Chapter One

Caol, Scotland

June 1306

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The alehouse in Caol, in the parish of Kilmallie, was within walking distance of the narrow water between Loch Linnhe and Loch Eil. Though he seemed to recall someone at one time saying that the only tavern in Caol was known locally as the Bonnie Barrel Inn, no sign hung about the rambling, timber-framed building or sat anywhere on its thatched roof.

Augustus MacKenzie, surrounded by half a dozen MacKenzie officers, dismounted in front of the establishment, glancing around the tiny, sprawling burgh. There were no cobblestone streets but rather lanes made of deeply rutted tracks, the surface worn smooth by countless footsteps, hooves, and cartwheels. Single and two-story buildings, made of timber and stone, were clustered around the alehouse while cottages further away were spaced out at greater distances in either direction. Thatched roofs glistened with evening dew and candlelight flickered in the windows of several homes.

All was quiet and calm, as if the town shut down when the sun did, which struck Augustus as odd. The burgh was small enough—exactly what he'd been hoping for—that even on a busy day, it probably wouldn't be considered bustling, but the absence of any wandering person, or of any noise at all furrowed his brow.

A single door entrance at the front of the establishment led Augustus and his men into the warm and dimly lit interior of the alehouse, where they were immediately subject to the aroma of peat fires and grease smoke, and an ample amount of wary conjecture.

The already subdued atmosphere was reduced to complete silence on their arrival.

Augustus stood near the door for a moment, taking in the rough-hewn wooden tables and benches, and the central stone hearth—one of three that he could see—where crackled a welcoming fire. ?Twas all the welcome they would receive, possibly.

Though it didn't show in his stony countenance, Augustus was suitably surprised to find the inn so full. Nearly every bench and odd stool were occupied, and more men stood around a long wooden counter, behind which an abundance of mismatched tankards hung on pegs pounded into the wall. Several dozen pegs were empty, those tankards already in the hands of the guarded and watchful patrons.

Though the crowdedness of the alehouse was unexpected, their silent and cautious reception was not.

These locals, like any of the small burghs and villages through which they traveled, were accustomed to their own kind, farmers and tradespeople, and were naturally and consistently distrustful of outsiders. They cast glances, some furtive and others not, at the newcomers. ?Twas not unforeseen that the sight of Augustus and the six men standing behind him, stern-faced warriors only hours removed from their most recent skirmish, would inspire a wee guardedness.

Hell, Gryffin's face alone was known to send bairns crying to their mams.

Spying an unoccupied table tucked away in the farthest corner of the taproom, Augustus navigated through the quiet sea of tables, benches, and watchful patrons. Along the way, he glimpsed what looked to be simple but hearty fare, staples like trencher bread, cheese, and stew. To the left of that central stone hearth sat two musicians, their hands and instruments idle while they marked the progress of the interlopers across the room.

While his mood would never have been mistaken for jovial, a particular intensity fueled his steps today, and Augustus moved with a determined purpose. Unfazed by the curious gazes that followed him, he met the eyes of onlookers with stern resolve, his piercing gaze challenging anyone who dared to meet it.

"Change their tune, nae doubt," proposed Geddy, who walked directly behind Augustus, "if they had any inkling about de Blair prowling about, nae more than five miles away."

Augustus slumped down onto the bench at the vacant table, putting his back against the wall and considered his view from here and his captain's words as his men took seats around the table.

Gilbert de Blair was a member of the larger Blair clan that lived and reigned in Banffshire, all of whom had twice now sworn fealty to Edward I of England, first in 1296 and again in 1303. What the de Blair son was doing this far west was only a mystery if Augustus was wrong about what their business might be: having pledged allegiance to the English crown, Edward I likely instructed de Blair to bring round other Scots' noble families to their cause, by way of verbal coercion or simply by leveraging their strength and power to sway the allegiance of northern houses. ?Twas not more than a month ago the Foulis stronghold near Kiltearn had been besieged by the Boyd family from the Lowlands, Boyd's wife being the sister of Gilbert de Blair. With her castle occupied—savagely by some accounts—the Countess of Foulis was given little choice but to pledge fealty to Edward and England.

Within a moment of the MacKenzies taking seats, the two men with the fiddle and flute began to play, the tune neither lively nor somber but somewhere in between. Many pairs of eyes were yet aimed in the direction of the table in the back corner.

"Aye, mayhap we should have scoured away the bluid," suggested Finlay, a lad easily unnerved by any attention sent his way. "I canna say if they're staring at Gryffin's mug or the proof of a fight."

The innkeep arrived after only a moment, a soiled linen towel hanging over his shoulder.

