae because ye were messing around and she threatened tae cut yer bollocks off?” Rory challenged.

It must have been right because the second stomped the third clear on his foot, loud and hard enough that the table rattled as the ship lurched to the other side. James and Callum had to latch onto it. James looked at the others to see if they were alarmed at all, but they were all simply looking at their cards idly as though this was a daily occurrence. Perhaps, for them, it was. Perhaps they were used to not having solid ground beneath their feet and James was the only one in that room who was alarmed at all.

He did his best to ignore it. If the sailors were unbothered by it, then it could only mean it was normal.

“I have a duty,” James offered, making his first play just to distract himself. “They will choose her when the time comes.”

Angus groaned. “Say the word, lad, and we shall keep ye on this ship, run away across the ocean.”

“True, true, there’s nay shame in it either. Ye never ken what ye’re getting with a marriage of obligation.” Rory said sagely, making his play. James had a sneaking suspicion that the two of them were likely to break out in a brawl before the game was even completed.

“This journey is nae jest tae me,” James answered, his tone serious. “The pilgrimage is a duty, and I intend tae honor it. Saint Cuthbert’s blessing means the world tae me—it’s meant tae protect me future, me family.”

He made eye contact with Callum, who nodded with obvious respect for his choice. No doubt the man could see the determination on his face. This journey was an honor, after all. He could not take that lightly, even if the adventures that they spoke about sounded appealing. His future wasn’t his own, he had responsibilities for the privilege of being born into his station. His clan meant far too much to him to be swayed.

One hand turned into another, and then again, as sparse conversation passed among the lot of them. There was no way of knowing how far they had gone, and James wasn’t about to question how it was that they were able to stay down here while the rest were working. But he appreciated the company. The last thing that he wanted was to have idle hands.

In the duration of the game, he had been so focused on the cards that he hadn’t noticed the way the sway of the ship had gradually turned into a wild rocking, the vessel moving from one side to the other. Never had it been so clear to James that he was at the mercy of the sea. The slam of waves against the sides and the deck, the chilly draft that entered through the gaps in the door, the knowledge that they were out in open seas—it all served to unnerve James, yet still, the other sailors seemed perfectly at ease.

“Oy!” A voice called down the open door to the quarters where they played. “Callum! Get yer arse up here!”

The man played his hand, which was far better than any of the rest of theirs, resulting in Angus slamming down his cards and cursing, while Rory did the same before they, too, started toward the stairs.

“Come on then!” Callum called back over his shoulder, and James followed. It was only then that he saw the same fear he felt flash in the other men’s eyes.

The sky overhead was dark, like the sun had suddenly changed its mind about rising entirely. Sailors moved this way and that in a chaos so organized that it almost looked to be a dance. Callum pointed at the main mast. “Tie down the lines, ye can tie a knot?”

James nodded, pushing up his sleeves, the cold rain hitting his face like ice as he moved with footing far less certain than all of the men around him. Despite his size and muscle mass, he was far less skilled at maneuvering slippery rope on a ship that was starting to rock ever more violently. Barrels were being strapped down, the sails secured, and long lengths of lifelines coiled up and waiting to be tied around the waist of those above deck in case the storm decided to open up.

“It’s getting too dark, too fast!” One of the men yelled, and James spun, looking at the angry clouds and the sparks of yellow and white lightning illuminating them sporadically in the distance. It seemed like the section that they were sailing into was almost purple, a strange fog lingering over the surface of the choppy water. The ship swayed and rocked just enough for freezing water to slosh up over the sides.

The captain seemed to fly down the stairs onto the deck, weaving between his crew effortlessly before ending up beside James, the pair of them both looking at the unnatural gloom ahead of them. James didn’t care much for the way that the man’s eyes narrowed, his face grave. “This wasnae in the forecast,” he muttered, and such simple words they might be, they sent a shudder down James’ spine. His pulse quickened as he watched the clouds churn, the once-calm water growing restless beneath the ship. The captain turned to him, his eyes clear and focused, but his words instilled no confidence.

“If yer the prayin’ sort, lad, now would be the time.”

The sea surged, the angry wind lifting the water to spray bitterly in their faces while the ship rocked, the surge nearly lifting both James and the captain off of their feet. It was only quick reflexes and strong hands that kept them inside the boat. The captain swore and shouted more commands. Up overhead, a beam swung loose, a sailor dangling from it precariously. James couldn’t let go of the banister until he saw the sailor wrap the rope around his wrist, and swing his leg up and over the beam. He was certain he was going to fall. He couldn’t imagine having to encounter this sort of storm on the regular. It was so much stronger here over the water than anything he had witnessed on land. It had absolutely not been on the forecast.

However, he refused to believe it was an omen for his pilgrimage.

The deck was wet and nearly slippery under his boots. Every step he took felt like it was going to land him on his arse, whereas the smaller men seemed to be running about without any difficulty at all. There had to be some sort of trick to it that he wasn’t seeing. The waves were only getting worse—the few lanterns that they had swung rapidly to and fro, shifting the field of illuminated vision so quickly that it alone would have made him dizzy if the sea weren’t already doing such a good job of that on its own. Shouts filled the air as the crew scrambled to secure the rigging, their voices nearly lost in the roar of the storm. James gripped one of the ropes he had secured to the main mast, helping him to steady against the swelling waves. Rain lashed his face, and he struggled to keep his footing as the deck bucked beneath him.

At the wheel, the navigator let out a scream, low and guttural as he struggled to keep the wheel from spinning out of control. The ship’s carpenter, arms overladen with wooden planks, a pail of steaming pitch, and a hammer, nearly rolled down the deck and slid below deck, the door flapping and clapping open from not being secured properly. He and four other men all held the tether for the foresail to try and aid the navigator’s steering as best they could. James was shocked by just how much strength the five of them were putting in all together. Still, the rope was slipping. Inch by inch, they were losing ground. He had no idea what would happen if the sea were to win this battle.

All hands on deck, the lanterns were the next thing to go. The only visibility that was left was the flashes of lightning as it struck the water all around them, the angry claps of following thunder making him flinch each and every time. He could only tell where the others around him even were by the sounds of struggle they were making, and the sound of the captain’s voice starting to grow raspy from combatting the rush of the water as he yelled.

