Prologue

Merry Margaret

As midsummer flower

Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of thetower

—John Skelton, Garland of Laurel , 16thc.

Scotland, The Highlands

April 1297

"A fey creature. Scarce more than a child." Standing at the window of his mother's solar, Duncan Campbell gazed down at a slip of a girl who waited in the bailey yard of Innis Connell Castle, his father's island stronghold in Loch Awe. The visitors, Sir Robert Keith and his daughter Margaret, had arrived by boat to discuss the betrothal affixed between Duncan and the girl ten years earlier.

He drew a sharp breath, recalling the tense discussion about the matter with his father, Sir Colin Campbell, chief of that clan. Seeing his son's insistence on dissolving the agreement, his father had reluctantly promised to broach it with Robert Keith.

Though Duncan had not seen his would-be bride for years, he saw now she was neither child nor yet a woman. In her moss-green gown and plaid cloak, with hair like bright copper spilling in loose curls over her shoulders, she was a faery-like creature.

"She is lovely." Lady Janet Sinclair came to stand beside her son.

"True, but good saints, Mother. The lass is only Isabel's age."

"Thirteen. Your sister is fourteen and will marry later this year."

"Too young. Even I am not ready to marry, at just twenty and newly knighted. I told Father we should void the betrothal, since I must leave to fulfill my knight service. The lass should not have to wait even more years for this marriage to be made."

"This alliance has considerable advantages. You know that."

"Aye, but I gave my pledge to King Edward and must report in the south. I do not know when I might return. Or if."

"You will return. I know it, I." She smiled. Whenever his mother used that phrase, Duncan knew it came from more than logic. His mother had the Sight that ran in her family; he respected it, if he did not quite understand it.

"I hope so. As for marriage, I have no fortune or castle, and as a younger son with five brothers and a sister, my portion one day will be modest."

"Caelin Mòr Campbell of Lochawe will not let a son of his be a landless knight. You will have Brechlinn Castle upon your marriage—or later, when he is gone."

"I appreciate it. I do." Somehow he could not look away from the girl, that innocent wee beauty—and he the demon about to destroy her hopes. "Brechlinn is all but a ruin. It will take coin and work to improve it." In truth, he loathed the idea of riding for the English king, and would rather put time and muscle into that dear old castle. "Someday I will return to the Highlands and marry. But not now."

Someday. The sticking point. The betrothal had been made long before he or the Keith girl understood it. Both families were pleased by the alliance, but King Edward's expectations took precedence over those plans. Indeed, the king's intentions in Scotland could alter the future for everyone. Nothing felt secure.

In the yard, his father emerged from the keep to welcome the guests. Colin Campbell had a thundering presence, tall and beefy in a plaid cloak over a long tunic of ochre wool; Sir Robert Keith of Kincraig was lean and dark in a blue surcoat. As they grasped hands and spoke, young Margaret turned in a dreamy circle, arms out, cloak swirling. She was coltish, sweet, her hair a sunset glow as she turned.

He recalled the tiny spitfire he'd first met when she was but three and he ten years old. She had been a wee thing with red-gold curls who clapped with delight when the betrothal pledge was read, then followed him about the hall. To his great embarrassment at age ten, she had climbed into his lap and cooed the proper Gaelic form of his name spoken in the ceremony— Donnchadh Dubh , Black Duncan, for his nearly black hair. Finally the nurse came to fetch the child.

"This one is fiery," she said as picked her up to carry her away.

"My Donnchadh! My Donnchadh Dubh!" Margaret had shrieked. Dona-kha-dhu , her plea heartbreaking, his discomfort keen.

"Duncan Dhu," his mother said then, dipping into his thoughts as she so often did, "let the wedding proceed while the marriage waits. That lass will be good for you, and you for her."

He sighed. "I know you and Father are disappointed, but I feel it is the honorable thing to dissolve it and not ask her or her kin to wait longer."

