Prologue

Paxton, Scotland

1492

The south wind buffeted the crow’s wings, carrying the salt-white scent of the sea, and the sickly-sour stench of blood and flesh. Sailing sideways on bent wings, the crow spied a field of green littered with ants. The sound of clashing iron swords and guttural screaming identified them as men. Carnage littered the verdant field, and many of the crow’s brothers and sisters were already picking on tasty treats.

Making up its clever mind, the crow landed on a severed head and picked at the wide, sky-filled eyes.

Kiethen McCaslin, only fifteen and fighting for his birthright, watched the murder of crows descend on the battlefield. Standard in one hand and his sword in the other, he sliced through the legs of his opponent. Only this was not like the practice yard where wood clashed with wood and the only injury would be to your ego.

His friends lay dead at his feet, and his father, Laird Seamus McCaslin, was losing ground. All around him was death and destruction, but more so, he saw the English overwhelm his clan’s forces. There was only one explanation for it.

They had been betrayed.

Aid from the McRae clan never materialized. North of the field, where their soldiers were supposed to join them earlier in the day, had remained empty, providing the English an opening from whence to attack. They had slipped through the gap like a sharp blade and sliced at their flanks.

Grunting with effort, Kiethen lifted his sword, parried, lifted, sliced, till he felt like a giant arm, at one with the sword, his body following each swing as he alternated between attacking and defending. As he fought, he kept a close eye on his father who fought with the same zeal and passion. Blood and mud splattered his clothes, filled his mouth till he tasted nothing else. The iron zing of it had settled into his teeth. He plunged the standard into the ground and picked up an abandoned shield.

He glanced at his father who punched a man then rushed at another, slicing his sword upwards and through the man’s belly. Proud of his father and laird, Kiethen took strength and charged. Knowing his father had not given up allowed him the strength to continue despite his aching limbs and weary heart.

His uncle, Callum McCaslin, was fighting not far off, leading a cohort of men on horses, trying to outflank the English. But they were like the plague of locusts sent to the pharaohs of old. Chop one down, and another would sprout up in his place.

Keithen’s attention was diverted as the next Englishman came at him suddenly, seeming larger as he approached him at high speeds. Kiethen felt the impact of his blows hammer through the shield and up to his arm. He dug his heels in and stood his ground, pulling at the last of his strength. Ducking sideways, he dodged the blow. His assailant lost his footing as his sword swung forward but met no target. At the same time, Kiethen plunged his sword forward, slicing through chain armor and into the man’s side. The horror in the man’s face was enough to tell Kiethen he had hit the mark.

Standing up, covered in gore and viscera, Kiethen beamed at his father. His smile faltered and fell. Laird Seamus McCaslin had his sword raised above his head, his expression fierce and foreboding as he faced their enemy and traitor Alistair McRae. His wide movement left his back too open, however, and he was not guarded enough on this bloody battlefield. An ill-fated spear from a soldier who had been watching, waiting for his perfect moment, sailed through the air and sliced through him. Laird McCaslin fell to his knees, holding the spear that had impaled his chest even as McRae smiled evilly and melted into the crowd of men.

The world fell away. There were no longer people around him, the sky was not present, and the earth did not hold them down any longer. All that existed was the knowledge that his father was dying before his eyes, and all was lost.

Kiethen ran as fast as his laden legs would carry him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Callum and the host of horsemen overwhelmed and subdued by the English. He saw them taking his uncle away, but his need to be with his father was so great that it did not register as important to him at the moment. Stumbling over a corpse he did not stop to examine, he cut up his cheek on a fallen blade. Not caring about the raw sting of pain or the free flow of hot blood down his jaw and neck, Kiethen got up and rushed forward till he was by his father’s side.

Laird Seamus McCaslin was on his back, his legs tucked under him. Kiethen had never seen his father from this vantage point. He had only ever looked up at his towering mass. The blue of his eyes was bright with pain. The spear had splintered when he had fallen down. Both hands held the shaft so tight his knuckles were white. Using all his strength, Kiethen watched as his father pulled the broken spear out of him, the muscles on his neck standing out from the effort.