James’ muscles ached, and he was by no means a weak man, his hands raw from gripping the thick wet ropes. The sea thrashed them about wildly, as if determined to consume every one of them whole. He would not give up. Not when he was so close, he was so ready to enter into the next steps, to finally be eligible to reprieve his father’s weary bones. Yet this task seemed insurmountable, stripping every ounce of strength he possessed.

Hours. Minutes. A day. There was no telling how long it had been, and the storm showed no mercy. At least two men had been thrashed overboard and it was too dark to even think about going back to find them, to see if any of them remained. James had heard their screams, high pitched and mobile as they soared over the edge and were cut off too abruptly. The ship groaned under the relentless assault, creaking and shuddering as if the very planks might split apart.

“Brace yerselves men!” The Captain’s frantic warning was almost too late for James, and the four men behind him to abandon the rope they held and dive for the main mast, grabbing for the lifelines blindly in the darkness. A thunderous crash against the water hit like a solid wall, throwing him forward and smacking him into the mast. Warm blood trickled down over his brow, but he ignored the pain. His ears rang and even the darkness seemed to sway and swirl as he fumbled for a rope.

The flash of lightning as he grabbed his rope illuminated the wall of black water looming directly in front of them. The nose of the ship started to lift, like the moment stretched impossibly slower as they climbed, at the mercy of the sea. His grip on the rope tightened as his feet were lifted clear off the ship as the deck moved nearly vertical for the wave that then dipped, sending them crashing forward. The man beside him slipped, and James shot out a hand, tightening around the man’s shirt and gritting his teeth through the pain of holding them both with one hand. He wouldn’t abandon a single soul if he had anything to do with it.

Slowly, he managed to lift the man against gravity just enough to share his rope, the sailor clinging desperately. For the span of a heartbeat, James could hear the man’s heavy, panting breaths—and then the water shifted again. Instead of the wave passing underneath the ship, this one toppled straight over them. The frigid water slapped over the lot of them, and he gasped, too much salty water trying to enter his lungs. The moment it backed off, he sputtered, and then the wave crashed again.

He lost his grip.

One moment he was steady, the next he was airborne, too cold to even think about calling for help, or praying for mercy. He couldn’t think yet was painfully aware of every passing second as the ship moved on—and he stayed behind, crashing into the choppy water hard enough to knock any remaining breath from his body.

Pulled under, disoriented and struggling against the powerful currents, his panic flared as he fought to break the surface, his lungs burning as he thrashed through the darkness.

Oxygen, sweet and fleeting as he sucked in a mixture of sea foam, air, and water before he was tossed about by the waves once more. Somewhere ahead the ship groaned; the wooden planks sounded like they were snapping, the main mast falling into the ocean as the water tipped the ship. Each frame highlighted for him only as lightning struck, debris and beams in the water floating around him as he tried to fight the current. Driftwood and who knows what else scattered in the churning sea.

Just as despair began to creep in, he caught sight of a large wooden beam floating nearby, the wood jagged, bobbing up and down in the water. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t hear a single other crew member in the water, and he couldn’t seem to stop coughing up sea water long enough to call out himself. Kicking with all his strength, he pushed through the waves, finally reaching the bit of the mast that floated nearby. As he had seen the sailor do before, he summoned the last of his strength to hook one leg up over the wood, clinging to it as if his life depended on it—which it did. All he could do was try to keep his head above water, no matter how the icy sea attempted to pull him under.

The night stretched endlessly, each passing moment another battle to hold on. James’s thoughts drifted as he shivered, tired down to his bones. His mind wandered through images of his family, the promise of his future, and the saint’s relic he had set out to seek. In his heart, he clung to the only thing he could as he fought to stay strong, to stay awake and breathing; the hope that he might survive this ordeal and return home to his family a stronger man.

He had to hope there would be mercy for him, no matter what the sea intended.
 

Chapter Two

1578, Island of Rùm
 
There was nothing quite like the peace of a calm morning. Whatever poison the sea had needed to turn over in order to bring about this beautiful morning, it was almost worth it. A week of storms had left most of the residents in the small seaside village unable to leave their homes. Half of the modest population had sniffles and fevers. Never mind the grumpiness that tended to come along with sleep deprivation, patching up homes for all the long hours of the night, stoking fires and scraping together meals. Never mind those who had to run out to tend to flocks or save livestock.

Their village would have their work cut out for them for the next few weeks, for the repairs alone. Freya would be busy, too, with all the healing she would need to do to keep the villagers healthy and sound after such a terrible storm. But, for this morning, she was able to walk down the clear beach just after dawn. Her basket was already full of herbs she would turn into salves and oils for her townsfolk, but she was presently on the hunt for something a little more charming for those children who were stuck in bed while the others were out playing after the long week indoors. Perhaps a fancy bottle, or a sand dollar, a pretty shell… anything to keep their hearts light. It would make their recoveries easier.

Well, that and her seaweed.

It was vexing to her that she had only ever managed to find this special ingredient along the rocks by this section of shore. Hopefully, the storm hadn’t ripped them all from the roots. The remedy she had in mind should be of particular relief to her aging neighbor, but, then again, she would take as much as she could to make as much of her special remedy for anyone who came asking for it.

Further down the shoreline, closer to where their dock was still mostly intact, fishermen were preparing their boats to go out and replenish the food stores for their families and anyone else who was feeling poorly. Despite how some of her neighbors squabbled, they were a community, and they worked well together. No doubt the fishermen were eager to return to their beloved sea after the week of being landlocked.

Ah, there it is. Freya lifted her skirt with one hand and quickly jogged down the beach to where her seaweeds were still clinging to the rocks. They were a little worse for wear than she would have liked, but she was not in a position to be choosy about her supplies. With more difficulty than she had anticipated, she started to pluck and pull as much as she could, plopping the slippery weeds into her basket on top of everything else. There wasn’t going to be enough here for her goals, but she would make do with what she—

A shout from near the docks caught her attention once more, halting her actions as she squinted to better see what had suddenly riled the men. From their pointing, she could see three small fishing boats returning rather quickly to the shore, and her heart plummeted. What had happened? What had they seen out there? If they were going to be landlocked for much longer, it was going to be bad news for everybody in the village.

Resting her basket in the crook of her arm, she watched them, forgetting that her skirts were now getting heavy with water from where she was standing, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the sight in front of her. Almost against her will, her feet started to move her forward, slowly, reluctantly, fearing whatever bad news that they must be bringing.

But it was her name that they were calling.

