Prologue

Near Strontian Castle

Kilmonivaig in the Highlands

Winter 1306

"Take ?is head off!"

Cedric MacDuff rolled his eyes and glared at the man who offered that suggestion. "If'n I wanted yer opinion, Daffie," he snapped at the lowly pikoneir, "I'd have gotten it from yer mam ere she left my bed."

Daffie tightened his dirtied hand around the long stem of his pike, briefly lifting it away from where it leant against his shoulder. His jaw tightened as well, and ribald laughter greeted the captain's smear. A lifted brow from MacDuff asked Daffie if he wished to challenge the insult to his mother. He did not, but shot humiliated glances at the smirking men around him.

Momentarily, the captured man whose fate was in question was forgotten and his shoulders slumped a bit with relief, glad to have attention detached from him. Foresight was not something the man, Farley, dealt with often—hence, his predicament now, caught red-handed with the game he'd poached—and thus fear came crashing onto him anew, bolder and more cruel, when the throng of MacKenzie fighting men began to part, making way for a horse and rider.

A chilling dread crept over him, gripping his heart with icy fingers. He swallowed the dryness in his throat, which produced a nervous cough as he watched the man on the glorious black destrier come closer. The man atop the magnificent animal did not stare directly at him but at the body of the red deer not a yard away from Farley's feet, where he'd dropped the poached game when accosted by the MacKenzie men.

Augustus McKenzie, Earl of Lochmere, laird of Castle Strontian, sovereign of Lochaber Forest and all the land for a hundred miles around, whose only superior while Scotland was presently kingless and fighting with England, was God in heaven, didn't stop until the nose of his black beast was within a foot of Farley's face.

Holding his breath, Farley gulped down another arid swallow, and met the eyes of the sleek black horse, vaguely believing the animal passed judgment on him with proud eyes. Warily, Farley lifted his gaze to that of the laird. Having lived in and around Lochaber Forest all his thirty-seven misbegotten years, having glimpsed Augustus MacKenzie dozens of times throughout his life, having heard the stories of his swift justice, Farley was not at all put at ease by the lack of obvious fury upon the stark visage of the earl.

Aside from the bright blue irises, the laird's eyes were not so far different from those of his destrier, being hollow and stony and arrogant. The earl did not move his gaze over Farley's face but met his eyes straight on in a diligent manner. He lowered his gaze then and removed his gloves, the leather of which was fine but worn, the palms and fingers chafed from frequently meeting with leather reins and the heavy metal of his sword.

And what a bastard he was, Farley thought, to do so slowly, to draw out the moment and let Farley simmer in his unmanly fright. Leisurely, the earl pulled at each finger of the glove, one at a time until he slowly drew the glove away from first one hand and then another. When he was done, and while he took time to carefully lay the gloves on top of his thigh, being particular about their exact placement, he asked in a deep yet quiet voice, "Caught with the deer in hand?" When the gloves were positioned to his liking, he lifted his gaze to his captain.

Cedric MacDuff, commonly known as Geddy in these parts, nodded solemnly, slanting his wizened gaze at Farley. "An' ye ken it's nae the first time."

The earl straightened in the saddle and moved his cold blue eyes back to Farley, a rumbling fury clearly evident now.

"The least of his sins, by all accounts," he pronounced. He addressed the criminal directly. "Should have stayed scarce, as ye were. But here ye are, on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday, and wee Sìne still brandishing a blackened eye and more wounds, invisible, from yer most recent assault."

Fear, wrought by the quietly murderous glare being leveled at him now, kept Farley's mouth closed.

"Aye, there is nae defense, nae anything ye might say to persuade my thinking," the earl said. He drew a breath and let it settle in his chest before he inclined his head to one of his men, saying "Get the rope."

The young man was quick to scurry away, about his laird's bidding.

To Farley, the earl wondered, "Shall I remove your hand for poaching? Or your wee cock so that ye have nae weapon to attack Sìne again or any another?"

Farley blanched and his jaw fell downward. Frantically, he began to shake his head. It wasn't often he found himself in this situation, shaking with fright, alive with dreadful anticipation. This is how they must have felt, he realized subconsciously, those he'd wronged directly, physically, his own victims.