She patted his shoulder, though he towered over her. "Your father is pleased you stood up to him. Few dare argue with Caelin Mòr. He will talk to Kincraig."

Duncan nodded. He had trembled to present his opinion. Cailean Mòr—Big Colin—was great in size, heart, courage, reputation, and stubbornness. But the man loved family above all, and so he had listened.

"I know. But this is my responsibility."

"And this is a good match. Her father is an influential lord, her kinsman is Marischal of Scotland, and her great-grandfather is Thomas the Rhymer, respected for his counsel and prophecies. Her family has power and position. And I have a good feeling about this girl." She gave a wise smile.

"Aye. But my future is uncertain. I know the tocher must be repaid if no marriage takes place, and I will pay it. It is my debt."

"You are a good soul and a good man. So like your father." She ruffled his dark hair. "The black hair, those dark blue eyes, the cheeks that stain pink with your thoughts. Like him in your heart and your stubbornness, too. But—"

"Thank you. But?"

"But you have such reserve. You hold back. You are thinking of honor, I know. But that lass has a wild spirit." She indicated the girl spinning about below. "She can teach you something."

He huffed. "She deserves better than a younger son of a clan chief."

"Your father is a powerful Highland earl and cousin to the mighty Bruces. That bonny lass will not find a finer match than Duncan Campbell, who completed his studies in law and natural philosophy at Saint Andrews. We are proud of you."

"I may never use those studies if Edward has his way."

"Your father's position as justiciar in the north is heritable, but your brothers are not interested in that work. You studied law, so he wants his judiciary role to go to you."

"And I am honored." His brusque, decisive father was stern and fair, and his role would be hard to fill; nor could he think of his father gone. "They say King Edward will not allow Scots to hold heritable positions. Those may go to English lords instead."

She sighed. "He would erase our character even as he takes our land and goods."

"Some of us are determined that will never happen."

"This marriage alliance could help that effort one day. Think of that."

"Mama," he said gently, "leave it be."

She patted his arm. "I must welcome our guests. Your sister will entertain the girl this afternoon. I am thinking you should keep your distance from her until later."

"I will take a hawk out to fly." He needed to get outside to think.

When his mother left the room, Duncan glanced out the window again, still feeling regret and guilt, though his decision was necessary. Below, Margaret Keith whirled again; she had a wildness that reminded him of the hawks in his father's mews, untamed and spirited regardless of jesses and expectations.

He did not want to hurt the girl. He wanted marriage someday, but felt compelled to focus on knighthood and a need for freedom, justice, and honor. Too much was unknown. A decade earlier, Scotland had lost a good king down a cliffside on a rainy night, and later, the little princess who inherited his throne had died too. Edward of England stepped in like a vulture, appointing Sir John Balliol to the throne—Edward's Scottish puppet, many said—ignoring eligible warriors in the royal line, chiefly Sir Robert Bruce and Sir John Comyn.

If the younger Robert Bruce claimed the kingship, Duncan felt sure fates and fortunes in Scotland would improve. So far Bruce had made no move. Until he did, Duncan would ride for Edward as he must. But he would rather join what some called hotheads—a growing faction of young Scottish lords determined to fight for Scottish freedom. That felt more like honor to him.

He took the stairs to the yard to head for the thatched-roof mews. Among those stubborn, magnificent birds, he could find peace and purpose, and perhaps sort out his conflicted heart.

Carrying a goshawk on his gloved fist, Duncan crossed a broad meadow, his plaid cloak of green, blue, and black fluttering about his knees over a long tunic of brown linen and woolen trews. As he walked, the bird cheeped, blinded by a leather hood topped with a jaunty feather.

"Restless and ready to fly? I feel that way too, lad," he murmured.

One never knew what to expect from a hawk, a wild thing that likely complied with humans only because they proved a regular source of food and shelter. Birds of prey were pragmatic, somewhat lazy creatures, accepting captivity only so long as it pleased them. Never fully tamed, they might decide to fly free at any time.