Over and over again, the men were calling for her. Two of the fishermen took off down the dock, no doubt headed for her house where they presumed she was. The largest of the fishing boats was closer to the dock, and the other men were casting ties right back to it in order to secure it.

Her legs moved her body, even though her mind stayed a blank slate, fearing whatever she was about to run up to. The basket jostled painfully against her torso but she paid it no mind.

“Here,” She called, waving her free arm up over her head, eager to be helpful in whatever way she possibly could. “I’m here!”

One of the fishermen spun on his heel quickly, and the look of relief on his face was palpable when he saw her running closer. He turned, running to meet her in the middle, not wanting her to wait, clear urgency in his eyes.

“Freya! Come quickly!” He urged, as if she were not already running as quickly as her dress would allow. The moment he was within arm’s reach, she thrust her basket of supplies into his chest. With her hands free, she could pick up her skirts and give her legs far more mobility.

“What is it? What has happened?” She asked, still wary of his answer.

“There’s a man. They found a man floating on a board in the sea,” he explained, running alongside her.

The wood of the dock was wet and felt mighty unstable as she ran onto it, careful to avoid the obviously loose boards that were being repaired just moments before. “Is he alive?”

The man didn’t answer, and her worry only grew.

Nothing could have properly prepared her for the state of the man in front of her. Unconscious, from the look of things. She knelt in front of him, placing a hand gingerly on his chest as she bent her ear to listen. His heartbeat was faint, but still there. Each rattled breath from his pale, cracked lips made it sound as if it would be his very last. The man’s poor skin was red and raw, blistered in the places where the sun had been the cruelest to him. His clothes were shredded and salt-encrusted. He must have been drifting for days. His hands were worn down, still seeping blood from whatever he had been holding onto for so long.

“Help me, I need to get him inside,” she urged, her voice laced with worry.

He might be too far gone. He might be beyond her help but there was absolutely no way that she could leave anyone in that state and not at least try to help them the best that she could. The fishermen around her hesitated, and she clucked her tongue at them. They couldn’t do much worse to the man by carrying him than the damage that the sea had done already.

At her wordless reprimand, all the men moved into action at once, lifting him carefully. With the man’s bulk, it took four of them to carry him easily enough to her modest hut on the very edge of the town. They made a makeshift gurney out of fishing nets and poles, moving very slowly and carefully over the wet, soggy terrain.

When they were close enough, she pushed open the door and held it for them. She only had but one worktable, and one narrow bed, which she pointed for them to put the man on without delay. She preferred the quiet when she worked, and being too close to the town square never did suit her. Her hut was the smallest in the town, but she didn’t need much, being that it was only her.

The stranger didn’t make so much of a sound as they lowered him, not even a soft whine of pain.

That wasn’t a good sign at all.

Freya accepted her basket from the man lingering behind. “Dae ye wish fer me tae stay with ye?”

She appreciated the sentiment, but it was unnecessary. “He cannae harm anything or anyone in the state he’s in.”

Quickly, and with practiced ease, Freya tied her hair back and pushed her sleeves up to give her hands free access to the man in front of her. The larger townsfolk lingered, and while she appreciated it, she couldn’t very well work with them staring at her like that. “Go on then.” She commanded, and they slowly shuffled out of the room.

“I dinnae like the look of him, Miss Webster,” one of the fishermen said. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the waterlogged man.

“Well, then stay close enough tae hear me scream if it suits ye, but get out of me house.” Freya said without so much as looking back over her shoulder when she moved the man further out of the way. Mercifully, she heard the click of her front door, and she was left in a house that was far, far too silent for a man that injured. She leaned down once more, only touching him long enough to verify his pulse before practically flying over to her shelves.

It was muscle memory that had her hands moving over the shelves, pulling herbs from small jars and drawers to mix into poultices. She worked with efficiency as she added bits from various oils. It had always been that way for her, and she had never truly been able to explain it. The ill and injured had never bothered her the way they did other girls her age. She had an almost morbid fascination with them, healing people and learning how their bodies worked. She certainly wouldn’t deny she had gotten more than a few strange looks because of it.

She placed all her supplies on a flat tray with some clean cloth, a pitcher of water, and then her needles and moved them onto the bed. She dragged her small stool close and started with a numbing potion, tilted down his nearly blue lips slowly, massaging his throat to make him swallow. Not that he would need it but the last thing that she wanted was for him to wake up in the middle of her stitching him shut. It wouldn’t do much to help with the dehydration, but it was certainly a start.

How is he alive?

Freya allowed herself only one moment to marvel at the severity of his wounds, most of which weren’t even bleeding from how cold and weak he was. With her knife, she quickly cut off his shirt and gasped again. Even for her, it was almost stomach churning. Biting her bottom lip, she finished cutting off the rest of his ruined clothes and covered his modesty with her sheet as best she could. One by one, she flushed the wounds and packed herbs and poultices into them, making sure that they were as clean as they could be. It would be a pity for sickness to settle into the wounds. She stitched those that needed it in every place she could find. She had seen sailors suffer from exposure before, shark bites, all manner of impalements… but this?

She started to build up the fire in her hut, burning it as brightly as she could until she was barely able to take the heat. She kept her small oven burning, needing to ensure that the man’s temperature rose as well, if he were to have any chance at all. Gingerly, Freya started to lift his arm up and tuck it into his side, the golden ring on his finger glinting in the warm firelight. It was a pretty thing, gold and intricately designed with an arm shaped like swirling waves, something that she had never seen before. Was it a mark of his family? Of who he was? Did he have somebody waiting at home for him? Surely, a man built like this had to be. Half the scars on his body were long since healed over, marking him as a fighter, a warrior.

She slipped it from his finger, telling herself that it was to ensure his fingers didn’t swell and cause further injury as she slipped it into one of her many drawers. If he were to awaken, then she could return it to him. Of course she would. But, knowing her fellow villagers and how prone that they were to their superstitions and occasional greed it was for the best. She didn’t need him to be marked as any more of a misfortune omen or lord forbid, a prize.

She covered him and sat by his bedside, marveling as his chest started to draw in deeper breaths, a soft bit of movement behind his eyes. Only moments prior, it would have seemed impossible. She had done everything that she possibly could, and now it was out of her control.
 