“Kiethen!” he growled, his blood-smeared hands clasping at Kiethen’s shaking ones. “My boy! Ye must away from here. There is naught but death and carnage. Bring back reinforcements. Bring Damon and Steven! Where is Callum?”

“Damon and Steven are dead, Da,” Kiethen said. “They died fighting for ye. Uncle Callum’s been captured.”

“Brave men,” Seamus said through gritted teeth. “My brave men. Each man is worth a hundred Englishmen. Nae let anyone ever forget their sacrifice.”

“We willnae forget, and we willnae forgive.” His face darkened. “The McRae will pay for their betrayal.”

Laird Seamus McCaslin spat in disgust. “I should have ken better than to trust Alistair McRae. He always was a shifty bastard.”

“We will avenge our losses together, Da,” Kiethen promised.

“Nae, son,” Laird Seamus said. “I will nae live to see the sun set on this wretched day.”

Kiethen wanted to deny these words. He hoped that his refusal to accept the truth would change the reality of his father bleeding out on the green grass of his family lands. Laird Seamus must have read the emotions on his face because he held a hand up to Kiethen’s lips.

“There’s nae use denying it, lad. I die defending my clan’s honor and my lands. ‘Tis there a better death? But ye must live. The only hope clan McCaslin now has is ye living to take revenge. When Alistair is drunk on his success and sure of nae McCaslin left to challenge him, then ye will strike him down in the name of yer father and all the McCaslins that have laid their lives down today.”

Before he could respond, rough hands grasped him around the shoulder. Kiethen snarled and struggled. He looked up to see English soldiers, their red coats bright and gay against the backdrop of desolation.

“Unhand me!” Kiethen growled.

One of the soldiers took Kiethen’s face roughly by the hair and pulled it, forcing his head up. “He’s the son of the laird. Take him in. Captain Wellington wants him alive.”

“Nae!” Kiethen resisted and was smacked across the head with the hilt of a sword for his trouble. Ears ringing and stars blooming before his eyes, Kiethen struggled to make it back to his father. But the hands on him were dragging him further and further away. All he could see was his father’s reaching, blood-soaked hand. Kiethen reached for him. “I promise, father!” he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth. “I promise I will avenge thee!”

As they dragged him away, Kiethen saw his father’s reaching hand fall to the ground. And that moment crystalized in his memory as one he would never forget. Neither would he forget his promise.

The land would wait for him. And Kiethen McCaslin would be back to reclaim what was his.

Chapter One

Paxton, Scotland

1505

Dragonflies flitted over the water of the Plumb Burn. Yellow buttercups romanced the bees, and the daisies winked back at the sun. It was a peaceful afternoon. Underneath the willow sat Catriona Findley. Legs bare up to her knees, she was splashing her feet in the water and eating apples. There were never enough hours in the day to just sit down and enjoy the splendid beauty around her. But once in a while, Catriona managed to steal away an hour just for herself.

Sighing in ecstasy, Cat bit into a sweet, crisp apple and tilted her head back, eyes closed, to savor both the apple and the sun. Their village was scenic and full of great potential that could ensure a successful populace. However, her people were only allowed to view the splendidness of the village and not partake of it. They had all lived in servitude to the English for fifteen years, so everything that they saw belonged to the English.

Most of the families in her village survived on farming, and they would have been thriving if not for the fact that eighty percent of everything they harvested was sent to the English. Those who refused and tried to fight back had long since been sent to the coal mines to work, with the lives of their families in the village held in the balance.

The idea was that since they were so strong that they thought they could fight back, then they should use their strength to mine coal. The hours were long, and the work was bad for the health. In a way, it was a similar punishment to death. The punishment was the same for those who tried to hunt without the permission of the lord overseeing them.

The animals in the forest were considered to belong to the lord, so only his men were allowed to hunt. When his friends from England came, they would hunt with him for sport. Being caught in the forest attempting to hunt could lead to being sent to the mines immediately. The people were, as such, struggling in the midst of plenty.

They lived off whatever they could keep after Lord Wardlow collected his share for the English. There were times once a month when he would visit the village with a large pig and butcher it, giving the villagers the blood and meat and reminding them to be grateful as they were receiving sustenance out of his mercy.

