Prologue

It was going to be an unlucky year. The villagers and farmers could feel it in their bones. "Ever since the Laird came back from the Crusades with that strange looking relic of his, things have not been right," they whispered amongst themselves.

Sometimes, Laird Arik Sterling thought that himself, but he did not tell anyone about his concerns. His fourth child was about to be born and his wife was sickly. "Och, dinnae fash, Laird," his friends told him. "Ye have three strong sons already. It is not urgent for ye to bring another bairn into the world. The continuation of yer title is a sure thing."

"That is not what worries me," the laird growled, but he did not say it out loud.

That night, a huge storm blew in from the north, bringing ice and snow with it. "I dinnae like winterborn birthings, Laird," the midwife told Arik. "Sometimes, the shock from coming from the warmth to the cold can kill a newborn bairn."

This made Laird Arik call the housekeeper and order her to bring up dozens of wood logs to Lady Sterling's bedchamber. "Make haste!" the midwife shouted. "We must heat this room."

Typical of all the castle living quarters, Lady Sterling's chambers were vast. The ceiling was high and grand tapestries hung from the walls. Shuttering the diamond-paned windows and piling logs on the fire, the maids tried to heat the freezing room. "Pull those bed curtains closed!" the midwife told them. "Pass a pan of hot coals between the sheets to heat them."

In the middle of this frantic activity, Lady Sterling waddled from one side of her bedchamber to the other, moaning and holding her bloated belly. Sometimes, she would scream and hold her back; other times she would cry out and bend over. She was a frail looking woman with large blue eyes, hollow cheeks, and two long black braids hanging down her back. Two maids were told to stand on each side of the lady to hold her up. "It won't be long noo!" the midwife told them, blowing on her frozen fingers to try and warm them. She did not want the first thing the bairn felt to be the icy grasp of winter. "Pass the knife over the flames to burn off any bad luck."

This was done. The lady was ready. Two women helped her sit in the birthing chair, but she fought them off. "I must bear down! Get off me!"

"Ye cannae crouch on the floor, Lady Sterling." The midwife was adamant. "The rushes have nae been changed. The floor is too cold." But the lady ignored her. Squatting on the rushes, she began to bear down.

Outside the bedchamber, Laird Arik banged on the door. One of the maids went to answer it. "Ye cannae come in yet, Laird," the maid whispered frantically, "Lady Sterling is…is busy."

"Is she well?" Laird Arik hissed through the crack in the door. "Mither MacReady told me the bairn's head was nae in the right place." The maid shook her head. "I dinnae ken, Laird. I'm just the maid. Please go!"

The door was closed firmly in the laird's face. By the time the maid had turned around from the door, the midwife had Lady Sterling lying down on the floor. "It's nae looking good, lass," the woman said through gritted teeth. "Did that fool of a housekeeper tell the laird the bairn was stubborn?" Goggle eyed, the maid nodded. It was hard to talk because Lady Sterling had started screaming.

"Well, there's nothing for it." The midwife rolled up her sleeves. "Let's get this bairn oot."

Lady Sterling was nearly unconscious by now. The midwife used her hands to help the bairn out, feet first. It was an ill omen to be born feet first. The tiny infant proved the superstitions right by failing to cry or move. It lay on the floor rushes like a wee puppet, its black hair plastered down and its tiny limbs curled up like a bean seed.

One of the maids let out a sob, but the midwife scowled at her. She needed to have many witnesses for the birth so that the villagers could not turn around later and claim that the bairn was a changeling, but sometimes too many cooks spoil the broth! "Throw more wood on the fire! Fetch me the knife!" Swaddling the bairn in a warm blanket, the woman jiggled the bundle around. "Come along noo, Boy. Show us what ye're made of. Yer faither is a fierce Highland warrior. Did ye ken that? Yer brithers are braw lads, full o' pranks and mirth. Let's get ye oot of this freezing room and into the nursery. Yer wet nurse is waiting for ye."

No response came from the blanket. Lady Sterling began groaning for her bairn. Every woman in the room darted scared looks at each other. No one wanted to be the one to break the bad news.

"M'lady," the midwife walked to the stunned woman, crouching down beside her as she beckoned the maids to help Lady Sterling into bed. "Dinnae fret yerself into a frenzy, but?—"

At that moment, one of the shutters blew open. A frozen gale whipped into the room, howling and whistling. Hearing the noise, Laird Arik burst in. "I ken it would go hard on her!" he shouted, running to the window and fighting with the stiff draft so that he could close it again. "Is the bairn?—?"

The bairn howled as loudly as the wind as the freezing air revived him. Laird Arik went to see his new son. "Och, it's a healthy bairn. Thank goodness."

The midwife shook her head. "Laird, I could swear the bairn was dead. He was cold and lifeless."

Laird Arik stepped back. "Ye will find it hard to kill the son of a Sterling, wummin," was all he said, before striding out of the room.