Prologue

Stirling, Scotland, late May 1425

R iding into the cobblestone court of Cambuskenneth Abbey and reining in between the long abbey kirk and its tall stone tower, the weary knight flung himself from his lathered horse, brushed off his dusty leather jack and breeks, and smoothed his dark brown hair away from his face. It was dusk. He was hungry.

A lay brother in a black cassock hurried to meet him. The knight handed him the horse’s reins, saying, “His grace is here, aye? With Sir William Fletcher?”

“They are both here, sir. But his grace is receiving nae one.”

“He will receive me. Prithee, tell Sir William it is urgent that I speak with his grace as soon as possible. I will wait.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Ian Colquhoun… Sir Ian Colquhoun,” he added, remembering.

The lay brother summoned a second layman to look after Ian’s horse and then entered the abbey through the tower door.

Sir William Fletcher, a man some six or seven years older than the twenty-four-year-old Sir Ian, came out to get him shortly afterward. Sir William said, “His grace will see you at once, sir. Come with me.”

“My news is not for sharing,” Ian said. “Is anyone else with his grace?”

“Nay, he meets his nobles across the river at the castle but sleeps here. Since his English captivity, he prefers to avoid fortresses, so he has been here for several days. Hanging four of his close kinsmen much affected him, however greatly they deserved it. So he will be alone,” Fletcher added, “although I will stay with you.”

“Aye, sure,” Ian said, knowing that Jamie Stewart, King of Scots, rarely went anywhere without his childhood friend, Will Fletcher. Jamie and Will had become friends shortly before Jamie’s capture by the English and his subsequent nineteen-year captivity. Will had been one of the first to welcome Jamie home a year ago and had received his knighthood shortly thereafter.

Ian had won his own silver spurs more recently.

“This way,” Will said, opening the abbey tower door onto a stairway landing. Leading the way up a few stairs to the first landing, he opened another door and preceded Ian into a small, austere room, saying, “Sir Ian is here, your grace.”

The King beckoned Ian forward. Although Ian had seen him less than a fortnight before, his grace looked older than his thirty-one years and very tired.

Jamie said, “Be sure that latch catches, Sir Ian. It often fails. One good thing that my duplicitous uncle did before he died was to begin restoring the abbey kirk here and some of this tower. More requires to be done. But tell me your news. By the look of you, and your urgency, I ken fine it cannot be good.”

“James Mòr and the rebels have seized Dumbarton,” Ian said flatly.

“The castle?”

“Aye, your grace, but also the royal burgh and harbor.”

“My uncle John Stewart of Burleigh is the Governor there.”

Ian’s throat tightened. “The rebels murdered Lord Burleigh, your grace. They also murdered his captain of the guard, my cousin, Gregor Colquhoun.”

“Fiend seize them!” his grace exclaimed. “We must have that castle back.”

“Dumbarton Castle is impregnable,” Will Fletcher said.

“Nevertheless…” Jamie looked at Ian, his eyes narrowing speculatively. “Your Colquhoun seat of Dunglass is gey close to Dumbarton, as I recall.”

“Less than three miles up the river Clyde,” Ian agreed. “The castle sits midway between Dumbarton and Glasgow.”

“Then you are ably placed to recover the castle for me, are you not?”

“We are likewise well-placed to suffer mischief perpetrated by the rebels at Dumbarton,” Ian replied with a wry smile.

He saw Will Fletcher’s bushy eyebrows shoot upward, but Jamie said, “I recall that you also enjoy a reputation for mischief, Sir Ian. So I would like you to put that devious mind of yours to work and devise a way to recover my castle. You are, after all, a knight of my realm, sir. Now, what do you say?”

Without hesitation, Ian said, “If I can do it, your grace, I will.”

“I shall prepare a royal warrant for you straightaway,” Jamie said. “I’ll also give you names of powerful nobles who will help if you need them. They will want to besiege the place, but I’d liefer you find means to avoid that and keep the town and harbor safe. Feed him now, Will. He must be hungry.”

As Ian followed Will Fletcher to the abbey refectory, he felt rather numb.

Was he daft to have agreed? His family would surely say he was, aye.

Glen Fruin, near Loch Lomond, end of July

“We’ve stared down at that tower now for a good half-hour,” the big, dark-haired Highlander said with a grim frown. “Ye’re sure they’re here?”

“Aye, master,” his much smaller companion replied, eyeing him warily.

“And ye’re sure ye saw Lady Aubrey MacFarlan and her daughters?”

“I canna be as sure o’ that,” the lad said. “I followed the Laird o’ Galbraith and five females what crossed the loch wi’ him from Inch Galbraith tae the wee clachan ashore. Then they all rode here wi’ him. Likely, one or two o’ them women be maidservants. But I dinna ken nowt o’ them. I only just ken the laird.”

The two stood on a wooded hilltop looking down at a large, square, gray-stone tower just above the wide, swift-flowing burn known as Fruin Water.

“If they’re here, ye’ve done well, lad. If they are not—”

The Highlander broke off when a door in the tower opened. As he watched, a young woman wearing a plain gray kirtle and white veil stepped outside. Another, younger lass with flaxen hair in two long plaits and wearing a pink kirtle followed, then another even younger one in yellow. The third lass boasted a thick, unruly mass of long, light-red curls, kept back from her face by a white ribbon that ran under the mass and up behind each ear to tie in a bow atop her head.

A slender woman came next. Recognizing Lady Aubrey, the Highlander relaxed. One more lass followed, also garbed in gray with a plain white veil. She had a basket over one arm and shifted it slightly as she shut the door behind her.

“Where are they going?” he wondered aloud.

“I… I dinna ken, master. Belike they’ll walk up the glen.”

“We’ll follow them and see,” the big man said, already moving through the woods to avoid losing sight of the women.

He soon saw that the winding path they took up the glen followed the course of Fruin Water as it tumbled down to join Loch Lomond, a mile and a half behind him. Confident that the swift burn would prevent the women from leaving the path, he realized his error a short time later when the red-headed chit suddenly kilted up her skirts and splashed across the burn to the other side.

When his man turned quickly to head downhill, the Highlander stopped him. “Go softly, and do not show yourself. They must not see either of us.”

“They will if we cross yon burn, though. D’ye mean we should turn back?”

“Nay, nay. I want to see where they go. But we’ll wait until they get into the woods above that meadow they’re crossing. Then we’ll follow them.”

Sakes, he thought when he and his companion reached the woods and could hear the women’s voices ahead, it was almost too easy. If they had been his mother or sisters, they would take armed men along whenever they left home.

The women stopped at last in a small clearing, still talking quietly. The gray-clad maidservant with the basket put it down and opened it. The other one took a cloth from it and shook it out to spread on the ground.

A bird tweeted nearby. Another answered it, and a squirrel chattered.

It was a beautiful and peaceful place, where aught could happen and nae one would be any the wiser.

“Ye’ve done well, lad,” Dougal MacPharlain murmured.