It was in fact his way of ensuring that they stayed just on the brink of death without actually dying since they were still his workforce. The apple Catriona was eating was a guilty pleasure she had procured from the tree growing in their neighbor’s yard. All produce was usually guarded carefully, as Wardlow’s share must always be complete, but she took from them as she knew they usually did the same when their produce was short.

“If ye eat with yer eyes closed ye will nae catch the worms inside,” a voice suddenly came from above her.

Cat’s eyes flew open. Her brother Graham was grinning down at her with that stupid smile of his. Red curls glowing like a halo around his handsome face, green eyes sparkling brighter than any jewel, at nineteen Graham was a handsome boy, and when he was not teasing her to distraction, he was her closest friend.

Plopping down on the grass beside her, he took an apple from her lap and bit in. “Did ye steal these from the Clark orchard?” he asked, mentioning what she had just been thinking about.

“Borrowed,” Catriona said and chuckled. She could not help it. Graham always managed to make her laugh no matter how difficult the day had been. “Just like Mary Clark borrowed our plums last month when the collectors came for their produce.”

“How neighborly of the both of ye,” Graham said, taking another large bite out of his apple. “If ye can, borrow some fishing nets the next time yer down by their farm. I’d be much obliged.”

“Ye ken it does nae work that way.” Cat laughed. “Ye were supposed to chop wood for the fire. Are ye done so soon?”

“Nae,” Graham said, shaking his head and throwing the apple core into the burn. Cat watched as the core bobbed on the water, going downstream to meet up with the River Tweed. She wondered if a worm really was living in that core if it would make it to the English side of the river. “Ma sent me to look for ye,” Graham said, interrupting her thoughts.

“What?” Cat got up in a flash. “Why did nae ye say that first? She must be steaming at the ears because of the delay.”

“At ye, perhaps. She’s never angry with me.” He flashed her his charming smile, and though she wanted to slap him on the back of the head she could not help but smile.

It was true. Graham got away with a lot more than Cat did. At twenty-three, Cat handled most of the housework as well as looking after their cows and the small patch of vegetables in their backyard. Graham was given the responsibility of the wheat field and cutting wood, and even those he did with a laissez-faire attitude. But he always got away with it, not because he was spoiled or threw tantrums after, but because he had been only six when their father had been killed.

Catriona did not know why this was so. She had been ten that horrific day when news of the Battle on Paxton Green had come. Their father, Laird Garret Findley, had gathered all his clansmen and gone to answer Laird McCaslin’s call to arms. He had never made it back. Magda Findley had waited with her two children in their castle in Hutton till the news had arrived. And soon after that had come the horde of McRae men. They had kicked them out of their castle, calling them betrayers of the English, and burnt their home to the ground.

They had never returned, not even to look at the ruins.

Graham had been denied all of this and his birthright because of Alistair McRae, Viscount of Wardlow, the man who had betrayed all of the clans only for his own interest. He was the most reviled man in the country, but he was also the most powerful. No one could do anything about it. The man did as he pleased.

And Catriona was certain that Magda was looking for her because Lord Wardlow had something to do with it.

She ran back, skirts slightly raised, the grass tickling her bare ankles. Graham was behind her walking at a leisurely pace. They had been granted a cottage in Paxton, but it was a flimsy grant. An ax always hung above their heads that their home might be taken away. But that was how most of the families in Paxton lived. In their hearts they were burning the candle for Laird Seamus’s son, feeding it with the hope of his return.

Catriona wished for no such savior. All she wished for was a quiet life with her mother and brother and nothing else. She wanted them to prosper on their little piece of land.

A ten-minute walk from the burn, Bailey Cottage was a pretty affair. One side was completely overrun with Warwickshire rose. The pretty lilac-colored flowers had a heady scent that attracted bees and fueled Cat’s desire to start a honey business. Their mother was in the yard whacking a stick to the hearth rug. Cat instantly knew something was on her mind. The only time the rug came out for a good whack was when Magda was especially annoyed.

“Everything alright, Ma?” she asked, vaguely aware of her brother finally catching up to her.