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April 1702

One year earlier, Castle Allan, Scottish Highlands

“She’s got tae be in there somewhere,” Laird Ewan Ballentine murmured in a low tone, unable to keep the desperation from his voice as he thought of his only sister Deidra being held somewhere inside the walls of the mighty stronghold, whose forbidding walls rose before him a short distance away. Knowing how terrified she must be was like being stabbed in the heart.

“Aye, but if she is, it’ll take some time tae find her. The place is vast. She could be anywhere,” said his trusted friend and war captain Colin Maclean grimly. The two men were crouched side by side, concealed in the tree line of the forest bordering the castle. Ranged invisibly behind them among the trees were fifty of his best fighters, a rescue party.

They had been surveilling the castle for hours, looking in vain for signs Deidra was there. It was the residence of Ewan’s bitter enemy, the evil Laird Calumn Allan, the man he was at war with and who had sent an assassin to kill him in his bed just a few days before. Taken by surprise, Ewan had fought the man off with nothing but his bare hands, sustaining several nasty wounds from the assassin’s dirk in the struggle.

Seeing he had failed in his mission, the man had fled, but not before grabbing Ewan’s beloved sister Deidra, who had come to investigate her brother’s shouts for help. Before a horrified Ewan could do anything to save her, the interloper had dragged her at knifepoint from the castle, unhindered, and made his escape—carrying her off into the night. Her screams still echoed in Ewan’s ears.

But now he was here, and he was determined to rescue her and take her safely home.

“I’m almost certain she’s inside, and if I ken Allan, he’ll have her locked up in his dungeons,” Ewan observed bitterly. “He’s likely enjoyin’ seein’ her terrified, and he kens it’ll be drivin’ me mad, the bastard. He’ll use her as a pawn in his plan tae kill me and take over me clan. So, we should try the dungeons first. At least we have the element of surprise on our side,” he pointed out to Colin.

“Aye, but it would be best tae find some way inside without raisin’ the alarm. Ye and me could sneak inside the walls and find the dungeons, while the men stage some kind of distraction tae keep the guards busy elsewhere. If we’re lucky, we might be able tae get in and out without bein’ seen.”

“That’s just what I was thinkin’,” Ewan agreed, looking at the high walls. “After dark, we’ll take a few men with us and scale the wall. The rest of the troops can stage a distraction by startin’ a fight at the main gates until we find Deidra and get her out.”

“Aye, good idea. We’d best get the man prepared.” Colin went to move back into the trees, but Ewan suddenly grabbed his arm and stopped him. Something had caught his eye. “Look,” he said, nodding in the direction of the huge castle gates. “Someone’s comin’ out.”

The gates were indeed swinging open, and a party of about thirty mounted soldiers, all wearing Allan’s distinctive black and gold livery, came riding out. “That’s Allan!” Ewan hissed, immediately recognizing the man seated on an enormous stallion leading them out.

Excitement surged inside him. “What a stroke of luck! He’s off somewhere, tae cause more misery, nay doubt. But havin’ him and so many of his men out of the way is gonnae make this a lot easier,” he murmured as they watched Allan and his men ride away, heading north.

“Wait, look, there’s more comin’ out,” Colin said, pulling Ewan’s attention back to the gates. They observed closely as a smaller party of mounted troops, decked out in black and azure this time, emerged from the mighty portal. A fresh wave of anger washed over him, for there was no mistaking the tall, blond-haired warrior riding proudly out front with his captains.

“Bloody hell, ’tis Galbraith!” Colin exclaimed softly. Laird Gregory Galbraith was one of Allan’s allies in the war being waged against them. “What’s he doin’ here?”

Ewan’s eyes narrowed with vengeful suspicion as they followed Galbraith’s party riding away. “What indeed?” he echoed, already half convinced Galbraith was involved in Diedra’s kidnapping. He’s just made himself an even bigger target, he thought, resolving to attack Galbraith in his heartland the first chance he got.

He and Colin moved stealthily back into the trees so Ewan could brief his waiting men on the plan, and they began preparing to carry it out as soon as darkness fell.

Less than an hour after that, he had another lucky break. Two of the men sent out to scout the vicinity returned, dragging between them one of Allan’s guards. They threw the half-conscious soldier to the ground. “Found him and his pal on guard duty in the woods,” one of the scouts explained. “The other one’s dead.”

Ewan stood over the groaning man. “Throw some water over him and bring him around. I want tae interrogate him,” he ordered. A few twists of the man’s broken arm were all it took to extract the information he wanted. He was elated and relieved to learn that Deidra was indeed inside, alive, locked in the dungeons. In addition, he obtained details of the basic layout of the castle’s interior, the location of the dungeons, and the number and distribution of the guards left defending the place in their laird’s absence.

More importantly, before he died, the guard gave them directions to a secret entrance, an underground tunnel located nearby within the forest.

When the silver sliver of a new moon rose in the sky, and the castle was quiet, Ewan, Colin, and four soldiers gathered there, equipped with closed lanterns. Ewan held one high as he opened the wooden hatch and led his men into a passageway hewn from living rock. The ceiling was low, so he had to stoop, but they made fast progress along it. Before long, they came to a stairwell.

“We’re inside, the castle now,” he said, advancing up two flights of stone steps to a wide landing. The stairs continued to the upper floors, but to their right, a wide passage opened up before them.

“That must be the way tae the dungeons the guard described,” Colin murmured, peering down the passageway at a stout wooden door.

“Aye, come on,” Ewan urged, hurrying towards it. When they got there, he tried the handle. “Damn, ’tis locked.” Undeterred, he took out his dirk and signaled the others to do the same. “Close yer lanterns and stand back in the shadows, lads,” he ordered. “Let’s find out if anyone’s at home.” The others moved back and pressed themselves against the walls, blades in hand. Then, he hammered on the door with his fist and shouted, “Open up in there! Hurry up, I havenae got all day!”

Nothing happened at first, so he repeated the action. “I said open up, ye deaf bastards! Get a bloody move on!” he yelled, making the door rattle on its hinges. He pressed his ear to the scarred wood, confident someone would eventually come to see who was making such a racket.

Finally, they heard the jingle of keys from beyond. A key was put in the lock, it turned, and Ewan immediately wrenched it open, coming face to face with a startled guard.

“Who the—” the man cried just before Ewan’s fist crunched into his face. He slammed into the wall behind and slid down to the flagstones, face bloody, and knocked senseless. Ewan calmly stepped over him whilst unsheathing his sword in a smooth motion, followed by Colin and the other men as he made his way into the main area of the dungeons.

