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  Domnall looked with uncertainty to his mother and stepfather. They clearly resented Fitz Duncan’s arrival and how he’d usurped the role of lord of the keep, but the castle and lands were still his by law, if not by right. If he chose, Fitz Duncan had justification to kill Fergus without any fear of consequences—which would leave Domnall’s mother a widow.

  “Release my máthair!” Domnall interjected before Fergus could act.

  Fitz Duncan’s head swiveled in Domnall’s direction. “Ah! So the cub has come forth to challenge the lion?” He released her with a laugh. “Bring the wine, woman,” Fitz Duncan ordered.

  Domnall’s mother departed with a glare, presumably to carry out the command.

  Fitz Duncan turned his attention back to Domnall, all thought of Fergus seemingly forgotten. “Come, lad, and let me have a look at you.”

  Although Domnall’s first instinct was to avert his gaze, he forced himself to meet his sire’s scrutinizing stare. The eyes of the man who’d given him life were blue, but not the blue of a summer sky, but the icy hue of a loch frozen in winter. Deep creases etched the corners and also framed his mouth, but these were not to be confused with lines of laughter. His hair was shorn in the Norman fashion and touched with gray about the temples.

  “How old are you?” Fitz Duncan asked.

  “I’ve passed my tenth summer.” Domnall then countered with his own question. “Why have ye come?”

  Fitz Duncan’s brows suddenly met in a frown. “I ask the questions.”

  “What if I dinna want to answer them?” Domnall remarked with a look of blatant defiance.

  “It matters not what you want. You will soon learn that any who defy my authority do so at their peril.” Fitz Duncan’s tone was deceptively soft but the steeliness of his gaze sent a clear warning. “You will be going with me.”

  “Where are ye taking me?” Domnall asked.

  “Carlisle. For the king’s Christmas feast. After that, you will go to serve one of my knights.”

  “Why?” Domnall asked, feeling both dismayed and confused.

  Indeed, all of his emotions were in tumult. Fitz Duncan had taken no part in his life until now. He hated his father but, at the same time, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed that the man would hand Domnall off to another to be trained instead of teaching him himself. Whatever flaws Fitz Duncan might have as a father, no man could question his abilities as a warrior and general.

  “If ye dinna wish to keep me with ye, why take me away from here at all?”

  “’Tis the Norman custom,” Fitz Duncan responded. “And the first step to becoming a knight.”

  Domnall digested this with difficulty. Although part of him embraced the idea of training as a knight, the other part didn’t want to leave his home and his family.

  “He is nae Norman,” Domnall’s mother interjected as she returned with a pitcher of wine. She hesitated for a moment, eyeing first Fitz Duncan and then his empty chalice as if considering whether to fill the cup or pour the contents of the pitcher over his head.

  As if reading her mind, Fitz Duncan gave her his cold, humorless smile.

  She licked her lips and reached for the cup, perhaps knowing that satisfying her spleen would not be worth risking Fitz Duncan’s wrath.

  “Nevertheless, he will be reared a Norman,” Fitz Duncan replied. “Only knighthood will overcome his bastardy.”

  Domnall winced. It was one thing to know of his illegitimacy, but quite another to hear it spoken, especially from his own father’s lips.

  “Please! Ye canna take my son!” Gruaid threw herself to her knees. “Ye are a cruel and heartless man, Fitz Duncan, to deprive a máthair of her only son!”

  “Cruel? Perhaps at times,” he confessed. “Heartless, most certainly. Tender emotions only tangle a man’s reason. But take heart, dear lady. I leave you with the consolation that you have regained a brother.”

  “A brother?” she looked confused. “What do ye mean? Ye ken as well as I that my brother is long dead, killed by yer verra sword.”

  “Don’t take me for a fool, Gruaid. I refer to your younger brother, Malcolm, who to my recollection will soon be coming of age.”

  “I havena seen Malcolm in years. He could be dead for all I know.”

  Domnall knew her statement for a bald-faced lie, as did Fitz Duncan. Although he lived in hiding, his uncle, Malcolm, was a regular visitor at Castle Kilmuir.

