Prologue

      Castle Sween, Lands of Knap, Argyll,

      Scotland—summer, ad 1370

      ‘Sorcha, come and sit with me a while.’

      Sorcha glanced over at her mother’s companion for permission before approaching her bed. Anna nodded, so Sorcha climbed up on the high rope-strung mattress, having a care not to sit too close. Her mother had been ill and failing for years, but the last few weeks had brought a sunken and grey look to her face. From Anna’s grim expression and her mother’s glassy, weak gaze, Sorcha understood that Erca MacNeill had little time left living on this earth.

      Sliding a bit closer and reaching out to touch her mother’s hand, Sorcha found it difficult to speak. Her throat tightened and clogged with tears as she understood this might be their last conversation. With a slight movement of her eyes, her mother dismissed Anna and soon the silence was disturbed only by the sound of laboured breathing.

      ‘Honour,’ her mother whispered before coughing. When she regained her breath, she struggled to say two more words, two words Sorcha knew would follow. ‘Loyalty. Courage.’ More rough, deep coughing that produced blood filled the chamber. Even when she tried to hush her mother from trying to speak, the woman shook her head and forced herself to continue.

      ‘Mother, I pray you, do not speak,’ she urged, as she leaned closer. Careful not to press against her mother’s frail body, Sorcha felt the tears tracking down her own cheeks.

      ‘Honour. Loyalty. Courage, Sorcha,’ her mother whispered, tugging her hand to bring her closer still. ‘Women know it. Women live it.’

      ‘Aye, Mother.’ She nodded and promised, hoping it would quiet her mother’s spirit and struggles. ‘I will live it. As you taught me.’

      ‘You father has none. He follows a path that will lead to our destruction and your death.’

      Her mother’s gaze cleared then and Sorcha saw a strength there she’d not seen in years. Her father made certain his wife was obedient and biddable, if not with harsh words and commands, then with his fists and other punishments. Yet just now Sorcha recognised something in her mother’s eyes that had been long gone—defiance.

      ‘Mother, you should rest now,’ Sorcha began. The tight squeezing of her hand stopped her.

      ‘I will not go to my death without protecting you, Sorcha. I will not allow him to sell you into a life of suffering and pain and destroy the rest. Not as I was. Not for gold. Not for power. Nor for this castle. I will not.’

      The words admitted things that her mother had never spoken of between them. Everyone knew the laird was a rough man, with little tenderness or mercy within him. Everyone whispered behind their hands that he beat his wife. Everyone guessed Erca MacNeill would die soon and that her daughter would be married off and gone soon. With that, his claim on Castle Sween would weaken. He had needed a son off Erca MacNeill and she’d denied him that.

      What most were not privy to was the fact that her father was in talks with a powerful chieftain in the Highlands for Sorcha’s hand in marriage. One who was surely powerful enough to shore up his claim against anyone who tried to push him out. But that was not the disturbing part of the rumours. Nay, there was something more. Something worse and more frightening to her.

      She’d heard the gossip about the harsh lord whose past wives had met unhappy ends, but they’d only been rumours. As a dutiful daughter who understood her place and her value to her clan, she’d wait on her father’s word about her future. Though now, with her mother’s warning and declaration fresh, she wondered if the stories were true and if there were more to this than she knew.

      One glance at the frail and failing woman on the bed told Sorcha that refusing her mother’s attempts to speak about it would exhaust her mother and upset her even more. So, Sorcha stroked her mother’s hand and nodded.

      ‘Tell me, Mother. What would you have me do?’ She expected some ramblings about a woman’s place and the choices ahead of her, but instead her mother spoke with clarity.

      ‘You must be ready. It may be before I pass or just after. Someone will come in the light of day or dark of night. Someone you know I trust will bring you word.’

      ‘Mother! I pray you not to say such things. You will recover...’ In that moment, the sadness that entered her mother’s eyes then, making them appear grey rather than blue, forced the truth upon her.

      ‘Courage, Sorcha. You must be ready.’

      ‘Ready for what? What do you wish me to do?’

      Small beads of sweat gathered on her mother’s brow and her upper lip. Her grip on Sorcha’s hand tightened more than she thought possible with her mother’s waning strength.

      ‘You must run...’

      Her mother collapsed then, releasing her hand. Sorcha called for Anna. The woman rushed into the chamber and brought a cup of something steaming and aromatic to the bedside. Sorcha slid away to give her room to minister to her mother. As she watched the servant tend to her, Sorcha thought on her mother’s odd and disturbing words.

      And how she had spoken them. Her mother had shown no such fortitude for weeks, not rising from her bed for over a fortnight. Yet her words and her grip revealed strength hidden somewhere deep within her and now coming out.

      She must run?

      As Anna assisted her mother in drinking some of the concoction, the words, a warning in truth, swirled inside her own thoughts. Run from here? Run to whom or where? When Anna stepped back, Sorcha understood her mother would and could answer nothing she would ask. The grey colour spread through her neck and face and she lay listlessly on the pillows, seeming now even smaller and frailer than just moments ago. But she must try.

      ‘Where would you have me run, Mother? I know no one outside of our kith and kin here and none would help