Rare were the times Augustus met an owner of an alehouse whose temperament was not befouled, in all probability the result of dealing night after night with rowdy patrons, regular sots, and the unruly chaos that often brewed within the walls of such establishments.

This one, short and stout, with naught but a few strands of hair on his head, defied his expectations, offering up a delighted grin.

"What news, mate?" He asked, his round brown eyes sitting anxiously on Augustus. "I might guess ye've come straight from a skirmish, and Caol and I are eager for the tales that cling to your travel-stained breacans."

Augustus gave a nod, his eyes revealing little. He was well accustomed to being sought out to relay news in these small burghs, the residents so rarely venturing far enough away to gather it themselves.

"Trouble on the road," Geddy answered, "and best left there."

"English trouble?" Inquired the squat man, his brow dipping low.

"Nae," answered Geddy, scratching distractedly at his forehead. "Nae this far north. Though we did meet with a party, traitors to the cause of freedom, Scots at that. But they'll nae give ye any grief, nae more anyway."

Colin, the most boisterous and cheery of Augustus's officers—if any of them could be termed as such—squinted up at the innkeeper. "Smells like mam's pottage in here. Got any of that in the kitchen?"

The man nodded but returned his attention to Augustus. "We had an English force march through, but that was a few years back. Cleaned us out of grains and hogs and on their way they went." Narrowing his dark eyes a bit, he asked next, "Ye the rebel they speak of? The Rebel of Lochaber Forest?"

"Rebel of Lochaber Forest?" Augustus repeated, his brows crinkling. He exchanged a befuddled look with Geddy. "That's nae me, mate. But I've heard tales of him. They say he travels with an army one thousand strong."

In fact the army was less than two hundred in number, and at Augustus's command they presently waited well outside the burgh, stationed in posts an eighth of a mile apart, forming a protective barrier around Caol.

"If he did come through, this Rebel," Augustus said, "like as nae he might be willing to accept a few guid men, with long and swift swords and a hatred for any who would betray Scotland."

"And nae loose lips," added Angus, seated to his laird's right. "Nae doubt, the Rebel—this man ye speak of—he'd nae take kindly to any who would bandy about his business, his whereabouts, his activities."

The innkeeper nodded slowly, seeming to consider what to believe, the intuition that said the Rebel sat before him or the lazy denial of this.

"Ale for myself and my friends," Augustus requested mildly. "And whatever pottage is stewing back there, a bowl for each of us."

Another nod answered this. "Aye." And then the chunky, middle-aged man advised, "Extra ha'penny tonight, each man."

"To keep yer lips sealed?" Challenged Geddy, aghast at the very idea, and, some might argue, nearly giving away their identity.

The inn's owner quickly refuted this. "Nae. I dinna care if the Rebel himself warms a chair and sips my ale," he said, settling a glance upon Augustus. "But the beekeeper comes tonight. You'll be paying for the honor of hearing the beekeeper's song."

Geddy scoffed loudly while Angus challenged hotly, "Ye would charge us for a song?"

"Can get that for free," said Colin, shaking his head. "Shite, I've been listening to this one's"—he jabbed his thumb in Finlay's direction—"tuneless whistling all afternoon. I'm nae sure I'm so keen to be captive to more warbling—and to have to pay for it."

"?Tis nae just any song, mind ye," the innkeep was swift to assure them, not at all oblivious to the growing tension. "The beekeeper's song is worth its weight in gold."

Augustus spoke up, his tone measured. "We're nae in the habit of laying out coin for a tune."

The innkeeper met Augustus's gaze, beginning to glow a bit, as if he knew a secret. "Nae offense, sir. It's the way things are done here. The beekeeper's song is a rare gift, and the coin ensures that it reaches every ear in the establishment and that the beekeeper will return, as many nights as the need demands."

A murmur of disgruntlement rippled through the MacKenzie men.

Holding up a pudgy finger, inexplicably grinning now, the man proposed, "Aye, aye, I'll make ye a deal. Dinna pay aforehand but after. Ye be the judge, once ye've heard the song. It's an experience, one I ken ye'll nae soon forget. Ye seek me out when the song is done, ere ye take yer leave, and give what ye ken it's worth."

Though he refrained from rolling his eyes, Augustus met and mirrored Angus's skeptical glance, advancing their mutual displeasure at the idea of parting with coin for a tune that was shrouded in mystery and that—Augustus would wager his last coin—would be delivered in a scratchy, unmelodic voice of an ancient man.

"Will do, mate," chuckled Geddy. "Ye bring us yer ale and yer pottage and for that we'll settle in advance, but dinna mind if we reserve opinion and the coin until we've heard this honey maker's ballad."

"Very well, mates. I'd be Murdo, the proprietor, by the by," said the man, "and that'll be my wife, Myrna, fixing yer meals. Caol welcomes ye."