“Christ, it stinks in here,” one of them muttered, gagging. And indeed, all but Ewan covered their noses and mouths with their forearms to avoid breathing in the foul stench. He was oblivious to everything but finding his sister.

The last man through the door relieved the unconscious guard of his weapons, closed the door behind him, and stationed himself next to it, a small but deadly welcoming party should anyone else try to enter.

Ewan, Colin, and the others emerged into the main part of the dungeon. Ewan stood looking around, seeing rows of small, barred cells in front of him. A guard dozing on a chair nearby suddenly started awake when they entered.

“Who the hell are ye?” he roared, shooting out of his seat and going for his sword. Colin engaged with him immediately, leaving Ewan free to find Deidra. But a split second later, another guard burst from one of the cells, his blade already in his hand. Ewan went for him, and their blades clashed, echoing deafeningly around the dank stone walls.

Ewan, buoyed by hopes of seeing Deidra any minute, pressed forward against the guard’s spirited resistance. “Get out of me bloody way!” he roared at the man, his shout resounding and bringing piteous cries for help from some of the prisoners in the cells.

“Ewan?! Is that ye?” came a woman’s voice, thin, tremulous, filled with fear and hope.

“Deidra, I’m comin’’!” he yelled, thrilled to hear his sisters’ voice. Colin appeared beside him, having left the other guard lying on the floor groaning and clutching the hole in his chest.

“Ewan! Thank God! I knew ye’d come. I’m in here!” Deidra called back with renewed strength. Ewan glimpsed her, her hands gripping the bars of a cell only a few feet away. His heart turned over to see her pale, drawn face streaming with tears of happiness and relief as she peered out from between them.

“I’ll be there in just a moment, I promise,” he assured her. But the stubborn guard, though outnumbered, did not seem eager to cease fighting. He stood on the threshold, stopping them from getting to Deidra’s cell. Ewan, infuriated, suddenly paused his attack. The guard appeared taken aback and stopped as well, staring at him, panting, red-faced.

“Daes Allan pay ye enough tae die fer him?” Ewan asked. “Because that’s me sister in there, and if ye dinnae stop fightin’ and set her free, ye’re gonnae wind up dead just like yer pal over there.”

The guard’s eyes flicked to the now-still body of his companion and the crimson pool surrounding him. He seemed to make a decision.

“Aye, ye’re right. I dinnae get paid enough fer this,” he said at last, letting his sword clatter to the floor. “I’ll let her out.”

“Sensible man,” Ewan muttered as he followed him the door of Deidra’s cell. The guard produced a bunch of keys from his belt, selected one, and unlocked the door. Deidra rushed out, straight into Ewan’s waiting arms. It was an emotional reunion, and as sobs shook her body, he had to hold back tears himself for having found her unharmed.

While they were hugging, Colin locked the guard in Deidra’s cell. When she and Ewan broke apart, he hugged Deidra as well. “Time tae come home, lass,” he told her soothingly.

“Come on, we’re nae out of the woods yet,” Ewan said, taking her hand and pulling her towards the door, the others following. They raced back down the tunnel and quickly emerged into the forest. Immediately, the sound of fighting could be heard, growing louder as they approached their makeshift camp and the waiting horses.

“It sounds like the lads have been doin’ a grand job keeping the guards busy,” Colin remarked with a wry smile as they all hurried to mount up.

“Aye, give the signal tae call the men off now, Colin,” Ewan ordered, smiling at Deidra as he reached down to help her up behind him. “We’re done here, and now we’re goin’ home.”

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Chapter One

1703, The Council chamber, Castle Galbraith, Scottish Highlands
Oh, Lord, preserve us! Let it nae be true! This cannae be happenin’!

Crouched in her hiding place in an alcove behind a wall tapestry, Isla Galbraith pressed her knuckles to her lips to stifle her horrified gasp as the dreadful news currently under discussion in the Council chamber sank in.

She knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but amid the alarming rumors that had been flying around Castle Galbraith for the last few weeks, and her growing fear for her brother Gregory’s life, she had felt compelled to take radical action. Accordingly, ahead of the meeting, she had stolen into the empty chamber and hidden away. But now, as the discussion progressed, she was beginning to regret it.

“This is the final chapter in this bloody war, and if we are tae survive as a clan, we cannae fail tae defeat Ballentine’s forces. The scouts say his army is camped less than a day’s ride from the castle, in Waverly Forest. He could launch his attack on us at any moment. We must get everyone inside the walls immediately and take urgent action to prepare for the upcoming battle,” Isla’s brother, the Laird of Clan Galbraith, declared decisively.

“Aye, I’ll give the orders as soon as we’re done here,” said a voice Isla recognized as belonging to Kelvin Moore. Kelvin and his cousin Domhnall Hastie were Gregory’s closest friends, in addition to being his war captains and military advisors. “From what the scouts say, Ballentine has about a hundred men with him, all mounted,” he added.

“If that’s right, then we can match those numbers.” That was Domnhall speaking. “There’s good cause tae be hopeful of defeatin’ an attack, even if it comes down tae open battle. But there’s another possibility we havetae tae consider.”

In her hidey hole, Isla waited, holding her breath to hear what that was.

“He could very well have concealed a bigger force elsewhere close by,” Domnhall explained.

A bigger force hidden somewhere, ready tae overwhelm us?

The very idea turned Isla’s blood to ice.

“Aye, that’s what I’d dae if I could,” Gregory said. “But how likely is it that he has more men? He’s already lost many fighters in this war, just like the rest of us. His resources are dwindlin’. ’Tis obvious that’s the reason he’s decided tae stake everythin’ on an all-out attack and put an end tae it once and fer all.”

“Likely so, but ’tis a desperate gamble. He could lose everythin’,” Kelvin observed.

“Maybe we should use the element of surprise and attack the camp first,” Domnhall suggested.

“That’s one possibility, aye, but I think we need more reliable information about his numbers before we dae that,” Gregory countered.

“Well, as it is, he has us more or less pinned down. How long can we last if he decides his best option is tae starve us out?” That was Domnhall again.

“Pardon me, m’laird, but it sounds as though we’re in sore need of Laird Allen tae send us reinforcements as soon as possible,” Isla heard one of the other councilmen say nervously, voicing her very own thought.