Magda did not stop pounding at the rug. She only stopped long enough to tilt her head towards the house. Cat did not want to go in. She was sure it was something absolutely horrible. Graham sauntered into the yard, picked up his ax, and began chopping up wood.

Seeing no point in dragging the inevitable any further, Cat walked inside their small cottage. The front room and the kitchen had no wall between them; the only thing marking a partition was a large table that was used for everything, be it meals, prayers, chopping vegetables, or sewing and mending clothes. At the moment it held a large basket full of fresh fruit, churned butter, and a slab of meat decorated with rosemary, and on the chair, draped to its best advantage, was a wine-colored dress.

“Gifts from Lord Wardlow.” Magda walked into the cottage like the wind and placed the rug before the hearth. Picking up a spoon from the table, she stirred the contents of the pot on the fire. “He has requested yer presence at dinner tonight.”

For a moment Catriona just stood there, staring at the unwanted presents. Indeed this was the case. Her family was a bit different from the rest in terms of how they survived. They were a former noble family, and as such, they did not have a farm like the rest. Yet they managed, as Wardlow had gifted them the land with their house and a single fruit tree. And for their food, he provided for them amply.

Wardlow had begun doing this frequently ever since he took a shine to her after her breasts began to blossom. They did not ever talk about it then, but even her brother, who was much younger then, noticed that the way Wardlow looked at her was impure. He had once told her that the way Wardlow looked at her was like he wanted to eat her. It had taken a while to convince him that she would not be eaten. Her mother, who had previously been in a position where she had to beg their neighbors for work so that she could get a piece of bread to feed them, accepted Wardlow’s gifts with a grimace as she had no choice.

After the gifts, came the invitations to the castle. She had been going since she was sixteen years old. Wardlow did not touch her back then, but he had been grooming her to become his perfect mistress. He had brought in an English governess who taught her the ways of a proper English noble lady. She was made to read many books and learn how to manage a noble household. She was also forced to crotchet, paint, and knit, as those were fair pastimes for a lady. At least once every month she would be called to the castle, and as the years went by, her brother became increasingly upset by it.

At first she had thought it was because she could not spend time playing with him on those days and he just missed her. However, when he was fourteen and her eighteen, they no longer spent time playing, so it was obvious that he was only annoyed that she was being forced to visit Wardlow. It was also around that time that her lessons were no longer the reason she was summoned, but instead, it became the norm for her to accompany Wardlow.

He would have her follow him just to watch him ride his horse or have her sit beside him as his mistress when he had his English acquaintances visit him. His gifts became more frequent, and he expressed to her mother his wish to marry her. She had cried for days when the proposal came, and her brother had run away for the first time, not coming back for the whole day until evening when their mother went out to look for him. After that, they never spoke about it again.

She continued to receive invites to the castle, and they continued to receive gifts. They all ignored the pending issue of her marriage and pretended it did not exist while she did her best to avoid Wardlow’s advances. In this way, two years had passed, and she was still ignoring Wardlow’s marriage proposal. It was easy to ignore since he had just expressed his interest in marrying her but did not enforce it. Instead, he was trying to convince her to want to marry him.

“I do nae want to go.” Cat stepped away from the dress and the gifts. Nothing he did could make her want to marry him. It was her mother who continued to entertain his requests, as his interest in her was likely the only thing keeping their family from suffering.

“Ye can nae refuse, and ye ken it,” Magda said, adding more salt to the stew. “Wear the dress. Graham will take ye on the cart.”

“I said I will nae go!” Cat stomped her foot on the floor. The chopping of wood outside had stopped, so she knew that her brother was listening in. She felt like such a brat, throwing a tantrum when he could hear, but she could not help it. It was an evening visit…those were the worst of all. She had to be more vigilant, as a bit of ale or a mistake on her part could be the unfortunate event that will lead to Wardlow forcefully taking her.

Magda slammed the spoon down on the table, hard. “Ye want to defy him and bring his wrath down on us? Ye ken better than anybody that we do nae have the luxury to refuse Lord Wardlow. He is the only thing keeping us from homelessness and starvation.” Her mother shouted even though she was trembling. The chopping sound started again with a vengeance. It sounded as though Graham was trying to kill the wood.