When Murdo excused himself and retreated to the bar area, Geddy groused, "Jesu, a lot of talk in that one. Might've been through half my supper by now if he'd kept his tongue still."

The MacKenzies were briefly quiet, taking stock of their surroundings, as was their habit.

By the time a toothy lass with hair the color of straw delivered a tray of foaming tankards, the men had settled, and after the first few sips, Colin launched into an amused evaluation of today's skirmish. Sure and wasn't there much to appraise and celebrate, sufficient enough to enliven a conversation about how they'd come about their easy victory.

"He dinna account for the dirk gripped in the hand holding my targe," Colin was saying. With his animated face and bright red hair and his easy going nature, he was often underestimated, not expected to be so proficient in hand-to-hand combat. "Eejit. They were nae an army, but bodies pooled together to show larger numbers."

"They dinna move their weapons together," criticized Kael. "Sword then targe, sword then targe, nae ever at the same time, and nae wonder they fell so quickly." He pushed his fingers through is shaggy brown hair, moving it off his forehead. He was a master tactician, always keeping a cool head even in the heat of battle.

"First rule Geddy taught," said Lorne, his large and round eyes scouring the crowded alehouse even as he spoke, "and dinna he drill it still, every day: move yer weapons together. Och, but I'd like to meet their captain, see what he's teaching in place of proper form and rules."

"Do ye ken any who survive learn from us?" Finlay asked, his expression never less than earnest.

Finlay was the youngest officer, still in training in Augustus's eyes, though Geddy assured him that the lad's bouts with excessive enthusiasm were balanced nicely by a genuine sense of duty and a desire to prove his worth.

"What do ye mean?" Angus inquired.

"Well, they see us fighting properly, trained to excess and aye, I'm the first to whinge about the never-ending exercises," replied Finlay, "but I'm always glad to have the proper training, else how would I survive? So those of them who did survive, do ye ken they went back and were like, Aye, we've got to improve. Did ye take account of those MacKenzie tactics?"

?Twas mostly shrugs that served as a response to this query.

Gryffin's shrug was accompanied by a grunt. He sat at the end of the table, casting a long shadow over the rest of them for his hulking size. A mysterious and enigmatic figure, skilled in reconnaissance and not at all in polite conversation, he most often lived in silence, observing rather than partaking. Presently, while his broad and thick forehead was crinkled with what seemed unpleasant thoughts, his right hand, calloused and scarred from countless fights, idly traced patterns over his chest, just below his left shoulder, where he was known to keep a concealed dagger, possibly finding comfort in its familiar presence.

"Jesu, and dinna I see several blocking their faces with their shield?" Angus added to the condemnation of their enemy's competency. "I ?boot stopped, wanting to instruct the one in front of me—how the bluidy hell can ye fight if ye canna see?"

Kael nodded and added. "Dinna protect their limbs, nae any of them."

"Each limb protects itself," Finlay uttered mechanically, a lesson drilled repeatedly into the lads during their regular training.

They were lads, most of his army. Save for Geddy who'd by now seen four decades and Angus, who was about an age with Augustus's thirty-three years, most of the Mackenzie army were young and malleable, much to Geddy's delight.

Augustus sent a sideways glance to Geddy, watching him nod slowly and steadily, as proud as any parent for the actions learned from him of his ‘sons'.

"And that's why we drill, lads, every day, all day," Geddy reminded them, "so ye can sit here and drink yer ale and eat yer victuals."

"And apparently," Colin said, "be subjected to some beekeeper's buzzing."

A round of weary chuckling greeted this remark before the men returned to the topic of their inferior enemy.

Though he could find no fault with his men's assessment of today's enemy and their skill, after a while Augustus listened with only half an ear. He let his gaze wander around the taproom, realizing that despite his advantageous position against a back wall, he could not see all of the tavern. He'd become aware that to the right of the bar itself, there must be another room and more patrons, as several barmaids and sometimes the innkeep himself took full platters and tankards in that direction.

Frankly, he was a wee curious about this, never having known so active a pub as this. Sure, in a larger town and in bigger cities, and certainly on market days or feast days, they might expect to host a crowd of this size. But this, here, was none of those, not a feast day, not a market day—he couldn't imagine that Caol had its own market—not a large town by any stretch of the imagination. So what were all these people doing here?

Possibly an hour or more had passed since they'd entered the alehouse before he had an answer.

Most trenchers at the table were empty, some consumed entirely, and the discussion of today's fight with several units of the de Blairs had nearly been exhausted when a hush fell over the crowded taproom.

Instinctively, Augustus laid his hand on the hilt of his sword and motioned for Colin and Angus to stand and investigate.

