Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Castle MacLeod, Isle of Skye

The Western Scottish Highlands, 1308

The tranquility of the summer eve was torn apart by the ringing clash of metal against metal, the dull, woody thud of shield ramming shield, and the grunting and panting of men fighting.

“Come on, Braither, dinnae be a killjoy and come tae the tavern fer a pint or two of ale, eh?” Arne MacLeod said, his tone persuasive through heavy, panting breaths. He sheathed his sword and pushed up his vizor to wipe a powerful forearm across his sweating brow. “I’ll tell ye what, we’ll go and get Haldor and bring him along too. We’ll make a night of it, three braithers together. What d’ye say?”

Despite his own ragged breathing, Arne’s elder brother Ivar MacLeod laughed from beneath his helmet, a strangely mirthless sound. “I wish ye good luck with that,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll have a wee wager with ye that Haldor will turn ye down, for he’ll nae leave Sofia, and Dahlia willnae let them go without her.”

“Then let her come, let them all come. We can have a family party. It’ll be grand. How long has it been since we’ve done something like that together?”

Ivar took off his helmet and shook his head, sending his long fair locks flying. His expression had turned grim at his brother’s words. “Nay. They’ll nae come, and I’ll nae come either,” he replied dully.

Arne took off his helmet and threw it on the ground along with his targe, the small round shield the Highland warriors used in battle and in training.

“Ach, come on, Ivar,” he cried, his exasperation evident. “Ye cannae keep on like this. We’re all grievin’ Thor’s loss, but d’ye think he’d be happy if he was here now and could see the way ye’re actin’?”

Ivar shot him a warning look, but in his frustration, Arne ignored it.

“Ye cannae spend yer whole life mournin’ fer him. Thor wouldnae want that at all.”

“Shut yer hole, Arne,” Ivar retorted angrily. “Ye dinnae ken how it feels tae lose yer twin. When Thor died…” Ivar wondered for a second how to expresses the torturous feeling. “It was like some sorcery was done and part of me went along with him.”

“He was me braither too, Ivar, and—” Arne tried to protest, but he was cut off by his brother.

“Ach, can ye nae see what a hypocrite ye are? Ye dare tae speak tae me like this when ’tis obvious tae everyone how ye’ve been affected by Thor dyin’. Bloody hell, man, ye’ve just named yer bairn after him! I still catch Dahlia cryin’ over him at times. Haldor’s just as bad. Ye see how he loses it when someone mentions Thor’s name. All of us have our own ways of dealin’ with it, and ye’re try tae tell me I cannae mourn him in me own way?”

“I’m nae sayin’ that and ye ken it,” Arne argued, picking up his helmet and targe. “But ye dinnae seem tae ken how ye’ve changed. ’Tis nae just me that’s noticed. Ye used tae like a joke and a laugh, but these days, I hardly recognize ye. Ye’re right when ye say a part of ye died with Thor, and what’s left is dark and cold. Ye’re rude and harsh when folk try tae talk tae ye. People are afraid of ye now, did ye ken that? By the Wee Man, ye’ve even shut out yer own family!”

“All this because I dinnae want tae go drinkin’ at the tavern,” Ivar growled, starting off across the training yard towards the castle. Arne followed him, keeping pace.

“All ye dae is train, train, train. Every day. That’s yer whole life now. I bet ye wish we could have a war so ye could get out on the battlefield and hammer some poor bastard intae the ground.”

“I dinnae want tae speak about this anymore,” Ivar said, letting out a string of colorful words as he strode along. But however hard he tried, he could not shake his brother off.

“Jaysus, Ivar! Ye cannae go on like this, livin’ only fer battle. The day is gonnae come when ye have tae marry, have a family, even if ’tis only fer the sake of the clan.”

They had reached the armory, and Ivar scoffed loudly as he violently shouldered his way through the door, making it bang against the wall. “Dinnae hold yer breath on that score, Arne, because I’m nae plannin’ on it anytime soon.”

Other soldiers inside the armory looked over and stared as the brothers barged in and practically threw their targes and helmets to the young lad responsible for their storage. Clutching the equipment, he backed away like a startled foal.

To Ivar’s annoyance, Arne did not seem about to give up, staying hot on his heels, following him out into the courtyard and all the way to the entrance of the keep. All he wanted to do was get to the privacy of his chambers, where he planned to spend the evening until dinner honing his blades and, yes, brooding the loss of his twin.

But they had not gotten within twenty feet of the keep when their sister came hurrying out, her head turning left and right, clearly searching for someone. When she spotted them, she came rushing to meet them. As she drew near, Ivar noticed the anxious expression on her angelic face.

“What is it, Dahlia,” he asked, instantly concerned. He hated to see his soft-hearted sister upset. She began to walk back with them toward the keep doors.

“’Tis Haldor. He wants tae speak with ye both in his study,” she said, an edge of worry in in her voice.

“I’ll be there as soon as I’ve cleaned up,” Ivar told her, but she shook her head. “He says he wants ye there now.”

“Ach, Jaysus,” Ivar muttered irritably. He was hot and sweaty and angry. He needed peace and quiet to calm down!

“What’s it about?” Arne asked as they passed through the pair of guards at the doors and went into the castle’s impressive vestibule.

“I dinnae ken, but he says ’tis urgent,” Dahlia told them.

They turned left and took the long, tapestry-lined hallway heading towards their brother’s study.

They reached the door to Haldor’s study and halted outside. Ivar rapped on the door, but it was not latched and it swung open. They entered together, and when Ivar saw his elder brother standing by the hearth with a parchment in his hand, a prickling sensation ran up his spine.

Haldor looked at them, and the expression on the laird’s face gave Ivar the feeling it was not going to be good news. Dread knotted in his gut when they joined Haldor, and Ivar spotted the King’s seal attached to the parchment. He had a sense of having lived that moment before, when a letter had arrived that had changed the course of all their lives. The last time it had happened, the letter had also been from The Bruce, commanding Haldor’s arranged marriage.

The atmosphere in the room pressed down upon him, and Ivar felt as though the three of them were collectively holding their breaths. Dahlia was standing as if frozen, clutching her hands in front of her chest. Ivar realized Arne must have felt the same as him because he swallowed loudly and asked with a tinge of resignation, “Who is it this time?”

Haldor gave a bitter little smile and laid the parchment down on a nearby table before regarding Ivar with his shrewd blue eyes. “The eldest,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice.

The world seemed to fall away from beneath Ivar’s feet. He did not know how he kept upright, for the room began spinning, and he thought he might retch.

Arne turned to him and he vaguely heard his brother say, “I told ye yer time would come, did I nae?”

Ivar ignored him and tried to pull himself together. “Who’s me bride?” he managed to get out, finally meeting Haldor’s eyes.

“The daughter of Laird Matheson.”