There were tears in her mother’s fierce green eyes, and Cat noted how the silver lines in her red hair had increased tenfold. She was not an old woman, Magda Findley, but she had aged quickly. The death of a husband, the loss of a castle, and all her wealth, with two children to protect and care for, would do that to you. Magda was nothing if not a survivor. And even this anger was not meant for Cat; she knew that. It was meant for Lord Wardlow and the unfair circumstances she found herself in.

Cat wished she could help her mother out of these worries and anxieties. She wished to comb the grey out of her mother’s hair and smooth the lines on her beautiful face. So, without letting the disgust show on her face, she picked up the dress and felt its smooth fabric. It was rich silk, and expensive, but the cut was too tight and too low. It was humiliation stitched with fabric.

The desire to rip the dress up with her bare hands gripped her, but just as suddenly, it deflated. What would be the point of such a display? Lord Wardlow had them between a rock and a hard place, and he was grinding them down every chance he got.

“I ken ‘tis naught what ye want, and I wish I could tell that man nae,” Magda said, her tone deflated. Cat saw her mother hold the back of a chair for support. “I wish I could wear that dress and keep the wolf from our door. But if ye do nae go tonight they will come for Graham. Then they will take me, and then ye will still have to do what he wants.”

“I ken, Ma. I am sorry. I understand.”

It was the constant boot at their necks that made Cat’s blood boil, but the years had made her resilient. She could recall vividly, to the last detail, the last time she had seen her father. Laird Garret Findley, atop his bay horse, auburn hair tied by a leather strap. She could still see his warm smile and the wink he gave her before departing for battle. He had been her protector, the man who made her feel nothing in the world could ever harm her.

Now, she had only herself to rely on. And she knew how to protect herself, even from the likes of Lord Wardlow. She did as she was told, getting on the cart and ignoring the obvious tension in the air from her brother’s anger. This was the only thing that caused a strain in their relationship. As he grew older, he got more and more opposed to her relationship with Wardlow, and she knew that one day he would not stay quiet any more. She could not think about his feelings in that moment, however; she had to worry about herself.

Chapter Two

London, England

1505

A light rain was falling. The cobbled street had puddles in which street urchins plonked stones. The one to create the biggest splash won. Callum McCaslin watched them, distractedly. He was leaning against the wall of the butcher shop outside the prison.

It was larger than the prison he had escaped from three years ago, but if it was anything like the one he had been kept in then he feared for his nephew. His mind went back in time to before the Battle of Paxton. Kiethen had been fifteen when he’d seen him last, and a handsome lad. He wondered what the prison had done to him.

In the prison he had been kept they had denied him food, deprived him of exercise in the yards, and humiliated him every chance they got. On a trek through some remote English town, while being transferred to another prison, Callum and a few others had taken their chance and run away. Callum did not know what had become of the others, but he had managed to get back to Scotland and found refuge with his old friend Laird Derek Munroe.

Since that day, he had worked hard to find where they had taken Kiethen and to gather funds to pay his bond and release him. And now he was waiting outside the prison to meet his nephew. It was important to him that the first face Kiethen saw on leaving the shackles of prison was of family.

Absently, he played with the ring in his jacket pocket. It was a beautiful ruby ring that had been the wedding ring of his late sister-in-law. The memories came in hard and fast. The first time he had seen Lady Fiona was a day before her wedding day. She had been radiant, her grey eyes like diamonds, and Callum had fallen in love. It was not a love a man has for a woman but the love a devotee has for a goddess. After Lady Fiona had married Laird Seamus McCaslin, Callum had been certain they had brought a deity home and the jealous eyes of destiny would be turning towards Paxton.

And they had. It was small things at first. After the birth of Kiethen, Fiona and Seamus had struggled to conceive another child. Then Fiona’s health had started to fail her. The clans had developed a strained relationship, especially the McRae’s. Alistair McRae had always been sketchy, but his jealousy of Seamus had become more obvious.

Then the English had declared Seamus unfit to rule his own lands on a trumped-up charge, and the war lines had been drawn. Callum remembered how frightened Fiona had been the days leading up to the battle. She had worried for Seamus, yes, but her terror had been reserved for Kiethen.