His father's mews was known throughout the Highlands for its excellent birds and a skilled falconer who had infinite patience for the hawks, falcons, and owls Sir Colin kept. Duncan had learned much in that tutelage. Leaving home and ending the betrothal to fulfill his knight service troubled him, but his sense of honor and his need to build a future for himself gave him little choice.

Ahead, the long isle was a stretch of flowered meadow, woodland, and shore, where the gleaming blue loch rippled on a pebbled beach. He headed toward a cluster of pines and birches thinking to release the hawk there.

At the mews, he had learned that his sister had taken a kestrel and their young guest had asked for a bow and quiver to practice archery. Walking over the meadow, Duncan glanced around for Isabel and Margaret, determined to take a different direction if he saw them.

But soon he saw his sister running toward him, cloak flying out, dark braids bouncing. Behind her came a groom carrying a bird on his glove. Seeing Duncan, she ran faster, waving. Something was wrong, he realized.

"Isabel!" he called.

"Duncan!" She stopped, breathless. "We need help."

"What is it?"

She pointed. "Lady Margaret is back there. We must fetch Papa's falconer. She is up in a tree with a bird."

He stared, incredulous. "A tree?"

"One of the tall pines there. She sent us to get help—she found a wounded bird. Could you help her—oh, perhaps not," she said, aware of his change of heart.

"I will help. Take the gos, Isabel." Duncan handed the bird over, its wings fluttering in the transfer to her glove. Then he crossed the meadow in long strides.

Near a cluster of tall pines, he saw a slight figure in a green dress seated on the grass. Duncan had the odd thought that she looked like a woodland sprite, delicate as the new green on the trees. Despite what he promised his mother, he wanted to help.

"Lady Margaret?"

She shaded her eyes with a slim hand as he stopped with his back to the sun. In that moment, he was lost for words.

Seeing her earlier, remembering a truculent toddler, he had not expected beauty in the girl. But she was stunning, a faery princess just on the verge of womanhood, with creamy skin, rosy cheeks, and eyes of hazel green under dark brows; her hair, a rich and ruddy bronze, wafted over her shoulders in long loose curls.

She stood with awkward, leggy grace, willow-thin, tall for a young woman. Wobbling a bit as she favored one foot, she smiled. "You are Duncan Campbell!"

He took a step back. Though he was a man now, a knight, the incandescence of such uncommon beauty tossed him back to bumbling, uncertain adolescence. "Uh, I—"

"I am Margaret Keith." Her soft, husky voice was enchanting.

"Lady Margaret. My sister said you went up a tree."

"I was, but fell out just now. I am fine. Bruised my ankle, see." She drew up the embroidered hem of her gown to turn her foot in its narrow boot.

Dumbfounded, he looked at the pines. "You went up there?"

"Aye. So, you will soon be my husband?" Her smile was impish and bright, with pretty teeth and tiny side dimples. Duncan faltered. This gorgeous creature should be cherished, protected, not cast aside. He felt a new wash of guilt.

"About our, uh, betrothal—" He did not know how to say it.

"I remember our promise outside a church, and now we will plan a wedding. Are you nineteen now? I am thirteen."

"Twenty. A knight. You are very young."

"Fourteen this summer. Thank you for waiting for me to grow, Duncan Dhu."

That she remembered the name touched him. His heart sank. His hands went clammy. "Er, my sister said you had trouble."

"Look there. Do you see the bird?" She pointed toward the pines.

He saw a flash of white and silver: a falcon perched halfway up the tallest pine. Now he felt on solid ground. He knew birds better than he knew girls.

"A falcon! Not one of ours."

"It was in the tree. I am afraid I shot it by accident. I feel terrible."

"I doubt you could shoot a falcon." He noticed the bow made of good ash, lying in the grass beside a quiver of arrows. It would take strength to pull it. She looked too fragile for that. "They are the fastest creatures in all the world, so fast you would barely see her before she was gone. You did not shoot her."