  “On the contrary,” Fitz Duncan continued. “According to my sources, your brother is alive and well, and more than likely hiding at present in this very keep.” He stalled her protest with a raised hand. “Don’t’ waste your breath denying it. I know it to be true. But I am prepared to make a bargain.”

  “What kind of bargain?” she asked.

  “Malcolm MacAedh may return to Kilmuir,” he said, with a munificent gesture. “Indeed, I will even install him as Thane of Kilmuir, since I now have reasonable insurance for his future good behavior.”

  “Insurance?” Her blue gaze suddenly widened with understanding. “Ye mean Domnall? Is this the real reason ye came to Kilmuir? To make a hostage of yer own son?”

  Was that what Fitz Duncan feared? That there would be another Highland insurrection?

  The land of Moray was, in fact, Domnall’s mother’s birthright, seized by the king and given to Fitz Duncan after the great rebellion. For as long as he could remember, Domnall had harbored the secret hope of one day winning it all back.

  “A hostage?” Fitz Duncan chewed on the word. “I would prefer instead to make him a knight, loyal to the king… but that will largely depend on the lad.” He looked to Domnall.

  “I will go,” Domnall answered. Although he had no wish to leave his home, he recognized that training as a knight would be the first step toward achieving his own aim. He didn’t know how or when, but Domnall swore that one day he would reclaim all of Moray in his mother’s name.

  “I will stay here tonight,” Fitz Duncan continued, as if their hospitality was his due. “And we will ride out at dawn.” Fitz Duncan drained his cup and then slumped back in his chair with a yawn.

  “Aye, Domnall replied. “I will be ready.”

  Chapter Three

  Crailing Tower

  December 31, 1140

  DAVINA’S HEART WAS heavy. Although she and her former nurse, Elspeth, had baked, and hung greenery throughout the keep, it didn’t feel like Christmastide without her family. Aside from the mince pies they had eaten every day of the season for good luck, she and the servants had saved the Christmas feast for her father and brother’s return. ’Twas now the eve of the New Year and they had yet to appear as promised.

  Davina had spent nearly the entire day walking the ramparts looking for her father and brother. That morning, the sun had played hide and seek with the clouds, but by afternoon a thin blanket of white covered the land. Her eyes stung from the wind and her feet were numb from cold, but she refused to give up her vigil.

  Having been raised within the protective walls of Crailing Tower, Davina had never known fear. But her father’s tardiness filled her with trepidation, casting a pall over her.

  Although Scotland itself was no longer at war, the conflict to the south had continued, breeding famine and spawning desperation and stretching its grasping, pillaging hands across the Borderlands. Many spoke wistfully of the old days when they would visit the markets in Roxburgh only a day’s ride from Castle Crailing, but for as long as Davina remembered, few ventured far beyond their own castle gates if they could avoid it. Even cloistered behind the seemingly impenetrable tower walls, they remained ever vigilant.

  Her father had made her a vow to return before the New Year. Surely he would arrive before nightfall. It was unsafe to travel once darkness fell—even for a celebrated knight. Yet, the lonely afternoon had become dusk and still there was no sign of riders approaching. She didn’t want to admit to herself that, like Andrew, her father and Ewan might never return. Determined to push those abhorrent thoughts from
her mind, Davina paced the ramparts.

  Although the wind gusts had strengthened, making her teeth chatter and forcing her to pull her arisaid more tightly about her, she turned to the east side of the castle, casting her gaze toward the Cheviot Hills, now capped with snow that made them resemble the crowns of teeth. She closed her eyes to conjure the same view in the summertime when the same landscape would be purple-hued with heather under a vibrant blue sky and the sun would once more bathe her in its warmth.

  Perching on the parapets, she then looked to the west where verdant grazing lands stretched for miles. In the summer, she would see the cattle contentedly cropping the grass, but now the pastures were covered with snow and most of the livestock butchered and preserved for the winter.