Sadly, regret was not borne from this consciousness. Instead, he found what remained of his plentiful supply of bluster. "Nae, milord," he spat with contempt. He'd been thieving inside this forest for years, had been—admittedly—bringing a wee bit of terror to the people of Strontian. The auld earl, who was as much a sinner as Farley, hadn't even seen fit to punish him. "Ye canna pass a sentence, nae without cause. And ye canna—"

The blow that came caught him off guard. It followed the smallest movement of the earl's hand, instructing the closest man to quiet Farley. Only the side of an axe was used to deliver the blow so that Farley's life was not snuffed out, but the strike was heavy and swift and dropped him to his knees. Farley's hand connected with the ground, preventing his face from doing so. He blinked several times, his body rigid, expecting another blow. When it didn't come, Farley cautiously turned his head to the side, just in time to see the fine leather boots of the earl land on the ground.

"Get him up," the earl said.

Farley was hauled to his feet just as the earl stepped before him. Thinning his lips, unwilling to allow the earl to see any of the fright that engulfed him, he was forced to lift his chin to meet the cold blue gaze. Panic was hard to conceal, though, since his arms were then lifted to the height of his shoulders, held at the elbows by the loyal and biddable MacKenzie men. Harder yet to hide, the terror, when he caught a glimpse of steel polished to mirror-like perfection, hovering at the earl's side where he held his sword.

Bereft of any control now, Farley whimpered.

"I am nae my father, who allowed such sins upon his own people," said the earl before he took one step back and swung his mighty blade, bringing it down upon Farley's right arm. It banged against his wrist and took his hand with it to the ground. Shock delayed Farley's scream, delayed the presence of pain for one, two, three seconds until it crashed upon him, and he howled.

While Farley cried and screamed, though was kept upright by the hands supporting him even as his knees gave out, the earl coldly wiped the blood from his blade on Farley's tunic.

While Farley watched, his sight blinded by pain and astonishment for how quickly and mercilessly the earl had delivered justice, the earl sheathed his wiped-clean blade and held out his hand, waiting. After a moment, into his large hand was put Farley's severed one, now tied with a length of jute rope round one of his now useless fingers while the other end was wrapped many times, sloppily, around a fist sized rock.

The earl stepped forward, lifting his strong hands to drape the rope around the back of Farley's neck so that the rock hung against his chest on one side and his severed hand laid against his heart.

Clapping his hands roughly against both of Farley's cheeks, the earl met his gaze and said in his steely voice, "If I find ye without this round your neck ere ten years have passed, I'll take off the other hand." He lifted his brows a bit and added, in what sounded a very agreeable tone, "Dinna ever fear I will kill ye, Farley. That would be too easy, too swift. I'll just keep hacking away at all the necessary parts."

When he removed his hands from Farley's face and turned, Farley's knees gave out and he slumped once more to the ground. He was too beset with shock yet, barely comprehending that he'd soiled himself sometime in the last few minutes, to pay any heed to those around him. He stared with mute horror at the hand around his neck, no longer attached to his wrist. His life was ruined now, was all he understood, and would never be the same again.

"What should we do with him?" A MacKenzie asked as the earl mounted his beautiful steed.

"Do with him?" The earl repeated, scowling at his man as if the question were an affront to him. "He is beneath either hatred or scorn, certainly beneath pity. Leave him as he is, as he dropped."

***

She sat upon the ground facing a crude timber frame of shelves, three rows filled with four beehives each. Her eyes and nose were ringed in red from all the tears shed but she hadn't cried in hours now, drained and dead inside.

She had few resources available to her but had found among Finn's belongings a tunic of dark brown. ?Twas not black as was preferred for a mourning cloth, but it would have to do, and she had cut it into squares and draped the fragments over a few of the hives in the home apiary. She wasn't entirely sure of what earthly penalty might befall either herself or Finn's soul, or the apiary itself if she did not tell the bees of their master's demise, but she was well-acquainted with the practice from years spent at Finn's side, tending the bees and soaking up so much knowledge about their upkeep and the customs associated with beekeeping.

"Listen closely and heed my call," she said, her voice a whisper of grief. "Your master's voice no more shall fall. Tell your sisters, tell your brothers: your keeper's gone to join the others."

That was all. It needed no more.

Sorcha Reid was only absently aware of the bees buzzing around her, their wings beating in a steady rhythm that to her seemed to signify the relentless march of time. Life would go on, she understood, even as Finn would not. Oblivious to her sorrow and the depths of her despair, the bees continued their work, gathering nectar and pollen with unwavering dedication.

She sat for a long while, having neither the energy nor the desire to move, or move on.