Poor Fiona, Callum thought. What had happened to her was unforgivable. They had ignored the threat that was Alistair McRae, and he had struck them like a viper in the grass. But Kiethen must never know of what had actually happened to Fiona. It would break the lad, and Callum was not sure how broken he already was.

A bitter smile crossed his face, and he ran a hand through his hair. A few strands came away, clinging to his fingers. They were more grey than black. Time and grief had done this to him. He hoped it had not done much worse to Kiethen.

Muddled in thoughts, it took him a moment to realize that the prison doors had suddenly opened, and a man had stepped out. Callum was taken aback by the size of him. He had expected a lanky youth with knobby knees, but before him stood a tall man, strong of build, and with a confidence he had seen in few.

If he did not look like the spit of Seamus McCaslin, he would have doubted that Kiethen stood before him. He was not sure what he was expecting, but it had not been this healthy, handsome lad.

“Kiethen?” he asked, his smile uncertain. The face was the same as Seamus, the dark hair as well, but the grey eyes were Fiona’s.

“Uncle Callum!” Kiethen grinned and hugged him.

Callum was stricken speechless. It was like he was embracing his own brother. Tears sprung into his eyes, and before he knew it, he was sobbing quietly on Kiethen’s shoulder.

“I ken, uncle. I ken.” Kiethen stepped back and took Callum’s face in his hands. Callum felt how rough and callused they were. But the intensity in Kiethen’s eyes captured his attention. “We will avenge them. I have nae forgotten my promise to Da. We will make Alistair McRae pay for what he’s done to us.”

Callum could feel the strength of his muscles underneath his hands, and the hope that had laid seed in him three years ago bloomed fully.

***

 Wardlow Castle, Paxton, Scotland

Catriona fidgeted uncomfortably in her gown. It was too tight and pushed up her breasts so they were more exposed than she was used to. The gown was provocative and fit her like a second skin. A quick glance in the mirror earlier at the house had provided a good picture of what she looked like. Her auburn curls had been tamed into a low bun on the base of her neck, and her green eyes were demure but bright. The freckles she had hoped for by spending her days in the sun had never materialized. Instead, she had a sun-kissed complexion that glowed even at night. Despite her best efforts she still looked beautiful.

She was loath to imagine what Lord Wardlow had in mind for the evening. But this was not her first time avoiding his lecherous designs. Borrowing a shawl from her mother, she had pinned it over her shoulders so it hid most of her torso.

Graham had accompanied her to the castle, but he was not allowed inside. He never was. It made him angry, Cat could tell, but just like Magda could not stop the baskets from arriving, and Cat could not refuse the invitation to the castle, similarly Graham could not show he was a hot-blooded youth with revolution and revenge in his heart.

The hall was a picture of decadence. Torches were lit around the corners, and lanterns were placed on every table. More food than the county had seen in the past two months was laid on tables, being picked at by Lord Wardlow’s English guests. Music played, wine flowed, and Lord Wardlow sat in the center of it all.

The pockmark scars on his face were more pronounced in the torchlight, and his brown teeth looked like wooden stakes. He finished his tankard of wine and smiled wolfishly at Cat who was playing with the food on her plate. She adjusted her shawl and concentrated on keeping her distance from Lord Wardlow.

There were other young women from the village at the party as well. Catriona recognized Mary Clark, Sherry McTavish, Analise Brown, and Bonny Gillies, each in a fine dress being wooed and pursued by the English guests. They were smiling and laughing, but their eyes had the same trapped misery that she felt. They were there to entertain the guests, like pretty butterflies caught to please their captors. Soon, their wings would deflate, and like the rotten boys that lived in the castle, they would rip the wings off for their own pleasures.

Catriona shuddered at the thought.

“Ye look beautiful tonight, Catriona,” Lord Wardlow said, then belched into his hand and rubbed his portly stomach. “But why have ye got that ugly shawl on?”

“‘Tis a bit chilly tonight, Lord Wardlow,” she said, smiling benignly.

“I can warm ye up, if ye like,” he said, placing a hand on her thigh.