  Northward, pillars of steam rose from the River Teviot and patches of snow and ice covered the ground lying in the castle’s shadow. The whirling waters now lay still, seemingly somnolent under sheets of ice. She already looked forward to the time when the ice would melt and the waters would once more teem with salmon and trout. She and Ewan both loved to fish. The thought made her long for spring.

  Slowly, she walked to the southernmost wall. Davina generally avoided that side of the castle where she would sometimes glimpse dark pillars of smoke in the distance. Occasionally, it would even permeate the air if the breeze blew just right. But it wasn’t the subtly sweet scent of peat fires. It was the acrid stench of destruction.

  Davina’s young life had been filled with strife—not that she fully comprehended it all. What she did understand is that England was at war with itself. Her father, Rémin, a Norman-bred knight who owed his lands, and thusly his service to the king, had been among the first who joined the King of Scotland in the war against King Stephen of England. He and her eldest brother, Andrew, had ridden off to battle with shining swords and gleaming mail hauberks. One day, her father reappeared atop his great, bay charger, but the second rider they’d expected, Andrew, had never come home.

  Then, two winters ago, Davina’s mother died of a lung fever, though many believed grief truly killed her. Davina still mourned her mother and oldest brother, but her father had never shed a tear. It was as if their deaths had turned Rémin of Crailing’s heart to stone. Her father was different now. Sterner than before. He never laughed, rarely smiled, and he never spoke of them.

  Although he still had Ewan and Davina, their deaths seemed to have drained the dreams right out of him. He’d once cherished grand plans of expansion of the castle and cultivated lands until the death of his wife and eldest son. Now he never spoke any more of the future.

  Davina was growing more restless and agitated by the hour.

  Although the official conflict had ended nearly two years ago, with a treaty between the kings of Scotland and England, the blood that soaked the battlefields could not be erased by the simple stroke of a pen on a sheet of parchment. Fidelities were forged with the trading of lands, but the promises spoken between kings meant little to the people of the Borderlands. Resentment and hostility ran too deep.

  There were many tales of lawless men who came up from the south to pillage and plunder. Sometimes they even came north by boat, oars battling the current of the River Teviot to steal cattle and anything else they could get. Some came out of sheer desperation; others were motivated by the dark desire for vengeance. But the worst were the opportunists who simply preyed on the weak and unwary.

  Located in the much-contested Borderlands between England and Scotland, Crailing Tower was a purely defensive structure. The tower itself was designed to accommodate a small family and a few servants. Its five-story height provided an ideal watch tower for raiding parties but, unlike the old days, there were no watchmen on duty. The outbuildings had once garrisoned up to fifty men-at-arms, but Scotland had lost thousands at the Battle of the Standard and most of her father’s men who had gone to fight in the conflict had never come back. Now there was only Aillig and Callum who tended the keep in her father’s absence. Nevertheless, she’d always felt safe behind these walls of stone.

  She turned to the sound of footsteps.

  “Come along, lassie,” Elspeth gently urged. “Ye’ll catch yer death if ye stay out here much longer.”

  “Why havena they returned?” Davina asked.

  “Mayhap the king’s business detained the master?” Elspeth suggested.

  “But ’tis Christmastide.” Davina once more choked back the threat of tears. “Surely even the king’s business could wait until after the celebration of Christ’s birth.”

  “Dinna fret, my lamb.” Elspeth pulled Davina into her bosom and stroked her hair. “They are only delayed. All will be well.”

  The proffered words of comfort did little to soothe Davina’s mounting anxiety.

  “Come, lass, supper awaits,” Elspeth said.

  “I’m nae hungry,” Davina protested even as her stomach sounded a loud rumble. In truth, she hadn’t eaten anything since the mince pie she’d had for breakfast.

  “Nevertheless, ye must eat something,” Elspeth insisted.

  Taking Davina’s hand, Elspeth guided her toward the stairs. Davina still balked but then reluctantly accompanied Elspeth back to the keep.

  Once inside, she warmed herself at the kitchen fire, the warmest place in the castle. She felt most at home in the kitchen and, in her father’s absence, took more of her meals there than in the dining hall.