Before they could, a voice, sweet and haunting, filled the air, and a song, a mournful dirge, crept throughout the alehouse, captivating every ear in the room.

Unmoving in the shadows, Augustus listened to the haunting words and the raw emotions of the melody. The voice was young and beautifully aching. The very first notes were delivered slowly, in a long drawn out tempo.

"I walk alone," came the song. "Or so I thought." A pause followed, as if the beekeeper was gathering her thoughts. "Though love is gone, turned to dust." Another dramatic pause. "Comes the starling, ?tis you, I trust."

Not a person spoke. No one moved. The crackling fires, too, quieted as if on command, so that her voice was the only sound heard. Augustus blinked, his brow furrowing. Geddy's mouth hung open while Kael's eyes were wide.

The next melody came with greater volume and more urgency. Augustus pictured the singer fisting her hands.

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Shadowed is the glen where thistles weep,

In agony I wait, my secrets keep.

Beyond heathered hill and misty sky,

A haunting song, a lover"s cry.

Beneath the moon, long shadows dance,

A love lamented, no more a chance.

Your sword laid low, on this your land,

My grief is woven in shifting sand.

Oh, my love, on the battlefield cold,

Through misted eyes, your tale is told.

A candle flickers and memories burn,

In the quiet of night, for you alone do I yearn.

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Sensing the owner of the angelic voice was around the corner in that other room, Augustus was a little amazed that the sound conveyed so well and clearly. Her voice, like a mean winter wind, carried an evocative huskiness that wrapped around each note with a melancholic embrace. Each word was delivered as a whispered lament, the ache of enduring grief unmistakable. In the stillness of the inn, her song was not merely heard but felt—a tangible manifestation of the profound sadness that dwelled within her, whoever she was.

On and on it went, many more verses, establishing that she believed—she prayed—that the starling who visited her was her lost love. Entranced by the raw emotion of both the melody and the words, Augustus felt as surely every other mesmerized listener did, a deep sense of empathy and connection, as if the weight of her sorrow touched his soul.

She employed a fiercely whispered plea for the final refrain, the emotion of it staggering.

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Let it please be you,

Say that it's you.

Come to me daily, nightly, every hour of the day.

Haunt me, touch me, love me.

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Surely every man, woman, and child inside the alehouse held its breath, until the last few words, sung with quiet desperation, broke the suspenseful pause.

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Always be near,

My starling dear.

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After a long moment of stunned and reeling silence, a slow-coming applause began, hands clapping and tankards tapping, until it grew to some unholy noise, thunderous, as if a thousand steeds charged through the alehouse, the sound pounding in Augustus's ears and raising the hair on his arm.

Without conscious thought, Augustus stood from the table and walked with purpose toward the bar and then to the right, toward that other room, provoked by a consuming urge to see her, to know her. He wasn't the only one with such a mighty desire, he realized as he was trapped inside a moving crowd, with several people calling out, "Sorcha!" and "Another!"

Towering above the throng, Augustus had an advantageous perspective, but little good it did him. He caught a bare glimpse of pale blonde hair, made golden by the inn's warm light, and noted only a petite cloaked figure pulling a blue hood up and over her head, covering the wealth of hair, before he was prevented any further consideration by a body larger than his own suddenly obstructing his view, the man following—escorting more likely—the mysterious figure of the beekeeper through a discreet back door.

The collective sigh of the alehouse patrons mirrored Augustus's own sentiment, a shared exhale resonating through the room in the wake of her departure.

Augustus stood rooted, his sharp and restless gaze fixated on the door through which she'd vanished, an inexplicably profound sense of loss settling over him like a shroud.

Within seconds of her departure the tavern once more buzzed with noise around him, and yet he felt a void, as if something irreplaceable had slipped through his fingers with her leavetaking.

"Ha'penny to hear that?"

Startled out of his reverie, Augustus turned to find Geddy at his side, his gaze on the same door.

"I'd give the whole purse to hear another," the MacKenzie captain proclaimed. "Worth a king's ransom and tell me I lie."

Slowly shaking his head, Augustus stared blindly now. Most certainly, Geddy did not lie. He drew in a deep breath, appreciating that Geddy's presence and his words were a useful antidote to the lingering enchantment cast over him.

He clapped his captain on the shoulder and turned him around, facing the direction of the table they'd shared. "Another ale," he suggested as a cure for the beguilement.

"Mayhap two," countered Geddy sheepishly.

Feeling as if the wind had been sucked clean out of his lungs, Augustus followed Geddy back to their table.

Many years later, long after all the particulars of this day and the evening and this tavern had departed his memory, Augustus would come to understand that it was here, on this night, that he fell in love with the beekeeper, when her song first brushed against his soul.