Cat jumped out of her seat. The dress had kept his skin from touching her skin, but she still felt scalded. Bile rose up her throat. She wanted to slap Lord Wardlow, but she had no choice but to stay.

“I think I saw a rat!” she said, by way of explanation for her reaction. “I’ll get Jack to kill it.”

She rushed out of the main hall, climbed the stairs to the upper hall, and went to the only place where she felt safe in the castle. Out beyond the library that was seldom used by the lord was the stone garden. Carved statues of beautiful women were placed in various parts of the garden, amidst blooming flowers and perfectly manicured bushes and vines. The indigo sky was scattered with diamond stars, and an owl hooted somewhere in the night. Cat wished she was a bird so she could fly off the ramparts and go back home.

Removing a veil of evergreen climbers, she stepped into a small nook and sat down on the small shelf. It was her safe haven in the castle, where she usually ran to when she wanted to escape the eyes of Wardlow on the days when she had her lessons and was left alone to practice. Over the years, it had become the norm that she would escape to the small, hidden nook in the garden to while away time until it was reasonably late enough and she had an excuse to go home. Tears threatened to spill, but she held them back. There was no room in her life for tears. They had moved from their castle to the cottage, but she felt like she was still running, looking for a safe place, looking for the safe arms of her father telling her that everything would be alright.

Fear was like a pack of dogs harassing her and her family, biting at their heels, making them run forward even when they stood in place. Cat looked up at the sky and wondered if this would ever end. Since the age of ten she had worked her fingers to the bone, broken her back in the garden, and strived to protect her family. Now, she felt her strength failing her. Like this afternoon, she had wanted to give up and refuse the invitation. It was a moment of weakness, and a moment that had shown her true frustration with their current life.

More often than not, she had caught herself thinking of the River Tweed and the English side. It would be a matter of minutes to find a boatman to ferry them across. But what good would that do? Lord Wardlow was not a Scotsman. Not anymore. He was an English lord, the Viscount of Wardlow. He had brushed off his Scottish roots as so much lint off of his coat and adopted the English ways. Their traditions, their kilts, the bagpipes, everything had been ordered destroyed.

Pulling the shawl closer around her neck, she sat and waited for enough time to pass before she could go down and escape back home.

***

Paxton, Scotland

 The boat bobbed on the water. The sun was at its zenith, pouring buckets of warmth down on the land. Ahead were verdant green fields and babbling burns. Behind him was a country that knew only how to invade, capture, exploit, and dismember.

“Ye can get off now,” the boatman said. “‘Tis safe to do so.”

Kiethen stopped to sniff the air. It was clean and filled up his lungs. He looked at the grassy bank, and lifting one foot and then the other, he stepped back on his country’s soil. It must have been the pull of his motherland because he felt more grounded on that soil than he had in his thirteen years in England.

“Does McRae ken we’re coming?” Kiethen asked Callum.

“Nae.” Callum shook his head. “The letter informing him of yer release from jail would still be on its way. Another week or so till he kens of it. Then ye’ll have to worry about his suspicions.”

“So, we must act swiftly,” Kiethen said. “We must head into Paxton now and talk to the locals.”

Kiethen walked forward, but after a while, he noticed that his uncle had not followed him. He turned, confused, to see his uncle looking at him with deep concern and…was that fear? Concerned, Kiethen went to him. The man had aged drastically in the thirteen years, and though he had the wide bone structure of the McCaslins, he was a frail man. Kiethen feared for his health. Callum McCaslin was the only family he had. He could not risk losing him too.

“What is it, uncle? What is wrong?”

“Must we go there so soon?” Callum asked. “I do nae say this to discourage ye, nor am I saying I do nae support ye in yer cause. It is my cause too. I just fear that they will recognize ye if ye show yerself now.”

“Who will?” Kiethen asked.

“Alistair,” Callum said. “Yer the spit of Seamus. Even I recognized ye, and ye did nae have to say a word.”

“Alistair McRae will nae ride out of his castle to look at a new tenant in his lands,” Kiethen laughed. “And I might be the spit of Da, but I also am clean shaven. McRae only ever saw Da with a beard. Ye recognized me cause ye have seen Da without.”