"I hope not. But I was practicing—and then I saw her not moving." Tears welled in her green eyes.

He was ill-prepared for tears. "If she is injured, I might be able to catch her." He walked toward the trees.

"How do you know it is a she?" The girl followed him.

"All falcons are ‘she' until we know otherwise. And that one is big enough to be female now that I see her better. They are larger than the tiercels, the males, you see."

"If you were smaller than me, I would be a giantess!" She laughed.

He huffed, feeling enormous beside her. Stopping, he looked up at the bird. "Odd. It is sitting halfway up, though falcons normally seek the highest perch."

"I may have wounded her. I tried to climb up to help, but I fell. Can you go up?"

"I think so." The bird had not moved even with humans nearby. It was wounded for sure. Wondering how to capture it, he tested a couple of branches.

"Pardon me. I need to remove my shirt." He waggled his fingers and she understood, turning her back. Quickly he removed his falconer's glove, undid his wide leather belt and sporran, tugged at the plaid draped over his shoulder, and stripped off the long tunic until he stood in shirt, woolen trews, and boots. He shrugged off the shirt and slung it over his bare shoulder, then drew on the heavy glove. He would need it.

The bird fixed large dark eyes on him, its white brow angled sharp and wary. It was a female—a gyrfalcon, he realized, for her chest and wings were nearly white, liberally speckled with gray. Her wicked talons flexed on the branch, but her legs were still blue-gray, indicating her youth. When she lifted one wing, the other stayed close, as if she could not fly. As he moved closer, she shifted a little, and a tiny bell on her anklet chimed above the leather jesses looped around her leg.

"She is a trained bird," he said. "A young one. See the gray specks on her wings? She will turn mostly white in a few months."

"Pretty thing. Her jesses look tangled on the branch."

"I will go up and see." Climbing the pine next to the central one, he ascended until he crouched just above the bird. She twisted her head to watch, dark eyes piercing. Duncan froze in that devilish stare and judged his next move.

Slowly he grabbed another branch and eased his way across to the tree where the falcon perched, pausing above her. Now he could see the bird was weak, her body quivering, likely with hunger as well as injury. With luck, she would let him capture her; a trained raptor would have learned that a human could provide food and safety.

Lifting the shirt, he dropped the linen like a cloud over the bird, reached down, and scooped her up swiftly. Startled, tangled in linen, she fought, but Duncan trapped her, nudging his heavy glove beneath the lethal talons. She caught hold of the leather while he worked to free the jesses, the little bell chiming.

Cooing soft reassurance, he cautiously descended and dropped to the ground. Margaret Keith followed as he carried the falcon out to the sunny meadow.

"There, bird, safe you are." The creature cocooned in his shirt trembled. "Margaret, in my sporran there is a falconer's hood."

She fetched the pouch and found the small leather hood. When he popped it over the bird's head to shut out the world, the falcon went still. He handed Margaret his shirt and balanced the bird on his glove.

"She seems well trained," the girl said.

"The glove and hood mean security to her. Otherwise she would fight me fiercely." He looped the jesses around his fingers as he spoke.

Margaret held his shirt to her chest. "You know birds."

"Some." The hooded bird was still as Duncan probed her chest, her wings. Finding crusted blood beneath one wing, he saw an ugly dark puncture, half-healed. "She was hurt a while ago. Likely the arrow dropped away. Not yours," he added.

"Oh, thank the saints!" He heard her little sob of relief.

"Her crop is thin. She has not eaten for a while. There is a bit of raw meat wrapped in the sporran. I brought it for my goshawk but sent him back with my sister."

She handed him the wrapped meat. "I have sisters too. Tamsin and Rowena. And a brother, Henry."

"Do you? Here, dear, take this." He offered the bloody chunk to the bird, snatching his fingers away as the sharp beak tore down.

