Prologue

Two long years Malcom had prepared for this day, all the while kings and queens battled over a dimpled crown. Henry of England was two-years dead, leaving his Empress daughter to succeed him and even as the breath left the old king's body, those who would not follow a woman had turned their eyes toward Stephen of Blois. Now, Britain was at war—brother against brother, brother against sister, cousin against cousin. But, at long last, Aldergh was his, little thanks to the Scots King—little thanks to anyone, save his lady mother and the sweat from his own brow.

He'd learned the hard way how fickle kings could be. Shortly upon hearing the news of Stephen's usurpation, David of Scotia had swept down into the border lands, laying claim to all he could seize, promising Aldergh to Malcom, only to rescind that promise. Face to face with Stephen, the Scot's king returned much of what he'd taken in a treatise at Durham, keeping Carlisle and Newcastle for himself and relinquishing Aldergh to Stephen, thereby forcing Malcom to bend the knee to England for the return of his lands. And so he had, much to his father's dismay.

At long last, he had the legal right to call himself Aldergh's lord. Come what may, he was prepared to fight for what should be his. He might not be flesh and blood to FitzSimon, but his step-mother was the dead lord's only living heir and Malcom was her son by law.

Besides, if he didn't accept her behest, these lands would return to the English crown, unclaimed, and there was no one else to hold them in her father's name—never a woman, obvious by the way the barons received Matilda, and certainly not her Scots husband, the infamous chieftain of a Highland clan. He sidled his mount closer to his mother, giving her a glance, acutely aware of the elder man at her side, and settled his gaze on the prize.

A ghost from his past looming large, Aldergh appeared much as he recalled it—a sprawling monstrosity, with soaring corner towers and a twenty-foot thick curtain wall, built with old Roman ingenuity and stone. Sizable enough to house an entire village, it was designed to withstand a siege, but the castellan was no lord trained in the art of war. With a bit of luck, the man would yield the castel without a fight. Up on the ramparts, armed men scurried between machicolations, the silver in their armor winking defiantly. But, of course, that was to be expected with an army at the gates.

Eager to prove himself as a worthy commander, Malcom dispatched his messenger, handing the man a copy of the writ from Stephen, and then he himself rode to the front of the line, hoisting the flag with the dead-lord's sigil—a two-headed falcon on a blood-red field, with one minor alteration: a silver-threaded thistle in one of the falcon's beaks. It was a nod to his Scot's brethren, and yet, absent, by design, were the colors of his father's clan, the intent being, to send a clear message—that Malcom Ceann Ràs had not arrived here this day as a warden from the north, wearing his father's cloak, but as the new and rightful lord of Aldergh, unfettered by obligations to his kin. He was ready, willing and able to serve a new sovereign… if that's what it took to keep his lands.

Careful to remain outside missile range, but moving close enough to read banners, he anticipated the castellan's response, waiting until the suspense grew thick enough to cut with a blade. If tensions turned to hostilities, his father would rush his mother from the field. But so long as there was a chance for a peaceful transition, she'd insisted upon remaining.

Never daring a glance at his father, he thrust the standard higher, watching as the messenger spoke to the ramparts, tossing the weighted parchment over the wall.

The gates did not open at once, but neither did they fire upon the man, and after what seemed an eternity, the messenger turned and trotted back.

Even before he returned to the fold, a single, warbling horn-blast trumpeted across the landscape and the heavy portcullis began to rise, straining against ancient chains and groaning like a tired old man. The hairs on Malcom's nape stood on end as the moment of truth arrived.

Now, at long last, he cast a glance toward his brooding father… hoping for what?

Seated atop his warhorse, Iain MacKinnon cut a daunting figure, even at his advanced age. The silver in his hair glinted more fiercely than did the steel in his scabbard, and his displeasure was evident in the set of his shoulders and the lock of his jaw, but he said not a word as his wife proceeded to tug her father's signet ring from her finger. Once removed, she placed the heirloom into the palm of her hand, offering it up for Malcom to take—and this was the one concession she'd made to his father: that Malcom must knowingly and wittingly accept all that came with her father's legacy. "Put it on your small finger, Malcom. And remember… what happens from the moment you ride through those gates determines how they will receive you. You are Aldergh's new lord now."

Beside her, his father averted his gaze, his jaw clenching with barely suppressed fury. If it were up to him, he would have tossed FitzSimon's ring into a bog as readily as he had embraced his Sassenach bride. Time and again, he had beseeched Malcom to stay and bide his time. But Malcom had refused, soured by the prospect of waiting for his father to die before beginning a new life. Far better to take what was offered now and pray his old man lived to raise more sons. But his father did not see the world through Malcom's eyes, and while he lent his sword to this cause—for his wife—he would not lend his heart.

So be it.

Resolved, Malcom plucked up the sigil ring from his step-mother's palm and slid the golden two-headed falcon onto his small finger, then hesitated but a moment, thinking about the last time he and his father had stood here together… on this field before FitzSimon's castel… thirteen years ago… a boy of six, unashamed to weep in his father's arms.

His mother must have misunderstood his hesitation because she said, "You have the writ from King Stephen and my father's ring. It will be enough."

The gates were open now… waiting… still he lingered. In truth, the best of all scenarios had occurred, and still, somehow, inexplicably, he felt a surge of loss in his heart.

Had he hoped to fight today, if only to prove himself?

Had he wanted his father to say, ‘Good show, son'?

Perhaps, after all, he had but longed for a clap on the back, and a bit of reassurance that all was not lost?

By God, he was old enough to choose his own path. He didn't need his father's approval, and so it seemed he wasn't going to get it…

"Art certain, mother? he asked—one last time. If she had a mind to, now would be the time to change her mind. Once he took possession of Aldergh, nothing would be the same.

"You are my son," she reassured, mistaking his question.

With a steel glint in his eyes, his father said, "Let us be done."

Malcom straightened his spine, raising his banner. "Aye," he said. "Let us be done." And then, without a word, he spurred his mount forward, hardening his heart.

Dressed in his grandfather's cloak, and wearing a dead man's sigil, he surged ahead of the troops, looking like a king in his own right and carrying with him all the fury of the north.