“I still think we should go to the Munroe castle and seek help there,” Callum insisted.

“And be betrayed again?” Kiethen asked quietly.

He saw the color drain from his uncle’s face, and he felt terrible for making Callum uncomfortable. “The Munroes paid for yer bail. Why would they betray us?”

“I am nae saying the Munroes will betray us. I am saying I would nae trust anyone to fight my fight other than my own people. The Munroes have control of their lands, and their people are free. They do nae feel the keen bite of desperation and deprivation that clan McCaslin feel. If I go seeking help from others without gathering strength from my own clansmen, then I appear weak,” he said. He was also hesitant to ask for help because if the Munroe clan did help them, he would owe them a great deal, and it might end up being a debt he could not pay. The only thing he had at the moment was his freedom, and he did not want to let that go so easily.

Callum hesitated, and Kiethen could see his words had had some impact. In all the years he had spent in the prison in England he had not wasted a moment. The journey from Scotland to England was all he had allowed himself to grieve his father and his lost lands. Once he had arrived in London and been imprisoned, he had dried his tears and gotten to work.

There were three elements he had worked on: his body, his mind, and his promise. Though the goalers had tried their best to deprive him of food and any means of improving his mind, he had been lucky get thrown in the same cell as Blair Sheen. A quiet Irishman who had a mountain of books and wisdom, the man was imprisoned for owing too much money. Sheen had shared half his food with the starving young Kiethen, and all of his books.

Then he had found a master swordsman amongst the prison inmates. William Trent had more scars on his body than he had hair. Bald from head to toe and constantly lathered in a layer of sweat, Trent had first declined to engage in any form of combat till Kiethen had wagered his meals for two days if Trent managed to win from him.

Kiethen had lost.

Then he had wagered three days of meals. He had lost again.

The third time he had wagered that if Kiethen lost, Trent could have his meals for the rest of the month, but if Kiethen won, then Trent would have to teach him the way of the sword.

Confident, Kiethen had entered the circle of men, only to be defeated within five minutes. Kiethen had been disappointed by the defeat, but something in his dedication struck Trent. The cantankerous swordsman had agreed to teach him everything he knew.

As for his promise, Kiethen had kept track of everything Alistair McRae had been up to in the past thirteen years. Lord Wardlow might have forgotten young Kiethen, but Kiethen had not forgotten him. Every new inmate would be interrogated by him for any and all information on Lord Wardlow, or anyone who was associated with Wardlow. Slowly, Kiethen had built a plan in his head, and now it was time to execute it.

“Come, uncle. I have been away from my lands for thirteen years. Can we nae go visit? After that I will tell ye my plan, and if ye still object, I will go to Munroe Castle with ye.”

Callum chewed his bottom lip and looked undecided, but finally he nodded. Kiethen could understand his uncle’s fear. If Callum was all he had, then Kiethen was all Callum had, and he did not want him hurt or taken away.

“But we do nae announce ourselves, eh?” Callum said, raising a warning finger. “Nae gathering young men and enticing them against McRae. Nae yet. Wait till I talk to Munroe and gather more allies.”

“I promise,” Kiethen said. “But then ye have to promise me one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Take me to my mother’s grave.”

Callum looked stricken, but then his face softened. He looked at the ground and nodded. “Aye, I promise. I apologize. I forgot that ye had nae visited. Fiona would have… Let’s go.”

Kiethen followed his uncle, the cloud of grief following them, its oppressive presence a constant companion. Kiethen knew his uncle had revered his mother too. She had been like a mother, sister, and friend all rolled into one. It was famously said that Seamus had married a goddess, and Callum had been so smitten he had not thought of marrying himself.

Yet, Fiona, the morning star, had loved Seamus McCaslin with such intensity that the news of his death had struck a blow to her very soul. She had passed away within days of a broken heart. Kiethen had never heard of a love like that from anyone else and doubted he was capable of it himself. That’s what made his mother so special and a queen among women. He missed her terribly.

But now he was back he would restore the McCaslin seat and reclaim everything that had been taken from him. He was sure his parents looked down upon him from heaven, and it was his mission in life to make them proud.

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