“Aye, and I’ve already sent a messenger tae inform him of what’s happenin’. I’ve nay doubt we can expect help from him very soon. But until then, whatever happens, we must handle it ourselves,” Gregory replied, his voice deep and unwavering.

Isla prayed silently that Laird Calumn Allen, the man on whose side they were fighting on in the war—the war he had started by conquering part of Ballentine’s territory—would indeed send an army to help them defeat the enemy at their gates.

“Would it nae be wiser tae come tae some agreement with Ballentine, m’laird? It would save many lives,” Isla heard the clan secretary, the elderly Malcolm Ogilvy, suggest.

Aye, quite right, Malcolm, Isla thought to herself, heartily agreeing with the old advisor’s sentiment.

“Ye mean we should surrender?” Gregory replied, his tone derisive. “I think ye’re goin’ barmy in yer old age, Malcolm. Ye should ken better. We Galbraiths would rather die before we dae that.”

The small hope that had flickered to life in Isla’s breast died at his words.

“Maybe I am goin’ soft in the head,” Malcom conceded, quickly adding, “but this is nae our war, ’tis Laird Allan’s. And yet here we are, with Ballentine heading tae our walls, and any of us here, along with our families, likely tae lose our lives in an attack or starve in a siege and then be killed.”

“We chose tae ally with Laird Allan in this fight,” Gregory responded in a tone that brooked no argument. “There was always a chance it would come tae this. We cannae go back on our word now. What would that say about us? I’d rather perish than have folks say we Galbraiths are cowards and turncoats.”

Ach, Greogory, ’tis just that sort of stubborn pride that could get us all killed, Isla raged silently, her hand over her mouth to stop the protest that threated to burst from her lips and reveal her presence.

“Kelvin, Domnhall, here are me orders. Start gettin’ the villagers safe inside the walls immediately. I want this place locked down as tight as a drum,” Gregory instructed his right-hand men. “And make sure any scouts who come in with news of Ballentine’s movements to report straight tae me. When ye’ve done that, come and join me in me study tae plan our defensive strategy.”

“Aye, m’laird,” his war captains chorused in their deep voices.

“And Connor,” Gregory told his private secretary, “send someone tae find Lady Isla and tell her tae put the plans in motion tae prepare fer an attack. She should arrange fer anyone who cannae fight tae dae their bit tae help. Tell her I’ll speak tae her later.”

“Aye, I’ll go mesel’ and find her straight away, m’laird,” Connor replied.

“Good. Then come tae me study as well.”

“Aye, will dae.”

“All right.” Gregory announced decisively. “This meetin’ is now closed.”

With a heavy sense of dread settling in her belly, Isla forced herself to stay put while her brother and the murmuring councilmen slowly vacated the chamber. When she was finally left alone, she crept out from her hiding place and made her way to the door. Opening it a crack, she peeped out into the hallway. The Council members were quickly dispersing, and she saw Gregory disappearing through the door to his study a little further down the hall. Kelvin and Domnhall, conversing in low voices, were hurrying away to carry out their orders.

When she was satisfied the coast was clear, she slipped out into the hallway and made her way to her chamber on the first floor. She was about to mount the stone staircase when she heard someone call her name.

Connor.

She stopped and turned to him as he came up to her. Tall and rangy, he towered over her, his usually mild expression grim as he met her eyes.

“Aye? What is it, Connor?” she asked, hiding her guilt behind a smile as she struggled not to betray her ill-gotten knowledge to this trustworthy friend of long-standing.

Connor caught up to her and looked around to make sure no one among the bustling servants and other castle folk passing by were listening. Apparently satisfied they were out of range, he spoke softly. “Isla, I hate tae be the one tae havetae tell ye this, but we’ve just heard that Ballentine is mustering his forces nae far from the castle.”

Isla let her smile fade and her genuine alarm show on her face. “Ye mean he’s gonnae attack the castle?” she asked.

Connor nodded, setting his long, reddish curls bobbing. “Well, we cannae be sure, but everythin’ points tae it, aye,” he replied.

“Lord! What will become of us?” she murmured, trying to maintain an air of calm, as befitted the lady of the castle, for anyone watching them.

“Gregory’s planning our defense right now. He says he’ll speak tae ye later, but in the meantime, he wants ye tae get everybody who cannae fight busy helpin’ with preparations fer what’s tae come. D’ye ken what tae dae?”

Isla nodded, her blood running cold again. “Aye, I ken. Me grandmaither left me instructions should something like this ever happen.”

“I’ll leave it in yer hands then. I have other things tae dae before I join Gregory and the others in his study. Perhaps I’ll see ye later.”

“Aye, perhaps,” she said after him as he hurried away.

Isla went upstairs to her chamber, and when she shut the door behind her, her false composure fled. Tears flowed from her eyes as she sank down onto her bed, the feeling of icy dread growing within her. It was accompanied by a myriad of frightening thoughts and images that ran through her head in a maddening whirl.

In her mind’s eye, she went back sixteen years, to the night that was stamped indelibly on her memory. The night when assassins broke into the castle and murdered their parents in their beds. Five-year-old Isla had not known that when she was awoken by screaming and shouting in the night, but she had sensed great danger in the air.

Acting on a protective instinct, she had jumped out of bed and pulled a sleeping Gregory, aged only four, from his. Then, pressing a finger to his lips, she had dragged him across the room to hide in a wardrobe, staying there, crouched silently among the clothing, until somebody came to find them.

It was only some time afterwards, when their grandmother had told her what a brave and clever girl she was, that Isla finally understood her actions that night had saved both her own and Gregory’s lives. By rights, they should have both been dead too, for someone had sent men to kill her entire family and wipe the Galbraiths from the face of the earth. The question as to who was responsible for murdering their parents and for what reason haunted her and Gregory, though they seldom spoke of it.

The terrible loss formed an unbreakable bond between them, and it left Isla with a deep-seated fear of being left alone—specifically of losing Gregory. As they grew to adulthood, she and her brother remained close. She grew to rely on him, and when their grandmother passed away, she never forgot Gregory was all the family she had left. Even though he was a grown man and the laird of their clan, she still retained that big-sister urge to protect him from harm, for she could not bear the thought of losing him.

In the last several months, since this war had started and they had been fighting on behalf of Laird Allan against Ewan Ballentine, she had been forced to watch Gregory ride out to battle with his men on many occasions. Each time she had felt sick with terror at the thought that she might never see him alive again.