  She took her supper with Elspeth, Callum, and their son, Aillig, a simpleton who tended her father’s stables. They ate in solemn silence. The feast of goose and Ecclefechan butter tarts that they’d prepared in celebration had long grown cold.

  After supper was finished, Davina sat by the fire in the great hall with only the three hunting hounds for company. Elspeth and Callum had retired to bed while Aillig had taken over Davina’s watch on the ramparts with a promise to alert her if he spotted anyone.

  Darkness had fallen hours ago. Carlisle was only half a day’s ride. What could possibly have kept them? Her eyes were growing heavy as she stared into the now smoldering fire. She was about to give up and go to her bed when Aillig appeared in the doorway, his shaggy head covered with snow. “Mistress Davina! There be riders coming.”

  “Is it Faither and Ewan?” she asked.

  “’Tis too dark. I canna say for certain,” he replied apologetically.

  “It must be them. He promised me he’d be back before New Year’s Day.”

  “But they only make two.” Aillig scratched his chin with a look of confusion. “I saw four horses.”

  “Then perhaps they brought guests.” Giving it no more thought, Davina leaped to her feet and reached for her woolen mantle. Throwing it over her shoulders, she rushed toward the door, Aillig trailing behind. Running through the ankle-deep snow, she crossed the bailey to throw open the gate, and then cursed herself for not having lit a torch for them. No matter, the moon was bright enough for them to see the way.

  There were, indeed, four horses approaching, which befuddled her until she recognized her father’s bay at the front of the group, ridden by a large man in a black, bearskin mantle. Perceiving the open gate, he signaled the other riders who all broke into a gallop. Her heart leaped with joy as they entered the bailey.

  “Faither!” She ran toward him, arms outstretched as he dismounted.

  But the man who wore her father’s bearskin mantle and had ridden into her father’s castle on her father’s horse, was not her father. His complexion was swarthy, his beard was thin, and his eyes were so black she could barely detect his pupils.

  In fear and confusion, Davina froze in her tracks. “Who are ye? And why do ye ride my faither’s horse?”

  He didn’t answer but eyed her with a look that made her skin crawl.

  “Wh-where are my faither and brother?” she asked, her voice now barely above a whisper.

  “Who else is here?” he demanded, ignoring her questions.

  “My faither’s men. They will soon come looking for me,” she lie
d, silently praying that Elspeth and Callum would come to her aid.

  “You lie badly,” he remarked. His voice was low and gruff, yet she detected a trace of a dialect she didn’t recognize. Her father was Norman born and her mother was from the Highlands. This man was neither. His accent and appearance suggested he was a foreigner. Was he a Saxon? Many of them had been disposed of their lands in the treaty between the kings of Scotland and England.

  “If ye came to rob us, just take whatever ye want and go!” Davina cried, panic racing through her veins.

  “Take what we want?” His mouth twisted into a menacing grimace. “That’s precisely what we intend to do. We will take from here all that was stolen from us and some booty as recompense.”

  Although Aillig had the comprehension of a child, he also seemed to sense the danger. He stepped between her and the invaders. Aillig was large and strong but he was armed only with a dirk. These men had both knives and swords.

  The one with the black eyes nodded to the others who were still mounted. He barked a command she didn’t comprehend and they surrounded Aillig and Davina. Her instincts screamed to run, but it was too late. These invaders had horses. Even if she could break through their ranks, she could not escape them. They would quickly run her down.

  Facing Aillig, the leader of the marauders drew a sword that she instantly recognized as her father’s. The moonlight revealed bloodstains on the once gleaming steel. Her gaze riveted to his hands, also caked with dried blood. They had murdered her father and brother! She was certain of it. And she was equally certain that he would kill Aillig.

  Her stomach lurched and the world began to spin.

  In a flash, Aillig grabbed his dirk and lunged. Just as quickly, the intruder brought down his sword. Aillig cried out. His body contorted. Hot liquid splashed her face. In shock and horror, Davina realized it was Aillig’s blood. He dropped to the ground with a groan and then lay perfectly still.

  It had all happened in the blink of an eye. Was life truly extinguished so easily?