"Here, dear," Margaret repeated, handing another dripping bit to him. She was not squeamish, Duncan noticed with approval, as he fed the bird again.

"Safe now, my lass," he told the falcon.

"Safe with us," Margaret echoed. "Is she badly hurt?"

"I do not know yet, but she cannot fly." He indicated the puncture beneath the wing. The girl did not flinch as she peered at the wound. Duncan admired that.

With the bird on his glove, he could not easily dress again. "Lass, hand me my plaid if you will." He stood as she draped it over one shoulder and then helped fix his belt. She fetched his other things and grabbed her bow and arrow, moving quickly and without complaint, though she limped.

"It is a good walk to the castle. Your ankle—can you walk?"

"I am fine." She limped beside him and he walked slowly for girl and bird both. Margaret clutched his things to her chest, smiling.

"Thank you for saving the bird. When do you think was she hurt?"

"A while ago. She must have escaped her falconer and headed north. They like to fly north, these birds."

"What sort of falcon is she?"

"A gyrfalcon. The largest of the falcons." He was proud of his knowledge of birds, and glad to talk of falconry rather than marriage just now. "Her tail is long and straight, and she has the large dark eyes and arrow-shaped brow of a falcon. When she is an adult, she will be larger and mostly white. The snowy white sort are rare. She is a valuable bird," he added.

"Jer-falcons? I have heard they are special birds, especially the white ones."

"Well done to spot her. You saved her life."

"You saved her! I only saw her."

"She let you see her, and let me capture her. She knew we could help."

"Oh, look!" The girl paused short, so that Duncan bumped into her, touching her slim shoulder for a moment. "See?"

Glancing up, Duncan saw an elegant bird, pale and swift, arrow across the sky and slip between tall trees. "Another falcon! Curious."

"I saw it earlier when I was waiting here. Is it a gyrfalcon too?"

"Could be. Silvery gray, and a bit smaller than the female. A tiercel. A male." Then he saw the gray falcon perched at the highest point in a tree. The gyrfalcon on his glove made a chupping sound. "He must be a wild bird. But she noticed him."

"Papa says only kings can own gyrfalcons. Could they belong to King Edward?"

"I wonder." The same thought troubled him. He peered at the gyrfalcon's anklet and jesses. "There is some tooling on the leather." With his free hand, he examined the faded markings on the tattered strips. "It looks like—aye. Three lions rampant." He frowned.

"King Edward! Could she have flown here from England?"

"The king may have brought hunting birds to Carlisle, where he is staying. She could have flown here easily from there."

"And the other bird? Is he her mate?" She pointed upward just as the pale gray tiercel left its perch to disappear among the trees. "Perhaps they escaped together. Escaping the evil king!"

She looked delighted with her fantasy. Margaret Keith was a romantic soul, Duncan realized. He shook his head. "Falcons mate for life, but this gyrfalcon is young, and the tiercel looks wild. Falcons do fly wild in northern Scotland."

"She could have a wild mate." She smiled at the romantic idea. "But if she belongs to King Edward, she must be returned."

"First she must heal. Then we will decide." He meant his father. She smiled as if he meant the two of them.

"Will she fly again, our gyrfalcon?" Her lovely smile was distracting.

Our gyrfalcon. "With luck. She needs time."

"Only a king can fly a white gyrfalcon. Could we even keep her?"

"A man could lose a hand, even his head, if he owns one or flies one for sport."

"What if no one knows? You said they fly wild in Scotland."

"Some do. The white sort come mostly from Norway. But wait." An idea occurred. He took one of the jesses. "Take hold of the other piece, lass."

She closed her palm over it. "Now what?"

"Margaret Keith, swear to me now on this bird's jesses, that you will never tell that we found royal insignia on this bird."

"I swear it." The trust in her voice, her eyes, made him falter. "It is our secret. And our bird." Her bright smile cut him like a knife. "A promise as solemn as marriage."