While he had been away, she had prayed almost constantly for him to stay safe and for an end to the bloody hostilities. Half her prayers had been answered. So far, Gregory had always come back in one piece. But since then the war had only intensified, and now the attack on the castle was imminent.

I cannae let him keep fightin’ this war, especially since ’tis nae truly ours. How much longer can his luck hold? I must find some way tae put an end tae the fightin’ and keep him safe. But how?

Feeling utterly powerless but knowing her duty as the laird’s sister and official lady of the castle, she pulled herself together, crossed to her dresser, and opened the bottom drawer. She paused for a moment, staring at the rolled parchment, which had lain there forgotten for so long, hesitating to touch it. For doing so would make the nightmarish threat at their gates all too real. It contained the instructions their grandmother had left for her to face just such an emergency as this.

Nevertheless, she forced herself to extract it from the drawer and unroll it. Her heart clenched painfully to see their grandmother’s flowing hand once more after so many years. With trembling hands and a lump in her throat, she began to read the long list of instructions for the lady of the castle to do her duty to prepare for an attack.

Wells within the walls must be secured. Water should also be stored in vats in the cellars of the keep in case the enemy infiltrates the outer walls.

As many candles and lamps as possible (and large quantities of lamp oil) should be speedily acquired, to be rationed and deployed only where strictly necessary.

Inventory food supplies. As much grain and produce as can be had in the time allowed must be brought inside the castle walls and properly stored within the keep cellars. Lay as much meat and fish down to salt as possible. In case of a siege, it will be necessary to ration food.

Plentiful supplies of tea and ale must also be ensured. Milk will come from the beasts brought in from the fields—lay in a good supply of fodder for them and the horses in case of siege.

As much firewood as can be gathered prior to any attack should be brought in and stored within the walls in several places where it is protected from fire. A good quantity should be regularly dispersed on the battlements for use in the braziers (to light arrows and such), and in the great hall for medical use (see below).

Ensure all healers are present within the castle prior to any attack and that there are sufficient medical supplies to treat those injured in battle. Set those who cannot fight or give medical assistance to making bandages, dressings, and the like.

Prepare the great hall to be used as a hospital. Mattresses and cots should be brought in for this purpose and both hearths kept burning to maintain a good supply of boiled water.

Prepare the cellars beneath the keep to shelter the injured, sick, womenfolk, and children if the outer defenses are overrun. A separate part can be used as a mortuary.

The list Isla had hoped she would never have to read, let alone use, went on and on, each line hammering home their awful plight, and making her fear increasingly for all their lives, but most of all for Gregory’s.

In a short while, she gathered herself and went downstairs to give the necessary orders to prepare for an attack. She toured the pantry and storerooms with the housekeeper and cooks, setting them to making a detailed inventory of all the food supplies and arrangements for storage.

After that, she sent a maid to gather all the women and older male servants of the castle who could not fight, as well as the castle healer Davina McGhee and her assistant. Once everyone had gathered amid an atmosphere of fearful anticipation, she held a meeting, going over each of the instructions on her grandmother’s list and overseeing the division of tasks.

“If there is an attack, it will be me duty as lady of the castle tae help nurse the injured as they come in, so I’ll be makin’ mesel’ useful helpin’ Davina in the great hall. She’ll need all the volunteers she can get tae nurse the injured. Even just offerin’ hot tea and comfort can make a difference,” she told them before closing the meeting and sending them off to go about their allotted duties.

However, at the same time as she was busy organizing all this, there remained a part of her mind that was actively turning over the various possibilities concerning a plan to keep Gregory alive.

Chapter Two

By the time the meeting finally broke up, Isla had still not seen Gregory to discuss what was happening. Deciding she had to speak to him whether he was busy or not, she went along to his study and knocked on the door.

“Come,” came his deep voice from the other side. She opened the door and went in, to find him standing around the large table with Connor, Kelvin, and Domnall. All four looked up when she entered, their expressions intent and serious. They had their shirt sleeves rolled up and appeared to be poring over maps and diagrams laid out before them, which she guessed were strategic plans for the defense of the castle.

“Isla. Are ye all right?” Gregory asked her as she approached them, his handsome brow creased into a worried frown. He unfolded his tall, powerful frame, pushed his long fair hair back from his face, and fixed his light gray eyes on her.

“Aye, I’m as all right as one can be in such circumstances, I suppose,” she replied briskly, though her heart ached to look at him. She dearly wanted to embrace him but held off in company, knowing he needed to appear strong at this challenging time. “I just came tae see how ye’re gettin’ on and tell ye that I’ve set all the preparations in motion should an attack take place, accordin’ tae Grandma’s instructions.”

Gregory smiled at her with obvious gratitude. “That’s good tae hear. Thank ye fer takin’ charge of all that, Sister. ’Tis one less thing fer me tae worry about.” He paused for a moment, then he said softly, “I’m sorry ’tis such bad news.”

“Aye, well, it was certainly a shock when Connor told me what’s happenin’,” she lied, feeling only a little bit guilty for pulling the wool over his eyes. ’Tis his fault fer nae keepin’ me informed.

“Are ye scared?”

She huffed. “Of course, I am! I’d be a fool if I wasnae, eh?” The others smiled at her comment.

“Aye, only a fool disnae feel afraid when he ought tae,” Connor murmured.

“And that’s how ye lose a war,” Kelvin put in sagely, nodding his dark head.

“But I must tell ye, Gregory,” Isla went on, needing to voice her concerns, “I curse this war Laird Allan has dragged us intae. ’Tis nae our fight. This shouldnae be happenin’. Ballentine should be camped outside Laird Allan’s walls, nae ours. ’Tis our folks who’ll be dyin’ if Ballentine attacks. When he attacks,” she corrected herself. A mixture of anger and fear rose inside her at the wrongness of it, and she clasped her hands tightly at her waist to keep it from erupting.

Gregory appeared to ignore her view of the matter. Instead, he said in a reassuring tone, “Things appear worse than they are. Laird Allan will send reinforcements as soon as he gets me message. In a few days’ time, the picture may be very different.” He sounded confident, but again, she knew that went along with his responsibilities as the laird. Any doubts he harbored, he would keep to himself for the dark hours of the night.

Frustration sharpened her tongue as she retorted tartly, “Well, I suppose we must hope Ballentine waits politely fer Allan’s men tae arrive before he attacks then. Mayhap we should invite him in fer tea while he waits.”