Surely, if her mother could see her now, she'd blanch with horror. Telling the bees went against all the principles of God and man. Her mother would mourn the spiritual implications of such behavior and would be filled with righteous indignation in the face of such sin—one of many in Sorcha's bucket of sin, as her mother might have said. Sorcha stared blindly at the shrouded hives and supposed that her mother would have demanded that Sorcha spend hours and hours upon her knees, seeking forgiveness for her waywardness, and solace and clarity through prayer.

In all probability, her mother would also suggest that Finn's death was the hand of God at work visiting retribution upon Finn and Sorcha for having sinned. Sorcha shook her head angrily, pushing the idea from her mind. She knew—she'd always believed!—that her mother was wrong about God. He wasn't vengeful or wanting his people to shrivel in fear at the thought of His reprisal. Sorcha looked around and saw only beauty, in everything He created, and believed with all her heart that God was loving and kind.

"How can love exist if not from the Father?" She'd asked her mother years ago. "And why would He surround us with so much beauty if not for love?"

Those simple questions, voiced by a girl mayhap ten and two at the time, had earned her mother's harsh rebuke and more hours spent upon her knees, begging forgiveness from the punitive God her mother served.

It was, in part, what had driven Sorcha into Finn's arms years after that occasion. It still astonished her, how she'd convinced her mother that she prayed more cleverly and felt closer to God when out of doors. Pleased by her daughter's seeming devotion, her mother had magnanimously allowed Sorcha several hours each day to seek the Lord's counsel outside the keep.

And there she'd met Finn, not but a few years older than her, following in his father's footsteps, tending the bees at Ballechen. She recalled now with fervent devotion the very first time she'd seen him, the lean lad with shaggy hair the color of honey and soft brown eyes, walking through a cloud of humming bees, his utter lack of fear astounding her, providing to her young mind a testament to his gentle soul and affinity with nature. Though love flowered quickly, it had taken Sorcha a few years to convince Finn to escape with her from Ballechen.

With equal dedication, Sorcha clung to her last memory of Finn.

Shortly after Robert Bruce had been crowned king last year, a laird from the northern reaches of the Highlands, Alasdair MacLaren, had brought his army through Caol. He was a robust old man with a thunderous voice and a fine good temper, as Finn had decided. MacLaren visited with Caol's lord, from whom Finn and Sorcha leased land, Lord Aldric de Montfort, and then had proceeded to collect recruits for his army, for which Finn willingly volunteered.

Horrified by what he'd done, Sorcha had begged Finn to reconsider.

With tears and appeals, she pleaded selfishly with him to forget country and obligation.

"Save your life for me, for us," she'd implored.

"I canna, Sorcha," Finn had said. "As did my ancestors, I must fight for independence. I must serve our rightful king and uphold the crown against the English usurpers."

Her astonishment had stayed with her for days, even after Finn had marched away with MacLaren's army after her pleas to make him stay had failed. Never in all the time she'd known him had Finn expressed any devotion to the cause for freedom, nor any wish to be a part of the fight.

From the moment he'd given his oath to MacLaren, the end had come for them. Neither realized it at the time, even as both felt a strange foreboding for the future. But he was now a soldier and no longer a beekeeper, and she a soldier's lover. She hadn't yet learned how to cope, having but a few days preparation for Finn's departure with the army, knowing that every kiss was a countdown to farewell.

"Ye will think of me whilst I'm away?" He'd asked. "Ye will weep tears of joy upon my return?"

She'd nodded frantically. "Go forth safe and well, my love, and may God be kind and watch over you."

One last kiss, one last desperate look, and Finn hoisted his pack onto his shoulder and walked away and was soon lost to the fading twilight.

Barely a month of Sundays had plodded by before news had come of Finn's demise.

The herald of Caol told the tale as it had been related to him, via a message delivered to Lord Aldric. While the townsfolk gathered round him in front of the kirk, Caol's herald's deep, clear voice rang out with the news.

"Naught but a fortnight ago, on a plateau of the Carrick Hills, two armies marshalled in battle array...."

On and on he went, to Sorcha's everlasting disdain and frustration, and a creeping sense of dread.

Possibly five or more minutes had passed before the herald finished his rambling tale.

"Good folk of this noble burgh," the herald said at length, his tone now grave, "?tis with great sorrow that I come before ye to announce the names of our brave sons and brothers who lay still on that hill in Carrick, their guid souls given to God and king."

Finn Drummond was the first name called.