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      To all those who still battle nightmares.

      Thanks to Matt G and Matt G and Michael

       and Francisco and the rest of the gang at the Big Bowl.

      And to the hillbilly poet, who really did help.

       Silent as moonrise, sure as the stars, Strong as the wind that sweeps Carter’s Bar. Sure-footed and stubborn, ne’er danton nor dun’

      That’s what they say of the band Brunson Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man Descendant of a brown-eyed Viking man.

      The ballads echoed in the hills along the Borders for so long that some confused them with the wind’s song. After a while, no one knew how long they had been sung. No one knew the people, now gone, who had been sung of. They knew only the whisper of the legend, as much a part of the land as the scent of heather in the autumn. And just as delicate.

      But once, long ago, the songs were new and the people, real.

      Chapter One

       The Middle March, Scottish Borders—late summer 1528

      Something was wrong. He could tell, even from this distance, though he could not explain how.

      John had not set eyes on his family’s brooding stone tower in ten years. Not since he’d been sent to the court of the boy king. Now that king was grown and had sent him home with a duty to perform.

      One he meant to complete quickly, so he could leave this place and never return.

      A shaft of sunlight cast sharp-edged shadows across the summer-green grass. His horse shifted and so did the wind, bringing with it the sharp, painful wail of keening.

      That was what he had recognised. Death. Someone had died.

      Who?

      He gathered the reins and urged the horse ahead, thinking of the family he had left behind. Father, older brother, younger sister. His mother was dead these twelve months. They had sent him word of that, at least.

      His sister was the only one he cared to see again.

      No surety that they mourned a family member. Others were part of the tower’s household. But he galloped across the valley as if the time of his arrival might matter.

      At the gate in the barmkin wall around the tower, he was challenged, as he had expected. The man was not one he recognised.

      Not one who would recognise him.

      He removed his polished helmet to show friendly features, glad of cool air on his face again. ‘It’s John Brunson. Sir John now, knighted by the king.’ He had waited years and miles to say so. ‘Tell Geordie the Red his youngest son is home.’

      Tell him I’ll not be here long.

      The man leaned back on his pike. ‘There’ll be no telling of anything to Red Geordie Brunson. He lies dead in his bed.’

      And John, silent, couldn’t summon up even the pretence of sorrow.

      John or Sir John, there was no convincing the man to let him in. Despite the fact that people were gathering for the wake, they made him wait until they fetched his brother, Rob, to verify his identity. He could not blame them. That was the way of the Borders.

      In truth, he’d found little more trust in the men surrounding the king. They were just less obvious about their suspicions.

      Rob, bearded now and taller and broader than John remembered, stood on the wall walk, arms folded in doubt, letting John sweat beneath his full harness of armour. It was as much for his moods as his dark hair that they’d called him Black Rob. Now, new lines scored his brow and John wondered how many of them had deepened since he woke to find himself head man of the riding clan.

      ‘You