Prologue

Dunraig Castle

Craigroy, Scotland

1292

THE AUTUMN AIR WAS crisp, swirling around Morag and Elspeth as they perched upon two log stumps inside the bailey of Dunraig Castle, their skirts brushing the packed earth. The towering stone wall of the fortress cast a long shadow, in which they sat, speaking in low voices. While the distant sound of clanging swords echoed from the training grounds of the Rose army, inside the bailey the rhythmic whoosh of arrows filled the air as the young Rose lads honed their skill with bow and arrow.

In a far corner of the castle's yard, a group of washer women bustled about a steaming cauldron under the watchful eye of the laundress, their working song low and droning, the sound as familiar as the creak and groan of the bucket being drawn up the well or the soothing, repetitive cooing of the doves in the cote.

A pair of hawks circled lazily overhead, their piercing cries occasionally punctuating the scene inside the yard below. Here and there, someone or another would cast their gaze toward the sky, tracing the flight path of the hawks.

Between the two women sat a kettle, half-filled, and the lap of their skirts were the remaining beans upon which they worked to trim.

From under a heavy brow, Morag herself cast a glance askance at the sky, though not at the circling predators. "A proper soaking we'll have ere the day is out," she predicted.

"Aye, that we will," Elspeth agreed, looking equally annoyed at the prospect. "Nae beauty in that, in ye and I being forced indoors, putting up with that one."

That one was Greer Rose, the laird Callum Rose's new wife. Less than half his age, she possessed not a fraction of his wit or charm, and many thought it nearly criminal that she might taint the bloodline of the legendary beauty of the Roses with her unsightliness. But mayhap those outside watchers worried needlessly. A year and a half they'd been wed and still no bairns coming.

Callum Rose had wanted a mother to his four bairns but got, instead, what the two ancient retainers thought was a harpy, her tongue, according to Morag, sharp enough to split rocks.

Morag harrumphed. "It canna be only me wants to feed her straw in through those big horse teeth."

Despite the absence of many of her own teeth, Elspeth's responding wide grin illuminated her weathered face, transforming it to a long-forgotten youth in an instant. Lines etched with countless years softened, and her eyes sparkled with good humor.

"God's bones," Elspeth chortled quietly, leaning her upper body toward Morag, "and the first one so bonny, ?twas a joy to look upon her. But that one in there now—I canna look directly upon her lest these auld eyes shrivel up and lose sight altogether."

Morag nodded in agreement as she carried on with her task, her wrinkled hands moving with practiced efficiency. "Proper nuisance she is, always scolding, barking orders so loud as to be heard over the hounds baying."

"Aye, and mark my words, she'll be the ruin of this household if the laird dinna rein her in soon enough," Elspeth predicted, as she had a dozen times in the last year.

"A bairn'd be the best thing for her," Morag supposed, "keep her oot the kitchen."

"Aye, but nae guid for the lass, lost already with nae mam, unseen amidst those brothers of hers."

Covertly both women glanced up and across the yard, where the laird and his armorer watched and encouraged the three Rose sons—the oldest of whom had just marked four and ten years—as they continued with their archery practice. Beyond that group, her small frame barely visible against the backdrop of the fortress's shadowed wall, stood Fiona Rose, the youngest of the laird's bairns. Born seven years ago to Callum and Catriona Rose, breathing her first breath as her mother took her last, Fiona was imbued with much of the Rose temperament, being spirited and intelligent, but lacked what some might argue would most benefit her, the Rose confidence. On so many occasions in her father's company, she stood in the background, only waiting and hoping to be noticed.

Long-tenured retainers of Dunraig Castle, Morag and Elspeth could recall many generations of Roses and had watched the last of the line at this point, Fiona, grow from a babe in arms to an occasionally feisty lass. The child possessed a wisdom surpassing her years, often overshadowing even her stepmother in matters of sense, and displayed a resilience that outshone at least two of her brothers. Yet beneath her wee outward strength lay a profound and unspoken longing for the tender affection that eluded her within the austere walls of her home, where her stoic father looked through her and her cold stepmother ruled without the tiniest hint of warmth.

Cheerless were there hearts, Morag and Elspeth's, for it seemed an injustice that a child born to such lineage should find herself at the mercy of indifferent guardians, without the advocacy or tenderness of a mother to guide her.

"Och, but ?tis all suspect," said Elspeth, "that hair of hers. Nae a strand of black to be found."

"Hush," Morag chastised. "Dinna go on with that nonsense. Aye, the Roses now and as far back as our recalls stretch were all black of hair with skin as pure as sweet cream. And so this one's nae got either of those things and wot ye want to make of it? Dinna be saying what I ken ye—"

"I'm nae saying anything," replied Elspeth, who then did go on to say, "but that it dinna follow reason."

"I dinna like when ye insinuate that," Morag hissed. "Was nae her mam a saint and dinna we ken it? She'd nae have forsworn her laird."

"More the pity, then," Elspeth returned with just as much vehemence. "if she is of his bluid, all the more shameful for how he regards her. Or, to be more precise, how he dinna regard her at all."

"Aye, poor lass," Morag remarked with a click of her tongue, her heart heavy with sympathy. "Ye'd ken with eyes like that, she could have whatever she wanted. Like her mam's only brighter, the green. But nae, a wee bird trapped in a cage, she is, chirping for any morsel from the laird."

"He'll have to do," Elspeth remarked, inclining her head toward the soldier, Fraser, who had a soft spot for the lass. "If'n she resembled him at all," she went on, her tone hushed, "I'd wager he'd been the one who sired her, with the way he coddles her."

'Twas no secret among the retainers and household staff that Fraser MacHeth, cousin to the lass's late mother, had been the one to first put the lass atop a mare, teaching her to ride. On occasion, he had even allowed her to join her brothers' training, though always in the laird's absence.

"Bah, Fraser would nae ever have betrayed the laird. A proud clansman is he, guid heart an' all, and is the lass nae better for it?"

They sat in silence briefly, each with their thoughts, until Elspeth commented, "Too young yet to understand herself, but aye, she'll find her voice one day."

"Wot she needs is wings," Morage suggested, "so that she might fly."

"Nae wings for that lass. Look at her eyein' them weapons in the hands of her brothers. Like gold they are to her, which she'll nae doubt use to buy the laird's attention or affection, whatever wee piece he'll give her. She'll want a sword and her own bow, ye mark my words."