He gulped. "Margaret. There is something you should know."

"I want to tell you something, too."

His news would ruin anything else. "Say it, then."

"We pledged one secret, so here is another for our trust. Listen. I saw you in a vision. We were married." She smiled so sweetly that his heart broke, then and there.

"Did you." Vision? What a dreamer she was. He must tell her now.

"My great-grandfather has a seeing stone. He calls it clach na firinn , a truth stone. The Queen of Faery gave it to him, you see. He is True Thomas. Thomas the Rhymer. You may know his name." She beamed when he nodded. "The stone has a hole through it, a magical opening that shows the truth and the future if you can see it."

He huffed. "Such things do not happen."

"They do! I looked through his seeing stone. And I saw something. Instead of the room where I stood, I saw a knight and a lady. It was you—and me."

"But we only met as children. And then again today."

"But I knew it was you and me, older than we are now. We each carried a hawk on a glove. We were married. And so happy."

He frowned. "That is a fancy. You saw what you wanted to see."

"I saw the truth through that stone. I know it, I."

That phrase gave him pause. His mother used those words when she had a strong premonition. Then he shook his head. "A pretty dream."

"Not a dream. My Grandda called me a forest bride. He said one day I might have sadness and strife, but happiness would come. I reminded him that I was already betrothed and would be married soon."

Duncan gazed far down the meadow. "What did he say to that?"

"He said, ‘bonny wee forest bride, wait and see.' But we will not be married in the forest. We will be married in a chapel. So that part is silly. Though I do love the forest best of all."

"Silly." Far off, he saw a people coming from the castle across the long meadow toward them. He had only minutes left alone with her.

"I shall visit you often to help train our gyrfalcon. And her mate. Oh, he is gone!" She looked up.

"You are a wee dreamer, Margaret Keith." He felt sad to say it.

"Papa says I am a dreamer like my sister Tamsin. Our sister Rowena is a practical sort. You will meet them soon. It is good to have dreams."

She was so young. He felt old suddenly. "Dreamers get their hearts broken."

"—and one day my husband, a brave and worthy knight, will be rewarded by the king for rescuing a precious falcon. That is, if we tell the king." She wrinkled her nose.

In the meadow, he saw them running—his father, his mother, his sister, the falconer, and Sir Robert Keith. There were only moments left. This mess was his doing, and as a courteous knight, he was obliged to tell the lady the truth.

"Lady Margaret."

"My family calls me Meg. And your family calls you Donnchadh or Duncan Dhu."

"Aye." He could not use her affectionate name. Not now. "Our betrothal—must be dissolved."

"What?" She tipped her head like a hawk, green eyes wide, fixed on him.

The others were approaching. The bird shifted, clenched on the glove. "The agreement must be undone." His heart thumped. "I am sorry."

"But we are supposed to marry!"

"I must go away for a long while. Royal orders. I cannot marry now."

"I would wait!"

"I do not want you to wait so long for me."

"You do not want to marry me." Her brow puckered, her lip wobbled.

"Not true," he said hastily. The others were nearer, calling out. "I must fulfill my knight service and cannot take a wife yet. Listen, please—"

"Stop!" Tears pooled in her eyes. "Stop! I hate King Edward. I hate you! I want to be your wife but you do not want me!" She stepped back. "Take care of our bird—" On a sob, she threw his things to the ground and spun away.

She ran, limping and stumbling, curls fanning out like flames. Her father reached her first, taking her in his arms as she cried. Then he scooped her up to carry her to the castle.

Duncan stood, gyrfalcon on his fist. Intent on knighthood, he had meant to give Margaret her freedom. Instead, he had hurt her, and felt stabbed through the heart as well.

His father ran toward him. "God's bones, Donnchadh, why is the lass so upset? Where is your shirt? And what the devil are you doing with a white gyrfalcon? Ach , now we are in for it!"