Kelvin sniggered, and Gregory smiled wryly, but he was clearly not going to be drawn in by her sarcasm. “Since ’tis us Ballentine has in his sights just now, we havenae choice but tae defend ourselves if he decides tae launch his attack afore then,” he explained. “Remember, Isla, he and his men cannae just simply walk intae Castle Galbraith. These walls are ten feet thick, and me men are well supplied with weapons. We have our own water supply within the walls and should have enough general supplies tae see us through until the reinforcements get here. We can easily hold him off.”

Unconvinced, Isla burst out, “Can ye nae sue fer peace, come tae some arrangement with Ballentine and avoid the bloodshed?” She heard the pleading note in her voice and despised it.

Gregory shook his head. “I’ll nae renege on me word tae defend Allan’s cause.”

She wanted to shout, “Ye mean ye’re too stubborn!” But she bit it back. Instead, she simply pursed her lips and nodded. “Very well. Will we be dining together this evening as usual?”

“I’m nae sure. I think we’ll be too busy here.”

“All right, I’ll have some food sent in fer ye later,” she said, surveying them all. “I’ll leave ye tae yer plans then.”

“Aye, I’ll come and find ye when I’m free,” Gregory told her before turning back to the others and resuming the discussion while Isla left the room with a heavy heart.

It was only four o’clock and still light. Feeling restless and on edge, she decided to go outside and gauge the atmosphere among the villagers who were streaming into the castle for shelter from the coming storm. She stepped out past the guard on the keep doors and stood on the steps watching as the clansfolk made their way through the gigantic gates to what they hoped would be a safe haven.

The atmosphere was surprisingly subdued, with none of the usual chatter or laughter as the river of humanity flowed steadily into the courtyard, some lugging bundles or pushing handcarts full of their possessions. White-faced women carried crying babes in their arms, while scared-looking children pulled their younger siblings along. The old and sick and heavily pregnant were carried in on makeshift litters or supported by strong arms and shoulders inside the towering stronghold.

The cacophony from the livestock and the barking, sniffing dogs that ran loose among the incoming throng echoed from the walls. Sheep, pigs, cows, and goats streamed in along with the people. Those with horses or mules or donkeys rode or drove them through the gates. Chickens and other edible fowl rode in style, packed in willow cages on the beds of numerous carts and wagons pulled by enormous shire horses. More carts and wagons loaded with straw, hay, grain, turnips, and other produce, rumbled over the cobblestones of the courtyard, heading towards the rear of the castle to supply the kitchens and stables.

Among all this, groups of heavily armed soldiers moved rapidly about, their commanders barking orders as they deployed their men to oversee the influx.

The cold leaden weight lodged in Isla’s belly grew heavier still as she watched the strained faces filing past her. The very air felt doom-laden, but she maintained her calm exterior and smiled and nodded encouragingly at the villagers, as was her duty as the laird’s sister.

While she stood there observing the organized chaos, she could not help but overhear the conversation of the guards stationed directly behind her on the steps of the castle keep. They were talking to their replacements, who had come to relieve them of duty.

“What’s tae dae, lads?” one of them asked the newcomers. “Is it true what the rumors say, that Ballentine’s army is camped less than a day’s ride from here?”

“Aye, it seems that way. Ye’re tae attend a briefin’ at five with the laird tae get yer orders,” one of the new guards explained.

“Jaysus, I never thought it would come tae this, the enemy campin’ at our gates. It’ll nae take him and his army long tae reach us once they start movin’.”

“The laird’s already sent a messenger tae Laird Allan fer reinforcements, so we only havetae hold them off until they get here.”

“Aye, that’s somethin’, I suppose. With luck, the laird might be able tae infiltrate some spies in the enemy camp and find out what Ballentine’s plannin’.”

“Aye, I’m sure he’s thought of that already… Well, ye two had best be off and get somethin’ tae eat afore the briefin’.”

“Aye, thanks, lads, we’ll see ye later at the barracks fer an ale or two, I hope.” The original guards departed, and the new guards settled into their positions by the door, pikes at the ready.

The comment about infiltrating spies had struck a chord with Isla. Like a seed, the idea took root in her mind. It sprouted and grew quickly, pulling her back inside the keep and upstairs to her chambers in search of privacy. By the time she had shut herself safely inside, the buds of a plan were already forming in her mind. She sat on her bed and thought.

A spy in Ballentine’s camp who could find out his plans to attack the castle could potentially turn the tide of the war, and everyone’s fates. In fact, it could avert an attack altogether, and her brother and his men wouldn’t have to fight. He’d be safe. They would all be safe. But how did one infiltrate an enemy camp without getting found out and killed for being a spy? Or rather, how could a woman infiltrate an enemy camp without getting discovered and killed as a suspected spy, or worse?

Various scenarios ran through her mind, and all but one ended in summary execution. With that possibility in mind, she realized that, even if an interloper avoided detection and discovered Ballentine’s plans, there was no guarantee the attack would be called off. Then it came to her in a sudden burst of clarity, and the plan blossomed to full fruition.

Filled with resolution and knowing time was of the essence if she were to successfully safeguard Gregory’s life, she hurried to put it into action. She fetched a cloth bag from her wardrobe, placed it on the bed, and spent the next hour packing it with the things she would need for a journey, including a candle stub and tinder box and her father’s dirk, which she stole from Gregory’s wardrobe.

When the clock on the mantel chimed midnight, she was ready. With stout riding boots on her feet, a long, hooded woolen cloak covering her entire person and concealing the dirk stuck in her waistband, she pulled on gloves, hoisted the bag, and left her chambers on silent feet.

Getting out of the castle unseen was perhaps the easiest part. Beneath the hulking fortress ran a network of underground tunnels, from which one could move invisibly to any part of the castle one chose. She and Gregory had played in the tunnels for hours when they were growing up, and Isla knew them well. Descending to the depths by a hidden door, she paused to strike a light before starting off along a tunnel that eventually emerged in the tree line of a copse a few hundred feet outside the castle gates.

She took off across the dark meadows, the half-moon lighting her way to the neighboring farm. There, she paused long enough to steal a horse before setting off in the direction of Waverley Forest. The knowledge that her mission to protect Gregory and all she held dear had begun in earnest spurred her on as she rode through the night.

There’s nay other way than tae sneak intae Ballentine’s camp… and kill him.

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